The Miscreant (25 page)

Garran ducked his head once. “I am.”

The professor looked out over the assembled class. “Does the majority of Hayworth agree to allow Mr. Holt to speak for your house?”

There were several heated but brief arguments amongst the members of his house, but they agreed to allow Garran to speak for them.

“As you wish. Proceed, Mr. Holt.”

“I accuse Kevin Ares, prefect of Bagrat House.”

Professor Lyndon sifted through the papers stacked on his lectern before meeting Garran’s watchful gaze. “You are correct.” The students of Hayworth House leapt to their feet and cheered. “Be still! Mr. Holt, you must describe to me, to my satisfaction, how you came about making this accusation.”

Garran smiled and winked at his housemates. “While performing my extra duties, I had
accidentally
added some oil to the batch of floor wax I used in front of my house’s trophy case. This caused the polish to dry very slowly, and when Prefect Ares stole our pennant, his shoe left an imprint.”

Garran held up a piece of paper with the dirty silhouette of a shoe sole pressed upon it. “I was able to transfer that imprint onto this piece of paper since the floor was still sticky. Note the distinctive notch in the sole. You will find the same notch in Prefect Ares’ shoe.”

“How can you be certain the shoe with that mark belongs to Mr. Ares?” Professor Lyndon asked.

“Because I put it there.” Garran pulled out another slip of paper. “In fact, I made similar marks on all the prefects’ and professors’ shoes and created this chart to help me keep track of what mark corresponds to whom.”

Professor Lyndon lifted his foot and found two nicks carved into the outside sole of his right shoe. “How and why did you go about marking everyone’s shoes?”

“I assumed that any players chosen to participate in the practical exams would be prefects or faculty, so I spent many of my nights sneaking into their rooms and homes and marked their shoes.

“You and I will have to have a discussion regarding boundaries, Mr. Holt. While that shows that Prefect Ares stood at your house’s display case, it does not prove he took the pennant. Unless you have some further evidence, I will have to fail you.”

Garran reached inside his coat once more and waved his house’s pennant over his head. “I found this in Kevin’s room, and just in case you want to deny that as well, I also have a very interesting love letter I found addressed to him. I will be happy to read who it is from unless the prefect wants to confess.”

Kevin leapt from his seat and plowed his way toward Garran. “No, I confess! I took the pennant!” he cried, snatching the note from Garran’s upraised hand and shoving it into his pocket.

“Mr. Holt, while you are correct, you defeated the purpose of this exam. You have made a mockery of my class and used tricks instead of the established tactics I have taught.”

“I disagree, sir. I identified likely players and devised a method for tracking their movements. Once I ascertained the identity of my primary target, I gathered information to force him to betray his superiors and cooperate with me to fulfill my mission. A good agent will always set the board before committing himself to the game. My methods might not have been what you would use, but they are precisely what a
good
agent should employ.”

Professor Lyndon looked as though he were chewing glass. The boy had made a mockery of his class and insinuated that his methods were superior to the professor’s decades of experience. He wanted nothing more than to fail the upstart and his entire house, but he knew he would lose the inevitable appeal.

He locked his back and stood rigid. “Congratulations to Mr. Holt and Hayworth House on their perfect score for this year’s first exam. Enjoy your time off.”

Aniston leapt to his feet. “I nominate Garran Holt for Hayworth House prefect!” Several of his housemates seconded his nomination.

“Gentlemen, thank you,” Garran said as he basked in their adulation. He held up the paper identifying the other prefects by their distinctive shoe prints. “If any of the other houses would like to enlist my consulting services, you can hire me for the low price of a single vote…and ten dinarins each.”

“Mr. Holt!” Professor Lyndon shouted above the din. “An agent does not sell information to other parties!”

An enormous grin spread across his face. “He does if he’s a free agent.” He spotted Gertrude across several aisles smiling at him. Garran separated himself from the barrage of hands patting him on the back. “Excuse me, boys, but I see someone who really needs to meet me.”

CHAPTER 7

Garran’s elevation to prefect was a shoo-in. He won the position in a barely contested election. His celebration party almost resulted in his and his housemates being late for the next day’s classes. They were a sad-looking lot when they trudged into class the next morning. They were exhausted from lack of sleep, hungover from drinking too much, and, the few who tried the potent drug, were still trying to shake off the opium-induced fog.

On the bright side, Garran identified the first in what was going to be an expanding customer base at the university. He was not as concerned about the danger of double-crossing Edmund as he was about keeping in good relations with someone who could supply his bad habits and provide useful contacts in the future.

Being somewhat inured to self-abuse, Garran suffered through his courses largely unaffected. Grammar, culture, and language classes posed little trouble, but mathematics continued to be a bane no matter his state of mind. He would need to do something soon to correct the situation—something other than actually studying.

His last class of the day was martial training, and it was the one he was looking forward to. Despite his previous thrashing at the hands of Aniston’s superior swordsmanship, Garran felt he needed to prove himself on the field of battle as well as in the classroom.

“You’re almost late, Holt,” Commander Fitz barked as Garran jogged into the training pit.

