by Robin Hobb
“Sir,” the boy agreed, and then turned to me and with a gesture invited me to precede him from the room. Outside Colonel Stiet’s office, we paused while Caulder passed on the colonel’s message to the young lieutenant there. The young man acknowledged it with a brusque nod and continued opening and sorting a large stack of envelopes on his desk. I wondered briefly if it bothered him that his commands were passed on to him by a mere boy.
Instead I followed young Caulder as he led me out of the administration building and across the grounds of the Academy. We kept meticulously to the well-groomed footpaths. The boy was silent and walked swiftly, but my longer legs easily kept up with his. He glanced back at me once, but the sunny friendliness had left his face. He was all business now.
He marched us swiftly to cadet housing. There were several dormitory houses, all fronting on a central parade ground. Two were of new red brick with many windows. The other three were older buildings of grey stone, and had obviously been adapted to function as dormitories. Caulder led me to one of the older structures. Noting the davits and freight hooks still attached to the upper storey, I guessed that they had begun their existence as warehouses. I followed him up the worn steps.
A wide door admitted us into the foyer. Battle trophies and war flags decorated the panelled walls. In the centre of the room, a grey-haired sergeant in cavalla uniform sat behind a polished desk. Before him was a spotless blotter, inkpot and pen stand, and a sheaf of paper. Behind him, a wide staircase led to the upper reaches of the building. The sergeant regarded us steadily as Caulder approached him. There was no warmth in his grey eyes; rather he reminded me of a weary shepherd dog given yet another task.
“Cadet Nevare Burvelle for you, Sergeant Rufet. He’s a new noble’s soldier son. He is to be billeted on the fourth floor.”
Sergeant Rufet’s gaze slid past the boy to meet my eyes. “Are you a mute, Cadet?” he asked me in a falsely kind voice.
I stood straighter. “No, Sergeant, I am not.”
“Then I suggest that you report in for yourself, Cadet. Unless you plan to keep your little friend at your side for your entire Academy career.”
A flush heated my cheeks. “Cadet Nevare Burvelle reporting, Sergeant Rufet.”
“Very good. Now, let me see where I’ve got you bedding down.” His blunt fingers travelled down the list before him. I noticed then that his right hand had only half a thumb. “Ah. Yes. I believe your trunk was already delivered.” He lifted his eyes from his sheaf of paper. “And it’s taking up more than your share of space in the quarters you’ll be sharing. Fourth floor. First door to the left. Your trunk is at the foot of the bed assigned to you. See that you move your necessary possessions to your allocated space, and then place the trunk and all unnecessary items in the lowerground storage area. Pick up your bedding from the quartermaster after that, and make your space tidy. Meals commence five minutes after the bell sounds and are served in the mess. You will march there with your patrol. Be on time, attired properly and in your place, or go without a meal. Any questions?”
“Where do I find the quartermaster, Sergeant Rufet?”
“Down that hall, second door on the right.”
At my side, young Caulder fidgeted restlessly, impatient at being ignored. I wondered if the sergeant disliked the boy or if his rudeness was simply part of his nature. “Any other questions?” the sergeant barked at me, and I realized I had not responded to him.
“No, Sergeant. Thank you.”
“You’re dismissed then.” He lowered his eyes back to his papers.
“Am I dismissed, also?” Caulder asked. His tone was snide, as if he wished to provoke a response from the sergeant.
“As you’re not a cadet here, I can neither dismiss you nor detain you.” The sergeant didn’t even look up from his work. He reached for a pen and made a notation. I realized I was still standing there, watching them, and turned smartly on my heel and left.
