Ninth City Burning (27 page)

“I thought you all were trying to save time on this evaluation of yours,” I say, and go on to explain how if that was the case, we might have skipped the whole standardized test beyond the first three pages or so. I point her to the section on irrational mechanics by way of demonstration, and she flashes a grin that makes me think she might not be such a despot after all.

“The objective of this examination is to correctly complete as many questions as possible in the time allotted,” she says, inspecting my papers. “I have never seen a settlement recruit finish so many as to render it necessary to venture into the final section. They do, however, typically answer more than ten.”

My response is that ten was something of an achievement for me, and moreover I am at this school to fight, not fill out questionnaires. This time I get a full, earnest smile, enough to feel sure I have been understood. Regardless, I am not encouraged to continue my examination.

It seems even my poor performance in the area of standardized testing is not enough to keep me out of the Academy: That very evening, I receive word that I am to begin my studies at the School of Rhetoric the very next day as part of Sixth Class Section B.

I am so eager to embark on my instruction in sorcery that I arrive at my classroom fully an hour early. I claim a desk at the front and arrange my study materials neatly on top, then, realizing more than fifty minutes still remain before the start of lessons, commence a full inspection of the room. It is disappointingly plain, the desks spaced evenly in rows facing a longer table with what looks like an ancient slate blackboard hung behind it. The walls are decorated with charts and tables and figures, some bearing a word or two I recognize, though never enough for me to decipher the thing's full meaning. There is also a map of what I know now to be the entire planet, a scope I still find difficult to credit. From my seat, I trace out the boundaries of the world I knew from within the world as it is.

Presently, the sound of boisterous voices begins to fill the hall outside, growing louder and closer but then hushing suddenly at the edge of the classroom. I look away from the map to discover myself the target of several pairs of saucer-sized eyes. A crowd of children has become wedged in the doorway. The clog becomes tighter as more arrive, but none appears willing to enter the classroom. At last a sharp voice from outside sends them running, and from their midst emerges an older girl in black. This, I presume, is our teacher, or rhetor as they are called here. She is perhaps a year or two my senior, but appears younger thanks to a generous serving of pimples and baby fat.

“Section B, to your seats,” she commands, and the younger children reluctantly obey, their orderly movement impressive even in their agitated state. Our rhetor, meanwhile, takes up a position before the larger desk.
Her gaze comes to rest briefly on me before flicking back to the class as a whole. “We have a new sectionmate with us today, Cadets,” she announces. “Everyone, please say hello to Cadet Rachel.”

The ensuing chorus of young voices comes perfectly synchronized but with a clear note of uncertainty—a note that strikes home with me, too. Only now are the precise details of my arrangement beginning to dawn on me. It was made clear from the start that I would be a special case: by age nineteen a student from this Academy should either be off to war or graduated to some advanced training, and I was suited for neither. Without refinement, my magical talents would be wasted in battle, while lessons for rising officers were years beyond my current state of learning. I would have to begin at the beginning, which I now understand means in a classroom full of children. Fair enough. I know the time is coming when these people will send my sister to war, and for the right to fight at her side, I would have gladly walked barefoot over hot coals. Sitting with a gaggle of twelve-year-olds cannot be so bad. Only the desks are a little cramped.

The majority of section B has settled in, but one boy lingers at the edge of my desk, a towheaded little snap bean who takes a step back the moment he sees I've noticed him. “Hey there, little man,” I say. “Don't worry. I won't bite.”

The boy seems to interpret my assurance as meaning the precise opposite. His response comes in tones so low and shy that I can scarcely hear them. I can make out only the Aux word for “desk.”

Our rhetor resolves the confusion. “That is Cadet Chyffe's desk,” she informs me. “Yours is located at position twenty-one.” She points me toward a desk at the rear of the class, the only one left empty. I stand, gather my books, and offer Chyffe my apologies. He only goggles back as I make my way to my desk.

