The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy) Read Free Page A

factories, and pockmarked with craters. Though yesterday’s gales had ebbed somewhat, a misting rain obscured their targets – but Grand Selector Flaccus made no allowance for these difficulties. ‘Think the Forty-Seveners had your advantages?’ he drawled. ‘Conditions in battle aren’t always favourable, Cadets.’
    By the day’s end, their brains would be exhausted from calculating arcs and rates of descent, their eyes and throats raw from the gunpowder and their fingertips bleeding from plucking bowstrings – but everyone’s aim would have improved. Flaccus was an impatient, harassing tutor, and the Cadets were soon grumbling, and taking revenge by making up increasingly fanciful reasons for his missing finger, from condottieri proof-of-life to the Guild’s punishment for incompetence. Leto said Flaccus was a field commander who had losthis first command, and the Guild had had to pay his ransom; teaching Cadets was his demotion.
    ‘For which he’s determined to make us pay,’ Torbidda said grimly.
    Although Leto couldn’t match Torbidda’s speed at calculating distances and gradients – none of them could – he proved to be an adept archer. Leto had grown up on the Europan frontier, in the legionary camps commanded by his famous father, Manius Spinther. Most of the aristocracy lucky enough to survive the Re-Formation held onto their empty titles until their purses were empty too, but the Spinthers were different; they adapted to the changing times. While Bernoulli’s star was rising, various prominent Spinthers renounced their titles and sent their sons off to learn the mechanical arts, and when the storm came, they escaped the worst ravages of the mob – by being part of that mob. ‘Engineers have no family,’ Leto liked to say, ‘but a Spinther is always a Spinther.’ His cousins had all been through the Guild Halls and now it was his turn. Torbidda, perceiving that Leto’s first loyalty was to family, stored that away and counted himself lucky to have found such an ally.
    He was clumsily nocking an arrow when Leto whispered, ‘Torbidda, look! That’s Filippo Argenti!’
    Flaccus was whispering deferentially to the newcomer, a stolid, middle-aged man with the blank, weatherbeaten face of a mason. The vivid red of the First Apprentice’s gown looked unreal against the scarred landscape of the firing range. Others began to notice his presence and soon every Cadet was hitting wide of the mark – all except Leto, who continued to hit bulls’-eyes with perfect nonchalance. After watching for a few minutes, the First Apprentice clapped his hands and walked onto the firing range. The Cadets immediately lowered their weapons.
    ‘I need a volunteer. Someone willing to shoot me. Anyone?’He paused, then sighed with theatrical relief when none stepped forward. ‘Well, that’s gratifying.’
    Laughter dispelled the tension still remaining from yesterday’s induction.
    Argenti looked around, and then started, ‘Brothers and sisters, welcome. I once stood where you stand. You’re asking, will I make it?’ He looked from face to face, nodding as if to say this was quite natural. ‘I won’t lie, some of you won’t. First year
will
be tough, but just remember that you’re not alone. If the Guild seems cruel, remember: it is not senselessly cruel. We winnow with reason. We need the best.’
    He looked up at the brutalised crags behind the range. ‘The Guild is a mountain with many peaks – Old Town, New City, the Guild Halls – but really, they are one. Our strength is our unity. What is our strength?’
    ‘Unity,’ came the eager response.
    ‘Just so. Unity depends on team spirit. No tower can stand with each brick vying to be higher than the others.’
    He stopped in front of Torbidda. ‘Each must be content in its place. The mortar that binds them must be—’
    ‘Trust?’ said Torbidda in a dry whisper. He felt Leto’s unease.
    ‘Trust! Exactly. I am First Apprentice not because I