Ninth City Burning Read Free

at Sequester told me I might be fontani, I was sure there’d been a mistake somewhere. Fontani are supposed to be the best of the best, and I’m about as close to average as you can get. But they were right. I thought I’d feel different after I shaded that first time, like maybe I’d just
know
what to do, but I didn’t, and I still don’t. At night sometimes when I can’t sleep, I’ll get up and look at myself in the mirror, to see if there’s any proof I’ve really changed, but it’s always the same me.
    All of a sudden, it’s like I can’t breathe, like the air has turned to rock. My heart feels like it’s rolling full speed down a hill, bumping all the way, and I get the serious feeling that I’m about to throw up.
    I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and try to summon up that big green sunny field the way Charles, my special-sessions instructor, taught me. I see the grass spreading out all around, but this time there’s no sun anywhere. The sky is deep gray, almost black, and it’s raining balls of slush like icy spit. The grass begins to wilt and turn brown, and suddenly there are bare patches everywhere, and I’m sinking into the cold mud, first to my ankles, then my knees . . .
    I snap my eyes open and scramble off the fountain, determined not to leave a pile of throwup beneath the Seat of the Champion. Once I’m up and sure I’m back in Ninth City, I feel a bit better but still not good. I hobble around the edge of the Forum, totally out of breath, passing the buildings that make up the four sides of the plaza one by one: the Academy, the Basilica of the Legion, the Praetorium, the Hall of the Principate.
    I’m on my third lap and still feeling like I’m three Ks into the worst five-K of all time when I hear something strange echoing down one of the tall passageways that run through the Hall of the Principate—pretty much the most unlikely sound in the world: laughter. Not even thinking about why, I follow the sound through the passage to the opposite side of the building, out onto a wide terrace. Ninth City spreads out below, Old Town, with its spiraling streets, the serious-looking stone towers of the newer districts, the battle spires rising like claws, and the hulking City Guns—huge cannons the size of buildings, some over two hundred meters tall. Charles calls them “literal skyscrapers.”
    At first I think the laughter must have been some trick of the wind, then I see them: legionaries, three of them, two men and a woman. For a couple of seconds, I just stare, trying to figure out what they’re doing here. They should be at their posts, getting ready to fight. And then I see the insignia on their collars, the peaked symbol marking them as Officers Aspirant from the School of Philosophy. They’re younger than I thought, maybe around Rhetor Danyee’s age, which I guess makes sense because she’s an OA, too. But that still doesn’t explain why they’re
here
.
    â€œYou’re supposed to be at the shelters.” I just blurt it out. All three turn to look at me, clearly taken by surprise.
    The first to recover himself is one of the boys, the tallest of the three,lanky, with dark skin and a lean, handsome face. He has dark hair, longer than male cadets usually choose to wear it. “Well, look who it is,” he says, showing off an easy smile. “Fontanus Jaxten. Seat of the Champion a little soggy for you?”
    â€œYou were supposed to go to the shelters,” I repeat, sounding idiotic. It’s only after I’ve opened my mouth that I think how close he was to the truth.
    The other boy is tall, too, and kind of bronze-colored all over, with muscles that seem to bulge straight through his uniform. “Jaxten, really?” he asks, adjusting a pair of silver-rimmed glasses like he’s trying to bring me into focus. “Fantastic. Get over here, champ.