The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy) (9 page)

Second-years had no monitor, so Torbidda had to wait till Anatomy to see Agrippina; Varro said he still required her help – but, as Leto observed, Varro always surrounded himself with the brighter students. It made Torbidda sad to think she’d soon be gone. Most third-years were sent to the front.

‘Well, your posting must agree with you. You’re looking happy.’

‘Should do!’ said Agrippina, grinning, and proffered the thin yellow ribbon tied to her left arm.

‘Is that what I think it is?’ said Leto.

‘I’m a Candidate!’ she whooped.

‘Congratulations!’ they shouted simultaneously.

‘Cadets!’ Varro shouted over the din. ‘Pay attention. This
will
be on the test. Notice that the eyes have now moved laterally to the anterior and the eyelids are shut. They won’t open until the sixth month, but we don’t have to wait. Work carefully, keep the eye intact. You can see the pigment has already coloured the retina. Ah, this one has nice brown eyes. Tear ducts have already formed, and – look! They’re functioning!’

Torbidda expected Agrippina to thank him, but instead she turned to Leto. ‘Spinther, I’m about to find out what competition really means. You always know who’s out, who’s in. What would you counsel?’

Leto checked to see that Varro was busy. He advised Agrippina as he had once advised Torbidda: ‘For starters, distance yourself from him.’ He looked at the selector. For most Cadets, Guild politics was wasted mental effort, but those in line for Apprenticeship had to take an interest in the murky topic. The summit of any hierarchy attracts awe and envy in equal measure from those below and here was no different: first-years studied second-years; second-years studied third-years, and all studied the Candidates. Even though the Candidates were the best, the majority would rise no further – only the death of one of the three Apprentices would create an opening. As consolation, every Candidate became a member of the Collegio dei Consoli; they were all eligible for election to its governing board. Relations between the Collegio and the Apprentices were fractious, with envy on one side, contempt on the other.

Leto told them both that the Collegio’s advisory role had expanded under Filippo Argenti. ‘His appointment as First Apprentice is telling of the Collegio’s growing influence. Argenti’s generation of engineers is the first trained in the Guild
Halls out of the Curia’s shadow. He’s got no reverence for the myths of Forty-Seven. The Girolamo Bernoulli he knew was an old man past his prime who was reverting to mediaeval thinking.’

‘The dogs on the street know that,’ Agrippina said. ‘How does he stand with the army?’

‘Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?’ Leto was less neutral when it came to the army, his criticism less guarded. ‘In comparison to Bernoulli’s lightning campaigns, Argenti’s wars are pedestrian. He inherited the best army Etruria has ever seen – and how does he use it? The legions are scattered in a great continental-wide pushing match, with Concordian machine grinding on barbarian brawn. The tribes make obeisance, then as soon as the pressure lifts, rebel again. It makes us look weak.’

‘He can’t break the deadlock?’ asked Torbidda.

‘He can’t concentrate on it. The repeated need for expensive rearguard actions in Etruria drains all momentum from the Europan campaign. This feckless policy more than anything else is behind the wistful revival of Naturalism led by the Second Apprentice.’

‘Does Argenti see Bonnacio as a threat?’ Agrippina asked.

Bonnacio’s an apolitical dreamer, content to haunt the Molè’s domes, tend the lantern flame and watch the stars while Argenti and his clique direct policy. He’s probably more concerned about Pulcher.’

‘I heard the Third Apprentice said Argenti was no fitter to wear black than he is to wear the red.’

‘That remark was widely disseminated – younger sons don’t enjoy seeing their elders fritter away their fortune. By leaning so heavily on the Collegio – Consul Corvis and that lot – Argenti’s making the red pale. If Argenti’s watching anyone, it should be Pulcher.’

The first-year whose turn it was to read valiantly struggled to make himself heard until he finally gave up. Leto’s prediction had been borne out sooner than expected: Filippo Argenti was dead and the Candidates’ table was empty. Both sides of the refectory were alive with gossip about how Pulcher had actually done the deed. Leto, of course, was intimate with the various versions, but Torbidda wasn’t interested in gossip. ‘That’s that,’ he said glumly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Think about it!’ he snapped. ‘Argenti was getting on, but Bonnacio is in his early twenties, Pulcher’s still a teenager and the next Third Apprentice will be a third-year. That means we’ll never—’

‘—wear the red?’ Leto finished and laughed. ‘Madonna, I never thought I had a chance. Did you?’

Torbidda was looking balefully at the high table where the Candidates usually sat.

Leto followed his glance, ‘Well, it’s not all bad. Agrippina’s got as good a chance as any Candidate. We could have friends in high places next year.’

To avoid taxing the gentle Reader’s patience, the Author will follow convention in referring to Concord’s cathedral as St Eco’s
¹
until 1347, and thereafter as the Molè Bernoulliana. Whatever name the cathedral goes by, its foundations are inseparable from the Re-Formation’s
.

