“Most of us will be captains,” Ventdor said, grinning. “Lots of garrisons.”
“Or we’ll be border riding captains.” Marec yawned. “We’ll be in the chain of command of the ones in command class.”
“So no one knows if Sindan is in it?” Shevraeth asked.
“Some of the seniors say he drops hints like he is.” Faldred opened his hands. “But the masters won’t confirm or deny. They laugh if you ask anything about it.”
“And the seniors drop on him for swank.” Marec flattened his hand.
Shevraeth was pretty sure he could tell who was satisfied to be a desk jockey or garrison commander, and who longed for a higher rank. After the little I’ve read of their history, I don’t even want to know what they study in their so-called command class.
Just as well he was a foreigner. No one would be wanting to teach him secrets of Marloven conquering.
o0o
By the end of the fifth week he was riding again, practicing communicating with the horse. At archery he was kept moving without arrows, repeating the drill in draw, shoot, arm back—circle down, draw, over and over. The master would not let him loose an arrow until he had the circle as drilled habit. Some things hadn’t changed. The younger boys in his class thought it extremely funny that he was so profoundly ignorant about any aspect of archery, and hooted at pretty much everything he did—when the master wasn’t turned their way.
His first day back in grappling practice, the master motioned him to take his place as if he’d never been away. “You boys have gotten into the habit of scrambling. That’s fine when you’re having fun. But I want you to remember, in any fight when you’re smaller and lighter than your opponent, you have one chance to strike. Make it tell. In fact, unless you like fighting, that should be your aim even when you get your height and growth.” Then he demonstrated.
Even without the sidled looks Shevraeth knew the lesson was aimed at him. That was all right. He’d already resolved that no one was ever going to take him by surprise again—and the master later reported in satisfaction that the foreigner was shaping up fine, just fine.
During free moments he kept grinding away at the history book, and slowly he accustomed himself to the new alphabet, so that reading gradually became less like decoding a secret message.
He attended parade, and inevitably he saw Sindan, and knew Sindan saw him, but they ignored one another.
Shevraeth gradually understood there would be no more problems with Sindan, unless he himself sought them. The senior had learned that making a target of a younger boy, even a foreigner, was bad tactics. The younger boys still continued to talk about him, and reports of a preposterous number of fights made their way to Ponytail House, as Sindan fought his way through the seniors. Some fights Sindan won, some he lost, but he had apparently decided to confine his quarrel—whatever it was—to his peers.
Meanwhile Shevraeth began to listen for gossip about the king. He couldn’t decide if he was being ignored, or not noticed, and for what reason? That the king rarely interfered directly in the academy was obvious by now.
He was seldom a topic of conversation. Not that his actions were not of interest, but the boys seemed to be reticent about indulging in speculation, at least in front of Shevraeth. There were levels of being inside, like anywhere else.
Some stray facts Shevraeth gathered as time seemed to pick up speed, and the days turned into weeks. A month galloped by, and half another, bringing spring rains and then another taste of the summer to come. Shevraeth learned that the king had never been permitted to attend the academy, and had been forbidden to learn the sword. On his own he’d managed to master archery, and knife throwing, all things he could drill in solitary practice when the Regent was still asleep. That meant he’d risen at an impossibly early hour, every single day. From a very early age.
He’d also been taught hand-to-hand fighting, overseen by Commander Keriam himself, at risk of his own life. And he’d had to use it, too, when he’d reorganized the academy a bare year before Shevraeth came: one of the seniors had challenged him, and lost.
Two Jarls had also challenged him, and lost. Not in fist fights held in a practice court, but in the political field. Both were tough men with private armies and a taste for warfare. One had backed down when Senrid-Harvaldar arrived at his holding with three wings of cavalry, but the Jarl of Methden had apparently decided that the advent of a boy king was a signal to conduct his own expansion to the sea, and there had been some kind of skirmish (“Dust,” the others had called it) during which Senrid had shown himself quite able at command. At least at dusts.
