going back about a hundred years. A priest was carefully painting on the latest name in gold.
It was ATALIN again.
I sniffed and resolved that I would never be that much of a suck-up. Who wanted to have their name on a piece of ancient wood anyway?
There were numerous other priests here as well, a score or more of them all along one wall, interacting with Psitek visualisations or Mektek projections, presumably to do with the operation of various systems in and around the Academy.
As I got closer to the desk, I picked up the Prince’s identity. Prince Lucisk. Like Prince Atalin, she was a senior cadet, returned from a year-long operational Navy tour for advanced studies at the Academy and to act as a cadet officer.
‘Prince Khemri,’ she said, standing as I approached. ‘The Commandant will see you now. Master Haddad, would you care for refreshment?’
‘No thank you, Highness,’ replied Haddad. He stepped aside and, when I arched an eyebrow at him, gave a slight affirmative nod. Clearly a new Prince and officer cadet did not take his Master of Assassins with him into an interview with the Commandant of the Academy. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen any masters or even apprentices around Prince Janokh, and none of the priests in the outer office looked like assassins to me. This sent a small shiver of apprehension through me. I had already come to heavily depend upon Haddad, and if he couldn’t be with me in the Academy . . . that would not be good.
I made sure that I could feel the connection with the Imperial Mind, the slight buzz at the backs of my eyeballs and the base of my skull, which meant it was bearing witness. Whatever I experienced would be recorded far away at the Imperial Core and could be replayed if necessary. If something terrible happened to me, justice would be done.
Also, if I got killed, it should not be a final death. Again, I wasn’t sure of the details, but I knew that if I stayed in contact, I would be resurrected. Or at least my life would be weighed up by the Priests of the Aspect of the Discerning Hand and, presuming I wasn’t found wanting, I would be reborn. And since I hadn’t had the chance to do anything bad yet, I was pretty sure I’d be approved for another go at the Prince business.
Pretty sure . . .
On an even less comforting note, I didn’t know what would happen if I just got really badly injured but was still alive. While I had a redesigned nervous system that included a very high pain threshold, I still felt pain. Pain was a necessary warning system and couldn’t be done away with altogether.
Thinking cheery thoughts like this almost made me fall over the Bitek-cloned hound that was lying near the door. A long, six-legged beast with jaws the size of my torso, it growled angrily and began to get up as I lurched around its chosen place of repose.
‘Down, Troubadour,’ called out the Commandant. He was at the far end of the office, a ridiculously large, bare chamber almost devoid of furnishings and fittings. The floor, ceiling, and walls were all wooden panelling, some of the boards treated with a Bitek luminescence, so the light was soft and diffuse. There was a Mektek command chair in one corner, with two priests standing on either side of it, but that was it for furniture.
The Commandant was standing in the middle of the room, looking imposing and much taller than any of the other Princes I’d met. It took me a second to work out that he was actually on a kind of ramp that slowly sloped up from where I was, making him a good ten centimetres taller—provided I advanced no farther. Which I wasn’t going to do, because there was a visual schematic coming up in my left eye, sent from one of the priests, and it showed a line a few steps ahead of me, and along the line, in flashing letters, CADETS DO NOT CROSS THIS LINE.
‘I am Prince Khemri,’ I said, unnecessarily. He knew who I was, just as I’d got the broadcast from him telling me he was Prince
It was ATALIN again.
I sniffed and resolved that I would never be that much of a suck-up. Who wanted to have their name on a piece of ancient wood anyway?
There were numerous other priests here as well, a score or more of them all along one wall, interacting with Psitek visualisations or Mektek projections, presumably to do with the operation of various systems in and around the Academy.
As I got closer to the desk, I picked up the Prince’s identity. Prince Lucisk. Like Prince Atalin, she was a senior cadet, returned from a year-long operational Navy tour for advanced studies at the Academy and to act as a cadet officer.
‘Prince Khemri,’ she said, standing as I approached. ‘The Commandant will see you now. Master Haddad, would you care for refreshment?’
‘No thank you, Highness,’ replied Haddad. He stepped aside and, when I arched an eyebrow at him, gave a slight affirmative nod. Clearly a new Prince and officer cadet did not take his Master of Assassins with him into an interview with the Commandant of the Academy. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen any masters or even apprentices around Prince Janokh, and none of the priests in the outer office looked like assassins to me. This sent a small shiver of apprehension through me. I had already come to heavily depend upon Haddad, and if he couldn’t be with me in the Academy . . . that would not be good.
I made sure that I could feel the connection with the Imperial Mind, the slight buzz at the backs of my eyeballs and the base of my skull, which meant it was bearing witness. Whatever I experienced would be recorded far away at the Imperial Core and could be replayed if necessary. If something terrible happened to me, justice would be done.
Also, if I got killed, it should not be a final death. Again, I wasn’t sure of the details, but I knew that if I stayed in contact, I would be resurrected. Or at least my life would be weighed up by the Priests of the Aspect of the Discerning Hand and, presuming I wasn’t found wanting, I would be reborn. And since I hadn’t had the chance to do anything bad yet, I was pretty sure I’d be approved for another go at the Prince business.
Pretty sure . . .
On an even less comforting note, I didn’t know what would happen if I just got really badly injured but was still alive. While I had a redesigned nervous system that included a very high pain threshold, I still felt pain. Pain was a necessary warning system and couldn’t be done away with altogether.
Thinking cheery thoughts like this almost made me fall over the Bitek-cloned hound that was lying near the door. A long, six-legged beast with jaws the size of my torso, it growled angrily and began to get up as I lurched around its chosen place of repose.
‘Down, Troubadour,’ called out the Commandant. He was at the far end of the office, a ridiculously large, bare chamber almost devoid of furnishings and fittings. The floor, ceiling, and walls were all wooden panelling, some of the boards treated with a Bitek luminescence, so the light was soft and diffuse. There was a Mektek command chair in one corner, with two priests standing on either side of it, but that was it for furniture.
The Commandant was standing in the middle of the room, looking imposing and much taller than any of the other Princes I’d met. It took me a second to work out that he was actually on a kind of ramp that slowly sloped up from where I was, making him a good ten centimetres taller—provided I advanced no farther. Which I wasn’t going to do, because there was a visual schematic coming up in my left eye, sent from one of the priests, and it showed a line a few steps ahead of me, and along the line, in flashing letters, CADETS DO NOT CROSS THIS LINE.
‘I am Prince Khemri,’ I said, unnecessarily. He knew who I was, just as I’d got the broadcast from him telling me he was Prince
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