Shaman's Crossing (28 page)

Thus it was that we were not at the very end of the line as we filed into the mess hall, but were close enough to it that it taunted my hunger all the more. We could smell the food, and I heard Gord’s stomach rumble loudly. Within the hall Dent herded us to our laden table, and directed us to stand behind our chairs until each table was granted leave to sit down and begin eating. There were covered tureens of soup, platters of sliced meat, thick slices of dark bread, and heaping bowls of boiled beans on each table, luring us with their appetizing smells. Even when all the occupants of our table had arrived, Dent kept us standing a time longer as he lectured us perfunctorily that every officer sees to the wellbeing of his men before he takes care of himself. This waiting until our fellows were ready to dine alongside us was our first reminder that the cavalla flourished only when the needs of every rider were given equal consideration. Dent’s eyes seemed to linger on Gord as he spoke.

It seemed a completely unnecessary lecture to me, for I had always been taught that basic dining manners demanded that one wait until the entire party had arrived and been seated. Yet, as the others did, I held my tongue and stood in place behind my chair until we were given permission to sit. And again I found myself surprised that our shepherd seemed to think we needed instruction in basic manners. Speaking simply, as if we might not understand, he gravely informed us that each dish of food would be passed around the table, allowing each man an opportunity to serve himself, but that we were to refrain from eating until every man had his rations. He cautioned us also that there was enough food for each of us to have generous servings, but that we should first serve ourselves in moderation until we had seen that each man had a fair portion of every dish. I exchanged a glance with Kort and Natred. Kort rolled his eyes toward Gord, as if to indicate he was the intended recipient of Corporal Dent’s words. Gord’s eyes were downcast, but I could not tell if he was staring at the food or avoiding Dent’s gaze.

Later, as we sat around the study tables in the relative peace of our dormitory, Natred grinned and said, “I half expected him to be shocked that we used cutlery instead of eating with our hands!”

Spink shrugged. “Probably he thinks that those of us from the frontier were raised rough and crude. I suppose I have, in many ways. Many’s the night when I’ve shared a common pot of food with our hired men when we’re camping with the flocks to keep the wild dogs off the new lambs. It doesn’t mean that I don’t know how to behave when there’s a cloth on the table, but perhaps he thought it better to tell us ahead of time, and keep some poor sap from embarrassing himself by having to be corrected.”

Our conversation was interrupted when Caleb and Rory commandeered our table for an arm-wrestling match. Very soon we were all involved in trying our strength against our fellows. The contest between Rory and Natred quickly escalated into a wrestling match on the floor. We had not realized how rowdy we had become until the study table overturned with a crash. That sobered us, and we had righted it and resumed our seats when we heard hurried footsteps on the stairs. Seconds later our red-sashed shepherd thrust himself into our room. “What’s going on up here?” Corporal Dent demanded as we came to our feet. His freckles had nearly vanished in the angry flush on his face.

“Just some horseplay, sir,” Natred replied after a few moments of silence. “Good-natured. Not a fight.”

Corporal Dent scowled. “I might have known,” he muttered, as if he had been foolish to expect civilized behavior from us. “Well, settle down and stop romping like boys. The men on the floors below you are trying to enjoy some peace. The lot of you had best get yourselves ready for lights out. When the horns blow at sunrise, you’ll be expected to assemble—washed, shaved, and in uniform—on the central parade ground. Don’t make me come and roust you out. You won’t be pleased by how I’ll do it.”

With that, he turned himself about smartly and marched out of our common room. As he went down the steps, over the angry clacking of his boots, we heard him fume, “Just my luck. Saddled with a bunch of new noble oafs!”

We exchanged glances, some of us shocked, others puzzled as we slowly resumed our seats. Natred seemed amused, Kort offended.

“It’s how they’ll do us,” Rory informed us lazily. He stood, scratched his chest, and then stretched. “My cousin’s an old noble’s son. Made no difference. He said the corporals will find a reason to pick on us all, as a group. He says it’s supposed to teach us group loyalty and make us hang together, to improve as a patrol. Next couple of weeks, no matter how hard we try, they’ll ride us hard, find little things to fault us on, and hand out extra duties or make us march demerits or roust us out of our bunks in the middle of the night for nothin’. And Dent won’t be the only one. Expect some harassment from every cadet with a second-year stripe on his sleeve. In fact, tonight will probably be the last good night’s sleep we’ll get for a time. So I’m going to take advantage of it.” He yawned hugely and then grinned at us sheepishly. “Country boy, me. I go to bed when the birds stop singin’.”

