No one spoke as they descended the gentle slope separating the academy from the settlement proper.

  A dozen more eager steps, and the clear sky above Cillian’s head was replaced with a towering muster of twined branches and vines, together weaving a bizarre archway. The thing was so wide a couple of trucks could comfortably snuggle there side by side and so deep it took him five purposeful strides just to cross to the other side.

  Talk about a quare introduction.

  “Whew,” Eamon let out a stupefied breath.

  Past the “entrance” awaited further surprises.

  To the left of the wide road the foursome were currently occupying, loomed what Cillian could only describe as a “stacking house”. A single-story, concrete dwelling sporting a gable roof had been replicated four times, each copy scaled down and given its own unique reddish hue, and then the resulting “building blocks” piled on top of one another in the descending order of volume.

  The structure looked taller than it actually was, and the eyes of everyone in the company gravitated to it. Cillian craned his neck up to see the tip. Nice touch having the topmost “house” turned 90 degrees – whereas the triangle faces of the roofs adorning the three lowest levels looked at the road, the one above them stared straight at the academy.

  A pillar of dirty smoke rising from the brick chimney and the encircling waist-high picket fence completed the ensemble.

  “Where to?” Eamon asked with a big, happy smile.

  “Does it matter?” Nuala replied. “We know nothing about the place; let’s go explore.”

  Cillian was still gazing around, curious. Cathal just shrugged.

  They weren’t the only ones venturing into the streets; the others were, too, hurrying to take advantage of the first offer of freedom. They’d agreed to meet Aoife’s team in a pub called “In Ruin”, but that was for later. At the moment, the group wanted nothing more than to wander.

  And so further they went, the weird architecture keeping them company.

  Next in line to take them aback was a tree house proudly standing on the other side of the street. While in Lua one could occasionally encounter metal tree houses, this one appeared to be an actual, if withered, trunk. Juniper, if Cillian wasn’t mistaken. It had seen better days but was still massive, reaching five floors in height and serving as a pole for the golden staircase to snake around. Barely any branches remained, but the root’s sprawling tendrils still clang to the ground with all their might.

  “Hey! Hey! Hey! Our valiant chevaliers and chevaliers-to-be, make sure to visit the traveling restaurant! Blink, and we’ll be gone! Only two more weeks! Don’t miss out on the chance! New cuisine in every new settlement! You’ve never tasted anything more exquisite! Hey! Hey! Hey!…”

  Up ahead, raising a haze of dust and spewing steam from its depths, crawled a caravan. It was shaped like a cozy, two-story house with a big circular veranda overlooking the road, from which a harlequin-dressed man was exuberantly singing the virtues of the “only restaurant braving the wilds” through his excessively polished speaking trumpet.

  Eamon snorted in derision, and Cillian agreed. Utter niss-crap. There’s no way this thing actually traverses the dimness under its own power.

  The moving contraption somehow didn’t look out of place.

  He had expected a slice of Lua and instead found himself in an amusement park. The groups of young men and women sweeping their heads left and right while sauntering deeper into the colorful medley of buildings only added to the impression.

  The one blemish on the otherwise lighthearted atmosphere was the iron bars and/or shutters guarding each and every window in sight. Most of them were wide open, not expecting a raid, and yet their presence reminded him that no matter the appearances he was still in the middle of nowhere.

  “On your left!” someone called out from behind them then rushed past on a bicycle, ringing the bell. Cillian instinctively stepped aside and watched the cyclist swirl to the right and swiftly disappear under a building – a feat that was possible because the ground level of the structure took the form of a single expanding loggia guarded by a succession of arches flowing one into another.

  And here’s something more traditional.

  Well, not entirely. The tower sticking up from the far end of the building wasn’t exactly typical – it was tipping, and quite severely at that. Its steep pyramid roof topped by a rooster-shaped wind vane cast a curious shadow over the heads of the pedestrians underneath.

  “Who even lives here?” Cillian wondered as the restaurant-on-wheels trudged noisily past. “There’s not much to do around these parts, is there?”

  “I think it’s mostly Foerstner’s soldiers – I’m sorry, security forces – and their dependents,” Cathal responded. “The academy’s personnel alone wouldn’t be enough to clean up beasts and maintain the facilities like lighthouses and relays, right?”

  “I suppose,” Cillian pondered. “Likely a contingent from O’Driscoll too. And maybe even the rest of the Big Four if Foerstner allowed it.”

  “Ha! No chance of that!” Eamon exclaimed. “A staging ground for sabotage? I don’t think so.”

  As the group kept distancing themselves from the academy, the outlandish designs proved to be unable to maintain the pace, and so the carnival feeling gradually gave way to a more serious one. After an intersection, the street assumed the image of a typical business lane found somewhere in the midring in Lua – lofty windows decorated with artful trims, fake columns at the corners, real columns supporting central balconies, and, as for the people… elegantly dressed people were everywhere.

  Two weeks spent sitting in classrooms or running around in the forest had almost made Cillian forget that there was a civilization awaiting beyond the academy walls.

  “Bakery?” Eamon asked in surprise, eyeing one of the signboards. “If they import flour from somewhere, why is that the only thing we get is sandwiches? Where’s our sweet pastry?”

  “You want to come in?” Nuala asked.

  “I want to, aye, but ain’t going to. An arm and a leg it would cost, mark me words.”

  The same building advertised a rake-load of services, among which were massage, a bookstore, and a barbershop. Cillian hadn’t even considered that he’d need a haircut at some point during the year. He lifted his campaign hat – worn for the first time since it’d been issued – swiped the growing locks off his forehead, and pushed it back. Aye, and pretty soon, too.

  Eamon was scrutinizing one of the porches. “Is it a real monster ye think?”

