by Robin Hobb
He left the room, and after a disconsolate stare at all of us so meekly occupied, our monitor followed him. We heard him say, “But Corporal, they were—”
“Shut up!” Dent rebuked him crisply, and then, several stairs down, we heard a flood of angry whispering from Dent, interspersed with our monitor’s whiny protests. When he returned to us a few moments later, his freckles were lost in his angry flush. He stared around at us and then said, “Wait a moment! Where did the fat one go?”
We exchanged baffled looks. Rory attempted to rescue us. “The fat one, Corporal? You mean the dictionary? I have it here.” Rory helpfully lifted the hefty volume for him to see.
“No, you idiot! That fat cadet, that Gord. Where is he?”
No one volunteered an answer. No one had an answer. He glared round at us. “He’s going to be in big trouble. Big, big trouble.” The proctor stood, working his mouth, perhaps trying to come up with a more specific threat or a reason why Gord would be in trouble simply for not being there. When he could not come up with anything and we continued to stare at him like worried sheep, he slapped the table. Then, without another word, he packed up the rest of his books and papers and stamped out of the room. Silence held among us. I don’t know about the others, but that was the moment when I realized what we had done. By collusion, we had deceived those in command of us. We’d witnessed fellow cadets breaking an Academy rule and had not reported it. I think our collective guilt was seeping into the awareness of my fellows, for without speaking, the others were closing their books and carefully putting their work away for the evening. Trist was humming to himself, a small smile on his face, as if he were enjoying Spink’s attempt to salvage his book. Spink looked grave.
“You fought like a Plainsman, grabbing and strangling and rolling around on the floor. You’re no gentleman!” This belated accusation came, unsurprisingly, from Oron. He looked both disgusted and triumphant, as if he had finally discovered a legitimate reason for disliking Spink. I glanced at the small cadet. He didn’t look up from blotting ink from his book. It was ruined, I thought to myself, the print obliterated by the soaking ink, and well I knew he had no money for a new one. What was a minor mishap to Trist, little more than an impulsive prank, was a financial tragedy for Spink. Yet he didn’t speak of it. He only said, “Yes. My family had no money to bring in Varnian tutors and weapons instructors. So I leaned what I could from whom I could. I learned wrestling and fighting alongside the Plains boys of the Herdo tribe. They lived at the edge of our holding, and Lieutenant Geeverman arranged for me to be taught.”
Caleb made a sound of disgust. “Learning to fight from savages! Why didn’t the lieutenant teach you to fight like a man? Didn’t he know how?”
Spink folded his lips and his face got that mottled look it did when he was angry. But he spoke calmly when he replied, “Lieutenant Geeverman was a noble’s son. He knew how to box and, yes, he taught me. But he also said I would be wise to learn the wrestling of the Herdo. He had seen it useful in many circumstances, and as I did not look to grow to be a large man, he judged it would work especially well for me. He also counseled me that it was a good form to know, for when I only wanted to immobilize someone and not to injure them.”
And that was a sting to Trist’s pride and he was happy to seize on it as an insult. He slapped his last book shut. “If you’d fought me as a gentleman instead of as a savage, the outcome would have been different.”
Spink stared incredulously at him for a moment. Then a stiff smile spread over his face. “Doubtless. Which was why, free to choose my tactics, I chose one that allowed me to win.” He tapped a textbook that had escaped the spill of ink. “Chapter twenty-two. ‘Selecting Strategy in Uneven Terrain.’ It pays to read ahead.”
“You’ve no concept of fair play!” Trist insulted him ineffectually.
“No. But I’ve a good one of what it takes to win,” Spink shot back unrepentantly.
“Let’s go. You’d be better off talking to the wall. He can’t even grasp what you’re trying to tell him,” Oron huffed. He took Trist’s arm and tugged at it. Trist shrugged him off and walked away from the table, his neck flushed. I think Oron’s words had only embarrassed him more.