This last conflict has been caused by the father of Jarend Ndarga, the former Danas Valdlav. Stories about Jarend’s toughness and prowess were easier to come by than gossip about the king. Shevraeth gathered that Jarend Ndarga had a strong sense of justice, strong enough to cause him to support the king against his own father. He did not do it to inherit, as there was risk of their family being removed altogether from their title and holdings. When the king won, Ndarga begged that his father be exiled, and not executed. ‘Gated’ out of the country. Apparently all the Jarls had agreed with the king’s decision, judging it right.
This is a king who knows something about state affairs, Shevraeth thought. Whatever his age. But if he wasn’t permitted to go to the academy, where did he learn about state affairs?
o0o
The night of the tenth week’s Firstday, Janold entered grinning. “We’ve got our overnight.”
A shout rang up the wooden walls. Two people were quiet: Nermand, who brooded on his bunk, and Shevraeth, who knew overnights were extended wargames, and why would anybody be excited about that? The Sunday chases out in the fields were bearable now that he’d lost his soreness, but they were still more trouble than fun, in his view. Everyone wild, hot and thirsty, just to get those stupid flags.
“Who’s riding captain?”
“Who’s rad?”
“What House are we going up against?”
Janold crossed his arms, his expression mock angry. The whispers of speculation died away at once, and he studied the expectant faces before him, including Nermand’s sulky frown, and Shevraeth’s polite impassivity. He still did not understand the foreigner, but to Zheirban and Commander Keriam he’d said, He’ll be all right. Meaning He’s settled in.
“Your enemy is Mouse House.” (So nicknamed because a few of its boys had tried a little too hard to get people to name them for one of the great predator cats.) “Ponytail House’s riding captains are Stad and Evrec.”
The two were by far the best at everything, so no surprises there, but still the boys gave in to whoops, whispers, laughing insults.
Evrec said to the faces turned his way, “You watch out, you lazy slackers. You’ll learn the meaning of real discipline.”
Stalgred pointed a finger. “Oh, sure, Evrec. You’ll be inventing commands just to force us to salute your sorry carcass.”
Evrec widened his blue eyes. “Well, of course!”
When the laughs and insults died down at last, Janold said, “If you actually get out of the rack and pass inspection before dawn, we have leave to march.”
Stad snapped his fingers. “And scarfle us prime digs. We’ll be up and ready before the Mice even crack an eyelid. Won’t we?” He looked around, tapping a fist against his palm.
A cacophony of pungent insults, emphasized by a hailstorm of balled-up dirty socks, was his answer.
It took a long time to settle down. Shevraeth lay in his bunk quietly listening to the muffled conversations, and the snickers. Once again a divide had opened between him and the others, not one of will, or intent, but one of expectation. They all looked forward to the prospect of a cold night outside after a long day of running around to no discernable purpose, and he braced for endurance. He fell asleep wondering if he would ever understand the others.
The next morning they were woken by Stad. Janold stood by, effectively invisible, as Stad and Evr
ec nagged, threatened, joked, and pleaded the others into getting ready for the early morning march. Five boys were sent to the mess to get their cooking gear, for they would be taking care of their own meals.
The sound of the dawn bells shivered against the paling sky as they marched through the back gate of the academy and straight west along a well-trampled dirt path. The weak light revealed uninteresting countryside, mostly fields between wind-worn low hills with streams meandering among them, wild grass growing everywhere, speckled with flowers. Here and there clumps of trees formed darker green patches against the yellow-green spring grass and the mild blue expanse of the sky.
They marched fast to warm up, two or three boys thumping on hand drums and the rest singing marching songs; this lasted until the strengthening light revealed their enemies ahead of them. The boys in front passed the word, causing groans of disappointment and a few curses and threats that no one paid any attention to.
“Let’s catch up and pass ’em,” Stad said.
