A Stranger to Command

by Sherwood Smith

  More talk shot past him, broken once by a low whistle. Shevraeth did not know whether to protest, to get angry, or to laugh when a tall, brawny boy with unruly brown hair reached down to touch one of his fine cambric shirts.

  Baudan smacked his hand away. “Get. Callover—did you hear? No time to measure. Stad. You’re more or less his size and build.”

  A boy Shevraeth’s height, with dark eyes and dark curly hair, mimed surprise. “Me? Me? Am I your runner?”

  Four voices said, “Yes.”

  Stad sighed. “I’m going, I’m going.” He sauntered to the door, but as soon as he got outside he took off for the supply building.

  Shevraeth repeated to himself: Baudan, that short one with hair lighter than mine. Stad, my height. Black hair. Who was the brown-haired one?

  “Ventdor and Marec, you make up his bed.” Baudan whooshed out a breath of relief. Evrec had already gotten the other newcomer, Faldred, mostly squared away.

  Shevraeth whispered, “Ventdor—small, Marec—red hair,” over and over as a scrawny fair-haired fellow and a boy with wild rust-colored curls swiftly and silently made up the bunk.

  “Rest of you, pack him up.”

  Someone snatched Shevraeth’s riding hat off, then he found himself shoved unceremoniously back as five pairs of hands grabbed up his belongings and sorted them into piles. Underclothes in one, the fine clothing in another, the pens, ink-bottle, and ribbon wrapped packet of fine paper in a third. They folded the clothes in a specific manner, and stored them neatly in the battered wooden trunk that a sixth pulled from beneath the bunk. His fine new clothes, with his flattened riding hat, were now on the bottom. Apparently no one expected him to use any of it. On top went his underclothes, and down the side were tucked the writing things as someone muttered, “Who has time for writing lessons?” To which Baudan uttered a loud snort.

  Then Baudan said, “You’ll have to learn to stow your own togs. Easy enough. Inspections will be every day for the first week. If we don’t catch a fist—”

  “Five defaulters,” the redhead put in.

  “—inspection goes to once a week, and no mess-gag.”

  None of that made much sense to Shevraeth, but the others did not wait to see if he comprehended. The same hands pulled bedding from the cupboard against the wall, and with the speed of several years’ practice they made the bed up, corners neat, blanket flat and wrinkle free.

  Stad returned, breathless and red-faced, with an armload of gray fabric. Under Baudan’s direction—the others who had finished their own work looking on critically—Shevraeth had to strip to his underclothes then dress fast in a sturdy cotton-linen tunic-smock that came down mid-thigh, loosely belted by a thin sash. The trousers, dyed a dull light gray, were not much different than his own. They were worn tucked inside of riding boots, as no one below seniors had formal uniforms.

  A second, heavier, tunic and trousers were packed on top of his home clothing. Then the boys slammed the trunk shut and shoved it into place under the bunk, exactly squared.

  The others held a quick, nearly incomprehensible exchange in slang-laden shorthand about his boots, from which he gathered they were adequate enough for now. He did not point out that they were very expensive, made by his father’s own boot maker. But they didn’t have the high heels of these others, or the severe line tapering to slightly squared toes.

  A bell rang somewhere, echoing from all the stone walls, and the others stampeded out, Baudan pausing only to smooth the blanket and twitch at the flat pillow so it was exactly centered against the bare wood-slat headboard. He shoved Shevraeth behind Stad, who had the bed next to him.

  Baudan. Stocky. Pale hair.

  Stad. Black hair, next bunk over.

  Marec. Red hair...

  My name is Shevraeth.

  They walked in line at a quick pace, hands at their sides. When they reached the stone corridor between walled off barracks, they fell in next to a line of boys from the opposite archway, these boys smaller, looking no more than ten to twelve.

  No one spoke. Shevraeth was relieved. He tried to scan the territory, but the archways, flagged stones, courts, plain barracks buildings glimpsed through archways all appeared to be mirror images of one another, except for various colored flags hanging above the doorways of the battered barracks doors. Even these flags looked similar to one another—they all had two rows of gray squares, the only variation being a brown square somewhere in the two rows.

