Which was by no means a bad thing. Not at all.
4
JADUS returned about noon, as Alberich and Dethor were picking up the discarded bits of armor and practice weapons in the salle and putting things away. With Jadus was a young man in yet another sort of uniform—this time including a tabard with the Valdemar winged horse on it belted on over his clothing. A servant? It seemed so, since the fellow was carrying a set of stacked metal containers that fitted neatly into a common woven-straw cover. Jadus and Dethor led the young man through the door into the living quarters, while Alberich put the last few bits in a cupboard and followed them.
The young man opened up the straw cover and took out the metal containers one by one, and opened them in turn to disclose the components of their meal, kept hot. Clever, that; Alberich admired the arrangement. Certainly the Collegium was seeing to it that Dethor didn't suffer for taking his meals away from the rest.
By Alberich's standards of camp cookery, it was a sumptuous meal. All of it was laid out in the sitting room, with cutlery and plates that Dethor produced out of a cupboard that Alberich hadn't noticed until Dethor opened it. The servant departed, but Jadus did not; evidently he intended to share their meal. There were four different dishes, plus bread and butter; Alberich took an equal portion of each. Something like a stew, some sliced vegetable, beans, and what appeared to be baked apples. The flavors were good—when in the hands of the Healers, he'd first noticed that the food was good—but not quite familiar. The spices were all different; flavors he was used to were missing, new ones added. And these people didn't seem to use as much spice as Karsites did. It was good but—not exactly right. Even the bread was lighter in taste, texture and color than Karsite bread, and not as chewy. As much as the language, the food brought it home to him that he was on alien soil.
"Your classes won't start for another three days, Alberich," Jadus said, when the edge had been taken off Alberich's hunger. "Dethor, up at the Collegium we've decided that you should establish a schedule with Alberich first, and we'll work his classes in around that." The Herald sighed gustily. "At the moment, there are so many classes he will need to take, it won't be a problem to work a schedule of three in around whatever you set him up for."
Dethor nodded, and refilled all their cups. Alberich was mildly surprised to find that they were drinking, not beer or common wine, but some rather tasty herb tisane. Tisane—Well, that just wasn't what a soldier generally drank. Not that Alberich had any objections to the beverage, after all, most of the beer he'd gotten over the years was indifferent at best and vile at worst, and all of the wine had been harsh and rough. Still—tisane. It conjured up images in his mind of little old ladies puttering at sewing and gossiping.
Perhaps it was meant to serve as a good example to all those children populating the place. If so—well, if he was allowed to leave this place, he suspected he would be finding a tavern fairly soon.
Perhaps, if he asked, someone would find him a little cask of some good strong ale.
"At any rate, you won't be seeing nearly as much of me, Alberich," Jadus continued, "You've got another guide coming, a fellow called Elcarth, a bit of a scholar. You see, we reckoned he'd be the best one to help you over some of the classes I'm hopeless at. I'm to bring him around to meet you in the morning."
:Which really means, what?: he asked Kantor. :What isn't he telling me?:
:That you aren't everyone's favorite Trainee,: Kantor replied promptly. :Elcarth is in line to become the Dean—that's the head—of the Collegium within the next ten years or so. He doesn't look like much, but he's as sharp as a poniard, and nothing gets past him. If he approves of you, no one is going to openly contest your being here.: Kantor paused, and Alberich "felt" him ruminating. :Our Kings and Queens, you see, don't rule so much as reign, and not at all autocratically. King Sendar will probably have trouble over you with his Council for some time to come. But Elcarth—well. Elcarth comes from one of the most powerful families in the land, and he has a reputation for sharpness, as I told you. The Dean has a traditional place on the Council, but Elcarth is the one who's actually taking the seat for the Dean in absentia. That gives us a majority if we need it.:
Alberich kept his face straight and showed no sign that Kantor had imparted this amazing information to him, but he had a very hard time doing so. The Priests of Vkandis had things so completely under their hands and wills that he couldn't imagine a ruler who didn't rule completely. Oh, of course, there was a King in Karse, too, but he was no more than an impotent figure who didn't rule so much as preside over a gaggle of wealthy aristocrats and would-be aristocrats with nothing better to do with their time than vie for position in a do-nothing Court that was little better than an elaborate social club. It was the Son of the Sun who held the real reins of power, and behind him, so far as Alberich knew, ranged the solid phalanx of the Sunpriests, who fulfilled the Son of the Sun's orders with nary a murmur of discontent.
