The Spy by Sophie Lark

4

Nix

The ship has to change directions several times to shoot the gap into the protected harbor of Visine Dvorca. This is the lowest point of the island, encircled by the small village that students are permitted to visit if they don’t mind the long walk down from the school.

We’ll be riding in wagons on the way up.

I had hoped that the crew would untie us, and the whole first-day fistfight could be forgotten. No such luck—it appears that the punishment will be following us up to Kingmakers.

Sabrina and I are marched onto the luggage wagon, ignominiously seated apart from the other students like convicted criminals.

To my utter outrage, Estas Lomachenko is released and allowed to join the rest of the Freshmen like nothing happened.

“What the hell?” I demand of the first mate. “How come he’s not in trouble?”

“ ‘Cause you fuckin’ started it,” the first mate says. “And ‘cause he’s the one bleedin’ all over himself while you don’t have a scratch on you.”

The front of Estas’ dress shirt is soaked red. He looks extremely grumpy as he unsuccessfully tries to staunch the flow from his nose with a filthy-looking handkerchief provided by the crew.

That’s the only comfort I get as the wagons lurch up the unpaved road—that at least Estas looks almost as stupid as Sabrina and me.

Sabrina doesn’t seem to mind. I guess she’s used to attention. She sits tall and proud on the bench seat, glancing around curiously as we pass through farms and vineyards, thick pine forest, and then wide-open fields, fragrant with the last of the sweet summer hay.

Kingmakers looms on the highest point of the island, a vast stone fortress with bone-pale walls and dark gables. Its gates are guarded by two monolithic figures: a knight with an ax to our left, and a winged woman with an upraised sword to our right. Their stone faces look down on us, coldly forbidding.

The inscription over the entrance reads:

Necessitas Non Habet Legem

Necessity Has No Law

The temperature inside Kingmakers is at least ten degrees colder. The grounds are shadowed by the thick stone walls, not to mention the many towers, parapets, and interior structures that make up the castle. It’s like a secret city, whole and entire unto itself, with vast glass greenhouses and terraced gardens and students striding around with a sense of purpose and self-possession that has entirely abandoned me at the moment.

A group of four Seniors wait for us just outside the main Keep. The rest of the students file out of the wagons, called to attention by a bright-eyed blonde girl wearing a pair of pink rhinestone cowboy boots with her school uniform. Even though she’s 5’4 at best and could be mistaken for a sorority sister, her tone more closely resembles a drill sergeant. She shouts, “Hurry up fresh meat! We haven’t got all day!”

She tips a wink at Cara Wilk, apparently recognizing her.

Then she frowns at the sight of Sabrina Gallo, hands tied, perched in the back of the luggage wagon.

“What’s this about?” she demands of the driver.

“Those two gotta go see the Chancellor,” he says.

“What for?” the blonde girl cries.

The driver shrugs.

The blonde gives him an irritated scowl but doesn’t argue further. Instead, she calls the rest of the students to order as the driver begins to unload the luggage.

“Welcome to Kingmakers!” she shouts. “I’m Chay Wagner, and this is Bodashka Kushnir,”—she nods toward a hulking boy with a blocky jaw and a dull expression—“Matteo Ragusa”—a slim boy with close-cropped dark hair, who gives the Freshmen a wave—“and Isabel Dixon”—a clever-looking black-haired girl with a crooked smile and horribly-bitten fingernails.

“I’m going to be taking charge of the Heirs today. My fellow guides will show the rest of you to your dorms. I should hope you know your own division by now, but just in case you’re completely stupid, I’m gonna call your name and you can grab your suitcase and go stand by your guide.”

Chay begins with the Accountants, reading the names off her list with the speed of an impatient auctioneer.

Cara Wilk is already retrieving her single suitcase. She gives us a worried look.

“What should I do?” she whispers up to Sabrina. “Should I try to call someone?”

“I’ll be fine,” Sabrina says, tossing her dark hair back over her shoulders. “Go on, don’t stress.”

Reluctantly, Cara joins Matteo Ragusa and the rest of the Accountants.

Caleb Griffin is next to depart, splitting off with the brawny and boisterous Enforcers under the care of Bodashka Kushnir. Caleb is less concerned than Cara, only sparing us one last amused glance before galloping off with his new dormmates.

Isabel Dixon takes charge of the Spies.

It’s interesting to see the clear physical differences amongst the divisions. The Enforcers are almost entirely male, with a clear preference for size and athleticism. The Accountants are, for lack of a better word, neat. They show the most deference to the school dress code, and every one of them appears to have woken up in time to shower this morning. The Spies, by contrast, look like they might have spent the night clubbing, chugged down a Bloody Mary, then pulled their uniforms on over whatever they were wearing before. One of the girls has a leather corset under her school blouse, and one of the guys bears several smeared stamps on the back of his hand from his last outing in civilization.

