The Will of the Many (Hierarchy Book 1)

THE HALL STILLS AS WE emerge from the library.

Matron Atrox breaks from her conversation with Vermes and strides toward us, sparing me a glare as she does so. All the children are still here. Restless, understandably, after so long.

“Quintus! I hope Vis has not been making a nuisance of himself.” She gives me another dark look. She’s already implied several times to Ulciscor that I’m not to be trusted. Trying to mitigate the things she’s imagining I’m saying about her, no doubt.

“Not at all. We’ve had a delightful conversation.” Ulciscor talks so that everyone in the room can hear. “In fact—I’ve made my decision, Matron. If you could please fetch the paperwork, I would like to formalise the adoption.”

Matron Atrox looks at him blankly. The expression, I note with some amusement, is mirrored behind her.

“For Rex?” It’s Vermes, speaking into the shocked hush. He suddenly laughs, the concept so impossible to him that he thinks it’s a joke. It still manages to come out as mostly a sneer. “Quintus, who did you really pick?”

A few other titters echo from Vermes’s simpering coterie. They cut off quickly enough when Ulciscor’s expression hardens. Matron Atrox opens her mouth but, seeing Ulciscor’s face, instead pales and scurries off to collect the necessary documents.

“You’re really taking him. Above any of us.” Vermes has always been terrible at reading situations. Doesn’t have the self-control or sense to know when to back down, either. “You know he wouldn’t even cede when they dragged him to the Columnae, right? He’s useless to anyone. He’s a joke.” He spits the words. There’s a low mutter of agreement from some of the other older children, though they stay in the background. Smarter than Vermes by a hair, at least.

“Vermes, wasn’t it?” Ulciscor gazes at the large boy. “Do you want to know why you haven’t been adopted?”

Vermes blinks. Looks lost at the question.

“It’s because you’re a deeply unpleasant child,” continues Ulciscor calmly. “Immature. Spiteful. And honestly, not very bright. So it doesn’t matter how strong your Will is. Nobody wants to have someone like you living with them. You need to change, Vermes. Better yourself, or you’ll be a Solum for the rest of your life.”

His gaze sweeps the rest of the room. The other children cringe beneath it.

Vermes’s lip curls. He’s bright red.

He turns and stalks away.

I watch him go, oddly tempted to call after him. Offer him some measure of comfort to balance the acid in Ulciscor’s lecture. I’ve despised the boy for a long time, but I can’t help but pity him, too.

“A little harsh, don’t you think?” I murmur as the other children begin to drift from the hall, seeing that Ulciscor’s decision has been made. They’re bitterly disappointed. A few of the younger ones look on the verge of tears.

“Maybe if I had more time with him, I’d show him the compassion he needs. But kind words from me in passing aren’t going to have any effect. Sometimes bullies are better off with the truth, no matter how unpleasant.” He eyes me. “You disagree?”

“No.”

Matron Atrox reappears, papers in hand. She begins laying them out on the table.

“Quintus,” she says carefully, not looking at either of us as she fastidiously arranges the documents. “Before you finalise this decision, would we be able to have a word in private?”

“Certainly.” Ulciscor doesn’t blink at the request. “Vis, perhaps it’s time to collect your belongings from your room.”

“That’s not necessary. Vis doesn’t have—”

“Here.” Ulciscor cuts her off as he unslings a satchel from around his shoulder. “Will this be big enough?”

I take the bag, glancing inside. There’s only the travelogue in there. More than enough room for the coins I have hidden away.

“Thanks.” I glance past him at Matron Atrox, who is giving me a look that promises violence, and then at Ulciscor. His back still to the matron, he gives me a near-imperceptible nod.

It only takes a few minutes for me to hurry upstairs, shift my stash from the hole in the wall to the satchel, and then return. I pass a few of the children in the passageways. They glare at me jealously. None say anything.

When I step back into the hall, Matron Atrox is seated at the table as Ulciscor signs documents. She’s white. Trembling.

Ulciscor pauses his writing to glance up at her. She leaps to her feet.

“Vis.” Her voice is tight, but it’s not with anger anymore. She’s meek, as she holds out a small leather bag. “These are your wages from Victorum and the prison. That I’ve been… keeping, for you.” She stumbles over the words. Her hand shakes as she proffers the purse.

I take it with a frown, surprised at the weight. When I glance inside, gold glitters back at me. No way to tell if it’s the amount I’ve earned, but it looks about right.

Before I can respond, Ulciscor signs the last page with a flourish and straightens, clapping me on the back. “Ready?”

“I suppose so.” It’s all happened so fast. No one here I particularly want to bid farewell to, and no one who will care if I don’t. As surreal as it is, there’s nothing stopping me from leaving.

