V

“WAKE UP, REX, YOU LAZY ass.”

Pain ricochets through my shoulder as I’m prodded roughly. I growl as I open my eyes, glaring at the smug-looking fifteen-year-old looming over my mattress.

“Vermes.” I say his name like a wearily uttered curse, which is exactly how I mean it. “I’m up.”

“Doesn’t look like it.” The blond-haired boy nudges me again with his boot, dancing back with a smirk as my temper flares and I sit up. His thick bulk is mostly muscle, and he’s tall for his age. Still smaller than me, but he knows my position here is too tenuous for me to react with violence. “Matron says there’s an adoption happening today, and you need to get everyone ready.”

I close my eyes. Let my irritation settle as the early morning conversation with Matron Atrox comes back to me. The curtains in the north-facing window have already been drawn back, and the sun’s angling through enough to touch my feet. “Time?”

“Bell went ten minutes ago.”

I massage my shoulder. It’s stiffened overnight, but the ache’s less. “I’m up,” I repeat, more firmly this time. Far from a good amount of sleep, but enough to function. “Tell her I’ll be right down.”

“Tell her yourself. I want to get ready.” Vermes leaves before I can respond.

I drag myself up and to the washroom, splashing my face with water and using the mirror there to smooth my steadily lengthening brown hair. Until the orphanage, I was shaving it in the Aquirian style—doing everything I could to change my appearance in line with my story—but the only razor allowed here is Matron Atrox’s. And I’m not going to let that woman touch my hair.

It likely doesn’t matter. Even with the thick, wavy strands growing back, I barely recognise the hard and hollow face beneath them anymore.

I head downstairs, stopping first by the kitchen to sneak some leftovers. There’s exhilarated chatter from some of the girls in the next room as I tear away chunks of bread from a half-eaten loaf. A potential adoption always generates excitement—letters of recommendation are hard to come by for most people—but today, I can almost taste the anticipation in the air. A Quintus. If someone here is fortunate enough to be chosen, they’ll be departing to a lifetime of comfort.

I take a few moments to eat and then venture out to the main hall. It’s the largest room in the house, and most of the younger children will be playing in there already.

Some of the older ones spot my passage and trail behind, knowing why I’m there. I tell them to pass word that it’s time to get ready; they obey, even as they call me Rex in response. “King,” it means. A curse in the Republic and a mockery of my refusal to attend the Aurora Columnae, not to mention my flimsy façade of authority here.

I ignore the name. Uncomfortably close to the mark, but they’re children, and reacting only ever makes it worse. Neither friendliness nor reason travel far with them, either. So most days, I do my best to just view it as an honorific. A reminder that I’ve held out, when so few do.

It doesn’t always work.

Before long, everyone is assembled in the main hall. Its unadorned stone walls are sterile and characterless. Most of the children have taken seats at the long dining tables in its centre. As always, it’s easy to spot the ones whose turn it currently is to cede to Matron Atrox. They’re quiet, less obviously enthusiastic. Skin slightly wan. Distant stares and slow blinks as they wait, especially from the younger ones. At least they’ll get a brief reprieve today, when the matron temporarily returns their Will to them so that they can cede in their interview instead.

Of the room’s twenty-odd occupants, more than half are between seven and ten years old. Aside from myself, Vermes is oldest at fifteen, followed by Brixia and Jejun at fourteen, and a close-knit group of five who are all around twelve. The presence of the older ones typically means plenty of sneers, jokes, and back-chat aimed at me, but today that’s kept to a minimum. Everyone’s focused on getting ready.

“I don’t know why you’re bothering.” Vermes smirks as I line the children up and start neatening hair and straightening clothes. “A Quintus will want whoever can cede the most here, and that’s me.”

“Let’s just hope they don’t care about personality,” I mutter, not stopping.

There’s a tittering from some of the others, but Vermes’s glare around the room silences any mirth. “Not like you need to worry about what they want, Rex.” I’m fairly sure he bullies a lot of them when I’m not around. I wish they’d confirm it for me so that something could be done, but I’m too much a pariah to have their confidence.