Then again, what do I know of what goes on behind the closed doors of the Temple? It might be the same there. Really, the most astonishing thing might not be so much that there was contention in the King's court, but that ordinary people seemed to know about it. That would be unheard of in Karse.
So much had happened to him in a few short marks. This morning he had been quite willing to walk out of here forever; now he wasn't merely a Trainee, he had a real position here. It felt a bit dreamlike, as if days had passed in the course of the morning. He had gone straight into the life of this place without a pause for breath. That wasn't like him. It made no sense. There was only one way to account for it. That blasted Kantor.
:Me?: his (his!) Companion replied, oozing innocence. :Don't go laying your so-called conversion at my doorstep. I gave you every opportunity to escape. I even had Talamir tell you the great secret—that you could have shaken our bonding loose if you really decided you couldn't bear this life. How many people have been told that in the course of our history?:
:How should I know?: Alberich asked rhetorically.
:I was about to tell you. No more than a dozen, that's what. You're here now—:
:Because you laid a trap for me, you and your precious Heralds, and baited it with the one thing I'd find irresistible.:
"Then that leaves him free, this afternoon?" Dethor asked, gesturing with a slice of buttered bread. "Good. We'll start you in as my assistant right now, Alberich. Get the youngsters used to seeing you as my assistant first before they start hearing rumors about the evil Karsite Trainee."
Alberich nodded. Well, what else was he to do? He knew it was going to happen—the "evil Karsite Trainee" business. How could it not? If the situations were reversed...
Not that they could be. The first sight of a white uniform, and the wearer of that uniform would find himself the object of target practice. Thoughtfully, he bit off a hangnail.
"The difference, I see not," he offered. "The Weaponsmaster, if good he be, always hated is."
Dethor smiled wickedly. "Better to have 'em hating you as the tyrannical Weapons Second, the brutal taskmaster. That way there'll be no room in those rattling little skulls for the evil Karsite Trainee." He finished his bread in a way that suggested the devouring of small children.
Alberich smiled, just a little. The Weaponsmaster was absolutely right, of course. Children—and, to be fair, a great many adults—were apt to label people and stick with the first label they'd come up with. "A brutal taskmaster, I surely will be, as ever," he replied, with a touch of grim humor. "My recruits, ask."
Dethor rubbed his hands together. "I'll keep the small ones, but you—ah! You, I intend to unleash on the older ones. I've been easy on 'em—too damned easy, tell the truth, I can't bout 'em anymore, and there's never anyone here consistently that can give 'em proper workouts. And—oh, glory!—you've fought real fights. None of this court fencing, oh no! That's the trouble with the teachers the highborn have; they learn to duel, to do fancy court fighting, but not how to fight. Plenty of H
eralds do, of course, most of 'em trained by me, but they're needed out there, and can't be spared." He shook his head reluctantly. "And, truth to tell, it takes more than knowing how to fight to make a Weaponsmaster."
Kantor put in a few words of his own. :The "older ones," the best fighters among them, anyway, have been getting above themselves lately. We have a flock of them that are one, maybe two years from getting their Whites that were almost all out of the highborn, noble families. Before they were Chosen, they got private swordsmanship lessons, and those continued even after. They think they're masters of the sword now because they're so much better than the rest of the Trainees; Dethor can't give them the sort of workout they need to show them that they aren't.:
Alberich knew exactly what Kantor meant, and was beginning to warm to his new task. And as for Dethor, well, it was clear that he was doing more than merely "warm" to the task. He bordered on gleeful.
