The Will of the Many

I

I AM DANGLING, AND IT is only my father’s blood-slicked grip around my wrist that stops me from falling.

He is on his stomach, stretched out over the rocky ledge. His muscles are corded. Sticky red covers his face, his arms, his clothes, everything I can see. Yet I know he can pull me up. I do everything I can not to struggle. I trust him to save me.

He looks over my shoulder. Into the inky black. Into the darkness that is to come.

Courage, he whispers. He pours heartbreak and hope into the word.

He lets go.

I KNOW I’M ALWAYS TELLING you to think before you act, says the craggy-faced man slouching across the board from me, but for the game to progress, Vis, you do actually have to move a gods-damned stone.

I rip my preoccupied gaze from the cold silver that’s streaming through the sole barred window in the guardroom. Give my opponent my best irritated glare to cover the sickly swell of memory, then force my focus again to the polished white and red triangles between us. The pieces glint dully in the light of the low-burning lantern that sits on the shelf, barely illuminating our contest better than the early evening’s glow from outside.

You alright?

Fine. I see Hrolf’s bushy grey eyebrows twitch in the corner of my vision. "I’m fine, old man. Just thinking. Sappers haven’t got me yet." No heat to the words. I know the way his faded brown eyes crinkle with concern is genuine. And I know he has to ask.

I’ve been working here almost a year longer than him, so he’s wondering again whether my mind is losing its edge. Like his has been for a while, now.

I ignore his worry and assess the Foundation board, calculating what the new red formation on the far side means. A feint, I realise immediately. I ignore it. Shift three of my white pieces in quick succession and ensure the win. Hrolf likes to boast about how he once defeated a Magnus Quartus, but against me, it’s never a fair match. Even before the Hierarchy—or the Catenan Republic, as I still have to remind myself to call them out loud—ruled the world, Foundation was widely considered the perfect tool for teaching abstract strategic thinking. My father ensured I was exposed to it young, often, and against the very best players.

Hrolf glowers at the board, then me, then at the board again.

Lost concentration. You took too long. Basically cheating, he mutters, disgusted as he concedes the game. You know I beat a Magnus Quartus once?

My reply is interrupted by a hammering at the thick stone entrance. Hrolf and I stand, game forgotten. Our shift isn’t meant to change for hours yet.

Identify yourself, calls Hrolf sharply as I step across to the window. The man visible through the bars is well-dressed, tall and with broad shoulders. In his late twenties, I think. Moonlight shines off the dark skin of his close-shaven scalp.

Sextus Hospius, comes the muffled reply. I have an access seal. Hospius looks at the window, spotting my observation of him. His beard is black, trimmed short, and he has serious, dark brown eyes that lend him a handsome intensity. He leans over and presses what appear to be official Hierarchy documents against the glass.

We weren’t told to expect you, says Hrolf.

I wouldn’t have known to expect me until about thirty minutes ago. It’s urgent.

Not how it works.

It is tonight, Septimus. No change in expression, but the impatient emphasis on Hrolf’s lower status is unmistakeable.

Hrolf squints at the door, then walks over to the thin slot set in the wall beside it, tapping his stone Will key to it with an irritated, sharp click. The hole on our side seals shut. Outside, Hospius notes the corresponding new opening in front of him, depositing his documentation. I watch closely to ensure he adds nothing else.

Hrolf waits for my nod, then opens our end again to pull out Hospius’s pages, rifling through them. His mouth twists as he hands them to me. Proconsul’s seal is all he says.

I examine the writing carefully; Hrolf knows his work, but here among the Sappers it pays to check things twice. Sure enough, though, there’s full authorization for entry from Proconsul Manius himself, signed and stamped. Hospius is a man of some importance, apparently, even beyond his rank: he’s a specialised agent, assigned directly by the Senate to investigate an irregularity in last year’s census. Cooperation between the senatorial pyramids of Governance—Hospius’s employers, who oversee the Census—and Military, who are in charge of prisons across the Republic, is allowing Hospius access to one of the prisoners here for questioning.

Looks valid, I agree, understanding Hrolf’s displeasure. This paperwork allows our visitor access to the lowest level. It’s cruel to wake the men and women down there mid-sentence.

Hrolf takes the page with Manius’s seal on it back from me and slides it into the outer door’s thin release slot. The proconsul’s Will-imbued seal breaks the security circuit just as effectively as Hrolf’s key, and the stone door grinds smoothly into the wall, a gust of Letens’s bitter night air slithering through the opening to herald Hospius’s imposing form. Inside, the man sheds his fine blue cloak and tosses it casually over the back of a nearby chair, flashing what he probably imagines is a charming smile at the two of us. Hrolf sees a man taking liberties with his space, and curbs a scowl as he snaps Hospius’s seal with more vigour than is strictly necessary, releasing its Will and letting the door glide shut again.

I see a man trying too hard to look at ease, and do everything I can not to react.

Probably nothing. As much as I try to convince myself, after three years, I’m adept at recognising other actors.

Our visitor is nervous about something.

Thank you, Septimus. Hospius’s gaze sweeps over me, registering my youth and dismissing my presence, focusing instead on Hrolf. I know this is irregular, but I need information from someone. A man named Nateo.

Hrolf pulls the jail ledger from atop the shelf in the corner, flipping it open. There are a few seconds of him tracing down the paper with his finger. Nateo, Nateo… here he is. Deep cells, east forty-one. Vis, you wait here.

He grabs a key off the hook and takes three steps toward the jail’s inner door—just a regular lock on this one—but on his fourth, he stumbles. And when he rights himself, he peers around at me and Hospius with lost uncertainty. The expression’s gone in an instant, but I know what it means.

My apologies, Septimus. I forgot about your bad knee, I lie quickly, striding over and snatching the key from his hand before he can protest. It will be faster if I escort the Sextus. Deep cells, east forty-one, you said?

Hrolf glares at me, but I see his gratitude in the look. He knows what’s happened, but probably doesn’t even remember who Hospius is.

My knee could use the rest, he plays along. If the Sextus has no objections.

None. Hospius waves me on impatiently. I don’t think he’s seen anything amiss.

