Shaman's Crossing (27 page)

All four of us perched on our beds, getting to know one another. I learned that Kort and Natred had known each other since they were children and had often visited one another’s homes. Their fathers, like mine, were new nobility, hammering estates from the raw land of the Plains. They had traveled together to the Academy, and in all likelihood would wed one another’s sisters, a prospect that did not seem to dismay either of them.

In contrast, Spink, whose real name was Spinrek, had grown up closer to the frontier than any of us. His family estate was far to the south and east, and he had traveled the first leg of his journey here by mule, skirting the Red Desert. He and his escort had faced down one party of bandits, killing one man and wounding, he thought, two others before they fled what they had doubtless thought easy prey. Spink had a good way of telling a story; he was not boastful, for he gave full credit to his accompanying mentor, Lieutenant Geeverman, for driving off the robbers.

He had just finished his tale when my father entered the room. Reflexively, we all leaped to our feet. He looked searchingly around the room and then gave us a measuring stare. For some reason I could not bring myself to speak. Then he smiled and nodded his head approvingly. “I am pleased to see you in such company, Nevare, and to see that your quarters are as tidy as any trooper’s should be. Will you introduce me to your companions?”

This I did, stumbling a bit when I realized I didn’t know Kort’s surname. It was Braxan, and he supplied it quickly when I hesitated. My father shook hands with each of them in turn. I introduced Spink last, giving his proper name of Spinrek. At this, my father cocked his head and then asked carefully, “You would be Kellon Spinrek Kester’s son, then?”

“That I would, sir,” and a faint blush of pride crept into Spink’s cheeks that my father would know his father’s name.

“He was a fine soldier. I served alongside him in the Hare Ridge campaign. I was not with him at Bitter Springs, but I heard how he died. He was a hero, and you should be proud of his name. Your mother, Lady Kester, does she fare well?”

I think Spink nearly gave a polite and untruthful reply. He took a breath and then said, “Things have been difficult for her the last few years, sir. Her health has not been good, and a dishonest overseer brought us to the edge of ruin. But he has met his justice, and my older brother Roark is learning the full running of our holdings now. I am sure that things will improve.”

My father nodded gravely. “And your father’s regiment? They do well by her and your family?”

“Very well, sir. Lieutenant Geeverman escorted me here, to be sure I would arrive safely. My mother’s pride forbids that we rely on them too much. She always thanks them for their many offers, but tells them that her husband would, she is sure, wish to see his sons learn to stand well on their own in paucity rather than rely on the charity of others to live in comfort.”

“I am sure he would, Cadet Kester. Just as I am sure you will bring honor to the name you bear. Hold to your father’s values, and you will be a fine officer.”

I perceived then that my father had already known these things, but that by asking about them in front of us, he had given Spink the opportunity to share his family’s straitened circumstances without making it seem that he sought our pity. Only later did I learn the tale of his father’s death. Going to the aid of a wounded comrade, Captain Kellon Kester had been captured by the Plainsmen. The tribe that took him was the Ebonis, well known for their utter ruthlessness toward any enemy. When Kester saw that he’d been drawn into a trap baited with his wounded comrade, he shouted to his fellows not to come after him, no matter what.

Even the Ebonis honored him for what came after that. Their warriors did every vile thing they could devise to Kester, hoping to wring from him the screams that might torment his comrades into attempting a rescue. He bore it silently. They tortured him to death that night, making a long, slow business of it. Yet as dawn arrived, they discovered their mistake, for while they were thus occupied, the cavalla scouts had marked well their location, and the trap the Ebonis had set turned into an encirclement that resulted in the slaughter of nearly every warrior there. Kester’s second-in-command decreed that five of them be allowed to live, but with their bowstring fingers severed. He sent the mutilated and defeated warriors back to the Ebonis so that the tale of Captain Kester’s courage might be told around their campfires. Less than a year later, what remained of the Ebonis came in under a treaty flag and agreed to resettlement in the north. Kester’s silence under torture, and the discipline of his lieutenants who heeded his order not to risk his men by charging in after him, no matter what, is often cited as an example of the chain of command working exactly as it should and the solid requirement of coolness in desperate circumstances that a good officer must always possess. The telling of that campaign takes up a major portion of chapter four of the text
Fit for Command
by General Tersy Harwood.

