dog pack, but the boy moved leisurely as a peacock, raising his fists up to Torbidda’s face as though inviting inspection. ‘No names here either. Or didn’t you get enough last night?’
His number was Four. His striking face was perfect, except for the fleshy lips that were set in a perpetual sneer. He had been one of the first inducted on Examination Day, and he acted as if he had been privy to deep secrets his whole life. Four’s swagger drew the rowdier first-years into his orbit; there were a few nobles, including the Fuscus twins, but most were poor city boys, including Fifty-Nine, of course. Like Leto, Four was from the New City, but unlike the Spinthers, his family had only just taken the leap; he was the first son to be sent to the Guild, and he was loud in denigrating both the Curia and aristocracy as yesterday’s men. The nervous boys admired his bluster, and anointed him their seer, to lead them through this strange land and chase away its shadows.
‘Well?’ said Four.
Torbidda recognised there was no way of winning the contest; Four had the high ground. He abandoned his claim to the workstation and found another.
‘Madonna, don’t take it personally, Torbidda. You’re a means to an end, that’s all. Four is consolidating his position—’
‘—by creating opportunities for his crew to prove their loyalty. I know that.’
‘You did the right thing backing down. Don’t let yourself become an object-lesson.’
Leto was right, of course, but Torbidda looked up with dissatisfaction from his colourless lunch and scanned the other tables in the refectory. The Apprenticeship Candidates sat at the high table at the far end of the room. To reach the third year was no small achievement, but still only a handful – a maximum of twelve, usually fewer – were deemed worthy to apply for Apprenticeship; the rest were posted abroad, scattered across the empire. The Candidates’ solemn intensity was a fascinating spectacle, but one might as well look for example to the saints. The second-years at the table opposite, however: they were still mortals.
Usually Leto’s evaluation of military problems was sound, but though Torbidda had backed down to Four, just as the first-years deferred to the second-years, he knew servility wasn’t a long-term stratagem. He looked across at the monitor, who was discussing something while the Cadets around her listened courteously. Compared with the first-years’ rowdy jousting and posturing, the second-years were serenity itself. How was it that peace reigned on that side of the room? How had they learned to cooperate?
Leto saw the direction of his glance and said softly, ‘Forget it, Torbidda. Second-years won’t help – they’ll kill you faster than Four will. At least he needs an excuse.’
But Torbidda was looking for answers, not allies. It would have been easy for the Guild to segregate the lambs from these veterans, so this example had been placed before them for a reason. His life depended on discovering why.
‘Come on,’ said Leto. ‘Flaccus will kill us both if we’re late for Mechanics again.’
The water cut through the stone like paper. Torbidda held the gem to the light, examining it with the intensity of a poacher stalking prey. Gem-cutting had something of Geometry’s precision: the light was perfect or flawed, just as an equation was correct or incorrect. Others complained, but Torbidda understood why they were expected to master practical arts as well as theory. The Guild needed more than rote-trained mules; each Cadet was expected to travel the same road Bernoulli had.
As the Cadets proudly admired their own work and showed their gems off to the others, Torbidda wondered at their pleasure – and envied them, a little. Their work was pedestrian compared to his, but when he studied his jewel’s icy new clarity he felt only confusion at the nausea it inspired in him. It was like fire scorching his insides. He had worked hard, finding the planes then grinding and polishing to reveal the flawless gem within, but now the urge to ruin that perfection was taking hold of him.
He carefully placed it down and moved on to his next task. With Gem-cutting, progress was tangible; some subjects were more about learning to stumble through the darkness.
Alchemistry was taught in a cave cut even deeper into the mountain than the Anatomy Hall – but it was far warmer, thanks to the great furnace at its heart that fed on coal and dripping animal fats. Its roar and the feverish scent of scorched cinnabar filled