Chapter 174: The Chairs Stayed Empty

(Petra Halvern POV)

Elizabeth Aurelius had been gone for eight days, and people still looked at her chair whenever a question took too long to answer. I found this irritating. Not because the chair was empty, but because chairs are not known for answering questions.

"Petra."

Adrian was standing beside my desk with two sheets of paper. "Training allocation."

I held out my hand, and he gave me the first sheet. Concord had the eastern practice hall after lunch. Class Two had asked for the adjoining yard. An Academy assistant wanted to know whether we wanted the dividing barrier raised between them.

"Why are you giving this to me?"

"Because somebody has to answer it."

"You could."

"I could."

"Then do that."

He didn’t move. Around us, thirty-four people were doing an impressive job of pretending not to listen. I looked at the front of the room, at Elizabeth’s chair, and at her desk, perfectly clear, because Elizabeth did not leave things behind, even when she was here. I looked back at Adrian.

"Leave the barrier down."

He nodded, and didn’t leave.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"That was visibly something."

"You answered quickly."

"It wasn’t difficult."

"Elizabeth would have asked why Class Two wanted the adjoining yard."

"I don’t care why."

A few people nearby smiled, and so did Adrian. "That’s why she picked you."

"I know."

That had been the problem from the start. Elizabeth Aurelius did not need someone who thought like Elizabeth Aurelius; she already had Adrian. What she had apparently needed was someone willing to tell her she was wrong. I had done that three times before the Crucible, and she had overruled me all three times, and I had been right once. Once had been enough, which was an inconvenient lesson for both of us.

I signed the sheet, and Adrian took it. Then someone by the window said, "Do you think they’ll sign it?"

The room changed, only slightly. Nobody needed to ask what it meant. The notice had gone up that morning: the delegation had reached Fort Halden, all five students were present, and the signing would go ahead tomorrow. Elizabeth’s name had been first on the list. I had checked. Not because I was worried, but because I read lists from the top.

"Probably," I said.

The student frowned. "Probably?"

"Yes."

"That’s not very reassuring."

"I wasn’t trying to reassure you."

Adrian sat on the edge of the desk beside mine. "Petra."

"What?"

"Try."

I looked at him, and then around the class: thirty-six of us, some of them pretending not to care, and a few not pretending very well. Concord had become good at waiting for certainty, because Elizabeth liked certainty. She liked enough information to make a decision, enough time to understand its consequences, and enough control that the consequences arrived in the order she expected. The Crucible had cured her of some of that, but not all of it.

I folded my hands on the desk. "The Crown is there. The Foreign Office is there. The beastkin delegation is there. Our five are there because somebody decided their presence was useful. Nobody sends that many important people to the same fort because they expect to spend the morning changing their minds."

That seemed to help, but not enough. So I added, "And if the treaty fails, we’ll hear about it after it fails. Worrying about it now won’t improve the signatures."

Adrian closed his eyes.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You dislike my reassurance."

"I dislike your definition of it."

"It worked."

Someone at the back laughed, and the room loosened. It was good enough. I stood up.

"East hall after lunch."

A hand went up. I looked at it, and its owner lowered it.

"Use words," I said.

"Are we training normally?"

"Yes."

"Even tomorrow?"

"Why wouldn’t we?"

"The treaty."

"The treaty is at Fort Halden."

He waited, and I waited, and eventually he said, "Right."

As everyone got up, Adrian said quietly, "Elizabeth would have given them a speech."

"Yes."

"You know that."

"Yes."

"You didn’t."

"No."

He smiled, and I narrowed my eyes at him. I hate it when people learn things from me.

***

(Tristan Rhael POV)

James had been gone for eight days, and Vanguard had somehow become worse. Not weaker: worse. There is a difference.

It started after lunch, the way it usually did. Thirty-six people had finished theory, read the Halden notice, discussed the Halden notice, pretended to stop discussing it, and then walked into the training hall carrying all the nervous energy they had failed to spend in class. I saw what was going to happen almost at once.