But at the time I knew nothing of that, only that my father had judged all three of my roommates to be worthy companions. He bade me walk him down to the carriage to say good-bye. We stood beside it for a time, talking. I was torn, not wishing for him to go and yet anxious to begin my new life and return to my new friends. My father cautioned me, as any father must on bidding farewell to a son, to remember all I had been taught and to cling to the rules of my childhood. Then he added a further warning.

“Be above reproach, son, especially for the first few months of your education. There is a good reason I did not recognize Colonel Stiet’s name. He’s not from a cavalla family, although his wife is. Our good king, for reasons I shall not question, has seen fit to put a regular army officer in charge of the Cavalla Academy. Moreover, even as an army officer, he has not served in warfare, but here at home, keeping track of numbers and enforcing petty regulations about uniforms and weapons ordnance. Most recently he was in charge of organizing parades for state occasions. And he trumpets this as an accomplishment! I will not speculate that his wife’s connections had more to do with him receiving this appointment than his own record.” My father shook his head. In a lower voice he added, “I fear he will be more concerned that his troops look good on a drill field than that they be able to shoot from a moving horse or keep their heads cool in a tight situation.

“Now, you look shocked, and well you should to hear me speak so of a fellow officer. But there it is; it is how I have judged him, and though I pray to the good god that I may be proved wrong, I fear I shall not. I have seen the horses he bought for his cadets. Pretty little things, all of a size and color, that will doubtless look well in a parade but would jolt a man to death on a long day’s ride and die after two days with no water.” My father paused abruptly and took a deep breath. I do not know what else he had thought to say, but whatever it was, he seemed to change his mind.

“I think that your uncle was correct when he said that Colonel Stiet has little love for the sons of the new nobility. I wonder if he has any love for the cavalla at all. We are expensive if all a man looks at is the flow of coins it takes to keep us horsed and equipped and does not reckon up the lives that would be lost if we did not. He does not understand our place in the military; I think he believes we are but a showpiece, an entertainment, and a spectacle, and thus he will build his career on fostering that image of us.” He drew breath again, and then he said what I think he had hesitated to say before. “Remember that he is your commander. Respect and obey his orders. Do things as he wishes them done, even if you think you know a better way to do them. Perhaps
especially
if you think you know a better way to do them.

“Stay true to your upbringing. Avoid bad companions, and remember, you were born to be a soldier. The good god has granted you that. Let no one steal it from you.”

And with those words he embraced me tightly. I knelt for his father’s blessing. I know I must have watched him get into the carriage and drive away, and certainly we must have waved farewell to one another. But all I recall is standing on the edge of the drive looking after the departing carriage and feeling more alone than I had ever felt in my life. I felt suddenly cold and hollow, and nearly queasy as I turned and hurried back to my new quarters.

My fellows awaited me and let me know that my father had left a fine impression. “There’s no mistaking a cavalry man; it’s in his walk. Your father is the genuine item. I’d wager he’s spent as many hours in the saddle as he has on foot in his life.”

“More, I think,” I replied to Kort’s compliment. We spent the rest of the early afternoon settling ourselves into our room. Three fellows from across the hall came and introduced themselves. Trist, Gord, and Rory were all the sons of new nobility. Gord was a slab of a boy, pale and fat, his neck bulging over the collar of his uniform and his brass buttons tight on his belly. He stood, smiling awkwardly and saying little, at the edge of our group. Trist was tall and golden, with the bearing and charm of a young prince. Even so, it was squat, affable Rory who claimed all our attention. “I heard that they put us all together a’purpose,” Rory told us solemnly.

“Because we’re not good enough to associate with the soldier sons of the old nobility?” Kort was both astounded and offended.

“Nar. So’s we won’t make their lads feel bad.” Rory grinned as if it were a fine jest. “They may be soldier sons, but they h’ain’t been raised by soldiers like we were. Half of them never had a leg over a horse, save for riding a pony in the park. You’ll see when we get to drill. My uncle’s soldier son was fostered with us, ’cause that’s how we do it in our family. First sons always give their soldier sons to their soldier brothers to raise so the boy gets a good start on his training when he’s still a little feller. My cousin Jordie was through the Academy four years ago, and wrote me letters every month about it. So I’ve got a pretty good idea what to expect here.”