We start toward the door, but something makes me stop. I walk back to the matron. She looks old, smaller and more tired than I can ever remember seeing her. It doesn’t matter, when I think about the scars on my back.

I lean forward so that my whisper carries to her ear. “I’m going to come back one day.” There’s no trace of anger in my voice.

Just promise.

Any façade she was maintaining falls away, and I see cringing terror in her green eyes. I stare at her a moment longer, locking her gaze to mine. Making sure she understands.

Then I’m walking away, out the door.

Ulciscor takes the lead once we’re outside, and I’m content to follow, still acclimating to my life’s seismic shift. It’s colder than I expected. The sun from this morning has vanished, and heavy clouds to the west threaten rain.

“What did you say to her?” I ask eventually.

“Nothing that didn’t need to be said.” Nonchalant, but there’s an edge somewhere underneath the words. “You?”

“Same.”

It’s mid-afternoon, and the streets of Letens are busy, though not as crowded as I know they will be in the market district. Ulciscor observes all the activity—Will-powered carts, clumps of pallid Octavii labouring for their Septimii, a group of younger Tensian children playing Victorum with wooden swords—with mild, albeit unimpressed curiosity. He clearly hasn’t been here for long.

“So. I believe you owe me some more information.” It’s finally dawned on me that Ulciscor’s taking me somewhere, but I know nothing beyond that. We’re heading toward the city outskirts. Probably leaving Letens altogether.

“I’ll explain everything on the way.”

“To where?”

“Deditia.”

Somewhere behind us, there’s a scream of triumph from one of the children as she knocks her larger opponent to the ground, straddling him. I flinch. Not entirely at the sound. Before Caten was the capital of the world, it was the capital of Deditia.

But it’s been three years, and the official story is that I’m dead. No one is looking for me anymore, if they ever were. Whether I’m here or in the country cocooning the beating heart of the Republic, it probably doesn’t matter.

Besides. There’s no going back, now.

TWENTY MINUTES OF WALKING—LARGELY IN silence, as it appears Ulciscor does not wish to discuss anything further while we’re among crowds—brings us to the edge of Letens.

I haven’t been this way since I first arrived in the city eighteen months ago. It’s changed. The squat, ramshackle wooden buildings that housed Octavii and their families have vanished, replaced by either towering façades of stone or the half-fleshed skeletons of them. Streets have been widened. Straightened. Paved. Octavii still roam them, but they’re hard at work, using what remains of their strength to haul masonry or lumber. It’s a hive of construction, Septimii barking orders and even what must be a Sextus, eyes clouded as she raises a massive slab up three full stories, allowing several struggling Octavii to secure the levitating stone.

Ulciscor has noticed the Sextus too. “Inefficient,” he mutters disapprovingly.

It’s enough of a conversational opening for me to take it. “They’re building warehouses?” It’s the only thing I can come up with. This is a strange part of Letens to be improving, otherwise. And I don’t think most of these buildings are meant to be residences. The doors are too tall and wide, and there aren’t enough windows.

“Part of Tensia’s treaty with us was a split of any resources we harvested from their land. Grain and stone, mostly. They were never able to extract it efficiently themselves. Things only properly got underway six months ago, though.”

“So this is all for storing it?”

“This is for storing the Tensian share. Though eventually, they’ll realise they can’t put it to good use and ask for our help in deploying it. Or this will all fill up, and they’ll start selling it to us at cost.” He talks absently, neither boasting nor sad at the prospect. Just assessing how events will play out.

“Then what happens to the Catenan cut?”

“It gets sent to Caten.”

I scoff. “It can’t have been much of a split, then.” We’re almost three thousand miles from the capital, and that’s with the Sea of Quus in between. The logistics would be a nightmare.

Ulciscor just smiles.

Soon enough we’re leaving the rising buildings and worn workers behind, moving past the line where a great stone wall once guarded the city—dismantled under the Hierarchy’s treaty with Tensia, ensuring their reliance on Will alone for protection—and out onto a long, grassy plain. It’s not hard to guess what we’re angling toward. The white monolith, three-sided and impossibly tall, has marred the skyline since not long after we left the orphanage. I’ve wondered at its purpose since spotting it, but thought it best to follow Ulciscor’s example and remain mute.

We’re close enough to see it properly now. It’s granite, I think, the white speckled with streaks of black. Perhaps thirty feet wide on each side. At least two hundred high. Taller? A single building also blights the plain, directly behind the column. It’s huge as well, even comparatively, an unusually elongated mass of wood and steel and stone and even glass that dominates the landscape. Workers march, ant-like, along a paved road that skirts the monolith and scythes through the grass, connecting the structure to the city. Will-driven carts clatter along it.

