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HONOR AND LAW ARE NOT the same thing. If a man adheres to the law, it does not make him honorable in thought or deed, but the honorable man must sometimes break the law to do what is right.
—Torreg, captain of the Royal Guard
* * *
"IF IT’S MEANT TO BE our day of rest, why do we have to dress in all this?" asked Onin as Fargin and he approached the temple’s entrance. "This collar is so stiff, it makes my neck itch like nothing else."
"Look, it’s only once a week. We dress in our best as a sign of respect for the Founders."
"Yes, I get that. It’s just sort of strange to me. Back home, we had temples, but the priests weren’t so . . . involved in everything."
"What’s wrong with that?" asked Fargin. He reached out and straightened Onin’s collar, but the big lad immediately shrugged it back to its disheveled form.
"Don’t do that, it only makes the itching worse. I find it hard to believe the Founders are going to be at all impressed with these clothes. Wouldn’t they rather see us comfortable and smiling at service?"
"Maybe it’s just the sacrifice they ask of us. A little itching to show as a sign of faith."
"Somehow I don’t think that’s going to impress them either."
The boys entered the temple and moved to occupy one of the many stone benches. The sacred chamber had high ceilings, and the voices of the choir echoed through the air. Onin found the song mournful and solemn, and it made his mood worse.
"These benches are ludicrous too," whispered Onin as they settled onto the hard, cold surface. "Is this another sacrifice of comfort? Why would the Founders even begin to care about that? I don’t understand this at all."
"That’s obvious," hissed Fargin through clenched teeth. "Now shut up."
Onin resolved to keep his complaints to himself for the rest of the service. The priest arrived in short order to deliver the weekly sermon. Onin restrained a groan as a frail-looking old man teetered his way to the front. He remembered the old man from a previous sermon, a long and boring one. He didn’t necessarily mind all of the sermons, but most concerned the genealogy of the Great Families. Onin felt slightly put upon. Why should it matter to him?
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if the priests didn’t insinuate themselves into every aspect of daily life. The prayers preceded every meal. Minor altars and shrines to sundry semi-historical figures littered the streets and byways of the Heights. Every aspect of life somehow involved the church.
Though it seemed interminably long, the sermon came to an end in due time. Onin’s stomach had started grumbling noisily near the conclusion. It struck him as odd that he could work up such an appetite just by sitting on a stone bench all morning.
Onin drove his fist into his stomach to quiet it down while he listened to the list of names being intoned by the priest. Each sermon ended with a dedication to a Founder, followed by a litany of genealogy tracing to modern days. The list came in the form of a long string of "son of" or "daughter of" declarations until it culminated with the current head of a Great Family, thereby drawing a direct line of descent to the Founders themselves.
Onin found the thought of Founders slightly dubious, though he took care in what company he shared the thought. While the records kept by the Great Families were no doubt accurate, they seemed like nothing more than ordinary people to Onin. They had their strengths, their weaknesses, and their petty issues, much the same as the Midlanders. He saw no cause for the seeming arrogance of being descended from gods. If the Great Families were truly scions of the divine, then Onin honestly hoped for much more than the High Folk represented.
The thought preoccupied him throughout the rest of the old priest’s words, and he remained quiet as the congregation rose to leave. He followed Fargin out into the street while the minstrels played in the background. Many of the congregation drifted outside the temple and chatted in groups, but the young men avoided them and made their way down the street.
"Fargin," he said as the two walked back to their barracks. "Do you believe in the teachings? Are the Great Families really descended from the gods?"
Fargin looked surprised at the question. "I suppose it must be. Why else would they teach it?"
"But doesn’t that seem far-fetched? What makes the Great Families different from other folks?"
"Same as always: ancestry. It only makes sense. Could you imagine what it would be like if anyone could become king, not just the Great Families? It would be crazy." Fargin laughed at the thought.
Onin, however, kept his opinion to himself.
* * *
THE LIBRARY COULD BE musty on the driest of days, but after a week’s worth of soaking rain, the air in the closed space was downright murky. The librarian seemed not to notice and refused Sensi’s suggestion to burn incense to counteract the odor.
"Nonsense," said the crinkled old man. "Have you any idea how much damage smoke would do to these volumes? Completely out of the question!"
So Sensi endured the smell for days on end. It clung to his clothes when he left the library for his private quarters, and even bathing seemed to do little to remove it. Sensi had a great fondness for books but thought at times he would be happy to never see another one if it meant being rid of the smell of mold. But he had no recourse, and his discomfort made him irritable.
As he went about dusting the shelves, he looked once again to the twins. The stack of books surrounding them seemed innocuous enough—simple texts on literature and mathematics, arousing no suspicions.
From time to time, another student would sit down with the two for a whispered conversation. It never lasted long, and usually the visitor looked quite nervous in the presence of the icy calm the twins exuded. Sometimes the visitor left a pouch behind, which one of the twins would casually pick up and tuck away within billowing robes.
Many visitors rose and departed without another word. Most seemed eager to get out of the presence of the twins. Sensi could understand the urgency, given his own experiences with the rail-thin pair. They were never angry in any sort of visible sense, which was unsettling.