  Nuala snorted, “No. It’s a humanoid frog, dummy.”

  “How do ye know it’s not real?”

  The only remnants of the festive construction were the peculiar entrances on either side.

  A pair of stone, uhh, frogmen in pink suits and cute little fedoras lounged atop the roof that had stolen Eamon’s attention. Their legs were dangling over the edges, and their hands were playing lutes. Another porch was stylized as a yawning maw of some bear-like monstrosity. And yet another front door hid behind a pair of trees – not real but erected entirely from spiraling metal girders – serving as guardsmen.

  It was as if, lacking the means to build further up, the architects had elected instead to embrace a more, dare he say, untamed theme. Closer to nature. That Foerstner would ever do something like that was unexpected (after all, only a small step separated untamed from uncivilized), but, since coming to the academy, Cillian had learned that many of his notions about the company were simply ignorant.

  He itched to climb the flamboyant buildings – they were practically begging to be inspected from all sides – but reason stayed his hand. He’d woken up in pain, his ribs making their vexation at the rough treatment known. There was no gym tomorrow – the instructors had graciously allowed them time to recover – but even if postponed until Wednesday, Cillian imagined he would be relegated to the recovery pool, yet again.

  They turned left at the next intersection and found themselves on a street filled with shops – seemingly every building sported one on the ground level. The shopfronts with their large display windows were eye-catching and inviting. Some even spilled outside – ornate tables and shelves showcased wares under canvas awnings stretching above them – trying to entice the gullible young lads and lasses to set foot inside.

  “It’s not a great idea to buy things so close to the academy,” Nuala warned. “They expect us rich ‘chevaliers-to-be’ to come here today, so the prices–”

  “Rich chevaliers?” Eamon scoffed. “Who’re you talking about?”

  “That’s how we’re perceived, like it or not. And most are rich.”

  “We’re provided with everything we need though,” Cillian said. “What’s there to buy?”

  “Not everything,” Cathal disagreed. “I need razors, didn’t think to bring any.”

  “Why haven’t you asked the quartermaster?”

  “I have, but it was too late. And now I don’t have any tokens to spare. Any tokens at all.”

  “Don’t buy anything today,” Cillian said. “I’ll share.”

  Wise or not, the group still ended up wandering into several stores, just to look. Although, Cillian had to resist an urge to embark on a buying spree in one particular shop that didn’t appear to have any core theme. It sold everything under the skywalker – from musical instruments and gramophones to typewriters and timepieces, from cryptexes and extendable spyglasses to airship models and oracle cards. Also something the owner dubbed “charms”, which looked like random assortments of junk to Cillian.

  In spite of her earlier words, Nuala did make a purchase – a wishing bottle of all things. A tiny oblong jar with a cork and a pendant inside. Cillian peered through the smooth glass and saw that the suspended bauble was a bronze shamrock lacking the top leaf. He looked at her questioningly as she put a single bract on the counter, “What’s that? And haven’t you just said–”

  “Whisht! Don’t let Eamon hear or he would never stop taking the mickey.” She checked the surroundings. The aforementioned boy was nowhere to be seen, too busy browsing the aisles on the other side. “I don’t have this one, and it doesn’t cost any more than in Lua.”

  They’d been allowed to bring money to the academy, but only 100 scions of worth overall. His own allowance, and he suspected Nuala’s too, came mostly in bracts, so Cillian was a proud owner of almost a thousand of them. But today only 50 scaly coins stretched his pouch. They’d had to relinquish the whole sum on the first day to the staff and were required to request a portion when needed. He supposed a single bract for a wish bottle wasn’t unfair.

  Curiosity sated, the group soon left the shops and turned to walk Nullside once more, quickly coming in sight of the wall. The settlement was indeed compact, in this direction especially. The drop in wealth he’d expected to see the further they ventured from the academy was present but not that significant. Truly poor, in all likelihood, could not afford to move here to begin with. And why would they want to?

  Cillian adjusted his burgundy neckerchief – he was still getting used to it – and made way for a passing motorwagen. Wearing his dress shirt, vest, corduroy jacket, and wide-brimmed hat, he blended with the passing residents nicely. Discounting the useless golden trinkets sprucing up the clothing of some.

  The architects adapted, but it seems there are folk who left Lua behind only for the city to never leave them.

  In this less ostentatious part of the town, they found a tanner, a pharmacy, and, predictably, a so-called disorderly house. Among other shady enterprises offering entertainment.

  Aoife had told them the pub she’d invited them to was for drinking, not eating, so come lunchtime they bought food from a vendor chosen at random – small pieces of grilled meat on skewers (de-aethered magical meat, needless to say, as opposed to the much more expensive non-magical variant), salads, fried potato strips, roasted peas, and Nuala even braved the shop’s specialty – jellied eels that the cook had caught in some local river all on his own. If one chose to be generous and believe his words.

  They ate on their feet, walking and sharing impressions.

  “It’s not what I thought it’d be,” Eamon mumbled, his mouth half full. “Some areas are pretty quare while others feel like we’re still in Lua.”

  “Mhm,” Cathal agreed. “The effort required to transport all the necessary materials alone… You’d think there should be, like, at least some log buildings on account of all the trees around–”

  “The tilting tower is wood,” Cillian noted.

  “It’s the image,” Nuala added. She then stuffed one curling eel into her mouth, chewed, and made a face. Cillian laughed. “Look at us, we are Foerstner! We spread civilization wherever we go!”

  “More like a bait,” Eamon nodded sagely. “To make the other three waste more money. Can you imagine O’Driscoll grudgingly spending fortunes on prettifying all their farms because they can’t afford to look barbaric in contrast? Ha!”