We enter the jail proper and I lock the door again behind us, hiding a vaguely dismayed-looking Hrolf from view. A lantern holding a candle, lit at the beginning of our shift and now closer to a stub, burns on the wall. I unhook it and hold it high, illuminating the narrow stairwell down. Clean-cut stone glistens wetly.

Watch your step, I warn Hospius. It gets slippery down here.

I walk ahead of the Sextus, too-dim light pooling around us as we descend. My back itches with it facing him. I can’t get his initial moment of affectation out of my mind. But his document—or at least, the seal affixed to it—was imbued by Proconsul Manius, impossible to fake. And I know better than to press. So I simply have to hope that his nerves, and his attempt to hide them, are not from anything untoward.

More importantly, I have to hope that whatever his purpose here, it will draw no attention to me.

How long has your Septimus been like that?

Vek. Still inclined to curse in my ancestral tongue, even if I can only risk it in my head. I paste on a puzzled expression and cast a glance back. What do you mean?

He’s been working here too long. Hospius’s intense brown eyes search mine until I turn forward again, focusing on the steps. You don’t have to worry. I won’t say anything.

I force a chuckle. I’m not sure what you think you saw, but you’re wrong. If Proconsul Manius finds out, Hrolf will lose his position here. He’s old enough that he’d be placed in a retirement pyramid, and with a suspect mind as well, he’d almost certainly be demoted to Octavus. Forced to live with constant exhaustion as he’s slowly used up, the Hierarchy stealing years and quality from his life just as surely as they do the men and women here in the deep cells.

And, of course, I would have to navigate another new Septimus. Of the three who have managed Letens Prison since I started, Hrolf has been by far the easiest to deal with.

Hospius just grunts in response. He doesn’t sound persuaded, but nor does he press.

We reach the end of the stairs, my lantern revealing smooth walls slick with damp stretching both left and right. A low hum touches my ears, almost imperceptible. Even after more than a year here, I find it unsettling.

There’s a half cough, half gag from behind me. What is that smell?

The prisoners. I barely notice the stink of sweat mingling with urine anymore. It’s really not that bad, on this level.

Why don’t you keep them clean? Hospius is incensed.

We do. We wash them twice a day, as best we can. But they can’t control their bowels in the Sappers. I smooth the anger from my own voice, but can’t help adding, Catenan regulations are to wash them twice a week.

Hospius says nothing to that.

We turn several corners and start down another flight of stairs, leaving the upper floor in darkness. These lead to the deepest level, where the long-term prisoners are kept. Sentences of more than two years: murderers and purported Anguis collaborators, for the most part. It feels like we’ve been sending more and more people down here, recently.

You know your way around. Hospius’s deep voice booms off the austere walls, despite his attempt to match his voice to the hushed surrounds.

I don’t want to make conversation, but it’s riskier by far to be rude. I have to come down here every couple of nights.

So you and the Septimus alternate looking after these prisoners?

That’s right.

Despite his bad knee.

Vek. I shrug to cover my concern at Hospius’s persistence. It’s sore, not crippling. And he takes his responsibilities very seriously.

I’m sure he does. Hospius is walking alongside me now, the stairs wider than before. He’s taller than me by a head. I see him glance down at me, his interest apparently piqued. The opposite of what I was trying to achieve. What’s your name?

Vis.

And how long have you been helping the Septimus here, Vis?

A few months. Not a lie, even if it’s not what Hospius is really asking. I’m not about to let on how long I’ve really been exposed to the Sappers.

You’re young, for this work.

Vis Solum. I expand on my name by way of explanation.

Ah. The pieces click into place in Hospius’s head. I’m an orphan. Clearly one who’s had difficulty finding a home, given my age. So Religion—the third senatorial pyramid, who run the orphanages in the Hierarchy—and Military have found a use for me here instead.

We’ve reached the end of the stairwell; two pitch-black passageways branch out at right angles away from us, and another goes straight ahead. I move left, into the eastern one. We’re almost there, I say, more to head off any more questions than to fill the silence.

The stench becomes worse, thicker, and Hospius holds a kerchief to his nose and mouth as we walk. I don’t blame him. I retched the first few times I came down here. Accustomed to it as I am now, my eyes still water as my lantern casts its light into the first of the numbered cells.

Hospius comes to a dead halt, hands falling to his sides, smell temporarily forgotten.

Never seen a Sapper before? It takes all I have not to show satisfaction at the towering man’s horror.

The cells in Letens Prison are demarcated by stone walls, but there are no doors, no front sections to them whatsoever, making their contents easily visible. Only six feet wide and not much deeper, each unlit alcove contains only two things.

A prisoner. And the Sapper to which they are strapped.

The man in east cell one is around Hospius’s age, but the similarities end there. Fair skin is deathly pale in his nakedness, almost grey. Body thin and frail, cheeks hollow, blond hair long and matted. A wheezing rasp to his breathing. Steel manacles encircle his wrists and ankles, joined by dangling chains to a winch fixed above him. His blue eyes are open but filmy, unfocused as he lies atop the mirror-polished white slab, which is near horizontal but angles just barely down toward us. Toward the thin gutter that runs along the front of all the cells, where the worst of the prisoners’ waste can be easily washed away.

The truth of the Hierarchy is laid bare down here, as far as I am concerned.

No. Hospius’s answer to my question is soft. I… no. How long has he been in here?

Eight months. I’d have to look at the ledger. I remember strapping him in.

What did he do?

Does it matter? I’d have to look at the ledger. I keep my tone bored. Neutral. Try to make him understand that this is every day down here. We should keep moving, Sextus.

Hospius nods, though his eyes don’t leave the prisoner’s spindly form until the departing of our lantern returns him to the darkness.

We walk, and to our left and right, our small circle of light reflects copies of the first cell as we pass. Men and women, manacled and feeble and naked, all lying against cold white. Their emaciation is a result of the devices to which they are bound, I think, rather than lack of sustenance. I feed them far more at mealtimes than I would ever eat, and they get no exercise.

Hospius is silent next to me, no indication whether he is affected by the wretchedness of our surrounds. I want to watch him more closely—something still feels not quite right about him, his presence here, this entire night—but my desire to avoid notice is stronger. Regardless of whether he is all he claims to be, if he spots my suspicion, it will only draw attention.

