Laughing immoderately, he affected a stagger and a sway as he moved to lift one down, saying, “. . . and my idea is a wager. We dress like one of the old kings, and recite whatever ballad is most pompous, see, and most obscure, and see who can guess whom it belongs to...” Chattering on inanely he hefted the lance.
He could lift it, he was glad to find—but holding it steady very soon had his arms shaking. When he tried holding it with his right arm, his wrist bent. As for describing a circle—he made it halfway up in an arc, a white pain shot through his shoulder, and his knee came up to balance his arm.
He laughed, the sentry laughed rather perfunctorily, and Savona replaced the lance. To bolt the impression, he said, “M’ tutor once made me memorize a two hundred line snore about an old king, and I swore I’d make money off it some day in some wager. Make m’effort worthwhile. Want to hear it?”
“No thank you, your grace,” was the polite-but-hasty reply.
Savona thanked the sentry, then started quoting anyway, mixing together lines from several ancient poems he’d half-learned when being made to practice his handwriting as a boy. He poked about, making a pretence of locating various bits of ceremonial armor, and there was no mistaking the uncomplicated relief, and disgust, in the sentry when Savona finally announced he’d found what he needed, and they left.
On the way back, his thoughts proceeded thus:
Of course Danric’s Marloven lances had to be something small, light, practical.
No, lances were lances.
Danric was lifting those things as a matter of course.
Danric, his oldest and best friend, little weedy Danric, was training with a weapon Savona could barely lift. And having a rotten time doing it, too. So why did Savona feel so... sour?
He entered his rooms and sank down onto a pillow in the dark.
The truth. Danric is telling me the truth. I can do myself the same courtesy.
The truth was, Danric had always been his shadow, a little slower, a little weaker, a light-built little boy who’d needed his friend’s protection when they were small. And Savona had been glad to give it to him, for weren’t they like brothers?
But now, it seemed, his little brother was training with lances.
Savona grimaced. It isn’t you who is in danger of becoming complacent, it’s I. A lazy, drunken sot of Grumareth’s sort, only a few decades younger, so the effects don’t show. Yet. I think I’m so clever, but who is fooled?
He did not answer the question, but sat there staring into the dark pit of the unlit hearth, until dawn gradually grayed the sky.
TWENTY-THREE
The scrubs’ first scouting foray dawned clear and breezy. Despite the boys’ scoffing and complaining, they were excited, full of insults, jokes, pushes and shoves as they packed their overnight gear and then lined up for inspection. Shevraeth was growing more exasperated and Marec and Lennac had handed out half a dozen whacks with their wands before they were able to dismiss the boys to breakfast. It was like releasing a human arrow from an over-strung bow. The boys charged to mess, the sooner to be done with eating.
This year’s first-year colts had departed before dawn to the chosen field, where they were busy planting clues and picking hiding places as the scrubs finished breakfast, attended morning training drills, then at midday gathered their gear, and lined up to march beyond the walls.
They spotted the flag marking the campsite in the very late afternoon, as the weary colts were returning from their duties. They’d rise before dawn the next morning to hide so that the scrubs could track them, mapping their trail.
Shevraeth helped scrubs set up tents. He left them arguing about who was going to sleep where and took a look around the camp. A clump of colts turned away quickly, but not before he saw one sneering, and another with exaggerated disgust.
He couldn’t be breaking a rule to help the smaller boys. No, Lennac was at the other end of the row, lending his strength to the determined but ineffective efforts of two small scrubs laboring valiantly to get the pegs of the last tent deep in the dry, clay-hard soil.
Shevraeth turned away from the unknown colts, thinking sympathetically that after a long day such as these boys had obviously had, his mood would be equally vile.
And so he thought no more about it as both camps dealt out the heavy bread and sharp cheese common on scrub overnights—which avoided the mess of cooking—then went about cleaning up and readying for morning as the last of the sun faded in the west.