Alberich caught some of his spirit. It wasn't malicious, but there was a certain edge that suggested that there were a couple of these adolescent Heralds-in-training who were due for a comeuppance. Thought themselves immortal and invincible, and it would have to get pounded into their skulls that they weren't. The usual adolescent hubris, of course. Over and over, they came into the Sunsguard, sure of their skill, and thinking only of glory and fame. Time after time, if they didn't learn that war against bandits was dirty, perilous, and inglorious, they got their fame by having their names inscribed on the Tablets of the Fallen in the Great Temple. At least none of these youngsters would be looking to make a name for himself by taking their officer out in a practice bout—or worse. Worse was an ambitious and unscrupulous recruit who was hoping to advance himself by removing the obstacle that Alberich represented. Or to do the same, at the behest of one of Alberich's under-officers.
"That sort, I have seen," he said shortly, and left it at that.
But he did get a bit of a shock when they finished their meal—a relatively light one, appropriate for two men who would be doing very physical work, shortly—and he followed Dethor out into the salle again. Of the six adolescents choosing practice weapons or limbering up, two were female.
Girls! True, one of the Heralds that had first found him had been a woman—he vaguely recalled that now—but it hadn't really occurred to him intellectually, even though Kantor had reminded him of that fact, that he would be teaching girls. Females just didn't put themselves forward. Not in Karse, anyway. Females had very clearly defined roles in Karse, which did not include being fighters.
:Don't hold back with them,: Kantor said instantly. :You won't be doing them any favors.: And when he still hesitated, Kantor added sharply, :There are barbarians in the North, pirates and slavers in the West, and bandits in the South. And they will probably face all three before they're middle-aged, if they live that long. It will be one woman and one Companion out there, alone, and you have to prepare them for that.:
:Yes, I do see that.: It made him feel a little sick, but Kantor was right; they were Trainees, they would be Heralds, and he would do them no favors at all by going easy with them.
In fact, he might well kill them. Or worse. There was always the probability of an "or worse." It was a simple fact that the probability was higher for a female.
:Or both,: Kantor added grimly. :They can't be as strong as the boys; you'll have to give them skill to make up for that. If anything, the girls will need your skills more than the boys.:
"Well, Trainees, I have a little surprise for you," Dethor said cheerfully. He gestured at Alberich, who lingered near the door. "This is my new Second—and from now on, he'll be putting you through your paces, while I watch."
Alberich had no difficulty in keeping his face expressionless. This was no different than facing a line of new recruits. Even the ages weren't that dissimilar; he guessed these youngsters to be between sixteen and eighteen years of age. He'd had recruits that young, although, since he'd been in the mounted troops, they'd all come from some background where they'd been riding since they could walk. And, mostly, the cavalry came from recruits rather than conscripts. He supposed Trainees probably fell under the same banner as recruits; surely he was the only Trainee who had ever felt as if he'd been conscripted against his will.
:Not exactly the only one, but very nearly,; Kantor said.
In their turn, they eyed him without any shame. Mostly with curiosity, although two of the boys had challenge in their eyes. Well, they'd soon see what he was made of. They were the two oldest, he guessed. Definitely the two tallest. One very dark, muscular, and blocky, the other half a head taller, with brown hair and knowing eyes. Of the other four, the girls were a pretty creature, blue-eyed, with a smooth cap of brown hair cut no longer than her earlobes, and a smaller, lighter girl with blue eyes, a generous mouth, and blond hair done in a knot on the top of her head. The boys were both brown-haired, one of medium height and one short, both with grave faces.
But it was the first two that held Alberich's attention.
:Just as you thought, those are two of your problem children. Mind, all you need to do is disillusion them. They've got good hearts, they're just, well—:
:Arrogant in some ways, because they're ignorant and don't know it,: he supplied.