And underneath the building, at points.

I stumble, not quite processing that last part. There are no supports visible, and yet it’s suddenly clear, even from here, that the whole thing is just … hovering.

“What in the gods’ names?” It comes out in a whisper, involuntary. I squint, but we’re still too far away for me to make sense of it. If it’s distance that’s the problem, of course.

“It’s a Transvect.” The corners of Ulciscor’s lips quirk upward as he takes in my reaction. “Never seen one?”

I shake my head, unable to rip my gaze from the sight.

“The anchoring point was completed six months ago.” It’s subtle, but there’s a note of pride. “It’s loaded and ready to depart. Just waiting on us, actually. We’ll be in Deditia by morning.”

“By morning,” I repeat faintly. I’ve heard of Transvects before, of course—briefly studied the concept, in fact, all those years ago in Suus. Will-powered behemoths that move at several times the speed of the fastest horse, carrying massive loads of troops or supplies to the farthest corners of the world. Or in this case, I suppose, to its centre. It’s not that I ever doubted their existence, exactly, but they always seemed too much like propaganda. An exaggeration of the Hierarchy’s making, a story they circulated to vaunt their power. So I never really tried to envisage what a Transvect might actually look like. Certainly never imagined the sheer size of the thing.

Even staring at its reality, I can’t bring myself to imagine this colossal, hovering creation moving fast. Or at all.

A gust of chill wind carries the first flecks of rain, and I draw my cloak tighter, shivering.

The walk to the Transvect is interminable; just when I think I’ve come to grips with the enormity of it, we get closer. It’s mostly wood, but with what looks like enormous granite strips forming a core running along its belly. There are windows here and there. Massive doors for loading. The edge nearest the city tapers sharply for a few feet, a stone nose in the shape of a squat, sideways pyramid.

I can’t remember the last time I felt so small.

We’re hailed as we pass into the Transvect’s shadow and near the stairs rising to a hundred-foot-long platform ahead, our path blocked by an officious-looking woman.

“Workers only,” she calls out as soon as we’re in earshot. It’s a warning.

“And passengers,” Ulciscor corrects her. He produces signed documents—he seems to excel at obtaining those—and proffers them with a cheerful flourish.

The woman—a Septimus; her movements are too energetic by far for an Octavus—snatches the papers disbelievingly. Scans them. Stops. Starts reading again, her face paling.

Her hand quivers as she returns them.

“Magnus Quintus Telimus. Welcome. Welcome. I was not told…” She’s flustered.

I wait for Ulciscor to correct her on her misuse of his title, but he doesn’t. More false credentials? “It’s fine. May we proceed?”

“Of course. Of course you may.” She looks at me. Reddens. “There was nothing about—”

“This is Vis Telimus. I trust that a family member accompanying me won’t be a problem?” He starts digging under his cloak in exasperation. “I can provide those papers too, if I—”

“No. No. Not necessary. Of course, please proceed, Magnus. Master Telimus.” I swear she almost bows.

Vis Telimus. Of course. I try not to let the new name bother me. It barely occurred to me, among everything else, that I was no longer a Solum. It shouldn’t make a difference; Vis isn’t my real name, and the nomenclature of an orphan was never a badge of honour.

And yet, Solum always felt more apart. Fitted with my relationship to the Hierarchy. This step is closer in symbol only, and yet part of me can’t help but be uncomfortable with how personal it feels.

There’s no time to linger on the thought. We climb past the woman, up onto the elevated stone platform. The Transvect fills my vision. We’re about fifty feet from the very end, and I can see another stubby pyramid-shaped nose jutting from its front.

I’ve unconsciously paused at the top of the stairs, but Ulciscor nudges me forward. “We’re in that one.”

I head reluctantly toward where a sole door conspicuously gapes. There’s a richly carpeted room within. Several comfortable chairs fixed to the walls. A cupboard at the back, and small tables with food on them. There’s no one inside.

The Transvect is motionless as it hangs mid-air, not even a tremor to indicate that Will alone holds it aloft. I still hesitate.

Ulciscor moves past me and inside. He turns around, arms outstretched, then jumps up and down a couple of times to prove his point.

I glower at him, and step on.

Nothing gives as my weight leaves the safety of the platform. It’s as solid as if I were walking on the ground.

Ulciscor watches my trepidatious first step with amusement, then shuts the door behind me and throws himself into a chair, looking entirely at home.

“It’s just us?” This section isn’t especially large, but I’m still surprised. None of the other ones I could see looked suitable for carrying people.

