XXXII

“YOU LOOK DISPLEASED,” SAYS CALLIDUS as he slides into the chair opposite me.

Our table in the mess is, as usual, vacant other than the two of us. The chatter of over a hundred and fifty students fills the large, graduated hall, though I deliberately have my back to the raised sections today, not wishing to endure more of the speculative looks I’ve been getting from the Sixths all morning. It’s sunny outside and the view out over the ocean is spectacular, shining swells undulating far below, a vivid blue against the green of Solivagus’s forests.

I sigh, pushing my plate away even as Callidus dips his bread in oil and begins enthusiastically devouring it. “You could say that.” I tell him about my morning. Guiding Eidhin through the Labyrinth, only to be disqualified. Veridius’s subsequent admission about Dultatis.

“Gods’ graves. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head in dismay. “No wonder half the Sixths keep peeking down this way. You really got Eidhin through the Labyrinth? On your first try?”

I allow some pride at Callidus’s impressed tone. “Only because I happen to know Cymrian.”

“Now you’re just showing off.” Callidus chews and swallows, his gaze moving over my shoulder. “Cymrian, you say.”

“That’s right.” I twist, following the direction of his contemplation. Eidhin is sitting on the level up, with the rest of Class Six, and yet as usual, also apart. He doesn’t notice our observation.

“Huh.”

“Does that mean something to you?”

“Not really. Someone told me last trimester it’s what he speaks, but the rest of what she said was so far-fetched, I didn’t believe a word of it.”

I cock my head to the side. “Such as?”

“He’s meant to be from the mountains, somewhere. One of those small pockets past Cymr itself that never got properly civilised.” He looks reluctant. “I heard that when the Fifth Legion came for them, his whole family—or his whole tribe, one of those—committed suicide rather than surrender. That he helped them. And then killed a dozen Praetorians before they caught him.” He says it all in a low, uneasy voice. “But we both know not to put faith in rumours. He wouldn’t be here if it were true.”

“He’d be in a Sapper,” I scoff in agreement. “Who told you that?”

“One of the Thirds. Just about everyone had heard it, though, after the first few weeks. It got around fast.”

“Lies tend to do that.”

He chuckles. “Truth.”

“Did you ever talk to him? Not counting the time he tried to punch you, obviously.”

Callidus smiles wryly. “No. I was in his class for all of a week.” He says it with the tiniest twitch of the shoulders, as if it’s of no consequence.

“Ah.” I push at the food on my plate. “I get the impression he should be higher than Six.”

Callidus chuckles again.

“That’s funny?”

“It’s funny that you’re surprised.”

I take a bite of my food, speaking around the mouthful. “What do you mean?”

Callidus shrugs. “The structure of this place is meant to mimic the Hierarchy. So how hard you work and how smart you are is… not irrelevant, obviously. But they’re only factors in a much larger equation.” He sees my sharpening curiosity and mistakes it for confusion. “You keep thinking of it as a fair system. Be good enough, and you’ll be justly rewarded. The best rise to the top. All that rotting nonsense.”

“You don’t believe it?” I find it hard to strain the incredulity from my voice.

Callidus stares out through the massive archways to the left, over the glistening ocean. Considering his words.

“Do you think it’s any different, out there?” He gestures to the west when he does eventually speak, in the direction of Caten. “Do you think that every single Septimus stuck in their position is less talented than every single Sextus? Or even less talented than the Sextus they’re ceding to? A fair system only works if there’s an unbiased means of assessing merit. When there is no pride or selfishness involved.” He gives a soft snort, shaking his head. “Which means that fair systems cannot exist where people are involved.”

He doesn’t meet my gaze. He has to know how unpopular this line of conversation would be with most of the students here.

He’s not wrong—I know this because I studied the Hierarchy for years and, moreover, did so from the outside, under people who were neither indoctrinated nor seduced by it. But it’s a dangerous topic.

“You’ve read Thavius, I take it,” I say noncommittally.

