The Soldier Son Trilogy Bundle Page 32

  “Who would he ask? And who would tell him?” Trist asked calmly. He rose gracefully. “Good night, fellows. Pleasant dreams!” He sauntered from the room.

  “Someday, that will come back to haunt him. See if it doesn’t,” Spink said angrily.

  But as with all risks that Trist took, it never seemed to take a toll on him. Trist remained a favorite with the lad in the early months of our schooling, often inviting him to our rooms and making time for him, for all that the boy irritated the rest of us. I soon came to share Sergeant Rufet’s attitude toward him; I found Caulder annoying and presumptuous. He seemed to think himself a small extension of his father, for whenever he encountered a first-year, he was very outspoken in giving his opinion of him. Even when Corporal Dent was marching us in formation to one of our classes, if we encountered Young Caulder on the way, the lad felt free to tell Rory that his uniform shirt needed tucking in, or criticize the shine on Caleb’s shoes. Spink, with his ill-fitting garb, was often a target of the boy’s snide criticism. Spink did not take kindly to it, and often righteously seethed that Dent never told the lad to be off about his own business and leave us alone. Caulder always had a cheery and comradely greeting for Trist, almost as if he wished to be sure that we knew he favored the fair cadet.

  Worst was when the boy chose to invade our living space, often under the guise of delivering a message or issuing some unnecessary reminder to us. I soon learned that we were not the only house troubled with his visits. He patronized all of us, new nobles and old alike. Some cadets muttered that he was spying for his father, looking for hints of drinking, gambling, or women in our barracks. Others, more accurately I felt, pitied the boy, saying he sought from us the companionship his father did not offer him, for never had we seen him treat the lad as anything other than a small soldier. It was said he had two younger sisters and a mother, but as yet none of us had ever seen any sign of them. He had no friends his own age that we ever saw. He lived in the commander’s quarters on the campus, and was tutored in the morning hours. In the afternoons he seemed to run free, and often into the early evening he could be seen wandering about the campus alone.

  He did seem to be in search of something. Young Caulder began to seek Trist’s company, often invading the sanctuary of our upstairs common room. Trist would share contraband sweets with the lad if he had them, and unlikely tales of encounters with Plainsmen and their beautiful women when his pockets were empty. It was a tactic that seemed to pay off, for as Trist had bragged, he was one of the first cadets invited to share the commander’s table in his own quarters, a rare honor that Colonel Stiet extended only to those he considered of glowing potential. It did not escape my notice that Trist was the only new noble son to be thus distinguished, even though the dinner invitations were handed out on a regular basis. It singed my competitive soul that I was not so honored, and yet I stoutly refused to compromise my pride or my friendship with Spink by courting the little boy’s regard.

  Due mostly to my father’s foresight in preparing me, I achieved solid marks in my academics as the year advanced toward winter. Not all my fellows fared as well. Spink continued to struggle with his mathematics. His faulty arithmetic foundation was an added hindrance to him, for even when he mastered algebraic concepts, his answers still depended on his ability to calculate accurately. Rory struggled with his drafting, Caleb with language. We all helped one another from our strengths and learned there was no shame in baring a weakness to our friends. Despite the chafing between Spink and Trist, we became, all told, a tightly knit group, just as our officers had intended we be.

  For myself, I most enjoyed our afternoon class in engineering and drawing. Captain Maw seemed to me to be an even-handed instructor who paid no attention to old noble or new noble differences. He seemed genuinely fond of Spink, who made great efforts in our class, but I quickly became something of a favorite with him as well. My tasks on my father’s holding had given me a generous dose of practical engineering. I glowed with pride on the day Captain Maw referred to me as “a muddy boots engineer like myself,” meaning that my skills had come to me with practice rather than from books. He often enjoyed setting us tasks that demanded nonstandard solutions, and he often threatened us that “there may come a time when you must throw up earthworks without shovels or create a bridge without lumber or worked stone.”