The Heirs are a mixed bag. Alyssa Chan—the Asian girl who snubbed me on the ship—Sabrina Gallo, and I are the only female Heirs in our year. The rest are an assortment of boys of every nationality whose only unifying characteristic is cocky confidence.

“You looking for a new roommate?” a redheaded Scot asks Chay, sidling up next to her and giving her a seductive grin.

“Afraid not,” Chay says. “No dogs allowed in the Solar.”

The rest of the male Heirs chortle at the brush-off, but Chay wastes no time wiping the smiles off their faces.

“I’ll walk you over to your dorms in the Octagon Tower,” she says, “Dean Yenin will take charge of you then—he’s not nearly as nice as me, so watch the lip or he’ll knock you on your ass.”

Estas Lomachenko joins the Heirs, picking up his suitcase and spitting a mouthful of blood out on the grass.

“I hope the Chancellor chucks you off the fucking cliff,” he snarls up at us.

“Aww, does your wittle nose hurt?” Sabrina mocks him.

Chay cuts between us before Estas can lunge at Sabrina.

“Join the Heirs,” she tells him sternly. Then, looking up at Sabrina, she says, “I’ll come up to Chancellor’s office as soon as I drop off the Freshmen.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sabrina says blithely. “You saw that big fuckin’ baby, he’s not even hurt.”

“Well,” Chay says, unconvinced. “I’ll still come check on you.”

Once we’re alone with the driver, Sabrina impatiently orders, “Will you untie us already? We’re not gonna run away. Where the fuck would we go?”

“Just doing what the first mate said to do,” the driver replies stubbornly. He chucks the reigns, encouraging his droopy gray horse to stumble forward again.

Rolling her eyes in annoyance, Sabrina starts wriggling her wrists free of the rope.

It’s not too difficult for me to do the same. While the sailors’ knots are impressive, the rope itself is too thick for the purpose. We had only remained bound out of a desire to avoid getting in any more trouble.

The driver takes us in a slow half-circle around the Keep, bringing the horse to a stop only twenty yards from where we were sitting before.

“We’re here,” he says.

“We could have just walked over!” Sabrina shouts at him, utterly annoyed.

“Just doing my job,” the driver says.

I can tell Sabrina wants to pop him in the nose too, but this time she restrains herself. She shakes the ropes off her wrists and jumps down from the wagon. I follow after her, likewise free, at least for the moment.

“Where’s the Chancellor?” Sabrina demands imperiously.

“Top floor,” the driver says. “I’m taking you up.”

“I’ll tell him myself what happened,” Sabrina says.

This girl is fucking insane, and I’m loving it.

I always prefer action over waiting, boldness over apology.

“Let’s get this over with,” I say to Sabrina, grinning.

The driver’s horse waits patiently. The driver himself shuffles along behind us, clutching a folded piece of paper that I can only assume is a letter from the first mate tattling on our misdeeds.

We climb five sets of stairs to the topmost floor of the Keep, the driver puffing along behind us. He either smokes or he’s even older than he looks.

This is my first time inside one of the Kingmakers buildings. I’m impressed with the luxurious furnishings. Thick carpets blanket the stone floors, the walls are hung with tapestries and oil paintings, and elegant statuary fills the recessed niches in the hallway.

The closer we get, the less I want to meet the Chancellor. I only know Luther Hugo from his foreboding acceptance letter—I didn’t get the sense that he was an indulgent headmaster.

Sabrina reaches the double doors of the Chancellor’s office, rapping her knuckles against the wood. The driver drags himself up the last few steps, annoyed that he had to hustle to keep up with us.

After a brief pause, a sonorous voice calls, “You may enter.”

Sabrina turns the handle.

The room beyond is much larger than I expected. The office appears to be a combination living quarters and working space, including several sitting areas, endless bookshelves, artwork, and personal photographs, and of course, the dark and imposing desk behind which the Chancellor waits.

The rich colors, the fur throws, and the deep fireplace remind me of a hunting lodge—if that lodge were owned by a sultan.

The driver seems determined not to let Sabrina control this part of the proceedings. He practically sprints across the long expanse of carpet to thrust the letter into the Chancellor’s hands, saying, “Here! These girls got into trouble on the ship ride over.”

Luther Hugo takes the letter.

“Thank you,” he says to the driver. “You may go.”

The driver looks mildly affronted by this swift dismissal. He was looking forward to watching the hammer fall on our heads. However, the Chancellor’s black stare leaves no room for argument.

“Yes, sir. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon,” he says humbly, exiting the office with one last glower at Sabrina and me.