“No other passengers and completely unmanned. We have the whole thing to ourselves for the next fifteen hours.” Ulciscor relaxes into his seat. “Hopefully enough time to answer your questions.”

“Hopefully.” Fifteen hours. Fifteen hours to travel near three thousand miles. I stand there, gazing around, a little awed. Daunted, in fact. Hate the Hierarchy though I do, some of the things they’ve achieved are truly incredible. It’s been easy to forget, here on the edge of the continent, where only the most modest of their advancements are ever in evidence. “How much Will does this thing use?” Hardly my most pressing concern, but I’m still off-balance, need some time to gather myself.

Ulciscor waves me into the seat opposite him. “How much do you think?”

I can see in his eyes that it’s another test, albeit an impromptu one. I take my time settling into a chair that’s plush, more comfortable than anything I’ve sat on in years, and let my wonderment fade to assessment.

The basics of Will usage—peliphagy, the Catenans call it, though the term rarely enters common parlance—are relatively well-known. Any of the children back at the orphanage could have explained that a Septimus has eight Octavii ceding half their Will to them, a Sextus has seven Septimii ceding half of their collected Will, and so on up the pyramid through Quintus, Quartus, Tertius, Dimidius, and finally, Princeps. Each level higher becoming increasingly powerful. And the older children could do the resulting mathematics, too. A Septimus wields the equivalent of five people’s Will: four from their combined Octavii, plus their own. That halves when they’re ceding to a Sextus. A Sextus, therefore, starts with the Will of more than eighteen people. And so on.

But the nice, theoretical simplicity of the calculations end there: they’re useful for understanding someone’s physical strength, but that’s only the most basic use of Will. Imbuing objects—controlling them through mental effort—is where the true power of the Hierarchy lies, exponentially increasing the efficacy of that strength for anyone who can do it. I can still only guess at how much, though. My studies at Suus only ever referenced estimates based on rumour and observation. And the Hierarchy doesn’t exactly shout the secrets of high-level Will usage to the masses. I’ve eked out an understanding of some of the methods they use, over the years, but the exact costs and efficiencies surrounding it all remain murky to me at best.

Ulciscor knows this better than I do, of course; his questions have already exposed my lack in this area today. Which means he doesn’t expect me to come up with an exact answer. Still, after hours of doing everything I can to impress him, I’m finding it difficult to resist the urge to show off a little.

“I think a single Quintus could probably power it,” I say, repressing a shiver as I come to the realisation. The strength of fifty-five men, but worth so much more if properly applied.

“Really?” There’s humour in Ulciscor’s eyes, but also a spark of surprise. “You think I could run it by myself?”

“If you’re not ceding.” So he really is a Quintus. Probably. “Those separated stone strips underneath must be imbued, so I assume they’re locked together with Will. Which means you wouldn’t have to lift the entire thing, just the heaviest section.” A method I read about in the Bibliotheca. I stare at the floor as I speak, brow furrowed. There were a half dozen of the weight-bearing stone slabs, at least. “You’d still need power to provide lift. But once that was done, you could use more imbuing to push or pull the whole thing fairly easily. I imagine that’s what that giant stone column out there is for. The anchoring point, you called it?” I gesture back the way we came, my voice warming as I engage with the puzzle. “So, yes. You couldn’t be on board yourself—I know self-propulsion isn’t possible with Will—and you’d need the infrastructure, but otherwise I think you could move the entire thing.”

I look up, concealing an onset of queasiness as I remember who I’m talking to. Ulciscor’s watching me. The rain is starting to pick up outside, rattling the glass.

“Harmonic and Reactive,” he murmurs eventually. “When objects are locked together, it’s a Harmonic relationship. When they push or pull, it’s a Reactive one.” He leans back and smiles abruptly, waving his hand to indicate the information isn’t important right now. “Most people assume it would take at least a Quartus to move one of these.”

“Most people are stupid.” It’s an absent response, out of my mouth before I can stop it.

Thankfully it only prompts a guffaw from Ulciscor. “You’re not wrong.” Despite his amusement, he looks impressed by my analysis. “And it’s not a bad guess, either. A strong Totius Quintus could, theoretically, power all the mechanisms that drive a Transvect. Of course, if something happened to them, the whole thing would come crashing down, so…”

“So you need to distribute the imbuing between multiple people for safety, if nothing else.”

“Exactly.”

There’s movement outside the window, a worker checking something or other farther down the platform, half shielding herself from the inclement weather with a raised cloak. She steps back, waving a signal toward the ground.

There’s the tiniest of jolts, and we start to rise.