  I distinguished myself one afternoon by constructing a model of a raft built from “logs” and string alone. Captain Maw created a set of rapids on a water table from a bucket of water poured down a ramp. Mine was the only raft to successfully negotiate the rapids and bear its cargo of lead soldiers to a safe landing at the bottom. I earned high marks for the class that day and was still flushed with success when he asked me to stay after and speak with him for a moment.

  After the others had departed and we were left alone to tidy away the rafts, soldiers, and buckets, he shocked me by asking me solemnly, “Nevare, have you ever considered becoming a cavalla scout?”

  “No, sir!” I replied in quick and honest horror.

  He smiled at my disdain for the position. “And why is that, Cadet Burvelle?”

  “Because I, well, I want to be an officer and distinguish myself in service to my king and make my family proud of me and…”

  My words dribbled away as he cut in quietly with, “And you could do all that as easily as a scout as you could as a lieutenant in uniform.” He cleared his throat and spoke quietly, as if sharing a secret with me. “I know a number of good men stationed in the border forts. A recommendation from me would take you far with them. You wouldn’t have to remain here at the Academy with your nose shut in a book for most of the day. Six weeks from now, you could be free and on the open land, serving your king.”

  “But sir!” I halted, realizing that I should not argue with an officer, nor even offer an opinion until he sought it.

  “Speak freely,” he encouraged me. He went back to his desk and sat down. As I spoke, he toyed with a small model of a catapult.

  “Captain Maw, a scout does not have the status of a regular officer. He commands no men save himself. He operates alone. Often he is a ranker or a man disowned by his family. They are expected to know the conquered folk intimately, their language, their habits…Sometimes scouts even take Plains wives and have children with them, and only come into the forts sporadically to report for duty. They are not…they are not gentlemen, sir. I am sure that being a scout is not what my father intends for me.”

  “Perhaps not,” he conceded after a few moments. “But I will tell you this plainly, young man. You have a talent for innovation and independent thinking. Those abilities are not prized in a lieutenant. On the contrary, your commander will do his best to quash those gifts, for a freethinking lieutenant is not an asset to a smooth chain of command. Cadet Burvelle, you are not meant to be a cog in a gear drive, nor a link in a chain. You will be unhappy there, and will make those above and below you unhappy in consequence. I think the good god made you to act on your own. Soldier son you may be, and by the king’s word, your father may be a noble. But take it as no shame that I say this to you. I do not see an officer when I look at you. That is not an insult. It is my honest appraisal. I think you are brilliant, capable of landing on your feet no matter what tricks life plays you. But I do not see you as a line officer.” He smiled at me kindly and looked more like an uncle than an Academy instructor as he asked me, “Do you honestly see yourself as an officer five years from now?”

  I squared my shoulders and forced my words past a lump of disappointment in my throat. “Yes, sir. I do. With all that is within me, it is what I aspire to be.”

  He left off playing with the catapult and leaned back in his chair. He raised his bushy gray eyebrows and sighed with resignation. “Well then. I suppose that is what you will do your best to be. I hope you find it to your liking, Cadet. I hope the cavalla does not lose you when you discover that the limits of such a role are greater than you thought them to be.”

  �
��I am cavalla, sir. Born and bred.”

  He nodded gravely. “I suppose that you are. Remember something for me. Remember that your raft passed through the rapids with its cargo because you were wise enough to engineer some flexibility into your structure. Do the same with yourself and your ambitions, Cadet. Leave room for them to bend without breaking you. Dismissed.”

  And with that he sent me out into the fading afternoon to ponder his offer. I could not decide if his words had been complimentary or a warning to curb my ambitions. I didn’t discuss it with any of my fellows.

  After the first two months of classes, those of us who had performed well were allowed a day of liberty every second Sevday to visit relatives. It was a welcome change from the previous “holidays” we’d been offered in our schedule. All the first-years had been given a Sevday of leave once before, but it was a sham. We’d been ordered to spend our “free day” attending a musical performance given by Lady Midowne’s Historical Society. A score of noble ladies and their daughters sang original compositions that told of significant events in Gernian history. It was interminable, with extravagant costumes and sets and mediocre singing that scarcely reached our ears. At the end, we dutifully applauded, and only then learned that first-years were not even allowed to attend the tea that followed it to mingle with the young ladies. Instead, we were sent back to our dormitory to “enjoy the rest of our day of freedom.”

