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Donte seemed always to be smiling or laughing. Like Hava, he had dark hair, but his locks were much darker, bordering on black. He was broad-shouldered and stronger than any boy in the school, and faster than all but Hatu and Hava. When Donte decided to become friends with someone, they didn’t have much say in the matter. There was a quiet madness in his approach to life, a willingness to put himself in harm’s way for the thrill of it. No matter how dark the moment, Donte could always contrive a joke, often a completely inappropriate one, to bring sudden laughter, even if his joke itself wasn’t particularly funny. Hatu worried about him, but Donte seemed to move through life without a single care or concern. He was diligent enough in his lessons that his careless manner caused him no serious difficulties. While Hatu considered the future, Donte lived for the moment, seeking only immediate gratification, be it a stiff drink or a pretty girl. Yet Donte was still Hatu’s closest friend among the boys at the school.
‘Look,’ said Hava, pulling them out of their joke. She thrust her chin towards the main street from the docks to the market. ‘Far side, four men.’
Hatu spotted the men, sailors by the look of them, but of a fashion new to him. Coaltachin sailors favoured baggy trousers of light weave, their linen shirts worn loosely to protect them against the heat. Coaltachin people tended to tan or have dark skin, with brown and black hair, but these men were fair-skinned and burned red-bronze by the sun. Two of them had light brown hair, one was blond, and the last was red-haired.
‘Kin of yours?’ asked Hava.
Hatu sighed. ‘That joke was old years ago.’
Only the students who had been raised alongside Hatu knew what his normal hair colour was. He dyed it regularly and had been forced on a few occasions to rub dirt or grease into the roots until he could wash and dye it again. Hatu stood out among the rest of the students. The islands to the east of the twin continents had for centuries been home to a people known as the Igara. They tended to range in height, but most possessed skin easily bronzed by the sun and hair that was typically coloured black to medium brown. A few were blond, but Hatu was one of the two people he knew to have red tresses. Hava’s dark auburn hair only truly looked red after hours in the hot sun – sun bleaching was common with the fishermen and farmers if they didn’t wear hats – but Hatu’s was a unique copper red with golden highlights. ‘Look at that low forehead; more like your kin,’ he said weakly, which caused Hava to chuckle slightly, almost a sound of pity, and Donte to shake his head dismissively.
‘Ya,’ said Donte. ‘It’s not bright enough. Hatu’s is more like a flaming copper. That man’s is … dark carrot, if such a colour exists.’
Hava chuckled again. ‘Why don’t you just shave it off?’
Hatu shook his head. ‘If you think a flame-haired boy stands out, how about a bald one? If I need to run and blend in with a crowd, dirty brown hair is best.’
‘So until he can learn to grow a new head of brown hair in under a minute, he’ll have to dye it,’ added Donte. ‘Besides, what would happen if he’s doing a job and gets caught with a razor?’
Hava nodded. ‘No weapons.’
‘No weapons,’ repeated Hatu. As they approached adulthood, the students had been taught that when violence erupted, they stood a better chance with the authorities if they tossed their weapons aside rather than be captured armed. Loose clothing sewn with rags, to rip away splattered blood, and a host of other tricks had been drilled into the future agents of the Invisible Nation.
All of their training aimed to make the youngsters as useful as possible to their nation. They pledged not to a king, despite their nation’s name, but to a ruling council, a system that had existed for centuries in this region.
While the preceptors bore responsibility for educating the boys and girls, the masters were the final authority in Coaltachin. Each hierarchy within the gang culture of the island had a captain, crews, gangs, and regimes, but the person at the top of the order was simply called ‘master’. Above any single master was the Council, made up of the seven most powerful masters in Coaltachin, and heading the Council was Master Zusara, the single most powerful man in the nation, as close to a king as it was possible to be.
‘I’m hungry,’ muttered Donte.
‘You’re always hungry,’ replied Hava and Hatu in unison, which provoked another burst of barely contained laughter as they struggled to remain hidden.
The forays into the various cities, towns, and villages of Coaltachin were part of the students’ education, but Donte always treated them as an excuse for a holiday, much to the consternation of both his master and his instructor. He began to construct a miniature lance from a windswept tree branch on top of the awning where they lay, using his dagger to whittle it into something he could use to impale a sausage sizzling on a grill below. Muttering, he said, ‘Wish I had a proper spear.’
Hatu shook his head while Hava grinned and chided their friend. ‘We’re supposed to be observing discreetly. Strutting around the market with a spear is hardly inconspicuous.’