Any response I might have made is quelled by the appearance of Matron Atrox, who sweeps into the room and favours the children with a beatific smile. Almost all of them reflect it back, even Vermes. They adore the matron. And why wouldn’t they? She treats them with patience and respect. She feeds them and clothes them, gives them hope for a family. And all they have to do is regularly cede to her, and then occasionally to strangers for a day or two.

I’ve thought about telling them the truth. That most of those strangers aren’t potential adopters but rather Octavii, so desperate to gain a temporary edge for one thing or another that they pay Matron Atrox handsomely for the extra Will. That if a child ever refused to cede, she would beat them within an inch of their lives. But I don’t. Even if I could convince them, I’m not sure what good it would achieve.

“My girls and boys! You all look wonderful.” Matron Atrox beams, her very slight acknowledgment to me indicating that I’ve done an adequate job. “Are you excited?”

There’s a chorus of loud, muddled responses, all variations of an enthusiastic yes.

“Well, you won’t have to wait too much longer. Our guest has just arrived!” Her eyes go to me again.

I take the cue, and leave.

My chores for today are mostly yard work, but interviews can take all afternoon, so I exit the hall via the kitchen. The massive walk-in pantry is always well stocked, and I spend a minute picking through what’s on offer.

The muffled sound of eager young voices raised in greeting soon filters through from the hall. Cradling an apple and a couple of pastries, I pause. I’m not awed like the others, but I’ve also never seen a Quintus up close.

I put my food on the bench and crack open the door to the hall again.

Everyone is facing away from me, circled around the newcomer so that I can’t get a good look at him. I shift, standing on my toes.

Freeze.

It’s only a glimpse—the impression of a face—but I’m certain.

It’s the man from the prison last night. Hospius.

I pull the door closed as gently as I can and flee for the yard, food forgotten. Why is he here? It cannot be coincidence. He did see me touch the Sapper. That has to be it.

I feel able to breathe again only once there’s sunlight on my face and I’m hidden by the greenery of the orphanage’s expansive gardens, my flight unseen. I’m anxious, but I know how to keep outright panic at bay. Too many years of lying, of close calls. This is no different. Stay calm. Think through the problem. Rashness could easily make a bad situation worse.

I run back our conversation from the previous night, the timeline of events. I told him that I was an orphan, but there are a dozen orphanages in Letens. Could he have sent messengers to them all, and this was simply his first, or maybe second, stop? That seems likely. He’s trying to be subtle about finding me, else he would have simply walked in and asked for me by name. And Matron Atrox knew he would be coming before I got back to the orphanage. He didn’t follow me here.

The Matron won’t mention my existence. I doubt any of the children will.

If I stay here, stay quiet, he’ll just move on.

I set to work trimming and weeding, twitching at every faint sound from the direction of the house. Meditative labour though it is, I don’t get much done. The more I consider, the stranger the situation becomes. He had papers indicating he was a Sextus last night. Is he here accompanying the Quintus, or is he impersonating one? Or was last night the impersonation? And if he did see me touch the Sapper, then why not apprehend me, then and there? Why leave, then search for me later?

Something’s not right, but I can’t see what. And it makes me nervous.

The crackling of twigs underfoot, only a half hour later, exacerbates the feeling.

“You’re needed, Rex.” It’s Brixia, glaring and out of breath from her search.

“For what?”

“Don’t know.” She looks at me with glinting eyes too small for her pudgy face. “But Matron didn’t look happy.”

I consider. If I run, right now—if I can subdue Brixia quickly and quietly, gather my hidden stash from my room, and flee before anyone else comes looking—then all the reasons I didn’t do so long ago come into play. I’m recorded under the Hierarchy’s census; it’s the price I paid for stumbling half-starved into the orphanage a year and a half ago. They have my age, name, description. Even if two of those things are made up, it’s the listing itself that is the issue.

Because as soon as I try to flee from what’s seen as my place in the system, I’ll be proscribed. Publicly made a prize for anyone who can capture and turn me in. The Hierarchy circulates those lists with terrifying efficiency. Within a day, there won’t be an inhabited place that isn’t dangerous for me.

And if Matron Atrox, her greed no longer a motivator, reveals my refusal to cede Will as well? Or worse, Hospius mentions what he saw? My bounty gets raised, and if I’m caught, there’s a good chance I’ll be confined until I turn eighteen. Destined for a Sapper unless I give up my resistance to the Aurora Columnae.

