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“How much more formal would you like it to be, Agner?” Wivell asked. Although his tone was more measured than Ibsen’s, annoyance glinted in his eyes.
“You might be the chief instructor, Wivell, but you’re not the only one,” Agner said mildly. He dropped his voice, holding a whispered conversation with a nearby guard. The instructor nodded rapidly, presumably getting an update on all that passed before his arrival.
“Well,” he said at last, his volume once again raised. “At the very least, this matter requires proper discussion. We have been operating under some misapprehensions, it seems, not least the mistaken belief that Merletta was dead.”
He met Merletta’s eyes, a glint of something almost like humor in his own. Whatever else was in his mind, he at least was glad that Merletta had returned to make life at the Center more interesting once again.
“If you come with us, I’m sure we can sort this whole situation out,” he told her.
Angry muttering rose up again, Merletta’s self-appointed bodyguards unimpressed with the suggestion. Agner ignored them, his eyes on her.
“Do you trust me, Trainee?”
“Not entirely,” Merletta told him frankly. She gave a faint smile. “But I trust you most out of my options.” She glanced at the crowd around her, a slight frown marring her face. “And I don’t want anyone to get themselves killed on my behalf.”
“Very honorable,” Agner said approvingly. “Come on.”
After only a moment’s hesitation, Merletta swam forward, August and Eloise rising up to flank her, and Felix not far behind. Agner started at the sight of August—it seemed his informant had left that part out—but made no comment.
A stiffly disapproving Wivell and an incensed Ibsen followed them, as did the senior guard and his squad. The rest of the guards stayed to contain the angry crowd. Merletta could hear their noise growing as she swam the rest of the way across the drop off, into the Center itself.
She could see Sage and Emil—now joined by Andre—trying to get to her, but the guards around her weren’t letting anyone else into the center of the knot. She sent them what she hoped was a reassuring smile, but the truth was she had no more idea than they did whether she would emerge from this debacle alive.
Even if she didn’t, she was inclined to think she’d made enough of a stir to ignite a real rebellion now. Hopefully it achieved something other than getting everyone from Tilssted killed.
They were moving toward the Center’s central spire, but before they’d reached it, they were intercepted by a guard whom Merletta recognized. He was thickly muscled, with a deep blue tail.
One of the Record Master’s personal guards.
“What’s the meaning of this commotion?” he asked coldly.
For a moment there was silence, as everyone waited for someone else to explain.
“I’ve returned inconveniently alive and ready to share my experiences,” Merletta said flippantly, watching the merman’s face for a reaction. “I believe I’m being hauled before the Record Master to be held to account for my fanciful crimes.”
The guard’s eyes—as blue as his tail—held about as much warmth as the bottom of an unplumbed drop off.
“I cannot imagine that there is any need to disturb the Record Master over a dispute within the program. With all three instructors present, it is surely possible to resolve the matter satisfactorily.” His gaze seemed to hold both message and warning as it rested on Wivell.
The meaning was clear. Evidently the Record Master didn’t want to be dragged into a situation that had become so public. He no doubt wanted—and fully expected—the instructors to get rid of Merletta through their own rules, without involving him.
“Very well,” Wivell responded, with an inclination of the head. The blue-tailed guard drifted away, back toward the central spire.
“You little sea snail,” Ibsen spat, as soon as he was gone. He seized Merletta’s arm and gripped it painfully. “You think you’ve made yourself untouchable, but you were never going to become a record holder.”
“Contain yourself,” Wivell said to his colleague, a snap of impatience in his voice. “As Agner has said, we have been remiss in not formalizing Merletta’s expulsion from the program. Until we do so—which we shall imminently—we are bound to treat her with the deference owed a trainee.”
“That’s not quite what I said,” Agner pointed out, his good humor unruffled.
Ibsen had released Merletta’s arm, but he was glaring at her with poison in his eyes. “How dare you accuse me of corruption? As if it’s my fault you never had a hope of passing the program.”
“Was I wrong?” Merletta challenged. “Can you really deny that you blocked me from learning at every turn this year?”
He sniffed. “A truly gifted scholar would be able to succeed without preferential treatment from her instructors.”
Merletta couldn’t help snorting. “I wasn’t asking for preferential treatment. But how I could learn when even the records were barred—”
“I had nothing to do with that,” Ibsen spat.
