37. A Job Well Done
Fear protects Briar as they make their way to the little tower from the night before.
None of the scholars they pass dare to even steal a look at them, a solitary figure in a cape, so they’re entirely unchallenged, all the way to the ancient wooden door.
It’s locked - but Briar isn’t going to let a locked door get between them and Alistair.
There’s a calm inevitability to it, the knowledge that they have to find a way, as they press their hands to the warm wood, feeling for any give, then put their shoulder to rot and shove.
It’s the work of a few minutes to stave in a small section, and once it’s fractured, it’s easy enough to keep going, until Briar’s hands are bloody with splinters, the lock has been rendered useless and they can simply push the door open and make their way down the steps.
Down the tunnel, into the cavern. It would be quite lovely, if you could ignore its intended purpose for torture tonight; with candles twinkling behind the glass of their lamps and the sound of trickling water from somewhere above, Briar is almost surprised by the drawn expressions of expectant terror on the faces of the pips, who are huddled together against one wall.
The space is ringed by the dark mouths of many tunnels, and Briar can see caped figures standing at a few of them, presumably keeping watch.
The chalice on its plinth looks suitably grand, engraved with some intricate pattern Briar can’t make out.
The pips keep darting nervous glances at it.
Most of Mons stands gathered around it in a semicircle, and Briar joins them, keeping to the back.
Just from a glance, they can tell that Bastian isn’t there.
Good. This would be impossible with him too close.
They’re searching the sea of hoods for Alistair when he makes the job easy for them by stepping free of the crowd to speak.
‘It’s a shame, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘When a few bad apples seem determined to drag everyone else down into the rot.’ The pips exchange panicked looks, clearly wondering which of them has transgressed, and is about to be punished.
Briar sees Evie by the back wall, her jaw working as she chews on something, Orpheus’s hand clutched tightly in her own.
‘As you all know, nefarious outside forces have been trying to ruin the sanctity of these rituals this year,’ Alistair continues, beginning to walk in circles around the cavern - but it seems like the involuntary, compulsive pacing of someone teetering on the edge of reason, rather than his usual leonine saunter.
‘Which is why it’s of the utmost importance that you continue to do your duty to your school, obey with honesty, and report any malefactors the second you suspect them. ’
Some of the pips are nodding seriously. Briar doesn’t doubt that they’d turn over a suspected traitor in an instant, so indoctrinated are they already in the credo and culture of the school, that short leash of fear that keeps them well in line.
Alistair clears his throat, and Briar watches him rub absentmindedly at his collar and thinks, not yet.
‘Anyway,’ he says, seeming to lose his train of thought for a moment.
‘Tonight, we’ll . . . What was that?’ Water is dripping somewhere, but nobody has spoken.
The pips shuffle uncomfortably. Perhaps they can sense that he’s losing it, too.
‘Did someone say something? Speak up, then, if it’s so important. ’
There’s total silence, and then Alistair says, ‘Pay attention. As I was saying—’
There’s a flurry of dark cloaks from across the cavern, everyone turning to look. ‘What is it now?’ Alistair says, abandoning any attempt to seem in control of the situation - but then his shoulders relax as the Mons move aside, and Briar sees why.
Like a scene from a Western, the three capes sweep in escorting captives: Hadley, Tate and Westby, their hands bound, Hadley still in those pink-sprigged pyjama shorts.
Second thoughts from Hadley? Or had the others woken up to find Briar missing and come to investigate?
Westby is pale and silent, but Briar can tell that the nihilistic detachment that’s been carrying him through the days since his father died is still intact from the way he’s blinking around at the cavern like he’s being shown around a stately home.
Tate looks resigned, but Hadley is currently trying to kick the scholar holding her in the crotch. She’s quickly subdued.
‘Well, isn’t this a nice surprise?’ Alistair says, adopting the tone of a nursery school teacher, which is somehow even more frightening than his usual timbre.
‘Thank you so much for joining us. In fact . . .’ He turns back to the pips again, his hands steepled as he talks.
‘This gives us some exciting choices. Usually, we’d invite you up here to take the host in turn.
But this year, you’ll have the choice of appointing a whipping boy. ’
The phrase runs like wildfire through the crowd, whispered like a mantra, a protective invocation.
‘Now, for those of you who haven’t read your Scott, a whipping boy is somebody who takes your licks for you.
You can choose any of these fine volunteers to receive the host on your behalf.