When Trist slammed the door of his room behind him, the flush of victory left Spink’s face. He looked down at the table and his ruined book in dismay. He put his intact books away and then came back to the table with a cleaning rag to scrub at the ink stain on it. I realized that I was the only one still sitting there. I shut my books and gathered my papers to be out of his way. I closed Gord’s books and set them aside. I couldn’t think of anything to say to him. Then he spoke, a very soft question.
“Do you think Gord went to report us?”
His voice was full of dread and pain. I had been so busy with my own thoughts, I hadn’t even worried about where Gord had gone. I considered what must have been going through Spink’s mind: that alone of all his fellows, Gord had betrayed him, by upholding the honor code that we were all sworn to. And if Gord had done so, Spink might very well be sent home from the Academy, for he had, indisputably, struck first. And then the cowardly thought followed: if we all stuck up for Spink and Trist and said there had been no fight, Gord would appear to be the liar. Only he would have to leave.
And there we all were, stretched tight between loyalty to our patrol and the honor of the Academy. Which side would I stay with? Spink? Gord? I suddenly saw that all of us could be expelled over this. I felt weak and sick. There was no possible way to be completely honorable, to keep my oath to the Academy and to keep faith with my friends. I dropped back into my seat at the table. “I don’t know,” I said. And added, “But if he had, surely they would have come up here by now. So perhaps not.”
“Then where did he go? And why?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even have any ideas.” Worry crept through me. Where could he have gone? The rule for first-years was clear: evenings should be spent in study and housekeeping tasks followed by an early bed. Although we were not confined to our barracks, there was little to tempt us away from them. The weather was intemperate and walking about the grounds that we traversed several times each day on our way to classes offered little attraction. The physical rigors of the day sapped our interest in visiting the gymnasium in the evenings. Occasionally we had guest lecturers or poets or musicians who performed for us in the evening, but attendance at those events was mandatory and not regarded by any of us as recreational. Nothing like that was scheduled tonight. Surely Gord would not have attempted to venture past the guards at the gates of the Academy. I could only picture him walking by himself about the grounds in the evening drizzle. It was a sad image, and yet I felt little sympathy for him. More than half the evening’s disaster was his fault. If, from the beginning, he had stood up to Trist’s taunting, it would never have come to blows between Trist and Spink. For that matter, I seethed to myself, if he could simply control his appetite at table, he would lose the girth that made him such a target for mockery.
Such were my thoughts as I prepared for my evening’s rest. My bookwork was not complete, and I felt out of sorts about that. I’d probably be punished with extra assignments tomorrow, to be completed over the days off. The others were expecting a fine holiday away from the Academy. I’d looked forward to at least having plenty of idleness. Now even that was taken from me. I sighed as I entered our bunkroom. Natred and Kort were already in their bunks, asleep or pretending to be so. Spink was at the washstand, holding a cold cloth against his bruised face. The night quiet was uncharacteristic of our room, the uneasy silence that followed a fight. It set me on edge.
As I shelved my books, I nudged my Dewara rock off the shelf. I caught it one-handed before it hit the floor, and stood there, hefting its roughness and thinking. Some part of me was aware that I was being unfair to Gord as I fumed at him. It was still easier than being angry with Spink or even Trist. Gord, I thought to myself, was a much easier target for blame. I looked down at the
rock in my hand, and for some reason I found myself thinking of all the stones I had left at home in my collection. How many times had I been a potential target for Sergeant Duril? What had he really been trying to teach me with all those stones? Or was I investing meaning in something the sergeant had intended only as a simple exercise in wariness?
I was still holding the stone in my hand when the door to our room was flung unceremoniously open. We all jumped at the intrusion. Nate opened his eyes and Kort leaned up on one elbow. Spink was caught half bent, his fingers dripping a double handful of water halfway to his face. I turned, expecting Gord. It took a moment for me to realize that it was not a cadet officer, but only Young Caulder standing in our doorway. Rain had beaded on his hat and dripped onto our clean floor from his cloak. His nose was red with cold. He had a grinning sneer on his face as he said pompously, “I’m to bring Cadets Kester and Burvelle to the infirmary. Right away.”
“What for?” Spink demanded.
“We aren’t sick,” I added rather stupidly.