I find myself gripping the sides of my chair as the platform recedes, though the motion itself is smooth, quite gentle. I’m not sure I’d even have noticed it if not for the windows. “Why are we going higher?” I peer down at the platform through streaks of water, an anxious strain to my voice. We’re thirty feet above it, still climbing. Fifty off the ground.

“Easiest way to avoid obstructions. Rockfalls, landslides. Ships. People. That sort of thing.”

“Ah.” Our steady rise finally stops, and I clutch tighter to my seat. Seventy feet off the ground.

“Afraid of heights?”

I’m not—the cliffs of Suus were taller than this, and I climbed those all the time—but I’m not going to tell him that. My eyes are still glued to the increasingly distant illusion of safety. I can all but hear Ulciscor’s grin.

The Transvect starts to move again. Forward, this time.

I’m mesmerised as the platform far below begins to slide from view. We move slowly at first but steadily build momentum; I press my face against the glass to try and see farther, marvelling at the vista both outward across the rolling plains and vast forests of Tensia, and back over the increasingly distant, sullen structures of her capital.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it.” There’s no teasing to Ulciscor’s voice this time.

I don’t respond. Already our speed’s increased enough that I can barely see the platform anymore. There’s only one person still visible on it, absurdly tiny from this vantage. The woman who stopped us, I think.

“She called you Magnus Quintus.” My queasiness has returned. I’d been hoping Ulciscor would bring this up on his own, but I have to mention it. I have to know, before anything else.

“It’s my full title.”

I continue to gaze out the window. Afraid that he’ll see my dismay if I look at him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or the matron?” There’s no way she knew.

“Her, because I didn’t need her thinking she could use your adoption to some political advantage. It’s why the proconsul agreed to leave it off the paperwork. Fairly standard stuff, when we have dealings in the provinces.” I can hear the shrug in his voice. “And you, because it hadn’t come up yet. Is it relevant?”

I almost laugh.

“Quintus”—fifth—is an enormously powerful position within the Hierarchy; there are twenty-four million people in the Republic, but most pyramids still peak at Sextus. The mayor of Letens, an important and well-respected man, is a Sextus—albeit a Totius Sextus, the very top of his pyramid. Proconsul Manius, the current governor of all Tensia and thus in charge of an entire Catenan province, is a Totius Quintus.

There are only three pyramids that stretch higher than Quartus, though: the three senatorial pyramids, which everyone refers to simply as Military, Governance, and Religion. Only the strongest, the most skilled, are recruited for those. Quintii from standard pyramids vie to become a Septimus in a senatorial one.

And only those in the senatorial pyramids are allowed to use the title “Magnus.”

Which makes Ulciscor one of the most powerful men in all the Hierarchy.

“Well, it’s certainly a surprise.” The Transvect is still picking up speed. Hurtling along, judging by how fast Letens is disappearing behind us. “You’re a senator?”

“I am. The Senate will need to ratify your adoption, actually—it won’t be official until that happens,” Ulciscor adds absently. “You’ll need to present yourself to them in Caten, at some point.”

“Is that necessary?”

“It’s just a formality.” The distracted reproach in his tone means yes, it is necessary. “The name Telimus may not be universally beloved like a Valerius or a Tulius, but its history is still proud. The Senate will want to make sure I’m not opening a door for someone who doesn’t deserve it.”

I nod, not knowing how else to react, focusing on the streaks of water sliding sideways across the glass outside. There’s the sudden, sinking dismay of being trapped. Wondering if I’ve acted rashly.

Nothing to be done about it now, though. I steel myself, tear my gaze from the window. We’re high enough that I can’t really see the ground anyway, unless I lean. “So. Why am I here, Father?”

Ulciscor allows a smirk at that. “Good question, Son. Have you heard of the Catenan Academy?”

“Of course.” Everyone in the Hierarchy knows about the Academy. The children of senators and knights are usually privately tutored, but some very few get to spend the last eighteen months of their childhood at Caten’s most prestigious institute. Being groomed for leadership, politics, the Senate. Catenan dignity and glory.

Ulciscor stares at me steadily, waiting.

“Oh. Oh. Me?” I snort a laugh. The concept is so absurd, I’m sure he’s joking. “You need me to become a Magnus, too?”

“Not exactly.” Ulciscor is smiling back, but none of my humour is reflected in his eyes.

My own smile withers into something more sickly. “You said I wouldn’t have to cede.”

“You won’t. The Academy is the one place in all the Republic where ceding Will, or receiving it, is forbidden. They want it to be a level field for every student. ‘A ladder should not be climbed from the shoulders of others,’ and all that.” The last is clearly a quote, though I don’t recognise it. “We’re on our way there now, in fact—I arranged for the Transvect to be realigned. We’ll need to present you in person to make your application official.”