Some ambitious young historians have argued that we will not find those foundations in Concord, nor even Etruria; they tell us we must venture to that water-scarred land of dark savage forests: Europa. We are accustomed to thinking of the Re-Formation as uniquely Concordian, but they suggest that many of the larger Europan cities also had the necessary conditions at the turn of the century
.

This is not the place to dissect that argument;
²
while it may be true that every city important enough to have a cathedral
³
had a similarly unstable dynamic of tight-knit engineering firms working for unimaginative clerics, only Concord had Girolamo Bernoulli
.

The winds were brutal and the steps tall. Slime riverlets streaked them treacherous. It was a strain to breathe. This was higher than he had ever been on Monte Nero, even higher than the Drawing Hall roof, which caught the white sunlight below him – yet still the summit was an impossible distance. The sky was cold and empty and scarred by a web of crisscrossed wire that intersected at the Selectors’ Tower as though tethering it to the isolated rocky peak. Torbidda knew the reason he’d been summoned. He’d broken the rules. He’d been discovered. Expulsion would surely follow.

The summit was even clearer in the office, but Torbidda tried to ignore it and listen to Flaccus. For want of anything else to focus on, he stared at the egg-shaped device on the desk and heard words spilling from his mouth: ‘Grand Selector, I made a mistake, but you can just—’

‘You’re being moved up a year,’ Flaccus interrupted, then added angrily, ‘Don’t look at me, it’s not my idea. That’s not all.’ He held up the ribbon as if it were a loathsome yellow worm. ‘Our new First Apprentice, in his wisdom, found your design, speculative and impractical as it was, remarkable – so remarkable that as of now’ – he flung the ribbon at Torbidda – ‘you’re a Candidate.’

‘But – but I’m not ready.’

‘I told him that. I told him that you should be punished for breaking the rules, too. He disagreed –
he
thinks you’re
gifted.’
Flaccus picked up the egg and regarded it philosophically. ‘I
think he’s mistaken. The only other Cadet to be made Candidate this young was Bernoulli’s grandson, and
that
was a disaster …’

On he went, but Torbidda had stopped listening. He was thinking about the little yellow ribbon that meant he and Agrippina were competitors now.

‘… course,
Varro
put in a word for you, and that carries a lot of weight with the First Apprentice, starry-eyed mystic that he is. If you ask me,
that
’s why he nominated you. Naturalists know their own.’

Flaccus waited for him to deny the charge or confirm it, and Torbidda realised with surprise that the Flaccus was as uncertain as the most guileless inductee. As above, so below. ‘Grand Selector, I do want to be an Apprentice someday, but—’

‘Don’t get ahead of yourself. Being a Candidate doesn’t mean you’ll ever make Apprentice.’

‘I mean, there are more worthy Candidates.’

‘Certainly: Cadet Seventy-Nine, for example.’ Flaccus laughed. That was Agrippina’s number. ‘Just do as you’re told. They can make you a Candidate, but they can’t make you what you’re not.’

Torbidda descended from the Selectors’ Tower feeling less apprehensive than he expected. He was committed now, and he must accept the price commitment demanded. The only alternative was to pursue advancement in the legions, where it would not always be Concordians under his knife. But inevitably the day would come when he’d be up against Leto. Competition was universal, unavoidable. And merely thinking of retreat – that was impossible. The summit was calling. He must answer.

He took a bowl from the stack, handed it over and watched it being filled with morbid fascination. He had become used to
the colourless gruel, but he had never learned to like it.

A sudden push knocked him into the stack. The bowls tumbled and smashed.

‘Agrippina—’ he began.

‘Keep away from me, you sneaky little bastard!’

The lectern reader paused. Torbidda felt every eye on him, just like the first days again, and he turned to stare them down. By the time he looked back, she was gone. He sat alone thinking of the fight ahead of him, playing out scenarios.

‘So it’s true.’ It was Leto, looking at the ribbon on Torbidda’s arm. ‘Can I sit?’

‘You don’t need to ask. Agrippina—’

‘I know. Be glad she didn’t kill you.’

‘Where is she, Leto?’

‘She doesn’t want to see you again.’

‘Where?’

‘I should have guessed,’ Torbidda said when Leto finally led him to the Drawing Hall. He followed him up the ivy frame and out of the window. Agrippina was sitting there beside the spire, hugging her legs. She’d been crying. Her back was to the Molè and she was looking out into the Wastes as if waiting for a rider to come to her rescue.

‘What do
you
want?’

‘Give him a chance to explain,’ Leto said. ‘Agrippina, I didn’t ask for this.’

‘Do you think I’m a
child?
You submitted your design.’

‘I’m an
engineer
. I thought I had the better answer.’

‘You’re just a disinterested natural philosopher, is that it?’

‘So I’m ambitious! I want to be Apprentice one day, yes, of
course
I do – but Third when you’re Second, Second when you’re First. I don’t want to compete with you. I
won’t.’

She started to reply, then turned back to the Wastes. Torbidda
turned to see what she was looking at. He saw only clouds of loose dust burling over the barren soil. When she spoke again all anger was gone. ‘I wanted to be the first female Apprentice. I thought – it’s stupid – I wanted to prove to my father I was worth a damn.’