Kitabı oku: «The Complete Soldier Son Trilogy», sayfa 31

In the days that followed, Spink, Gord, and I all seemed to share the shame of being a snitch, for often there were low catcalls when we walked somewhere, or spit-wads that seemed to come out of nowhere when we studied in the library. Once, studying alone, I left my book and paper on the library table while I sought a reference book. I came back to find my assignment torn to pieces, and filthy names scrawled across the pages of my text. It dragged my spirits down and I began to feel that I had made a sorry mess of my Academy years, one that would follow me for the rest of my career. While others were forming lifelong friendships, I had committed myself to having, it seemed, only two close friends. And one was someone that I didn’t even like all that much.

I wrote nightly to my uncle, as he had requested, and received frequent missives in return. I was honest, as he had bade me be, and yet it made me feel that I whimpered. He constantly told me to stand firm with my comrades and know that we acted in the best interest of the Academy and the cavalla by reporting such misdeeds, but it was hard to believe his encouraging words. I felt that at any time, I might be the victim of a sneaking attack: a flung snowball, more ice than snow, and the destruction of my model in the drafting room, and once, a crude name scrawled across the back of one of my letters. Nothing further happened to our rooms, for Sergeant Rufet had tightened his watch upon his domain, but that was a small comfort. Still, I looked forward to my uncle’s daily note as if it were a lifeline to keep me connected to a world outside the Academy. I had written my father my own letter of explanation, and my uncle assured me that, he, too, had told my father what he knew of the incident. Nevertheless, I soon received a very cold letter from my father, reminding me of my duties to be honest and above reproach in all I did, lest I shame the family name. He said that we would discuss the matter in detail in the spring when I came home to witness my brother’s wedding. He also wrote that I should have consulted him rather than my uncle on these matters. My uncle was not, after all, a soldier and did not know how matters such as these were handled within the military. Yet, even so, he did not write exactly what I should have done, and I did not have the spirit to keep the discussion alive in a second letter to him. I let the matter drop.

Spink, too, began to receive mail much more often than he had. I thought at first that the letters were from my uncle as well, but then I noticed that he never opened them in the bunkroom as the rest of us did our letters. Yet I only learned the truth the first time I encountered him in the library, reading a letter. As I sat down beside him at the study table, he hastily turned aside from me, sheltering the pages with his body.

Some part of me must have suspected the truth before that, because I instantly found myself asking him, ‘And how is my cousin this week?’

He laughed embarrassedly as he hastily folded the pages and slipped them inside his jacket. He was blushing as he admitted. ‘Lovely. Amazing. Intelligent. Enchanting.’

‘Strange!’ I interjected, and then lowered my voice. I glanced about the library. There was another cadet two tables away, intent on his own studies, but other than him, we were alone.

I envied Spink for a moment; I had not heard from Carsina in two weeks. I knew she could only send me a letter when she visited my sister, but still I wondered if her interest in me was waning. In a shocking moment, my envy turned greener. Spink had met a girl, and on his own decided that he liked her. And she liked him in return. I thought of Carsina, and she suddenly seemed a sort of hand-me-down, a connection passed on to me born of my father’s alliance and my sister’s friendship. Did she like me? If we had met one another casually, would we have felt any attraction? How much, really, did I know of her? I suddenly recognized Epiny’s insidious influence on my thinking. Her ideas about choosing your own mate, modern as they might be, had nothing to do with my needs. I was sure my father had selected a good cavalla wife for me, one who would understand her duty to her mate amidst the hardships that we might have to face together. What would Epiny know about the characteristics of a stable husband? Would Spink find that strength in Epiny, if he did manage to win her? How would her séances and glass curtains and foolish ideas sustain her in a border home with her husband often away on patrol? With that thought, I pushed my envy aside and said to Spink, ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you about Epiny. I think I should speak to my uncle about her interest in séances and spirits and her experiments. For Epiny’s own sake, he should know what his daughter is meddling in, before she harms her reputation. What do you think?’

Spink shook his head at me. ‘It would only incite a battle between them, to no good end, I think. Your cousin is a strong-willed woman, Nevare. I don’t think she is “meddling” in anything. She has touched something that frightens her, and yet she does not retreat from it. She has written to me of how terrifying both experiences were. But instead of fleeing, she girds herself against it and plunges into battle again, to find out what it is. And do you know why she is now so intent on it?’

