Nexus gave me a room.
This was their first mistake.
The room had one bed, one desk, one wardrobe, two windows and absolutely nowhere sensible to hide a body.
I stood in the doorway for perhaps fifteen seconds.
Xavier dropped his bag onto the second bed.
"You hate it."
"I haven't said anything."
"You've been looking at the walls like they insulted your mother."
"I was checking the exits."
"There's a door."
"One visible exit."
He stared.
I walked to the first window.
Fourth floor.
Stone courtyard below.
Drainpipe three feet to the right.
Decorative ledge.
Possible descent.
Terrible with damaged ribs.
Acceptable while pursued.
I opened the wardrobe.
Empty.
Too shallow for a person.
Xavier groaned.
"You're checking the wardrobe now?"
"Architecture reveals character."
"It's a wardrobe."
"Exactly. No ambition."
He fell backward onto his mattress.
Nexus had placed us in West House, one of four first-year residential buildings surrounding a central courtyard.
Apparently students were expected to live on Academy grounds during the instructional week unless granted external residence permission.
We still had the Sierra.
More importantly, Elisabeth was there.
So I had already submitted a request for partial off-campus residence.
The administrator had responded with another form.
I had submitted that.
She had produced two more.
War is sometimes declared with trumpets.
Sometimes with stationery.
Xavier bounced once on the mattress.
"This is better than my bed on the ship."
"Everything here is soft."
"That's normally considered good."
"Marduk believed soft beds weakened judgment."
"Marduk threw you into a ravine at nine."
"His pedagogical methods lacked accreditation."
Xavier laughed.
I put my bag on the desk.
Not everything had come.
Devil's Deceptions remained aboard the Sierra.
So did the Blacklist.
I carried only a pocket notebook.
A knife Nexus knew about.
Another it did not.
Two changes of clothing.
Medication Elisabeth had labelled in large letters:
DO NOT DOUBLE THE DOSE BECAUSE YOU ARE IMPATIENT.
I found the wording insulting.
Mostly because it was necessary.
Xavier rolled onto one elbow.
"Classes?"
"Orientation first."
"I know."
"Then why ask?"
"I wanted to know if you actually read the schedule."
I looked at him.
He smiled.
I was beginning to understand why some parents ate their young.
A bell rang outside.
Three strokes.
Students poured into the courtyard.
"Come on."
Xavier stood.
I remained where I was.
He stopped at the door.
"What?"
"Your schedule."
"What about it?"
"Combat practicum. Advanced mana application. Applied field tactics."
"Yes."
"Mine says foundational mana supervision."
Xavier's mouth twitched.
"Don't."
"I didn't."
"You're enjoying this."
"A little."
"Gaia recognizes you."
"Not my fault."
"You received a Merit Distinction."
"Also not my fault."
"You are becoming arrogant again."
"I'm a prince."
The smile vanished from both our faces.
He had said it too casually.
The door was open.
Two students were walking past.
Neither seemed to react.
Xavier lowered his voice.
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize to me."
He closed the door.
I crossed the room.
"The problem isn't remembering what you are."
His jaw tightened.
"The problem is teaching strangers."
"I know."
"Good."
No lecture.
He already knew.
I opened the door again.
"After you, Your Unremarkable Foreignness."
He shoved my shoulder as he passed.
My ribs protested.
I considered that grounds for regicide.
---
The first-year orientation took place beneath a bronze statue of a man who had apparently hated chairs.
Every seat faced him.
His stone face looked disappointed.
Possibly because he had died before discovering cushions.
Five hundred new students filled the amphitheater.
Faculty stood along the outer walls.
Some wore academic silver.
Some wore guild marks.
Some wore military pins.
Some wore symbols I did not recognize.
And several wore religious clothing.
That interested me less than it should have.
Religion and institutions share a useful talent: both can turn obligation into architecture.
A dean spoke.
I listened for the first twelve minutes.
Then began reading the handbook.
Attendance requirements.
Dormitory codes.
Dueling restrictions.
Forbidden materials.
Library access.
There.
Central Library — General Collection: First-Year Access.
Restricted Stacks: Faculty authorization.
Historical Vaults: Research authorization.
Lower Archive Repository: Senior authorization only.
I stopped.
Lower.
Interesting.
The handbook contained a small map.
Central Library.
Main hall.
Three reading wings.
One archive tower.
No lower repository drawn.
More interesting.
Chessmaster began measuring the map against the Academy buildings I had seen from outside.
Stop.
Not now.
This was orientation.
Not burglary.
I folded the page.
Xavier leaned toward me.
"You found something."
"No."
"You stopped looking bored."
"Coincidence."
He looked at the handbook.
I closed it.
"Pay attention."
"You weren't."