’ The pips look unsure. It sounds like a trick, and they’ve been beaten down enough to be wary; an easy way out might be followed by a punishment for taking it.
Another Mon - sounds like Rudersberg - grabs a pip by the arm, causing the others to startle in unison, and says, ‘Right, come on then. We don’t have all night.’
That first shivering child approaches the chalice, fists clenched and brow furrowed.
‘Will you take it yourself?’
‘Yes,’ he says in a small voice, not sounding very certain.
‘Fine,’ says Alistair, apparently finding this a very dull answer. He’s abandoned the hushed menace of the early Trials for this wild, half-hysterical sense of abandonment that does not bode well for the fates of anyone in this room. ‘Go on, then.’
The pip picks up the chalice with difficulty - it’s almost twice the size of his head - and takes a sip of whatever’s inside, which is ominously scarlet.
He coughs like it’s caught in his throat, and the other pips recoil, but then he recovers, and pauses with the cup still pressed to his lips, eyes trained on Alistair, waiting for permission to stop.
‘Yes, yes, very good,’ Alistair says, chivvying him away. ‘Next!’
But the other pips are watching the first, sensibly awaiting his reaction to whatever he’s just imbibed. He goes to stand against the wall, shaky with relief.
‘Next,’ Alistair says sharply. ‘Now.’
Another pip comes forward, but before he takes a sip, he looks back at the boy by the wall, who’s now got his eyes closed and his hands on his stomach, and swallows.
‘I want the volunteer,’ he says, putting the chalice back down. ‘That one.’
‘Oh, good,’ Westby says. It’s a relief to hear him talk; Briar had been wondering if he’d been ordered silent, if Alistair was powerful enough to subdue a fellow seventh-year that way.
The answer seems to be no. ‘I love high-proof alcohol mixed with spit and rare hallucinogens, so this will be like a day out at the fair for me.’
‘Shut the fuck up, Westby,’ Alistair says, as Westby is brought forward. ‘Make him sit.’
The cape holding West kicks his knees out from under him, and he hits the ground with a wince.
‘Buck, he’s on prescription meds,’ Tate blurts out. It feels like an astonishing betrayal of trust, until he adds, ‘You can’t mix them, it might kill him.’
Briar doesn’t know if that’s true, and apparently neither does Alistair, because he pauses and then shrugs. ‘Exciting! We’ll find out, won’t we?’
‘That’s the spirit,’ says Westby. ‘Never let the risk of an adverse reaction get in the way of a good time.’
The pip who took the first sip doubles over and vomits very suddenly, and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, embarrassed.
He still seems in control of most of his faculties, but if Westby’s right about what’s in that chalice and all the little postulants in this room decide to opt out, things could get very dangerous very quickly.
‘Pick it up,’ Alistair says to the boy at the plinth, with a wave of his hand. ‘Give him his medicine.’
The pip baulks, but then picks up the chalice and carries it carefully over to where West is kneeling.
‘It’s all right,’ Westby says to him quietly. ‘No hard feelings, I’d have done the same.’
He opens his mouth with perfect obedience to let the pip pour dark liquid inside, where it pools on his tongue before he swallows it.
Alistair is watching impatiently. ‘He can take a little more.’
The pip tries again, but he’s still too sparing, and Alistair loses his patience.
‘Give him a proper drink,’ he says, each word carefully enunciated. ‘He’s thirsty.’
This time, under the influence of the Work, there’s no hesitation.
The pip forces open Westby’s mouth with an iron grip and starts pouring liberally, until Westby chokes, trying to jerk away, streams of red flowing down his neck, into his eyes and his nose; the noise is horrible, Westby struggling to breathe, and the pip doesn’t stop until Alistair says, ‘I suppose that’s enough. ’
‘Fuck you,’ Hadley says, ‘you bastard cunt.’
‘I miss you too, Watson. All right - next!’
‘I want the . . . whipping thing,’ the next pip says. Coward, Briar thinks, even though it’s not his fault. He points at Westby. ‘Him.’
With everyone watching as the new boy takes the chalice, it’s easy for Briar to start making their way to the edge of the group, to stand by the capes closest to Alistair.
He’s staring with a kind of feverish delight that almost looks like affection as Westby’s eyes track the cup being carried towards him.
Briar can’t tell if anyone else is watching as they step forward. All that matters is that Alistair’s attention is elsewhere, captivated by Westby’s pain, as they come up behind him, bring the knife to his throat and cut in quick, smooth motion, with the satisfaction of a job well done.