Afterwards the rads drew straws for perimeter patrol while the camp settled down. Shevraeth was glad to discover he had the first watch. Lennac sighed when he drew the longest straw, meaning the watch everyone hated most, from midnight until first bell.
At first Shevraeth’s job was easy as the boys settled around the campfire, singing songs, often accompanied by the hand drums, and then others told stories with typical crude humor, sending the scrubs into gasping fits of laughter. When the supervising master, silent until now, came forward and gave the order to rack up, there was some unnecessary running about, some fast practical jokes, heralded by muffled laughter and whispers. Marec (who also had early duty) and Shevraeth both had to chase their errant scrubs to their tents as the small boys tried to be the last ones in.
When he’d seen Mondar and Tevac inside their respective tents (no one would let them bunk together), Shevraeth turned away. He was weary, looking forward to sitting down. But as he passed between the colt tents he heard whispers and snickers. Their tone made him wary.
He plunged between two tents. Lanky colts silhouetted against the fire as one boy said in a hoarse whisper that Shevraeth knew was meant to be overheard: “Of course their army—if they have one—is drawn from farmers and servants. Who else would think of cleaning shoes?”
Then Marec appeared from the other side of the fire. He stepped in the middle of them, the firelight making his wispy curls glow reddish. “Tents, tents. Didn’t you hear the order? Would you like me to repeat it, keeping time with the beat?”
Honking fourteen and fifteen year old voices responded, “We’re going, we’re going.”
Marec stood there watching until they vanished inside their tents.
By then Shevraeth had joined him. “I take it that was aimed at me?”
Marec faced the fire and grimaced. “Marlovair is that way. He can’t seem to get up in the morning without contemplating his family’s greatness. Not his own, you understand—”
Lennac’s voice snapped from the other side of the tents. “Mondar! Tevac! You’re supposed to be in your tents—what’s that in your hand?”
“Nothing!”
“Nothing!”
Lennac appeared, driving the two errant scrubs before him. He gave them each a whack for lying and demanded they open their hands; the boys, who had not reacted to the whack across their shoulders, now slumped, Tevac babbling excuses right to the end.
But there was nowhere to run. They were now surrounded by all three of their rads, after having been silently shadowed by Lennac, who had been expecting the two to execute a sneak.
They reluctantly relinquished itch weed, hoarded what would seem forever to a small boy, against their first overnight.
The rads made certain that the boys’ hands (and pockets) were emptied into the fire, which sent a brief spurt of burnt herb scent through the summer air—causing violent sneezes in everyone who sniffed it—and then the two were marched to their tents and thrust ungently inside.
Marec and Shevraeth rounded the great fire pit. Marec said in a low voice, “Their first target seems to have been Marlovair’s and his cronies’ tents. Would have done them good. But no doubt we were next on the list.”
“Do you think I’m going to have trouble with this Marlovair, who I don’t even know by sight?”
Marec sighed, turning his eyes skyward to the glittering stars. Then he shrugged. “Probably.”
Lennac and the colts’ rad appeared then, having done a fast circuit. “All in,”
Lennac reported.
“All in,” the colts’ rad said.
The master in charge opened his palm, ruddy against the firelight. One of the boys blew the trumpet for lights out, meaning anyone leaving a tent was out of bounds.
Marec waved a hand. “On my way.” Lennac went to the tent to catch a nap before midnight.
Shevraeth had inner perimeter. He was alone with his thoughts for the next stretch, walking around the camp in the soft air, glancing between the tents at the slowly diminishing fire, as the noise gradually died down. To the east a clump of trees growing beside the stream blocked the stars. South the hills rose gently, rock and greenery inevitably hiding the markers the older boys had laid down, for to the north the land stretched away flat under the star-studded bowl of the sky. He caught Marec’s silhouette against the horizon, pacing the outer perimeter.
It was not unpleasant duty, for Shevraeth enjoyed the walk in the cool evening air. He did not waste much time thinking about this unknown Marlovair and whatever it was that he resented about Shevraeth the Outlander. Instead he reviewed his reading, and mentally composed letters to his parents and to Savona.
