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Cal stood outside the council chamber meeting room, his dread rising. Why had Rayámina wanted to see him? He knew the rules were different for him and Artemis because of their connections with Roan and the solstice massacre. Usually, Arai deserters were made known to the Bandála soldiers during an initiation ceremony shortly after arrival in Auremos. Cal and Artemis, however, had been here for weeks and the only people who knew about them so far were Rayámina, Xanthe, Valerius and Kráytos. And, of course, Julian.
Cal didn’t think he’d done anything particularly bad this morning. He’d punched Miles, who deserved worse, but surely that wasn’t serious enough for anything more than a stern reprimand. Was it?
He waited for a pair of councillors to amble past, who were debating whether the chamber chairs should be reupholstered in green or blue fabric, then he knocked on the door. Rayámina appeared and beckoned, and when Cal stepped inside, he saw Julian standing at the table with a dusty Arai uniform spread before him. He froze.
‘I have a job for you, Cal,’ Rayámina said. ‘A patrol found this kit stashed in an abandoned building last night. I’d like you to examine it and see if you can profile its owner. I’ve informed Commander Julian of your expertise. He will supervise you and report your findings to me.’
Cal looked at Rayámina in alarm. ‘Sir, surely you’ve got other people with more experience in profiling than me.’
‘I do. And they’ve already examined the uniform. But Commander Julian has suggested we test you on the accuracy of your assessment. I’m curious to know how you go.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Rayámina strode out of the room, leaving Cal alone with Julian. The commander sat down, dipped a quill into an inkpot, and scribbled something onto some parchment.
‘Man or woman?’ Julian asked.
Cal leant over the table and studied the uniform. ‘Woman,’ he replied.
‘Evidence?’
‘The tapering at the waist and the cut of the jacket.’
‘Height?’
Cal made a guess at the length of the uniform and said, ‘A bit over five feet.’
‘Build?’
‘Slim.’
‘Right or left handed?’
After checking the cuffs of both sleeves, Cal replied, ‘Left.’
‘Evidence?’
‘Scrape wear on the right inside forearm suggests frequent contact with a bow string, meaning the archer was using the left hand to draw.’
‘Hair colour?’
Cal searched the uniform and found a single strand caught in a button hole. He drew it out then stared at Julian, who’d stopped writing to watch. Cal knew now that he was profiling Artemis.
‘Brown,’ he said, without taking his eyes off the commander.
Had Julian set up this test to remind Cal of his oath and the consequences for breaking it? Or, worse, was Rayámina perhaps testing Cal’s loyalty?
‘Long hair or short?’ Julian asked.
‘Long.’
‘Age of the suspect?’
‘Sixteen.’
Julian smiled and murmured, ‘Impossible to ascertain age from a single strand of hair, Cal. You should know that.’
He took the hair from Cal and dropped it into the fireplace, destroying the evidence. The profiling task was a warning, a reminder that Julian had the power and the means to carry out his threat. Cal breathed deeply, containing the urge to leap over the table and strangle the commander with his bare hands.
Julian sat back down, reading aloud as he wrote. ‘Hair colour: blonde. Length: short. Age: unknown.’ He folded the parchment. ‘I’ll pass your assessment on to Rayámina. I’m sure he’ll be pleased that it matches the two from the Bandála experts.’
Cal gave a stiff salute and turned to leave.
‘I see Roan trained you well,’ Julian said.
Hot anger surged through Cal’s veins. Roan had trained Cal better than Julian knew, and so Cal forced himself to merely reply with an acquiescing nod.