His yawn had set me to yawning also. I nodded at him. “Me, too. It’s been a long day.”

“No one wants to stay up for a game of dice with me?” Trist asked invitingly. He alone seemed undaunted at Corporal Dent’s rebuke. He leaned his chair back on two legs, his arms crossed on his chest as he grinned his broad white grin. Trist was the handsomest of us, with his hazel eyes and short thatch of curly sandy hair. He exuded charm like a flower gives off scent. I surmised that he’d quickly become our leader, and eventually a charismatic officer. His invitation was tempting.

“I’m in,” Gord announced eagerly. His fat cheeks wobbled with enthusiasm.

I steeled my will and spoke into the quiet room. “Not me. I don’t play dice.”

I turned to go to my bed as Spink reminded Trist seriously, “Dice are against the rules. No cards, no dice, no games of chance allowed in the dormitories, on pain of expulsion. Didn’t you read the rule book?”

Trist nodded lazily. “I did. But who’s going to tell?”

I turned back slowly to the group, knowing that my honor would require me to report any breaking of the rules. I suddenly liked Trist a lot less than I had a few moments ago. I tried to find the courage to say that I would report it, that I’d have to. My mouth was dry.

Spink shook his head. He crossed his arms on his chest but it didn’t help much. He still looked small, almost childish compared to the lanky, lounging Trist. “You shouldn’t be putting us on the spot like this, Trist. You know we’ll be held accountable for your behavior, even if we’re not part of it. You know that the honor code would require us to report it.”

Trist brought his chair back flat on the floor with a thump and then stood slowly. The blond cadet towered over small, dark Spink. “I was just joking with you, Spink. Are you always this serious? God’s breath, what a stiff neck you are!”

Spink stood his ground, his feet slightly apart as if setting his weight for a fight. “And that’s blasphemy, to speak the good god’s name other than in prayer. And also against Academy rules.”

“Your pardon, O saintly one. I’ll go to my room and make reparations now.” Trist rolled his eyes as he turned away. Spink refused to notice it or to look after him as Trist sauntered from the room. After a moment Oron and Gord followed him. They shut the door.

I felt sad at that first little crack in our unity, even though a part of me recognized it as inevitable. Sergeant Duril had spoken to me of such things, though he had been speaking from his experience in the field rather than at an academy. Despite the differences, I recognized that his words would hold true here as well. “Whenever a new group forms, or an old group takes in new members…don’t matter if it’s a regiment or a patrol, nor even if it’s troopies or officers…there’ll be some shoving to see who’s first to the trough. They’ll try each other’s strength, and it’s rare that there’s not a fistfight or three before the dust finally settles. Just keep your cool and remember it’s got to be, and do your best to stay clear of it. Don’t back down, lad, that’s not what I’m saying. But hang back, calm like, and make them shove the challenge at you before you take it up. So no one ever doubts that it wasn’t you that started it. You just be the one that finishes it.”

“Nevare?” Kort nudged me, and I jumped. I realized I’d been staring at the closed door. “Forget about it,” he advised me quietly.

I nodded. “I think I’m ready for bed, too,” I excused myself. But that was sooner said than done. There was only one washstand in our room, and I had to wait my turn for it. Rory wandered into our room in a homespun nightshirt. He perched on the foot of my bed beside me and spoke quietly. “Think there’ll be trouble ’tween Trist and Spink?”

“Spink won’t start it,” I said after a moment of pondering.

“I guess that’s right. But I’m thinking that if there’s a fight, we’ll all have to pay for it. That’s how they do things here. One screws up, we all pay the toll.”

It was my turn for the washstand, and as I stood, Rory said, “Maybe you could talk to Spink. Tell him to take it easy until we all settle in. It’s goin’ to be bad enough with Corporal Dent chewing on us without us bitin’ each other.”

“Maybe Trist is the one we should talk to,” I offered.

Rory’s dark eyes met mine and he gave his bullet head a shake. “Na. Trist isn’t one to listen. Well. I’d best get back to my room, then.”

