by Robin Hobb
“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.
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.”