"Four rounds," I said. Nobody complained, which should have warned me. "Controlled." Still nothing. "Stop when you’re tired."

Someone laughed, and there it was.

The first round was fine. The second was louder. By the third, people were treating every exchange as though someone at Fort Halden might hear about it and award points. I stopped one pair.

"Again," said Kellen.

"No."

"I missed the angle."

"I know."

"I can fix it."

"Tomorrow."

"I’m not tired."

His hand was shaking. I looked at it, and he looked at it, and then he closed it. I had seen that before, though not from him.

"Sit down."

"I’m fine."

"Sit."

"Tristan..."

"Now."

He sat. Three people nearby found the floor very interesting. I turned to the rest of them. "Everyone. Water."

Nobody moved. That worked better when James did it, and unfortunately I knew why. James looks as though he might actually kill you. I look like someone who will explain exactly why you’re being stupid until you wish he had.

"Water," I said again, and they moved, mostly. One boy stayed by the practice frame.

"We’ve only done three rounds."

"Correct."

"You said four."

"I changed my mind."

"James wouldn’t."

That did it. I looked at him. "No. He wouldn’t."

The hall went quiet, mostly.

"James would do six rounds after being told to do four," I said. "Then he would decide six was inefficient and do eight tomorrow. He would also train on an injury, lie badly about it, and act surprised when somebody noticed."

That killed the laughter, which was what I wanted. The boy by the frame lowered his spear.

"But he’s the strongest one here."

"Yes."

"So..."

"So what?"

He hesitated, and I knew what he meant. We all did. James could do things the rest of us couldn’t. He moved differently and thought differently, and fought as though the space between one mistake and the next belonged to him personally. That was why people copied him. It was also why copying him was stupid.

"Being strong doesn’t make every bad habit useful," I said.

Nobody answered. I pointed at the benches, and they sat, all of them this time. I stayed standing, out of habit, because James usually stood. That annoyed me enough that I sat down too. Someone smiled.

"Don’t."

The smile went away, mostly.

For a few minutes the hall was quiet except for people drinking water and breathing too hard. Then Kellen, the one with the shaking hand, said, "Do you think he’s all right?"

I knew which he. "Yes."

"You don’t know that."

"No."

That surprised him. Perhaps everyone expected acting leaders to lie more.

"He reached Halden," I said. "The notice says all five are present."

"Present doesn’t mean all right."

Penelope Declair would probably have liked him. "True."

"So..."

"So that’s what we know."

He looked dissatisfied, and I understood, because so was I. I had spent enough of this year beside James to know how he stood when his shoulder hurt, and how he held his hand when he was lying about it. I knew he went quieter when something was really wrong, which confused people, because everyone assumed quiet was his natural state. It wasn’t. Short was his natural state. There’s a difference. The notice said present: not injured, and not healthy either. Present. I had noticed, and decided not to spend the morning thinking about it. That decision had lasted fourteen minutes.

"He’s with Sorel," I said.

Kellen nodded, and it helped him. It helped me too. I didn’t mention that.

Someone across the hall asked, "Do you think he’ll write?"

"No."

A few people laughed.

"To the class?"

"No."

"To you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because he’s James."

That needed no further explanation. I stood up. "The fourth round is tomorrow."

There were groans, which was good. It was normal. I pointed at Kellen. "Not you."

His face fell. "Why?"

"Your hand."

"It’s stopped."

"Good."

"So I can..."

"No."

He stared at me, and then sighed. "You’re worse than he is."

I picked up my practice spear. "That’s why he picked me."

***

( Marta Vess POV )

Brightvale had thirty-six people in it without Sophie, which was too many. With Sophie it had thirty-seven, which was also too many, but Sophie had a way of making the problem look intentional. I did not.

The notice had been up since morning. By lunch, twenty-three people had opinions about it. By the end of lunch, thirty-two did. I knew because Roth counted, for no useful reason except to prove me wrong when I said everyone had an opinion. He proved that five people didn’t. Then one of those five joined the argument, and another, and Roth stopped counting.