:Exactly. I can tell you that they are currently the despair of their Companions. Nothing Trevor and Mik can say shakes them out of their conviction that they are never going to find themselves in trouble that they can't come out of, covered in glory.:
At least he wouldn't have the problem with these boys that he often had with recruits—bad attitude, bad breeding, either spoiled by indulgent parents and thinking that everything should be given to them, or beaten as youngsters, figuring it was every man for himself. Too many of the Sunsguard troops were like that; hardened, with no morals to speak of.
:Why, Chosen—I believe you are beginning to like your decision to stay with us!: Kantor said with gentle mockery.
Alberich ignored him.
"I Alberich am," he said gravely, and waited for Dethor to give him his direction. Dethor, after all, was the Weaponsmaster here; it was Dethor who should set the lessons, and Alberich who should carry them out.
He didn't notice any reaction to his name, which was nothing like a Valdemaran name, or at least, so he supposed.
"It is the new Weapons Second I am," he continued, meeting their eyes, each in turn. "Chosen by Master Dethor. Himself. Who now, direct us will."
Dethor quickly divided the group into pairs and set them working with each other. Interestingly, he paired the girls, not with each other, but with two of the brown-haired boys. The last two—the boys Alberich had marked as being a possible source of trouble—Dethor motioned to join Alberich.
"Sword and shield, and make them work, Alberich," he said shortly. "These lads are ahead of the rest by a bit; treat them as trained, because they are. They can go two-on-one against you."
The boys exchanged a look; the darker, more muscular one with a touch of smug glee, the other, (the one who was taller, less blocky, and brown-haired) with a look of dawning misgiving, which was replaced by anticipation when he saw the expression on his friend's face. His friend was wildly optimistic about their chances, and he had come to trust his friend's judgment.
Alberich knew that look of old. Overconfidence, poor young fools, because they were large dogs in a pack of small dogs, and had never been shown any better. They thought that they were the kings of the world, and immortal. An attitude like that would get them killed—
Unless Dethor and I can knock some better sense into their heads.
"Sir," Alberich acknowledged, and picked up a practice sword and shield from the piles at the side of the salle, while the boys did the same. They looked cocky. Alberich figured that they must have had sword training from the time they were barely old enough to hold a practice sword and shield. Five or six, maybe. From families of wealth or the nobility, he figured these were part of that "flock" of youngsters that Kantor had described;
they had that particular healthy, confident, well-fed look that only being well-nourished from infancy imparted. Maybe only someone who as a child had never been certain whether there would be a next meal would have noticed the difference, but Alberich had learned early which were the well-fed children (and thus, dangerous, for they could bully him with impunity) and which the starvelings like himself (which he could defend himself against without fear of retribution).
"Standard or—special, sir?" he asked Dethor, when the boys had finished arming themselves. He had not bothered with padding, arm- or shin-guards, or even a helmet; they had prudently taken advantage of all of these. At least that showed some sense of self-preservation. They were shortly going to be very glad of every bit of that protection.
"Oh, special, Second," Dethor replied airily—and he must have known or guessed just what Alberich meant by "special." "Tammas and Jahan have had plenty of standard training. I believe it's time they learned what real field fighting is like."
"Sir," Alberich replied, and without a pause, whirled and laid into the nearest.
He didn't go at them as if this was a pitched battle, because he'd have taken them both out in moments. They'd been expecting the usual polite exchange of salutes, followed by a measured opening to the bout—not an attack right out of nowhere, with no warning, and that had been enough of a shock for them; he didn't need to go after them full-out.
And the way they reacted was telling; they both stood their ground, but neither close enough to defend each other, nor far enough apart to make him work harder to reach both of them. They might think they were trained, but they weren't, not really. So Alberich knocked the first one's shield aside with a brutal blow that nearly knocked it from his arm, without regard for "lines" and the "rules" of swordplay. He followed it up by ramming the boy with his own shield. The lad stumbled backward, and before his friend could come to the rescue, Alberich sidestepped, made a wide, low sweep with the flat of his practice blade, and knocked his legs right out from under him. It was a good thing the boy was wearing shin-guards—though he couldn't have been expecting the low blow, or he'd have guarded against it.
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