Llandis had nearly forgotten Elsbet and her heart-shaped face. He even missed her at times; sweet, quiet Els with her sometimes-willing lips and soft breasts that, on occasion and surely accidentally, pressed against his shoulder whenever her arm had been wont to curl about his. He had thought the memories to be buried by time and grime, but the large pool always brought him back to that smaller one, back to starry nights in Haven, sitting on the high stone lip with Elsbet and her whispery chiffon skirts, lips hungry and hands knowing only the barest rudiments of wandering.

How the years had changed him. Elegant Els, so slow to consent, had finally acquiesced to her lord father’s wish for her to wed a young landed nobleman, and Llandis, restless beyond measure, left Vertaes behind to begin his life’s own adventure. Twenty-one years he’d thought buried and gone, but they came whispering back every time he stepped into the water chamber, a revenant of simpler times and simpler goals. He’d been a simpler man, too, long before he’d come to the realization that the world was a just a teeming kettle of suet populated by self-serving leeches—men who hadn’t the fortitude to spill a little blood with their own hands, yet were ready and willing to pay good coin for it to happen beyond their seeing. He ought to thank Elsbet for it; Llandis had learned so much more in his time away from the Ten Kings than he ever would have, had he wedded such a soft-minded fawn.

He served those leeches well, and rarely regretted it. They tended to prey upon their own kind most readily; nothing seemed to salve a man’s conscience so much as knowing he was actually doing the world a favor by ridding it of another bad man. The years had taught him their share of sharp lessons, but they had been lucrative ones; Llandis was considered an expert in the killing arts now. His fortune was made. Llandis had no doubt his personal coffers—tucked half a world away and safe—would put Elsbet’s current husband’s holdings to shame. All there was left was to teach the things he had learned, morbid as the idea initially seemed to him. But the proposition intrigued him enough to listen… and then the Master had made him an offer he could not refuse. And so he had not.

Teach them I shall, he thought. Alas that the real training would not begin for many months, though that was time enough to see who would actually be worth teaching. He wondered which one would take his lessons to heart the quickest.

The students were beginning to file in, wide-eyed and unsure as to what sort of challenge this new room would beget, escorted by Leftenant Hadrien Derenford. The Leftenant’s usual affected air of ridiculous positivity was firmly in place. “Orderly line,” Derenford clucked, his Mother Hen role as rote. The fifteen children, dutiful chicks all, trailed after him.

Llandis shook his head. He didn’t dislike Derenford per se; the jittery man had never been less than unfailingly polite to him, which was more than could be said about most of the instructors here. But Llandis didn’t see the damned purpose in having him here. The Lashmaster had his role, the Battlemaster had his; even Jezeerah the Bloodmistress had hers, cryptic as it was. Did the Blackstone really require the questionable leadership qualities provided by an untested (and rumored disgraced) military officer? He just didn’t see the need; the role of mindless hall monitor could easily be filled by a mindless service golem.

But the twitchy man had an in with the Master, that much was certain, so Llandis kept his opinion to himself, and his thoughts on the task at hand. The Master had a way of picking up stray thoughts.

“Yes, line up against the back wall. There. No… yes. There. At the pool’s edge, please. No, don’t form a queue. One next to the other. Good.” Derenford directed the students with his hand as though he were directing some grand orchestra, fingers flicking hither and thither, hands twirling grandiose circles. Llandis wondered if it looked as ridiculous to the children as it looked to him.

Today’s first task was simple: find out who could swim, and how well. The day’s later physical exertions were also set to be held within an adjoining room beyond, to keep these fifteen out of the way of the new wave of students—twelve more in total—that had been delivered from far-flung foreign lands beyond the Ten Kings just last night. The new ones would be introduced to the trial ring this very morning, the opening salvo in the Blackstone’s mission to make a lasting first impression. The instructors had learned, after the last debacle, that particular introduction could become chaotic, and quickly; it was agreed the two groups would be kept apart, at least until the new batch could fully get their heads around the fact that their lives were no longer their own.