  The line of silent boys snaked across a big quad, a brisk spring breeze carrying the distinctive odor of horse. They passed through two double doors to a garrison-sized mess, tables on either side making a central aisle, mirroring the arrangement of the beds in the barracks.

  His line filed in orderly manner to the right-hand side of a big table, on which tureens of food sat, shallow plate-bowls stacked at one end, with spoons in a tray. Spoons only, no forks. Shevraeth did as the others did, picking up spoon and plate, then waited as the front of the line helped themselves to the food.

  Everyone was silent and more or less orderly. The only sounds were the wooden plates klunking on wooden tables, spoons clattering, and the shuffle of feet, as those who had their food sat down at the tables. Boys gave one another surreptitious nudges, elbow-knocks, and exchanged brief, covert hand-signals, but when one of those older boys with a brass-topped stick in his hand paused in his prowl and frowned, everyone straightened up, eyes forward, only little quirks at the corners of their mouths betraying inheld laughter.

  Someone poked Shevraeth from behind. The line had moved on, leaving a large space. He grabbed a piece of bread, dropped it on his plate, then ladled out a soupy stew that smelled of cabbage, pepper, lemon, and fish. Next was a big platter piled with a baked something cut into squares. It smelled like berry-tart. He took one of those, and followed the others to the table, where someone had already set out heavy wooden cups of water. A pitcher sat in the middle of the table, its sides frosty: more cold water.

  Most of the Marloven boys ate noisily, using the bread to mop up the rest of the soup. Shevraeth did his best to eat politely, as he’d been raised, though he was puzzled by the heavy, shallow spoon and no fork. Every time he looked up he encountered stares from mostly light-colored eyes. Curious stares, sometimes indifferent, others narrowed, and a few with hostility.

  Other than the clack of spoons against the dishes or the thump of cups on the plank tables, the only sound was the slow rap of heels as a big boy walked the center aisle, his gaze sweeping continually from side to side. He, too, wore one of those gold-topped wands thrust through his belt, and his tunic was fitted to his body, the collar high and stiff. He had to be another radlav, Shevraeth figured.

  His barracks-mates ate swiftly, then waited. When Shevraeth was done eating, he put his hands in his lap, glad for an opportunity to watch, and to mentally go over names and faces. Short one: Baudan. Stad: black hair. Marec: red hair. . .

  Most everyone was done (after some surreptitious trading of bread, tarts, and once a hunk of cheese that Shevraeth hadn’t even seen at the big table) when another single bell rang, and they all rose, and row by row carried their dishes to a big wooden bucket set at the end of the big table, from which someone had removed the tureens. Magic scintillated faintly as each boy ducked his plate, spoon, and cup into the bucket, shook it off, then stacked the plates onto the growing piles along the table, the spoons in a tray, and the cups into towers of exactly nine apiece.

  Then they ran out the door, still in orderly lines. A susurrus of expectation rose in covert, short whispers as they formed up in their lines in the big quad outside the mess. The wind had turned cold, and snapped at their clothes and hair. Every barracks had eighteen boys. Eighteen: two ridings.

  Ridings. It was the Marlovens who, centuries ago, had established nine as the perfect number for a horse-troop, called a riding. It could break into three threes, or two fours led by a captain, or ride as a unit. Four pairs under a leader—or nine pairs if they joined a
nother riding.

  Vidanric Renselaeus, fifteen-year-old Marquis of Shevraeth, was really here, in the kingdom with the most military influence of any in this hemisphere, a kingdom with a terrible reputation for centuries, until very recently.

  And to the Marlovens, there he stood, a foreigner, brought within the academy to be taught what had only been taught to Marlovens for centuries. Not that a few outsiders hadn’t been here—one a few years before—but there had always been some connection in high places, and a pretence of being Marloven. This time there was still the connection, but no one pretended he was anything but what he was: foreign.

  A horn blew a three-note fall. The lines stilled, boys standing with feet slightly apart, hands at their sides, shoulders straight. Shevraeth sneaked a peek to make sure he was doing what everyone else did. To his surprise, he discovered at the far end there were four rows of girls! They were dressed like the boys, their stances the same, their attention forward.

