The Will of the Many (Hierarchy Book 1)

AS A BOY, I HEARD a thousand different tales of caten. The great harbour capital of Deditia. The shining bastion of innovation and art and beauty. The beating heart of the world.

I’m still unprepared for my first sight of it.

We’ve been travelling for almost two hours across the Sea of Quus, the Transvect speeding hundreds of feet above even the tallest swells. The sun emerged an hour ago and water has been glittering as far as the eye can see, but now a thin, hazy line of land darkens the horizon. I lean up against the window as a jutting peninsula begins to take shape ahead.

Within minutes the Transvect is slicing across the mouth of a bay that has to be at least ten miles wide. Ships dot the sparkling surface below: fishing vessels, schooners, even what looks like a trireme in the distance. Farther still, there’s a mass of stone wharfs, bustling with activity.

And beyond, Caten.

The sunlight shimmers off an ocean of polished stone that screams the supremacy of Will. Sprawling mansions, triumphal arches, temples replete with towers that stretch impossibly high, each one distinct, twisting and curving and angled in ways that no standard construction method could ever achieve. Some of those have walkways between them, passageways with long arches that gaze imperiously down onto the streets beneath.

Between and surrounding all of that is… more. Smaller wooden structures, ten times the number of the stone ones. There are paved roads. Bustling squares. Expansive baths. Statues. Even from here, I can see that everything’s in constant motion throughout it all—not just people but larger objects, stalking or rolling along the streets. The great Will-driven machines I’ve heard so much about, presumably. Too distant to properly make out.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Ulciscor is watching me expectantly.

It’s terrifying. Terrifying. This is my enemy. These are the people who want me dead. The Hierarchy’s shadow lies over all, and I’ve never considered myself blind to their power, but this is something else. I can’t calculate the city’s size; I can’t see its end. Buildings both lavish and shabby coat the shores of the bay and then sprawl back up the gently rising ground beyond, until they fill the horizon in every direction. There’s no way to grasp its enormity, no mental comparison by which I can diminish the horrified awe it inspires.

Sometimes I believe my resistance means something. Sometimes my anger keeps me warm as I tell myself that somehow, one day, I might figure out a way to repay the pain and loss I owe to Caten.

It’s hard, when the lies that let you sleep are so cruelly laid bare.

“Not bad.” I keep my tone light. Grin in Ulciscor’s direction to show that, yes, I’m impressed. Tamp down the melancholy, burying it deep.

Ulciscor doesn’t follow up the observation, seeing I’m distracted. There’s been a lot of that, over the past two hours. He wants to talk—to start impressing upon me the countless things I no doubt need to learn before attending the Academy—but he’s giving me time to settle. To finally process the events of the past two days.

I’ve needed that, if not for the reasons he thinks. I spent the first half of the trip combing through every moment of the attack on the Transvect, everything I said to Veridius and then Ulciscor. Trying to decide if I gave anything away, and then making sure I have reasonable explanations for inconsistencies, strange behaviour, anything at all that could be questioned later.

For the second half, my worry has been focused squarely on Sedotia.

In the whistling hush of the Transvect’s cabin, I’ve been forced to acknowledge that she’s a problem I can’t ignore: the woman knows who I am and the more I replay her parting threat, the more I’m convinced she wasn’t bluffing. I have no intention of becoming an Anguis spy, but nor can I simply walk away.

Which means that I’m going to have to find a reason to be at this naumachia, somehow. I’ve heard of such events before: gladiatorial combat, but exchanging chariots and sand for ships and water. A massive, staged naval battle, put on at extraordinary expense and effort for the pleasure of the Catenan populace.

Not the sort of thing that Ulciscor is going to just let me wander off to see.

“How many people live here?” I tinge my voice with awe, knowing it’s what any Catenan expects from this experience.

“A little over a million, as of last census. More, if you count the outer districts.”

“Gods’ graves.” I make it a murmur, almost speaking to myself. “The old gladiators who were overseeing Victorum used to talk about the great arenas here, how many people would come, but I never really believed them.” I finally glance at Ulciscor. “Is it true that the Catenan Arena can hold more than fifty thousand people?” Understating the number, guessing how he’ll react.

“More than a hundred thousand.” Unmistakeable pride this time.

I scoff and shake my head, as if still not quite willing to accept it. Somewhere between impressed and disbelieving. “I can’t imagine it.”

“And yet,” Ulciscor insists, the smallest hint of annoyance in his voice.

“You’ve seen it? Been there, when it’s full?”