“Yes! The Academy’s a perfect example of what he talks about: we’re meant to be the brightest of the Republic, but almost all of us here are the children of senators and knights. We’ve been trained, educated, since we could walk. Of course we’re going to be ‘better’ than some fifth son of an Octavus who’s been ceding half his life, just so his family can get by. Especially at tests which are devised by the same people who trained us. Who decide what merit is.” He eyes me. Apologetic. “And then when there are exceptions like yourself, who come from nothing, teach yourself, save half the rotting city—there’s still the detritus like Dultatis to make sure that nothing changes.”

I’m silent. Not sure if I should feel shame at the deception. My upbringing was as advantageous as anyone else’s here. More so, maybe; my father had his pick of Sytrecian defectors as tutors, and my formal education began years before a Catenan’s would. It’s a necessary lie, of course, but one that feels oddly dirty here and now.

Callidus mistakes my discomfort. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear. We can just leave it alone.” He’s awkward. As unsure as he is passionate. He believes what he’s saying, but undoubtedly hasn’t received a warm reception to these sorts of opinions in the past.

“No.” I can’t make myself dismiss the topic. Hearing someone else talk about it feels like fresh air. “Do you really think that?”

Callidus relaxes a little. “You saw what the Sevenths are like—they make no effort at all. Do you know why?”

“I assumed laziness.”

“Well. Yes. Obviously.” He makes a conceding motion. “But also because they know at the end of it all, they’re guaranteed to be given the rank of at least Sextus.” He scoots around the table to sit beside me, taking out a wax tablet and erasing what was on it, showing me as he starts to write. “You know who my father is?”

It’s a rhetorical question. Callidus’s father is Magnus Tertius Ericius. The Censor, responsible for the management of the Hierarchy’s most important resource. The man charged with structuring and monitoring their pyramids.

“So the thing he has access to, which almost no one else does, is census data. All of it,” Callidus continues. He begins scribbling numbers. “Based on a standard pyramid, how many people out of every hundred would you expect to be Octavii?”

“A little under ninety?”

He pauses, stylus hovering. “Yes.” A touch of surprise in the word.

“I can do the math.”

“Most people can’t. Or don’t bother. Or don’t want to.” He makes a face, then keeps going. “About ten should be Septimii, a couple of Sextii. Quintii and above don’t even factor into it at those numbers, but you get the idea. Given that, with twenty-four million people in the Hierarchy, how many would you expect to be Octavii?”

“About… twenty-one million?”

“A little less. Then two and a half million Septimii. About half a million Sextii.” He jots the numbers, then glances up at me to check that I’m following.

“So?” The ratios do sound a little off to me—I’d say that Sextii were more rare than that—but then, I’ve hardly shared the same space as senators and the like over the past few years.

He draws the symbol of the Hierarchy beside his numbers. Three lines meeting at an apex, forming a pyramid. Then he starts a new batch of figures.

“Regionally, most communities are arranged so that Sextus is the highest position; everyone else of importance out there is a Septimus. Census data from last year said that there are only sixty thousand Sextii, eight thousand Quintii, and about two hundred Quartii in the Republic. Not in Caten, or in Deditia. In the entire Republic.” He looks at me significantly.

I frown, doing the calculations in my head. “That’s…” I shake my head. “That doesn’t change the Octavii and Septimii numbers much, but it means that one person in every thousand is a Sextii. Not one in every hundred.”

“Exactly.” Callidus draws a second, distorted pyramid beside the new numbers. The sides of this one curve sharply inward and then upward, leaving a thick base and a long, thin, barely tapering pillar to the top. “And it gets better. One of the other things my father and the Consuls manage is the Academy intake. How many students they’re allowed to accept. It varies from year to year. Do you know why?”

“Enlighten me.”

“It’s based on a calculation of how many high-level openings will become available over the following eighteen months. Expected retirements, deaths, pyramid expansions due to population growth—anything that might become free that they can foresee leading to a position of influence.” He’s written a figure as he speaks; now he underlines it with vehemence. “This was the number, when we started first trimester.”

“One hundred and seventy-four,” I read. I do a quick sum in my head, but I’m not sure of the exact size of Class Seven. “The number of students here?”

