After class began he informed Flaccus that there was an impatient consul waiting for him in his tower. Flaccus left in a flap, telling the class to continue work. Torbidda followed him to the door, wedge in hand, but there was no need for it. Flaccus had left his keys behind.
Torbidda turned the lock and pocketed the keys. Then he returned to his own isolated workstation, taking care to shuffle past Four’s desk. The absence of adult supervision would be irresistible – he knew Four still thought of the selectors as surrogate parents. He busied himself splitting wood with water. With the din from the saws it would be impossible to hear Four’s approach, so he just had to be ready.
When it came, time seemed to slow. An arm came around his neck; the other braced his forehead. Four meant to tip him towards the blade – he probably just planned to scare him. Instead of resisting, Torbidda pulled, leaning to the left as he went forwards, and Four’s arm went into the water’s path. There was a whipping sound and the stream ran red for a moment. Four’s scream was louder than the saw.
Now Torbidda pushed against his weight and Four fell backwards, trying to keep his balance even as the blood spewed from his severed forearm. Torbidda snatched up the table leg as he turned and put his whole body behind it. It caught Four under the jaw and lifted his feet from the ground.
He landed on his back and lay there, coughing blood, not understanding what had happened – or what was happening now. His eyes darted from his pumping wound to the onlooking classroom.
‘Please,’ he gargled, ‘get help!’
One of his crew ran to the door, only to discover it was locked.
‘I’ve got the key,’ Torbidda said clearly.
Four’s crew dared each other to rush him, but a minute passed and still no one made a move. He stood guard over Four until the blood slowed to a languid ebb. At the end of it, Torbidda had the high ground. They had watched their leader die, and everyone else had watched them watching.
When Torbidda unlocked the door, Flaccus was waiting. Torbidda got a slap for locking him out of his own classroom and a mop for the mess. The selector didn’t mention Four. No one did. He was forgotten before his blood was mopped up.
CHAPTER 7
Heads turned in the refectory as Torbidda sat at the second-years’ table.
Agrippina smiled. ‘I didn’t invite you to join me. There are rules, you know.’
‘But just one counts.’
Agrippina laughed. ‘I heard about your woodwork.’
‘Already?’
‘I see you’ve been practising eye-contact – but don’t pretend to be surprised. Everyone’s talking about it.’
Torbidda felt no elation about the killing, nor any remorse. He wondered if he had always been so heartless, or whether it was a logical response to a heartless environment. He knew now why congress was civil amongst the second-years: they all knew the consequences. They still quarrelled, but their quarrels were swift, unflinching things and the loser was not left bruised or lame but out in the cold, another example to his peers.
Agrippina studied him coolly. ‘You did what you had to. I know you’re too smart to waste your time with guilt, but don’t start revelling in killing either. Some Cadets start thinking it’s that type of competition, and they don’t last.’
‘I understand. It’s a means to an end. I don’t understand why you care.’
‘You helped me.’
‘True but you didn’t have to reciprocate. I’m only a first-year.’
‘Exactly. You’re talented and you won’t ever be competition. I’ll need competent allies when I become Third Apprentice.’
‘Don’t you mean if?’
‘I mean when.’
He offered his hand. ‘My name’s Torbidda.’
First-bloods were students to watch. He’d set a record in so quickly learning the Guild’s key lesson – that notoriety was safer than anonymity – but it would take more than one killing to impress the selectors; they had seen the passage of numerous prodigies. A few, including the current Third Apprentice, fulfilled their promise. Most, like Giovanni Bernoulli, grandson of the Stupor Mundi, did not.
A fearsome season followed as Torbidda’s peers raced to catch up, but still there was more to learn than fear; there was delight, discovery and inspiration as Cadets began to discover their particular affinities for individual subjects.
‘… Architecture begins and ends with Man. Literally. The Etruscans compared man’s footprint with his height and replicated the ratio in their temples. See, the capita of this column, one sixth. There are no accidents. What made