So he sat up. “I’m awake. Do you want me to go outside so you can talk?”
“Yes,” Nermand muttered, but Janold flipped up the back of his hand, a sharp, hard movement more effective than any curse.
Nermand flushed at the insult that—coming from his own radlav—he couldn’t officially resent.
“No, don’t go,” Janold said to Shevraeth. “You may’s well hear it all.” He paused while Evrec silently lit a single candle. Then he said, “Truth is we don’t come off looking so good, but maybe that’s something you need to know. I, curse it, I feel sick.”
He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, a tremulous hiss they all heard. Janold, tough Janold, who hardly ever cracked a smile, who beat most seniors at archery on horseback and double-stick fighting, who thrashed them with dispassionate and exacting equality when required. His pale hair hung in his eyes, dripping onto his cheeks, but he didn’t seem aware of it, or to feel his soggy stockings making pools on the worn barracks floorboards. He wore a white shirt that stuck to his body, with liberal mud prints all over it. Shevraeth wondered what strange variation in the rules led the seniors to fight in boots and trousers and shirts, leaving off the uniform-tunics. So much unspoken custom that everyone else but he understood.
“It wasn’t only Sindan versus Forthan, though that was part. It really is the old ways against the new. Everyone thinks the other side are cowards. They tied Zheirban up after he refused to join and locked him in our storage, but Janred Senelac was hiding on the ceiling beam. Dropped down, cut him free. Jan came and got the rest of us, on Zheirban’s command, the idea being to stop it, but we got drawn in...” He let the words drift as he stared sightlessly down at his open palms.
“Did the king really come?” Vandaus asked when the silence had gone on so long it seemed unbearable.
Janold’s mind returned from its bleak inward review and he said, “Oh, yes. He came. Walked right through the middle.”
“With Keriam?”
“With the Guard?”
“Was he armed?”
The whispered questions came from all sides.
Janold shrugged one shoulder impatiently. “He was alone. Empty hands. Walked right through us like a knife through spider webs. Stopped when he reached us. I was there, trying to stop—” Janold sighed again, and looked up at the ceiling, then down at his hands. “The king saw Sindan down. Said to Forthan, If he dies, you die.”
“Wha—” Nermand started to rise from his bed.
“Shut. Up.” Hauth reached past little Ventdor and shoved Nermand back onto the bed.
Janold didn’t hear the whispered exchange, short but fierce. His eyes were distant.
“Forthan had the knife, see. Sindan’s knife. Took it off him in the duel, and—well. He said to the king, I know. And then, Put me up against the wall. I’ll go. But not the post. And the king said, We both know he’s worthless and you, I want you one day to command my army. But you know the rules. You swore to uphold them when you took your command.”
The whispers broke out again.
“But it was Sindan’s fault!”
“Sindan brought the knife, not Ret!”
“It was all Sindan, that horse apple—”
Baudan said, “What’s going to happen?”
Janold turned his head. “I don’t know. The king saw us there. Didn’t even ask what we were doing, just sent everyone to barracks. Had someone carry Sindan to the healer, and go with the ones with cuts and broken bones.”
Stad said in a low, angry voice, “If they put Forthan up against a post I won’t go.”
Janold’s head jerked round, his face white with anger. “Yes, you will. We’ll all be there. If it comes to pass. We broke the rules. That’s what Sindan wanted, to break the rule of law, to go back to rule of force, of privilege being above the regs. We’re not going to let him win. Even if he dies.” He rubbed his hands through his hair, then stood up. “Go to sleep. All of you. If we are given a normal day tomorrow, Ponytail House will be on its best behavior.”
He vanished into his alcove and Evrec snuffed the candle.
Nermand muttered, “Forthan’s a coward—”
“Shut up, shit-head.” Evrec’s venom was so unlike his normal easy tones the others were shocked into silence.
THIRTEEN
Breakfast was quiet and tense.