Janold rode alongside his charges. He said nothing as the boys sped up their pace, only grinning when Mouse House promptly put some bustle into their own pace.
The two groups gradually increased their speed until they were all running, arriving hot and breathless before noon at a site where two academy masters on horseback waited under a clump of spreading oak.
Blats on horns pulled up the two rival groups into more-or-less straight lines. One of the masters on the hill waved a flag. The boys broke line and ran, Shevraeth running with them, though as yet he didn’t know what for.
Stad led, his dark head jerking from side to side with his effort to outrun a tall redhead from the rival House. They raced flat out for an outcropping of rock below the hillock with the trees, the redhead reaching it first.
Around Shevraeth the Ponytails groaned but Stad waved as he veered, running at top speed on the other side of the hillock to an ancient hedgerow running north/south.
“They got the prime digs,” Evrec sighed.
Prime digs had to mean the campsite in the most defensible position, and with water nearby.
“So we turf ’em out,” Marec piped up in his shrill voice, his flushed face almost as bright as his ruddy hair.
“We’ll set up first, and see what’s what.” Evrec waved a hand, then yawned.
Stad called, “Water’s still here.” He pointed through a break in the hedge, through which they could hear the chuckle of a stream. “So at least we won’t have to trade for water.”
Shevraeth asked Vandaus, who stood nearby. “Trade?”
“Giving them some advantage,” Vandaus said in his precise way, wiping back his sweat-slick blond hair. “Later in the summer, when this stream runs dry, or in springs when we get rains late, whoever gets the rock digs at the river has the best ground, and the others are forced to trade advantages to get water.”
Shevraeth nodded, remembered that nods didn’t mean anything here, and opened his hand in copy of their gesture for assent or understanding.
The five assigned to the cook tent unloaded their packs. The knowledge that the sooner the setup was done everyone would eat (having skipped breakfast) made for willing hands to help them.
Boys on cook duty served out food. This was Shevraeth’s first experience of the ancient Marloven travel bread, a recipe that had not materially changed for hundreds of years. The dense, heavy rye bread was thick with nuts and berries, a blend of bitter and sweet that took some getting used to. Hunger helped, as did small bites of the sharp yellow cheese also served out. They washed this repast down with sweet, cold water from the stream, while Evrec and Stad stood off and planned.
When the cooks were done they cleaned up. Different boys would be in charge of the evening meal.
Evrec oversaw the Ponytails’ tent setup and posted sentries, while Stad walked across the field to confer with the two masters and one of the radlavs of the Mice.
When Stad returned, he said, “Usual borders, and usual rules.”
“Hurray!”
“What’s that mean?” Shevraeth asked Vandaus.
“Means we can skirmish at night, which is fun—unless you’re on guard duty. But night guards never have to do cook tent, so it’s a trade.”
“And our goal is to capture the others’ flag, like those Sunday games, right?”
Vandaus had a lopsided grin, one side of his mouth curving up. “Flag and prisoners. Game goes until either one side wins or the master calls it, usually noon.”
Shevraeth frowned. “Once you’re a prisoner, then what?”
Vandaus laughed. “Try to escape, what else? And the others run a rescue. It’s most fun at night.”
“Oh.” Shevraeth realized for the first time that the Sunday scrambles weren’t just games but practice, and this was what they practiced for, using the skills they drilled in the classes.
Evrec and Stad summoned the House, who lined up and were divided into half-ridings of four. The two masters rode round and round the perimeter, watching, as the game commenced. Tackling and wrestling were allowed, even open-handed strikes or blocks.
“Control, control,” they’d yell if someone got too rough, or a group dog-piled someone. Strength was not as useful as speed. Otherwise the tactics, if there even were any, made no sense whatever as boys on both sides prowled the boundaries, testing, shoving, taunting, then assembling into forays.