East forty-one, I say as our flickering light reveals the number engraved large into the back wall of the stone recess. The man here, Nateo, has been with us for less than a month: I remember him coming in because unlike most prisoners, he’d evidently been transferred from another Sapper facility. He’s as gaunt as everyone else, cheeks hollow, combining with a hooked nose to give him a distinctly hawk-like visage. His stringy black hair splays against the white, down past his shoulders. It’s hard to tell prisoners’ ages, but I don’t think this one is older than thirty.

There is no response to my announcement. I glance across at Hospius to find that he’s peering at Nateo, a small, inscrutable frown touching his lips. The man on the Sapper gazes back glassily. No recognition, no reaction to the light or our presence.

I need to talk to him. Hospius steps forward.

"Stop. I snap out the word in panic, then hold up a contrite hand immediately as Hospius freezes. My apologies, Sextus, no disrespect intended. It’s just dangerous to get too close. It takes days to prepare a prisoner for a Sapper. Touching it could kill you. And everyone ceding to you."

Ah. Hospius heeds the warning, doesn’t venture closer. But you can shut it off? Temporarily?

I can winch him up. Break the connection. Nausea threatens as I consider what is about to happen. It will not be pleasant, though. Especially for him.

Hospius rubs the dark surface of his shaven pate. It’s a moment of doubt—I’m sure I see it in the motion—but when he looks across at me, his face is hard. I came here for answers. Do what you have to.

I start edging around the white slab, deeper into cell forty-one. I’ve been unaffected by the Sappers, so far—mere proximity affects most people within months, and I’ve been working here for almost fifteen—but still I move with care, fastidiously avoiding brushing against anything. Immune or not, these things are designed to instantly drain Will on contact. Not just the portion the Hierarchy usually takes from the millions of Octavii who form its foundation, either. All of your drive, your focus, your mental and physical energy, is funnelled away by these pale stone beds to be received by some distant, particularly favoured Septimus.

In my eyes, death would be a preferable fate.

And the worst part is that I know many of the men and women in here would agree.

I reach the farthest section of the cell and crouch, moving the lantern along until I find the spiked wheel. I begin turning it, muscles working. There’s a jangling and grinding above as chains shake and then pull taut. The man on the Sapper sags at the waist as he’s drawn in ungainly fashion upward, peeling from the white stone, swaying. A couple of more rotations until he’s a few inches clear, then I lock the wheel in place.

I straighten, eyes fixed on the flaccid, bony man suspended above the slab in front of me. I’ve only seen prisoners being released a few times; the managing Septimus is always in charge of end-of-sentence procedures, and other reasons for waking a captive are rare.

I rejoin Hospius at the mouth of the alcove as he fiddles uncomfortably with his tunic. Governance uniform, a dark blue pyramid sewn over the heart. It’s crisp, perfectly clean, folded in all the right places. Unfaded.

Immaculate, in fact. Like it’s never been worn before.

Why isn’t he waking up? Hospius hasn’t noticed my examination, his complete attention on the man in front of us.

It takes a minute. Even as I say it, something changes. A break in the steady, gasping rhythm of the prisoner’s breath. A less desperate sigh escapes his lips. His chains twitch, then his eyelids flutter and cognizance seeps back into his gaze as, for the first time, he is at least partly here with us.

Hospius glances at me, and I can see him debating whether to try sending me away. I won’t go, though; even at the risk of angering him, I would be breaking too many rules to leave him alone down here.

Evidently reaching a similar conclusion, he says nothing and moves closer to the Sapper, into the prisoner’s line of sight. He crouches alongside, so their faces are at the same level.

"Nateo. Can you hear me? My name is Sextus Hospius. Nonagere."

He says it all carefully, enunciating, but it takes me a second to place the last word. It’s Vetusian.

Don’t react.

Hospius looks up at me again and I do everything I can to apply the warning he’s giving Nateo. I’m not supposed to know what the word means. Why would I? Vetusian is a dead language. An academic oddity. Aside from the odd word already integrated into Common, it was excised by the Hierarchy more than a hundred years ago. Its only real purpose is to allow for the reading of original texts from an era long past.

But my father was passionate in his belief in the importance of a history uncoloured by Hierarchy translators. My mother was a scholar, fluent in three languages herself. And I was groomed by both them and my tutors for fourteen years to be a diplomat, to support my sister in her eventual rule by travelling to other nations.

Nateo’s head lolls as he gazes blearily at Hospius. He runs his tongue over his lips. Then he slowly, painfully nods.

He understands. These two men know each other.

Blood pounds in my ears. Is Hospius here to break Nateo out? I can’t allow that; the kind of scrutiny it would bring would be the end of me. But I cannot act pre-emptively, either. He’s done nothing wrong so far. His documentation looked genuine. Was genuine.

I say nothing, do nothing. I have to wait.

You talk? Again in Vetusian. The way Hospius speaks is stilted, like he’s dragging the words from some long-past schooling of his own. Neither man is looking at me, but I feign perplexed indifference, just in case.

I can. A little. Nateo’s voice is like nails scraped weakly across stone. He uses the dead language too, though with far more comfort than the man here to see him. How long? His gaze roves, as if seeking the answer somewhere other than Hospius.

Five years.

A flicker in Nateo’s eyes, and he focuses again on Hospius. Sharper this time. Here to release me?

I hope. Information first. Hospius sees the rising panic in the imprisoned man and reaches out, grasping his shoulder, steadying him as the chains begin to rattle from his trembling. I know… you innocent. Need to understand… why you in here. Veridius? The name is a question, asked with quiet intensity.

Could have been. Nateo calms, but there’s doubt in the response.

I pretend to stifle a yawn as I leave the lantern on the ground and wander away, out of sight, as if I am inspecting the nearby cells while I wait. Hospius will know I’m not far, but it’s easier to focus on translating if they can’t see my reactions.

Need you… think. About Caeror. Anything he said before… He trails off, and though I can’t see his face, this time I don’t think it’s because he’s struggling with the language.

Long time ago. A bitter, choking laugh from Nateo.