“Sorry, sir, I had to make a quick detour.”

“Fine, just pair off with someone. Given your last performance, I suggest one of the practice dummies.”

“Actually, I would like to spar with Aniston again.”

“You got one of those weird fetishes where you like to get beat up?”

“No, sir, I just think I can do better this time. I’ve been practicing.”

“Fine, it’s your body and dignity; abuse them if you want to.”

Garran and Aniston shrugged on their sparring armor. Aniston selected a sword similar to the one he picked before and found an open spot for their battle. Garran ignored the racked weapons, dug into his rucksack next to the bleachers, and retrieved a pair of reaping blades he had liberated from Toby’s toolshed.

Aniston chuckled when Garran approached. “We’re supposed to be fighting, not chopping wood.”

“You don’t use reaping blades to chop wood.” Garran lunged forward and hooked the crescent blade under Aniston’s armpit. “You strip limbs.”

“Holt!” Commander Fitz shouted and stalked over. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting ready to spar with my chosen weapons, sir.”

“Give me those!” Fitz snatched the tools from Garran’s grasp, checked the edges with his thumb, and took them to the grinding wheel set up near the weapons rack.

“You afraid I’ll hurt your star pupil?” Garran asked when the instructor handed back his blades.

“I’m afraid you’ll cut your own damn leg off, and I don’t want to do the paperwork involved. I don’t care if you want to fight with a rock in a sock, but you’ll still need to learn proper bladework.”

“Yes, sir. You ready, Aniston?”

Aniston took up a fencer’s pose. “I’m ready to make you eat dirt again.”

Garran flashed a mischievous grin. “Try to keep that positive attitude after I humiliate you.”

His foe answered with a few swift thrusts, which Garran either parried or avoided by leaping back. Garran’s defense seemed much improved with his new weapons, so Aniston ramped up his attack routine. Garran watched the thrust aimed for his heart, leaned aside, and jabbed his reaping blade forward. The tool was useless as a thrusting weapon since it lacked the straight point of a sword or dagger, but such was not his intent. Garran hooked the cross guard of Aniston’s sword, jerked back, and stripped the weapon from his hand.

The sword tumbled through the air and struck another student, Justin, on top of the head with its heavy hilt. Justin cried out and slapped a hand to the leather helmet he wore as he struggled to lock his wobbling legs.

“I think you dropped something. Look around in the dirt over there. I think I see it lying next to a chunk of your pride.”

Aniston glared and retrieved his sword. “All right, Garran, I was taking it easy on you because I thought maybe we were becoming friends, but now I’m going to bring the pain again.”

“I thought we were friends, what with the way you always smile when I drag my dong across your cheek while you are sleeping.”

“What? You didn’t!”

Garran shrugged. “Just be glad you aren’t a belly sleeper. It could have been a whole lot worse.”

Aniston roared and charged, fiercely swinging and stabbing while still maintaining control and using all the skill he possessed. Despite it all, Garran was able to deflect or dodge every thrust and slash with almost contemptuous ease. Commander Fitzgerald and the other students, who were now intently watching the duel, were not the only ones surprised by Garran’s remarkable improvement. Garran himself was unclear how it was he was able to so easily best Aniston, who he had to admit was a much better swordsman than he was.

He could only guess it was the naturalness that he felt wielding the reaping blades. They felt as if they were an extension of his body in a way that the sword did not. He guessed it also had something to do with his transcended ability, despite not actively engaging it. It would not do to reveal such information nor pass out in class.

Aniston thrust hard, hoping to score a hit, but Garran leaned left and crouched beneath the extended arm. He stabbed behind Aniston, hooked his ankle with the dulled blade, and jerked back with all his might. Aniston went parallel with the dirt floor almost four feet in the air before crashing down a split-second later. Air exploded from his lungs, and he let out an awful mewling as he desperately tried to inflate them.

Garran knelt next to him, an enormous grin splitting his face. “You okay? You landed pretty hard. You’re lucky I only knocked the wind out of you. The father of a girl named Brenda caught us in the barn once. He took off after me with a pitchfork. I tripped on a log and landed so hard I crapped myself. It still didn’t keep him from beating me with the pitchfork handle, but I think that’s the only reason he didn’t stab me with it. Pity can save your life.”

Garran stood and showed off by swinging the reaping blades around by the loop set in their handles. “All right, who’s next?” The leather cord on the left blade snapped, and the tool went tumbling through the crowd of students, striking one in the forehead with the haft. “Sorry, Justin!”

Justin lay face down in the dirt and moaned. “I think I can taste colors…and some blood.”

Garran smiled again when he thought about his next training session with Victor.

***

Martin stood before Dean Kelsey, at rigid attention, as the man’s eyes silently debased him with their disapproving gaze. Spending the weekend in a jail cell was the worst moment of his life until he learned that Garran Holt, the person he was certain was responsible for his downfall, had ascended to his position as prefect.

“I am very disappointed in you, Martin. I had high hopes for you.”

“Sir, I swear, I do not know what happened, but I do know I did not raid the women’s dorms.”