This group had learned. The fifteen here were quiet, for the most part; even the mouthier kids appeared subdued, though there was a nervous energy to them. Some glanced sidelong to the door, as though worried about what might soon follow them through it, while others watched the water with clear apprehension. Within twenty heartbeats, Llandis was already certain he knew which ones would sink and which ones would swim.

“Off with your clothes,” Derenford said, sounding far too chipper for the early hour. “Yes, all of it. The time has come to see who fares well in the deep,” he paused cryptically, “and who does not.”

Many of the students had already become accustomed to following orders without question; half of them stripped immediately, their gray tugos finding the stone floor within moments. The girl they were now calling Glimpse went a step further, whisking off half her clothes before leaping straight into the water—a blond-and-pink-haired blur of excitement going straight in with a happy yell and a loud splash. She then began removing the rest of her wet garments in the pool, throwing them at slower-moving children. One splatted against her twin sister, Hearken, who still looked rather unconvinced regarding the disrobing portion of the exercise.

Llandis didn’t blame her. Strange men were giving an order to strip, and young girls were expected to comply? Just like that. If only it had always been that easy for him. He imagined such a bold order given to Elsbet would have begotten an affronted gasp; she would of course have refused and looked the other way… though perhaps with a coy second glance if no immediate apology seemed forthcoming. Some of these girls were within three or four years of Elsbet’s age, back when he left Haven. Did they know the evils that lurked in the minds of most men? Some had to, surely. They should feel fortunate Llandis liked his girls biddable and broken-in, these days. They were lucky…

But this too was part of Malacai’s assessment. Who disrobes willingly? Who hesitates? For what reason? Moral habitude? A fear of derision? Was it due to the presence of other children, or the presence of adults? Every action and reaction was to be recorded for the Master’s records. For all the questions Llandis had regarding the seemingly random logic of some of Malacai’s directives, he couldn’t fault the thoroughness of it all. He’s going to know who blinks at what, and when, Llandis thought. The children didn’t know a tenth of what they were being tested for, either. Everything was flying furiously at them, faster than their eyes could blink—and that too was a test. Some could handle a swift injection of chaos—others could not.

Llandis wondered, his gaze sliding to the Leftenant, if the tests weren’t only for the children.

Derenford was becoming quite distraught at the chaos as it progressed, as he hadn’t given the order to proceed yet. He was now marching over, gesticulating wildly and yelling at Glimpse to get out of the pool. But more students were already taking the plunge, and the Leftenant’s yelling voice was drowned out.

Oh, this is going to go smoothly, Llandis thought. He quietly sniggered and looked past the histrionic man to see who else had issues with complying.

The tall Zhadran enigma with the copper braid and broad shoulders looked unconvinced about the disrobing too, her freckled cheeks flushed bright pink. She’d removed her tugo top but had eventually ceased with removing the rest, stepping away from the pool and scowling. There were only a few who did not seem eager to obey—including the tall, black-haired boy, and the obese boy, who clutched his tugo top to his whale-sized belly as though he could hide it—but the freckled girl was nearest. Llandis strolled over.

“Shy, is that it?” he said with his best leer affixed. “Or can’t you swim?”

The tall girl glanced at him, still scowling. “I can,” she said after a moment.

“Then do that,” Llandis murmured. “But first.” He nodded. “Clothes off.”

“Why?” The sharp word was accompanied by an equally sharp glance. Three weeks ago he had been somewhat surprised at how readily this girl met his gaze. Her noble blood boils with affront again, he thought wryly. He could usually tell the highborn ones from the commoners on sight, but this one had the frame of a worker, and a strong one at that. Highborns were usually more resistant to lacking clothes, however, whereas street tramps usually didn’t give half a hog whether they were dressed or not. In Greenbridge, where he grew up, the lowborns would shed their clothes as soon as it was halfway warm enough, leaping gleefully into the Troutsmouth River, hooting and hollering, not caring who heard or saw.

