But they were out of time.
Naomi cracked open their front door and peered outside. “Voices coming this way. In the distance, but a lot of them. Too many.”
Scorio pulled the door open wider. The Aureate Hall that ran past all the student suite entrances was normally subdued, but voices filtered in, raucous and indistinct like the roar of surf heard past the last few dunes. “Praximar must have cut the ceremony short.”
“No surprise there.” Leonis stepped past them both. “Given how you humiliated him? The last thing he’d want is to remain on that stage.”
“Then we’d best move fast.” Naomi carried nothing. She took a few steps toward the base of the stairs that led up to the main residential corridor. “This way?”
“Too busy,” said Lianshi. “Let’s take the servants’ quarters. This way.”
They ran in a tight-knit group. Down the hall, into a central hub, down a side corridor, then through a broad doorway into a pocket atrium that was open to the sky. The high walls rang with their footsteps as Lianshi led them across and through an open archway into a broad service hall.
The servants glanced at them in surprise as they rushed by. The air was muggy with steam and the scent of lavender, and they ran past a dozen laundry rooms filled with huge stone vats and massive hampers.
The sound of excited voices had faded away.
Their small group fled the laundry complex into another hexagonal hub, the servants backing toward the walls to give them space, and then out into a main corridor that led to the Western Gate.
Guards eyed them warily, couriers cursed and leaped aside, and countless servants parted with their packs and trays and pushcarts.
Finally, they emerged into the Western Vestibule. It was a great circular chamber; the walls striated into great bands of marble, pale cream, rich umber, patterned gray, and stained glass was set in high windows above. It was thickly colonnaded, but through this forest of smooth trunks, Scorio saw the Gate itself, gleaming gold and ornately decorated, double doored and wide enough for a carriage to pass through.
Lianshi slowed, eyes wide as she searched the crowd. “Where are they?”
Scorio forced back doubt, fear. Had Jova and her companions been waylaid?
“There,” said Naomi and cut off to the left, rounding columns and cutting through groups of visitors who balked in surprise and annoyance.
Jova stood hard by the Gate’s left, arms crossed. Zala was bouncing up on the balls of her feet to peer over the crowd, her thick black braid dancing about her shoulders. At the sight of them, she waved and sank back down.
“Took you long enough,” said Jova.
“My fault.” Lianshi smiled nervously. “Had trouble saying goodbye.”
Juniper gave her a warm smile of sympathy.
“We can chat later,” said Leonis. “We heard a crowd making for our rooms. They’ll check the exits once they find us gone.”
“Agreed,” said Scorio, then stiffened. His legs had tensed up of their own accord, an invisible power having coiled around them and locked his feet in place. He grimaced and tried to wrench himself free, but his legs might as well have turned to stone.
Naomi noticed first. “Scorio?”
Inexorable authority like a finger turning his chin caused him to look over his shoulder at the far entrance to the Western Vestibule. The crowd there was parting before a figure with awe and obsequious respect.
A woman strode toward them, chin raised, broad lips cast into a subtle smile, her tawny skin glowing with health, her blonde hair falling in glorious waves past her shoulders. Dark brows arched over burning green eyes, and her beauty was at once stern and leonine.
Scorio had only seen her a handful of times, and most of those were when she stood beside Praximar atop the stage. She was known throughout all of Bastion, feared and admired in equal measure, the political counterweight to House Hydra and object of endless speculation and rumor:
Octavia, Pyre Lady and Autocrator of the impossibly wealthy House Kraken.
“Damn,” hissed Jova. “How’d she know we were here?”
The lock on Scorio’s limbs released as the Autocrator drew up before them. She’d shed the massively jeweled and no doubt cumbersome outer robe she’d worn on stage, and now wore an elegant golden shift that cut off mid-thigh. Such was her intrinsic charisma that she made even this simple garment appear royal.
“Scorio. Students.” Her voice was lazy with amusement. “I’m glad I caught you.”
“Autocrator.” Scorio sensed his friends stir nervously behind him. “This is an honor. But we’ve a pressing need to leave the Academy.”
“You’ve no idea. Praximar has guaranteed a place in the Academy next year to any student who captures one of your company. The reaction was, shall we say, enthused.”
“You’re joking,” croaked Lianshi.
Leonis’s voice was just as strangled. “That’s—what—two hundred and fifty Great Souls after us?”
“Just about.” Octavia glanced over their company. “You could of course accept my invitation and join House Kraken. My patronage would safeguard you from what’s to come.”
Scorio and Jova spoke at the same time, their response immediate. “No thank you.”
Scorio coughed, shared an embarrassed glance with the other Tomb Spark, and tried again. “Our thanks, Autocrator, but we stand by our decision to remain independent.”
“I thought as much.” Octavia didn’t seem surprised. “But I wished to plant a seed. Right now you are flushed with the heady joys of youthful independence. But one day you might stand in need of a House’s support. It is a cruel Hell out there. When that moment comes, remember that House Kraken is your ally. We are no friends of House Hydra, and Praximar’s policies do not reflect our own. Am I clear?”
Scorio bowed his head. “Very, Autocrator. Thank you.”
The shouts were growing louder.
Octavia’s smile quirked a bit wider. “You’d best hurry. Praximar placed no time limit on his offer. Bastion is about to become a most interesting place for you all.”
Jova grabbed Scorio’s arm and pulled him away. “Thanks. Be seeing you, Autocrator.”
They ran toward the golden gate. The bevy of guards glanced uncertainly at Octavia, but receiving no guidance, they simply stepped aside.
Scorio led the way out into the dull ocher light of Second Bronze. They spilled into a paved forecourt sandwiched between the Academy and an octagonal brick building. Down three steps to race around a small garden, then out into the western periphery of the Academy grounds, circumscribed by a low ceremonial wall. Other freestanding buildings of ancient purpose rose about them.
Sharp shouts came from behind.
They’d been spotted.
“Make way!” bellowed Leonis, charging to the fore. The crowd scattered. They sprinted toward the western entrance, rushing past more guards and foot traffic, and out into an ornamental public plaza dominated by a bronze statue of some ancient Great Soul.
“Damn her for holding us up!” snarled Jova, matching Scorio stride for stride.
There was no time to respond. People drew back with shock, raising arms as if expecting to be struck. Their party rounded the large pedestal, sprinted across the rest of the plaza, and then dove into a narrow alley choked by the tables arrayed along the left side, diners drawing back in surprise as Jova led them past.
It curved immediately to the left; one restaurant followed another, a fiddler ceased his playing as they barreled past, and Scorio caught glimpses of luxurious dining rooms filled with patrons, the scent of grilled meat steeped in honey and other spices filling the air. The buildings loomed high above on both sides, awnings blocking the sight of the sun-wire. Leonis roared as he shoved his way through the crowd, spilling people into tables, ignoring the curses that immediately cut off when people saw the cut of their Academy robes.