“One more. Two students dropped out, first trimester. And you arrived.” Callidus looks pleased I’m not arguing. “This is why position confirmations are on an eighteen-month cycle. They want to make sure that when we graduate, they can shift people around to more regional pyramids if needed. Make sure that there are enough good positions for all of us.”

“Not quite the ‘anyone can be a senator with enough hard work’ story they tell the Octavii.”

“You need Arventis more than Vorcian,” agrees Callidus, invoking the gods of luck and effort, respectively. “And I know that it’s just part of life—no different to being born smart, or strong, or handsome. But if you want to succeed here, Vis, you need to see things as they are. You can’t expect to be promoted just because you should be. The Republic rewards people who take, not who deserve.” Quoting Thavius again.

“A system built on promise, and therefore on greed,” I murmur, supplying my own quote from the book. He’s right. I’ve been training so hard, been so intent on being better than the others in Six, that I’ve lost sight of the fact that it won’t necessarily help me. I’m going to need to find another way past Dultatis.

My resolve to get to the ruins tonight strengthens. If I can discover something important for Ulciscor, perhaps I can press him for help when we meet at the Festival of the Ancestors. Get him to exert influence over Dultatis, somehow.

I study the boy sitting beside me for a long moment.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Callidus screws up his face. He knows what I’m about to say. “Alright.”

“How in the gods’ graves did you end up in Seven?”

Callidus moves back over to his original position opposite me. Grabs his bread, takes a bite, chews. Waits to respond until he’s swallowed. “What makes you think I don’t belong there?”

I give him a stern look.

He smiles, despite himself. “Fine, fine.” His gaze flicks around the room, as if concerned someone will be listening. He opens his mouth to say more, but instead the crystalline chime to end the meal shimmers through the room, sparking a flurry of movement as everyone stands. Callidus exhales. “A story for another time.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Sure. And Vis?” Callidus is talking quietly, so much so that I can barely hear him above the hubbub of sandals stamping their way to class. “Those numbers that I just told you? Don’t repeat them to anyone. I’m not really supposed to talk about it.”

I feel my brow crinkle, but he’s serious. I nod.

We depart into our separate classes, me joining the flow of Sixths marching out of the Curia Doctrina and toward the Labyrinth. My mood’s improved. I can’t trust Callidus simply because he sees the rot beneath the Hierarchy’s veneer—if he found out who I was, I doubt it would matter—but I still feel an affinity with the other boy. Genuine affection, even if it can’t be accompanied by honesty.

It’s the closest I’ve come to actual friendship in a long, long while.

The afternoon passes much as the morning did, deep in the bowels of the Labyrinth as I half watch run after unsuccessful run lit by the dramatic framing fire. Veridius doesn’t return. I occasionally find myself scrutinising a brooding Eidhin from the corner of my eye, wondering at what Callidus told me about him. For Eidhin’s part, he appears not to notice my examination, the muscular boy taking in the proceedings below as dourly as I. Neither of us is called upon to participate again, even as spotters or hunters.

Mostly, though, I use the time to mentally prepare myself for what I’m considering this evening. Once I’ve mucked out the stables, I just need to store the equipment I need, go to the dormitory as usual, and then wait for Eidhin and the other two boys in my room to fall asleep. There are stirrups in the stables; no one will notice if I take a pair, and they’re strong enough to act as rope for the wall. A section of cataphract armour—an armoured saddle, basically—from the stable can cover the spikes on the top, too. I’ve already picked out a spot on the Academy boundary past the horse paddock that the lights don’t touch. It’s well away from any buildings.

Once I’m over, though… well. I try not to think about how little information I have about the ruins. How well they might be guarded, or worse, warded using Will. Or how long I can safely be gone before someone wakes and notices my absence.

The time to dwell makes me waver but every time I do, I glance across at Dultatis’s smug face and firm my resolve. Callidus is right—there’s not a lot I can do here. But I can’t sulk, just sit on my hands and hope for the best. It’s only two weeks until the Festival of the Ancestors, and if I want to advance, I need to give Ulciscor a reason to help.

It’s time to find out what Religion is up to out there.