The merchant below was busy selling his wares to people hurrying to their own places of work, and to servants from nearby homes seeking the spiced delicacies for their master’s breakfast. If any of the customers noticed that three youngsters were causing the brightly coloured awning of waxed cloth to sag a little deeper than normal, no one spoke of it.
When his opportunity finally came, and no customer looked on, Donte thrust his lance and successfully impaled a stout link on the grill. He quickly pulled it up while the merchant had his back to the fire.
‘You’re going to get us all a beating,’ whispered Hatu.
Donte tried to remove the hot sausage from the makeshift harpoon and burned his fingers in the process, while his companions continued to stifle their laughter.
A small tearing sound caused Hatu to look down in alarm, and he whispered, ‘The awning!’
The students scrambled back to the tiled roof above the awning as quickly as they could, but as they moved, the tear widened and the cloth began to give. None of them could see through the canopy yet, but an angry shout from below made it clear that the merchant had noticed that his striped awning now sagged heavily with a widening tear at its front.
All three youngsters reached the peak of the roof without pause, then quickly scrambled down to the eaves at the back of the house. Like all of the buildings surrounding the market square, the house was a merchant’s dwelling and place of business. There was a good-sized yard below them with a wagon in it and a gate opening onto the alley beyond. Donte glanced one way and then the other, and then signed for Hava and Hatu to follow him as he tiptoed along the edge of the roof. When he reached the alley at the side of the house, he knelt and jumped, and was followed by his two companions. Donte looked back towards the busy market before he motioned for them to follow him to the trade alley behind the yard.
They moved swiftly but didn’t sprint, as they had been taught that running drew too much attention. Donte turned a corner only to find them confronted by a large, broad-shouldered man with a heavy black beard and blue knit cap. He held a long truncheon in his right hand and his arms were crossed.
‘Been stealing sausages?’ he said.
Before any of the students could reply, the man stopped them with a dark look, and with a nod indicated that they were to follow him back into the market. ‘Lose the sausage,’ he instructed Donte, who immediately tossed the warm, savoury treat to the ground. They followed the burly man, a gang captain named Hilsbek, who had been put in charge of Facaria’s pupils while the island master was in a meeting. This wasn’t unusual, as the youngsters spent as much time in the field as in the classroom or training yard.
‘The sausage?’ repeated Hilsbek.
‘I got hungry,’ said Donte, trying not to smile.
A quick cuff to the ear told Donte that this wasn’t amusing to the gang leader. The blow was hard enough to get the student’s attention without damaging him. Donte’s eyes glistened from the pain, but he didn’t let tears come. His face and stance shifted to a position Hatu and Hava knew all too well. Donte would usually have challenged anyone who struck him like that. He’d even risk fighting a crew captain if he thought he could win, but would not defy anyone of a rank higher than that.
Donte was the grandson of Master Kugal, one of the seven masters on the Council, which granted him some additional status, though it was never openly commented upon. The students were supposed to be treated equally, but in practice, their privilege was often dictated by the amount of power held by their close relatives.
Though rank was not official, the pecking order among students had been well established by the time they could leave their mothers. Hava was unusually gifted, among the best archers, runners, and hand-to-hand fighters, both boys and girls, which earned her more respect than was normal for a farmer’s child. Hatu was an orphan, an anomaly without connections, but he was treated with greater care than might be expected.
‘What was your duty?’ asked Hilsbek, his eyes narrowing as he looked from face to guilty face.
Hava and Hatu glanced at each other as Donte, with as impassive a tone as he dared, replied, ‘To watch the market for anything unusual.’
Hilsbek nodded. ‘You were on that roof for over three hours—’
‘And I got hungry,’ added Donte, which earned him another cuffing, one hard enough to leave a red mark on his cheek and tears in his eyes.
Hilsbek glared at the youngster, as if daring him to utter another word.
Donte fell silent.
Hilsbek remained quiet for a while, then spoke in an even tone. ‘What did you see?’
Hava said, ‘A busy market.’
Donte hesitated, as if anticipating another slap, then added, ‘Nothing unusual.’
Hilsbek looked at Hatushaly next. After a pause, the youngster said, ‘There was one group of men trying to appear … normal. They came from the docks and moved a little too fast, as if they were in a hurry but trying not to be noticed. They wore simple robes with deep hoods. One wore boots, the rest sandals. They moved to the north and I couldn’t see them leave.’
Hilsbek looked at Hatu. ‘Well enough. If you were to see such a group while on duty, what would you do?’
Hatu said, ‘What I was told to do. If I was told to report at once, then I’d leave and report. If told to wait until relieved, I’d—’
Hilsbek interrupted. ‘Enough.’