I shrugged. ‘Is it one of the “paths to power” she spoke about? A way to gain unnatural influence over others?’

Spink looked as insulted as if she were his own cousin. Little sparks of anger danced in his eyes, as he said, ‘No, you moron! She says it is because she fears for you. She… She says—’ He unfolded the letter and began to quote from it. ‘“I do not know with whom he battles for control of his soul, but I will not leave him to face her alone.” Those are her very words. And she sends me a long list of books she is trying to find, ones that she does not have easy access to. She asks that I look within the Academy library for them. Most have to do with anthropological studies of the plainspeople and discourses on their religions and beliefs. She is convinced that a plainswoman has cast some sort of spell over you or cursed you and seeks to bend you to her will with her magic.’ He stopped and swallowed, then looked at me from the corner of his eyes, as if reluctant to admit he’d been playing a silly game. ‘She says … she writes that a part of your aura has been captured, and walks in another world. That possibly you do not even realize that you no longer belong completely to yourself, but are partially controlled by this, this “other spiritual entity”. That’s what she calls it.’

‘That’s rubbish!’ I said hotly, in both embarrassment and sudden fear. Then I realized that the other cadet was staring at us in annoyance, his work neglected before him. I lowered my voice to a whisper. ‘Epiny is just playing a game, Spink, to make herself fascinating to you. It’s all pretend, every bit of it. And I would be remiss in my duty as a cousin if I did not speak to my uncle about it. She is still just a child, and my aunt should not be exposing her to such things. The awkward part, for me, is that it’s really my aunt’s fault that she has been allowed to pursue such nonsense.’

‘I cannot stop you from writing to your uncle about it,’ Spink said quietly. ‘Just as I can only ask you that you do not tell him that Epiny is sending me letters. If it makes you feel any better, I will admit that as of yet, we have not found any way for me to send responses to her. I’ve never written back to her. You know that my intentions toward her are entirely honourable. I’ve already written to both my mother and my brother to ask them to approach your uncle on my behalf.’

I was speechless for a moment. I could only imagine the courage it must have taken for him to approach his older brother with his desire to choose his own wife. Then all I could say, quite heartily, was, ‘You know I am on your side in this, Spink. I will speak well of you at every opportunity. Though I still think you could do better for yourself!’

He grinned even as he narrowed his eyes and warned me, ‘Now, speak no ill of my future lady, cousin, or we shall have to take it to the duelling grounds!’

I laughed aloud at that, and then stifled my laugh as I saw Caulder emerge from between two rows of shelved books. He did not glance at us and walked quickly out of the library. Only my abrupt silence and stare alerted Spink to his presence. ‘Do you think he overheard us?’ he asked me worriedly.

‘I doubt it,’ I replied. ‘If he had, it would be very unlike Caulder simply to walk away. He’d have to say something.’

‘I’ve heard his father has told him he isn’t to have anything to do with the Carneston House first-years.’

‘Really. Now that would be the greatest kindness Stiet has done us this year.’

We both laughed at that, and earned ourselves a glare and a ‘sshhh’ from the cadet at the next table.

Our studies only became more demanding as the year progressed. The grind of drill, classes, dull meals, and long assignments completed by lantern light carried us into the dim corridor of winter. Winter seemed harsher here in the city than it ever had out on the good, clean plains. The smoke of thousands of stoves filled the winter air. When snow did fall, it was soon speckled with soot. The melting water could not find the drains fast enough; the lawns of the Academy were sodden and the pathways became shallow canals that we splashed through as we marched. Winter seemed to wage a battle against the city, blanketing us with fresh snow and cold freezes, and then the next day giving way to wet fogs and slush underfoot. The snow that fell on the paths and streets of the Academy were soon trampled to a dirty sorbet of ice and mud. The trees stood stark on the lawns, their wet black branches imploring the skies to lighten. We rose before it was light, slopped through the slush to assembly, and then slogged through our classes. Grease our boots as we might, our feet were always wet, and in between inspections, damp socks festooned our rooms like holiday swags. Coughing and sneezing became commonplace, so that on the mornings when I woke with a clear head, I felt blessed. It seemed that our troop no sooner recovered from one sniffling onslaught than the next came along to lay us low. Sickness had to be extreme before we were either excused from classes or permitted into the infirmary, so most of us dragged through the days of illness as best we could.

