The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(41)

‘Watch out – the twins are here,’ Othello whispered.

Tarquin and Isadora were climbing the stairs ahead of them with a sweaty Didric in tow. The trio stopped a few steps below, staring Fletcher and Othello down.

‘What a touching family reunion,’ Didric mocked, earning himself a punch on the arm from Tarquin. He caught the hateful look Fletcher gave him, and they stared each other down. It was all Fletcher could do to stop himself from shoving Didric back down the stairs, but Othello grasped his wrist to steady him.

Isadora rolled her eyes and clicked her fingers to get Fletcher’s attention.

‘Dearest cousin, it has been far too long.’ She smiled prettily and gave Fletcher an exaggerated curtsy. ‘Why, it’s been over a year, has it not? What have you been doing all this time?’

‘You’re no family of mine,’ Fletcher spat, the memory of his long incarceration, and those behind it, still fresh in his mind.

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Tarquin replied, a vicious sneer on his face. ‘Once a commoner, always a commoner. As long as the inheritance from Aunt Alice is still ours, I don’t care what you call yourself.’

‘You can keep your blood money,’ Fletcher said. ‘Just stay the hell away from me.’

‘Gladly,’ Isadora said, the pretty smile gone from her face. She lifted her nose in the air and sniffed pointedly.

‘Come on,’ she smirked, sauntering away. ‘It stinks of dwarf here anyway.’

Othello reddened with anger, and Fletcher winced as the dwarf tightened his grip on Fletcher’s wrist to stop himself from lashing out.

‘Nice haircut by the way,’ Tarquin called over his shoulder. ‘You must tell me where you had it done.’

‘That’s it …’ Othello growled, leaping to his feet. Fletcher followed suit, but the trio were gone and instead they found themselves staring at a startled Rory and Genevieve.

‘Hello,’ Fletcher said, unsure of himself. The three had not parted on the best of terms – he had almost killed Rory’s Mite in the Tournament, after all.

‘Hello. I see you got out then,’ Rory said awkwardly.

‘That’s right,’ Fletcher replied, scratching his neck.

‘Good … good,’ Rory said, avoiding Fletcher’s gaze. ‘I’m glad.’

They stood there in an awkward silence, until Genevieve stepped forward with a fixed smile.

‘Welcome back,’ she said, giving Fletcher a firm hug. ‘Let’s catch up later.’

She took Rory by the arm and they walked swiftly away.

‘Well, that went … well,’ Othello said.

‘We just need some time,’ Fletcher said. ‘They won’t forgive me all at once.’

‘Aye,’ Othello said. ‘Though you’d think a year would be long enough, right?’

But Fletcher didn’t reply, because Cress had clambered out of the arena and was making her way up towards them, brushing sand from her cadet’s uniform.

Moments later, she stood with her hands on her hips before them, eyes sparkling.

‘So you’re the great Fletcher,’ she said, flashing him a broad grin. ‘I thought you’d be taller.’

‘You’re not so tall yourself,’ Fletcher said, but he couldn’t help but smile back. Her good humour was infectious.

‘Cress and Atilla both made a good showing this year,’ Othello said, smiling too. ‘Beating that braggart Didric was the culmination of a lot of hard work and training. I can’t tell you how unpleasant it’s been studying with him. He and Atlas have been bosom buddies since they first met.’

‘You can say that again,’ Cress said.

She nodded across the room, and Fletcher saw Didric was sitting on the other side of the arena, beside Tarquin, Isadora and Atlas. Though Didric wore the same black and yellow uniform Fletcher had seen before, Fletcher noticed that Atlas and the twins wore the uniform of the Forsyth Furies – black cloth with silver buttons and epaulettes.

‘Why are they wearing their uniforms? Surely they’ve only just graduated?’ Fletcher asked.

‘Tarquin and Isadora were promoted to lieutenants after last year’s tournament, Seraph too,’ Othello said, following Fletcher’s gaze. ‘So the twins have been serving in their father’s regiment all year. I guess they’ve brought Atlas his own uniform, now he’s graduated too.’

With a year of fighting on the front lines, the twins would be more formidable than ever, Fletcher thought with dread.

‘I know all about the mission, by the way,’ Cress whispered, sliding into the seat beside them. ‘Rook told us about it before the Tournament began. I want to join your team, if you’ll have me. I think I’ve proven myself a worthy fighter.’

‘Team?’ Fletcher asked.

But before she could answer, Sylva squeezed in between them and sat down, still adorned in the green armour from the day before.

‘What did I miss?’ she asked Fletcher. ‘Did Didric win? I would have stayed, but I went looking for you.’

‘Oh. No, Cress here beat him,’ Fletcher said, leaning forward awkwardly and pointing at the young dwarf.

‘Well done,’ Sylva said, holding out her hand. Cress took it with a hint of a frown, unhappy at being so rudely interrupted.