  A big boy up front called out something unintelligible, and hard heels struck the stones, clump! Now they stood straight, feet closer together.

  The radlavs moved up their lines, counting out their charges one by one, then reported to the boy at the head. He didn’t speak or move until the last four rows were called out in high feminine voices. Then he turned his head, and once again the fanfare blared.

  Then they marched back for inspection. Janold returned with them. Each stood at the foot of his bunk, at attention—feet apart at shoulder width, arms straight at sides, palms in—while Janold went around smoothing a bed here, picking up a speck of dust, checking the squaring of a trunk under a bed there.

  Heels rang on the courtyard stones, and that same boy who’d stood in front at the callover came in. The boys along the bunks snapped right hands flat over their hearts, all except Shevraeth. The big boy frowned, glaring at Shevraeth from pale blue eyes, then turned his head.

  Janold said something in an undertone, and the big one flicked a hand in a gesture too quick to follow. “Teach him to salute,” he said, and passed slowly down the row, looking closely at everything.

  Shevraeth sensed relief in the others when he reached the wall by Shevraeth’s bed without any further words. Then he spoke. “You’ll test in riding and sword this afternoon. Bow, knife, hand tomorrow.”

  Thump! Again the boys performed the salute, and this time Shevraeth belatedly copied them. The big boy stalked down the aisle and left.

  Faces turned Janold’s way.

  “Let’s get to the horses first,” he suggested, again with that wry almost-smile.

  The boys gave a wild yell, which turned into excited chatter. They ran out, but formed again into line in the court.

  Shevraeth was grateful for the lines as they walked through the confusing maze of sand-colored walls. He was uneasy about the horseback riding. He would have preferred beginning with something he’d trained hard in, like dueling, or knife-throwing—though the latter was more of a sport. No one in Remalna threw knives, at least courtiers didn’t.

  He smelled the stable before they reached it. The boys lined along the wall of a sizable paddock. The animals brought out were stunningly beautiful, small of head, heads and legs mostly variations of dun and gold and tan, paling to cream-colored coats. They had well-formed feet and long beautiful legs, glossy manes and tails.

  And not a one had so much as a blanket, or even a halter.

  The boys waited, poised to run. At a sign from someone unseen, Janold snapped his wand against his boot top and the boys launched themselves toward the waiting horses. Shevraeth followed more slowly, and discovered he was expected to leap to the horse’s back. Grateful for the days he and his boyhood friend Russav Savona had dared each other to do that (while being roundly scoffed at by some of the shorter boys at Court), he took a series of running steps and jumped, scrambling upright on the animal’s back. But when the horse sidled he clutched at its mane, and when it trotted forward, he tried to pull the mane, calling in his home language “Stop! Halt! Whoa!”

  Scornful laughter hooted and crowed on all sides.

  The horse continued to amble toward the stables, ignoring its rider with disdain. All the others were riding in what looked to him like perfect control, their hands on their thighs, the horses far more obedient than his. Shevraeth’s face burned with humiliation.

  A tall man in gray appeared, snapped his fingers twice, and Shevraeth’s horse stopped, lowering its head and snorting.

  “Go ahead. Dismount.” The man waved in the direction of another part of the academy. “You’ll be training with the scrubs.”

  The laughter around Shevraeth was the laughter of expectant superiority, of triumph. He retreated next to the wall and waited, hands behind him (gripped tightly, but no one saw that) as he endeavored to maintain the court mask.

  Janold saw in his stiff posture the stolid blankness of someone who thoroughly hated himself and the situation. Time to end it. He put his hand to his wand, and half of the boys shut right up.

  Janold eyed the rest of them. Sure enough, brawny Nermand was doing his best to fan the flames. Janold stepped behind him. The two boys on either side of Nermand shut up, but Nermand was too busy trying to goad everyone into more laugher. “. . . he’ll make us lose every game, you’ll see—”

  Whack! The wand snapped across his shoulder blades. He yelped and jumped.