As the light began to slant, plans were somewhere made and somehow conveyed, though Shevraeth did not see where or by whom. He responded to breathless barks of orders (“Feint over there!” “Guard the trees!” or usually just “Run!”), never understanding what the immediate goals were. And so time wore on as forays were carried out and repelled, back and forth, back and forth, until the agreed-on signal for supper, which was rice-and-cabbage balls, more of that sharp cheese crumbed over the top, and the whole fried in pressed olives. Shevraeth was hungry enough by then to find that more delicious than the most subtle Colendi sauces.
At sundown they put up torches at the campsites.
The night games turned out to be as fun as the others had predicted, with dashing raids carried out by both sides, trying to break determinedly held inner and outer perimeters. Shevraeth was surprised when the midnight trumpet was blown. He was enjoying himself, though in a way he’d never experienced in his life.
He was asleep as soon as he hit the bedroll. Just before dawn the trumpets called them all out again. Breakfast was bread dipped in beaten egg and fried in the pressed olives. Then they ran out again for more games. At noon the horn blatted: they were finished. The Ponytails had pushed their front line almost to the Mice’s campsite, but the Mice held more prisoners. The masters conferred, and declared the battle a draw, which drew howls of disappointment that didn’t last. They were too tired to protest or celebrate beyond token yells, and there was still pack-up and the march to the academy.
They made it in time for supper, and when that was over, they were permitted to retire early, after which came another surprise: a scarfle. From the anticipatory whispers going round as Janold went into his room and then emerged with a basket, Shevraeth got the impression that some high treat was in store, on the order of a king’s banquet.
But what came out of the basket were plain nut-and-honey encrusted pastry twists, much like the ones common people bought from street vendors in Remalna-city, and munched as they went about their business.
The boys ate in triumph, enjoyment obvious in every bite and finger-lick. Here was another of the unspoken rules that could be broken. Rads could, if pleased with their houses, bring in a treat. Raised in a sophisticated court, Shevraeth was astonished at how so lowly a sweet could cause such intense pleasure in these tough boys. But after listening to them, he began to see that it was not the taste, it was the sense of reward, and the sharing of it with fellows, as well as the idea of eating in the barracks, otherwise strictly forbidden.
The sense of shared achievement, the good will, made the simple food taste as
good as a king’s banquet. No, better. Because at a king’s banquet, despite the smiles, and the fine music, and the tables laden with rare dishes, everyone was in fear of his life.
NINE
Next morning Shevraeth rose at his usual time, thinking about the game as he loped through the silent passages for the great barns. He still saw it all as wild running around, except for some of the short raids. Those had clear purpose. He had run three raids, one of them to rescue prisoners; he’d been captured twice, escaped once, and was rescued once. Not bad for a first game.
Senelac was not at the barn, but he was used to the riding routine by now, and began his rounds without her. She showed up very late, and seemed distracted, though her eye was as sharp as ever as she criticized seat, wrists, jumps.
Just before he was about to leave a small girl ran into the barn, shrilling, “She’s here!”
The effect on the girls was strange, the way they went still for a few heartbeats. Then Senelac clapped her hands and everyone returned to work. Senelac herself vanished to her morning tasks before Shevraeth could ask who ‘she’ was.
The smaller boys were not the least reticent about talking. When Shevraeth arrived for his archery lesson, a scrawny, buck-toothed ten-year-old turned to him and piped up, “Sartora is here!”
Shevraeth stared. “Sartora. Not—”
“The Sartora,” one of the other urchins declared triumphantly. Then he looked askance. “You foreigners didn’t even know she was friends with the king? He was the one’t rescued her!”
You foreigners as if everyone else on the vast Sartoran continent held exactly the same view. A laugh bubbled behind Shevraeth’s ribs, but he hid it. The year of enchantment over the entire world by the Norsundrian Siamis had also involved Remalna, but from an eerie distance, as if the details of your own life were whispered by strangers in a fog, and nothing you lived yourself.
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