Llandis had been one of them until he decided he wasn’t; there wasn’t much gain in remaining poor. It had taken him more than a year to be able to pass himself off as anything above commonly born, but even the right walk and talk and a brand new city couldn’t produce a title or land, so away Elsbet had run, sorrowfully and with tears in her pretty hazel eyes, in deference to her noble father’s wishes. Llandis’s hope of marrying well—much less bedding the doe-eyed girl—had taken a mortal blow. A part of him still hoped she had spat out twelve brats between then and now, and was hideous and fat.

The Zhadran girl still looked as though she expected an explanation. Llandis would normally reply to a churlish question with an answering backhand, but he wanted to see where this girl’s line of thinking would take her. “Clothes become sodden,” he replied after a moment. “They weigh you down in the water, putting you at risk to drown.”

“Then we should train to combat that detriment,” she said with quiet challenge. “Is that not what you should be doing? Preparing us to fight in poor conditions or at disadvantages?” Her question brought a raised eyebrow in response. She’s already a stride ahead of the game. He wondered if she had the barest inkling as to what the Master planned.

“One step at a time,” Llandis murmured. “There’ll be many to take. We need to know who can’t swim at all before we discover who can take the swiftest lap. But in all things, here, the first step is to obey.” He said the last with a note of finality that brooked no argument.

She did not seem moved to comply any more swiftly than before, however. She even seemed set to ask another array of presumptuous questions, when another girl’s voice called out softly, “Should her hand not be spared, Shadowmaster?”

Llandis glanced annoyedly at another girl slow to disrobe—willowy, dark-haired Mirror. “Water won’t damage her sodded hand,” Llandis snapped.

Mirror, who’d led a privileged house servant’s life before being brought to the Blackstone, kept her face turned aside even as she spoke. “Her cast will come apart in the water if it is exposed overlong, master,” Mirror said simply. “I would have to replace the plaster, and re-set the splint.”

Llandis gave the girl a flat stare. He was done with young girls defying him. Elsbet Primrose had begun the practice at the tender age of sixteen, and now these younger ones were having their way with him as well. He’d had about enough of it to suit the rest of his bloody life.

He turned to the Zhadran redhead. “Remove your rags and join the others in the water now,” he said simply, “or I break both of her hands, and no one will be there to fix your precious cast come the morning.”

Both girls blanched in a rather rewarding fashion; they disrobed as one, faces ashen, and got into the pool. Llandis ensured that the Zhadran girl knew his eyes were upon her the whole time, just for the benefit of her bloody discomfiture; alas for her, she couldn’t know his thoughts had already moved beyond her pitiable freckled chest and onto more valuable information. She wasn’t budging until she realized someone else was about to be hurt. That was always good to know. Malacai would be interested in that trait as well.

Leftenant Derenford, unable to get any of the children back out of the pool, had given up that tack and had ordered the rest in. Most of them complied; even the ones who couldn’t swim eased themselves nervously in and were now clinging (some more desperately than others) to the lip of the pool. The Leftenant had just finished using gentle words to forcibly peel the clothes off the other twin before ushering her trembling frame into the water. He finally stepped over to Llandis while the students attempted to decide amongst themselves how deep the pool was.

“I think the rest should go smoothly, don’t you?” Derenford said, blithely ignoring one of the mouthy boys dunking Glimpse beneath the water before getting pulled under himself; both children came up laughing within moments. The pink in Glimpse’s hair, soaked and matted to her skull, almost looked like streaks of blood in the firelight. The boy pointed that out and they both laughed all the more.

“Oh, aye,” Llandis muttered. “Smooth as bloody silk.”

Organized chaos had soon turned into a mass of confusion—some children refusing to let go of the stone edge, others refusing to remain on any particular side of the pool—and the little water chamber experiment was ended before most of the more important evaluations had taken place. Llandis cursed the fact that there weren’t more instructors on hand, as a class this size normally warranted. Everyone wants to see the new group’s trial ring contests, he silently groused. Not that he blamed them. Directing water chamber exercises had seemed the low end of dull.