He sent a message, before it happened. Names I do not know. Obiteum. Luceum. Talked about a… gate. Strange power from before Cataclysm. Do you know what… mean?

Silence. A faint clinking. Then, I need to be out first. No more.

I close my eyes, mouth a curse into the darkness before forcing boredom into my stance, scuffing my boots along the ground and strolling back into view as if nothing important were happening. Reminding Hospius that I’m there. I don’t think he was planning an escape, anymore. But I don’t want him to change his mind.

Hospius looks up at the motion of my arrival, meets my questioning gaze. His nod says he doesn’t expect to be much longer. I conceal my relief. Nateo notes the exchange, his breath quickening. The chains begin to shake again, Nateo’s fear chattering at the darkness.

I will do all I can. Oath. Hospius draws Nateo’s attention away from me. But you… his friend. Please. If you know…

Nateo stares back stonily. This is his only card.

Hospius wears his disappointment as he straightens and steps back.

Please. Nateo speaks in Common, this time, not Vetusian. Begging. "Please. No more. Don’t put me back. You don’t know what it’s like. The words are pure misery. His head twitches around, enough to include me in his gaze. You. You’re nicer than the others. Gentler. I know. I know, because being on this slab isn’t like sleeping. It’s worse. You’re almost asleep. All the time. But awake enough to recognise that things are happening. You know your mind should move faster. You know the world is passing you by. There are tears, now. Desperation. He’s blubbering. Five years. Five years. Look at me! I didn’t even—"

Nateo. Hospius, trying to calm the man. Concerned. No doubt worried his secrets are at risk. He takes a half step closer.

Then Nateo is twisting, far faster than a man in his state should be able. He bucks, roars, wrenches around, animalistic desperation lending strength to his spindly limbs. Metal clatters deafeningly. He uses the momentum of his swinging form to twist and lunge and grab Hospius’s too-new tunic.

"Rotting gods." I’m cursing and moving before I have a chance to properly assess. Sliding around the white stone, slamming hard into Nateo’s arm, jamming myself between the two men before the Sextus can be dragged onto the device. Nateo’s grip breaks. His hand scrapes along my shoulder. I’m already off-balance.

I fall backward, tangled in chain, the slick surface of the Sapper ice against my hands.

A slinking, sick tingle creeps over my palms. Acidic, cold and burning, sharp and wet. Terror rolls through me. I launch myself away, flinging myself free of the mess of metal links and kicking desperately at the lever locking the winch. The rimless, spoked wheel spins madly as I scramble back, away from where Nateo might be able to grab me again.

The jangling sound of unspooling chain, and then just heavy breathing.

Gods’ graves, mutters a shaken-looking Hospius from where he’s slumped against the cell wall. He watches Nateo’s metal-draped figure as if he expects the man to leap up and attack again. But the tangle of limbs and links is sprawled flush against the Sapper. Nateo’s eyes are empty as they stare into mine. I still feel their accusation.

Are you alright? I stand, unsteady. Heart thumping. The old scars across my back are taut and aching with tension. I touched the Sapper. Skin to stone. I risk a glance at my hands. From what I can see, they’re fine. Still tingling, but fine.

Yes. Hospius fingers his tunic where Nateo clawed at it. His gaze lingers on the man, nakedly melancholic before he remembers himself. Thanks to you.

He straightens, focusing on me again. There’s a query in the look.

No harm done. I reply to the question I hope he’s asking. If he actually saw what happened, I’m in trouble. Lucky, though. Almost fell on the gods-damned Sapper. The tremor in my voice isn’t faked. I’m still waiting for something terrible to happen to me.

But you didn’t?

I push out a laugh. You think we would be having this conversation, otherwise?

Hospius steps forward and thumps me on the shoulder. True enough. Fine work, Vis Solum. Fine work. I was fortunate you were here. It’s high praise, from a Sextus. Another man would probably be flattered.

I set about resetting the winch, then somewhat tentatively adjust Nateo’s positioning on the Sapper using the almost-taut chains, ensuring he’s lying as comfortably as possible again. I don’t blame him for his actions.

That’s reserved, as always, for those who put him in here.

The candle in the lantern burns low as we make the return trip. At the base of the second flight of stairs, I light another from the nearby shelf and hand it to Hospius. I should fetch some things from the storeroom while I’m down here. It’s true, but more importantly I need some time alone, to properly inspect my hands, to let out the terrible tension that’s threatening to break free with every breath. The guardroom is up ahead. Just knock. Septimus Hrolf will let you through. Hardly protocol, but Hrolf won’t care.

Hospius pauses as he starts up the stairs, turning back. Vis. It may be best not to mention what just happened. His voice is abrupt against the quiet. I wouldn’t want you getting in trouble with the Septimus, or the proconsul.

Of course, Sextus. Thank you. A threat? I can’t tell. It’s true enough that I’d be blamed for the incident, no matter what was said. But it seems neither of us want the attention. That suits me.

Those penetrating eyes of his study me. Then he digs into a pocket and flips me something that glitters; I catch it neatly, surprised to find a silver, triangular coin in my hand. It’s worth more than I’m going to earn from my shift tonight.

For your trouble. And your discretion.

He resumes his climb. The light of his candle drifts away.

Only when the echo of his boots has completely faded do I drop the coin into a pocket and let my hands tremble.

Setting my lantern on the shelf, I splay my fingers out, palms up, peering through the dim light at every line, every pore. The skin’s a little red from where I’ve been rubbing my fingers nervously, but I don’t see any damage. I roll up my sleeves, just to be sure, but there’s nothing wrong with my arms, either. And the discomforting sensation in them is completely gone.

I’m alright.

I exhale shakily and slump to the floor, back against the wall, giving myself a minute to let the fear leave me. I’ve often wondered if I might be able to survive contact with a Sapper. I’ve never ceded before—never once allowed my Will to be taken at one of the Aurora Columnae scattered around the Republic. Almost all children are brought to one of the ancient pillars when they turn twelve, after which they’re able to cede to anyone, any time, without needing the presence of the massive pre-Cataclysm artefacts. My best theory is that my refusal to go through the ritual is why I’ve managed to stay unaffected all this time, working here.