"I've already learned what I needed."
"What?"
"Dining hall closes at eighth bell."
He stared.
"Very important."
"Civilizations collapse when kitchens become unreliable."
The dean finished.
Applause came in waves.
Not enthusiastic.
Honest students.
Then came departmental allocation.
Names appeared on illuminated boards.
Candidates moved toward designated corridors.
Xavier found his.
I found mine.
Not the same.
He looked at the separation.
"See you after?"
"Yes."
He hesitated.
Once, that pause would have meant he expected instructions.
Now it meant something else.
He was deciding whether to ask.
He didn't.
"Don't get expelled before dinner."
"No promises."
He walked away.
I watched him disappear into the crowd.
Then caught myself watching.
Annoying.
I followed my own corridor.
---
The Academic Allocation Hall had seven desks.
One for each faculty track.
Mana Studies.
Natural Philosophy.
Alchemical Sciences.
Civil Administration.
Military Arts.
Field Studies.
Religious and Ethical Studies.
Students were called one by one.
My candidate record received more attention than I appreciated.
The clerk read.
Then read again.
Then looked at me.
"Manual magical classification."
"I've been told."
"Gaia verification unresolved."
"I've also been told that."
"Gravity manifestation confirmed."
"I was present."
She looked up.
"You have a habit of responding to statements."
"A nervous condition."
She did not appreciate it.
"Until magical review is complete, you may attend theoretical mana studies and supervised practical instruction only."
"What about independent laboratory access?"
"No."
"Alchemy?"
"Introductory laboratory, monitored."
"Field practicum?"
"Conditional."
"Combat?"
She turned the page.
"Foundation close-combat requirement."
I frowned.
"I passed combat assessment."
"Barely."
That was insulting.
Accurate.
Worse.
"Your medical evaluation noted restricted rotation, reduced endurance and compensatory movement."
"People should stop observing me."
"You enrolled in an Academy."
"A youthful error."
The clerk stamped my schedule.
"Foundations of Close Combat. Tomorrow, second bell."
I looked at the sheet.
"No active magic."
"Yes."
"No weapons."
"Yes."
"No reinforcement."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"To identify movement defects before instructors allow magic to hide them."
I stared at her.
That was annoyingly intelligent.
Marduk would have approved.
"Fine."
She pushed the papers toward me.
A voice beside us said:
"No."
The clerk closed her eyes.
Not again.
I turned.
A girl stood at the neighboring desk wearing white and gray.
Not an Academy uniform.
Religious.
The garment was simple, functional and too carefully maintained to belong to someone careless.
A dark cord circled one wrist.
Not the black thread from the quarantine market.
Different material.
Different knot.
Do not classify symbols by color.
Already learned that lesson.
She was roughly our age, perhaps slightly older.
Dark brown hair had been pulled back beneath a plain veil.
No jewelry.
No ornament beyond a small religious emblem at her throat.
She held her course sheet between two fingers.
The clerk at her desk looked exhausted.
"Sister Brome—"
"I requested Field Survival."
"Your sponsorship curriculum lists Healing Doctrine."
"I can read."
"Then this should be simple."
"It isn't."
The clerk took a breath.
"The institution that sponsored your admission requested a devotional-medical track."
"Requested."
"Yes."
"Not mandated."
Silence.
The clerk glanced down.
That mattered.
The sister placed one finger on the regulation sheet.
"Clause twelve. Sponsored candidates retain elective control unless the sponsor assumes a full bonded tuition contract."
The clerk's jaw tightened.
"They cover your housing."
"Not full tuition."
"Your order expects—"
"My order is not sitting this examination."
There it was.
Not loud.
Not rebellious theater.
Simply a boundary.
I became interested.
Bad habit.
The clerk noticed me listening.
"Do you mind?"
"Deeply."
"Then leave."
"I'm waiting for my stamped schedule."
She shoved it toward me.
I remained.
The sister looked at me.
"Do you need something?"
"No."
"You're staring."
"Observing."
"That sounds like staring with vanity."
I smiled.
"Excellent distinction."
She turned back to the clerk.
"I want Field Survival and Close Combat Foundations."
The clerk looked almost offended.
"You have no martial-track declaration."
"I don't want a martial track."
"Then why Close Combat?"
"Because people who need healing rarely arrange to be injured somewhere safe."
That was good.
The clerk knew it.
So did I.
She reached for another form.
"Your sponsor may object."
"They may write me a letter."
"You will answer?"
"If it deserves one."
I disliked her immediately.
Mostly because she sounded reasonable.
The clerk stamped the revised schedule.
The sister took it.
Turned.
Nearly walked into me because I had not moved.
Her eyes dropped to my paper.
Close Combat Foundations.
Then to the support in my posture.