  The group didn’t have to ask for directions to the pub; they simply stumbled upon it after traversing Lemwise for barely 10 minutes. A walk under a shoddy overpass connecting two buildings facing each other, and there sat “In Ruin”.

  Oh, so that’s why it’s called that.

  The whole establishment was housed on three concrete platforms, in turn “floating” above the ground, courtesy of the metal “tree stumps” underneath. Bridges connected the central – and biggest – “isle” to its two siblings, and wide stairs beckoned the passersby to ascend. The main building was three stories tall, its brick dark and worn, like it’d been peppered with bullets by an angry mob. The wide balcony on the second floor was missing a small section of the railing, and the wooden signboard on the roof’s face vaunted a sizable crack and was hanging precariously as if about to fall off.

  Eight water towers devoid of their legs – did it make them water shacks? – all similar in general shape but widely varied in proportions, stood left and right, four apiece, serving as private booths. They too looked shabby and tired, their paint chipping, and small holes littered the walls.

  The icing on the cake was a pair of flickering street lanterns.

  If not for the “stumps”, each likely costing an augustman’s ransom, and the fact that the stairs and the bridges were made of steel grating, it would indeed look derelict.

  Two people stood on the balcony: one very familiar – Shauna, the girl who’d screamed murder for not getting the ring she believed she deserved – was smoking and coughing, while another – a fella, probably local, given his late 20s appearance – kept laughing at her.

  The group transitioned indoors. The hazy and somewhat bitter ambiance consumed them immediately, and Cillian noted that the contrast between expensive and “found in a garbage heap” was still going strong.

  Walnut floors, exhausted to almost nothing. On the other hand, a collection of hororohoruru heads mounted on the wall to the left – their angry, owl-like eyes wide and pink, rich tufts of indigo hair weaving spirals above them like the world’s fluffiest eyebrows. Heavy tables and chairs, once polished, now drained of all color and boasting numerous battle scars. But at the far end – a bar, dark, imposing, and unquestionably cared for with love, not to mention all those shiny bottles engulfed in its depths.

  Aoife and her underlings – Or is Sorcha in charge? – waited upstairs, together with two guys and a girl whose names Cillian had probably heard but couldn’t recall. They shared three combined tables, free seating aplenty.

  “Hey!” Aoife waived with a smile. “You’ve made it.”

  “You thought we wouldn’t?” Nuala inquired, taking a chair.

  “I invited more people, but I fear not many would show. It’s already 20 minutes past the agreed-upon time.”

  “Told you no one would come for a drink at this hour,” Sorcha said, nursing her porcelain mug, white and with an arrow-pierced deer depicted in gold.

  “Tomorrow’s Monday, as you well know. Can’t go on a lash into the night.”

  “Isn’t it likely most just don’t want to celebrate?” Cathal asked, dropping down across from the unknown cailin. “I mean, how many teams have actually won anything? Four?”

  “We are not celebrating the results of the competition,” Aoife said defensively, “but rather our induction into the academy; I’ve informed everyone as such. Late, I know, but it’s not like we had an opportunity earlier.”

  “Like anyone would buy it,” Eamon scoffed from his seat next to Nuala.

  Cillian was still standing, examining the blackboard on the far wall, listing the drinks on the menu.

  “Exactly,” Sorcha agreed. “Everyone’s still moody, and it’s way too early.”

  “People are understandably upset, not moody. Anyway, introductions!” Aoife changed the subject. “I don’t know if you guys have met properly, so! These are Ciaran, Declan, and Maeve,” she pointed first at the two dark-haired, tall boys, who looked like brothers, then at the girl. “And these three are Nuala, Eamon, and Cathal. The boy looming is Cillian.”

  She looked up at him, “You can sit; a waiter will come by shortly.”

  “Aye,” Cillian said distractedly, then did just that, finding himself next to Teagan. “What are those?” He pointed at the right side of the board. “The Bronx? Ramos Gin Fizz – a whole scion?!”

  “Cocktails, obviously,” Shauna approached, apparently done destroying her lungs. “The Bronx is a mix of gin, wine – flavored with herbs – and orange juice. Don’t know the other one. And just so you know,” she looked at Sorcha, “not everyone’s moody. We’re here, aren’t we?”

  “Moody bitch is your default state, Shauna,” Sorcha retorted.

  “Alright!” Aoife said louder than necessary. “Uhh, choose your drinks. The gin’s good, so is the beer. I’m not a fan of cocktails myself.”

  “I’ll try the fizz,” Shauna declared, glaring at the brunette. “Broadening my experience is the reason I’m here.”

  “You’ve already spent eight bracts on that pink cocktail,” Ciaran noted. “Almost two scions wasted in the first half an hour?”

  The girl rolled her eyes, “Who cares? Don’t tell me you haven’t smuggled more than allowed.”

  “No comment on that. But what I am going to point out is that almost everyone in this town is Foerstner-affiliated. You’d risk them blabbing to the personnel about a dumb blonde conspicuously spending too much money every time they see her?”

  “Screw you, Ciaran, I’m not going to spend everything in one place. Good luck keeping the tally.”

  “And that’s why you’re a low-ringer, Shauna,” the fella shook his head as if disappointed in her.

  Eamon clearly didn’t like that remark, “Like the ring means anything. Yer one of the losers, ain’t you?”

  Before Ciaran could respond, Declan took the bait, almost growling, “We got jumped by those cheating shitehawks, and I heard you had skirted by ridiculous luck.”

  “What? Who told you that?! We tangled with three different teams and came away winners, hardly luck. We just don’t suck. Unlike some.”

  “Guys–” Aoife tried to interject once again while next to her Sorcha smiled and sipped from the mug.

  “Teagan told us what happened,“ Ciaran said. “They had you there; you got away thanks to a fluke. And then Eithne and Sloane simply grew complacent.”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth, Ciaran. I said it could’ve gone better, nothing more.”