But it was always just conjecture, a semi-educated guess. I never meant to put it to the test.

My candle is threatening to gutter out and Hospius took the only spare, so I hurry to the storeroom, sweep up the food and cleaning supplies needed for the next shift, and haul them back upstairs. To my surprise, voices seep under the guardroom door.

… it up for me anyway. I’d like to know. Hospius is still here. I curse myself as I remember why I took the man down to the cells in the first place, then mouth furiously at the door for Hrolf to keep his stupid mouth shut. I’ve no love for the old man—no one in the Hierarchy has earned that from me—but nor do I think he deserves the fate in store if Hospius decides he’s no longer capable of performing his duties.

There’s a rustling of paper. Three years and seven months left, says Hrolf. Is there anything else, Sextus? Not rude, but a clear indication that Hospius is welcome to leave.

There’s silence, and I wish I could see Hospius’s expression.

Your young assistant seems to know his work. Casual. Conversational. My heart still clenches.

Should do. He’s been here longer than me.

How much longer?

Months, says Hrolf vaguely. I can almost hear his shrug.

You know him well?

He’s quiet. A bit aloof, really. Doesn’t like to talk about himself. Why? There’s no suspicion, just curiosity.

He impressed me. I’m wondering whether he’s being wasted down here.

Hrolf chuckles. "Oh, no doubt about that. The boy plays Foundation like a demon. And he’s smarter than he lets on. Quoted gods-damned Fulguris at me the other day, even if he pretended he hadn’t read it afterward."

I berate myself again for that lazy conceit, then debate interrupting before Hrolf makes more of a mess—he thinks he’s helping me by embellishing my merit to the Sextus, never imagining that the attention could get me killed—but if Hospius is after information, my presence isn’t going to change anything. Better to wait and find out what, if anything, he’s fishing for.

Hm. Hospius, fortunately, doesn’t sound as impressed as Hrolf seems to think he should be. Well, if a more appropriate position for someone his age should come up in Letens, I’ll mention him. There’s a vague, dispassionate note that signals it’s a conclusion to the conversation. I puff out my cheeks in silent relief.

A scuffing of boots, then the door in front of me rattles as the outer one admits a blast of air.

Thank you, Septimus. Stronger together, says Hospius, his voice more muffled now.

Stronger together, Sextus, replies Hrolf formally. The wind-induced quivering of the door in front of me stops.

I wait two minutes before knocking, using the time to decide what to tell Hrolf. He’ll be curious about what transpired.

So what was that all about? is his greeting as I admit myself back into the guardroom.

Not sure. They were talking in some other language. I deposit the fetched supplies onto their shelf, then flop into my seat.

Hrolf emits an intrigued grunt, but realises there are no further conclusions to be drawn from the information. Any trouble?

Just what you’d expect. Prisoner wasn’t exactly happy when he realised his time wasn’t up. Bit of kicking and screaming. There’s the burn of bile in the back of my throat as I think of Nateo’s terror, his begging. His fight. But I don’t let it show.

Hrolf claps me on the back in manly sympathy anyway, knowing I’m understating, if not by how much.

Thanks, he adds.

We spend the next quarter hour talking of nothing, whiling the time until I normally depart. Hrolf will stay all night—alone, from when I leave until dawn—though with the prisoners already fed and washed for the day, his responsibilities during that time are nominal. He’ll sleep for most of it.

Somewhere outside in Letens, the city’s common clock faintly shivers a single note. The end of evening, and the beginning of true night. It won’t sound again until dawn. I stand.

Offer’s still there, Vis, says Hrolf, watching me. His eyes are suddenly sad, though he tries to hide it. I don’t mind changing our terms if you want to stay, help awhile longer.

You don’t need me here. I collect my threadbare cloak, shrug it on.

The proconsul doesn’t know that. Your matron doesn’t know that. And it’s not as if the coin isn’t already paid.

Thanks, but no. It’s yours. Better his than the matron’s, anyway. I assess the Septimus, looking for any sign that he’s thinking of backing out of our deal. That’s not what this is about, though. The worried crinkle around Hrolf’s eyes gives him away.

Less bruises if you stay here, he observes, confirming it.

Better conversation, too. I hold out my hand, palm up.

Hrolf sighs, but there’s no surprise on his weathered face as he retrieves my pay from the Will-secured box on the far wall. Copper triangles, each one etched with eight parallel lines. I get six for my work today. The other nine that Hrolf tucks away were meant to pay for my time tonight, but instead go toward his tolerance of my absence.

The metal jingles, a comforting weight in my pocket, as I move to the heavy stone door. I don’t offer any words of thanks for his concern. Part of me wants to.

But then I remember that if he knew my real name, this seemingly humane grey-haired man would see me dead just as quickly as anyone else.

See you tomorrow, says Hrolf as he inserts his key into its slot. The door grinds open.

See you tomorrow. I walk out into the blustery cold of Letens, and head for the Theatre.

II

LETENS IS A STRANGE CITY.

Here at the southern edge of civilisation, more than fifteen years after joining the Hierarchy, Catenan influence still mixes uneasily with the old world. The lamplit streets are twisting, muddy, and narrow, ill-suited to the Will-powered carts and carriages that occasionally squeeze along them. Buildings veer sharply from barely functional wooden boxes to citizens’ towering, walled mansions of stone. The many-arched Temple of Jovan soars above it all in the distance, crowning the Tensian Forum. It’s surrounded by the last of the sacred druidic grove that once formed the heart of the city. There are no druids, anymore.

While Letens Prison is not exactly on the outskirts, the city is vast, and I’m still heading toward its centre after more than ten minutes. This late, there are more red-cloaked soldiers about than anyone else, though a few others do still brave the icy wind sweeping in from the south. Octavii, mostly. You can tell from the way they trudge, avoiding eye contact as they murmur wearily to one another in their native Tensian. A few of the women wear stolas with their children’s names sewn into the cloth above the left breast, proud proclamation of their contributions to the Hierarchy. Their clothes are threadbare and stained, otherwise.

Even so, there’s less of the Hierarchy this far south than almost anywhere else in the world. I sometimes tell myself that’s why I stopped running.