“Once or twice. The games are more entertainment for the mob than for senators, but it’s necessary from time to time. And they are spectacular,” he concedes, almost an afterthought. He smiles as he sees my fascination, how engaged I am at the thought. “Perhaps you’ll get the chance to see them for yourself, one day.”

I resume my observation of the city, content to leave it at that: Ulciscor will only find it suspicious if I press further, but the seed’s been planted. When I do express a desire to see the games being held during the Festival of Jovan, he’ll remember this conversation and think it’s because he’s piqued my interest.

“We won’t see much of the city itself today,” Ulciscor eventually says, apologetic. “The Transvect is stopping in the Praedium District. Warehouses, mostly. We’ll be taking a carriage from there to Sarcinia.”

That makes sense. This Transvect was redirected from the eastern provinces to pick us up; from what I saw, its cargo is largely grain. Even for a Magnus Quintus, I can’t imagine anyone would have been willing to divert a whole supply shipment farther than necessary.

“That’s where your estate is?”

He nods. “It’s about an hour’s ride.”

We’re bound for Ulciscor’s family estate, where I’m to spend the next two months. The Academy’s current year-and-a-half course started four months ago; the month-long break over the Festival of Jovan is only a few weeks away, so the Quintus has decided I’m to be tutored until the holiday has finished. That it’s better to “smooth out my rough edges,” as he puts it, rather than throw me to the wolves straight away.

He’s also warned me that he’ll be departing for his residence in Caten in a couple of days, leaving me in the care of others for my tutelage. I’m still not sure what to make of that. On one hand, it makes sense: he has senatorial duties, and he’s already made it clear that he wants to keep me far from the politicking of the capital while I train. On the other, though, it feels odd that he’s so willing to leave me without personal oversight.

“Will…”—I try to remember the name—“Lanistia meet us there?” The Sextus who will be in charge of my lessons, apparently.

“She should already be there.”

I squint at the insinuation of doubt into his voice. “Does she know we’re coming?”

“She knows I’m coming.” Ulciscor is vaguely sheepish. “I didn’t want to say too much about you in a public communication. So you’ll be a… surprise.” The way he says it, I’m not sure I’m going to be the kind of surprise that Lanistia necessarily likes.

“Ah. She knows about Veridius, though? About what we’re doing?” My gaze has drifted back to the city; we’re travelling obliquely to it, about to move from harbour to land. A schooner crosses my vision, and I barely pay it any attention before I realise that its bow is rising and falling sharply as it skims across the swells, despite having no sails raised. It zips beneath us, out of sight.

“She does, and she’s alone in that. Which means that when she speaks, she speaks with my voice—I expect you to show her the respect that demands, and do all that she asks, no matter how hard she drives you. And if there’s something you need to tell me, you can tell her, too. I trust her completely.”

The increasingly familiar shape of an anchoring point looms as the Transvect begins to slow. The wharves are below us now, a hive of industry in the midday sun, hundreds of ant-like figures loading and unloading enormous ships and what appear to be long, horseless carts. I spot some of the latter rolling smoothly away from the docks, ushered by sets of Octavii but clearly powered by Will. They’re laden with sacks, heading in the same direction we are.

I tear my gaze from the window. Caten is vast and foreign; I knew that already. I can’t get distracted.

It’s five minutes until we’re at a stop, coming to rest amid a sea of large, bland, similar-looking wooden warehouses. Across from me, Ulciscor dips into his pocket and slides on a pair of tinted glasses—the type reserved for Sextii and above, supposedly made using some special process in the faraway deserts of Nyripk—before standing. “Come on.”

I’m not sure whether it’s the Magnus Quintus’s glasses, the purple stripe on his toga, or both, but the swarm of workers hurrying to unload the Transvect parts like a wave before him. I trail in his wake, feeling the press of a hundred curious eyes.

The air at street level is thick, rancid, dust mixed with sweat and fish and human excrement from where Octavii have relieved themselves in nearby alleys. I gag at my first unsuspecting lungful. There’s a clamour, an assault of shouting across paved roads as workers compete to communicate with one another. It’s chaotic. Unpleasant.

“Over here.” Ulciscor beckons me to a carriage waiting on the other side of the street.

The driver alights from his seat as he spots us. “Sextus Tohrius sends his best regards, Magnus Quintus.” The sandy-haired man with a pockmarked face offers a small bow as he opens the door.

“Good to see you again, Marius. Please tell him I’m grateful for his help, and that I will be in Caten again in two days.”

“I shall.” The driver waits for me to climb in stiffly behind Ulciscor, sparing me a respectful acknowledgment before closing the carriage and resuming his seat. We’re rolling within moments, and I can hear Marius’s gravelly voice competing with all the others to clear the way.