"One letter," said Wynne, who was sitting on my left, because she always sits on the left of whoever she’s with.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because thirty-six people writing to Sophie is stupid."

"I said one letter."

"With thirty-six messages in it."

"Yes."

"That’s thirty-six letters wearing one coat."

Wynne stared at me. Hollis hummed at the end of the table.

"That isn’t how letters work," said Roth.

"I know."

"So..."

"No."

He leaned back. We had improved. Two weeks ago he would have gone on for twenty minutes. Now he only looked offended for ten.

The problem wasn’t really the letter. It was the notice, and everyone knew it, and nobody wanted to say so. Brightvale could discuss almost anything forever as long as the thing itself stayed one step to the side. So they discussed whether Sophie needed encouragement, whether she would be nervous, whether there would be speeches, whether noble clothes were uncomfortable, whether she was allowed to use Ice inside Fort Halden, and whether lightning near a treaty table counted as a diplomatic incident. That one went on too long.

Eventually I put my spoon down. "She’s alive."

The table stopped. Not the whole dining hall, only ours, but that was enough.

"She’s in Halden," I said. "The signing is tomorrow. That’s what we know."

Wynne looked at me. "We know that."

"Then stop inventing the things we don’t."

Roth folded his arms. "People are worried."

"I know."

"You’re not?"

"I am."

That shut him up, which was useful. I picked my spoon up again, and nobody restarted the conversation, which was less useful. At the end of the table, Hollis had stopped humming.

I noticed. Sophie would have noticed faster. I hated that thought as soon as I had it, not because it was wrong, but because it was right.

"Hollis."

He looked up. "What?"

"You stopped."

He frowned. "Stopped what?"

I pointed at him, and he understood. "Oh." Everyone else understood a second later. Hollis looked down at his plate.

"I’m fine."

I shook my head, with the whole of my head, the way I apparently always do. "No."

"No?"

"It means you aren’t fine."

"I’m just..."

"Don’t say tired."

His mouth closed, because that was exactly what he’d been going to say. I knew him better now. That was Sophie’s fault, and perhaps the Crucible’s, but mostly Sophie’s. She had spent eight hours on a bridge walking up and down a line of tired people and saying their names. At the time I’d thought it was inefficient. Then I had watched thirty-six people follow her for hours, because she had made every one of them believe she would notice if they disappeared. It was an annoying lesson. It was also a useful one.

I stood. "Come outside."

Hollis blinked. "Why?"

"Air."

"I’m eating."

"You stopped."

He looked at the plate, and then at me, and then he stood up. Roth smiled, and I pointed at him.

"No."

"I didn’t say anything."

"Your face did."

We went outside. The courtyard was still cold from the week’s rain. Hollis stood by the wall, and I stood beside him, and neither of us said anything. After a while he started humming again, quietly, and then we went back in. Roth looked at me, and I looked at him, and he looked away first. That was also good.

Wynne pushed a sheet of paper across to me.

"What?"

"One letter."

"No."

"One sentence."

I looked down. At the top she had written: Good luck tomorrow. Come back. There was nothing else, only thirty-six empty spaces underneath for names.

"That isn’t thirty-six messages," I said.

"No."

"It’s one sentence."

"Yes."

"And everyone signs?"

"Yes."

I considered it. Hollis was humming. Roth had already taken the pen. I sighed. "Fine."

Wynne smiled, and I pointed at her. "One sentence."

"One sentence."

"No additions."

"Fine."

"No drawings."

Two seats away, someone immediately hid something. I closed my eyes. "Give me the paper."

They did. Sophie would like it. That was the only reason. Probably.

***

*Nadia Pell*

Daphne had been gone for eight days, and I had sat on her desk every one of them. At first it was funny, because she hates it, which was the entire reason I did it. By the eighth day it had become a routine, which ruined it. Lucan noticed, naturally.

