The Will of the Many (Hierarchy Book 1)

THERE’S AN UNCOMFORTABLE, HEAVY NERVOUSNESS that’s unique to waiting on a punishment that means something. I remember it well from my days at Suus, sitting outside the Great Hall until my father finished his business. Aware he was about to hear of whatever I’d done wrong and then pronounce judgment on me, the same way he had to on so many of his people.

The lead-up was always the worst part. Anticipation and uncertainty. Knowing I’d made the mistake, but not yet having met its consequences.

I never once felt like that in the orphanage. There was fear, yes, when I knew the lashings were coming. Rage and frustration. But never this biting, gnawing unease that worries at me as I sit in the side room not far from the mess hall, gazing out the eastward window at the dusk-lit ocean.

“Vis?” The feminine voice makes me start; I didn’t hear anyone enter, buried too deep in my worries. I turn to find a woman settling into a seat opposite. Middle-aged, judging from the streaks of grey dusting her hair. She fixes me with a sharp, hazel-eyed gaze, though the lines around her eyes make her appear amiable rather than stern.

“That’s me.” I smile to indicate I wish it weren’t the case right now.

“I’m Praeceptor Taedia. I teach Class Five.” She returns the expression as she says it. An encouraging sign. “I’ve been speaking to some of the students who saw what happened. I’ve heard enough to know that Eidhin brought this upon himself, but… needless to say, this is not an auspicious start to your time here.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Her smile fades a little. Worried. “You’re a Seventh, and you just struck a Sixth. Publicly. If Eidhin decides to pursue the matter, he could have you expelled.”

I’d wondered, but a cold fist still squeezes my heart at the confirmation. Lanistia warned me many times that the class rankings here were born from the Academy’s origins as a Military institution. What I just did is the equivalent of a conscript punching an officer in the face.

“How do I avoid that?” It’s an open plea. Taedia seems kindly, concerned. She’s more likely to respond to vulnerability than bravado.

“Swallow your pride.”

“Vis.” Veridius’s voice pierces the room from behind me. I jump to my feet, turning to see the Principalis enter, followed closely by Nequias and another boy I vaguely recognise. He was sitting with Emissa, I think. A Third. Veridius’s expression is sombre. Nequias just looks smug.

“Principalis.” I resist the urge to launch into a defence of my actions. I’m frustrated but if I show that, if I seem like I’m hot-headed, it will only weaken my case.

“Praeceptor Nequias has been keeping me informed.” Veridius doesn’t sit, arms crossed. The sound of his disappointment cuts. “And Iro here has verified that you were the aggressor. Solely at fault.”

I gape at the Third. He’s tall and muscular, with a prominent, hooked nose. Very Catenan. I don’t know him.

He stares back at me, and though his expression doesn’t change, I swear there’s the glint of satisfaction in his eyes.

“However,” continues Veridius, “before passing any kind of judgment, I would like to hear your side of the story.”

“I apologise for what happened.” I sound as contrite as I can be. “But the other boy, Eidhin, was about to attack Callidus—”

“You don’t know that,” interjects Nequias.

“Let him speak.” Veridius’s tone is sharp as he admonishes the older man. Nequias glowers but subsides.

I continue, relating events as accurately as I can. There’s no need to lie, no benefit to it. Iro looks dubious the entire time, as if I’m making the whole thing up. Nequias tries to interrupt me again at one point, but Veridius quashes him with another sharp reproof. I can see from the way Nequias stands apart from him, the way they interact, that there’s no love lost between the two men. Given how quickly Nequias seems to have taken a disliking to me, that’s surely to my advantage.

Veridius contemplates me for a good few seconds after I finish. “Bring him in.” He directs the command to Nequias, who disappears through the door before returning with a grim-looking Eidhin in tow. The boy’s nose is taped, and ugly bruises are forming under both eyes. He doesn’t hesitate to meet my gaze, though. There’s barely checked anger there.

“I’m sorry, Eidhin.” I address him calmly and directly, putting every ounce of sincerity I can into my voice. I have to take control of the situation, give them what they want to hear. “I honestly thought you were going to attack the boy who was showing me around, and… I reacted poorly. I was part of an orphanage until a few months ago, and I’m used to having to deal with things through violence. That doesn’t make it justified, though. You have my word that it will not happen again.” I step forward, extending my hand.