“Tohrius is a client of mine,” Ulciscor explains as he pulls the curtain next to him, hiding us from view, “and Marius can be trusted to keep his mouth shut. Sarcinia’s far enough from Caten that as long as no one is sure you’re there, nobody will bother making the trip.” He signals for me to draw the curtain on my side, too.

I do so. “You really think anyone’s going to be that interested?”

“In an orphan who’s suddenly become a Telimus, adopted into one of the oldest patrician families in Caten? Yes, Vis. They’ll be interested.” A dry understatement. He turns his attention to a pile of documents that are waiting on the seat next to him. “I have a few things to catch up on here. You should sleep, if you can. Try and recover a little more from that wound. It might be your last chance for a while.” He licks a finger and begins flicking through the pages, focus fully on their contents.

I acknowledge him reluctantly, then settle back into my seat and close my eyes as the carriage begins to rattle across the cobblestones and out of Caten.

“WE’RE HERE.”

Ulciscor’s words stir me from a sun-induced torpor. I blink blearily, stretch muscles stiff from bracing against the constant juddering of the carriage. I’m not sure when I fell asleep, but at some point Ulciscor opened the curtains again. It’s mid-afternoon.

I crane my neck to look ahead. We’ve just crested a rise, and I can see for miles. Everything is a lush green. The occasionally cloud-diffused sun beats down on fields of olives, carefully planted orchards, and the distant gold of wheat. Octavii—I assume—dot the landscape, working the soil with Will-powered machines, or picking, or in some cases tending livestock. There are hundreds of them.

“Our Sarcinian estates.” Ulciscor says it without any prideful inflection, despite the beauty on display. He indicates the mansion just up ahead, which the tree-lined gravel road is curling around toward. “Your home for the next two months.”

“Looks like it’ll do.”

He glances at me, then chuckles. “Don’t let Kadmos hear you say anything like that.” He starts gathering up the papers next to him.

Before I can ask who that is, the carriage is pulling to a stop and Marius is leaping down from his position at the front, opening the door for Ulciscor with practiced smoothness. “I apologise for the rough ride, Magnus.”

“Not your fault, Marius. The roads out here need maintenance, but we’ve had problems with brigands lately.” Ulciscor alights, and I follow. “You should be careful on the return journey.”

“I will, Magnus.”

“You’re welcome to rest and eat before you go.”

“I’m grateful, but Sextus Tohrius needs me back in Caten before nightfall.” The pockmarked man gives a deferential bow and then, seeing Ulciscor’s recognition, swings himself back up onto the driver’s bench. I watch as he deftly adjusts a stone dial, then uses the spoked wooden wheel to steer the carriage as it rolls forward.

“Ulciscor.”

The flat female voice turns both the Quintus and I. A young woman stands, arms crossed, on the portico to the villa. Wavy black hair falls around her face, and she’s wearing the reflective dark glasses of a Will user.

None of it covers her scowl. It’s clearly not directed at me, but that doesn’t stop me from taking a step back.

“Lanistia!” Ulciscor runs a hand over his shaven pate, face splitting into something that’s half genuine pleasure, half sheepishness. He shuffles in front of me, as if to block Lanistia’s view. “I thought you’d be—”

“Who’s this?”

“This is Vis. Vis… Telimus,” he adds with a cough.

Lanistia’s eyes are hidden beneath those glasses, and the rest of her face doesn’t move. She doesn’t say anything. Her disapproval still radiates like a physical heat.

I decide to stay silent.

“Sorry I’m late. The Transvect from Tensia was attacked,” Ulciscor continues after an awkward pause.

“I heard. Are you alright?” Reluctant care to the last part. She wants to be angry with him, I think, but she’s too concerned not to ask.

“Thanks to Vis here.” Ulciscor gives her the slightest of nods. A reassurance that he’s genuinely well.

Something in Lanistia’s face softens. “Good.” She strides forward. There’s a natural athleticism to her movements, reminiscent of the more talented Octavii I fought in the Theatre. Now she’s closer, I decide she can’t be more than five or six years older than me. “I’m Lanistia,” she says to me.

“Vis.”

Introductions apparently done, she turns back to Ulciscor. “The house isn’t set up.”

“Kadmos will manage.” He grins at her. The first time I’ve seen him smile with his eyes.

She growls, but the corners of her mouth quirk upward back at him. Not as austere as she first appeared, then. “Fine. Come on.” She heads back toward the mansion.

Ulciscor gives me a wry look, then motions for me to follow.

“Welcome to Villa Telimus,” he murmurs.