  “You dig that? We deserved to win.”

  “We did get lucky though,” Cillian said. Eamon shot him a glare. “It’s true,” he continued, “I would know since I was the one who bounced that paint bubble away, and, believe me, I had no intention of doing so. Didn’t even comprehend what it was, just reacted on instinct.”

  “That’s skill, not luck.”

  “Eh,” Cillian made a so-so gesture. “Even if you chalk it up to skill, the fact that I was even holding the one object heavy enough to redirect the bubble was, undeniably, luck. I picked up the waterskin three seconds before they ambushed us. That said, we also did well before, during, and after the ambush, so,” he shrugged. “Anyway, in all likelihood, luck would even out over the course of the year.”

  No one said anything to that, and Aoife treated him with a grateful look. He hadn’t played a mediator for her; pointless squabbles exhausted him.

  A waitress approached to take their orders at last. Cillian opted for beer, same as Nuala and Cathal, while Eamon chose a cocktail.

  When the woman left, Aoife attempted to kick start the conversation again, “Have you looked around? What do you think of the town so far?”

  “I like it,” Nuala replied confidently. “It’s livelier than I’d imagined. More entertainment, too. We saw massage, cafes, a variety show–”

  “Don’t forget a whorehouse,” Eamon nudged her.

  Nuala cringed, “Aye, that too.”

  “Not a whorehouse. A disorderly house. Fully legal,” Ciaran corrected.

  “You would know, would you,” Shauna taunted.

  “Just pointing out the difference.”

  “Huh, these whorehouses are legal?” That was news to Cillian. “I thought they were all the same, simply bribing whoever needs to be bribed.”

  “Not a whorehouse,” Ciaran repeated insistently. “Disorderly houses are sponsored; they’re good for morale. There are many armed men and women here, in the middle of nowhere, and no matter how ‘lively’ the place appears, it’s not Lua.”

  “If you say so.”

  The drinks arrived, and the discussion moved away from whores and their legality, or lack thereof.

  “There’s also a shop selling vinyl records,” Aoife shared with them when Nuala described the route they’d taken. “It’s further Rimwise down that shopping street. And a tailor, too. Even this far from Lua people still try to keep up with the latest fashion.”

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  Eamon scoffed, “What fashion? Everyone’s been wearing the same stuff for ages.”

  Shauna looked at him as if he was pitiful. “Maybe among your blue-collar pals that’s the case.”

  “Ouch. Are you going to let this slide?” Sorcha egged Eamon on with a sly smile. Aoife kicked her lightly under the table, earning a scowl. Cillian just sighed.

  Cathal voiced what was no doubt on the minds of the others, too, “You seem to know a lot about the place, Aoife. How come?”

  She took a moment to think, then began carefully, “We all know a lot about it. I mean, those with family and friends being Foerstner for a long time. I’m afraid some of you are at a disadvantage.”

  “Yes, we know everything other than the things that actually matter,” Shauna seethed. “I can’t believe auntie Noreen didn’t tell me about these stupid competitions!”

  “It’s a tradition,” Moira objected, speaking for the first time. “To enter more or less blindly.”

  “Niss take tradition. Did that stop Oscar from cheating? He clearly prepared.”

  “Still lost though,” Ciaran observed with satisfaction.

  “Unlucky, you said it yourself. And he’ll still have those communicators in the later events. What a prick.”

  “Do we know that he cheated?” Cathal asked uncertainly. “Or is it just a guess?”

  “He cheated,” Declan affirmed. “I’ve seen the communicators with my own eyes.”

  “And the instructors don’t care? Surely, if you know, they must know as well, right?”

  “Isn’t cheating also a tradition?” Cillian played the niss’ advocate. “Our team kind of cheated, too. I bet many did.”

  “You mean your waterskin?” Declan scoffed. “That’s nothing. And even disregarding the communicators, Oscar must have enlisted help from their chaperone, at a minimum. How else could he have tracked us down so easily? I refuse to believe he’s just that good at following a trail or whatever.”

  “So you’re all automatically assuming it’s Oscar’s doing? Not Sloane’s or Rory’s?” Cillian was curious about that. Moira had mentioned something similar during their truce meeting.

  Declan dismissed the idea, “I don’t know what your beef with Rory is, but he’s a straightforward guy. He wouldn’t scheme and plot – that’s Oscar’s forte. He’s fierce competitive.”

  “Except Rory did plot to ambush me; invited Keefe along to soften me up. Granted, not much of a plan, but still.”

  “That’s what you say,” Ciaran challenged. “Even if true, smuggling in communicators and arranging some kind of deal with an instructor is on a different level.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Aoife attempted to bring an end to the subject. “As instructor Loritz said, we’re here to learn. Cheating in a competition would only hinder you in the future.”

  “Ugh,” Shauna made a disgusted noise, then finished her off-white cocktail and looked at her. “We’ll see how you sing come the end of the year when Oscar and his cronies claim all the best assignment posts.”

  “This isn’t how it’s going to develop. The academy’s main concern is producing the best chevaliers possible, not–”

  “The academy is not some nebulous, impartial entity, Aoife, it’s a collection of individuals, and their main concern could easily become whatever someone with leverage wishes it to–”

  Oh, bother.

  Cillian sat back as the girls kept bickering.

  It was as good a moment to zone out as any, so he let the vigorous back-and-forth fade into the background. Instead, the boy turned to the side to observe other people in the pub.

  Close to the staircase, a group of women inhaled perfumed smoke sticks and blew soap bubbles at the passing men, laughing and fluttering their eyelashes coquettishly. The bubbles burst against the walls, releasing their fragrance: jasmine, lilac, heliotrope.