Of course, if I’m honest, the hunger and loneliness contributed.

At least the hunger’s no longer a problem.

The quiet streets finally lead me into the unlit deep of an alley that’s almost invisible beside the ugly curvature of the long, sloping building next to it. Mud squelches beneath my boots. Side streets like this would have been dangerous once; crime in Letens does still exist, but now it caters far more to the thrill of the forbidden than the violence of need. The Catenans are nothing if not serious about Birthright, their set of laws ostensibly meant to safeguard human life. Anyone desperate enough to challenge it inevitably finds themselves in a Sapper.

Just as the light from the main road behind threatens to become too dim, there’s a short set of stairs that descend to a door sunken below the street, all but hidden from view. I push it open without announcing myself. Inside, three men and a woman break from their conversation at the table in the corner of the small, stuffy room, the hint of tension dissipating as I’m recognised.

Vis, my boy! Septimus Ellanher rises as she utters the words in her rich, aristocratic voice, a hawkish smile splitting her angular face. She’s powerfully built, a head taller than me, with a mass of wavy raven-black tresses that fall freely to her waist. Her arms are bare, glistening in the candlelight from the sweat of some exertion or other, highlighting both muscle and scars. Just who I was hoping to see!

I carefully close the door behind me and stop dead, giving her a flat stare. The welcome’s too warm for Ellanher by far.

She rolls her amber-flecked brown eyes, joviality only slightly diminished by my response. Come, now. Can’t a lady be enthusiastic about the arrival of her favourite fighter?

I’m sure a lady could. I nod politely to the three men at the table. All are bigger than even Ellanher in height and brawn, if not in presence. Two, Caren and Othmar, I recognise from previous nights. Their eyes glitter resentfully as they nod back. What do you want?

Ellanher chuckles throatily, unfazed. She knows I’m partly joking, and the other part she takes as a compliment anyway. You are a rascal. But I suppose I do have a special bout for you, tonight.

I don’t like the way the three men are watching me as she speaks. Anticipating… something. Like most people they’re Octavii, normally ceding half their Will to a Septimus’s command. My skin crawls to think of it.

Tonight’s different, of course. Usually Will is ceded in perpetuity; the Hierarchy organises and tracks all such arrangements with fastidious care, and only whoever controls someone’s Will can return it. But these men’s Septimii have seen fit to do exactly that for the evening—presumably in exchange for a share of any earnings. Illegal, of course. But the sort of thing that would incur only a small fine if discovered.

Any of the three could break my back with an embrace. But ceding day in and day out has slowed their wits, their reaction times, whole again though they temporarily are. Something has been taken from them. They’re broken in ways they don’t understand, and it makes them fodder in a fight.

They’ve never liked that I, smaller and younger than they, am not.

A special bout, I repeat, my attention returning to Ellanher.

Yes, dear boy! I was approached a few days ago by an older gentleman. I shan’t tell you his name, but he’s rather well-known up in northern Tensia. A knight, if you’d believe it. He had heard of our little shows here, from an acquaintance who has enjoyed our hospitality from time to time. This man had a very interesting proposition. His son has accrued some unfortunate debts, and— She sees me yawning exaggeratedly and scowls. He’s a Sextus, she finishes somewhat tetchily, disappointed I’ve ruined her build up. You’ll be fighting a Sextus tonight.

I don’t think I’ve heard her correctly at first, but the smug expressions on the Octavii’s faces tell me otherwise. I’m to be meat for the grinder. It feels as though the air has been sucked from the room.

What are the rules? I’m relieved to find my voice is level, neither fury nor fear showing through. Ellanher’s had this arranged for days. She’s sprung it on me because she knows I’m not going to pull out, not when the fight’s set and the crowd is waiting. I’d never be allowed to see the inside of this place again.

No weapons. No killing.

I’ll do my best, I mutter, though the bravado rings false in my own ears. I stare at the ground, coming to grips with what’s about to happen, then straighten. Look her in the eye. Triple pay.

Double.

Quadruple.

You’re supposed to meet in the middle when you haggle, darling.

I say nothing, but I don’t break the gaze.

There’s silence, and then Ellanher gives a small, acceding laugh. Delicate and refined, still so strange to hear emerging from that powerful physique of hers. Triple, then. But no extra for a healer, even if that handsome face of yours needs it.

And it probably will, but this is the best deal I’m going to get. I gesture toward the narrow hallway leading farther inside, somewhat curtly, indicating both my acceptance and that she should lead the way. Ellanher smiles serenely, murmuring a farewell to her companions. The three men are glowering again as we depart. They’d hoped to get a better reaction from me.

Inwardly, I’m still reeling.

We make the short journey to Ellanher’s office—her dressing room, during the day and early evening—without talking. Once inside, I’m struck again by the incongruity of the space. A well-lit mirror, a dresser with vials of makeup. Feathered hats and soft fur cloaks and a rack full of wildly different dresses. It’s surreal to imagine Ellanher readying herself to sing and dance and boldly act out her lines on the same stage where she’s about to send me to get my head caved in.

The Septimus strides over to the safe on the wall, taking the Will key from around her neck and inserting it into its slot. The granite latch clicks aside, revealing rows of carefully stacked coins. Will-locked vaults, even small ones like this, are a hundred times more secure than anything mechanical. Priced accordingly, too. Ellanher’s late-night side business is paying handsomely.

She counts out my compensation—six silver triangles, worth sixty coppers—and presses them into my palm.

I admit to being curious, Vis, she says as she locks the vault again, some of her grandiose act faded away now we’re alone. She knows it doesn’t impress me the way it does the others. What you earn here… it’s hardly riches, but it is a lot for an orphan. And you’re willing to go through so much pain to get more. So what is it all for? Debts? A woman? Some vice that you cannot bring yourself to give up? Her tone’s light, as it always is with me, but she’s far from joking. It bothers her that she doesn’t know.

This Sextus I’m to fight. I assume he’ll be ceding?

Of course. If Ellanher’s fazed by my pointedly ignoring the question, she doesn’t show it. I don’t want you dead, my boy.

Just badly beaten.