Even so, all those miseries would have been bearable, for they fell on all of us alike, first-years, upper classmen, officers, and even our instructors. But shortly after Spink and I returned from our days away from the Academy, our fellow New Noble first-years and we became the targets of a different sort of misery.

There had always been differences in how the ‘New Noble’ first-years were treated compared to the sons of the older families. We had joked about being given the poorest housing choices, endured Corporal Dent making us eat later than our fellows, and hunched our shoulders to the fact that we received a rougher initiation than that inflicted on first-years of old nobility. Our instructors had seemed aloof from it, for the most part. Occasionally they remonstrated with us to uphold the dignity of the Academy despite being new to its traditions. It made us bitterly amused, for no son of any Old Noble could say that his father had ever attended any sort of military academy, yet many of our fathers had graduated from the old War College. The traditions of a military upbringing were in our bones, while our Old Noble fellows learned them only now.

Our classes had been scrupulously segregated for the first third of the year. We always sat in our patrols. New Nobles’ sons did not fraternize with the sons of Old Nobles, despite sometimes sharing the same classrooms. Now our instructors began, not to mingle us, but to make us compete against one another. With increasing frequency, our test scores were listed by patrol and were posted side by side outside the classroom doors, where all could see that the New Noble patrols consistently lagged behind the old nobility first-years in academics. The exceptions were Drafting and Engineering, in which we often excelled them, and in drill and on horseback in which they could not best us.

As our instructors began to encourage the rivalry between the two groups, I saw healthy competition take on a darker character. One afternoon we raced into the stables, sure that we would triumph over our rivals in an equestrian drill exercise, only to discover that someone had crept in and smeared dung stripes down the sides and flanks of our mounts and filled their tails with burrs. The hasty grooming we had time for was inadequate, and left our horses looking ill-kempt. We were marked down for that, and though we won for precision, we lost for overall appearance, and thus the cup and the half-day of liberty went to the old nobility troop.

We muttered at the unfairness of it. Then several of the scale models that belonged to Bringham House old nobility first-years were ruined immediately before a judging, leaving Carneston House the winners. Foul play was suspected, and I found it hard to take joy in the victory. My construction of a suspension bridge had been, I felt, so superior that we would have been assured the win without the sabotage. It was very difficult to write my letter to my uncle that night, for I felt that I had to be honest in stating my suspicions of my own fellows.

At about that time, I had a final encounter with Cadet Lieutenant Tiber. Rumours about him had died down at the Academy. I had heard little about him and seen even less. Thus I was a bit surprised to encounter him one evening as I returned from the library to Carneston House. We were both bundled in our greatcoats as we approached one another in the semi-darkness. He walked with a marked lurch to his gait now, probably as the result of his still healing injuries. His head was down, his eyes on the snowy path before him. I was tempted to pretend I didn’t recognize him and simply hurry past. Instead, as was right, I stepped to the side of the path and snapped a salute to him. He returned my salute in passing, and kept going. An instant later, he rounded on his heel and came back to me. ‘Cadet Nevare Burvelle. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, sir. That’s my name.’

Then he let a silence fall. I listened to the wind and felt dread build within me. Then he said, ‘Thank you for coming forward with those names. I didn’t know who jumped me. When Ordo claimed to have seen me drunk and staggering, I suspected, of course. But your saying Jaris’ name aloud was what made it certain for me.’

‘I should have come forward sooner, sir.’

He cocked his head at me. ‘And why didn’t you, Nevare Burvelle? That is something I’ve been wanting to ask you.’

‘I wasn’t sure … if it was honourable. To speak suspicions without having any facts. And …’ I quickly forced the truth past my lips. ‘I was afraid they’d take revenge on me.’

He nodded, unsurprised. Nothing in his face condemned me. ‘And did they?’

‘In small ways. Nothing I can’t endure.’

He nodded again, and gave me a small, cold smile. ‘Thank you for facing up to your fear and coming forward. Don’t think yourself a coward. You could have never mentioned it to your uncle, or when the time came, lied and said you’d seen nothing. I wish I could tell you that you’d be rewarded for it. You won’t. Remember, you were right to be cautious of them. Don’t underestimate them. I did. And now I limp. Don’t forget what we’ve learned.’