On this occasion, the visitor, one of the arms students, rose to leave, only to be stopped by a soft word from one of the two. Sensi strained to hear while being careful not to be seen. However, the distance was too great. He could hear voices but not make out any words. The tone of the visitor was certainly tense, almost pleading.
Unable to resist the temptation, Sensi went around to the other side of the bookcase nearest to the twins. A casual glance in both directions showed he was alone in the aisle. He moved silently across the stone floor and stopped at a gap in the books, allowing him to peer through to the other side. He found himself looking over the shoulder of the twin on the left. He couldn’t tell which from behind, but thought it was Lornavus. As he came to a halt, the words being whispered became discernible.
"That’s preposterous," said the visitor. A big, burly lad, he leaned forward menacingly. "I didn’t agree to take on that kind of debt. It’s almost twice what I borrowed from you."
The twins, at least the one Sensi could see from his vantage, weren’t the least bit perturbed. The whispered reply was calm, even patronizing.
"Ah, but you did," said the twin before Sensi. "We have your signature, and it is legally binding. The document is clear on the specifics of interest and missed payments. The amount is correct, and we will take you before a magistrate if you do not pay."
"A magistrate?" the arms student asked. His expression spoke of alarm.
"Yes, a magistrate," chimed in the other twin, still in a whisper. "The full proceedings with a clerk and witnesses present. It’s bound to bring up all sorts of questions about why you needed money in the first place."
The boy’s expression went from alarm to fear before settling into resignation. "I shall pay," he whispered. His tone carried his defeat clearly. "When do you expect the next payment?"
"A similar amount, a month from now," said the twin in front of Sensi.
The would-be Guardsman paled visibly and clenched his fists until the knuckles turned white.
"A similar amount?" he asked in disbelief.
"One month from now," came the cool reply.
The student left the table, his shoulders slumped in despair. Sensi watched him walk away for a long moment, wondering what in the world the lad would do to make the next payment.
His gaze returned to the twin before him, and ice ran down his spine as he realized it was Lornavus. He could tell by the eyes looking back at him through the gap in the books.
"It’s all right, Sensi," said the twin. "Come around."
Sensi did so dutifully, feeling like a scolded child caught being naughty. He stood before the twins, waiting for chastisement. They seemed amused, however.
"You've not witnessed anything inappropriate," said Altavus, now sitting on Sensi’s left. "We have him bound fully and legally. Appearing before a magistrate will cause us no embarrassment."
"What did he need the money for?" asked Sensi.
"An illegitimate child," said Lornavus. "A former serving girl of his house is the mother. He needed the money to send them away to the Midlands."
Any sympathy Sensi might have felt for the lad evaporated. Just another privileged lout throwing money at a problem to make it disappear. In this case, Sensi derived comfort knowing the problem became much more expensive in the long run than anticipated.
* * *
ONIN HAD GROWN UP AS a Midlander and, as such, possessed an awareness of the general disdain the High Folk had for his kind. Still he was unprepared for the reality that would confront him living in the Heights.
The study and work routine of the academy was rigorous, but Onin settled into it soon enough. He never was one overly blessed with social acumen, so he took no notice at first of the little jibes about his heritage and relative intelligence. After all, he had heard enough of such insults even in Sparrowport. With time, however, he began to feel the true but subtle venom fueling harsh words uttered behind his back—or sometimes to his face.
Onin engaged in free practice with Fargin. Both wore the simple but effective armor they used for training drills and were armed with wooden practice swords. Prendor had introduced them to a complicated series of attacks and corresponding defenses meant to increase their skill with the blade. Both young men had been confounded by the intricacy of the movements and decided some time would be well spent practicing in the evening. As usual, similar activities crowded the practice yard. From pairs to small groups, a flurry of activity existed throughout the space.
"There it is!" exclaimed Fargin as he landed a ringing blow on Onin’s helmet. "Remember to withdraw your blade to a ready position after a low strike. I keep seeing an opening." Fargin had landed several such blows already. Onin’s ears rang inside his helmet.
Onin raised his hand to call a halt to the exercise and wearily pulled his helmet off. The ringing persisted in his ears, and Onin shook his head several times to clear it. He almost didn’t hear the snide comment over his shoulder.
"The Devalt Exchange! As if a Mudlander could master such a maneuver. Might as well teach arithmetic to a dog."
Onin turned to see who had spoken, and his eyes fell on a fellow student—a fourth-year, by the looks of his uniform. His hair was long and blond, and he sported a rough, stubbly beard. He was not as big as Onin but didn’t miss the mark by much. Onin had seen the lad before, during other free practice sessions, but had never spoken to him. This wasn’t shaping up to be a fruitful first conversation.
"I’ve a long way to go before I master it, I’ll grant you. That’s why I’m here practicing," Onin said.
"Well, that’ll do for the day, then," said the older student. His own practice blade rested nonchalantly on his shoulder. "You can practice some other time. My friends and I need this space for our own use."