  From behind came a snort and snicker, quickly silenced.

  “Two more for reminders,” Janold said.

  Whack! Whack! Nermand took those in silence, with only a wince.

  Shevraeth watched, appalled. Caning! He’d heard of it, but had never seen anyone caned in his entire life.

  “Line,” Janold invited, and watched them instantly obey.

  In silence they marched to the weapons court, where the small boys from the lower school were finishing with the wooden practice swords. Ordinarily, the Marloven boys would have made faces at the younger boys’ clumsiness, maybe even called out an insult or two, but Janold was prowling the line with the wand gripped at his side, and so they stayed silent.

  The scrubs’ radlav signalled, the small boys scrambled into their line and marched out, most of them hopping or shoving at every other step.

  At least I won’t disgrace myself here, Shevraeth thought. Not after eight years of tutoring.

  But as soon as the first pair had donned the protective gear and taken up the wooden swords, he realized with dismay that even these swords were heavier than the dueling rapiers he had trained with. They were made to resemble a type of sword he’d heard of but never seen, a cavalry saber with a slightly curved tip. The balance looked so different he knew his training would be next to worthless.

  He waited for his turn, and when he was motioned forward, picked up the practice pads with the grim, slightly sick expectation of imminent mortification.

  He slid on the gloves, straightened his shoulders, and picked up the blade, which felt as strange as he’d feared. Determined to keep his emotions hidden behind the expressionless court mask, he took the dueler’s stance, side on, left hand on hip, right wrist up.

  Snickers broke out behind him.

  “Hep,” said the master, and Shevraeth attacked—knowing that he was too slow, the blade too heavy for the movements he used, that curved tip not made for thrust.

  He did his best anyway.

  The master tested him hard, dealing him stinging blows to both arms, to his ribs (he felt them even through the padding) to his front leg, but twice Shevraeth almost broke that guard, though he suspected the master permitted him. When at last he fell back, breathing hard, sweat running down inside his tunic, the boys had gone silent, standing at attention. They were staring at a newcomer, another blond boy, who looked very out of place in his civilian brown trousers and white shirt.

  A stray city boy? A servant, maybe?

  No, not with those silent, intent stares.

  The master brought the sword up in a salute toward the newcomer, blade out
, guard against his heart.

  The boy said, “That is the best example of Sartoran dueling style I’ve ever seen.” Then, without waiting for an answer, he walked on.

  It took about two heartbeats before Shevraeth realized he’d seen the Marloven king.

  THREE

  Most of the boys were asleep within moments of the glowglobes being clapped off.

  Shevraeth lay in the uncomfortable bed and stared up at the shadowy wooden ceiling, which was such a contrast to the painting of the summer night sky on the smooth plastered ceiling of his bedroom. His parents had arranged for a theatre mage to add glimmer to the painted stars, probably at ridiculous expense. The sound outside his windows at home was the steady roar of the waterfall.

  Here, the ceiling was rough wood centuries old. The noises were breathing—snoring at the far end—creaks of wood when someone shifted, the soft thump of a fist into a lumpy pillow. Near the door someone farted and someone else smothered a laugh, followed by Janold’s slow tread down the aisle. Though the windows were open, the still air seemed thick with the stale smells of exhaled dinner, faintly mildewed blankets, dust. Horse.

  Shevraeth let his breath trickle out. His body was tired, but his mind refused sleep. His first night after an endless day. First night of how many?

  I hate this place.

  Shevraeth closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was home. But comfortable memories did not come at his wish. Instead he relived that cold, wintry day when his father summoned him and said, “We are going to send you away.”

  How he’d struggled not to express dismay, to keep his voice even, because at court your emotions could be so easily used against you. He loved and trusted his parents, but practice at the court mask had to start at home. You did not want to err before King Galdran.

  “Your reasons, Father?” he’d said, only the last word going husky, and his father had smiled with sympathy as well as approval.

  “If you are away, you are less likely to suffer an accident here. And I will have the more freedom to conduct the tedious, exacting, and exceedingly delicate investigations I feel must be mounted.”