I scowl, and do. He ignores my irritation in favour of the board.Click.
Then he moves a gnarled hand to a face-down frame next to him. Flips it over and pushes it in front of me. “Tell me what you think of this.”
It’s a painting. A city of some kind, the structures black and mirror-polished. There are people walking the streets, but to a man they appear downcast. All of them have their faces covered. Everything is tinted a garish green.
The artistry is incredible; combined with the surreal landscape, it instantly calls to mind the sketches I was shown after the naumachia last year. This feels like the same, immensely skilled hand at work. And their proximities to the blood test cannot be ignored.
“It’s very strange,” I say noncommittally. Make my next move. More slowly, this time. The game is entering its next phase. Clashes and counter-clashes, attack and reaction. I am diminished, but I’m still going to do my best.
He jots it down.Click. “Why do people enjoy competition?” That same creaking voice. That same rhythmic, almost mechanical tone.
And so it goes, and on, and on. Some questions are riddles I’ve heard before. What can be held without touching it? Move.Click. What is so fragile that its name will break it? Move.Click. Some are deeply personal. Describe your earliest memory. Move.Click. Tell me the most influential event of your life, and then describe how you feel it is affecting you right now. Move.Click. The latter type of questions, I often have to lie. I have no idea whether he notices.
Those are interspersed with more pictures. More ancient Vetusian. More questions that could at best be described as abstract. And throughout, that dry, unsettling scratching as he records my answers. That same, slow, deliberate picking up and placing of his stones.
The interview continues interminably, the passing of time impossible to gauge down here. I hold my nerve. Barely. Twice more I try to ask what these questions are for, what their purpose could possibly be, but I’m met with the same lack of response. Quaestor simply moves on, the old man ignoring my confusion with infuriating, indifferent calm.
I begin to lose the game of Foundation. I am not making categorical mistakes, but the fog across my mind—not to mention the added pressure of the questions—makes it difficult to see more than a couple of moves ahead. And Quaestor isn’t a particularly dynamic or creative player, but heisvery clearly skilled. I fall one piece behind. Then three. He plays conservatively but inexorably.
And then I am defeated, his final stone’sclickas dry and precise as all the ones before. He observes the end state of the board. Scratches something more in his book.
“A final question, Vis Telimus.” He taps the board, just once. “If you had not made any mistakes, would you have beaten me?”
I shake my head slowly.
“Imayhave beaten you,” I tell him quietly. My father’s words echoing on my lips. “Foundation is like life. You can make no mistakes at all, and still lose.”
He studies me. Filmy grey eyes curious. “Hm.” Head down, one last note. “You may go.” He finishes, then begins packing up the board with considered, rickety care.
I stand uncertainly. Shuffle across to the door, knock, and the lock’s click quickly echoes. One of the two burly Sextii waiting outside gestures for me to leave.
I hesitate, wanting to demand answers even as some part of me knows I should obey, grateful I have apparently not stirred suspicion. Quaestor just writes, head bowed, pen scratching. He doesn’t seem to feel my glare.
I stalk past the waiting Sextii, and back out into the underground hallway.
“TERTIUS.” AN INEVITABLE EDGE TO MY VOICE AS I JOINTertius Ericius and his daughter in the main courtyard. The grey of the overcast morning glares down, heat reflecting off the stones underfoot despite the clouds. The interview can’t have taken more than an hour. It feels like days have passed.
The Hierarchy’s Censor dismisses the Sextii trailing me with a flick of his wrist. “Hail, Catenicus.” His gaze slides briefly from me to the compound’s entrance. Still barred. Still guarded. “I take it you’ve completed your session with Quaestor.”
I try not to look. “I have. It was … unusual.” I want to ask outright, but Catenans—culturedCatenans—are rarely so blunt. I’ve learned to play the game better than I’d like.
“A request from Princeps Kavius. I have to admit, I am curious to know what they asked of you. A shame the Silencium I assume you signed prevents you from saying anything.”
“A shame,” I agree carefully, answering the question he’s really asking. So he doesn’t know the details. Interesting. “One day, I should tell you about the tests I underwent after the naumachia.” A little clumsy and forward, but it’s the best my weary mind can conjure.
He doesn’t look at me, though there’s a sharpening of his gaze as he watches the men and women in the courtyard. “That sounds intriguing, Catenicus. One day soon.” He exhales and then claps me on the back. “But right now, come. They’ve been waiting. It’s time for the exciting part of the day.” He glances at Livia, who nods and jogs ahead of us.
I hide the turning of my stomach, and trail after the limping Tertius across the courtyard.
The cobblestoned space is still fairly empty, save for the group Livia is now talking to, gathered over by some decorative poplars. Five men and a woman. They have been watching us—watching me—with keen interest. As we walk toward them, I spot more crowding the tiered balconies above, hanging over the edge in apparently indolent conversation. Though I also notice that as soon as the Tertius and I emerge from the shadows of the archway, many of those conversations falter and fade away.
“This is a strong group. These Septimii are all talented enough to imbue independently, and their Octavii have all been carefully vetted. You won’t find a better base outside of a Magnus’s pyramid.” Callidus’s father says it quietly as we walk. “I’ve done all I can to help, Catenicus. The rest is up to you. Prove yourself this afternoon.”
“I will.” Resisting the urge to show my cynicism. The most favoured get the strongest pyramids. The best chance. Even here, the game is rigged. I do all I can to quell my discomfort as I examine the people whose Will I’m about to take. The Septimii return my gaze with variations of eager smiles.
Livia moves to stand with the group, facing us. I don’t understand for a few seconds. Then frown, an extra layer of queasiness washing through me.
“Tertius?”