I clench my hand into a fist, then let my fingers loosen again. I’m not ready. I don’t have enough coin, a solid plan, a direction.

“Coming.”

We walk back to the house, Brixia looking sullen. There’s a low, bemused chatter that drops away as we enter the hall, replaced by angry stares in my direction. They all think I’m sabotaging them somehow.

Matron Atrox straightens from her consoling of one of the younger boys, Lacrimo, whose interview plainly didn’t go so well. Her eyes fix on me.

“Vis.” She walks over. Leans close, so only I can hear. “I don’t know how you managed to get his ear, but I swear to you—if you foul this up for the children, or for me, there will be consequences.”

I almost laugh. Just like the others, she thinks that this is what I want.

She leads me through a gauntlet of glares to the door to the library, clearing her throat and knocking. “I’ve found him, Quintus. He appears to have recovered.” She shoots me a meaningful glance. Illness, evidently, was offered as an excuse for my absence.

“Send him in.”

With a final glower, Matron Atrox opens the door and all but shoves me inside.

The orphanage’s library is not much bigger than a large room. Worn couches sit beneath two long windows, though the view through them is only of the grey stone of the building next door. Shelves filled with Hierarchy-supplied books are everywhere.

Hospius—or whatever his name actually is—reclines in a chair on the opposite side of the table that dominates the middle of the room. He indicates the seat across from him.

“Vis.”

“Sextus.” I sit. Resist the urge to say more, to risk filling the silence with things he may not yet know.

“Quintus, actually. Quintus Ulciscor Telimus. I… apologise for yesterday evening. It was a necessary deception, and one fully sanctioned by Military.” Ulciscor—for now, I’ll assume the name isn’t another fake—fiddles with the sleeve of his shirt. “You’re not surprised to see me.”

“I saw you come in.” I consider what he’s just told me. If Military really did send him to the prison, it would explain the quality of his false credentials.

And mean that I have absolutely no hold over him.

“Hm.” Even seated, the man opposite is imposing as he scrutinises me, rubbing the dark stubble on his chin. I get the impression this wasn’t how he expected his introduction to go. “And you didn’t think to mention to the matron that you’d already met me? That I used a different name?”

“There didn’t seem to be much point.”

“Because you wouldn’t be believed?”

“Because you wouldn’t have come here, if you didn’t think you could pass a closer inspection.”

Ulciscor, to my surprise, nods in an almost pleased manner. He waits for me to ask why he’s here. When I don’t, he lets his gaze rove to the books surrounding us. “How many of these have you read?”

I pause at the change in direction. “A few.” A large portion of this library has been irrelevant to me since the day I arrived—the material is aimed at younger children, or those with less tutelage-heavy backgrounds. The rest, I’d all but memorised from lack of alternatives within my first few months here.

“Not as good a range as the Bibliotheca, I imagine.”

The words cut through me. Delivered so casually, but those deep brown eyes across the table are stalking my every nervous twitch.

“Not even close. Matron Atrox used to send me there sometimes, when she realised I was too old for a lot of what’s here.” Not a perfect recovery, but it’s not bad.

“Used to?”

“When I got older, she decided my time was better spent elsewhere.” As soon as she realised there was no chance of my getting adopted, in fact. It’s why, after every fight, I’ve been using a portion of my winnings to bribe the Bibliotheca’s night guard for entry instead. Studying any and every subject I can in those last spare hours before returning here. At first, it was to find a way to avoid ceding—some distant Catenan province where it wasn’t a requirement, maybe. Or a little-known legal loophole. An historical precedent. Anything. And after I uncovered only bad options like the archipelago from the travelogue, I kept going there anyway because knowledge is always useful, and I was learning more about Will and how Catenan society works than I could ever have through mere observation. More knowledge meant more ways to hide. More avenues to survival.

But it was also simply because the time there, lost in those books… it reminded me of Suus. My lessons, once something I hated. Once something I shirked.

It felt like, just for a few hours, I got to live a sliver of my old life again.

Of course, without a way to earn any extra coin, that’s all over now.