"You know she isn’t here to be annoyed."

I looked down at him from the desk. "I know."

"So why are you still sitting there?"

"Comfort."

"That desk is stone."

"Emotional comfort."

He stared at me. I smiled, and he went back to his notes. This was why I preferred Lucan. He knew when surrender was efficient.

Greywall was quieter without Daphne. I had expected it to be louder, and that was the strange part. Daphne didn’t talk much. Sometimes she said one word in an entire conversation, and everyone went away feeling as though orders had been issued. Without her the room should have been noisier. Instead people lowered their voices. Perhaps nobody wanted to be the one who filled the space. Perhaps we had all got used to silence meaning that someone was thinking. I had, which was concerning.

The notice from Halden had been copied onto the board: all five student representatives present, signing tomorrow. I had read Daphne’s name twice. Not because I needed to, but because I wanted to. There is a difference.

Lucan turned a page. "She’s fine."

"I didn’t ask."

"You’ve been looking at the notice for six minutes."

"You’re timing me?"

"No."

"Then how do you know?"

He paused. "I guessed."

"Badly. It was five."

He smiled, and I threw a folded scrap of paper at him, and he caught it, which annoyed me.

The door opened, and Teren came in holding his left hand against his chest. He saw me looking, and his hand dropped to his side at once. Too late.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

I slid off Daphne’s desk. Lucan looked up. Teren backed toward the door, which was also too late.

"Nadia, I’m fine."

"Good." He relaxed, and I held out my hand. "Show me."

His face fell. He had split the skin over two knuckles, and the middle finger was swelling. Not terrible. Not nothing.

"Training frame," he said.

"Obviously."

"It slipped."

"Frames are famous for that."

Lucan made a sound that might have been a laugh. I pointed at the door. "Healer."

"It’s not bad."

"I know."

"Then why?"

"Because hands are useful."

"I can still move it."

"Good. Move it toward the infirmary."

He looked at Lucan for support, and Lucan looked at his notes. Teren left. I sat back on the desk, and Lucan waited until the door had closed.

"You sound like her."

I stared at him. "Take that back."

"No."

"Lucan."

"You do."

"I used more than one word."

"That’s true."

"And I was pleasant."

"You mocked him."

"Warmly."

Lucan smiled. I hated this room, mostly.

My eyes went to the bottom drawer of Daphne’s desk, which was open a little. I knew what was in it: seven pages. Not new ones. The pages she had given me before the Crucible, because she thought written instructions would survive her absence better than spoken ones. Page one had four names on it, the people who never said when they were hurt. Teren was one of them. I hadn’t needed to check the page. That was the part Daphne would have liked, and I was never going to tell her.

Lucan saw where I was looking. "You kept those?"

"As evidence."

"Of what?"

"Her crimes."

"Writing lists?"

"Seven pages."

"For thirty-six people."

"Seven pages," I said again.

He nodded. "Terrible."

"Thank you."

The door opened again, and Teren put his head round it. "The healer says it’s bruised."

"Good."

"And I can train tomorrow."

"No."

His head disappeared. Lucan laughed, and I looked at him.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You’re enjoying this."

"A little."

I settled back on the desk. Tomorrow the treaty would be signed. Daphne would stand somewhere important in formal clothes and say almost nothing. Elizabeth would have read the treaty twice. James would want to leave. Sophie would talk to someone she had never met and somehow know their life story by dinner. Vortex would find a chair, probably the best one. And then, eventually, all five of them would come back.

I looked around Greywall: thirty-six people, and nobody waiting for Daphne to tell them what to do. Teren had gone to a healer because I told him to. Lucan had finished the notes Daphne usually checked. Two people at the back were rearranging the practice schedule because one of the halls had flooded in the week’s rain and was still drying out, and nobody had asked me for permission. Good. That was probably the point.

I looked at Daphne’s chair, by the front desk. She would come back and sit in it. Until then, the chair could stay empty. The class didn’t have to.