However ballsy Sabrina might have been on the way up here, she quails before the Chancellor’s deeply-lined face and heavy black brows. Luther Hugo is broad-shouldered and intimidating, even while seated. His chair is throne-like, his double-breasted suit as richly embroidered as an emperor’s. His mane of dark hair and his beard are shot through with silver threads as bright as wire.

We stand silently while Luther scans the letter from the first mate.

Though his gaze is fixed on the paper, the eyes of every photograph on the wall seem to stare down at us. I recognize some of the famous people hobnobbing with the Chancellor. Others look like mafia. To a frame, they’re all wealthy and distinguished, the pictures taken in exotic locales: on yachts and estates, at banquets and on golf courses. With the exception of the photograph tucked in the corner behind Luther’s desk—this is the only picture featuring a group of students: three frowning boys, and one dark-haired girl who beams in triumph as she shakes the Chancellor’s hand.

Luther places the letter facedown on the desk in front of him so we can’t read what was written about us.

“You make a poor start at my school,” he says in his low, rumbling voice.

“We weren’t at your school yet,” Sabrina says.

She somehow manages to keep her tone respectful while contradicting the Chancellor.

He raises one pointed eyebrow, his beetle-black eyes fixed on Sabrina.

“Who do you think owns that ship, missy?” he says.

Sabrina is wise enough not to answer that rhetorical question.

I can’t stay silent, however.

“It was my fault,” I blurt out. “I’m the one who hit Estas. Sabrina got caught in the middle.”

“Sabrina didn’t hit Estas as well?” the Chancellor inquires, eyebrow still raised.

“Yes, I did,” Sabrina says honestly. “But he deserved it. He was threatening Nix and insulting her father.”

“And you think that justifies breaking the rules,” the Chancellor says.

“Well,” Sabrina says, “necessity has no law.”

I can’t believe she’s quoting the school motto at him.

I’m starting to think she wants to get us kicked out.

Well, whatever happens, I have to stand by Sabrina like she stood by me.

“We’re extremely sorry,” I say to the Chancellor. “Both of us. I can promise you, it won’t happen again.”

“Oh, that is a near-certainty,” the Chancellor says coolly.

Shit. That doesn’t sound good.

Sabrina bites the edge of her full lip, obviously hearing the same note of impending doom. Throwing all caution to the wind, she cries, “You would have done the same thing!”

The Chancellor slowly turns to face her, his expression both threatening and mildly surprised at the sheer audacity of this girl.

Sabrina persists, knowing that it’s all-or-nothing in this moment.

“You’d never let someone slander the Hugo name! We’re mafia—we follow no law but our own. All we have is our word and our honor. If we don’t defend it, if we don’t show it matters to us . . . then no one would trust us. No business could be done.”

Sabrina’s cheeks are flushed, her eyes as electric as storm clouds. She refuses to drop the Chancellor’s dark stare.

I keep my mouth shut, knowing better than to interrupt their battle of wills.

“Sabrina Gallo . . .” the Chancellor says softly. “Cousin to Leo Gallo and Miles Griffin.”

“That’s right,” Sabrina says, chin up-tilted.

“I’m beginning to regret extending admission to any of your family,” he says.

“This is not a school for the meek and submissive,” Sabrina says.

“No,” the Chancellor agrees. “But it is a school, and you will follow my rules while you are here. Or you will reap the consequences. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” Sabrina says.

“Absolutely.” I nod.

“Good,” he says. And then, his black eyes fixing on me. “You can start with your uniform.”

“Sorry,” I say, face as scarlet as my hair. “I didn’t know we were supposed to wear it on the way over . . .”

Hugo ignores this.

“Get to your dorms,” he says. “And hope that we have no more occasion for conversation.”

He turns back to his papers, dismissing us.

Sabrina and I hurry out of his office, limp with relief.

As soon as the doors close behind us, I say, “Fucking hell, girl. I don’t know how you had the balls to talk to him like that. And I thought my dad was scary . . .”

A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth.

“There’s two kinds of men in the world,” she says. “The kind who want to hurt you . . . and the kind who want to be persuaded by you.”

I gaze at Sabrina with an entirely new level of admiration. This girl’s eighteen years old, and she can bend Luther Hugo around her finger . . .

“Teach me your ways,” I say, breathless and awed.

Sabrina shakes her head, coming back to reality.

“Come on,” she says. “We better go grab our bags, if that dickhead driver even left them for us.”

We jog back down the stairs, finding my duffle bag and Sabrina’s suitcase unceremoniously chucked on the lawn. That’s better than the alternative, so we scoop them up happily, high on the relief of not being expelled.

As we’re doing so, Chay Wagner and a tall girl with a long sheet of ash-blonde hair and dark gothic makeup come running up to us.

“What happened?” Chay cries.

“Do we need to go talk to the Chancellor?” the goth girl asks.

