Impyrium Page 11

  Hob had undergone these tests two years ago during the last census. Every child between nine and thirteen had been required to appear in the village square. When it was his turn, Hob entered a tent where a bored-looking mystic assessed his capacity to conjure lights, shape smoke, and extinguish a fire. She had not found his theatrical failures amusing.

  Brother Marcos held up the book he’d given to Hob. “Miss Crenshaw, can you explain the theory behind the Big Lie?”

  A young woman of eighteen or nineteen stood. “It’s a propaganda technique used by a Pre-Cataclysm dictator named Adolf Hitler. It holds that people are less likely to question a big lie than a small one. The bigger the lie, the more people assume it must be true. The alternative is too outrageous.”

  “Excellent,” said Brother Marcos. He brandished the heavy book. “This isn’t made of paper, it’s made of blood—the blood of those who had the courage to question the big lies and seek the truth. They paid a high price. Many lost their freedom, their families, even their lives. These heroes didn’t sacrifice because they thought they’d ever see a free Impyrium. They did it so you might.”

  As Hob listened, his heart thundered in his chest. Was his father’s blood in those pages? Mr. Burke would only say that Ulrich Doyle died a hero and that he’d explain more fully when Hob had a deeper understanding of the Fellowship. It was maddening. His mother still kept that photograph by her bed, but she never spoke of him. Hob could not really blame her; Anders Smythe had cost her everything. He wondered if she even knew his real name.

  Brother Marcos’s words stirred Hob’s spirit, but they also troubled his conscience. He’d always realized that human civilization existed before the Cataclysm. After all, he’d watched Porridge’s films and laughed at the silly, fantastical world they depicted. But he never thought too deeply about the implications. The films were just entertainment, a fun (and illegal) distraction. Daily life was so demanding, what was the point in questioning the ancient past? Hob stared at the book in Brother Marcos’s hand. The Big Lie, indeed. He felt like a fool.

  History with Brother Marcos lasted until early afternoon. Their next classes were designed to help them pass as servants in noble households. The first was held in a dining room where a Sister Wallenberg and several assistants demonstrated how to serve lunch in a formal setting. Hob had an uncommonly good memory, but even he was overwhelmed by the minutiae concerning what went where, which utensils to use with which dishes, and how to be invisible yet ever-present. At least they got to eat the food.

  Once they had cleared the lunch service, the boys and girls went separate ways. Hob followed Badu to a richly decorated bedroom where Brother Caswell showed them how to prepare a gentleman’s chambers. Hob stifled a yawn as they aired the room, sifted fireplace ashes, laid out his imaginary master’s clothes, brushed a jacket, and polished riding boots. They stayed until each boy could repeat the routine while demonstrating perfect posture.

  “Do we do this every day?” Hob whispered to Badu when they were in the hallway.

  “Pretty much. It’s got to be second nature if you’re going to get placed with a house. Don’t worry. Our next class is a lot more interesting.”

  The class was located in a dim, stuffy room whose shelves were lined with glass containers of various shapes and sizes. Each was inscribed with glowing runes and housed a different type of creature. Some were asleep; others glared out with as many as eight hideous eyes. He read the labels on the nearest shelf: Common Imp, Stygian Crow, Summer Darkling, Brandybeak, Domovoi, Dewdrop Faerie, Vampyric Homunculus, Cacospider, Nile Croaker. The latter puffed its milky dewlap when Hob peered through the glass.

  “Mr. Smythe.”

  Hob turned to see Ms. Marlowe standing before a blackboard covered with detailed taxonomies. She indicated a seat in front and handed him a red leather book titled Mystics, Magic, and Domanocti: A Guide to the World of Mehrùn. “The first rule of infiltration is to know thy enemy. I expect a boy who aced Provinces to digest this within the week.”

  When she rang a small bell, Hob’s classmates instantly took their seats. It was clear they held Ms. Marlowe in greater awe than Sister Wallenberg or Brother Caswell. Their teacher did not waste time. Clasping her hands, she began pacing.

  “Miss Platt, what differentiates a mystic from a sorcerer?”