Shevraeth had no more appetite than any of the others, but forced himself to eat. On every side were wary, angry faces, and the few conversations were exchanged in fierce, short whispers. Otherwise the academy sat under a self-imposed gag, because the masters lining the walls—when usually they were not in the mess hall at all—canes at their belts, had not said a word. But their very presence was both threat and rebuke.
We try to solve our problems ourselves. Aren’t we here to learn to command? Hearing the echo of Senelac’s voice, Shevraeth sneaked a peek at the upper level senior tables. There were a number of empty spaces. Most of the rest had bruises visible from across the room.
When the meal was finished and the academy filing out to the parade ground under the already glare-bright summer sky, a runner appeared and gestured Shevraeth out of line. It was so quietly and deftly done while the others were surreptitiously watching the seniors, scarcely anyone noticed Shevraeth slipping away.
The runner was a young man wearing the black and tan of the Guard. As Shevraeth followed from familiar territory to unfamiliar, he wondered if he was about to be cast out of the academy. He was trying to decide if the prospect made him angry or relieved when they stepped through one of the archways into King’s Guard territory, and through a door at the base of the biggest tower in the castle complex.
Shevraeth followed the silent runner up the oval impressions scoured by countless Marloven feet in the narrow honey-brown steps. The stairwell smelled of torch-resin and ancient stone. Occasional glimpses through narrow slit windows looked out over the academy from the north end. This tower had to be where Commander Keriam had his office and quarters.
Outside an iron reinforced doorway an armed guard stood at attention; the briefest of signals, no more than a meeting of eyes and a twitch of the head between the guard and the runner, and Shevraeth was waved into a plain room with a desk and on one wall a large, very detailed map of the academy, right down to the number of beds and who slept in them.
The stocky, middle-aged man silhouetted against the window was Commander Keriam.
Shevraeth’s hand thumped against his heart.
Keriam flicked up a hand in acknowledgement. He was an older man, his hair grizzled, his square face tired and grim. “We intercepted an outland runner at the outer gates who was apparently seeking you.”
Shevraeth repeated, “A runner?”
Keriam lifted something from the desk and tossed it down again, drawing Shevraeth’s eyes to a very battered package of heavy paper. He did not need to turn it over to examine the seal: the distinguished handwriting in Sartoran characters was instantly recognizable as his father’s.
Shevraeth flushed with surprise and delight. His smile vanished when he met Keriam’s assessing gaze. “It’s from my father,” he said, uncertainly. Surely there was no hidden rule against letters!
Keriam clasped his hands behind his back. “I cannot read that language, but I thought it might be. The timing,” he added, “is not fortuitous, but I am willing to accept that it’s accidental.”
Bewildered, Shevraeth repeated, “Accidental?”
“You did not know that correspondence is strictly forbidden?”
Shevraeth did not even try to hide his surprise. “No. Nothing was ever said. My father did promise to write, but I knew it would take months.”
Keriam stared out the window, over the academy. “I have to assume the king said nothing, then, when he made the arrangements for you to be here.” He turned his head. “It’s not a new rule, it’s left from the old days. What happened last night is isolated only because long-standing tradition keeps those boys’ families from interfering and m
aking things far worse.”
‘Last night.’ Keriam didn’t pretend it wasn’t known all over the academy.
Shevraeth said, tentatively, “Is Sindan going to make it?”
Keriam’s brows lifted in brief surprise. “It looked much worse than it was. Retren Forthan is far too skilled to have hit a vital organ or life-threatening blood vessel unless he’d intended to, but he didn’t lose his head that far. Messy cut along the ribs, shoulder, arm, one over his eye, bled all over but will heal in a week.” Keriam gave Shevraeth a wry look as he added, “Forthan will soon be far worse off.”
Shevraeth debated, then decided, why not ask? “I don’t understand.”
Keriam gestured to the window. “The king is over there right now dressing them down. I pulled you out on my own, since I had this to see to.” He reached down and flicked the letter still lying on the table. “I also think it’s probably better. Despite his young age, the king has his grandfather’s gift with... creative sarcasm, let us say. You have fit in well, but I don’t think the others would like your seeing them get the dressing down they deserve.” A faint, very ironic smile was gone again in a moment. “But the reverse would be true if you are excused from watching the punishment, which will probably occur end-week.”