I’m growing increasingly tense—which, I think, is the point. Ulciscor’s prodding, poking. Trying to unsettle me. He somehow knows, or at least suspects, where I was last night.

I let my shoulders slump, a quaver enter my voice.

“And… I’ve been sneaking back there, some nights. You obviously know. I’m sorry. I just… I don’t have any other way to see her anymore.”

Ulciscor, for the first time, is visibly thrown. “Who?”

“I’m not going to tell you her name.” I let some defiance seep into my voice. A boy in love, not wanting to get his lover into trouble. It’s a contingency meant for Matron Atrox, but it will do just fine here. “And if you need to punish me, I understand. But I’m not going to give her up.”

It’s a decent story. It fits the recklessness of what I’ve been doing, provides motivation for most of my actions. I could even work in my refusal to cede Will, if it came down to it.

Ulciscor adjusts his sleeves again; it seems to be a habit of his when he’s thinking. I stare down at the table, trying to look a mix of determined and vulnerable. I was a terrible actor when I left Suus. I’m much, much better now.

After an interminably long silence, there’s a disappointed sigh.

“You’re not in trouble, Vis.”

I plaster hope on my face and look up again. Ulciscor waves at me tiredly. “It seems I’ve made a mistake. You can go.”

I still want to know how he knew about the Bibliotheca, but I’m not about to ask. I thank him with the sort of nervous profuseness he’d probably expect for such a reprieve, and hurry for the door.

“Another step, I kill you.” He says it in clear, quiet Vetusian.

I like to believe that I’m quick on my feet, but when someone issues a death threat in a language you’re not supposed to know, your mind and body fight themselves.

I flinch. Stumble. Stop.

I know I’ve given myself away, but try to rescue it regardless. “Is that the language you were speaking last night?” I’m still facing the door.

“Sit back down, Vis.” It’s not a suggestion this time.

I’m frozen. There’s no running, not from a Quintus. No way to fight him, either.

I force air back into my lungs. “I have coin.”

“Not interested.”

Unsurprising. The panic subsides enough for my body to come back under my control, and I turn to see Ulciscor watching me. Not angry, not wary, not stern. Just thoughtful.

But there is a black tint that’s fading from his eyes.

I return to my seat, trying not to shake.

“That was a good try.” Ulciscor sounds reluctantly impressed. “Impossible to prove, but plausible. Relatable enough that anyone with a romantic bone in their body wouldn’t come down too hard on you. Take away your understanding my conversation last night, and I might have believed it.”

I’m not inclined to enjoy the praise. “How did you know?”

“A man’s face is different when he’s hearing and when he’s listening. Something about the eyes.” Ulciscor shrugs. “If it’s any comfort, I almost missed it.”

It’s not.

There’s silence as I struggle with the situation. Maybe all of this is just about what I overheard.

“I didn’t really catch much of what you said to the prisoner. And I barely understood what I did.”

“Any of it is too much.” There’s implied menace in Ulciscor’s gentle smile. “But I think there may be a way we can work this out, to both our benefits. So let’s start again. Without the lies, this time.”

“Alright,” I lie.

“Good. Now. Let’s start with the Sapper. I saw you touch it last night. Don’t deny it,” warns Ulciscor, stilling any protest I might have made. “Do you know why you weren’t affected?”

There’s too much confidence across the table for repudiations. “No.”

Ulciscor nods, approving my lack of dissembling. “I have a theory, but first I need you to cede some Will to me. Just a little.”

There’s a sudden, familiar heaviness in my chest. This is traditionally the first question that’s asked in an adoption interview, given it’s the easiest way to assess someone’s strength of Will. It’s also where the interview traditionally ends, for me. Usually accompanied by outrage. Shouting. Punishment.

“No.”

Ulciscor doesn’t even twitch. “It will only take a minute. But I need you to do this if we are to work out this little problem between us.”

“Still no.” I say it firmly. I used to prevaricate, apologise and make excuses, as if I was in the wrong for refusing. It only ever made things worse.

Ulciscor leans forward. “Vis, let me prove my theory and I will forget about last night. I will give you as much money as you need. I will get you out of this orphanage, ensure you are in line for whatever position you’d like. A word from me, and you’ll start life after here as a Sextus, no matter the career you choose. I’ll guarantee you all of this in writing if I need to. Sealed with my Will. All you have to do is cede for a minute.”