  A young woman with curly black hair and glasses answered. “Mystics perform magic using proven spells. True sorcerers are rarer. They don’t have to rely on formulae—they can improvise.”

  “Good. Mr. Klein, define Menlo’s law of entropy.”

  A gangly boy drummed his fingers and furrowed his brow. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know.”

  Ms. Marlowe shrugged. “Don’t be sorry. Get out. Go polish shoes with Brother Caswell. Miss Mahmood?”

  As a dejected Mr. Klein left the room, a soft-spoken girl wearing a colorful head scarf answered. “Magic has a price. Overuse can permanently drain magical energy or shorten one’s life span. Powerful spells have been known to kill the caster.”

  “What do we call this?” said Ms. Marlowe.

  “Our lucky day?” Badu quipped. Several students laughed.

  Ms. Marlowe tapped her foot. “Do we know the answer, or are we just being cheeky?”

  Badu flashed a cocky grin. “Mortemagia. It’s a major risk for sorcerers since they tend to work stronger, more experimental magic.”

  “Very good, Mr. Gabriel,” said Ms. Marlowe. She ceased pacing and returned to her lectern. “Now, if you will turn to page forty-six, we will begin today’s discussion concerning domanocti. Those who serve mehrùn must know how to care for such creatures and be comfortable in their presence. Mr. Smythe, please bring me that runecage containing the vampyric homunculus . . .”

  Classes did not end until eight o’clock, when Hob and his cohort joined other Fellowship members at a dining hall’s long wooden tables and benches. Hob said little throughout dinner, preferring to listen and observe.

  When they’d finished, Hob followed Badu and the other boys to a dormitory room furnished with bunk beds. He found his suitcase had been unpacked, his clothes neatly folded in a footlocker. While some of the boys undressed, Hob looked out a narrow window at Impyria.

  They were seven or eight stories up: high enough to survey a sea of buildings, low enough to hear the bells and shouts from the street. The city was incandescent with shop lights and streetlamps, energy and sound. Carriages and rickshaws flowed like lava through the Market District, coursing through crowds of humans and nonhumans alike. Two specks of light flashed in the night. Hob spied a pair of domanocti clutching tiny lanterns and rolls of parchment, their wings a blur as they skimmed over tiled roofs and disappeared.

  “Homesick?”

  Hob turned to see Badu sitting on his bunk shining a pair of dress boots.

  “Not yet,” said Hob. “I want to go out and explore.”

  “You will,” said Badu. “They send us out to get familiar with the city. Employers expect us to know it.”

  “And this is all so I can get hired by a Great House?”

  Badu chuckled. “No, it’s so I can get hired by a Great House. You’ll end up with a fishmonger.”

  Hob only smiled and began to undress. When he removed his dress shirt, Badu put down his cloth and stared.

  “Where are you from again?”

  “Dusk.”

  Badu gestured at the tribal markings covering Hob’s upper chest and shoulders. “Does everyone in Dusk have those?”

  “Just me,” said Hob, pulling on his sleeping shirt. He was by no means ashamed of his tattoos, but he didn’t feel like answering questions about them. Badu cocked his shaven head.

  “Were you a soldier?”

  “No.”

  Badu sighed and returned to his polishing. “I can’t gain a pound. What’s the secret?”

  “Swing a pick for three years.” Taking a candle stub from the windowsill, Hob lit it and carried it up to his bunk. While the others talked and played c
ards, he cracked open The Big Lie.

  Seven weeks later, Sou-Sou pulled Hob and four others out of history class and took them down to a large auditorium he had never seen before. Twenty other teenagers were already there, members of different cohorts. Most were eyeing a broad stage that had been partitioned into three sets: a dining room, bedroom, and parlor. All whispering stopped as Ms. Marlowe swept into the auditorium trailed by Sister Wallenberg and Brother Caswell. She wasted no time as she consulted her clipboard.

  “Platt, Smythe, Cruz, Reynara, Vaslo, and Gabriel. Onstage, please.”

  What followed were a series of tests requiring the students to demonstrate every skill and bit of knowledge they’d acquired concerning a servant’s duties. Those who made mistakes were dismissed. Those who hesitated or betrayed uncertainty were also excused. One boy was removed for slouching while he waited for his turn.