That brought us clustering around him. For the next hour or so we sat at the study tables in our common room and Rory held the floor with tales of strict instructors, cadets working off demerits by mucking out the stable, hazing from older cadets, and every other Academy tale he could dredge up for us. He was a born storyteller, swaggering as he spoke of young officers and cowering as he mimed us junior cadets. He held us spellbound when he theatrically warned us of “cullings.” “Commander declares one anertime he feels like it. Could be a drill exercise, could be a jography test. Every cadet who falls lower’n a certain score, whist!, he’s gone. Culled like a spindly lamb. They send you home with just a note that says ‘failed to meet Academy standards, thanky all the same for sending ’im.’ And you know what comes after that for a soldier son. It’s good-bye officers’ mess, hello chow tent and life as a foot soldier. Only thing a soldier son can do if he fails here is go for the common enlistment. Those cullings are murder, and they give no warning a’tall. It’s one way t’keep us on our toes with our noses in our books.”

He spoke with a Kenty twang that I secretly found amusing. At the time I did not know that several of the others thought my “Plains drawl” just as humorous. More cadets drifted in from the other rooms on our floor to join us as we listened to Rory’s tales, until there were eleven of us there, almost our full patrol. We were a mixed lot, but all sons of new nobility, as Rory had predicted. In a short time it seemed as if we had all known one another for years instead of hours. Oron had red hair, large teeth, and a pleasant, contagious laugh. Caleb joined our group with four
Penny Adventure
folios under his arm, which he immediately offered to share with us. I had never seen one before, and the lurid covers on the cheap booklets were a bit shocking. Caleb assured me they were mild compared to others that he owned. Jared had only one older brother and six younger sisters, and claimed he wasn’t accustomed to talking much as he got so little opportunity at home. He said it would be a huge relief to have only male companionship for a while. Trent was a slight youth with an anxious air. He had arrived with three trunks full of clothing and household goods and seemed very particular about his wardrobe and bedding. He bemoaned the limited living and closet space allotted to him.

In the midst of our yammering, a twelfth cadet arrived to round out our dozen. His name was Lofert. He was a tall, gangly fellow who seemed a bit dim. He didn’t have much to say beyond his name. Gord helped him find the last empty bunk in their room and they soon rejoined us. Every one of them seemed like a good fellow to me and I felt a sudden elation that my first year of Academy was off to such a good start. But I am sure I was not the only one listening anxiously for the dinner bell. Somehow I had missed the noon meal, and by the time the longed-for bell finally clanged, I felt cramped with hunger.

Hungry as hounds, we rushed down the stairs together, only to be thwarted in our headlong race by a flood of other boys pouring out from the lower floors onto the same staircase. Obviously other students had been arriving hourly while we conversed upstairs, and we were forced to descend sedately, a single riser at a time.

“I hear the food’s bad here. Same stuff every day,” Gord observed brightly. He was breathing loudly through his nose, as if even going down the stairs was an exertion.

I could think of no reply, but Rory said, “If it sits still on the plate, likely I’ll eat it. Bet you will, too. You don’t look like you’ve been too picky in the past!”

Several of the others laughed aloud and I grinned. Even Gord smiled sheepishly. I took another step down and resisted the urge to push past the cadets in front of me. Even when we finally reached the ground floor, we could not race off to the mess hall. On the walkway in front of our dormitory we found older cadets, red sashes and striped sleeves proclaiming their authority, who sternly reminded us to keep to the paths and not jostle one another, and move in unison to our goal as befitted military troops. These supervisors who bunched us into groups were Academy students one year ahead of us, Rory informed us before he was ordered to stop talking in ranks. They formed us up by floors, which suited us well, and our shepherd, Corporal Dent, marched us off in our new patrol. Dent put Gord next to me. The portly cadet puffed as we marched, lurching along as he strove to stretch his stride to match our pace.