It is just as small as all the others.

M
y reputation has preceded me to the School of Rhetoric, that is clear enough, but I have still to learn the particulars, as no one seems willing to speak to me except under the most extreme duress. My fellow cadets appear under the apprehension that I am some dangerous beast, near mythical in character and prone to sudden acts of violence, an attitude our rhetor only encourages. Her name is Svetli, and for the entirety of our first lesson, she acts as though she has been forced to teach with something horrible caged in the back of her classroom, studiously ignoring me except for furtive glances to ensure I have not escaped.

I spend the majority of this time struggling to hold in feelings of confusion and impatience. The trouble is not my reception here at school but the present subject of learning. As soon as Rhetor Svetli was satisfied I was unlikely to spring up and tear out the throats of her charges, she commenced a lecture on what she called the “laws of motion.” There has been a great deal of talk about “velocity” and “acceleration” and “kinetic energy,” all with accompanying graphs and figures, which I have dutifully copied despite not understanding a jot of it. I keep waiting for Svetli to segue into some area of magic, to explain how speed and vectors relate to conjuring fire out of thin air, but she only goes on making diagrams of falling apples and orbiting planets.

After what I judge to be nearly a decade, I have reached the limit of my endurance and cannot restrain myself from asking when we're going to learn a little magic. My question draws nervous titters from the class and a withering look from Rhetor Svetli. “We do not teach
magic
at the School of Rhetoric, Cadet Rachel,” she says. “If
magic
is something you wish to learn, I suggest you find a goat and attempt to read its entrails.
Irrational
mechanics
,” she continues, once renewed giggling has subsided, “is part of your afternoon curriculum, as I am sure you can divine by consulting your schedule.”

I am of a mind to inform this Rhetor Svetli that since my sister happens to be the one making the goddamn magic, I'll call it whatever I goddamn please, but restrain myself by a firm exertion of will. Naomi has laid a strict interdict upon me not to embarrass her at our new school, and as I have already been found guilty of several infractions—among them publicly hugging and kissing her and calling her “Sunshine” within the hearing of others—it has been explained to me in no uncertain terms that any further misbehavior will see me tossed into the fire, where there will be great wailing and gnashing of teeth. Therefore, I muster the smile Papa imparted to me for use with people who, for reasons of politics, I am not allowed to whip bloody, and set myself dutifully to the study of so-called classical mechanics.

The morning is a grueling one, and by the time Svetli finally lays down her chalk, my hand is cramped from furiously copying her entire oeuvre. Worse still, my labors have left me no wiser, as I discover when Svetli asks us to apply what she has taught us to a “problem set” of new and diabolical equations. Once I have copied these as well, I subtly reconnoiter the activities of my fellow cadets. While I plainly outclass them all in penmanship, to one degree or another each has succeeded in transforming Svetli's set of jumbled numbers into the precious and sought-after answers. The boy seated ahead of me, a chubby, snub-nosed cutie, has long since concluded the first question with the simple answer of “52 kph.”

“Hey,” I whisper. When he doesn't seem to hear, I lean forward, close enough to touch him, and say again, “Hey.”

He gives a start and looks back, first with terror, then murderous annoyance. “We're not supposed to talk,” he says sternly.

“Sure,” I agree. I reach over and point to his page. “But how'd you do
that
?”

He rolls his eyes contemptuously, then returns to his work. “Magic.”

The composition of the class has altered somewhat by the time of our fabled afternoon lessons in irrational mechanics. Only a few of us from Section B return, those with some talent in magic, while the rest are sent off to more theoretical pursuits on the subject, and the remaining seats are filled by other Sixth-Class cadets of the “revenni” persuasion. I look around
for Naomi, only to recall that she will be off with Jax and their special tutor, an exceedingly strange man named Charles. I catch a few of the newcomers sneaking looks at me, and even one or two smirking in a way that leads me to conclude I have become the subject of fun.