I went lightly up the flights of gleaming wood steps, past the open parlours on the second and third landings to the fourth and highest floor and emerged into an austere room, well lit by tall windows, furnished with a fireplace and several long tables lined with straight-backed chairs. The study area, I decided. I crossed to the windows and looked out at the view, charmed to be at such a height. Paths radiated from the central dormitories through the landscaped grounds to the various classroom buildings, the stables, paddocks and the drill ground. Beyond the drill grounds I glimpsed the targets of a musket range, and beyond them, the brushy banks of the river. From the opposite window, I could see the Academy chapel with its tall belltower, the whitewashed infirmary building a bit further on, and finally the wall of the Academy grounds and the outskirts of Old Thares beyond it. A haze hung over the city. It seemed a magnificent view to me. Later I would discover that these rooms were deemed the least desirable in Carneston House. They were stifling in summer and chill in the winter, not to mention the endless tedium of running up and down the steps several times every day. Upper floor residents were invariably at the end of the dinner line. But for now, my provincial soul was delighted with my lofty new quarters.
After I had gazed my fill and oriented myself, I went to the first door to the left of the staircase. It was ajar, but nonetheless I tapped before entering. No one replied, but when I opened the door I saw a tall, slender boy with very black hair reclining on his bed and regarding me with some amusement. Another youth, his blond hair cropped as short as my own, gazed at me over the top of a book. “Nice manners!” the latter observed, in a way that might have been a jibe. But in the next instant, he had bounded to his feet and advanced, holding out a large hand to me. The book he had been reading dangled in his free hand, his finger holding his place. “I’m Natred Verlaney. Glad to see the rest of our roommates are finally arriving. I’ve been here three days already. Father said it’s always better to arrive early for a formation than to be last to fall in.”
“Nevare Burvelle,” I greeted him, shaking his hand. His fingers engulfed my own and he stood half a head taller than I. His companion also stood, waiting his turn to offer his hand. His eyes were as black as his hair, his skin coarse and swarthy. “I’m glad to be here. And my father, too, thought it better we arrive a day or two early than late.”
“Well, of course. Kort’s father told him the same. What do you expect? The soldier sons of soldier sons are soldiers before they are sons.”
It was an old saying, but it still made me grin. Alone, in a strange place, it was good to hear someone utter an adage I’d grown up with. I felt a little less out of place. “Well, I suppose I’d best do as Sergeant Rufet suggested and unpack my trunk.”
Kort gave a friendly snort of laughter. “That won’t take you long. Most of what’s in there will have to stay in there. Here’s your closet.” He stepped to the wall and opened a narrow cupboard. There was space at the bottom for a pair of boots, and room to hang two sets of extra clothing. Above that space was a small shelf. When Kort opened his own closet, I saw that he had stowed his shaving mug and toilet articles there.
I copied his arrangement, and then was shown my hook on the coat-rack, and the shelf in the room allotted for my books. That was all. I looked into the trunk at all the small comforts my mother and sisters had so lovingly packed for me; the various home remedies, the carefully crocheted sweater, the bright scarf, the small trove of sweets and all the other touches that might have made the room a homelier place. I set most of them aside, except for the sweets that I put out to share. I added my prayer book, Dewara’s stone and my new journal to my shelf of books. Then I reluctantly shut the lid of my trunk, latched and strapped it, and hoisted it to my shoulder to take down to the storage area.
Kort accompanied me, for friendship as much as to show me the way. He seemed a good fellow, quick to smile, but not talkative. From the quartermaster I received a set of linens; a very flat pillow, and two green wool blankets. When we returned to our room, we discovered that our fourth roommate h
ad arrived. Spink Kester was small and wiry as a weasel, with bright blue eyes that were surprising in his darkly tanned face. He shook hands hard and too fast; I surmised that he was a bit nervous at being the last one of us to arrive, but we soon had him ensconced and his battered trunk hauled down to storage. He was the most poorly turned out of the four of us. Only when I realized that did I also recognize that I was the best. My uniforms and books were new and of the best quality. Kort’s clothing was new but his books looked secondhand. Natred had the opposite situation. His books were pristine, but I could see that his uniform had been altered to fit him. Spink’s uniform had obviously been cut down to fit him, and his books were scarred and scruffy. Yet, in his personal grooming and the precise way that he stored his meagre possessions and made up his bed, I saw both good breeding and training. If anything, his obvious dearth of wealth made me wish even more to be his friend.
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 travelled together to 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 travelled 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 leapt to our feet. He gazed 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 honour 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 honoured 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 that 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 colour, 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 that 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.