I’m silent, trying vainly to grasp the enormity of it. I do remember hearing somewhere that Will usage was banned in the Academy. That doesn’t mean I’m convinced. “There will always be something, though. Some emergency. Some test you don’t know about that ends with them asking me to cede.”

“I was a student there myself. They expel anyone who’s found breaking that rule, even if it’s during trimester breaks away from the school. There are no exceptions. Never have been.” Ulciscor’s dark brown eyes are earnest. Excited. He thinks he has a winning argument.

“You said this was an opportunity.” There’s plainly a reason Ulciscor wants me at the Academy, but before we address that, I want to fathom why he thinks I want to be there. I feel like I’m missing something. “I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but… all that would really do is make my life easier for a while. Once I leave, I’m no better off.”

“No one graduating from the Academy has ever been assigned a position lower than Sextus. And the better you do there, the more choice you’ll have. Finish high enough, and you could be a Totius. Never have to cede Will at all.”

I curse inwardly at his misplaced enthusiasm as I understand. Ulciscor’s made the assumption—a reasonable one, given what I’ve said thus far—that I’m only intent on avoiding ceding any Will. He hasn’t even considered the possibility that my distaste extends to being part of the system at all.

“What if I don’t want to receive Will, either?” I could let it slide, but Ulciscor’s about to tell me why I’m really here—which he doesn’t want widely known, given his secretive visit to Nateo. I’m past the point of backing out, but my options will be even more limited once he’s entrusted me with that information.

Ulciscor blinks. Thrown.

“There are some positions like that,” he says slowly. “The Keepers of the Eternal Flame in Caten. Special auditors under the Censor, who need to operate without even a hint of undue influence. Of course, you’d need to be a virgin woman for the first, and a retired senator for the second. Those might be out of your reach.” He thinks. Reluctant. “You could ask to be assigned to the ambassador in Jatiere, I suppose. Our treaty with them says that no one from the embassy is allowed to use Will. But it’s far from prestigious. And very unusual. You would have to finish in Class Three—that’s the top-ranked class—for the Senate to even consider letting you choose a post like that. And the only way you could be certain of it is if you finished Domitor of the entire Academy.” There’s doubt in his voice. As impressed as he’s been with me, he doesn’t think I’m on that level.

He pauses. Studies me. “Very few people’s Will comes from the Sappers. And there are ways of making sure that none of yours would,” he adds, sympathetic.

I show him a quietly grateful expression. Let him think my reluctance stems only from what I saw in Letens Prison.

Secretly, though, there’s a thrill at what he’s just revealed. I’ve no desire to remain in any official position within the Hierarchy, long-term, but this sounds like an option I can live with for a while. A chance to survive, to keep searching for a real way out, without having to utterly betray myself in the process.

I could buy years, if I needed to.

“Alright.” I’m pleased with how composed I sound. No need to let Ulciscor know how badly I want this. “So why am I going to the Academy?”

“Because we—Military—need eyes and ears in there.”

“You need a spy.” I smirk, despite myself. “In a school.”

“A school that hosts children from the most prestigious families in the Republic, where student rankings can determine the future leadership of Caten.” Ulciscor doesn’t share my mirth. “Religion’s security is as good as any fortress. Better, in fact. They provide the Praeceptors, the guards, even the Octavii who cook and clean. It’s a stronghold, Vis. A little nation unto itself.”

“Even to the rest of the Senate?”

“Especially to the rest of the Senate.” The certainty in Ulciscor’s tone wipes away any doubts. “Religion’s mandate clearly encompasses education, and the Academy is their crown jewel. Military demanding access would be like Religion demanding control of the Seventh Legion. It’s simply not done.”

I nod understanding. “Not without proof of some sort of wrongdoing.” Of course. Military, Religion, and Governance each have their own areas of authority in the Republic; while I’ve heard those are a source of constant tension and bickering between the three senatorial pyramids, responsibility for the Academy seems clear-cut. Challenging that boundary—making any move on another pyramid’s authority within the Senate—would be an ugly precedent.

I say no more, turning my last statement into a question.

“Yes. Well. That’s the interesting part, I suppose.” Ulciscor is wry, almost embarrassed. “We’re not exactly sure what they’re hiding in there. We’re confident it’s something important, but we don’t have enough information to speculate as to what it might be yet.”

“Oh. Good. So… you want me looking for proof of… something.” I motion expansively, emphasizing all which that encompasses as I deadpan the vagueness of the task. “Easy.”

“If it was easy, we wouldn’t need you.”

I grunt an accession to that. “Any suggestions as to what I should be looking for at least?”