“No, it’s fine,” Sabrina says, already recovering her grin. “He let us off with a warning.”

“He did?” Chay says, mouth hanging open.

“I think he liked Sabrina,” I tell her.

“Liked you?” the goth girl says, mystified. “Since when does the Chancellor like anybody?”

Sabrina shrugs, already bored of talking about it. “This is Nix Moroz, by the way,” she says.

“Anna Wilk,” the goth girl replies, giving me that wary and slightly repulsed look that I’m already coming to despise.

In this instance, I can’t exactly fault her. I nearly got her cousin expelled within ten minutes of meeting her.

“I’m really sorry about all this,” I say, trying to clear the air. “I’m not here to cause problems. I just want to go to class like everybody else.”

Anna sighs. “It’s Kingmakers,” she says. “Causing problems is like everybody else. Classes are a secondary pursuit.”

“Let’s go drop your bags off before we miss dinner,” Chay says.

The older girls give us a quick tour of campus as they lead us to our dorm.

“You already saw the Keep,” Chay says. “That’s where most of your classes will be held, except for the ones in the Smithy, or the Armory, or the shooting range outside the castle walls.”

“A shooting range?” I say, perking up.

“You like to shoot?” Anna asks.

“Yeah.” I nod. “I go hunting with my dad—bow hunting, mostly. I like archery in general—target shooting, trick shots . . .”

“You’ll be good at Marksmanship, then,” Chay says.

“That’s the Armory over there,” Anna points to a low, round building west of the Keep. “That’s where all your Combat classes will be held. There’s an underground pool under the gym.”

Kingmakers is sounding better and better.

“I love swimming,” I say.

We’re walking to the north end of campus, passing a large, terraced garden fragrant with mint, basil, rosemary, and lavender. Beyond the garden, I see a tall, angular structure that can only be the Octagon Tower.

“That’s where the male Heirs have their dorms,” Chay says, confirming my guess. “And then over here—” We pass a long, stone platform surrounded by orange trees. “Here’s where we stay—the Solar.”

The Solar is smaller than the Octagon Tower, likewise bordering the north wall, with its windows looking out over the dizzying drop down the limestone cliffs to the ocean below.

The rooms are bright and airy, the furnishings in delicate shades of blue, silver, and cream. Large mirrors hang on the common room walls, reflecting the clouds and sky from the glass-paned windows.

“These were the private quarters of the Lord and Lady of the castle,” Chay explains. “So it’s the prettiest part of Kingmakers.”

“The Chancellor’s office wasn’t bad,” Sabrina says.

Anna gives her a sharp look. “Be careful, Sabrina. Just because he was lenient once, don’t make the mistake of thinking he’s all bark. Remember what he did to Ozzy’s mom.”

I don’t know who Ozzy is, or what happened to his mom, but I’m guessing it wasn’t good.

“You’re right,” Sabrina says. And then, with an apologetic look at Chay, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Chay says, squaring her shoulders. “Ozzy’s doing great. Honestly, I just want to get this damn school year over and done with so we’re not long-distance anymore.”

“You guys are gonna have to share a room,” Anna tells us. “Alyssa Chan demanded the single.”

Sabrina laughs. “She was trying to buddy up with me in Dubrovnik—guess she changed her mind.”

I feel a little flush of relief that Sabrina doesn’t seem to mind rooming with me, even after everything that happened.

Anna is still watching me as the two older girls show us our room on the second floor.

“It’s for the best,” Chay says. “That single is the size of a closet. Remember poor Zoe trying to squeeze in there?”

Anna laughs. “That seems like a hundred years ago.”

I’m reminded again how small my network is, compared to all these people known to Sabrina.

Our dorm room is no closet—it’s open and spacious, with twin beds pushed up against opposite walls, a carved wardrobe, and a stunning view.

Anna and Chay look around nostalgically.

“We stayed here first year,” Anna says.

“I almost like it better than our room on the top floor,” Chay says. “The one we have now is bigger, but the window looks the other way over the grounds. I liked the ocean.”

“It’s tradition, though,” Anna says. “The Seniors get the Lord’s room. This one probably belonged to a Lady-In-Waiting.”

“Or a mistress.” Chay grins.

Anna seems to remember we were supposed to be hurrying.

“Drop your bags off!” she says. “No time to unpack right now. Dinner’s only an hour long, and we already missed half of it.”

“Which bed do you want?” I ask Sabrina.

“I’ll take left,” she says.

“I’m right then,” I say, throwing my duffle down on the rough gray blanket stretched over the mattress with military precision.

“We’ll wait outside for you to change,” Chay says, eyeing my cargo pants. “They’re not fussed about how you wear the uniform, but you are supposed to wear it.”

“Right.” I nod. “I’ll be quick.”

* * *