The Will of the Many (Hierarchy, #1)

by James Islington

All of your drive, your focus, your mental and physical energy, is funnelled away by these pale stone beds to be received by some distant, particularly favoured Septimus. In my eyes, death would be a preferable fate.

This is the only place in the world where I don’t have to pretend to be friendly. Or dull. Or servile. Or weary.

The mayor of Letens, an important and well-respected man, is a Sextus—albeit a Totius Sextus, the very top of his pyramid. Proconsul Manius, the current governor of all Tensia and thus in charge of an entire Catenan province, is a Totius Quintus. There are only three pyramids that stretch higher than Quartus, though: the three senatorial pyramids, which everyone refers to simply as Military, Governance, and Religion. Only the strongest, the most skilled, are recruited for those. Quintii from standard pyramids vie to become a Septimus in a senatorial one. And only those in the senatorial pyramids are allowed to use the title “Magnus.” Which makes Ulciscor one of the most powerful men in all the Hierarchy.

That doesn’t mean I rest easy. There’s some part of me that was forged into steel after Suus, I think—some part of me that knows exactly how to wall off memories that would otherwise tear me apart.

I nod. Silence again. Unless you reach Class Three. I don’t want to ask. It feels too much like conceding defeat, admitting I actually care what she thinks. “You’ll do well.” She volunteers the statement as begrudgingly as anything she’s ever said. She’s facing straight ahead, though for all I know she could be focused on my expression. “If you keep working, there’s a chance you can do what you need to do.” “Find what you and Ulciscor are looking for?” “Get into Class Three.” I swallow. Tension drains out of my shoulders as I acknowledge the statement. Then I allow myself a grin. “You think I’m pretty good.” She snorts. “I definitely didn’t say that. Or imply it.” My grin widens. “No, no. I can see it now. You secretly like me. You think I’m—” I’m staring up at the sky, rasping, air vanished from my lungs. From the corner of my eye I can see Lanistia walking away, her gait as calm as it was just a moment ago. I groan, roll to my feet. Smile. Jog to catch up to Lanistia for the last walk back to the villa we’ll ever take.

“Nervousness means there’s a fear to be faced ahead, Diago. The man who is never nervous, never does anything hard. The man who is never nervous, never grows.”

Drusus’s eyes narrow. “What?” “Well. You’re all Sevenths. Same as him.” This is stupid. Social suicide. “From what I can tell, the only difference between you and him is that his father is more successful than yours.” I should stop. “It just seems that if you’re saying he’s not worth my time, you’re saying none of you are.” I pronounce it calmly. Meet his gaze. Gods, but I hate my temper sometimes.

“Strange dream,” he says eventually in Cymrian. Softly enough that the other two boys don’t wake, but firmly. Meaningfully.

“MADE IT ALL THE WAY down here without slicing yourself open,” observes Callidus through a mouthful of fish as I slide into the seat opposite him at our regular table. “Well done.” I glower at him. “I suppose I earned that.” “Rotting gods you did. If I’ve seen a more spectacular failure of basic human movement before, I don’t remember it.” Callidus’s humour slips to at least a hint of sympathy as he motions to my bandaged hand. “How bad is it?” “Bad enough to hurt. Not bad enough to get me out of stable duty.” “Ah. The worst amount of bad,”

Callidus sighs. “Enjoy watching everyone else be incompetent.” “Enjoy pretending to be incompetent.”

MY FATHER HATED LIES. Not just the kind that were told to him—that, he once observed, was the opposite of a unique condition. But he hated falsehood itself, as a concept. Always told me that a hard truth was better than a comforting fiction. That there was no such thing as a harmless lie, and that the liar lost a part of himself in the act. As I watch the flailing run below, I wonder what he’d think of me now. Sometimes I’m not sure there’s anything of the real me left anymore.

“He said he wishes we hadn’t cheated so flagrantly yesterday,” I say solemnly. “Tell him he looks like someone has taken all his Will and jammed it in places it should not go,” adds Eidhin, looking directly at the Praeceptor. Dultatis looks at Eidhin, then at me expectantly. I’m unconscionably proud of how straight I manage to keep my face. “He’s going to work harder. Be better,” I say. Eidhin nods earnestly to what I’m saying. “He is such an utter failure of a human being, I am often embarrassed to breathe the same air as him.” A small crowd has gathered—because the session has ended rather than with the intent of observing, but curious about the exchange nonetheless. “And now he’s telling me I should do the same,”

doesn’t do anything more than that. It takes a minute to untangle the animal; as soon as it’s free it tries to limp away but immediately collapses, lying on its side, whimpering in between panting. I watch its heaving chest in dismay. “You’re fine,” I whisper to it. Abandoned and alone, injured, struggling. Maybe I see more of myself here than I care to admit.

“Who died?” I ask lightly as I sit, cocking an eyebrow at the rest of the room. “Feriun.” Callidus nods sagely as he watches my reaction. “That’s right. You’re a terrible person.”

I calmly move my piece, then meet her horrified gaze. There’s a murmur, soft at first, then rising, as some of the students see what’s about to happen. “What are you doing?” Belli mumbles, maintaining a façade of calm. She moves again, giving me an out. I don’t take it. “Showing you what consequences look like.”

“Not pleasant seeing your trust betrayed, is it?”