Ulciscor tugs at a sleeve. “Our best guess, so far, is that it’s to do with Solivagus itself—the island where the Academy is located. Religion has exclusive use of the entire place.” He hesitates. “There are a lot of old ruins there.”

“How old?” From the way he said it, and his conversation with Nateo earlier, I already know the answer.

“Pre-Cataclysm.”

“So you think they’re searching for some piece of lost technology?” Those are rare finds, these days.

“Or a weapon.”

I shift uneasily. No one knows what caused the Cataclysm, the world-spanning disaster three centuries ago that left less than five people in every hundred alive. Most of the survivors were mere children, too; records to emerge out of the chaotic decades that followed were few, and the ones that did recalled towns filled with the dead. Cities burning. Whole nations erased in a moment.

But almost nothing of any of the times before that.

It seems clear, from what has since been uncovered, that pre-Cataclysm civilisation used Will in ways the Hierarchy is still struggling to understand. The purpose of the Aurora Columnae, which are the only reason Will can be ceded at all, was only realised by the Catenan Republic a century and a half ago. The Sappers, too, were discoveries rather than inventions. And many of the Hierarchy’s other advancements have come from deconstructing devices excavated from old ruins, rather than any particular Catenan ingenuity.

Which means that an actual weapon from back then has the potential to be very, very dangerous.

“Why would Religion be looking for something like that?” I let puzzlement inflect the words, though there’s an obvious conclusion. “And keeping it secret from Military?”

There’s more than a suggestion of irritation in the look Ulciscor gives me. He’s not buying the nonplussed act. “We can discuss that later. Maybe. For the moment, all you need to know is that it’s a possibility.”

Interesting. Matias, one of my tutors at Suus, used to theorise that the dynamics of power between the senatorial pyramids would change drastically once there was no one left to conquer. Perhaps even become antagonistic. I always dismissed it as wishful thinking.

“Alright.” I tuck the information away without further comment, for now. “I assume there are particular people you think might be doing the looking, at least?”

“The Principalis of the Academy. Quintus Veridius Julii.” It’s subtle, but there’s something about the way that Ulciscor shifts when he says the name. An almost imperceptible hardening around the eyes. He doesn’t like the man.

“Veridius. I heard you use that name at the prison.”

“I think he put Nateo in there. Organised for him to be Sapped. I was hoping to figure out why.” Ulciscor’s admission is grim. “Nateo graduated from the same class as Veridius six years ago. Veridius was Domitor of that year, and every tie he had—everything he’d said, every action he’d taken up until the moment he won the Iudicium—indicated that he was going to join us. Join Military, like the rest of the Julii. But instead, he asked for a position at the Academy. Under Religion.”

“And that was… strange,” I infer.

“Very. Controversial, too. Not the switching of loyalties, so much, but asking for a role that commanded so little prestige. We all thought he’d been blackmailed, pressured into the decision somehow. And the way he won the Academy’s final test, the Iudicium… well. Two other students were killed. Accidents, supposedly.” There’s an edge to Ulciscor’s voice at that, and he pauses before pressing on.

“The outrage around it all eventually faded, but we’ve been keeping an eye on him ever since, trying to figure out what really happened. He was Principalis of the Academy within a year, when his predecessor died. Natural causes, as far as we could tell.” Thick doubt in the statement. “But as soon as Veridius was in charge, he started changing things. The Academy’s main campus used to be in Caten, but Veridius’s class was moved to Solivagus due to the grain riots of 297, and Veridius insisted that it be housed there permanently once he took over. He said it was because there was rampant cheating, that the island was the only way to properly isolate the students. Religion backed him. And ever since then, others from his year—like Nateo—have been quietly disappearing. More “accidents,” or imprisonments, or sudden assignments to the far corners of the Republic. Nothing categorical. Nothing actionable. But there’s a pattern.” He leans forward. Intense. “So. You see why we’re suspicious?”

I contemplatively acknowledge that I do; Ulciscor lapses into silence, and I don’t say anything for a while, thinking. It’s still mid-afternoon outside, but clouds have turned the sky a threatening black, rain assailing the Transvect loudly and constantly. There’s forest below us, the nearer treetops blurring along the bottom of my view out the water-streaked window. Given how fast we must be moving, the interior of the carriage feels little different to when we started. I’m surprised at how rapidly I’ve become, if not exactly comfortable, then at least accustomed to this mode of travel.

“Why not just get another Military student to spy for you? Someone who’s already meant to be attending?” I have a lot more questions, but I’ll start with the obvious.

“Veridius won’t have evidence just lying around, which means you’re going to have go looking in places that could get you expelled if you’re caught. Maybe worse, depending on what you find. Not many parents or students are willing to risk that. Not when just attending means so much to them.” He sounds vaguely bitter. “Besides, we can’t trust them. Half of them would go straight to Veridius, try to leverage what they know into a better ranking as soon as they got there. The other half just wouldn’t bother making the effort.”