There’s a surprised silence, Eidhin coming to a standstill, clearly not knowing how to react. He was expecting more aggression, probably. Denials.

“It is… not excuse.” He says it roughly, voice nasal. He doesn’t make any move to take my hand.

“Of course,” I say quickly. Obsequiously. “Please understand, though, that my actions were through ignorance as well. I simply didn’t know who you were. So again, I apologise.” I keep my hand outstretched. It almost physically hurts to scrape like this, but I’m trusting it will be worth it.

“It changes nothing.” Eidhin just looks awkward at my insistence. That’s good. Behind him, I can see Veridius suddenly lean forward, intent. He sees what I’m doing. I will him not to open his mouth. Eidhin isn’t Catenan. He might not know.

I thrust my hand closer to Eidhin. My arm’s beginning to ache. “Please. Eidhin. Whatever consequences may come from my actions, I just need you to know that I am truly sorry for what I did.”

Eidhin’s bemused. “Fine. Yes. You are sorry,” he says in disgust, limply grasping my hand—barely more than a slap—before dropping it again.

There’s an exhalation from Veridius, and from the corner of my eye, I can see Taedia shift as she understands what’s happened. “The boy knows how to apologise,” she murmurs approvingly, loud enough for me to hear.

For Nequias, Iro, and Eidhin, too. Eidhin glances askance at Nequias; the older man’s face is turning red as he catches up. Iro’s expression is black.

“That was not a Threefold Apology,” Nequias says quickly.

“The form was observed, Nequias. Messy, but observed.” Veridius looks amused. “I will still set a penance, but Eidhin here has forfeited any right to pursue the matter.”

“What?” It’s Iro rounding on Veridius. Incensed.

Veridius locks eyes with him, his calm gaze turning cool. He says nothing. Iro scowls and looks away, while Eidhin continues to look baffled.

“Praeceptor Nequias, perhaps you can escort Eidhin and Iro back to the dormitory. And then I’m sure you have plenty to do to prepare for tomorrow’s class.” Veridius’s voice remains mild as he stands and moves to the door, opening it and stepping politely aside.

Nequias, unmistakeably fuming, grabs Eidhin by the arm and almost bodily hauls him out, a seething Iro trailing behind. The Praeceptor passes close as he leaves. “Learn to respect your betters, boy.” He murmurs the words.

I meet his gaze and give him my widest, friendliest smile. “Thank you for the advice, Praeceptor.”

Nequias’s lip twitches and he looks like he wants to say more, but instead straightens haughtily and stalks out, shutting the door behind him with more force than is strictly necessary.

“Gods’ graves, boy,” says Taedia as soon as they’re gone, jovial even as she’s admonishing. “Maybe you’re not the stupidest student on campus after all.”

“Arventis blessed you today,” adds Veridius, with a reproving look at Taedia.

“It’s justice,” counters Taedia irritably. “I talked to some of the students who saw what happened, and they all said the same thing before Iro started whispering in their ears. Breac started it, Telimus finished it.”

Breac. I don’t recognise the name, but it’s certainly not Catenan, which means Eidhin’s not an adoption like me. I haven’t just made an enemy of a powerful senatorial family, at least.

“The details don’t matter. At best, Vis here was careless. I need to set a penance.” Veridius rubs his face. “Mucking out the stables every evening until the Festival of the Ancestors, I think should do it. During dinner. It won’t hurt to keep you and Eidhin out of each other’s way for a while.”

“You have horses here?” I’m surprised. We had some on Suus, but I can’t imagine they have much utility here.

“We keep a few. Mounted combat training, mostly.” Veridius doesn’t expand on that. “Praeceptor Taedia will point out where you need to go, but you can start tomorrow night. Septimus Ascenia looks after the animals; I’ll make sure she’s there to show you what to do.”

I’ve never mucked out stables before, but I’ve seen it being done. Even worse than the general unpleasantness of the task, it’s time consuming—and having to do it over dinner means I’ll miss my one good chance during the day to socialise, to perhaps undo some of the damage I’ve done today. The Festival of the Ancestors is two months away, too. But I’m not going to push my luck by protesting.