She sizes me up, coming to a decision. Yes. There’s neither apology nor regret. A little fight from the underdog can be fun, Vis, but too much becomes a statement. The sort of statement that gets Catenan attention.

I close my fist around the coins in my hand, the sharp points digging into my skin until they threaten to do injury. I’ve been testing my Septimus opponents more and more during the months I’ve been fighting here. Won more than I’ve lost, over the past few. To think, I was actually feeling good about that. I should have realised it would be noticed. Commented on. Disapproved of, in certain quarters.

I’ll see you onstage, I growl, wheeling and leaving before I say something to make my situation worse.

The dimly lit passageways here seem tighter than ever. The bowels of Letens’s largest auditorium are a warren of private rooms and preparation areas, most of which have been shut off since the last of the actors left more than two hours ago. I don’t pause at any of the many branching paths, though, heading almost inattentively for the stairs leading up to the very top of the seating area. I’ve been here three times a week for more than six months. I know my way around.

I’m accompanied only by my apprehension at what’s to come until I’m almost at the very top of the stairs, when the murmur of voices bleeds into my consciousness. The first arrivals of the night have trickled in. In about thirty minutes, that murmur will become a rumbling, expectant buzz as seats fill. Then a primal roar as the first fight gets underway.

I emerge onto the top row of the semi-circular white stone amphitheatre, my entrance unremarked by the smattering of people already present. The stage below is distant; this place can hold several hundred spectators at capacity. Once open to the air, a vaguely foreboding, sound-deadening dome now sits overhead. Three layers thick, it’s a special design by Catenan architects, who were commissioned several years ago by some of the wealthier citizens migrating from Caten itself. Apparently, the disturbance rowdy Tensian plays caused to their evenings was becoming simply unbearable.

The curved mass of stone was not exactly popular with the Tensians—it’s hardly aesthetically pleasing, and the crass nickname the locals have given it very much reflects that—but it is effective. Even the most raucous of noise from in here won’t escape.

I scan the crowd nearby and spot the man I’m looking for quickly enough, familiar black notebook clutched in his hand as he talks animatedly to someone. Gaufrid’s energetic for an Octavii, even if the effects of more than a decade of ceding have him looking closer to fifty than his late thirties. What he likes to refer to as his receding hairline is well into the realm of balding, though at least he keeps the remaining sandy-coloured strands neat and close-cropped. He’s dressed entirely in an off-putting shade of green tonight, for some reason.

I loiter near the exit, mostly out of sight from the gathering crowd, waiting patiently until I catch his eye. When he notices me, he excuses himself and hurries over.

Vis!

Gaufrid. I eye his attire. Lose a bet?

Ha. Ha. My wife’s choice, if you must know.

One way to make sure you’re faithful, I suppose.

You’re an ass. Gaufrid’s grin shows he doesn’t think much of the outfit either. He grabs my arm, draws me conspiratorially into the shadows. Your admirer’s back.

I follow his nod to the sparse crowd, spotting the girl soon enough. A thick dark cloak still swathes her, despite the relative warmth indoors. My age, at a guess, maybe a few years older. Dark skin and long, curly brown hair. There’s something unsettling about the way she leans forward in her seat, ignoring those around her, gaze fixed on the empty stage below. Though as we watch, her concentration breaks and she frowns around before abruptly drawing her hood up, concealing her face. As if she can somehow sense our examination.

Lucky me. I’ve never spoken to her, but she’s been here for every fight over the past two weeks. Quietly asking around about me. Gaufrid thinks it’s romantic. I’m concerned she’s recognised something about me. Still not interested.

And good friend that I am, I continue to tell her that you are as enigmatic as you are handsome. As usual, though, Gaufrid looks vaguely disappointed. So. Come to make an early wager?

I feel the weight of the coins in my pocket. Calculate. Gaufrid is the unofficial bookkeeper for these evenings: if you want to make a wager that will actually pay out when you win, you go to him. Last fight of the night.

Octavus or Septimus?

I grimace. Special circumstances. This one’s against a Sextus.

A frown of confusion, then the blood drains from Gaufrid’s face. He grabs my arm and pulls me deeper into the passageway, completely out of sight of any spectators.

"Are you mad?"

I didn’t find out until five minutes ago. Not much I can do.

I see Gaufrid’s mind working, see the moment where he understands that this is a punishment being meted out.

Go to Ellanher. Tell her that you’ll lose to every Septimus you’re put up against for the next month. She’ll accept the compromise. Gaufrid looks genuinely troubled. One wrong hit from a Sextus could cave your skull in, Vis. It probably wouldn’t even be deliberate. Even if he—he? I nod. Even if he is ceding, he’ll have the strength of ten people behind every punch! You understand that, right?

Nine and a quarter people, actually, I correct him in irritation. And he can’t be particularly skilled with Will if he has to earn his money here. With weak Septimii ceding to him as well, he might only be self-imbuing worth three or four. Something similar to Gaufrid’s suggestion had already crossed my mind. Call it pride, call it stubbornness, but I’m not going to do it. I’ve worked too hard, suffered through too many injuries and too much mockery to return to constant defeat.

Besides, I’m not here for the coin alone. I gave up on dreams of exacting revenge on the Republic long ago, but that doesn’t mean I’ll never have to defy them.

This is practice.

Gaufrid growls something under his breath. I’m not sure whether it’s concern for me, or concern that he’s about to lose the benefits of this mutually beneficial deal we have. I can’t guarantee wins and I won’t guarantee losses, but most of the Septimii fighting here are regulars: those I haven’t already faced, I’ve studied. Which means I know my chances, more often than not. And, importantly, can usually drag out a match to any length of my choosing, even if the result doesn’t go my way.

So I bet largely on how long I think I’ll last, and Gaufrid uses that information to… adjust the odds he offers everyone else.

What will you give me on three minutes? It sounds ludicrous even as I ask it, but I’m here now. In this mess. I may as well try and use it to profit.

Gaufrid chokes a disbelieving laugh. Vis, when this is announced, I won’t be able to sell odds on you lasting more than three seconds. When I don’t back down, he sighs. Twenty to one.

"For three minutes?"

