The Will of the Many (Hierarchy, #1)

by James Islington

CHAIN YOUR ANGER IN THE dark, my mother used to tell me, and it will only thrive.

The Septimus in charge of the orphanage is a slim woman, her blond hair shoulder-length and features petite. In her forties, from what I gather, though she could pass for younger. Probably quite attractive, if you don’t have the disadvantage of knowing her.

“Any of it is too much.” There’s implied menace in Ulciscor’s gentle smile. “But I think there may be a way we can work this out, to both our benefits. So let’s start again. Without the lies, this time.” “Alright,” I lie.

Verbalised or not, Ulciscor’s uncovered enough that the warning is there among the promises. That’s how the Hierarchy operates, after all: the potential of reward ahead, the menace of punishment chasing behind. Even if only one of them is usually real.

“Vermes, wasn’t it?” Ulciscor gazes at the large boy. “Do you want to know why you haven’t been adopted?” Vermes blinks. Looks lost at the question. “It’s because you’re a deeply unpleasant child,” continues Ulciscor calmly. “Immature. Spiteful. And honestly, not very bright. So it doesn’t matter how strong your Will is. Nobody wants to have someone like you living with them. You need to change, Vermes. Better yourself, or you’ll be a Solum for the rest of your life.”

hand to indicate the information isn’t important right now. “Most people assume it would take at least a Quartus to move one of these.” “Most people are stupid.” It’s an absent response, out of my mouth before I can stop it.

I curse inwardly at his misplaced enthusiasm as I understand. Ulciscor’s made the assumption—a reasonable one, given what I’ve said thus far—that I’m only intent on avoiding ceding any Will. He hasn’t even considered the possibility that my distaste extends to being part of the system at all.

STRONGER TOGETHER. It’s the great lie of the Hierarchy, proclaimed generation after generation by an ever-growing mob in thrall to the concept. Part of me understands why. There’s a power to the phrase, an allure. It promises inclusion. Protection. Comradery. Common purpose. Belonging. But you never have to look far to see its hypocrisy laid bare.

Aequa’s put out that I’m not just agreeing with her, as most everyone else here would. Describing Caten as “the greatest city” is supposed to be small talk. Not even rhetoric. Like describing the clear sky as blue.

But like everything else, the Hierarchy dangles it. Always a way up, even for the condemned. Always a way out from under the misery they’ve heaped on you, if you work hard enough. Fight hard enough. Take your chances.

“AND LET THERE BE NO MISTAKE: IT IS YOU—ALL OF YOU—WHO ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR CREATING IT. NOT THOSE IN POWER. NOT THE ONES WHO WIELD WHAT YOU GIVE THEM, BECAUSE YOU GIVE IT TO THEM. YOU LET THEM STAND ON YOUR SHOULDERS, ALL FOR THE DREAM OF ONE DAY BEING ABLE TO STAND ATOP OTHERS’. EVEN WHEN YOU KNOW, DEEP DOWN, THAT IT IS AN ILLUSION. AS UNATTAINABLE FOR MOST OF YOU AS IT IS SELFISH.”

The power to protect is the highest of responsibilities, Diago. When a man is given it, his duty is not only to the people he thinks are worthy.

“That’s the power of the Hierarchy—we do, because there is no standing apart. You fight the tyranny of the many, or you are one of them.” He hangs his head again. Tired. “Silence is a statement, Diago. Inaction picks a side. And when those lead to personal benefit, they are complicity.”

Women in the Hierarchy—particularly young wives such as Ulciscor’s—are generally expected to focus on family, no matter their skills wielding Will. The fact that Relucia is abroad working, when she and Ulciscor have no children, speaks volumes.

THIS isn’t a home, not by any measure of the word as I understand it. There’s no love here, from or for me. Not truly, anyway, regardless of how the others feel. There can be no love without honesty.

“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.” He stroked my hair. “Do all you can to think of it as an opportunity. A blessing. No matter how it makes you feel in here.” His hand pressed lightly against my chest, covering it.

“They’re terrible.” I expect a rebuke, but instead Veridius just shakes his head. “They’re average,” he corrects me. “Just because you are good at something does not make others bad at it.”

A fair system only works if there’s an unbiased means of assessing merit. When there is no pride or selfishness involved.” He gives a soft snort, shaking his head. “Which means that fair systems cannot exist where people are involved.”

The Academy’s a perfect example of what he talks about: we’re meant to be the brightest of the Republic, but almost all of us here are the children of senators and knights. We’ve been trained, educated, since we could walk. Of course we’re going to be ‘better’ than some fifth son of an Octavus who’s been ceding half his life, just so his family can get by. Especially at tests which are devised by the same people who trained us. Who decide what merit is.”

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.

“Did you kill someone?” It’s asked in casual Cymrian. Like he’s asking about the weather. “What?” I straighten, for a heartbeat certain I’ve misheard. “No. No! Of course not.” I keep my voice low and use Cymrian too. “It was my blood, last night. Mine. Entirely my blood.” “Ah.” Eidhin looks vaguely disappointed.

“What about his breathing?” I prompt Eidhin. “It’s loud, isn’t it?” “So loud.” “Sometimes I wonder whether he is dying. Or making love to himself.” The urge to giggle uncontrollably threatens again, but I swallow it manfully. “He apologises for how difficult it is to teach him. He wants you to know he’s trying.”

“That’s the problem with people, though, isn’t it? They always think that other people are the problem.” Quiet. Angry. “You want to remove the Princeps? The senators? You’ll just become them, sooner or later. If all you’re trying to do is change who’s in control, then you don’t really want to change anything.”

I sigh. Another boost to my unpopularity, probably. “Only fair, I suppose. Compensation for your helping me practice. Not that you need the money.” “Not at all,” he agrees enthusiastically. “But I do love taking it from them.”

“They ask something small of you. A thing you would prefer not to do, but is not so terrible. You think you are working your way up, but in fact they are changing you. Moulding you into what they think you should be, one compromise at a time.”

My little sister, washing out to sea. I never even heard whether they found her body.

weak and poor endure in the Hierarchy because the alternatives are harder, not because there are none. They know the system is wrong, but they choose not to think or speak up or act because they ultimately hope that in their silence, they will gain. Or at the very least not have to give more than they have already given. They are driven by myopic self-interest and greed just as much as the senators and knights, and it’s as Melior said—you of all people should hate them for that.

“That’s the problem, Diago. If you do not hold them accountable, nothing will change. Don’t mistake inaction for neutrality.”