I wanted to ask him if Trist had sent him to talk to me, and wondered, too, if they were playing dice in there. Then I decided I didn’t want to know.

Shortly after that, Kort blew out the lamp and we all knelt by our beds to say our prayers. I prayed longer and more earnestly than I usually did, asking the good god to show me the middle path through strife. Then I got into my narrow bed in the darkness and tried to fall asleep listening to the breathing of the others in the room.

I
n the dead of night, someone was drumming. I rolled over and fell out of my bunk. It was much narrower than my bed at home, and this was the third time I’d fallen out of it. I groaned as I sprawled on the cold floor. I heard a door open and close and someone came into the room carrying a candle. In that instant I was awake. I sat up wearily. “That can’t be the drums for dawn. It’s black as pitch out there.”

“Not if you open the curtains,” Kort observed dryly as he walked to the window and pulled back the drapes. There was a faint pearliness to the night sky. “That’s the drum for rising. We have to be up, dressed, and on the parade ground by the dawn horn. Remember?”

“Vaguely.” I yawned.

Spink was sitting up on his bed, blinking owlishly. Natred had his pillow over his head and was holding it down with both hands. I saw an opportunity to be first at the washstand and seized it. Kort unceremoniously jostled me aside to share it as we shaved. As he passed Natred’s bed on the way to his closet, he kicked the end of it. “Get up, Nate! Let’s not be the ones to give Dent an excuse to harangue us today.”

I was struggling into my boots before Natred rolled out of his bunk. Nonetheless, he was ready to go when we were. Nate patted his downy cheek happily as he left the washstand. “I love being fair. My father told me I’ll be in my twenties before I have to start shaving!”

Spink had made up his bunk for him, even as he promised ominously that it was the first and last time he’d ever do it and that Natred now owed him a favor. We were immensely proud of how tidy we left our room and how well turned out we all were. We left our floor, calling to the laggards who remained to hurry up lest we all get in trouble. As we clattered down the stairs, uniform hats clutched under our arms, cadets from the other floors joined us until we spilled out of our dormitory to join a green-clad flood of students cascading onto the parade ground in the dimness of predawn.

The dawn horn had not yet sounded, but Corporal Dent was there before us. He demanded to know where the rest of his patrol was, but gave us no time to answer before informing us that he expected us to arrive as a group, for we’d soon learn that the men in a cavalla patrol look out for one another. He used the minutes before the others arrived to disparage our appearances. He asked Spink if he’d slept in his uniform and then demanded that Kort describe a boot brush to him and tell him what it was used for. He told me to put my hat on straight and warned me that if I continued to show the wrong attitude, he’d find a cure for it that I wouldn’t like. He walked all round Natred several times, regarding him as if he were an exotic animal before asking him how long he’d been walking on two legs and when he thought he might learn to stand up straight. As a scarlet-faced Natred groped for a reply, Gord arrived. He came trotting up alone, cheeks red and one of his buttons already giving way to his girth. Dent appeared to forget all about Nate as he turned to a new target. “Look at yourself, Gorge!” he commanded, and Natred gave a snort of laughter that Dent ignored. “Stand up straight and suck that gut in! What? That’s the best you can do? Who’s in there with you? Or have you a baby on the way?”

Dent went on for some time in that vein as Gord squirmed in humiliation and Natred nearly suffocated trying to keep from laughing. I was torn between sympathy for my fellow cadet and my own suppressed amusement. The more Gord tried to hold in his gut, the redder his cheeks grew. I think he might have burst if he had not been rescued by the arrival of the rest of our patrol. They dashed up, out of breath, and Rory’s shirttail was only half tucked in. Corporal Dent sprang on them like a tomcat on a nest of new mice.

He didn’t have a single kind word or encouraging comment for any cadet. Not one of us met his standards and he doubted that any of us would survive our first term as cavalla cadets. If he couldn’t think of some fresh insult for a man, he simply roared, “And you’re no better!” before proceeding to his next victim. He pushed, prodded, and bullied us into ranks until he was either satisfied or too frustrated to try anymore. He took his position in front of us when the dawn horn finally sounded.