Pointing at Hatu, he said to the others, ‘He knows how to see. You looked, but you didn’t see. Learn how to see.’
Hilsbek regarded the three youngsters for a moment, then he said, ‘You are only months away from being placed …’ He fell silent again and shook his head. ‘If you left training today, you would find a trade, but soon …’ A third silence fell.
Finally Hilsbek said, ‘Find another roof. Watch from there until sundown. See if you can find more men trying to appear normal. Meet at the safe house after sunset.’
As the students started to move away, Hilsbek slapped Donte on the back of his head. ‘I don’t care who your grandfather is, boy. Do something stupid like that when you’re working, and at some point you’ll get yourself and your companions killed.’
Donte grudgingly held his peace as they walked away, but once out of hearing range, he said, ‘I’ll settle with him some day.’
Hatu shook his head in silent disbelief, while Hava laughed openly. ‘Your grandfather will not always be around to get you out of trouble. We all make mistakes, we all get beaten.’
Hatu nodded in agreement.
‘You make a mistake, you just get sent to your grandfather,’ Hava continued.
‘Ha!’ laughed Donte. ‘The preceptors and the other masters are afraid of my grandfather, so he beats me harder than any of them. My grandfather is afraid of no one.’ After a moment, he added, ‘Well, other than my grandmother.’
Hava laughed, but Hatu said, ‘Do you ever take anything seriously? You know what Hilsbek was saying, don’t you?’
‘What?’ asked Donte as they began to look around for a new observation post.
‘The day is coming when we’ll know too much,’ whispered Hatu harshly.
‘Too much?’ asked Hava.
Hatu’s expression held exasperation. ‘To let us live,’ he whispered. ‘Once we know all of the secrets …’
Hava’s eyes widened. Hatu nodded; it was about time she understood. ‘We need to be more careful,’ he added in low tones.
‘Life’s too short to be careful,’ Donte responded with annoyance as they reached the centre of the market. He halted and looked around. ‘Where?’
After a quiet consideration, Hatu said, ‘Over there, I think.’
He didn’t point – another lesson learned early – just raised his chin in the direction of a large building on the far side of the market. It wasn’t situated as advantageously as their last post but offered a good view of anyone arriving from the docks.
‘How’s your ear?’ Hatu asked Donte as they moved quickly through the crowd.
‘Hurts,’ was all Donte said.
Hava shook her head and furrowed her brow as she said, ‘One day you’re going to say something that will get you killed.’
‘Maybe,’ said Donte as he led his companions into the alley beside their new vantage point. He took a quick look around and with a nod of his head indicated that Hatu should be the first to climb. Donte formed a stirrup with his hands and his friend hopped into it without hesitation. Thrown upwards, Hatu caught the eave of the roof and pulled himself onto the roof with ease. He turned and lay flat, letting his arms dangle over the edge.
Donte lifted Hava so she could grip Hatu’s arms and when she reached the roof, she lay next to him. Donte leapt and caught his companions’ hands, and together they pulled him upwards.
Settling in, Donte said, ‘Two hours to sunset.’
‘Try to stay awake,’ chided Hatu.
Hava chuckled as they started to scan the crowd below for anything unusual.
The port was the heart of the Coaltachin nation, and yet at the same time it wasn’t. To those who lived in the Kingdom of Night, and their trusted associates, it was called Corbara: the capital city of a sprawling set of tiny islands, populated by a people whose main export was assassination, espionage, and crime. Its residents were expert at detecting which newcomer should be respected and which should be misled. By tradition and habit no one used the name of the city in front of strangers in the port. Corbara was only ever called ‘here’, ‘home’, or ‘this city’. Some travellers had passed through the port more than once and still had no idea where they had been. Such was the culture of Coaltachin.
This combination of secrecy and commerce forged as strong a brotherhood as there was among any tribe on Garn. The lowest peasant in Coaltachin felt akin to the highest of the masters, and while few natives acknowledged it, the outsiders who had dealings with the island nation were forced to navigate the insular, chauvinistic nature of its people with sensitivity. Anyone not of Coaltachin was at best a necessary nuisance, and at worst a potential enemy. This attitude towards strangers, even friendly visitors, was so ingrained that it was never spoken of, simply learned from childhood.
The three youngsters watching the market and harbour were already part of the nation’s elite. The sons of masters and preceptors, like Donte, were automatically selected for the schools, as were the children with exceptional potential, like Hava. She had been a combative child, and her early willingness to stand against much larger and stronger children had caught the attention of the local master, Facaria. The others knew nothing about Hatu’s past, hut his admittance to the academy marked him as exceptional, and so the fact he came from outland stock was ignored by those who had been raised alongside him.