When midnight came at last, the rad who was his replacement joined him with a brief, “Watch change.” He said, “You have the post,” and left. He discovered as he walked toward his tent that he was quite tired.
He felt his way into the tent he shared with Marec, found his bedroll right where he’d chucked it on arrival. Marec was there, having been replaced by Lennac.
By now Shevraeth knew how to tamp down the grass to make a kind of mattress under him, and how to lay out the bedroll so his head wasn’t lower than his feet, or over holes, or at a slant. He stretched out, listening. Marec was not asleep, judging from the sound of his breathing, so Shevraeth permitted himself a long, slow sigh of relaxation as he turned his attention to the quiet noises of a nighttime camp.
He was beginning to drowse when it occurred to him that the noises he heard were not the regular ones of night. Stream rushing, trees rustling, insects chirring, the flit of wings and mournful calls of night birds on the wing, the occasional clop of horse hooves... those were expected. Not expected but soft, then progressively louder and more frequent, were the all-too-familiar sounds of another farting contest, followed by muffled giggles. He was sure he heard Tevac’s characteristic snicker, and from another tent, Lasda’s shrill hee hee hee.
Shevraeth sighed.
Marec, lying awake in his bedroll, chuckled. “Bide fast.”
Shevraeth murmured softly, “I don’t suppose it works to remind ’em they need their rest to be alert tomorrow?”
“Wager it takes care of itself,” Marec returned, laughter making his whisper husky. “Remember, the colts have been up before dawn, and have to rise again at dawn next watch—”
Marec stopped abruptly. They heard the rustlings of several footsteps in the tall grass. Marec gestured to the tent flap, and they wriggled forward on their elbows and peered out. Four gangling silhouettes walked in pairs, something heavy carried between each.
Puzzled, Shevraeth watched as the pairs separated, yanked up tent flaps, and tossed the contents of pails. In the faint glow of the dying fire water glowed. Those were full pails.
Wails and squawks issued forth from the two tents as the colts scurried back to their own tents, pails jingling.
The master and rads on duty appeared to be sublimely unaware of anyone breaking bounds.
“Happens nearly every year,” Marec whispered, his voice shaking with pent-up laughter. “Happened to me. Lasda and Tevac will be throwing the water in three years.”
“And our boys cannot complain, right?” Shevraeth whispered, thinking of the small boys with soggy clothes and bedrolls.
“Not unless they want to admit to the master what they were doing inside their tents after lights out.”
“Summary justice,” Shevraeth said, his insides quaking as he tried not to laugh out loud. “Will they get a scarfle when we return?”
Marec looked over. “Would you, if you were Lennac?”
Shevraeth considered. “No.”
Marec lifted a hand, a silhouette against the ruddy glow through the crack in their tent door. “Exactly.”
TWENTY-FOUR
The tracking and map-making went without mishap.
They ate the last of their food at midday, broke camp, and began the long journey back.
They’d reached the barracks, and the weary, dirty, happy scrubs were busy putting themselves and their bedrolls through the cleaning frame—loudly criticizing the older boys, and the rads, and the score, and one another, with happy abandon, unaware or unconcerned that nobody was really listening—when a runner appeared in the doorway.
He and Marec spoke. Marec flushed. Then both glanced Shevraeth’s way. Now what? he thought.
The runner vanished and Marec jerked his chin toward his room.
Shevraeth left the boys to sort themselves out and joined Marec. “Lennac will be here shortly, soon’s he reports in. You and I are to join command class.” Marec grinned, a beaming grin of pride, his skin nearly as red as his hair.
There was no corresponding joy in Shevraeth, whose inward chill was like the feeling you get when you step out on smooth snow, the ground suddenly gives way under you, and you sink into a hole you hadn’t known was there.
He remembered Baudan’s explanation of command class last year. He’d heard it mentioned from time to time since, but he’d ignored it, comfortable in his assumption that it would be confined to Marlovens.
