Chapter 1: Spada Da Marra - a practice rapier, but one 'untipped' and so still capable of inflicting a wound.
(The chapter titles were sword-fencing terms used during the Renaissance. They are taken from the website for ARMA, The Association for Renaissance Martial Arts.)
At the Alias London Con of August 2004, when asked which song encapsulated Mr. Sark David Anders replied: Creep, by Radiohead.
He then began to quietly sing the chorus.
The story begins over 15 years ago …
He knew today was a special day, it was his birthday - his sixth birthday – although no-one ever said. His birthday went unmarked at the Academy, no-one's birthday was acknowledged at the Academy, but today was still a special day though, even here, because it was Christmas Day too.
All the boys liked Christmas Day, it was the one day of the year that was different, and you could ask for a present too, and if you asked for something you were allowed to have, you got it.
He hadn't had a present since arriving aged 4, he'd been asking for the wrong thing, he'd been asking for a pet.
Before the Academy he'd had a dog. He'd asked for one for his first Christmas, but he'd been given nothing. Next time round he wondered if maybe they didn't want you to have a dog because dogs left a mess, they walked around and disturbed things, but … maybe something that would stay quiet and tidy and obedient in it's cage, maybe a guinneapig? No, he hadn't gotten a present then either.
Without a dog, or even a guinneapig, the little boy had started keeping back crumbs from the meals he and his fellows ate at their long refectory tables. He used them to secretly feed birds at his bedroom window, scattering the crumbs on the ledge. Some of the birds grew so tame they even ate from his hand. He was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to feed the birds, but if no-one found out … besides, he didn't want the birds to go hungry, they were used to him feeding them now, they were depending on him.
He knew he'd been found out when he came back one day with a pocket full of crumbs and saw that the window had been sealed shut. The birds still came for a while, looking at him expectantly through the glass, but he turned his back, hoping they would understand that there was nothing he could do. As he stopped feeding them, gradually they stopped coming. When they had all finally stopped he told himself he didn't mind. He said it so many times he came to believe that he meant it.
Oddly, this year he'd gotten a Christmas present, and just when he hadn't even asked for one. It had been left on his bare wooden table, an upright oblong shape, covered with a cloth. It had taken him a few seconds to realise what it was: an ant farm. He stared at it in surprise, watching all the ants working diligently away, living a complete life inside their tank. He felt vaguely disappointed. He could see them and watch them, but they he knew would never even know he was there.
He understood it then. He couldn't have a dog, he couldn't have a guinneapig, he couldn't even have birds, instead he could have … insects.
It was early morning in his cold, bare room and he gave a small yawn; his stretching pulled up his pyjama top slightly, revealing his little boy's still slightly protuberant belly. He turned his attention back to the ant farm. Well … alright … you couldn't talk to them and they didn't even know you were there, but it was interesting though, you could watch them … he supposed you could even control them.
Later in the day someone came by, checking up on the boys. The man stopped at the room of the boy who used to feed the birds and who had now been given an ant farm instead. He watched the child, the little boy who was probably the cleverest and most gifted they had ever had at the Academy.
The child saw the man out of the corner of his eye and stiffened. He didn't like many of the teachers, he certainly didn't like this one. This one was especially scary. The little boy though of him as 'The Tutor', it was not a good association. He told himself to pretend hard that he was not afraid.
I must never let them know what I'm thinking, never let anyone know what I'm feeling. They just use it against me.
The Tutor spoke to the boy in the child's native Russian. "Do you like your ants?"
The boy was immediately suspicious. He thought it was an odd question – what was there to like or dislike? The ants didn't even know he was there. But he felt it would be a mistake to say that. "They're interesting," was what he settled for. "I don't think I could give them names though, you can't tell them apart."
The man at the door softened his expression and the little boy felt his shoulders stiffen even further. When The Tutor got that expression – his 'kind' one – you knew there was trouble coming. The man spoke up. "They don't need names," he said silkily, and the little boy's fingers gripped the edge of the table slightly, because that silky tone was always another very bad sign. "After all, how many times have we told you? – we don't have names here."
The man noted the little boy keenly, that child with his golden hair and blue eyes. He knew from records that the child had a dimple when he smiled: the dimple hadn't been seen in a while now, it was a good sign - the training was going well. Watching the boy, he realised the child was almost unknowingly casting an imperious glance at him, as though the boy were dealing with a servant. The man bridled but then remembered: it's hardly surprising considering his background.
He watched the child hold him in his seemingly fearless gaze.
Such an astonishing child, you can never tell what he is thinking. Such an instinctive understanding of games and manipulations.
The Tutor turned and left.
Our finest student. Set to be our greatest accomplishment. He will be perfect, totally suited to his environment: ruthless, cold, calculating, never stopping or slowing down, always angling for an attack. When we have formed him he will be as charming as he is vicious, as cruel as he is self-contained, as perfectly designed for espionage as a shark is to the sea. A masterwork.
All we have to do is wipe off that last little smudge of humanity …