Then we stood there. I knew we were supposed to keep our eyes straight ahead, but I risked a glance at the others. In the dawn light, we all looked alike: forest green uniforms, tall hats, black boots, and wide eyes. Only the lack of stripes on our sleeves distinguished the first-years from the upperclassmen. Each dormitory had formed up separately. We were Carneston Riders, named for our dormitory Carneston House, and our colors were a brown horse on a green field. Each dormitory housed cadets from all three years. I noticed that two of the first-year patrols were substantially larger than the other two. I wondered if this was a breakdown of new nobles’ versus old nobles’ sons. The cadet officers had formed up their own separate ranks off to the right. I envied them the dress swords that hung at their sides.

I don’t know how long we waited. Eventually four junior officers came to inspect us. Each one took two of the patrols, moving down our lines and criticizing us as the corporals hovered, wincing at each derogatory comment as if it applied to him personally. It dawned on me that it probably did, that we were most likely Corporal Dent’s first command, and his ability to whip us into shape would be considered the measure of his leadership ability. I felt a pang of sympathy for him, and stood a bit straighter and focused my eyes straight ahead.

After the rough inspection was finished, the junior officers moved to the front of our ranks, quietly and mercilessly told our corporals all that they had done wrong, and then formed a line of their own. Again we waited. Eventually we were rewarded with the sight of Colonel Stiet making his way toward us. He walked briskly. The cadet commander of the Academy walked on his left side, while young Caulder struggled to match their strides on the right.

They halted crisply in front of our troop. Colonel Stiet ran his eyes over his ranked charges and gave a small sigh that seemed to say we were no better than he had expected. We stood at attention while a small cadet band of brass instruments played “Into the Fray” as the Gernian colors were hoisted, with the Academy banner displayed below them.

Then Colonel Stiet made a speech welcoming us to the King’s Cavalla Academy. He reminded us that the cavalla was not one man on one horse, but a hierarchy of patrols, troops, regiments, brigades, and divisions. Every patrol was only as good as the weakest man in it, and every troop only as effective as the most ineffective patrol. He expounded on this for some time, and I grew weary, for it seemed to me he was stating the obvious. He urged each of us to help our fellows to be the best cadets they could be, in studies, in honor, in manners, and in skills. Our military careers, and indeed our lives, might eventually depend on other cadets we had helped to shape in these Academy years. In closing, he took great pains to tell us that he regarded us all as equals, with equal potential to rise in the ranks and graduate well. It did not matter if we had come to the Academy from the city, the country, or the frontier. It did not matter if our fathers were the true cavalla sons descended from the old knighthood or soldier sons of the old nobility or the soldier sons of battle lords. All would be treated the same here and offered the same opportunities. His words were welcoming and assuring, and yet somehow they increased my awareness that some here might see the new nobles’ sons as uncouth upstarts and pretenders.

After Stiet had spoken to all the assembled first-years, the senior cadet commander addressed us. He had plainly memorized his speech of welcome and his list of cautions and warnings. The grumbling of my belly distracted me from his words. By the time the commander of the Carneston Riders spoke to us, it was difficult to stay focused on his words. His name was Cadet Captain Jaffers. He and his staff of third-year cadets lived on the lower floor of Carneston House and were ever ready to attend to both our needs and our discipline. He discoursed far too long on the rules of Carneston House and its proud history. I tried not to roll my eyes at that. I had more “history” than the Academy did; it had been founded less than ten years ago! But each cadet captain appeared to be delivering the same sort of lecture to his standing troops. Even Colonel Stiet looked bored and impatient to be gone. When they finally finished, we continued to stand until Stiet and the senior officers had departed. By the time our captain commanded that we should march off to our breakfasts, I was famished and aching from standing still for so long.

They fed us well; I’ll give them that. The dining hall was more crowded this first official day of term. The routine of our meal was the same as yesterday’s, with Dent reminding us yet again of our basic manners before allowing us to fall to on the porridge, bacon, boiled beans, fried bread, and coffee. After we had finished eating and given thanks for our food, he briefed us on the rest of our day. All first-year patrols followed the same schedule. He cautioned us that there would be no easing of standards for those of us who were the soldier sons of new nobles. We would be expected to live up to the gentlemanly example of those who were the offspring of old nobility, and he advised us that we could learn much simply by emulating their behavior.