We should have exhausted the little yips first. That was the problem with kids; some you had to just wear down before anything could rightly be expected to be accomplished with them. Sometimes the threat of bodily harm only made them blink; you had to actually push their bodies to the brink of exhaustion.

And so he had decided to do just that.

“Run!” Llandis barked. The students jogged past on their tenth lap around the pool’s edge, bare feet slapping stone, some in time, others falling to their own pace. The bulk of them stayed together in a pack, though some straggled, whilst others were obviously struggling already. Alas for them; Llandis had promised the three slowest would go without any meals for a day. He assumed the fat one would be among them. Less food would serve him well.

“Run,” he repeated in a growl, then louder. “Run!” Angry as he sounded, the sight of it all was actually amusing. He would have laughed had it not been for the headache caused by the earlier mess, because this was in fact a funny sight; this mass of naked flesh running along the edge of the long pool, their tiny bits flapping about. It probably would have been a more vulgar visual, had they been adults, and probably not half as comical. He resisted a chortle, glancing sidelong at Hadrien Derenford.

The Leftenant was in his usual stance, straight as a soldier in most respects, save for one hand gripping the other like it was at threat to fall off his wrist. Derenford’s palsies came at odd times; Llandis noted they usually started in one hand, so Derenford’s defense against the onset was to have one hand on the other, massaging like it was sore, though in truth it just made him appear fretful. He would sometimes complain of aching wrists, to cover for his malady; Llandis usually sniggered and made an off-color comment about what he could do to make his wrist less sore, but…

He wasn’t going to reveal the man’s palsy. The only person that mattered knowing was the Master, and Llandis assumed he already knew. It wasn’t really Llandis’s business, besides. He might need to kill Derenford one day; better the Leftenant not know what he knew.

“See anything you like?” Llandis finally asked Derenford, sidelong with a smirk.

“Pardon?” The Leftenant glanced at him, confused, as though being forced from some deep thought.

“Stripped bare probably takes a bit of the fun away, huh.” Llandis indicated a few of the older ones running together with a point of his chin. “Nothing left to the imagination, but….” His eyes followed the Crystal girl, who was probably the most developed of the bunch. The dark-skinned beauty already had nearly a handful, as well as budding birthing hips. Maybe they grow ‘em early, down in… wherever she’s from. Noroubia, or maybe Ashanti. Emerald Coast, for certain, though her accent was Crown’s Reach. She would be the full package: a comely face and quality curves that would warm someone’s bed nicely, someday. He also liked the way her thick black braids bounced when she ran. He grinned at Derenford. “I might well claim that one. You have a preference?”

“Wh-What?” The Leftenant almost choked, face paling at the implication. “That’s… I—I don’t—”

Llandis rolled his eyes. “Gods above, I’m not suggesting tot-sodding,” he said, annoyed. “I’m just saying.” He nodded meaningfully. “Give some of ‘em a few years to ripen before being plucked off the vine…”

“That is not how that analogy works,” Derenford snapped. “And they’re not produce. They’re children.”

Llandis snorted. “Gods, you’re stiff. I’m not going to be raping any of them in their rooms.”

“That’s good,” Derenford said, a chill to his tone. It was clear that his suggestion had irked the Leftenant.

So this is what gets under his skin. Was he actually protective of them already? That too was good to know. Llandis leaned in, his leer purposeful. “That said, if one or two decide the quickest way to a merit is by getting on their knees, well, in a few years…” He winked.

“You are vile,” Derenford muttered. He steadfastly refused to look Llandis’s way at all.

“If you think that’s vile, you don’t want to know what most men think of when they see a nubile young girl flounce by.” He had already begun to consider the fact that the Leftenant may not fancy girls at all. Boys, then? He had already assumed that of the doddering old Loremaster; he usually had a sense for that sort of thing.

