“What?” Shevraeth exclaimed, not even trying to hide his dismay.
Keriam grinned. “I know. We get very few volunteers for the lower school, so I’ve made sure there are perquisites. You’ll belong to a House, of course, for regular drill and games, but you and another of your class are assigned as radlavs under a senior down in the Puppy Pit, which is the current name for the lower school. Upper school gets one radlav per House, but the smaller boys need more guidance—and the guidance needs more time away from duty. You get your own room down there, and you trade off with nights of liberty. Not only the week’s end liberty your House gets, but every other night, once the first two or three weeks are over. We keep you all on duty until they adjust.”
Shevraeth said, “I won’t beat them.”
Keriam turned his palms up. “Use whatever means you have that work. I do advise you to wear the wand, or they will try you, but you may suit yourself about actually using it. They come knowing about what they call breezes. Most get the same at home, for their fathers were usually through here in their day. Here, too, the king has said that if we can find a way to get them into a semblance of order without beating them, he’s open to ideas.”
Shevraeth listened in amazement, then said cautiously, “I know the rules, but... what about scarfles?”
Keriam gave his brief smile. “What about them?”
“Well, I know that eating in the Houses is forbidden, yet the rads break the rules when they bring in the pastries. I gather that’s a reward that is not to be counted on or asked for.”
“Yes. Go on.”
“So when does one provide one? And, ah, does it depend on one’s money from home, or—”
Keriam flicked his hand up. “School pays. You tell whoever is making yours to send the bill to me. But I suggest you let Lennac decide those.” He hesitated, then said, “In case he leaves it to you, only give them out for a genuine reward—and, rarely, a consolation. If you find yourself providing food for popularity or bribery, well, let’s say these were problems of the past.”
Shevraeth hadn’t considered that aspect.
Keriam pointed with his pen. “Be sure to visit supply before we make the shift-over for spring. You’ve outgrown those garments you brought from your homeland—you probably have outgrown your academy togs as well.”
Shevraeth looked down, and for the first time noticed his wrist bones protruding from the exquisite edging on his fine woolen coat cuffs. “Oh.”
NINETEEN
It seemed an eye-blink later when he stood beside Marec, who had grown a full hand over winter, though he still had the same red-blond curls sticking up all over his head, and Lennac, a tall, tough, pale-haired senior who was the chief aran radlav—the House rad. Shevraeth and Marec were technically aran radlavs as well, and everyone knew it, but they would be called Radlav at inspection and assembly. More of those invisible rules.
Facing them were two lines of small boys, some of them twitching, others very still, all of them more or less apprehensive, as Lennac read out their names and then pointed to the beds.
Shevraeth’s foremost emotion was the impulse to laugh at those apprehensive looks, the inexpert attempts by some of the boys to smooth their bunks or fold their clothing. You could tell instantly who had servants at home. He demonstrated the regulation folds, watched intently by mostly blue eyes that sometimes strayed reflectively to the polished wood wand stuck through his sash—for he was not a senior, and so he did not wear a belt.
They were ready for their first inspection bare moments before Kethadrend Tlen, the new Danas Valdlav, marched through. His cold blue gaze brushed with seeming indifference past his pale-faced small brother as he glanced at bunk and chest and clothes, and then passed on.
Tlen. One of four names Shevraeth recognized from the records he had been reading all winter, leading him to realize at last why there were two sets of archives at Athanarel Palace in Remalna-city. The greater proportion of them told what happened. The small archive contained the records that told why.
Of the puppies, Tlen was recognizable, as was Sindan; Torac and Sereth were less so, and he had his suspicions about others. But curiously enough, famous last names did not necessarily correspond with evidence of servants at home.
“Good enough,” Lennac said. “Now, remember. If we pass the week with no defaulters, then we go to Lastday inspection. Line up outside, and let’s get some grub.”
Whooping and screeching, the boys released themselves from their unnatural straightness, stampeding outside to the court they shared with the three other barracks. At once the boys glared at the boys from the other houses, already primed for rivalry, and a few high voices had begun on tentative insults before Marec pulled out his wand, slapping it once against his boot-top.
Instant silence.
Shevraeth smothered a laugh, the world more and more false—no, not that. False implied a lie. Unreal, yes, that was it, he thought as he walked along at the rear of the straight lines. What was he doing here? His life had become curiously unmoored. The Vidanric Renselaeus he had lost a year ago, come to terms with over the course of the summer, lost again in the parade court while Forthan’s blood splashed the stones, had once again discovered a new identity when he plunged into the midst of these small boys surreptitiously nudging one another. They were in so many ways unlike the boys he’d known at home, and yet alike in others.
Once again, the first day’s mess was conducted under the silence rule. After they ate, dealt with call-over, inspection, and then dismissal to their classes he noticed with relief how easy it was to go to his own classes, take up the now-familiar drills, to jettison his running stream of thoughts as his body took over. He did not have to think while shooting arrows, or throwing knives, or even while practicing, over and over, the ritualized strike patterns that eventually he was supposed to use from horseback, a Marloven cavalry blade with its wicked curve gripped in his hand.