Shevraeth looked aghast.
Keriam studied him. He’d dealt with boys for nearly two generations, having seen surprising changes in government, in law, as well as in world events. He could not predict the future, but boys he knew. This foreigner the king had so unaccountably permitted within the citadel of the academy was not sullen, derisive, superior, defensive, or weak. Further, some of his more observant peers had witnessed his silent acts of kindness, nothing ever overt, or referred to. Keriam did not pretend to comprehend Shevraeth’s motivation, but he respected it.
He said, “Retren Forthan is probably one of the most esteemed boys in the entire kingdom. It’s no exaggeration to say that his name is known, as many people come to see him perform in the winter exhibitions as well as in the summer games, where he nearly always wins. Tdanerend Sindan, from a family distinguished by long service, is probably the most hated, even by many of the other old families who cling to position through what they call tradition, but is really no more than name expectation, coupled with some alliances during the Regent’s day that I won’t discuss. Never should have been made. Yet we will all gather out there in the parade court at the end of the week, including Tdanerend Sindan, and watch Forthan take a half-century with the cane. At least it’s a cane, since there was no death involved.”
Shevraeth said in dismay, “I gather putting someone at the wall means to execute him by arrow. So... putting someone at the post means to flog him to death?”
“Forthan won’t be flogged to death, but he’s going to take fifty cuts.” And, seeing Shevraeth’s reaction of intense revulsion, he added, “We do it to ourselves, not to prisoners, unless there was treachery involved. It is appalling to see. But it seems to be the only way to keep the reins on a people bred and trained for war. They are now learning that it will happen to them, service family—even Jarl’s family—or not, if they contravene the regs. It’s law, and whatever law meant in former times, it stands now for everyone. Of every rank. Forthan will be caned, because he’s a boy, and because he didn’t kill anyone. But he was in a position of command, and he put his hand to a weapon even though he did not bring it to the field, and used it against a subordinate for personal reasons, not military necessity. Sindan was not betraying us to the enemy, or spying, he was merely arrogant and divisive and personally insulting. A good commander should be able to solve such problems without weapons.”
Keriam paused. And Shevraeth remained silent, but his brow was troubled, his mouth thin with disgust.
“Fifty cuts is going to put Forthan in considerable pain, enough that he will be excused from the field wargame he was supposed to command. The others who took weapons will all get what they call a generation, thirty, whether wounded or not. And the entire school will watch. You as well.”
Shevraeth grimaced.
Keriam had glanced once or twice out the window as he spoke; now he seemed to see some sign, though Shevraeth could not make anything out from his perspective. Keriam let out a short breath. “The king is on the way back, and they are dismissed to morning drills.”
He reached down and tapped the package. “Since this came all the way across the continent I am reluctant to destroy it, and because of the circumstances bringing you here, I do not feel it right to open and read it—assuming I could—as I would anything sent to one of the other boys. Nor have I been ordered to do so. Go ahead and read it, while I consult on what comes next. But I request you, on your honor, not to make reference to it when you return to barracks.”
“Agreed,” Shevraeth said.
Keriam walked out, leaving Shevraeth to sit down on the nearest chair and with trembling fingers break the letter’s seal. Not one but two pieces of paper fell out. One of them was written in Russav Savona’s impatient, slashing hand with its brazen flourishes. Shevraeth grinned, but laid it aside and turned to his father’s letter first:
My dear boy:
I had hoped that I would be able to contrive your return for New Year’s. Your mother and I both feel that you are far better off where you are, and further that we are justified in explaining away your absence as a taste for the fashions and frivolities of a foreign court.
Shevraeth looked up, feeling the impulse to laugh. Frivolities. Fashions. How much farther could they have got from the truth without falling right out of the world?