“Well. I think we can all agree that this has been an eventful first day.” Veridius sighs and stands. “You can go. Get yourself a meal. But Vis? That little trick with Eidhin won’t work again. This is a second chance. It will be beyond anyone’s power to give you a third.”

I take the warning with as good grace as I can and trail Praeceptor Taedia out the door. We start along the hallway, the entire right-hand side a series of long arches overlooking the ocean. It’s barely visible now, out there. Dark shapes shifting and swelling, white caps occasionally catching the last of the light.

“Between you and me,” Taedia says quietly as we head back toward the mess hall, “seeing what you did to Eidhin wasn’t the worst way to start the trimester.”

I almost choke and eye the grey-haired woman, trying to decide whether she’s testing me. “Really?”

“Boy barely knows the language. Does nothing but scowl and snap. He’s not exactly a favourite around here.”

I check again to make sure she’s not baiting me. “There certainly didn’t seem to be a lot of people rushing to help him.”

“You’ve probably only upset whoever put him up to it, and a couple of the Praeceptors who think we should act like we’re in Military. Though I’ll feed you to the alupi if you tell anyone I said that.” She’s cheerful, relaxed. I decide I like her. “Just steer clear of Iro Decimus.”

Decimus. Easy enough to place the name: Magnus Tertius Decimus, of Religion, must be his father. “Did I wrong him, somehow?”

“No.” She takes a breath, as if wanting to say more, then shakes her head. “No. Not at all. Just stay away from him, and you’ll be fine. As long as you don’t do anything else stupid, of course.”

“I’ll keep my head down.”

“Will you? From what I can tell, that’s not a strength of yours.” She opens a door, ushering me through and into the kitchen. Three people bustle around, moving between a bank of ovens, a preparation bench, and a larder. They barely look up when we enter before returning to their tasks. “Why did you even do it?”

“Stop Eidhin? He was angry, and a lot bigger than Callidus.”

“What if Callidus deserved it?”

“Then there are more measured approaches to justice than punching.”

Taedia chuckles at that, waving absently at one of the Octavii, who starts piling food onto a plate for me. “True. True. Well. Whatever the reason, thank you. This has been more entertainment in a single day than I got all of last trimester.”

Once I’ve been provided with a seat and a meal, Taedia bids me farewell. I sit in the kitchen for a while, hunched over my food, ignoring the occasional glances of the Octavii and assessing how things have gone so far.

Badly, I decide. Quite badly.

I eventually push my plate aside, nod to the Octavii, and trudge my way back to the dormitory. It’s all noise and activity as I enter. Boys congregate around desks or beds, while others play a game involving some sort of ball over in the corner. From the cheering and yelling of both participants and spectators, it’s a regular thing.

Nobody notices my entrance at first, though I catch a few looks as I make my way over to my space. Then there’s a ripple of quiet—not silence, but pauses in conversation as more and more of the Sevenths notice me. They’re surprised, I realise. Shocked. They didn’t expect me to be back.

I walk the gauntlet of sideways glances, at first heading to my bed, but changing my mind halfway and angling instead for where I first met Callidus. Sure enough, the lithe boy is at his desk, head bowed over a book and studiously ignoring the goings-on around him.

I stand to the side, then cough. “Callidus?” He turns, and I blanch. A dark bruise swells his left cheek, and a long, red scrape lines his temple. “Rotting gods.”

Callidus’s curly hair shadows his eyes, but it’s not hard to see that the look he gives me isn’t a welcoming one. “Eidhin didn’t have you expelled?” When I shake my head, he grunts. “Well I’m glad this worked out for you, anyway.”

I swallow an irritated reply. “He accidentally accepted my Threefold Apology.”

Callidus stares at me, then laughs softly. “Of course he did. Idiot.” He touches his bruised face, still chuckling bitterly.

“Eidhin did that?”

“No.” Callidus shifts gingerly in his chair. His injuries extend to beneath his clothes, then. “Of course, if he’d just been allowed to push me around a little in front of everyone, the second messenger wouldn’t have been needed.”

My heart sinks. “I was trying to help.”

“You were trying to make an impression.” It’s not an accusation, exactly. More of a weary observation, even if it’s an incorrect one. “And congratulations to you, because it appears you did.” He motions over my shoulder, and I crane my neck to see half the dormitory watching us.

When I look back, he’s returned to his book.