  One of the ladies found her feet and toasted, “Sláinte is táinte!” The group cheered and drank.

  Cillian smiled. Health and wealth, aye. Add adventure to the list, and it’ll be perfect.

  Everyone here looked middle age or younger – not a single senior patron in sight. Maybe it was due to the type of the establishment. Although, come to think of it, he couldn’t recall seeing any older people on the streets either. He noted a few curious glances sent their way, but no more than that. Seemed like the settlers weren’t much in awe of the latest crop of future chevaliers.

  Cillian sipped his beer, turned the other way, and began ruminating on the competition and the information already shared at the table. To tell the truth, he wasn’t much in the mood for celebration. The chest still troubled him.

  Their team hadn’t really talked about the event, not in detail. He wanted to take a look at their actions, what they had and hadn’t done well, but such a discussion would have to wait for when they were alone. And not gallivanting. Also, he didn’t know if mentioning the help they’d received from instructor Sommer to the others was a good idea. Had more teams benefited from their chaperones as well? Was it a big deal or not?

  Maybe Patrick Sommer had known about his colleague helping Oscar’s team and hadn’t liked that. Tried to even the odds? The staff not caring about Rory’s assault on Cillian and selectively assisting some students was not abnormal. Honestly, he wasn’t even that upset about it, despite finding himself on the receiving end twice. That was just how things worked.

  Cillian was more confused by the hand they had been lent. Why would anyone aid a group of low-ringers? And Shauna… he’d forgotten about her until today, but she was certainly one of the “elites” yet was still relegated to the second ring. There was also the case of Mairead Gehler putting Rory in his place, violently, not caring about his family being a big deal in the corporation. And now he learned that some important information had even been deliberately concealed from his upper-class counterparts. Why wouldn’t their families attempt to leverage any and all possible advantages?

  It appeared it wasn’t quite as simple as those up top bullying the culchies at their feet; there was more nuance to it. Obvious in hindsight, but Cillian had lacked a reason to contemplate the dynamic until now. At school, he hadn’t interacted with his peers much – not since the incident and if one didn’t count face punching – and at his father’s workplace he’d mostly witnessed the aforementioned “bullying”.

  He was likely overthinking things, but Cillian couldn’t help but be wary of a possible repayment that could be demanded of them in the future if such favors continued. Maybe he should ask Aoife’s opinion later; the girl had been nothing but pleasant and helpful so far.

  That decided, Cillian forcibly switched gears to ponder another matter. He wanted to write to his father in the next few hours since the deadline was 8 pm. The two minuscule passages he’d managed to scribble the previous evening wouldn’t cut it.

  He was three paragraphs down into this impromptu letter-composing session, purely mental for now, when his musings were rudely interrupted by Cathal nudging him and asking if he wanted a refill. The waitress was here again, expectant. He looked at his empty pint glass – Huh – and gestured for the woman to go ahead. Being a bit of a lightweight, Cillian knew it would be his last.

  Thankfully, at some point the group’s conversation had stopped resembling angry chickens clucking at each other and turned mellower.

  He heard Maeve’s voice for the first time, talking about something with Declan, while Nuala seemed to be quizzing Aoife on what in her opinion were the best prizes to purchase. And Shauna was gone, which undoubtedly helped ease the tension.

  Sorcha meanwhile quietly fetched something from her bag and looked hopefully around the table. She caught his eye and offered up the object with a questioning eyebrow. He realized it was a miniature chess set. Of course.

  “You seriously carry chess with you?” Cillian asked.

  “As opposed to carrying it unseriously?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She shrugged, “I’m bored; this isn’t really my scene. Aoife’s just a tyrant who wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

  He gave her a skeptical look, “I doubt that.”

  “Oh, don’t let her sweet demeanor fool you. She’s like a selkie – all cute and fluffy on the outside but hiding a raging monster inside.”

  “Never seen one.”

  “Yes you have; you’re observing it on a prowl right now. They are perfect impersonators, see? Currently, she’s luring poor Nuala into–”

  “This selkie can also change her mind about sharing the rosemary essence with certain forgetful brunettes.”

  “There’s her teeth,” Sorcha smirked. “We’ve spooked her; now she’s going to–” Aoife glared at her. Sorcha theatrically cleared her throat, turned back to face Cillian as though nothing had happened, opened the chess set, and asked innocently, “Well?”

  He bounced his gaze between the girls, uncertain. “Suure,” he dragged out. “Although, I’ve yet to last more than 20 moves against you. Don’t know how much it’d help in alleviating your boredom.”

  “Even bad players sometimes make interesting moves,” she cocked her head, eying him, “or at least funny ones.”

  “Ha-ha. You should be a comedian.”

  “Perhaps one day,“ the girl nodded.

  “Huh?” Is she for real?

  They assembled the pieces, and Cillian set things in motion – pawn to d4. Sorcha instantly responded by meeting the offender head-to-head with a pawn of her own.

  The Queen’s Gambit then. I give you c4.

  She took the undefended pawn without hesitation. The gambit accepted! And just like that, the boy had lost a piece but successfully deflected one of her central pawns to the wing.

  He had done some studying after the humiliations first on the train and on a couple of later occasions in the rec room.

  It didn’t help him to win, to be sure, but Cillian considered his showing respectable.

  “It was a warm-up,” he said. She just reset the board with a content expression.

  During the second game, Shauna popped up again, with a tobacco pipe this time, taken from aether knew where. She offered it to the others with a devilish grin, and Eamon took her up on it. Cillian expected the mucker to start coughing, but he simply smoked for half a minute like it was something he did all the time, then returned the pipe to the wavy-haired girl.

  “Not bad.” He exhaled one last time and proceeded to smack his lips as if tasting the residual smoke.