I think we might have muttered among ourselves at this if muttering had been permitted at the table. Instead, he quick-marched us back to Carneston House to get our texts and other supplies and then herded us to our first class before hastening off to his own. Military History shared a long, low brick building with Languages and Communication. We filed into the classroom and took our seats, straight-backed chairs arranged along long tables. Rory was to one side of me and Spink was on the other. Gord walked slowly past us, looking as if he wished to sit by us, but the row was full and he went to the next row along with Natred and Trist. Spink spoke quietly, “It can’t be easy for Dent to have to herd us around and then rush off to his own classes.”

“Don’t expect me to feel sorry for that little popinjay,” Rory growled, and then we all jumped in our seats as our instructor shouted, “Stand up! Don’t you know you’re to stand when your instructor or any superior officer enters the room? On your feet this instant!”

Captain Infal was our military history teacher. He kept us standing while he quickly listed the daily work for the class. He spoke in a clear, precise voice that carried, as if he were accustomed to addressing people in the open air rather than within a classroom. We were to keep silent and sit straight, take notes as he lectured, and read twenty-five pages of the text every night. There would be daily quizzes and weekly tests. Three consecutive scores of less than 75 percent on the tests would result in mandatory study halls. Five consecutive scores of less than 75 percent on the quizzes would be grounds for Academy probation. The patrol of a man on probation was expected to assist him in raising his scores by diligent studying. Absence from class would only be excused with a note from the Academy infirmary. A trooper was useless if he did not have robust health. Here he glared at Gord and then shifted his disapproval to a young man who was coughing in the second row. Three medical absences were grounds for Academy probation. There would be no talking among students. Cadets were not allowed to either borrow or lend supplies during the class hour. “Be seated now, silently, no scraping of chairs, and pay attention.”

And with that, he launched into his first lecture. I barely had time to take out pencil and paper. He gave us no opportunity to ask questions, but lectured continuously for the next hour and a half. From time to time he noted dates or the correct spellings of names and places in a large, flowing hand on the chalkboard behind him. I took notes frantically, trying not to be distracted by my sympathy for Rory, who did not have a pencil but sat with blank paper before him. Beside me, Spink scratched along steadily. At the end of class, the captain again ordered us peremptorily to our feet and then departed without a backward glance.

“Can I…?” Rory began desperately, and before he could finish, Spink replied, “You can copy mine tonight. Do you need a pencil for your next class?”

It impressed me that he among us who seemed to have the least material goods shared what he had so readily.

We had no time for further talk. A red-sash I didn’t know was standing in the door of the classroom, bellowing at us to fall in outside immediately and stop wasting his precious time. We obeyed with alacrity, and he marched us off with no more ado. Halfway to the math building, he dropped back, to march beside Gord and harangue him to keep in step, stretch his legs and try, for the good god’s sake,
try
to look like a cadet and not a sack of potatoes bumping in a market bag. He told Gord to count the cadence for us, and then shouted at him to raise his voice and be heard like a man when the plump cadet could scarcely get his words out for shortness of breath. I am ashamed to say that I felt a sneaking relief that Gord was there to hold the corporal’s attention so that his sniping was not aimed at me.

Math and science classes were held in an old building that resembled Carneston House in that it seemed to have once been a warehouse. Built of irregular stones, it crouched along a riverbank. Several docks with small boats moored to them ventured into the river’s sluggish flow. We were marched to the shore side of the building and directed to a classroom on the second floor. A moldy smell greeted us as we entered the dank building. We clattered up the steps, only to discover that we were already late.

“Come in, sit down, and shut up!” ordered Captain Rusk, a round bald man scarcely as tall as my shoulder. Before we latecomers were even seated, he had turned his back on us and was once more scratching numbers onto the board. “Work it through, raise your hand when you think you have an answer. The first five with an answer will be invited to come to the board to show your work.”

Our patrol hastily found some seats, and I quickly copied down the equations he had written on the board. It seemed a fairly straightforward problem, though Spink was scowling over it. I had the answer quickly enough, but continued to scratch with my pencil on my paper, unwilling to be called to the board. Gord was the third cadet to raise his hand. Captain Rusk called him down along with four others. As they worked their proofs on the board and presented their answers, the captain wrote a page number on the board and announced, “All those who did not raise their hands with an answer are responsible for completing the following remedial exercises by tomorrow. The practice should sharpen your calculation skills. Very well, now, let us see how your fellows did at the board.”