It’s the most I’ve been offered, ever, by a long way. Unfortunately for Ulciscor, I’m just as comfortable rejecting the carrot as taking the stick. “Thank you, Quintus—that’s very generous—but my answer hasn’t changed. It won’t change.”

I make sure not to even hint at the molten anger that sits, hard and heavy, somewhere in the pit of my stomach. This is the dividing line: me on one side, the people who killed my family on the other. The idea of crossing it revolts me. I’m not even tempted.

The corners of Ulciscor’s mouth quirk upward.

My grimly certain strength falters as I frown back at him, too confused to do anything else. Wondering if I’m somehow misinterpreting the expression. He looks pleased.

“You haven’t been through the Aurora Columnae rituals,” the man opposite concludes with satisfaction.

My blank look lingers, and then I exhale as I understand. Of course. I’m so used to being defensive, so thrown by this surreal conversation, that I missed it. “You think that’s why the Sapper didn’t work on me.” That’s my theory, too—there’s only one obvious distinction between me and everyone else in the Hierarchy—but it feels like Ulciscor’s conclusion is more than just a guess.

“It’s something I heard years ago. Just idle speculation from…” He trails off. A flash of melancholy. “I’d forgotten about it until last night.”

“So you’re here to make sure I keep quiet, then.” I don’t hide my bitterness. A potential immunity from, or even just resistance to, the Sappers is something that the Hierarchy wouldn’t want getting out.

“Partly.” Ulciscor looks at me like a puzzle he needs to solve. “Why don’t you want to cede?”

“So I can walk around exhausted all day like those children outside? Eventually become an Octavii and lose, what—ten, fifteen years off my life?”

He ignores that last part, even though the Hierarchy doesn’t officially admit it. “I’m not talking about refusing to cede to your matron out there, or refusing to be slotted into some dead-end pyramid. That, I understand. But not submitting to an Aurora Columnae at all? I assume you’ve at least been taken to one before.” I give a dour confirmation. “Surely that would be worth it, even if it’s just to have the ability in adoption interviews.”

“They can’t force me.”

“I imagine they tried.” His gaze flickers unconsciously to my shoulder. He knows about my scars, has guessed their origin. Which means he was at the fight, too, or has at least heard a report on it. I assumed as much—it would be strange if he knew about the Bibliotheca and not that—but it still makes me cornered prey.

“Not hard enough.” I let him know I saw the glance and understand what it means. “Why do you care?”

“Because it means that what I have to offer will be of particular interest to you. I can guarantee you won’t be asked to cede Will again for at least another year. And after that, you may even be able to earn the chance to go somewhere that won’t require you to cede at all.”

“No such place.”

Ulciscor pulls a book from somewhere under the table. It takes me a moment to recognise the travelogue. The one I took last night, that’s supposed to be safely hidden in my room.

“How…”

“I ducked upstairs after I used the facilities earlier. Don’t worry, nobody saw. The rest of your little stockpile is still there.”

I scowl. “How did you find it?”

“I’ll give you until the end of our conversation to figure that out.” He waves a finger. “But we’re getting distracted. I’m in a position to help you. You might be in a position to help me. That’s what matters.”

I stare at the book. Verbalised or not, Ulciscor’s uncovered enough that the warning is there among the promises. That’s how the Hierarchy operates, after all: the potential of reward ahead, the menace of punishment chasing behind. Even if only one of them is usually real.

“Alright. I’m listening.” I exhale the words a little fatalistically. The decision’s made. Whatever else may be happening here, we’re still talking, which means that I have something Ulciscor wants. I can work with that.

And gods know—if he’s telling even half the truth, I can’t afford to pass up this opportunity.

Ulciscor beams.

The questions start.

It’s slow, at the beginning. Boring, if the discussion were in another context. Ulciscor is prodding around the basics of my education, the sorts of things well covered in the books around us. My understanding of the Hierarchy, its structure, its laws and traditions. Geography, which areas are considered provinces, and which are simply “friends of Caten.” Caten’s own history, which I dutifully recite according to their accounts. Aside from the specifics of the latter, I knew the answers to all these questions before I left Suus.