Those are the best numbers I’m going to give you, he assures me. For all I know, you could have an agreement in place with this Sextus to split the winnings.

I wouldn’t do that to you, I say, offended.

I believe you. Doesn’t change the risk.

What about for two minutes?

Same odds. Gaufrid fixes me with a serious look. Same again for one minute.

I scowl, but I know Gaufrid well enough to know he’s not going to budge. He thinks he’s helping me, forcing me to shorten the fight rather than aim for a big windfall. I draw four silver triangles from my pocket, holding them out. Longer than one minute, then. Less than one and a half.

Gaufrid whistles between his teeth as he takes them. "Stupid and rich today. Alright." He slips the coins into a pouch at his waist. There’s no entry into his small black notebook, no receipt listing the amount or the odds he’s given me, but that’s normal. The man has a remarkable memory, and I know he’s good for it. If for no other reason than Ellanher’s aware of our arrangement, and though she takes her cut, she’d tear him limb from limb—perhaps literally—if she ever thought he was cheating one of her fighters.

I turn to go, business complete, but Gaufrid grabs my shoulder.

No shame in calling it at first blood. He looks frustrated, almost angry, that he’s issuing this advice. Given how people are likely to bet, that’s unsurprising. I know it’s not in your nature, but Vis—if you’re ever going to swallow your pride, tonight’s the night.

He releases his grip and strides back into the amphitheatre, still looking faintly ridiculous clad in green.

Gaufrid’s warning echoes uncomfortably as I descend the stairs again, heading this time for the waiting area just offstage. He might be right. Once there’s blood, either fighter can concede the bout—and there will almost certainly be blood before the end of the first minute, no matter how fast I move.

But it’s one minute. One minute for eight gold. That’s almost double what I’ve managed to save since I started here.

It’s not just the amount of coin on offer, either. I’ve been feeling the inexorable press of time on my shoulders lately. I’m seventeen years old in truth, as of two months ago, even if the Hierarchy’s records for Vis Solum say that milestone isn’t for another ten weeks. Part of me regrets not stretching the lie further when I first came to the orphanage, but the risk of the claim drawing notice was too great.

Regardless of whether it was a mistake, it means I have little more than a year before the law demands my Will. Either ceded after a trip to the Aurora Columnae, or taken by a Sapper.

And all the ways I can think to try and avoid that involve significant expense.

I navigate the back hallways and arrive at the room the Octavii are given to prepare, still deep in thought as I enter. It’s to the right of the main stage, an austere stone box that’s large enough to comfortably accommodate the dozen men within. A small, temporary shrine to Mira is, as usual, erected by the door. I ignore it. The room already stinks of stale sweat and animal fat as men grease their arms and run on the spot, or jump repeatedly, or do whatever they can to expel the stiff cold from their muscles.

None stop their exercises, but eyes surreptitiously fix on me as I find an open space to warm up. They’ve heard, then.

Like Othmar and Caren earlier, none of the gazes are especially sympathetic. I’ve always been an oddity here, I suppose, even before I started winning. The youngest by at least two years, and easily the least physically imposing. Not that I’m weak—the Theatre, not to mention my time prior competing in the gladiatorial competition of Victorum, has made me leaner and stronger than I’d once thought possible—but these men were singled out for their physiques. They’re mountains of brawn, without exception.

And now I’m to fight a Sextus. It will be an insult to some; they’ll see it as an acknowledgment by Ellanher of my successes, rather than the castigation it is. Others will just be delighted that I likely won’t be around for a while.

Time passes at an interminable crawl as I suffer their constant sideways glances, each one only adding to my concern. The buzz of excited murmuring from the amphitheatre builds steadily, muffled though it is in here, until finally it’s cut short by Ellanher’s voice. Warming up the crowd. There’s laughter, cheers. She’s beloved out there.

Ten minutes go by, allowing enough time for bets on the first fight after its announcement. Then the stage door is opening and Idonia—Ellanher’s younger cousin, supposedly, though with her short-cropped blond hair and bright blue eyes, they bear no physical similarities whatsoever—peers through. Pabul. A giant with long reddish-brown hair and a front tooth missing slips through the door after her.

It’s a parade of names called and men departing after that. They don’t come back the same way; we never know how any single bout has gone until the end of the night. Though you can usually guess. There’s a certain feel to the crowd noise when a match is close. Or when an injury is particularly nasty.

I block it all out tonight, formulating a strategy. I’ve thought about this plenty of times before, albeit in the most abstract terms. No weapons is a good start. Still, most Sextii can imbue things—a simple touch and he could make my shirt start to strangle me, or if he doesn’t want to look like he’s cheating, just pull me off-balance at the wrong moment. Unpleasant though it is, there’s only one way to avoid that.

He’ll be strong, of course. I briefly consider the tactic of letting him imbue something; Will is a finite resource, and however much he infused elsewhere would leave him with that much less to bolster himself. But I immediately dismiss the idea. An errant punch to the head might only maim rather than kill, in that scenario. Not much of an advantage.

Then there’s the question of his speed. That’s harder to predict, and the one area which gives me hope. The Will being ceded to him improves his reaction times, but it’s a marginal enhancement over a Septimus. Training and experience play more of a role, there. And if this Sextus is only fighting tonight because he thinks it’s an easy way to make coin, then it’s possible he may not have the discipline of others I’ve already faced.

As I assess and reassess my logic, around me, the room gradually empties. Quietens. The heavy stench lingers. The roars of the spectators out front ebb and flow.

Finally, suddenly, I’m the only one left.

I strip, carefully and methodically. Cloak, tunic, underclothes. Folded neatly and put in a pile. I have to believe that I’m going to need them again. Then I use the pot of animal fat to grease my entire body. It’s disgusting, but if the Sextus gets a good grip on me, he’ll be able to snap or crush bone. And the substance won’t keep its form, so it can’t be imbued.

The door opens just as I finish.

Vis, you’re… Idonia sputters as she sees me. Gapes, then glances away. She’s more shy than her cousin. You’re up. I mean, you’re ready. It’s your turn. To fight. She’s red. Almost flees back toward the stage.

I chuckle to myself as I pad after her, though mostly to