The students were training to become soldiers, but soldiers unlike those of any other nation. The forces of Coaltachin included squadrons of ships, often disguised, but ready to repel the rare incursions by seafarers who didn’t understand whose waters they entered. Some of the larger islands held defensive garrisons with small units of archers, pikemen, and swordsmen. The true militia of Coaltachin was invisible, a thing of reputation and rumour myth and lethal ability.
In the old tongue, Quelli Nascosti meant ‘The Hidden’, and it was possible that some day the very best among these students would count themselves among their ranks. As the grandson of a powerful master, and son of a deceased master, Donte would almost certainly advance.
Hava was among the finest students in combat and weapons training, and possessed rare athletic skills.
Hatushaly’s advantage was unique. He knew he was receiving special treatment: he had heard of no other outland child at his or any other school. The mystery was one of the sources of his constant smouldering anger, as was the uncertainty over his future.
THAT EVENING, TWENTY-THREE STUDENTS SAT in small groups at the back of a cluttered warehouse. Most of the youngsters were known to the three friends; several were from other villages, here because their masters had been called to an important meeting. As they made their way from the door to the rear of the warehouse, where food waited, Hatu saw a familiar face watching them walk past. Hava saw his expression change and quietly asked, ‘What?’
Hatushaly lifted his chin towards the youngster who stared in their direction. ‘Raj,’ he said in a venomous tone.
Hearing that name, Donte turned. Across the room, near to where the students’ travel bags were stored, squatted three young men, eating silently. Raj’s lopsided smile was easily recognisable. The boy had a strange face: delicate features and deep brown eyes that were overshadowed by a heavy brow, giving him an unbalanced appearance.
Donte sighed and said, ‘Do not start anything, do you hear me?’ He gripped Hatu’s tunic and said, ‘I know Raj’s look; he’s ready to start something. He knows he can goad you, so just leave it alone.’
Hatu forced himself to look away, and Donte added, ‘We’re already in trouble with Hilsbek, and if you start a fight with Raj …’ He made no further comment, simply put his hand on Hatu’s shoulder and steered him to the waiting food.
After a few steps, Hatu shrugged Donte’s hand away and said, ‘I’m not going to start anything …’ He glanced back at Raj and saw that the boy was still staring at the three of them.
‘What is it between you two, anyway?’ Hava asked.
Hatu remained silent as they reached the table where food had been laid out on wooden plates. When they had settled into an unoccupied corner of the room, he said, ‘I don’t know, it started …’
‘Years ago,’ supplied Donte. ‘Do you even remember what that first fight was about?’
‘He called me a name,’ said Hatu, ‘I think …’
Hava’s brow furrowed. ‘You think?’
‘It was before you came to school,’ said Donte. He took a bite from his platter. The food was plain, and as usual cold, but they ate gratefully, for over the years they had trained for periods of privation, and going without food was a normal part of their lives, even if only for short periods of time in training.
It was quiet in the warehouse. Students rarely spoke while eating. From an early age, they had been taught to focus on things most people took for granted, like food, water, and rest, to conserve and build their strength. These drills and lessons had been hard ones: two days without food was not life-threatening, but to a child it felt like an eternity of starvation. Many mornings had broken on severe stomach aches as the youngsters learned which foods were safe to eat and when. Water was always close at hand, for while going without food for days was possible, severe dehydration would kill sooner, and incapacitate even faster. Rest was precious, for the rigours of life under their masters would often require long periods of sleepless exertion.
Hatu looked at the small square of wood that served as his plate and ate his food with his fingers: cold lumps of sticky rice in a congealed broth, a slice of a roll, and a small portion of bitter greens. He would finish every bite.
After a moment of silence, Hava asked, ‘Before I came? How old were you when it happened?’
‘Seven, or eight,’ said Hatu quietly.
Donte shrugged. ‘I’ve lost count of the fights they’ve had.’
‘Seven,’ said Hatu, keeping his voice low, though both his friends could sense his rising tension. He glanced at Donte. ‘Eight?’
‘More,’ said Donte. ‘I lost count at about eight.’
Hava shook her head in disbelief. ‘Ten, eleven? So at least once a year you and Raj just decide to fight?’
‘Sometimes you just don’t like someone,’ said Donte. ‘For no reason. It takes most people a while to dislike Hatu, but Raj hated him from the first moment they met.’