We have a new rhetor, Danyee, who is less of a sourpuss than her predecessor but still a good way short of friendly. Nevertheless, my dissatisfaction with her lesson is just as fierce. The first thing she does, after writing “Irrational Mechanics” across her blackboard, is instruct us to open our workbooks to Chapter Three. Fear seizes my heart then, and when Danyee begins to fill the board with strings of numbers and letters and symbols, if anything more obscure than those from our lessons in nonmagical motion, my disappointment is such that I fear I will expire on the spot. By the time Danyee divides us into groups of two for practical exercises, I am well into designing my escape from this heathen hellhole.

My addition to this class has resulted in an odd number of students, and because I am to blame for the confusion, as well as an untutored barbarian, I end up in the one group of three. Among my unlucky partners is none other than Chyffe. To my surprise, he bears me no ill will for stealing his desk and goes so far as to introduce me to our third member, a freckly boy named Kenut. The two of them graciously exclude me from the particulars of our assignment, conferring quietly over readings and equations while I observe from a distance. Eventually, however, they appear to reach an impasse. Their distress is such that I am moved to ask just what in the blazes they're trying to do.

Both regard me a moment, perhaps weighing just how much my limited intellect can handle, then Chyffe bravely sallies forth. “We're supposed to be making light,” he says. “We've got to control the wavelength to get six different colors, and they've all got to match up so when we merge them together, we get one white light.” He accompanies his explanation with animated gestures toward his notebook. “We've worked out four of them, but we still have to do red and violet. Those are the hardest,” he adds gravely.

“Well, let's see what you've got,” I say. “Maybe I can help.”

The boys appear dubious, but they oblige. At their instigation, four pebble-sized sparks flicker to life in the air above our congregated desks. I can feel the power used to do it, almost like a breath of wind.

Kenut and Chyffe, though obviously pleased with their work, remain
apprehensive. “We're way behind,” Chyffe says. “Look. Elessa's group already has all six.”

The classroom has taken on a mottling of colored hues, tiny lights dipping and swaying over sheets of calculations. Most other groups have produced at least five.

Now, here is something I can do. The smoky cloud of influence I first felt here in Ninth City has been with me all this time, alive and part of me, but idle, resting, as my legs will while I am seated at my desk. Now I summon it to motion, concentrating on the space above Chyffe's notebook, pinching the cloudy essence into two needlepoints. Two sparks burn to life before me. I turn and flex their energy until one is red and the other purple. By observing the lights of other, more successful groups, I am able to adjust my own to the exact right hues.

Chyffe and Kenut watch, mouths gaping, until at last, Kenut hollers, “Whoa! That was awesome!”

These few words unleash a torrent of verbosity in Kenut. He proves to be a naturally gregarious person when not cowed to silence by an intimidating figure such as myself, all of which and more Kenut explains in lurid and excited detail in the last minutes of class, before inviting me to join him for supper at the cafeteria, a gesture Chyffe seems to consider a wild and reckless act of courage, though he agrees to come along. By the meal's end, the three of us are thick as thieves.

Kenut and Chyffe, and the rest of Sixth Class with them, have been intensely curious about me since yesterday, when rumors began to spread of a barbarian girl crashing like a frothing juggernaut through an F-Level obstacle course before going on to murder the Academy's Praeceptor of Philosophy. I gather from Kenut and Chyffe's description that there has been some embellishment surrounding my entrance evaluation, and the same proves true for perceptions of me personally. I am said to be fully two and a half meters tall, with arms like thighs, thighs like tree trunks, and a forked tongue capable of prehensile movement. Other, less reliable accounts report that I am a cannibal and drink blood for my morning repast, that I am a simpleton and have been seen marking my territory with urine, that I have six fingers on each hand and webbed feet. Kenut admits that seeing me in the flesh is something of a letdown, especially once I have presented my disappointingly ordinary tongue for inspection, but he is quick to assure me that the way I really look isn't so bad, either.