“I know that!” Caulder was properly disdainful of our ignorance. “You’re to come and fetch that fat cadet back to Carneston House. The doctor has certified that he’s fit to return for duty.”
“What? What happened to him?”
“What I said!” Caulder said disgustedly. “Come on. I’ll take you to him.” Then, as I obediently placed my rock on my bookshelf and prepared to follow him, he demanded suddenly, “What’s that?”
“What?”
“That rock. What’s it for? What is it?”
I was sick of this youngster, for his lack of manners and the way he flung about his father’s authority without any regard for his elders. “The only thing you need to know about it is that it isn’t yours,” I responded tartly. “Let’s go.”
If I’d had younger brothers rather than younger sisters, perhaps I would not have been so shocked by what happened next. Caulder shot out his hand and snatched the rock off the shelf.
“Give me that!” I exclaimed, outraged that he had taken what was mine.
“I want to look at it,” he replied, turning away from me with the rock in his hands. He reminded me of a little animal trying to hide a piece of food while he devoured it. He seemed to have completely forgotten his mission.
“What happened to Gord?” Spink demanded again.
“Someone beat him.” A note of satisfaction was in this announcement. I could not see Caulder’s face but I was certain he was smiling. A flash of anger went through me. I reached over his shoulder, seized his wrist, and squeezed it. He released the rock and I caught it and restored it to my shelf in one motion.
“Let’s go,” I told him as he looked up at me, caught between incredulity and anger. He cradled his arm to his chest, rubbing his wrist and glaring. His voice was venomous as he said, “Don’t ever put your filthy hands on me again, you peasant bastard. This adds another strike to my tally against you. Don’t think others don’t know about how you poisoned me with that ‘tobacco’ and then laughed at me. Don’t think I don’t have friends who can help me take revenge on you.”
I was shocked. “I had nothing to do with that!” I blurted out angrily before I could realize that keeping silent would have been better. I’d all but admitted that his tobacco experience had been a cruel prank, not an accident.
“It happened here,” he said coldly, turning away. “It was your patrol. All of you were in on it. Don’t think I don’t know that. Don’t think my father doesn’t know how you misused me. It’s like the Writ says, Cadet: ‘Evil befalls the evildoer in its time, for the good god is just.’ Now why don’t you follow me and get a good look at justice?”
Still cradling his bruised wrist, he stalked away. I paused only to put on my winter cloak. Spink had hastily dressed for the weather and was waiting anxiously for us. I hurried after Caulder and Spink. Spink glanced back at me as we went down the stairs and his face was pale. “Were you told to fetch us specifically?” he asked Caulder in a neutral voice.
Caulder spoke disdainfully. “Fat Gord seemed to think you were the only ones who’d turn out to help him back to the dormitories. Not a surprise, really.”
We did not speak after that. Sergeant Rufet lifted his eyes to watch us leave but said nothing. I wondered if he already knew our mission or was giving us enough rope to hang ourselves.
We stepped out into a cold, persistent rain. My cloak had not dried completely from its earlier use. The wool kept the warmth in but grew heavier with every step I took in the downpour. Caulder turned up his collar and hastened ahead of us.
I had not been to the infirmary before, having had no occasion to go there. It was a wood-frame building, set well away from the classroom structures and busy pathways of the Academy campus. It was tall and narrow and tainted a garish yellow by the oil lamps that burned in front of it. We followed Caulder up onto a porch that creaked beneath our steps. He opened the door without knocking and led us unceremoniously inside. Without pausing to put off his hat or cloak, he took us through an antechamber to the left where a bored old man dozed at his desk. “We’re here for the fat one,” Caulder said. He did not wait for a response from the orderly. He crossed the room briskly to open a second door. It led to a corridor, unevenly lit by badly spaced lamps. He marched down it, turned into the second door, and even before we reached the threshold, we heard him say, “I’ve brought his friends to take him back to Carneston House.”