“You were found with the evidence in your room and hanging off your…person.”

“I was set up! I know Holt framed me, and I’ll prove it if you give me a chance.”

“I admit that Garran Holt becoming prefect is very suspicious. Tell me what you remember of that night.”

Martin swallowed and shook his head as if to clear the lingering fog from his mind. “Classes went on as normal. I remember Garran missing two days of room inspections. I think he missed classes too. I started to feel odd shortly after dinner, so I went to my room and lay down.”

“Odd how?”

“I felt kind of drunk. At first, I just thought I had eaten something bad or was coming down with a fever. I was sweating a lot.” Martin looked toward his toes. “Then my…it was…and it would not go down, so I thought I would…take the situation in hand. I was not in my right mind by this time. Then I blacked out until the constables began pounding on my door and hauled me away.”

Dean Kelsey rolled his tongue around in his mouth as he considered the possibilities. “It sounds like someone dosed you with rapture root extract.”

Martin’s face brightened. “Then you believe me? Sir, you know I would never do something like this.”

“I know, Martin. Garran Holt is a blight on this institution, and you are likely only the first to fall to the disease he spreads in his wake.”

“Can you get me reinstated?”

“I’m afraid not, Martin, not without concrete evidence of Garran’s sabotage. He also has some rather strong allies who will seek to thwart any attempt at expelling him.”

The former student’s face fell. “Then I’m done here.”

“Not necessarily. As I said, I had great hopes for you, and I still do. While you cannot continue training for the diplomatic corps, there are others who like to employ bright young men with promise. I will not expel you from the university. You will pursue alternative training while keeping an eye on Mr. Holt. He is not as immune as he might think, but any evidence we would use to punish him with must be irrefutable even to the highest authority.”

Martin smiled, his face showing the relief he felt. “I will do my best, sir. I will do everything I can to see Garran expelled.”

***

Garran pulled his ear away from the opening in the drainpipe set up next to Dean Kelsey’s window. He had been eavesdropping on the dean since the day after his raid and had spotted Martin entering the building. He naturally assumed that the former prefect was there to appeal his expulsion. It appeared as though Dean Kelsey was not going to let Garran’s actions go. That was unfortunate, but if the dean wanted to continue the war, then he would not sit idle.

“You should have let it be, Dean Kelsey,” Garran said and made a detour to the infirmary before beginning another day of punishment detail.

Garran tried to stroll into the infirmary without attracting attention, but an attendant stopped him midway down the hall. “Can I help you?”

“Hi, yes, I was looking for a friend of mine.”

“What is his name?” the older woman asked.

“Uh…Justin. I’m not sure about his last name. I hit him on the head yesterday during training.”

“He’s in the recovery ward down the hall to your left.”

Garran tipped an imaginary hat and followed her directions. He spotted Justin lying in a bed amongst nearly a score of others, just over half of which were occupied with people suffering a variety of ailments and injuries.

“Hey, Justin, how’s the head? Still tasting colors?”

“No, but I can smell them. Did you know that blue smells like oranges? Weird huh?”

“Yeah, that is odd. I just wanted to stop by and see how you are doing. I feel really bad about clonking you on the head—twice.”

“Don’t worry about it. It was an accident. I guess it was just an unlucky day for me. They said I should be able to go back to school in a day or two.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Well, I could use something to drink. I guess there was a big rabble in the streets this weekend with people protesting Remiel’s slave labor, and the physics and attendants are stretched thin. Those of us in recovery sometimes get neglected.”

Garran patted Justin on the leg. “I’ll be right back.”

Garran poked his head out into the hallway before sneaking down the passage. He found a cart laden with a clay pitcher and several cups in a room with a sink and hand pump. He worked the handle until water began pouring from the spout and filled the jug. Plumbing still amazed him. He wondered briefly how many decades it would take for places like Wooder’s Bend to install such modern amenities.  

He pushed the cart bearing the pitcher of water and cups down the hall, but instead of returning to the recovery ward, he stopped at a room with a cabinet filled with various bottles and supplies. Disappointed that the cabinet did not contain any narcotics, he did find the primary focus of his search. Garran emptied the liquid contents of one of the brown bottles into the carafe before returning to the recovery ward.

“Here we go, everybody,” Garran declared as he entered the room. He pulled a flask out of his coat pocket and dangled it in the air. “Who’s thirsty?”

Garran filled the cups with water, spiked each one with a shot of booze, and passed them around the room. He raised his flask in toast. “Here’s to getting better.”

“Oh, that tastes awful,” Justin said, his face contorting in disapproval.

“Sorry, I didn’t bring the good stuff. Anyway, I should be going. I don’t want to get put on punishment detail by being late for my punishment detail.”

“Sure, thanks for stopping by. I didn’t think you really gave a shi…oh…something’s not right,” Justin said and let out a large belch.

Justin waved frantically at the bedpan sitting on a nearby table as he clamped his other hand over his mouth. All around the room, the patients covered their mouths and held their stomachs, fighting back a wave of nausea. Unable to suppress the mounting pressure any longer, vomit spewed between fingers and sprayed across the room.