  After three hours of painstaking exercises, Sou-Sou led Hob and the nine remaining students from the auditorium to a small, plain room. She lined them up against a wall, bid them good luck, and closed the door behind her. No teachers were present, no instructions had been given. Hob felt like he was in a firing line. Nevertheless, he stood tall and stared at their reflections in the mirror across the way. He was happy to see Badu had made it.

  Questions began crackling from a hidden speaker:

  “Which empress issued the Ninespire Edicts?”

  “Why do phantasmals prefer brandybeaks as familiars?”

  “What is the proper way to address a duke?”

  “When did you last steal?”

  Some questions were addressed to specific individuals; others required each of them to respond. Whenever it was his turn, Hob answered in the clearest, simplest terms possible. The questions were not difficult, the attempts to fluster them irritating but transparent. Hob never lost focus, not even when strangers randomly entered and left the room.

  “Mr. Smythe,” said the loudspeaker, “describe each of the six people who interrupted this interview.”

  Hob shook his head. “There were only five entrances by four people.” He described each in detail, including the woman who had come in twice, once disguised as a man.

  A full minute passed before the voice returned.

  “The rest of you may leave.”

  The others filed past him. Some looked disappointed, others relieved. Badu closed the door, but not before making an obscene gesture from the doorway. Hob tried not to grin.

  Mr. Burke and Ms. Marlowe entered the room. Hob had not seen Mr. Burke since orientation started, but there was no formality. He gazed proudly at Hob before shooting a triumphant glance at his colleague.

  “Didn’t I tell you, Ms. Marlowe? Just like his daddy.”

  The old woman frowned. “He’ll need to be better.”

  CHAPTER 6

  A TEDIOUS AFFAIR

  There’s daggers in men’s smiles.

  —William Shakespeare, Pre-Cataclysm playwright (449–397 P.C.)

  Hazel used to love Tùr an Ghrian. The tower’s topmost chamber was ringed with summoning stones, huge monoliths anchored in rune-scribed malachite. Some of the world’s most powerful magic had been worked in this room, and Hazel often wondered what secrets those ancient stones could tell. But of late, it was just a place, a crucible of trials and failure. Dàme Rascha’s stern voice sounded across the chamber.

  “You’re drifting, child. Go back to progressions.”

  Again? thought Hazel. Progressions were basic exercises to develop control, similar to a violinist practicing scales. She blew the damp hair from her eyes and glanced out the nearest window. No view tonight, just pale mist clinging to the glass. Rascha’s staff rapped the floor.

  “Focus.”

  Hazel stared at the brazier thirty feet away. Raising her arm, she pointed a finger.

  “Isu,” she whispered.

  Flames kindled in the iron bowl, their light dancing on the summoning stones. Closing her eyes, Hazel prepared to shape the flames into whatever Rascha requested.

  Tree. Rune. Sparrow. Girl.

  The vye called them out, one after another. Hazel sensed the flames bending to her will, their contours buckling and shifting to assume the proper forms.

  “Circle,” called Rascha.

  Hazel scribbled the shape in her mind and waited patiently for the next command. If nothing else, progessions were good for a breather.

  “Circle,” said Rascha again.

  Hazel furrowed her brow. “You want two?”

  “One will do.”

  Confused, Hazel opened her eyes. A ring of bright fire hovered above the brazier. “But it’s right in front of you,” she said.

  The vye folded her arms. “I do not see a circle.”

  Hazel glanced at Sigga, who watched in silence by one of the monoliths. “Do you see it?”

  Sigga did not reply; she never interfered with Dàme Rascha’s lessons. Hazel turned back to the brazier. She’d been getting very little sleep. Perhaps her mind was playing tricks.

  Dàme Rascha spoke with ominous calm. “Define a circle.”

  “A round shape,” said Hazel.

  “Define it mathematically.”

  “A round plane.” Where was Rascha going with this?

  “And what do its points have in common?”

  Hazel considered a moment. “I suppose they’re all the same distance from its center.”

  Calm Rascha vanished. “You suppose?” she snarled. “I ask again. Is that a circle?”