"You can’t do that," blurted Fargin. As everyone’s gaze fell on him, Fargin suddenly looked as if he wished he had remained silent. "The rules state that no one can have their practice space taken from them during the free time. Once you have the space, it’s yours until you’re done with it."
"That rule doesn’t apply to Mudlanders," said the blond student. He looked straight at Onin while he said it. "Since you’ve no chance to master the Exchange, then you should yield the space to someone who might get something from practice."
"I’m a student here too," said Onin, his temper flaring. "I’m from the Durantis family."
"Adopted, I’ve heard," the older student said. "But you are clearly not of the High Folk. You shouldn’t fret yourself about it. It’s not your fault, so there’s no need to worry about letting anyone down. No one expects anything of you."
"You," Fargin said then paused to gulp. "You still can’t force him out of his spot."
The blond student looked thoughtfully at Fargin for a moment. "I suppose you’re right. The solution is obvious. The Mudlander can simply choose to give it up. No one is forcing him." He turned his gaze back to Onin. "What do you say, ox? Will you go away willingly?"
"No," said Onin without hesitation. He kept a grip on himself, but his blood boiled.
"Then allow me to practice with you," said the older lad. "It’s been some time since I worked on the Devalt Exchange. I may be a bit rusty. A refresher would be good for me."
The blond student had a gaggle of friends close by. They enjoyed the cat-and-mouse game extensively. Onin could sense he had been tricked but couldn’t resist the chance to smash his smug face.
"All right," said Onin. "Come and spar with me." He held his practice sword in a salute.
The blond lad wasted no time on formalities and went directly into the attack routine of the Devalt Exchange. His movements were swift and precise. His blows landed with power. Onin blocked the first two but took a sharp blow to the knee on the third. He stumbled back a step, but before he could recover, his opponent had continued with the routine, hitting Onin repeatedly with painful blows, despite the practice armor. Abandoning the routine altogether, Onin tried desperately to deflect the incoming strikes but with little success. After finishing with a ringing blow to the helmet, the older student stepped back with his practice sword in a ready position.
"Your defense is pathetic, as I expected," said the smug young man. "See, you are not letting me down. You are exactly meeting my expectations! Now show me the attack routine. Assuming you can remember it."
"Gladly," said Onin through clenched teeth, and he went on the offensive.
He stuck to the routine, paying attention to all the details stressed during practice: footing, balance, hand position, angle of attack. Each of his strikes met with a graceful, effortless parry, as dictated by the Devalt Exchange. When Onin reached the end of the series, however, he continued to attack, lashing out at the taunting lad with every bit of strength he possessed. His efforts drew nothing more from his adversary, each attack deflected with the same ease. Onin paused, breathing heavily, while the older lad had yet to break a sweat.
"Also pathetic," he said with a sneer. "Probably more so. Try that again, ape. Your attack routine needs quite a bit of work." Onin had no breath for a retort but refused to give up. He launched himself into the attack routine once again.
This time he didn’t get far before the older lad sidestepped his ponderously slow downward slash and struck Onin’s wrist hard, knocking his sword from his grasp. The older lad smashed his other hand into Onin’s helmeted face, sending him sprawling backward in the dirt.
When Onin’s vision cleared, he stared up at the sneer of contempt on the blond youth’s face.
"I could go like this all night," said the older lad. "What do you say, Mudlander? Will you choose to stay and practice?"
Onin could see he was bested. Despite his inclinations otherwise, he finally said, "No."
Onin withdrew from the field, hurt pride and all. The cronies of his opponent gave catcalls in his wake and taunted him with ape sounds. Fargin fell into step beside him loyally but quietly. But another voice cut through the mocking din.
“Stop right there!”
The voice belonged to Prendor. The mocking boys fell silent, and all turned to see the teacher striding purposefully toward them, his face livid. He addressed Onin’s opponent first.
“Sandus! What have I told you about these displays of bravado?”
The fourth-year shot an ugly look at Onin, clearly blaming him for the teacher’s untimely appearance. “But, sir, we were merely practicing, and he couldn’t keep up.”
“Indeed. I saw that. I saw quite a bit, actually.” The anger had dissipated from Prendor’s voice, but his eyes remained steely. “What was it you said in the beginning? Something about being rusty at the Devalt Exchange, I recall.”
Prendor pulled his own practice sword from his belt. Sandus took a step backward, his eyes wide.
“I concur with your estimation, young man.” Prendor smiled. “It simply won’t do at all. Put your sword in your hand, Sandus. It’s time to practice.”
Sandus paled visibly. His cronies backed away, but Prendor jabbed at them with his weapon.
“Hold, you lot! I’m sure you all need practice as well. I’m suddenly feeling quite vigorous.”
Prendor turned to Onin and Fargin.
“Thank you for willingly giving up the field, Onin. I’ll make sure the time is well spent. Move along now.”
Onin and Fargin were crestfallen to be dismissed at that moment but dared not hesitate in the face of the teacher’s ire. Despite the disappointment, Onin grinned from ear to ear as they returned to the student quarters.