Not visible bandaging.
Visible compensation.
"You shouldn't be in that class."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Wonderful. We've known each other fourteen seconds and you're already prescribing."
"You guard your left side when you breathe."
I stopped smiling.
She noticed.
"Old injury?"
"Recent."
"Then your instructor should know."
"Everyone in this building wants my medical history."
"I'm not asking for it."
She stepped around me.
"That would be rude."
And left.
I watched her go.
The clerk sighed.
"Sister Eulalie Brome."
I looked at her.
"I didn't ask."
"You were going to."
"Am I that transparent?"
"Yes."
A devastating institution.
I took my papers and followed the corridor.
Not Eulalie.
The corridor.
Important distinction.
---
I found Xavier outside the Military Arts board.
He had three students around him.
Already.
One wore a guild sash.
One had a noble crest.
The third wore no visible affiliation.
Xavier was saying no.
I slowed.
The noble boy—Cassian Merrow, unfortunately familiar—held up both hands.
"I'm not asking you to swear allegiance."
"Good," Xavier said.
"I'm asking if you want to join the advanced field group."
"I've been here four hours."
"Exactly. Before everyone forms circles."
"I don't know you."
"You fought me yesterday."
"You fought Raymond."
Cassian looked over.
Saw me.
Regretted several choices.
"Speak of the devil."
"I charge royalties."
Xavier looked at my schedule.
"You got close combat."
"Yes."
"So did I."
I frowned.
"Advanced?"
"Foundation cross-assessment first."
Good.
Nexus was less foolish than expected.
Cassian leaned closer.
"You look disappointed."
"I'm reconsidering my entire education."
"You survived."
"Barely."
A bell sounded.
Lunch.
The guild student left.
Cassian followed after a brief invitation neither of us accepted.
The third student disappeared without introduction.
Good.
Names should cost more than proximity.
Xavier looked toward the cafeteria.
"Hungry?"
"Always."
We had taken three steps when someone spoke behind us.
"Candidate 173."
I closed my eyes.
"No."
Professor Elias Veyr stood beneath the arch.
Gray coat.
Wire spectacles.
The man from the admissions test.
The man who had copied the old appeal eighteen years ago.
"Professor."
He looked at my blue Nexus wrist strip.
"Student now."
"My condolences."
He handed me a folded notice.
"Your written examination."
I opened it.
PASS.
No score.
Below it:
Analytical deviation noted. Recommended for Methodological Reasoning seminar.
I looked up.
"What does analytical deviation mean?"
"You don't answer the question asked."
"Then perhaps the questions should improve."
"Precisely why they want you."
I folded it.
"Dr. Kall?"
Nothing.
Not here.
Not today.
Veyr's eyes moved toward the people passing us.
"Different conversation."
"Convenient."
"Yes."
He began walking away.
"Professor."
He stopped.
"The lower archives."
No reaction.
Interesting.
"What about them?"
"They're not on the student map."
"They are lower archives."
"Your institution has defeated me with grammar."
"First years don't have access."
"What years do?"
"Not years."
He looked directly at me.
"Permissions."
Then left.
Xavier stared at me.
"You promised Elisabeth you weren't starting this today."
"I promised nothing of the sort."
"You thought it loudly."
"An unreliable contract."
He looked at the notice in my hand.
"You're already investigating the archives."
"I asked a question."
"You asked a question about the archives."
"That is how inquiries often work."
"Raymond."
I started toward lunch.
"Food first."
He followed.
"That's not an answer."
"Correct."
---
Elisabeth was furious when we returned to the Sierra.
This was encouraging.
Anger required energy.
She sat at the cabin table with three forms spread before her and Mira's head resting across one knee.
Rex occupied the doorway.
The moment I entered, he smelled me.
Then the Academy.
Then my ribs.
His ears flattened.
"Don't start."
Elisabeth looked up.
"They rejected me."
Xavier went still.
"Admission?"
"No."
She slapped one paper.
"External alchemical reader access."
I picked it up.
Not rejected.
ADDITIONAL QUALIFICATION REQUIRED.
"That's not a rejection."
"It is written politely."
"Civilization's favorite dialect."
She pointed.
"They want sponsorship from a licensed alchemist or evidence of formal study."
"You have formal study."
"With Raymond."
Both siblings looked at me.
I placed one hand against my chest.
"Hurtful."
"He isn't licensed," Elisabeth said.
"A technicality."
"You have no license."
"A particularly technical technicality."
Xavier sat opposite her.
"What do you need?"
"One licensed reference."
He thought.
"Abraham?"
"No," she and I said together.
Xavier leaned back.
"Fine."
Elisabeth looked at me.
"Don't solve it."
I paused.
"I wasn't going to."
"You were."
"I was considering options."