Spink and I crowded through the door and into the small room. Gord sat on the edge of a narrow bed. He was dressed, but his buttons were not fastened, and he sat with his upper body tilted forward and his head drooping. The knees of his uniform trousers were wet and muddy. He did not look up at us as we came in, but the man attending him did. “Thank you, Caulder. You should probably go home now. Doubtless your mother will be wondering where you are, out so late.” The man’s words fell somewhere between a polite suggestion and a steel command. I judged that he was not fond of Caulder and anticipated an argument from him.
He got it. “My mother has not ruled my hours since I was ten, Dr. Amicas. And my father—”
“—will, I am sure, be very glad to see you and to hear how helpful you were in letting us know that you had found an injured cadet. Thank you, Caulder. Please give your father my regards.”
Caulder stood stubbornly a moment longer, but as we all kept silent and avoided looking at him, he soon realized that he would witness nothing interesting by staying. “Good evening, Doctor. I shall convey your regards to Colonel Stiet.” He added his last words pointedly, as if we could somehow have forgotten that his father was the commander of the Academy. Then he about-faced smartly and left the small room. We listened to the clacking of his boots as the sound receded, and then heard the door shut behind him. Only then did the doctor look at us.
He was a spare old man with a fringe of trimmed gray hair around a bald pate. He wore rimless spectacles and a white smock over his uniform shirt. A spattering of faded brown on the smock showed that it was well used. The hand he held out to each of us in turn was veiny but strong. “Dr. Amicas,” he introduced himself gravely. He smelled strongly of pipe tobacco. He nodded his head almost continuously. He looked at us more over than through his spectacles when he spoke. “Young Caulder came racing in here close to an hour ago, abrim with the news that he’d found a new noble cadet trying to crawl back to Carneston House.” The doctor worked his mouth for an instant as if wishing for a pipe that wasn’t there. He seemed to choose his words carefully. “Caulder seemed to know a mite too much about this cadet for someone who’d just chanced upon him. Course your friend there hasn’t said anything different from Caulder’s tale, so I’ll have to take it at face value.” He gestured at Gord as he spoke, but Gord still didn’t look up at us. He hadn’t made a sound since we entered the room.
“What happened to him, sir?” Spink asked the doctor, almost as if Gord weren’t sitting there.
“He says he slipped on the steps of the library a
nd fell all the way to the bottom, and then tried to crawl back to his dormitory.” The doctor gave in to himself. He took a pipe from one trouser pocket and a pouch of tobacco from the other. He loaded his pipe carefully and lit it before he spoke again. Then his tone was clinical. “However, it looks to me like he was attacked by several men and restrained while someone hit him. Repeatedly, but not in the face.” The doctor took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. “I’m afraid that in my years here, I’ve become an expert in the bruises that a bushwhacking leaves. I’m so tired of this sort of thing,” he added.
“Caulder told us that Gord was beaten,” I said. At my words, Gord lifted his head and gave me a look I could not interpret.
“I suspect he witnessed it,” the doctor said. “Caulder is often the first one to run and tell me of injuries to first-year cadets. Lately he has reported several ‘accidents’ befalling new nobility cadets, accidents he claims to have witnessed. The first-years from Skeltzin Hall seem to be remarkably unlucky about falling down stairs and walking into doors. I’m distressed to see that clumsiness spreading to Carneston House.” The doctor set his glasses firmly back on his nose and clasped his hands in front of himself. “But no one ever contradicts what that little gossipmonger lad says. Thus I have no basis on which to attempt to put a stop to it.” He looked pointedly at Gord, but the fat cadet was working at his buttons and didn’t meet the doctor’s gaze. Gord’s knuckles were scuffed and grazed. I folded my lips, guessing that he’d gotten in a few licks of his own before he went down.
“New noble first-years are being beaten?” Spink sounded far more shocked than I was.
Dr. Amicas gave a brief snort of bitter laughter. “Well, that is what I would say, based solely on my examinations. But it’s not just first-years experiencing this plague of ‘accidents.’ My written reports speak of everything from falling tree branches to tumbling down a rain-soaked riverbank.” He looked at us severely. “That second-year cadet nearly drowned. I don’t know what makes all of you keep silent as you do; will you wait until one of you is killed before you make a complaint? Because until you speak up on your own behalf, there is nothing I can do for any of you. Nothing.”