Two, three, four days thus slipped by, the new beats of his day beginning to assemble into a rhythm.
On the fifth night, he and Marec retired to their little rooms. Shevraeth’s was barely big enough to fit a bunk—his trunk beneath it—but he was alone, and there was even a window. Marec’s room was adjacent, again no larger than a broom closet at home, but between the rooms they had their own cleaning frame. Austere living space indeed, but enough for some privacy from all the sounds of sleeping bodies, and most precious of all, fresh air. Things once accepted without thought, and now appreciated.
Marec clapped the lights out. Shevraeth cast a glance down the short hall leading to the dorm—no more than three paces long. The dorm seemed quiet, except for the expected squeaking of wooden frames, and a soft snicker, followed by multiple shushes.
He remembered his conversation with Keriam, and realized with a rush of gratitude that homesickness was not, at least so far, going to be a problem. The first night they’d had to patrol constantly to stop the whispers and muffled giggles. The second night some fell asleep within moments of crawling into bed, and Shevraeth had passed two or three beds from which came the revealing sound of suppressed, shuddery breathing, the kind that means the sufferer does not want attention, and so his step did not falter.
None since.
The reverie broke. A noise? Yes. There was another. Twice, now, too soft to identify, but loud enough to disturb his thoughts.
Shevraeth moved to his door in his stockings. His candle cast a silhouette along the floor. He retreated, blew out the candle, and waited.
Nothing.
So he undressed, fell into bed, and dreams closed in, breaking when once again noise interfered, followed by the distinctive squeaks of half-smothered boyish giggles.
He reached for his tunic and trousers, but pulled his hand back when Marec appeared in the hallway outside of Shevraeth’s room. A sliver of moonlight slanted through Shevraeth’s tiny window, illuminating Marec fully dressed, hand resting on his wand.
R-r-r-r-r-uk! A sound li
ke the tearing of canvas was followed by a brap.
Shevraeth identified the noise at last. A farting contest.
Disgust and a brief spurt of amusement at the predictability of small boys flared through him. Marec raised a hand in silent enquiry, and Shevraeth gratefully left him to deal with the problem.
Marec stalked through the open doorway into the dorm room, clapped his hands, and the sudden light from the glowglobe painted a white square on the wooden hallway wall. Voices rose, shrill, some defensive, others shaking with residual laughter, soon snuffed by yelps and yips as Marec, from the sound, dealt every boy in the room a stinging whack across the shoulder-blades. He never spoke once.
Shevraeth lay back down. What was it with boys and the forbidden? He remembered his own very brief but very intense interest in what the human body produced, and how it compared with animal waste. How difficult it was not to use the Waste Spell just once, his interest swiftly followed by disgust, and then consternation when the stable wands did not work, and he’d had to bury it, bathing about eight times afterward.
He remembered melting helplessly with laughter when Savona deliberately farted after one of Galdran’s sudden visits into the Renselaeus rooms at Athanarel, unannounced, as always, and how stern his mother had been about fouling the air. “Use your wit to register your disgust, not your body,” she had said, with no hint of amusement whatsoever. “Animals don’t know any better. You do. I will not tolerate that again.”
Severely chastened, the boys had retreated, and Savona had afterward posited the theory that girls didn’t fart, didn’t even know how—a theory they believed until they were around these boys’ age. Savona had dared Shevraeth to ask Renna, whose parents brought her to court frequently. She’d said cheerfully, Of course we can, but we don’t. Doing it on purpose for fun is a disgusting boy trick.
Hah! Savona had said triumphantly.
And Renna had gone on to squelch him, adding, But when we were little, you should’ve heard Tamara after her grandmother yelled at her. Worse than a bran-stuffed horse.
How Savona had teased Tamara, getting them all to call her Bran-ara...
Shevraeth fell asleep on the memories, which slid into dreams of childhood at Athanarel, so pleasant, so fun when Galdran’s threatening presence was not imminent, the snowball fights, the ice sleighs, running through the gardens, running, running...
o0o
The week-mark passed uneventfully.
This year Shevraeth saw the sense behind the mess gag during the first week. The boys were more orderly under the strict rules, whatever their lives were like at home. They experienced the truth of the academy promise that obeying simple rules netted prompt rewards.
Naturally that did not change them into new people, despite the new environment. Within a few days after the gag was lifted, the more venturesome ten-year-olds broke out in bread-pill flicking and foot-shove battles. Lennac dealt with these by breezes or defaulters, which meant sweeping floor and court each morning before the others were wakened. Shevraeth was surprised to discover that the lead trouble-makers were not the ones he’d expected. Sindan, cousin to Hotears Sindan (gone and unlamented by anybody) was a stolid, quiet boy whose primary interests appeared to be in food and dogs, in that order.
The second week passed, and the third. Shevraeth and Marec were at last told they could begin swapping off nights, as Keriam had promised. But the very first night was Shevraeth’s alone.
He expected trouble. He’d already seen the furtive signals and signs promising it, and had wondered what it was in boys—was it in girls, too?—that made them test limits. They had had two weeks to learn something of the rads who were learning something of them. In their ten-year-old view, observations were simple. While Lennac handed out impartial breezes, and Marec had given them single whacks, Shevraeth’s wand had never left his sash.