“I wouldn’t know, nor would I care,” Derenford said with an offended sniff. “And I doubt the Master would approve of your lecherous suggestions.”

Llandis made a face. “If you think Malacai doesn’t already know what goes on inside each and every one of our sodded minds, you’re fooling yourself.”

Derenford looked troubled for only a moment; that look was quickly replaced by one more studied, aloof. “Clearly there are reasons he should know some of your thoughts more intimately,” the Leftenant shot back.

Llandis shrugged. “Like he doesn’t think them too? Men think what men think when naked frames are gamboling about. Isn’t wrong to think dirty from time to time. The world’s dirty. It’s practically expected. Unless you’re not a man,” he added.

“No,” the Leftenant said, his gaze distant, claerly not realizing Llandis had just questioned his manhood. His voice was soft. “It’s not dirty. Not here. They’re new-born, clean as they were the day they came into this world. What is more pure?” His voice held an odd longing.

Llandis eyed the man. “If that’s what you think, you’ve never seen an actual birth take place. That’s a messy business.” Derenford refused to be coaxed back into the conversation, however. Llandis went back to watching the pack trot by on their eleventh lap.

Speaking of developed…. The big brute, Ravage, had more than enough development going for him already. His was more of a vulgar flopping-about thing than flapping, like a fat fish had been tied to his groin. Llandis idly wondered if some of the spite might be driven out of the hulking lad by a timely gelding. But that wouldn’t suit the Master’s purposes either. Llandis would have to keep that thought to himself too.

His conversation with Derenford lingered in his mind; despite his words to the contrary, he didn’t like the thought of the Master poking around in his head. The trade-in for the best job he’d ever been paid for was that your thoughts weren’t always your own. If Malacai didn’t like a thought, he might well announce it aloud and then make a teaching lesson from it. Llandis glanced to the door, wondering if Malacai even needed line of sight to read someone’s thoughts. Probably not. Llandis would be less edgy once the Master was gone; he knew the man was already preparing to leave again, though to what end he had no idea. We’ve got the damned kids. The Hells else does he need?

Not that Malacai would ever deign to answer any questions of his. Llandis was too far beneath his notice to warrant more than a half-moment of his time, much less a curious question as to his business. He hardly saw the Master at all these days, in fact.

Good. He appreciated the Master’s gold, but his divesting gaze much less so.

The fat boy with the fear ability—they called him “Phobia” now—was lagging behind, huffing and puffing. He looked ridiculous, his massive pale belly hanging down low, and his teats so prominent, one couldn’t readily tell his gender. Every so often he’d stagger to a halt, bent over, hands on knees, huffing as though he might die… but as he brought up the rear, no one noticed. That was until he was lapped by the lead kid—the quick little enigma the other children called “Filch” (Llandis assumed the name had a reason behind it)—racing like the wind, trying to beat an equally fast Spider. Both boys swerved around Phobia and raced out in front, though Crystal and the pug-nosed Push began to gain on the two boys after their initial spurts of energy began to flag. Push pushed Phobia with a hard elbow just to get him out of her way, and he almost went sprawling. Don’t drop him to the stone, girl, Llandis thought. He needs more running, not less.

One more lap and Crystal and Push shared the lead, and the entire pack had passed Phobia. Little Glimpse dropped behind to urge the corpulent boy on, running circles around him and calling out to him encouragingly, but that just seemed to tire him even more. He stopped again and went to his knees, his sucking breaths becoming tearful sobs. Gods, now he’s never going to rise, Llandis thought sourly. He didn’t relish the thought of dragging a sobbing, naked fat boy bodily from the chamber.

Glimpse wasn’t finished with her spirited attempt at a rally, however, as she then began dancing an odd little jig around him, which also didn’t work. Phobia stumbled over to the wall and proceeded to retch his breakfast. Glimpse pointed, seemingly amazed by the sight of this. The pack of frontrunners—the red-haired noblegirl was now pushing the pace behind Crystal, and Push had fallen back—turned the corner and were now bearing down on Phobia and Glimpse. Instead of joining back up with them, the pink-and-blond haired twin turned and zig-zagged between the runners, frolicking and giggling, dodging left then right to narrowly avoid each one.