No doubt the ironies implied will not escape you. I expect we shall be favored with your descriptions, if we cannot embrace you ourselves. Until I trust this method of correspondence more I will confine myself to generalities, which are more serious even than we once discussed. Observe, learn. Think.
Russav Savona pled most passionately to be sent to join you, but the king forbade him to leave. No distance, it seems, is safe enough to allay the fear of possible conspiracy.
My courier will hand you a purse that is expected to see you outfitted for the coming year. If it is not enough, you have but to ask.
In closing, your mother and I both send with this letter our abiding love—
Below that their signatures, side by side.
Shevraeth’s throat tightened. He turned his attention to Savona’s letter:
Danric. Your mother is apparently going to slip this note away, right out from under G.’s nose. I made the mistake of trying to leave to join you. Suffice it to say my own castle at Savona is now my prison, and half my new servants are spies. Write to me if you can. Your mother has convinced me to start living the part in a play. I’m to be the spendthrift wastrel as well as the kingdom’s most fickle flirt. What a sacrifice, you say, and yes, I agree. See the tears? R
Shevraeth looked up. How was it possible to feel at once that home was so very far away, and yet its problems surrounded him with the strength and immediacy of a runaway herd of horses? He’d finished reading both letters through a second time when the door opened behind him, and Keriam returned.
“The courier?” Shevraeth asked.
“We’re holding him downstairs.” Keriam gave his brief, wry smile and added, “Holding as in feeding him and seeing his horse reshod. He’s not in prison. But the king is going to send him back. You will not see him. Something else will be arranged, I am to tell you. And I am to give you this.” He was carrying a courier wallet, which he set on the table. It clinked faintly. “If you like, we can take charge of it here, the same way we do for the others. You send your accounts to this office, as the others do, and we cover them. That includes the pleasure houses and so forth, as you will be in a position to earn liberty days next spring. Unless this is for another purpose?”
Shevraeth had to swallow before he could speak again. “My father says I cannot return home. I am to stay over winter.”
Keriam opened his hands. “There are a nu
mber of others who are here year round. You will probably like the winter activities.”
The interview was over. Shevraeth rose, his fingers half-stretched for the letters, but he remembered that he was not supposed to get them, was probably not even supposed to have seen them, and so he let his hand drop to his side. The impulse to have those papers as keepsakes was strong, but he made an effort to dismiss it. Foolish. Memory, more proximate than paper written on three months ago, was locked safely inside his head.
So he saluted, and Keriam lifted a hand in dismissal.
Shevraeth returned with the waiting runner to the academy, where he found his bunkmates considerably subdued, but the only spoken references they made were to their various determinations to do well in the rank tests, which would establish their place for the week-long summer wargame out on the plains—the one that Retren Forthan had been chosen to command.
FOURTEEN
“You’re not gonna disgrace us, right, Shevraeth?” Holdan asked.
“About the riding,” Hauth said, very quickly. “Riding test.” He said it again, and with such emphasis Shevraeth wondered if they somehow meant at the punishment on the parade ground, before the entire academy, that everyone knew was going to happen after breakfast. Only what (Shevraeth thought to himself) would be ‘disgrace’ at an event that was already disgraceful to anyone who made the remotest claim to civilization?
“Testing. If we do well at riding—” Hauth babbled, his voice a little too high, too sharp.
“—we get more events in the gymkhana—” Holdan put in.
“Quiet, toad!” Hauth hopped up and down. “—and if we’re better than Mouse House we get to ride to the summer game. Not march with the scrubs and the Mice, and set up the cook tents.”
Shevraeth faced Hauth and Holdan, two boys who usually had nothing to say to him one way or the other. Neither were particularly memorable in their own rankings; Hauth was short, skinny, with freckles and sandy hair. But he was passionate about winning. Holdan, even skinnier, looked like a rodent with his triangular chin and broad forehead and prominent front teeth under his shock of pale hair. “Will ya ride? I mean better than you did,” Holdan asked again, looking around.