Does that equate with cowardice in their eyes? he wondered, as he made the last walk up and down the silent dormitory before clapping out the light.
Of course it did. Well, not cowardice, precisely. The boys already had assessed, with the dispassionate, not to say merciless, eye of the young, the performances of their rads in comparison with the other older boys. Shevraeth the Foreigner wasn’t much with the sword, he was all right riding, but he was hot with the throwing knives. Still, he had never pulled his wand on anyone. What did that mean?
As soon as he was gone, and they saw the reflected light from his room go out, a boy named Mondar started the farting contest. From the other side of the dorm, Nessan responded, and the rest buried their faces in their pillows, shaking with laughter, Sand shaking so hard his bunk squeaked on the floor, causing a volley of hissing curses.
Silence.
Then, fw-e-e-e-t, Tevac cut a long one, sending them into helpless spasms of laughter—
Light.
There stood Shevraeth. He looked around the dormitory, studying the red faces, some gazes averted, one or two challenging—and again, they were not the ones he might have expected.
“It stinks in here,” he said in his pleasant voice, with the faint accent. “That means the barracks is unclean. So tomorrow’s rec period will be spent in scrubbing the walls, the bunks, the floor. The next day’s rec will be spent scrubbing all the windows, inside and out. And the following rec time will be spent scrubbing the entire court. Oh, no rec time? Then you will rise before dawn, and the scrubbing will be inspected before morning mess. Scrubbing, yes, not sweeping, you heard correctly. If it is not done to my satisfaction, then you will spend the rest of the day until you get it right. Now go to sleep. Unless you would like me to add some more chores?”
Silence.
He clapped the lights out.
Silence.
Then, a small voice, “Tevac, you idiot.”
A desperate hiss of “Shut up!”s followed.
Next day, a rainstorm came through. But in spite of the bitter wind, the entire barracks was up before dawn, their stern-faced rad Shevraeth with them.
The barracks soon smelled of damp wood and wet wool, the latter reminding Shevraeth of young dogs in the rain. He was smiling inwardly, though outwardly maintaining the necessary blank face and exacting eye, when Lennac and Marec arrived from their liberty nights.
Lennac looked around, hiding his surprise, but he turned his attention to inspecting the job being done. All three of the rads made certain that every drop of water was scoured away, the two rows of bunks were re-aligned neatly—headboards to the walls, foot making an aisle down the middle—that everything, in short, was better than it had been, before dismissing the sodden, weary boys to get ready for inspection before morning mess.
While the boys were dressing, the three rads closed themselves in Shevraeth’s room.
“What happened?” Lennac asked.
Shevraeth gave a succinct report. Both the older boys grinned, Marec’s shoulders shaking. “Second time in a second week, eh? This group is going to be hot at hand.”
Lennac laughed. “Just what m’father warned me about. Said they’d break out with something or other, and the earlier the better for us, if we come down hard all at once. Good. We’ll ride ’em all week. But why not breeze ’em?”
Shevraeth said, “I would rather not.”
Lennac pursed his lips. Marec said quickly, “They don’t, where he comes from.” His tone was defensive.
Lennac waggled a hand. “I don’t like it either, but it’s part of life. If you can get ’em to obey without it, and not dishonor us before the others, I don’t care. But how did you think of this?” He jerked his thumb out toward the barracks. “It’s great.”
“It’s in your own records,” Shevraeth said.
The other two looked surprised.
“I spent the winter here. Read as much about the academy as I could find. There isn’t very much,” he added. “Some records have details of several years, by a single hand, naming boys, wins, games, and sometimes the schedules, some of which I recognize and some of whi
ch has changed. Other times are silent. There was a century of silence around the time of my own ancestor.”
Lennac sat back. “Ah! So that explains why you are here.”
No it doesn’t, Shevraeth thought, but he said nothing.
“Who’s your ancestor?” Marec asked. “You never said anything last year. Some of the others thought you might be related to the king.”
“I am, though very distantly. My ancestor was sister to one of your kings three or four centuries ago, by name of Ivandred Montredaun—”
The reaction in the other two was so sudden, so sharp, Shevraeth bit off the rest of the name. “What is it?”
Lennac and Marec exchanged quick looks, then Marec slouched against the door, his face averted.
“We never name him,” Lennac said in a low voice. “After we’re told the story. Ever. Until we have to tell it to our own children.”
Shevraeth sighed. “So that’s why I couldn’t find anything about him. In our records, we only know that he started wars. And won them. Then vanished.” Starting wars does not seem to be confined to this particular one of your kings, so... why is there a problem?
Lennac said, “He rode into Norsunder under the Banner of the Damned.”
The Banner of the Damned. What was that? “I will abide by your custom, then,” Shevraeth said. “Though I don’t know any of the circumstances. But it seems strange, to eradicate someone from history, and yet not eradicate him.”
“We all know,” Marec said, unsmiling, “because Norsunder is beyond time. That means he could ride out again, at the head of the First Lancers. Any day, any time, and where do you think he will come first?”
TWENTY
Russav:
A Stranger to Command Page 15