Leftenant Derenford was not pleased by this new dawning chaos, and he huffed a peevish breath and began gesticulating for her to turn around and run properly! The little girl didn’t notice, however, and certainly wasn’t going to be denied her spot of fun. The pack of students continued on without her; Glimpse stayed behind to do pirouettes next to Phobia. Derenford shouted out a few more wheedling commands, all of which were blithely ignored. The Leftenant strode out toward the pool once again, voice raising all the more, though he had to pause for the other students as they flapped on by. Once they were past, Derenford began striding out toward the young girl, his voice raised so high it cracked. But the streaking pink-streaked girl was making quite the show of not hearing anything he had to say, busied as she now was running water from the pool in her cupped hands to dribble onto pitiful Phobia and his puke. Derenford sped up to intercept her, but twenty strides away, the girl saw him and—with an echoing giggle—sprinted away in the opposite direction. The Leftenant looked as though he was considering hanging himself, before he finally shook his head and took off after her angrily. Llandis didn’t know whether to be irked by the entire scene or quietly amused by Derenford’s follies.

Of course pursuit only made Glimpse run faster, and she wasn’t slow. It’s all a big game to her, Llandis thought, bewildered by the extent of her naiveté. Derenford was clearly not amused; when he caught the girl, he would probably make her pay, but the cost of frivolity had clearly never even entered the girl’s mind. Llandis doubted the Master would be amused either. He wondered if the Leftenant would ever even want this tale repeated to anyone. He then wondered how much Derenford might be willing to pay to keep him silent on the matter.

Glimpse sped around the pool’s perimeter, laughing, like the whole thing was all part of some great frolic. Her wet feet slipping on stone almost deposited her on her arse on the next turn, but she was a nimble young creature, and righted herself before nearly slamming bodily into the wall. This made her laugh more; the water chamber ceiling echoed the sound of it, and even seemed to amplify it, high-pitched laughter bouncing off the walls to dance in amongst the wet slap of fourteen other pairs of feet. With a gleeful twinkle in her dark eyes, she charged back into the oncoming rush of children, practically daring the Leftenant to follow her into the mass. She plunged in without thought.

If she glanced fore in time to see Ravage’s meaty forearm extend to impact her forehead, she never gave hint of it. Glimpse took the blow with nary a squeak, her forward movement halted at once, bare feet flying out from under her. A half-heartbeat later, the back of her skull CRACKED against the stone floor. She bounced and slid, limbs tangled, five paces from where she fell, before ceasing to move at all.

There was a moment—and it seemed a long one—where nothing else happened. The other students all skidded to various stops, save for vulgar Ravage, who kept chugging along like nothing untoward had happened.

And it was a full heartbeat later the room erupted in tumult. Most of the students went to gather around their formerly-effervescent classmate, who did not appear long for this world; two students tried lifting her to a sitting position before noticing the blood swiftly pooling beneath her cracked skull, their faces going pale with shock. The girl’s twin sister stood apart, watching with large dark eyes, her face as pale as any, and just as helpless.

Four of the students had an altogether different reaction. The two remaining Enigmas—little Filch and the Zhadran girl—as well as Crystal and the small pik, Burst, all took off in a fury after Ravage. Llandis’s first instinct was to restore order; Derenford was already attempting to, his raised voice making a valiant effort to demand obedience and decorum be returned. For all the good it did him. A handful of the children were already in tears; many were shouting accusingly at each other as much as anything.