I grunt, following the logic. “But you can trust me, because if I don’t find something before I graduate, you’ll… what? Force me to use the Aurora Columnae, then sell my Will? Give me to Military so they can experiment with the Sappers?” Both legally feasible options for Ulciscor, now he’s adopted me.

“Something like that.” There’s not a whisper of either humour or apology from the man. It’s just the way it is.

“What if I can’t find anything? Or I get caught?”

“Look harder, and don’t.” His matter-of-factness eases into something approaching empathy. “But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Let’s.” I hadn’t expected better, but it’s discomforting to hear so plainly. He’s not worried about me turning on him—the scars on my back have told him how much his threat means to me. And even if I was willing to risk it, who would give me a better deal? I have the knowledge of Military’s suspicions, of which Religion will doubtless already be aware. Some limited utility as a double agent, perhaps. Nothing that would make me particularly valuable to Religion. Nothing that would protect me from the fate I’m trying to avoid. “Isn’t it going to be obvious why you’re sending me there?”

“Not if you distinguish yourself. It’s not uncommon for senators to adopt someone they’re confident will do well. Someone they can see themselves guiding into a position of influence one day.” He taps a finger against his chair. “On the other hand, Veridius himself will absolutely know why you’re there. He’s too smart and too mistrustful not to. He won’t expel you without cause—that would only risk triggering an investigation—but you’re going to have to be careful around him.”

“So we’ll each know the other’s up to something, but be pretending not to. Wonderful.” I rub the back of my neck, trying to ease the tension there. “You’re placing a lot of faith in the abilities of someone you’ve just met.”

“Well. From all appearances you’re bright enough, given how you’ve managed to educate yourself.” A tinge of wryness to that. Like everyone else since Suus, I’ve told Ulciscor that I’m from a middle-class Aquirian family, that my parents were killed in an accident not long before that country signed the Hierarchy’s treaty, and that all our property was claimed by the nobility upon their death. The timeline matches closely with the invasion of Suus, and our language and culture were somewhat similar. It’s also a common enough story from a region that was infamous for its lack of documentation. Which makes it completely unverifiable.

Ulciscor is suspicious—I’ve spent half of today showing him the fruits of a royal education that spanned the first fourteen years of my life, after all—but for the moment, he seems content enough to leave the matter alone.

“That can’t be the only reason you chose me,” I press, my words punctuated by a distant peal of thunder. It’s starting to storm properly outside. “You’re a Magnus Quintus; it would be nothing for you to find some prodigy from among the Octavii to use, or even the Septimii. Any of them would leap at the chance to become a Telimus and attend the Academy. And they would all be willing to cede.” I make a point of that last part. It has to have been a factor in all this, though I can’t see why.

“Which would mean I had no hold over them.” Ulciscor gives me a vexed look, but eventually nods. “And fine. Yes. A few of the other students won’t have been to the Aurora Columnae yet, either. Since Veridius took over, he seems to have preferred applicants who have never ceded before. Not openly, of course, but the pattern is there to see for anyone who’s looking. That’s a very rare quality in someone your age.” He pauses, deep brown eyes never wavering as they meet mine. “I have a question of my own, actually.”

“Alright.”

“You say you haven’t ceded at the Aurora Columnae because you don’t want to be an Octavii. Which I understand, but… I saw your scars. I saw how many there were.” He’s quiet, but there’s an intensity to the statement. As if he’s furious on my behalf.

“That’s not really a question.” When he keeps looking at me, I sigh. “I held out because I’m convinced the alternative would be worse. It’s that simple.”

“No, it’s not. Conviction is admirable, but it can only take a man so far.” He leans forward. “So what I want to know, Vis, is what are you punishing yourself for?”

I stare at him, a jolt of sick, uncomfortable emotion low in my chest, lost for how to respond.

The Transvect shudders.

I grasp the arms of my chair, almost relieved at the distraction, then tighten my grip as I see Ulciscor doing the same. “Is it supposed to—”

“No.” Ulciscor’s peering out the window, his question forgotten. We’re still moving fast but there’s a real judder to the Transvect now, a thick, unsteady vibration that rattles my teeth.

And it looks as if the forest below is creeping closer.

“Emergency stop, I think. There must be some damage. We might be delayed a while.” Ulciscor stands, steadying himself against the top of his chair before staggering over to the window on the other side and squinting out toward the front of the slowing behemoth. Unlike me, he’s not overly concerned.

That changes when the section in front of ours explodes.