  At Nuala’s inquiring look, Eamon said, “Father smokes. I do too sometimes but don’t make it a habit.”

  “You’re no fun,” Shauna complained. “And you two aren’t either,” she shot a judgemental look at Sorcha and Cillian. “Why are you playing chess? And is that tea you’re drinking? Go get a real drink, Sorcha, we’re celebrating!”

  “My idea of celebration does not involve getting langers or lifting my skirt at random guys to bum a smoke.”

  Shauna scowled, “Right, why am I even speaking to you. You wouldn’t know fun if it hit you in the face.”

  “Mhm, go have more fun then. And try not to get pregnant in week two,” Sorcha replied, her face neutral.

  Now the blonde looked downright pissed. “That’s rich coming from you. By the way, how’s Seamus doing? Or was it his brother?”

  Sorcha wasn’t impressed – the girl made a move, glanced up in disdain, and echoed the sentiment expressed by Ciaran earlier, “And that’s why you’re a low-ringer, Shauna. Very smart to believe in rumors with no substance.”

  “Póg mo thóin, you rancid witch!”

  Ciaran stepped in, “Have I missed something? Why are you two so catty to each other all of a sudden? I’ve witnessed you squabble several times in the past two weeks.”

  “Ask the geebag over there,” Shauna spat, jerking her head in Sorcha’s direction, who just shrugged, eyes firmly on the board again. “What, nothing to say? That’s right, you better watch your mouth or who knows what I may accidentally let slip in turn.”

  When the brunette calmly kept playing, unfazed, Shauna angrily muttered something, whirled around, and stormed away.

  “Whore,” was Sorcha’s goodbye to the fleeing cailin.

  “Sorcha,” Aoife sighed in a manner that sounded strangely resigned. Cillian was mildly surprised she hadn’t tried to intervene.

  “What? You know I’m right. She only wears knickers to keep her ankles warm.”

  Loud sniggers were the table’s reaction to that. Nuala and Maeve included.

  “Why do you keep doing this?”

  “She’s Shauna. Do I need another reason?”

  “Teagan!” Ciaran called out to the boy, who was approaching with Moira on his arm. Cillian hadn’t even noticed their absence. “Help me out here. What happened between Shauna and Sorcha, you keep track?”

  “Sorcha’s sitting right here; ask her.”

  “Like she would tell me anything. Come on, you must know something.”

  “I don’t. Some conflict of interest or such; that’s all I’ve heard. None of my business.”

  “Don’t talk about it, Teag,” Moira chided.

  “I’m only repeating what Sorcha herself said; it’s not a secret.”

  “Conflict of interest, huh? Between the families?” Ciaran looked at the girl of his inquiry, who’d just finished proving her superiority to Cillian yet again. She paid the fella no mind.

  “I brought games,” Aoife said in the silence that followed. “Shall we play?”

  “The skywalker lights up, and the town awakens,” the overseer proclaimed. “Everyone but you, Eamon.”

  “I knew it,” the boy grumbled, then dropped his card on the table face up to reveal… a gentleman. “It’s becau–”

  “Whisht. You’re dead, don’t speak,” Aoife added.

  Eamon grimaced, glanced at his empty glass, cursed, and pushed back off the table, the chair’s legs scraping the floor. “I’m going to mingle.”

  Once he left, Ciaran said, “Grumpy, ain’t he? But I say he had the right idea, and the rotfangs shut him up.”

  “Go on, eliminate me this time,” Sorcha rolled her eyes. “You’re being played for fools.”

  Ciaran looked at the other grave faces – a rotfang infestation was a serious matter – searching for support. “Round two. I accuse Sorcha of being a filthy backstabbing rotfang!”

  “Backstabbing, really?” The accused rewarded the accuser with a bored look. “Killing humans is in their nature; how is it backstabbing?”

  “Dishonorable, then.”

  “Haven’t we just done it?” Moira asked.

  “Aye, and Eamon paid with his life because we didn’t follow through. She’s one of them.”

  “Or it’s a misdirection.”

  “No. Look at her smug eyes. And Eamon dying? A misdirection is too obvious, so she’s doing double misdirection. She makes herself look guilty to avoid being accused.”

  “Doesn’t seem to work that well,” Teagan remarked.

  “I think she just wants out of the game,” Cillian voiced his opinion. “I’m voting nay.” Sorcha frowned at him.

  Already a trio of upstanding citizens were dead. With both rotfangs still on the loose and only a chevalier and a quartet of civilians remaining, the situation was growing precarious.

  “I vote aye,” Nuala said. “She does look suspicious.”

  “It’s just my face.”

  Moira hesitated, “Isn’t it more likely that Ciaran’s deliberately deceiving us?”

  “I’m not. Look at it logically – why would I immediately go after my cousin? Makes no sense.”

  “So quick to defend yourself,” Sorcha commented nonchalantly.

  Moira voted “nay” anyway. But Teagan and Maeve both said “aye”, and with four people voting in unison, the outcome was determined.

  Sorcha gave them a pleased smile before revealing that she, too, was a gentleman. Or lady.

  Some bickering ensued, accusations were thrown around – Aoife gave them time to vent – but soon, the all-powerful overseer restored the order, “It appears the good people of Luasville made the wrong choice, but not all is lost, the town can still be saved. For now, the skywalker dims, and the citizens go to sleep. Sweet dreams, everyone.”

  This is proceeding really quick, Cillian thought. Declan had been murdered in cold blood right away, then Shauna erroneously eliminated, followed by Eamon and now Sorcha.

  And it kept proceeding with the same decisiveness, unlike the session before. This round, it was Cillian’s turn to die in the dark, terrified and alone.

  He wasn’t guilty of anything!

  Another day and night cycle went by.