“I’m sorry. Truly,” I say to his back, trying not to make it sound as though it’s coming from between gritted teeth. “I didn’t mean to make things worse.”

Not knowing what else to do, I leave him and return to my own desk, ignoring the curious eyes that follow. My satchel’s waiting, and I start unpacking the bag’s few contents. A couple of books Kadmos insisted were important but that had remained unread. A wax diptych and stylus. Some clothes. Nothing valuable, nothing particularly personal.

“Don’t worry about him.”

I turn to find a Seventh standing a few feet away. He’s got chiselled features, blond hair and blue eyes suggesting southern heritage. He steps forward, extending his hand amiably. “Drusus Corani.”

“Vis Telimus.” Corani—a Military patrician family, from memory. Powerful. I clasp his hand, then cast a glance over at Callidus, who’s still poring over his book. He’s about thirty feet from us. “You’re talking about Callidus?”

“He’s not worth your time.” Unlike me, Drusus doesn’t bother to keep his voice down. “He still thinks he’s better than us because his father bought him a starting position in Three. But as everyone can see, it was a waste of money.” He wields the pronouncement with loud satisfaction.

Nearby, several other boys who are paying attention to the conversation nod their agreement. “It’s true,” adds one with a squashed nose and blocky face, vociferous too as he spares a disdainful glance for Callidus before shuffling closer. Keen to be part of the conversation, but still either wary of me, or intimidated. Maybe both.

“And don’t think he’s a way into the good graces of Magnus Ericius, either. His family have all but disowned him, after last trimester,” a burly boy wearing the earrings of a Sytrecian chimes in. Loudly.

Magnus Ericius. I recall that one immediately: Governance’s Censor, the one man who can veto appointments to the central pyramids and thus the Senate. A Tertius, but along with the two Consuls from Military and Religion, one of the three most powerful men in the Senate. One of the most powerful men in the Hierarchy, in fact.

“Not that you can blame them,” adds Drusus with dark enjoyment, more confident now he has a chorus behind him. He glances across at Callidus, who’s still hunched over his book at his desk and hasn’t overtly reacted. There’s a tense, defensive set to his shoulders, though.

I watch him for a second. Three. Not saying anything. I should just accept the opinion of Drusus and these others, endear myself to the group. It’s clear Callidus isn’t liked. It’s an easy win.

But what he said to me before stung, untrue or not. And worse: my time in Letens echoes in these boys’ ugly smiles, the way they’re so eager to jump in with a spiteful quip, piling on top of one another’s attacks in search of easy bonding. I’ve been on the other end of that mentality. I remember how helpless it made me feel—that once started, there was no way to make it stop. No one who wanted to stand against it.

“I’m surprised any of your families still admit to being related to you, to be fair.”

The laughter dies, replaced by an air of scandalised confusion. Drusus’s eyes narrow. “What?”

“Well. You’re all Sevenths. Same as him.” This is stupid. Social suicide. “From what I can tell, the only difference between you and him is that his father is more successful than yours.” I should stop. “It just seems that if you’re saying he’s not worth my time, you’re saying none of you are.” I pronounce it calmly. Meet his gaze.

Gods, but I hate my temper sometimes.

There’s a mutter from the half dozen boys listening, and Drusus’s lip twitches. His composure is gone. “And you think you’re better—why? Because you fought Melior?”

“Because I killed him.”

Drusus pales. So do several of the others.

“Be that way, then,” he mumbles, almost inaudibly. The small crowd quickly disperses, muttering among themselves and occasionally casting dark backward glances.

Callidus, I note, is still reading, acting as if he hasn’t overheard. I sigh and turn back to my own desk. I don’t know what I expected.

The conversations around the large hall are dying down as everyone begins preparing for bed. I follow suit. Unsurprisingly, neither boy on either side of my space seems interested in talking, so I douse my lamp and lie down.

A few minutes later, the majority of the hanging lamps are extinguished as one, plunging the room into near darkness. A Will-based mechanism, I assume. The dim is broken by occasional spots of shuttered light where some students haven’t finished retiring, and there’s still some chatter from a few corners of the room, but soon enough those wink out and fade away, respectively.

Then all’s quiet. In the distance, I hear waves crashing against the shore somewhere far below.

I close my eyes, but Suus is there. It takes me a long time to sleep.