The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy) - By Aidan Harte Page 0,13

Makes it more convincing.’

As the students got under way, the screaming started.

Torbidda smiled in embarrassment. ‘He’ll get bored and move on.’

She looked at him intensely. ‘Listen, you have to start thinking long-term. If you take it from Four, others will follow. You don’t know what’s coming in the next few months. I didn’t.’ She looked around again and then pulled up her tunic. An ugly pink scar bisected her flank in the shape of an N. ‘I didn’t realise how fast it could escalate. This saved my life. It told me what I had to do to survive.’

Torbidda watched as she circled the room, helping other students. She wasn’t telling him anything he hadn’t already worked out – so why was he waiting? He wasn’t scared, exactly. He had just exepected an adult to step in at some point – that was how childhood worked. Those were the rules.

When she returned, he asked, ‘What should I do?’

‘Give him a target.’

Her name was Agrippina. Her father was a farmer, one of the few still trying to make a living raising chickens and harvesting dust in the Concordian contato. At the end of another drought year he’d realised the worth of his unusually canny daughter. He made the trek to the city bringing her in the trailer with the other livestock. Although she was determined not to let anyone ever own her again, she wasn’t bitter. Her father had done them both a favour.

‘I love it here,’ she said simply.

Every second-year had this reverence. Torbidda was beginning to understand where it came from. The Guild was a machine: it never gave back more than you put in, but it never promised anything, and it never lied either.

‘Madonna, what a din!’ exclaimed Varro. ‘I told you: cut the vocal cords first!’

Initially, the complete absence of rules gave rise to clumsy sexual experimentation late at night. That carnal holiday didn’t last. Eventually there was no one foolish enough to drop their guard. Nights were one long tense silence now.

Torbidda could hear the approaching whispers. He knew what was imminent; Agrippina had warned him. He had brought this on himself by his servility. It was dark and he was outnumbered here; there was nothing for it but to endure. They came in strength, rushing in to overturn his mattress, and piled on, whooping and hollering. Blows rained down on him in quick succession, on his legs, torso and face. It was not a serious attack – there was nothing sharp involved. He covered his head and waited for the end. Four probably thought he was making an example, but you don’t make examples when nobody can see.

You wait for daylight.

Torbidda rose before the bell and limped to the sinks to wash the matted blood from his body. He entered the refectory and sat alone, eating breakfast through scabbed lips, hood down to show his bruises to the world. Naturally everyone ignored him; talking to a sinking Cadet was impolitic. As Four and his followers filed by Torbidda, each greeted him with a smack on the back on his head.

‘Morning.’

‘Morning.’

‘Morning.’

‘Morning.’

Torbidda’s swollen face usefully masked his anger – though the anger wasn’t directed at Four but at himself. He had survived the night, but what incompetence, to have let it come to this.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘You all right?’

Leto’s imprudence was touching. He had troubles of his own with the Fuscus twins. The New City brats were minor nobility; their family had a long-running feud with the Spinthers. Leto’s indifference to the incestuous quarrels of the old nobility infuriated them nearly as much as his indifference to his status, which was far grander than theirs.

‘Go away.’

‘What? I’m not going to— Look, I wasn’t one of them last night—’

‘I know that! Please, go, but first hit me.’

Leto’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you planning?’

‘Please.’

‘Fine!’ he shouted and struck Torbidda hard on the back of the head. There was general laughter as he walked away.

‘Even Spinther’s got sick of the smell,’ Four drawled.

Torbidda limped through the day, dutifully dissected, solved problems and calculated and drew and read, and all the while dispassionately examined his plan from different angles, holding it up to the light to see its flaws.

He arrived early for Mechanics to select a workstation that would put his back to the classroom. He powered up his water-saw and cut a small wedge of wood. He took his half-carved table leg from the lathe and practised swinging it, getting the feel of its weight and balance.