Now that my new friends have seen the articulate soul beneath my fearsome exterior, and been assured I would rather dine on cafeteria food than children's brains, they accept me as one of their own. Chyffe eagerly brokers my admittance to the camaraderie of boys in Section B, where I am much admired for my record scores in physical training and the scars on my neck and ear, regarded as tremendously exotic in a place where most wounds heal quickly and without any trace. It is also to my advantage, I suspect, that I am the only female in Section B, Rhetor Svetli included, with any chest to speak of. The girls are not quite as friendly, but I plan to win them over by degrees.

Kenut and Chyffe lay public claim to me as their partner for exercises in irrational mechanics, and for a time we are the cream of Rhetor Danyee's class. Chyffe has a knack for working out the nuts and bolts of just about any problem Danyee can throw at us, while Kenut is an artful translator, able to talk me through the steps required. All I have to do is sculpt the world and its powers according to Kenut's instructions, adjusting according to my own instincts, then enjoy the envious glares of any cadet near enough to witness. While I doubt our reign can continue forever, I expect it to end only when Rhetor Danyee decides to break our group apart. Instead, it suffers a slow decline, beginning with the day Danyee announces we are to begin learning “infusion.”

Until now, our study of irrational mechanics has been restricted to a broad category known as “manifestation,” which as far as I can tell just means doing things with magic—excuse me,
thelemity
. To quote a local expert, namely Rhetor Danyee, manifestation concerns the creation of “impermanent artifices,” which is to say magic that will work only with the active involvement of its creator. I have the feeling that manifestation is where my true talent lies, and I am not eager to venture into new territory. Danyee's first lecture on infusion only confirms my fears.

The discipline of infusion involves the study and manufacture of “permanent artifices” that, once created, will continue to act on their own until whatever task they've been set is complete. There are innumerable methods of infusion, most of which revolve around reciting a lengthy set of instructions and giving these life by means of thelemity. It would be confusing enough, even if the language used were not so arcane as to be nearly unintelligible. Thelemity does not respond to plain speech, it seems, and so we are taught to rely on bizarre dictionaries of terms, phrases that
loop and zigzag and turn back on themselves, and interminable patterns of repetition. I lose my grip on the idea about halfway through my first lesson and never get it back, instead trusting Kenut and Chyffe to carry me through.

I succeed in convincing myself that my failures with infusion are of no consequence. The field of battle is no place for lengthy artificing, and it is a rare situation where a soldier will be called upon to create a paper windmill that turns indefinitely of its own volition, as we do at the end of that first class. I have plenty of experience with this kind of excuse, as I have already made it with my other failings at the Academy, which have been numerous and severe. In barely a month, I have already proven myself a fine dunce in a variety of sciences, both theoretical and applied. But in the practical art of manifestation, I remain unmatched in all of Sixth Class, and that, I reason, ought to be enough for whatever sort of warrior they train in this place.

Not everyone's opinion of me is quite so indulgent as mine. Rhetor Svetli, who in my first days at the Academy made noises to the tune that I have no business in her class, now treats me as a void into which knowledge vanishes without any hope of return. Worse still, Rhetor Danyee doggedly insists on attempting to engage me in learning. Her thesis is that the only way to really produce great feats of thelemity is to master the theory behind it. She is right, at least to a degree: Already I have watched Kenut and Chyffe and others around me progress by leaps and bounds, and while I am still well ahead, the gap is narrowing. Perhaps I would have more patience if Danyee's lessons did not sound like a foreign language to me. On top of that there is my pride, already smarting from seeing me landed here in this land of Lilliputians. It has a way of speaking for me if I'm not careful, and when Danyee starts in with that superior tone of hers, the result is usually a good deal of glibness from me and on occasion a smart little magic trick conjured to show just how well I can do without her instruction. But though I'd never say so to Danyee, I have my doubts, and never more so than when I first encounter the subject of irregular energies.