  In the end, they discovered that Moira and Nuala made a surprisingly effective team of vicious rotfangs. He suspected that Teagan, despite ostensibly being a chevalier, had also played along somehow. Still, he appreciated Moira’s acting in particular – “hesitating” to accuse an innocent (Sorcha) while pointing a finger at another innocent (Ciaran) so he could be killed off shortly after?

  Neatly done.

  The rest had been a formality.

  At that point, Cillian decided to get some fresh air. He excused himself and went outside. Eamon was there too, talking to an unfamiliar oul gent while animatedly pointing somewhere Rimwise.

  “Oh, Kil, how did you fare?” He thanked the man and joined Cillian on the steps.

  “It’s Cillian. And it went terribly. I was slain mercilessly and without reason.”

  “Ha! Serves you right! Should know better than accuse me!”

  “Just get over it already.” He smiled and bounced on his toes to keep warm.

  Should’ve grabbed my jacket and hat, too, Cillian mused, eyeing the other boy’s relaxed posture.

  “Say, Kil,” Eamon began in a quare voice, subdued all of a sudden, darting his gaze to the side.

  “M?”

  “Umm, you don’t, ye know, have any other plans for today, perchance?”

  “No?” A short pause. “Should I?”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to imply nothing. It’s just, umm, the good man over there told me about various interesting places. I mean, romantic places – for a couple or a potential couple to pay a visit, ya feel me?” Eamon’s eyes shone with yearning and hope.

  “You’re not my type.”

  “Oh niss take you, Kil! Obviously, I meant Nuala. Could you, ye know, make up some reason and detach yerself once we leave?”

  “Oh. A romantic walk in the woods wasn’t enough for you? But there were such pretty lights…”

  “If I never see that damn forest again, it would be too soon.”

  Cillian automatically looked Heavenward, but the walls barred the view. “I thought you were happy enough yesterday.”

  Eamon snorted, “I was. With the result and the fact we were finally done. Really happy. For a time, at least.” He glanced up at the sky and exhaled. “Sometimes I think I’m not built for this… this chevalier business.”

  “What? It’s been two weeks. A bit premature to make conclusions, don’t you think? Our companions are not even in sight yet.”

  “Maybe. But it’s only going to get more difficult, innit? With each week. If I ain’t comfortable going to a safe area while monitored by an armed instructor, then…”

  “But you did well. And none of us were comfortable.”

  “Nuala was.”

  “Point. None except Nuala then.”

  “You were, too, Kil. Right at home! Climbing trees, suggesting plans, taking initiative.”

  “And next time it would be someone else,” Cillian shrugged. “You give it too much weight. Like I said, can’t make any conclusions after one competition with blindin’ paintballs, man.”

  “Yea yea, I dig it. Don’t mind me, just naggins’ talk…” He sighed. “Want to do well, is all.”

  “Aye, aren’t we all…”

  The double doors abruptly flew open and merry laughter spilled onto the porch. Eamon smiled at the heartwarming sounds. Or maybe it was at a scuttered man supported by two of his fellows, all three stumbling out of the building.

  A bit early to be pissed, no?

  When the boy next turned around, the somewhat gloomy air was already gone and his eyes had a determined glint to them. “Our best and brightest… Bah! Ye know what? I will do well. I’m certainly better motivated than the pampered tools we have for classmates.” He eyed Cillian curiously. “But why are you here, Kil?”

  “Hm?” Cillian blinked. “Outside?”

  “In the academy.”

  “Oh. Uhh, just want to explore the world, I suppose. Kind of sick of being cooped up inside the walls.” He wasn’t about to talk about his other reasons. “Which is ironic considering we are currently behind the walls as well.”

  “Come on, this can’t be all there is to it,” Eamon nudged him. “Ye realize you ain’t fooling nobody with the way you always hide yer back in the lockers and showers, aye?”

  Cillian grimaced. “I don’t want to think about it.” Three seconds slipped by before he continued, “Let alone share. Uhm, sorry about that.”

  “Nah, Kill, I feel ya. No pressure. Only curious.”

  A slightly awkward silence stretched between them nonetheless.

  Rubbing his hands to mask his annoyance – at himself or the other boy he didn’t know – Cillian clumsily redirected the spotlight, “And what about you? I know you said you wanted to be a treasure hunter, but there’s no need to become a chevalier for that, ay? As far as I know, most hunts are not solo efforts but expeditions. With researchers and other staff. A clatter of roles to choose from.”

  “Err…” Eamon looked away, contemplating. Right, would he even want to tell me now? “Truth be told, we ain’t doing too well. Not just our family, I mean, but the entire department.”

  He did, evidently.

  The department?

  Cillian’s brows knitted in a frown, “How do you mean?”

  The boy dithered for a moment, glancing at the closed doors, but decided to elaborate, “Well, okay, Kil, get this. We were supposed to reproduce that bleedin’ alloy that the Hierarchy discovered yonks ago – know what I mean? – but we’re running behind schedule and over budget, massively, and now rumors are flying around that Heavenly Steel are about to beat us to the punch. So the entire department is on thin ice; no one’s safe. But especially not the low-level laborers…”

  “It’s their frackin’ specialty. Heavenly Steel’s, that is.”

  “Aye. But you think any of the higher-ups give a null? So we figured why not try getting into the academy? The company wouldn’t touch the parents of a chevalier, would they? Seemed like a long shot, but here I am.”

  “Huh. Better motivated, indeed.” Cillian searched Eamon’s face. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here. Without you, I would struggle to even find a team.” And wasn’t that a sad little fact.

  “Come on, Kil, you’re a great craic.”

  Riiight.

  The talk petered out for a while as the pair watched another group of eager customers pour into the establishment, including several men and women wearing their Foerstner neckerchiefs or scarves.