  I was fortunate among the new nobles’ sons in that I had nearby relatives willing to welcome me to their home for my free afternoons. Trist, Gord, and myself were the only ones who could count on a dinner invitation. The others most often stayed in the dormitory. My uncle always sent a carriage to pick me up and provided me with a hearty meal at his home. I came to know my aunt and my cousins Hotorn and Purissa a bit better. My Aunt Daraleen did not lose her stiffness toward me, but I perceived, as my father had observed, that there was nothing personal in it. As long as I did not presume on our relationship, she felt unthreatened by me. I did enjoy the long talks with my uncle in his study, in which he often asked how my lessons progressed and discussed language and military history with me. Sometimes Hotorn, his heir son, joined us there. He was older than I by four years, and enrolled in a university. Sometimes he spoke of his studies there, and I confess I somewhat envied that literature and music and art were among his subjects. My younger girl cousin, Purissa, took enough of a fancy to me that with her governess’s help, she would bake little cakes and sweets, and pack up a basket of such treats for me to take back to my friends at the Academy. But Epiny, my older girl cousin, was always absent whenever I visited. In some ways, this was a relief for me, for my first impression of her had been a rather strange one.

  Thinking to make polite conversation at the table one afternoon, I once observed to my aunt, “It is unfortunate that Epiny is always occupied elsewhere when I visit.”

  My aunt gave me a look even cooler than her usual formal regard and said, “Unfortunate? I do not follow your thought. Why would you think it unfortunate?”

  I instantly felt unsure of myself, as if I were riding a horse over unsound ground. “Why, I meant only that it was unfortunate for me, of course. I am certain that I would enjoy her company and the opportunity to get to know her.” I thought those words would smooth whatever had ruffled my aunt’s feathers, but I was wrong.

  She stirred her cup of tea for a moment and then smiled at me without warmth. “Oh, I am certain that you are wrong about that, Nevare. You and my daughter would have absolutely nothing in common, and could scarcely be expected to enjoy one another’s company. Epiny is quite a sensitive young woman and very refined. I cannot imagine what you might find to talk about. I am sure it would be very awkward for both of you.”

  I lowered my eyes to my plate and murmured, “Of course, I am sure you are correct.” I would have done anything in the world to cool the blood that flushed my face at her smoothly worded rebuke. Obviously she thought I had been forward to hint that I might speak to her daughter. Just as obviously, it was no accident of scheduling that Epiny was never present in her father’s home when I was. My aunt deliberately kept her daughter apart from my company. I belatedly realized that when I was their guest, I was always the sole guest. The next thought that rushed into my mind was that perhaps my uncle, too, considered me too socially inept to associate with family friends. I was sharply reminded of how my own father had kept my mother and sisters away from Captain Vaxton when the rough old scout had come to call. Did my aunt see me in a similar way? Did my uncle?

  As if he could hear my thoughts, my uncle sought to disarm the hurt that hovered. “In some ways I agree with your aunt, Nevare, but not for the reasons you might think. Although by her years Epiny is almost grown, she behaves so childishly that I have not thought to expect the social duties of a young woman from her yet.” He drew breath to say something more, but my aunt cut in, outraged.

  “Childishly! Childishly? She is a sensitive, Sefert! Guide Porilet, the queen’s own medium, has seen great potential in her. But she must be allowed to unfold slowly, as a blossom opens to the sun or a butterfly opens her new wings, damp with the waters of her birth. Force her too soon into the worldly duties a woman must bear, and that is what she will become: a worldly woman, shallow and cowlike, bearing the yoke of insensitive men! Her gifts will be lost, not just to her, but also to all of us. Childish! You do not see the difference between innocence and spiritual awakening and babyish behavior.” Her voice seemed to get shriller with every word.