"Mine."
I closed my mouth.
She looked satisfied.
Progress remained awful.
I put my schedule on the table.
Her eyes found the combat class.
"No."
I sighed.
"Everyone has become remarkably comfortable saying that to me."
"You couldn't carry a wooden frame yesterday."
"I carried it."
"Badly."
"Details."
"And tomorrow they're letting people hit you?"
"Apparently."
Rex growled.
I pointed.
"See what you started?"
Elisabeth ignored him.
"Magic?"
"Forbidden."
That made her more concerned.
Good doctor.
Terrible friend.
Xavier produced his own sheet.
"I'm in it too."
She looked at him.
"You're healthy."
I looked offended.
No sympathy.
None.
Mira stole the edge of Xavier's schedule.
He pulled it away.
"You know Sister Eulalie Brome?" I asked Elisabeth.
"No."
Good.
No miraculous connection.
"A religious candidate."
Xavier looked at me.
"The girl arguing at allocation?"
"You saw her?"
"Half the corridor heard her."
Elisabeth's eyes sharpened.
"What did she want?"
"Combat."
"Why?"
"To make poor life choices with institutional approval."
"Raymond."
"Field survival."
Elisabeth nodded slowly.
"Reasonable."
Everyone admired her.
Unacceptable.
I reached for dinner.
Then found a small folded sheet beneath my schedule.
Not mine.
Xavier leaned over.
"What?"
Pair assignments.
Tomorrow.
FOUNDATIONS OF CLOSE COMBAT — INITIAL DIAGNOSTIC
Twenty-four names.
Twelve pairs.
Xavier found himself opposite someone I did not know.
Good.
Then:
PAIR 9
RAYMOND
EULALIE BROME
I stared.
Elisabeth read over my shoulder.
"Oh."
Xavier smiled.
I disliked both reactions.
"What?"
"The girl who told you not to attend combat class?"
"Yes."
"And now she has to fight you."
"Language. Regulated diagnostic exercise."
Elisabeth looked at my ribs.
"She'll win."
I stared.
Xavier laughed so hard Mira barked in response.
Rex looked at the paper.
Then at me.
Then growled.
At least the animal remained loyal.
---
I returned to Nexus before curfew.
The central library was still open.
I did not enter.
That would have been suspicious.
Instead, I stood across the courtyard with the student map unfolded in my hands.
Four visible floors.
Archive tower.
Service stair behind western stacks.
No lower levels.
Yet Veyr had confirmed them.
Permissions.
Not years.
I traced the external wall.
One ventilation grill near ground level.
Another twenty yards east.
If there were rooms below—
"Planning a burglary?"
I folded the map.
Eulalie stood beside the fountain.
No veil now.
Hair tied back.
Training clothes beneath a long gray coat.
She carried books.
Religious history.
Field medicine.
And, amusingly, Basic Defensive Movement.
"Planning architecture."
"That isn't an answer."
"We're going to get along terribly."
"I wasn't aware we were trying."
Fair.
Her eyes moved toward the library.
Then to my folded map.
"You're not interested in books."
"I adore books."
"You were studying drains."
"I adore infrastructure."
She waited.
I offered nothing.
Finally she looked at my wrist.
"Pair Nine."
"You saw."
"Yes."
"You objected?"
"No."
That surprised me.
"Why?"
"Because I asked not to be protected."
There it was again.
Not bravery.
Choice.
"Your order dislikes combat?"
Her expression cooled.
"My order isn't your concern."
"Reasonable."
That surprised her.
Good.
I nodded toward her book.
"Tomorrow. No magic."
"I read the rules."
"I'm injured."
"I noticed."
"If you pull every movement because of it, the test becomes useless."
She stared.
Then:
"If you use an injury as permission to be reckless, that's your problem."
I smiled.
She did not.
Excellent.
"Do you always talk like this?"
"Like what?"
"Like you're negotiating a hostage release."
"Only socially."
She started walking.
After three steps, she stopped.
Looked back.
"Raymond."
"Yes?"
"Whatever you're searching for under that library…"
My hand tightened slightly around the map.
She saw.
Not enough to know.
Enough to become curious.
"…you should learn to fold a map without leaving your thumb on the restricted stair."
Then she walked away.
I looked down.
My thumb covered the western archive mark.
Damn.
Chessmaster offered a classification.
Observant.
I almost accepted it.
Then corrected the thought.
Eulalie Brome was not a trait.
Not yet.
Maybe never.
Across the Academy, the evening bell rang.
Tomorrow I would fight her without gravity.
Without Alchemia Morphica.
Without weapons.
With ribs that objected to laughter.
A poor arrangement.
Which meant it might teach me something.
Marduk would have been delighted.
Another excellent reason to hate it.