Unhewn Throne 01 - The Emperor's Blades(124)

Valyn squinted. Had the man smirked at him when he mentioned undesirable assignments? The light wind had fallen, and the sun overhead was suddenly hot, boiling him in his blacks. He could hear the waves grating on the sand a quarter mile distant, the skirling of the terns as they soared, then plunged for fish. He longed for the coolness and solitude of the open bay, an escape from the mass of bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, waiting for Rallen’s pronouncements. Was it only his imagination, or could he hear the creaking of the hawsers down in the harbor?

“We’ll begin with those Kettral assigned to established Wings,” Rallen said.

“I wouldn’t mind ending up with the Flea,” Gent rumbled quietly.

“Someone on his Wing’ll have to die first,” Laith observed, “which is not all that likely.”

Valyn glanced over his shoulder. The Flea was still trimming his nails. Sigrid was still basking in the sun. Newt, the small, ugly demolitions master, was leaning forward, picking absently at something in his ragged beard while waiting for the judgment. Chi Hoai Mi, the wing’s flier, and Blackfeather Finn were nowhere to be seen. When you’d watched a couple dozen Wing Selections, they probably got a lot less interesting.

“Flying under Plenchen Zee,” Rallen began, pausing dramatically, enjoying his moment onstage, “specializing in demolitions—”

“If it’s me, Rallen, I swear I’ll feed you your own nuts,” Gwenna remarked in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

The Master of Cadets pursed his lips in an angry frown, but the crowd loved it.

“The girl has fire!” Zee boasted, standing and waving a fat finger. “She will come to love me in mere days!”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Rallen said sourly. “Specializing in demolitions under Plenchen Zee … Gent Herren.”

Valyn and Laith turned to stare at their friend. “Well, I’ll be buggered blind,” Gent muttered. He was probably the worst demolitions man in the class, but then, word on the Islands was that Zee didn’t much care for subtle riggings and careful calculations. As long as there was a lot of smoke and more fire, the man was pretty much satisfied wading into the fray and finishing everything off with his blades. It was an honor to be chosen, but Gent didn’t look so thrilled.

Zee, for his part, was already on his feet, arms spread in mock outrage, his ruby glinting bloodily from its socket. “You could have given me the Sharpe girl and instead I get this … this … ox creature? I told you I wanted tits!” He gestured vividly with his hands. “Tits!”

“A couple more years,” Fane bellowed from a few seats away, “and you’ll be fat enough to have tits of your own.”

“Holy Hull,” Gent said, holding his huge head in his hands. “Sweet Holy Hull.”

Laith clapped him merrily on the back. “Good news for us! At least Val and I know we won’t have to lug your bulk around the better part of two continents. I swear, with you hanging from the talons, my bird flies at half speed.”

Gent shrugged off the crack and rose unsteadily from his seat to meet his new Wing mates. They were already filling an absurdly large horn with ale, gesturing toward him eagerly.

Valyn watched him go with some trepidation. Laith’s jesting aside, losing Gent to one of the veteran Wings was tough. He’d been one of the few cadets that Valyn trusted, one of the few he had hoped to serve with. Now the pool of soldiers remaining for his own Wing was that much smaller, the possibilities just a little more dangerous.

Rallen sent two more cadets off to the veterans—Jenna Lanner and Quick Hal—good soldiers, but unremarkable by Kettral standards. Then the real fun began. There were three Wing leaders in the class: Valyn, Sami Yurl, and Essa, a short young Raaltan woman with arms the size of her thighs. By the end of the morning, the three of them would be commanding the Kettral’s newest soldiers.

“Sami Yurl,” the Master of Cadets began, pointing imperiously to a spot just in front of his table.

Yurl rose, flashed a quick grin to the crowd, slapped a few of his cronies on the back, and crossed the intervening space. How he managed to look like royalty while dressed the same as everyone else, Valyn had no idea—probably something about the strut.

“Let’s see who’s lucky enough,” Yurl began, raising his chin and eyeing the crowd coolly, “to serve under the next Kettral legend.”

There was some hooting and heckling from the veterans at that, but Yurl only smirked.