Her prim façade twitches, but quickly reappears. She doesn’t respond otherwise.
I tamp down a weary flash of irritation—it’s too easy to lose control of my emotions, in this state—and follow Livia beneath the stylish pyramidal archway that allows us indoors, then through an atrium and down a yawning flight of stairs. Thick sandstone continues to line the way ahead. Torches crackle as we descend.
“Where are we going?”
“There is to be an interview before your induction as Sextus.”
“Your father didn’t mention that.”
“No, he didn’t.”
We emerge into a long hallway. It’s wide and high, well lit, as inviting as an underground passageway can be. Heavy-looking doors line it.
“In here.” Livia stops outside one and steps to the side, indicating I should enter.
“You’re not staying?”
“No.”
I wait for more of an explanation, but none comes. A quick glance back reveals only the burly forms of the two Sextii, standing just close enough to show there’s no retreat. Livia waits mutely.
I push open the thick oak-and-steel door, and enter.
THE ROOM ISN’T LARGE, PERHAPS TWENTY FEET WIDE. ITsmells of smoke and dry dust. A lantern on the table in its centre illuminates three strange banners on the wall—one white, one blue, and one red—each embroidered with angular patterns, dense designs that seem almost complementary yet don’t quite fit together.
On the opposite side of the table sits a small, wizened man with dark glasses. Only a few wisps of white hair still cling to his head. He must be aSextus—no one would dare wear those glasses, otherwise—but it’s surely in a retirement pyramid. There’s another seat on my side. Nothing else in the room.
The door shuts behind me with an echoing boom. As it slowly fades, it’s punctuated by the metallic click of a turning lock.
“Sit, Vis Telimus.” The old man’s voice creaks into the trailing hush.
“Who are you?” I do as I’m asked.
“You may call me Quaestor.”
“Just ‘Quaestor’?”
“Yes.”
I settle into the uncomfortably hard wooden chair, and don’t have to pretend to the unease that would surely be expected of me. “What is this about?” The implements for taking my blood are on the table. Emissa was telling the truth.
“First, your signature.” He pushes a piece of paper across the table with a single finger. It scratches in the silence.
I scan it. “A Silencium?”
“It covers everything that may pass here.” Quaestor leans forward and gives the sheet a single, slow tap. “And it will be enforced.”
It’s not as if there’s much choice in the matter, though the dusty certainty in the man’s voice gives me pause. A trip to the Sappers is the consequence of breaking a Silencium. And I’ve been through the Aurora Columnae, now. I’m as vulnerable to them as anyone else.
Excessive, for what we are about to do. But I sign the document. Quaestor tucks it away with slow, deliberate motions. Then he picks up the scalpel. Behind his low-perched glasses, black floods his eyes. “Hold out your arm.”
I do so, not showing any of the reluctance I feel.
“The burns on your hand.” He observes them as he makes a small incision and blood begins dripping into the obsidian vial. “They look recent.”
“Boiling soup. One arm.” I flex the injury with a grimace. It’s red and raised in a line from the knuckle of my thumb to the back of my hand. A hair off blistered.
“Hm.” He doesn’t look convinced, or suspicious, or even particularly interested. An absent question, nothing more. That’s good. Anyone with smithing experience would probably be quick to guess at the real cause, and while I have done nothing technically wrong, it will be far more useful to keep what I’m doing hidden.