  Eying the newcomers, Cillian wondered if being sent here was considered to be a punishment for the company’s security lackeys. He imagined that living in such a small place was bound to get tedious on the double.

  These ones looked happy enough though.

  “What about Cathal?” Cillian broke the hush.

  “Hm? What about him?”

  “You want me to make like a tree so you can woo Nuala. But what of Cathal?”

  “Oh! Take him with you, ‘course, but so it doesn’t look like a setup. Some urgent call to attend to.”

  “Ha! I can try doing it, but you’re overestimating my acting abilities.”

  “No, no, I’ve already thought of everything! Get this: you forgot that yer razors all broke when you threw your bag so now you don’t have any to spare and, actually, need some for yerself, so the two of ye better hurry before all the shops close down for the day.”

  “I don’t throw my bag around,” Cillian noted seriously.

  Eamon rolled his eyes, “It dun’t matter! Say the gorilla stomped on it for all I care.”

  “Sure,” Cillian shrugged. “But if Nuala sees through the charade, don’t blame me.”

  “I won’t. And, uhm… by the way, you ain’t, err, into her, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Definitive! But, you mean, at all? Not yer type?”

  “Not the time.” Cillian leaned on the railing. “Frankly, I don’t understand how you’re planning to accommodate a relationship. The load is about to increase drastically, I reckon, and it’s not insubstantial to begin with.”

  “There’s always space for romance, Kil.”

  Their conversation got intruded upon by Sorcha, who walked out of the pub with her bag, fully dressed.

  “Oh, Sorcha dear, how did you fare?” Eamon asked, grinning.

  “You call me that again and I’ll kick you in the balls.”

  “Sorry!” he raised his hands. “Just a joke.”

  “If I threatened to kick you too, would you stop shortening my name?”

  “Nah, I wouldn’t believe ye. I do believe her though.”

  “Smart boy. And to answer your question – yes. Mum has finally allowed me to go home.” If the girl rolled her eyes any harder they would make a full orbit.

  “I didn’t know you two had such a dynamic,” Cillian professed, a wee bemused.

  Sorcha sighed, “Sometimes it’s just easier to give in than to be subject to her silent disapproving looks. She’s a full-shamrock master of them; you don’t know what it’s like.” She shuddered dramatically, presumably remembering a past incident.

  “Aoife disapproves of you not wanting to celebrate?”

  “Not wanting to socialize. I keep telling her that playing chess is a two-person activity, ergo, should count as socializing. But she’s too dim to understand such wisdom.”

  “Of course.”

  “Anyway, I’ll see you later. Don’t drink yourself into oblivion.” She waved and marched toward the platform’s exit.

  They watched her go. Once her footsteps had faded, Eamon asked, “What about her?”

  “M?”

  “Do you like her?”

  “Uhh, she’s fine?” Cillian shrugged. “I don’t know; my head’s full of other things. Haven’t thought about cailini.”

  Eamon scrunched up his face dubiously. “That’s a rake-load of bollocks. Come on, you know me object of interest, now share yours.”

  “Object, huh? And I’ll notify you, honored sir, once I acquire one. Good luck on your date.”

  Turned out, they didn’t have to invent anything.

  After playing “The Landlord’s Game” with the anti-monopoly ruleset – Cillian hadn’t known such a variation existed; he’d only been familiar with the traditional monopoly, but, apparently, the game could be played cooperatively, in which case the session was won if the players managed things in a way that the one with the least scions ended up with twice the amount everyone had started with – the group naturally began to disperse.

  Shauna disappeared on her own yet again, then Moira and Teagan ambled off together. And when Cillian’s team said their goodbyes and Nuala expressed her desire to keep exploring for a couple of hours longer, he used the opportunity to pronounce that he had enough entertainment for one day and was heading back. Cathal concurred. Because he really thought so or because Eamon had gotten to him too – was to remain a mystery forever.

  “So, he got to you too?” Cillian asked as they left the would-be couple behind.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The fella plans his date like a military campaign – secure support from the allies, prepare the field of battle, launch a surprise attack.”

  The pair shared a laugh.

  They deliberately traveled back through unfamiliar streets rather than rehearse the route they’d taken before. On the way, Cillian noticed that the hydrants located at almost every intersection, betraying the presence of the hydraulic power network, were evergreen in color, as opposed to the dull bronze attire they favored in Lua.

  Interesting. Do they still use a lot of hydraulic equipment here?

  One would think that the residents burned so much aether as to make any ideas about minimizing the fallout unrealistic. Beasts would come, regardless if you used a hydraulic crane or a much more convenient aether-powered alternative.

  He might be wrong though.

  As they left the concealment of the masonry labyrinth and emerged onto the humble slope, nothing was left to obstruct the view of the looming academy walls and a duo of water towers flanking it at a respectable distance.

  The contrast between the lively streets at their backs, full of comforting lights and laughter, and the threatening guard towers ahead, hushed and tenebrous, was disconcerting. Apart from the two boys and another trio of students, also shuffling back toward the main gate, not a soul was wandering up or down the slope. As if there was a rule that forbade crossing the invisible border.

  But no matter what, he couldn’t deny that the place was starting to grow on him.

  Now that we aren’t being kept away from the general public like some vile monsters.

  Once they’d been ushered into the stone enclave, Cillian led the other boy to his room, where he unearthed a spare shaving razor. And when the grateful Cathal retreated, his thoughts finally returned to the letter.

  He glanced at the clock – there was still time. So he sat down and began writing afresh, discarding his yesterday’s miserable scratches and electing to open with something lighthearted.

  Hey, oul man, how are you faring?

  Did you know that there’s a variation of uncle Finley’s favorite board game where everyone works together for the greater good? Let me tell you about it.

  The game goes like this…

  Irish slang: