Chapter 11: No Delivery Notice

Chapter 11: No Delivery Notice

Silas left his room early enough to walk slowly.

The academy was quiet before first bell. Servants were opening lecture halls, and a few students crossed the courtyards carrying breakfast. He stopped twice, once to drink and once because he had time to spare. Nobody paid him much attention.

He reached the east field without needing help.

Five students waited beside the short running track. Bram Ostley had a wrap around the elbow of his recently healed arm. A thin boy coughed into his sleeve, while two others discussed which exercises Ferrow was likely to assign.

Mira Duforte stood near the balance beams, adjusting the strap around her left ankle.

The original Silas had known enough about House Duforte to leave her alone. Three river towns and a customs seat gave her family considerably more influence than his own.

Mira caught him looking at the bandage.

"It isn’t broken," she said.

"I wasn’t going to ask."

"Everyone else has." She tugged at the strap, winced, and loosened it again. "Apparently walking here means it must be fine."

Silas put his satchel down. He could understand the complaint, though he doubted she wanted his sympathy.

Ferrow arrived with a slate and a timing glass. She checked the group against her list before setting the glass beside the track.

"Today I find out what you can do safely," she said. "I have your treatment notes. If something hurts in a way I haven’t been told about, tell me before you continue."

She pointed to the track.

"Three minutes at my pace, then two minutes walking. Stay together for the first interval."

Silas found the pace embarrassingly slow until the second interval. By then, he was grateful he hadn’t complained. Ferrow shortened his stride with a quiet instruction as she passed him and let the stronger students continue ahead.

Mira passed him twice. Her limp became more pronounced at each turn.

Ferrow pulled them both out before the fourth interval.

"I can finish," Mira said.

"Your ankle’s swelling. Walk over to the beams. I’ll check it before you start there."

Mira looked at the others still running, then left the track. Silas followed more willingly. He bent with his hands on his thighs until Ferrow told him to stay upright and keep walking while his breathing settled.

I liked it better when walking was the exercise.

The next set involved squats and controlled steps over low rails. Silas had trouble rising from the squats, but the balance beams were easier. The body remembered where to place its feet even when his thighs shook.

For the carry, Ferrow gave him one of the lightest sandbags.

Halfway to the marker, it began slipping from his right hand. He caught the underside with Remote Grasp before thinking about it.

"Put it down, Rooke," Ferrow called.

Silas lowered the bag. "It was falling."

"Then lower it before you lose your grip. I need to see what your arm can carry." She checked his hand. "Rest a minute. You’ll finish the distance after that."

He sat beside the marker. Bram had stopped too, rubbing his elbow. Farther back, Ferrow exchanged the coughing boy’s bag for a smaller one.

When Silas stood, Mira was waiting for her turn.

"You could have yielded to Cross," she said. "Ferrow gave you the chance."

"I remember."

"You could barely stand afterward."

Silas adjusted his grip. He had been close to the edge, close enough to try one more thing. He didn’t want to explain that to her, especially while struggling to pick up a bag she could carry one-handed.

"I didn’t want him to win," he said.

Mira frowned. "So now you’re here."

"I’d have been here anyway. You saw the running score."

She stepped aside. Silas lifted the bag with both hands this time and made it to the marker.

The final exercise required even mana circulation while stepping between chalk marks. Silas managed the first crossings well. When fatigue made his flow falter, Ferrow had him pause and repeat the last step more slowly.

Mira used Air Impulse. Each burst propelled her sideways, but her injured foot twisted as she landed.

Ferrow stopped her after the second attempt. "Half that output."

"I won’t reach the mark."

"I want the landing. We can increase the distance later."

Mira tried again and came up short. She looked toward Ferrow before the instructor spoke.

"Your foot wasn’t set when you fired," Ferrow said. "Take your time."

The next landing was clean. Mira still missed the mark and looked irritated about it, but she repeated the smaller burst when asked.

Silas watched while waiting for his turn. He knew the temptation to supply more force whenever something failed. He had a wet blanket and several broken cups to show for it.

At the end, Ferrow posted their individual limits to their schedules.

"We meet again in two days," she said. "Follow those limits between sessions. Rooke, how was the walk here?"

"Manageable."

"Leave yourself the same amount of time next session. And eat beforehand."

He had eaten, but explaining that would keep him on the field longer. Silas collected his satchel and went home at the same slow pace.

After food and two hours of sleep, he brought out the chalk.

His old three-mark circuit connected on the first attempt. It detected the spoon he rolled through it, then broke when he tried to make it resist the next crossing.

Silas sat back. He was trying to do everything at once again.

He removed the resistance and rebuilt the warning alone. Detecting movement was easy while he watched the circuit. Keeping it useful when his attention wandered was harder. He would reach for his water, lose track of the return flow, and discover the spoon had passed through without a response.

On the fourth attempt, he reduced the mana in the first mark until the flow stopped surging whenever something crossed. The circuit sent a clear pulse back to him and settled instead of draining itself.

He tested it while looking away, then while turning a page with Remote Grasp. Both crossings reached him. He could keep a small supply running through the marks without constantly correcting it.

Silas moved the arrangement to the inner opening of the delivery compartment, adding a fourth mark to cover its full width. He checked the direction of the alert with a spoon, adjusted the flow at one corner, and tried again.

[Assimilation: 45%.]

He left the warning active and washed the chalk off his hands before making dinner.

It woke him after the second night bell.

Something had crossed from the corridor side.

Silas sat up and checked the terminal. No delivery notice. Through Territorial Awareness, he could feel a folded sheet of paper inside the compartment, but nothing beyond its outer door.

He crossed the room without lighting the lamp and opened the inner panel.

The page bore the academy medical office header. Beneath it was the reference number from Kerr’s examination. One sentence had been circled in black ink.

Findings consistent with repeated exposure to a harmful agent over a period of several months.

He turned it over. Nothing on the back.

Silas opened his report on the terminal and compared the numbers. They matched. He checked the text above the circled sentence as well, hoping there might be some difference that made it a guess.

There wasn’t.

Someone had obtained a page from Kerr’s confidential file.

He locked the compartment and left the paper beside the terminal. For a while he stood listening. Eventually he dragged the desk chair around so he could see the door and sat down.

He was still there when morning came.