Marec’s brows twitched together. “Is that a problem?”
Shevraeth hesitated. He knew he was supposed to be honored to be chosen—unless his father had paid for that. No. Wrong path. If Baudan was right about its purpose, Commander Keriam—and through him, Senrid—wouldn’t make their command class a matter of money or influence. It might have been in the Regent’s day, but wouldn’t be now. The problem, if there was one, was the class’s intent.
So the question was... ought he to go?
The very idea of discussing command—specifically running battles, the most efficient method of killing other human beings, whether warriors or not—was so morally repellent he got angry every time he thought about it. And was that not the definition of command?
But he was here. Of course he could explain away what he’d learned so far as self-defense, or how to organize small groups. All things he could use at home. So he’d avoided thinking about intent outside of defense. But the time had come to face the dilemma after all.
Marec was a fellow student, not the authority in charge. And so Shevraeth said only, “I take it the first class is to commence immediately?”
Marec’s face cleared in relief, and Shevraeth wondered what he’d betrayed in his own expression. Was he losing control of the court mask? That was another horrible thought. It was sometimes the only personal defense he had.
“Now.” Marec jerked his thumb toward the door. “Keriam teaches it himself, did you know that? The king apparently sits in a lot, or did. I once heard Forthan talking to Ndarga when I was a scrub, and they didn’t know I was pitching hay right outside the stalls. Anyway Keriam’s been gone until yesterday, which is why the class is starting so late this season.”
“I didn’t know any of that.” Shevraeth remembered Senrid’s tension during their recent conversation. It’s not Siamis that worries me. At least, he’s a big threat, bigger than I can handle. But there’s a worse one. Controlling the instinct to finger the token hanging inside his shirt, Shevraeth thought, I am very glad I am not a king.
“I hadn’t either.” Marec flicked his hands open. “As for the Commander, the king sends him out on missions from time to time, but we almost never hear about them afterward.” He grinned. “That same year, Ndarga told us one night someone in his class had dared someone else to ask, but all Keriam said was ‘I went places and saw people.’ And nobody quite had the brass to ask him for more detail.”
L
ennac appeared then, and waved at them to go. Apparently one’s House rad had to be inside the secret.
They didn’t talk much on the walk to Keriam’s office; before they reached the archway opening into Guard territory they spied a group of their own House on the way back from archery.
Mondar was one of them. He held out his bow to stop Shevraeth and Marec, as Vandaus and Gannan lingered, listening in. Mondar said, “Is it true my brother really brought itch weed on the track-and-scout?”
Marec grinned. “Saw every leaf and twig burned myself.”
Mondar sighed, staring upward. “What gets into his brain? When I catch him out...”
The rest of his words were inaudible under the sound of Vandaus’s and Gannan’s laughter.
They walked on, and Shevraeth thought: I guess reporting your brother’s stupidity is not akin to falling off a horse. And, They didn’t ask where we were going.
They reached the Guard side of the castle, and Keriam’s tower, from which he could see both the king’s garrison and the academy. They started the long trudge up the spiral staircase with those worn ovals. About a dozen steps ahead a lanky figure with curling dark hair turned at the sound of their step, and there was Stad’s familiar cleft chin and dark-eyed smile. “Marec. Shevraeth!”
“No, they can’t be letting you in,” Marec exclaimed. “Must be desperate.”
“Been desperate two years.” That was a new voice—as they caught up with Stad, they discovered Evrec a few steps above. He grinned and lifted a lazy hand. “So they invited you two slackers?”
Marec searched high and low, miming looking for someone. “No, I’m a spy. Pretend you don’t see me,” he whispered, and Stad choked on laughter as Evrec pushed open Keriam’s door.
They passed inside the office, which was much the same except for the addition of a black slate-board set up against one wall, and three benches opposite the big desk. On the opposite wall someone had put up a huge map of the kingdom, with the neat printing that Shevraeth recognized as Senrid’s hand.