But then the tone changes. We start to cover economic considerations of the spread of the Hierarchy into other systems of government. Philosophical takes on the morality of Will, its exponential growth and application. The mathematics of its distribution and how that’s carefully balanced against the need for oversight and control. Even the debate over whether it could have contributed to, or even caused, the Cataclysm three hundred years ago. I’m taken aback at first. Some questions require the dredging of my memory for obscure books I read years ago. Some I outright don’t know. A lot, I’m only able to answer thanks to my time at the Bibliotheca. And almost all require genuine extrapolation from me, actual thought rather than just recitation of facts.

Occasionally, Ulciscor will argue a point I’ve made or look disappointed in one of my answers. But I warm to the task, and more often than not, he appears satisfied when we move on. It starts to feel like the sparring conversations I used to have with Iniguez, my favourite tutor. The weathered old man with the straggly grey hair was the only one who never spoke down to me or deferred to me, never treated me as either child or prince. The only one who ever seemed interested in whether I was filling my own potential, rather than exceeding that of others.

Ulciscor and I talk for two hours, in the end. Matron Atrox checks on us five times in the guise of offering refreshments. Ulciscor accepts on her fourth interruption. When she opens the door the last time, she finds me wetting my throat with the drink she prepared for the Quintus. She doesn’t look pleased.

For my part, I try to remember the situation and not enjoy the conversation too much. Ulciscor is an intelligent, well-educated man—the kind I haven’t spoken with in years—but his motives, even his personality, remain inscrutable. There are flashes of passion when we talk about certain topics, or when he strongly objects to something I’ve said. And he’s certainly interested in what I have to say. But he lets nothing significant slip.

When the questions stop, my mug is empty and throat sore. This is the most I’ve talked in one sitting for a long time.

“I think that will do,” says Ulciscor. He sounds contemplative. “You’ve put your time at the Bibliotheca to good use. There are gaps, but nothing we can’t fix.”

I study his expression. “You have other concerns.” I make sure I sound analytical rather than anxious. Ulciscor may not have made up his mind, but I have.

I want to see where this opportunity leads.

“Yes.” He tugs absently at a sleeve as he locks his gaze with mine, searching. “Your temperament, for one.”

Of course. The fight last night. A topic as yet untouched. “I can keep my temper under control.”

“Easy to say, but it’s in the way you bear yourself, Vis. The way you talk. I think you’re so used to resisting, you don’t know how not to.”

I feel some irritation at the words, but now is fairly obviously not the time to display it. “I’m not sure there’s a way for me to convince you, when it comes to that.”

“Hm.” Dissatisfied. “Tell me. Why did you fight naked, last night?”

“I was worried the Sextus would imbue my clothes. Stop me from getting away.”

“He wouldn’t have been able to. Refined, flexible materials and limited time, at his level… impossible. But I suppose you wouldn’t have known that,” Ulciscor allows. “Was that the only reason?”

“Why else would I do it?”

“I thought it might have been to embarrass him.”

“I wanted to put him off, I suppose. But I didn’t go out there hoping to humiliate him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Alright.” Ulciscor believes me. “You did show composure under pressure, earlier. The ability to think on your feet like that is useful. Your disposition, the other rough edges… we can likely smooth them out.” He’s only half talking to me. As if he’s trying to picture me in a particular situation.

He’s still wavering, though.

“The coin you gave me. You imbued it with Will.”

Ulciscor blinks, focuses back on me. “Why do you say that?”

“You followed me to the fight and to the Bibliotheca, through all but empty streets, without me noticing—and you’re working alone, otherwise why come here yourself and risk the trouble that false identity could cause you?” The first half of the interview, when I barely had to think about the questions, let me chew over the problem. This is the only explanation I could come up with. “Plus, you must have sent messengers to all the orphanages last night, but you knew I was here this morning. And I doubt you asked the matron for directions to my room, let alone had the time to search it for that loose panel in the wall.”

A coin’s supposed to be all but impossible to imbue, given that it’s forged, but he is a Quintus.

Ulciscor reaches into his pocket. Displays a silver triangle. The tightness in my chest eases as he nods his decision.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “Let’s tell the matron the good news.”