Unhewn Throne 01 - The Emperor's Blades(123)

“What did people bring with them?” he asked. “I was so wiped from the first week that I wandered in with just my blacks and the blades on my back.”

Laith shrugged. “Most of the snipers had their bows. I think Gwenna carted along some demo—I could have sworn I heard an explosion down there. On the other hand, that might have been the poison pounding in my ears as my sanity slowly slipped away.”

“Grub,” Gent replied. “I stuffed my pockets before leaving the ship. Had enough of raw f*cking rat.” Of course. Even now, he held a massive turkey wing in his equally massive hand, waving it around the way a field marshal might gesture with his baton. Gent’s favorite chapter of the Tactics was the eighth, the one that began, On an extended mission, food is as important as fighting.…

“Anything else?” Valyn pressed. “Did anyone bring … I don’t know, packs or cord or anything like that?”

“What were you going to pack?” Laith asked skeptically. “A bottle of Raaltan red and an embroidered tunic for the ball?”

Valyn spread his hands in defeat. If his friends were anything like him, they’d been paying more attention to the slarn and the gaping hole in the rock than they had to the gear carried by those surrounding them. Anyone could have brought the Liran cord that had bound Lin’s wrists. It was light and supple enough to pocket, cram in a small pack, or even thread through the belt loops that held up a cadet’s pants.

The hooting and heckling from the soldiers crested for a moment, and Valyn looked over to see Jakob Rallen walking into the arena, leaning heavily on his cane to support his bulk. Although the Kettral were the only military branch to eschew formal uniforms, Rallen was dressed for the occasion in crisp blacks, his hair carefully combed across his sweating pate. As Master of Cadets, he would preside over the ceremony—Valyn remembered as much from past years—and he did all he could to invest the role with more pomp and grandeur than it deserved. A low table and a high-backed chair sat at the center of the arena, the focus of the assembled benches, and Rallen took his seat with obvious pleasure in front of a dangling Annurian flag, the sunburst bright against the white cloth.

“Flag,” Gent grunted around a mouthful of meat. “First time I’ve seen one of those on the Islands.”

“Rallen probably figures he’ll cut a more imposing figure if he sits in front of something large and impressive,” Laith pointed out.

“Let him,” Valyn grumbled. “This is the last we’ll have to hear from that miserable bastard.”

After they were assigned to Wings, the cadets would no longer be cadets. Instead, they would report directly to their regional commanders. Rallen would turn his attention to the unfortunate classes below them, the young soldiers who had not yet passed the Trial. The fact should have made Valyn happy, but he eyed the master with a mixture of distrust and unease. Rallen had a satisfied smirk on his face as he eyed the crowd. Until the Wings were set, the man had not played his final card, and he had no love for the son of the Emperor.

“Today,” he began after ponderously taking his seat, his voice pinched and imperious, “those of you who have spent the last eight years under my charge will move on, not to more important things, because there is nothing more important than the training a cadet receives, but to the next stage of your lives as Kettral.”

The veterans had fallen quiet. They were willing to pay the man a measure of respect, although they looked anything but rapt. The Flea was trimming his nails with a long knife while Adaman Fane nodded impatiently, as though willing Rallen to get on with the preamble and reach the meat of the matter. Sigrid sa’Karnya, the Flea’s stunningly beautiful leach, lay half-reclined on one of the stone walls, her closed eyes turned toward the sun, blond hair framing her ivory cheeks. Unlike the rest of the group, she wasn’t wearing blacks. In fact, she wasn’t wearing military clothing at all. Instead, a gorgeous red dress that emphasized the fullness of her breasts clung to her figure, draping her body and the stone beneath. Hull only knew where she’d come up with that, but Valyn tore his eyes away. The woman’s reputation for cruelty exceeded that of most of the soldiers on Qarsh. She wouldn’t appreciate him staring.

“In making these assignments,” Rallen continued, “we have considered your strengths and your weaknesses as well as the needs of the various Wings. If you find yourself assigned to a group that is … not to your liking, I would remind you that more careful and deliberate minds than yours have weighed variables of which you are entirely ignorant.”