And the four in pursuit of Ravage were out for blood. Llandis perhaps could have done more, but… Sometimes what’s needed most is a little barracks justice. He had lived in that world too. And truthfully, Malacai’s orderly regime could chafe, at times, and here, now…

Time to allow some chaos to seed. And so he did nothing, and merely watched as they pulled the larger boy down like a pack of ravenous wolves. Burst got there first, erupting in a blur of supernatural speed. He crashed into Ravage’s lower back and they both went down sprawling, though the pik, being much smaller, got the worst of that trade, careening sideways into the pool. Crystal got there next, grabbing one of Ravage’s legs and channeling her crystal form, blue limbs wrapped around the boy’s meaty thigh, locking down his knee in an immobile crystal trap. Filch following quickly, sliding on bare knees to deliver a nasty set of rabbit punches to the felled boy’s groin. Ravage groaned and curled into a fetal position. Llandis winced in spite of himself.

The Zhadran girl came last but fiercest. She’s not so concerned with propriety now, the Shadowmaster noted wryly. Nor her hand. The copper-haired girl’s fists cracked against Ravage’s jaw, cheek, and temple with a furious barrage of well-placed blows. Another flurry broke the reeling boy’s nose as well as the girl’s cast, which crumbled like a soft pastry, chunks of plaster flying. Ravage and all his savagery was soon rendered insensible, eyes rolled to the ceiling, muscled frame twitching.

Llandis was perhaps a touch disappointed that they didn’t finish him off. Filch delivered an angry kick to the large boy’s throat, and seemed intent on delivering another, but the Zhadran girl, her broken hand again curled to her chest, pulled him off. “No,” she said, voice hoarse. “Don’t.” Ravage wasn’t moving, save for in occasional twitches, with weakened, shallow breaths.

Filch cursed, wrenching away from the larger girl, and started back towards the other children gathered around Glimpse. Derenford was already there, kneeling by the girl, though he seemed hesitant about touching any part of her that was bloody. Though Llandis doubted anything could be done, either way. Guards were soon called to carry the girl away.

“Take her to the remediation chamber,” Derenford said sorrowfully. “We will… try to stabilize the girl, at least. Poor thing…” Llandis directed a few other guards to drag Ravage off, instructing them to lock the damned boy in his sleeping chamber for three days or so. He was already rethinking the gelding idea.

“Where’s Domiév?” Filch suddenly asked, glancing about.

Llandis blinked, cursing his inattentiveness. Sure enough, the quiet black-haired student was no longer in the water chamber.

Would be just my luck the stringbean chose time to make an escape, Llandis thought darkly. He grumbled to himself, striding for the exit. He didn’t like leaving the other kids here; It would be a bloody miracle if Derenford somehow resisted mucking more things up by the time he returned…

But he wasn’t going to risk the Master’s wrath, losing one of his prize pupils. The black-haired boy especially. They’ve got special plans for him, Llandis knew. The boy’s blood-gift was apparently something no one had seen before. Llandis couldn’t afford to be the scapegoat for the Blackstone losing anyone, much less that one.

He set off in search of the wayward student.

“The hells you think you’re doing?” Llandis asked with a menacing hiss. He was a little astonished when the boy didn’t shrink in alarm at having been caught; he merely glanced over once before quietly sliding the book he had back onto the shelf with an apologetic shrug.

“I was told to seek these books when I could,” the boy said, which was the longest sentence Llandis even remembered him speaking.

Llandis strode up and cuffed the boy once, then once again, just for good measure. “Not your damned place to choose the time for that. Don’t bloody take it upon yourself to explore. You’ll have access to each room in time.”

The boy didn’t look the least bit contrite. He just looked back at Llandis, eyes half-lidded, with no emotion to show. After a long moment, he just nodded. He said nothing more.

As they were leaving, Llandis turned and grabbed him by the shoulder of his tugo, spinning him to face him. The day had already gone sour; Llandis’s patience was at an end. “Listen, boy,” he hissed. “If you think I care who or what you are, you’re wrong. You’re expendable. Just like the girl whose head just cracked like an eggshell. You’re just another sodded egg in need of breaking. Cross me. Go ahead. Try.” Llandis leaned closer so the boy’s eyes were forced to meet his.

The Shadowmaster whispered, “I’ll be the bloody death of you.”