they would be expected to be autonomous. While Torbidda lost himself in Wave Theory, Leto’s interests were more practical: he was designing a trebuchet that used the recoil of the throw to load its next. Torbidda had been sitting in a nook parsing a particularly thorny theorem when he had spotted the Fuscus twins surreptitiously edging towards the Drawing Room, where Leto was working alone.
Five minutes had passed. Instead of rushing to his friend’s aid, Torbidda was walking the Halls, struggling to justify his inaction. Leto had breezed through first year so far, aside from occasional confrontations with the Fuscus siblings. His winning manner, his connections and his father’s reputation had seen to that. The only thing that fazed him was Anatomy. He could dissect cadavers perfectly well, but whether from tender feeling or sheer queasiness, he hated to work wet. Torbidda had long worried that Leto could not leap this most important hurdle. He knew he was being logical – helping someone who wouldn’t help themselves was pointless – but that didn’t make him feel any better.
The Drawing Hall was empty. Dust motes hung expectantly in light shafts, waiting to baptise new creations with their soft veil. ‘Leto?’
He’s not here. Just go.
Cursing his sentimental weakness, Torbidda walked through the empty rows of desks. Automatically he glanced at his own desk. Strange: his pair of compasses was gone. Something else too was off – what? He scanned the light-filled space, marvelling, in passing, at the thick iron windowpanes, wrought into the semblance of ivy. That was it— The light. The uppermost window was open.
He prayed that the ivy was strong enough to bear him; though it groaned when he began climbing, it held fast.
Don’t get involved.
The roof was a rounded vault of beaten metal held fast with studs and tar that gleamed in the rain as if new. It was cold, but that wasn’t what worried him. One false step on the slippery roof would send him plummeting.
On the top of the roof Leto sat hugging his legs, thoroughly soaked, staring sullenly at the Molè. It was a temple designed to humble. Its interlocking forms and its awful height entangled the eye until one forgot all truths and whichever weak god one was pledged to. Its stone demanded terrified worship.
Beside Leto lay the body of the Fuscus girl. The rain had washed the wound clean, and now it looked as if Leto had inserted the points into her neck without pain or protest. His stained robes gave the lie to that. Torbidda looked down and saw the smashed body of the other twin on the rocks below.
‘And Varro says you don’t know one end of a pair of compasses from the other.’
When Leto kept his eyes on the Molè, Torbidda said, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come to help earlier.’
At last Leto turned. ‘Madonna! You don’t have to explain! I know the rules – I’ve always know them. It’s folly to protect a weakling in a world where weakness kills. You figured that out for yourself, but I’ve heard stories about this place since I was young. I told myself that I could do things differently.’
‘You did good.’
‘I did what I had to. It’s not the same thing. It was easy, too. I did it the way you did Four: gave them a target, chose the day, chose the terrain. Easy.’
‘You’re being melodramatic. How many did you kill before you became a Cadet?’
‘… none.’
‘What do you think they’ve been training us for? If you get a chance to cull the competition you take it. Being guilty for being rational is foolish. You’re here; you have to fight, same as the rest of us. Of course you planned it. That’s what we do.’
Leto shakily got to his feet. ‘And there’s no escape.’
‘Of course there is: get through it,’ said Torbidda with a grin. ‘By the way, I’ll need my compasses back.’
As Torbidda scuttled back to the window, Leto yanked the instrument out. It came free easier than he’d expected, and he lost his footing, fell and began sliding down the vault roof, crying, ‘Ahhhahh!’
There was nothing to hold but curved wetness.
At the last second, Leto managed to grab the railing. He looked up and found Torbidda standing over him. His smile poorly disguised his fear. ‘That stuff about getting rid of competition – there’re some exceptions?’
Torbidda grasped his hand. ‘If you were competition, I’d have killed you long ago.’
CHAPTER 8
Grand Selector Flaccus hammered the notice onto the refectory door and strode away