  My uncle abruptly pushed his chair back from the table. “I am sure I do not see the difference between this ‘sensitivity’ and childish behavior. And thus I am sure that Nevare cannot, either. So I think I shall spare him exposure to it. Nevare, will you join me in my study?”

  I was mortified. I had precipitated this barely concealed quarrel between them. I stood as gracefully as I could and bowed to Lady Burvelle as I left her table. She turned her gaze away from me, and gave a disdainful sniff as I left. It was the most awkward moment I’d ever endured in my young life.

  Once we reached the study, I stammered an uncomfortable apology to my uncle, but he shrugged his shoulders as he took out a cigar. “If something you did hadn’t offended her, she would have found something in my behavior to offend. Epiny has begged, several times, to be allowed to see you. I still think it may be arranged, despite the busy schedule her mother contrives for her. But I warn you, she is exactly as I said: a girl with a child’s ways. Sometimes I think Purissa is more mature than her older sister.”

  I could not very well tell him that my expressed desire for my cousin’s company had been a polite bit of conversation rather than a sincere desire to see her. In truth, Epiny had impressed me as flighty and foolish. I felt no need to spend time with her. But all I could do was smile and assure my uncle that I would look forward to it, while ardently hoping that it would not come to be and that I could thus avoid any conflict with my aunt.

  After that Sevday interlude, it was almost a relief to return to the Academy and the company of my fellows. That week, to my delight, mounted drills replaced marching in our schedules. The beasts they gave us to ride were sedate, brown, and so uniform in both temperament and appearance that there was scarcely any notable difference between one and another of them. They were numbered, not named. My mount was Seventeen C, for Carneston Riders. The care of the beasts also fell to us, crowding yet another task into our busy days. Warhorses they were not, nor cavalla chargers, but I suspect we looked very pretty as we performed our choreographed maneuvers on them. They were undemanding creatures, unquestioningly obedient, and completely unsuited to any challenge of endurance or speed. We sat on their backs and they performed their maneuvers with precision but no spark. When there were errors, it was usually the fault of the cadet rather than the horse. Gord proved himself an apt horseman, to my surprise, but Oron slouched in his saddle, and Rory was overenthusiastic in “controlling” his horse, reining him sharply and kicking him harde
r than was needed, prompting the animal to fidget and balk.

  Even so, our small troop looked better on horseback than the other first-year patrols. The Carneston House first-years were not only the soldier sons of soldiers, we were one and all the sons of cavalry officers, and none of us lacked saddle experience. That was obviously not true of the old nobility–bred soldier sons. On our breaks, we would watch them drill. Rory put it into words for us. “Them’re why we’re all mounted on these mealy spirited hobbyhorses. Put a real horse between their legs, and half those lads would wet themselves.”

  A few rode like true horsemen, but for the most part their inexperience was apparent. Their ignorant fellows botched the efforts of those with skill. The horses knew the commands but their riders did not. I saw one fellow sawing on his reins with his elbows held wide of his body, causing his mount to veer from one side to the other and occasionally shoulder into the horse beside him. Another rode with one hand gripping the horn of his saddle. At the trot, he looked as if he might be unseated at any moment. It gave us some amusement, but it was short-lived. Our drill instructor, Lieutenant Wurtam, was old nobility and would not suffer us to mock them as we desired. Instead, we were given demerits to work off with stable mucking. Wurtam gave us a long lecture saying that when we mocked the men of other troops, we were mocking the cavalla itself and defiling the age-old custom that the cavalla took care of its own. The diatribe did not sit well with any of us. We already well knew the difference between good-natured teasing and ignoring a fellow in need. The punishment was yet another blow to the wedge that the cadet cavalla officers seemed intent on driving between old and new nobility cadets.

  I often thought of Sirlofty and missed him, though I knew he would be well cared for in my uncle’s stable. A boyishness in me looked forward to third year. Then the emphasis of our education would leave the classroom and be founded on fieldwork. Then I could have my own mount in the Academy stables and show off the quality of both horse and horsemanship that I was accustomed to displaying.