  Hazel gazed reluctantly at the flames . . . the wobbling, visibly oval flames. She hated when Rascha was right. “No,” she conceded. “It isn’t a circle.”

  “But a circle is what I asked for,” Rascha huffed. “You know what it is, but fail to give me one. Why?”

  “Anyone but you would say that’s a circle,” Hazel groaned. “It’s good enough!”

  Dàme Rascha extinguished the flames with an impatient sweep of her arm. Smoke curled from the brazier as the vye stalked toward her. “It is not good enough,” she growled. “It is lazy. It is imprecise. I give you a simple task and you cannot be bothered to do it properly.”

  Hazel threw up her hands. “What difference does it make?”

  At this, Dàme Rascha marched Hazel to a storage cabinet where she kept extra supplies for their lessons. The vye unlocked it and dragged out a wooden chest wedged beneath shelves stocked with spell books, astronomy charts, and reagents. Muttering a command, she tapped the chest with her staff and opened it. Hazel watched in puzzled silence as her tutor crouched and emptied the chest of old junk: tattered spell books; crusted alchemical equipment; and a stuffed, beaky creature with orange fur and bulging, accusatory eyes. Tossing it aside, Dàme Rascha reached within the chest and turned something. Hazel heard a soft click. A moment later, the vye lifted out a wooden panel.

  “A secret compartment?” said Hazel. “Very sneaky, Rascha. What are you hiding?”

  The vye did not answer but carefully removed a bundle enfolded in black velvet. When Rascha unwrapped it, Hazel saw that it was a painting set in a gilded frame.

  Her tutor held it up. “Look closely.”

  The painting’s varnish had yellowed and some of the paint had flaked away, but the work appeared to be a portrait of a girl not much older than Hazel. The subject was slight and very pale with long auburn hair and a golden songbird perched on her finger. Her pose and modest smile were typical, but there was something subtle in her expression: a sad, even haunted quality. Who was she? Hazel spied the Impyrial signet ring on her finger—the very ring that now adorned Violet’s hand. Hazel was amazed. How could this girl be a Faeregine? Her hair and skin were too light. And those eyes weren’t large and wide-set like those synonymous with the “Faeregine look.” The girl’s eyes were smaller and almond shaped, a translucent blue instead of inky black. . . .

  Hazel clapped a hand over her mouth. “She looks like me!”

  The instant she said it, the similarities appeared all the
more obvious. They shared the same delicate nose, the same elfin bone structure. If Hazel hadn’t been albino, they might have been twins. A confusing tide of emotions welled up within her.

  Hazel had never felt like a Faeregine. When the triplets were old enough to attend court, Violet and Isabel were greeted with deep bows and solicitous inquiries. Hazel was usually met with frigid indifference. Even worse, the culprits were often her own relatives, particularly those who occupied less notable branches of the family tree. It rankled these “minor” Faeregines that someone they deemed unworthy of their name stood to inherit more power and wealth than they did.

  Hazel still had tried to win them over. For years, she mimicked her sisters’ gestures and mannerisms, even the imperious way Violet held her head. It did not have the intended effect. By the time she was seven, she understood that her presence was merely tolerated, not welcomed. Gradually, Hazel withdrew from court life. Now, she appeared only when required.

  Naturally, there were times when Hazel wondered if there was something to the rumors. Perhaps she didn’t truly belong; perhaps there had been some kind of mistake. In all her life, she had never come across a single Faeregine who looked anything like her.

  Until now.

  She touched the frame’s edge. “Who is she, Rascha? Why haven’t I seen her before?”

  “The first question answers the second,” said the vye. “You have never seen her because it is against the law to display her image. Even her monuments are faceless.”

  Elation turned to horror. Hazel recoiled from the canvas. “You’re playing a trick on me. This . . . this can’t possibly be her!”

  Rascha remained solemn. “No tricks, child. We are looking at Mina the Fourth.”

  It took a moment for Hazel to digest this. Disturbing as the revelation was, it also made her intensely curious. She inched forward. “It’s uncanny,” she murmured. “How can I look so much like her? She died ages ago.”