He spoke to me as if I were his friend. His words made me brave. ‘I trust you are recovering well and that your studies go well?’

His smile grew stiffer. ‘I’ve recovered as much as I’m likely to. And my studies have come to an end, Cadet Burvelle. I’ve received my first posting. I’m off to Gettys. As a scout.’

It was a bad post and a worse assignment. We stood facing one another in the cold. There was no polite congratulation I could offer. ‘It’s a punishment, isn’t it?’ I finally asked hopelessly.

‘It is and it isn’t. They need me there. The building of the King’s Road has come to a virtual halt there and I’m to move among the Specks in their forest and find out why. Ostensibly, I’m well suited for the task. Good at languages, good at engineering. I should be able to scout out the best route for the road and make friends with the wild people. Maybe I’ll find why we can’t seem to make any forward progress. Everyone gets something they want out of it. I get work I like and I’m good at. The administration gets me out of the way and in a position where I can never hope to rise to any appreciable rank.’

I found I was nodding to his words. They made sense. Reluctantly, I told him, ‘Earlier this year, Captain Maw said I’d make a good scout.’

‘Did he? Then I expect you will. He said the same thing to me when I was a first-year.’

‘But I don’t want to be a scout!’ The words burst from me. I was horrified at his prophecy.

‘I doubt that anyone does, Nevare. When the time comes, try to recognize that Maw means well by intervening in that way. He’d rather see promising cadets serve in some capacity of worth, rather than being culled or sent to useless posts to count blankets or buy mutton for the troops. It’s his way of saying you’re worth something, even if you are a battle lord’s son.’

The silence that followed his words hung between us. Finally, he broke it, saying, ‘Wish me luck, Burvelle.’

‘Good luck, Lieutenant Tiber.’

‘Scout Tiber, Burvelle. Scout Tiber. I’d best get used to it.’ He saluted me and I returned it. Then he walked away from me into the cold and the dark. I stood still, shivering, and wondered if I was doomed to follow in his footsteps.

EIGHTEEN
Accusations

Winter deepened and we drew ever closer to Dark Evening. At my father’s house in Widevale, Dark Evening had been a night for prayers and meditation and floating candles on the pond or the river, followed by the celebration the next morning of the lengthening of the days. My mother had always given each of us a small but useful gift in celebration of the turning of the year, to which my father added a yellow envelope containing spending money. It had been a minor but pleasant holiday each year.

Thus I was astonished to hear my fellows speak of Dark Evening with enthusiasm and anticipation as it drew near. The Academy itself would offer a feast to us on Dark Evening’s Eve, followed by two days of liberty for all cadets in good standing. There were also plays in the playhouses, and the King and Queen gave a grand ball in Sondringham Hall in Old Thares, to which the senior cadets were invited. For the younger cadets, there would be carnival and street performers and dancing in the guildhalls. We were sternly admonished that we could attend such events only in uniform, and thus must be on our best behaviour, not just for our own reputations, but also for the honour of the Academy. I looked forward to it as something I’d never experienced before.

Caleb was shocked to hear that I knew so little of Dark Evening. I thought he was teasing me when they told me that on Dark Evening all whores went masked and gave away their favours for free, and that some ladies of good houses sneaked out into the streets on that night, and pretended to be women of pleasure, so that they might sample the favours of strange men without danger to their reputations. When I challenged the truth of this, he showed me several lewdly illustrated stories in some of his cheap folios of Adventure Tales. Despite my better judgment, I read the accounts of women seduced by one wild night in the city and thought them as appalling as they were unlikely. What sane woman would leave her safe and comfortable home simply to indulge in one night of licentiousness?

Privately, I asked Natred and Kort if they had ever heard such a thing. To my surprise, they assured me that they had. Natred said that his older cousins had told him of it. Kort added that his father said it was a vestige of one of the old god’s celebrations. ‘It’s mostly a western custom. The temples of the old gods are still standing in a lot of the older cities, and people remember a lot more about those gods and their customs. Especially the celebrations they had. Dark Evening used to belong to a women’s god. That was what I heard. My mother used to tell stories about Dark Evening to my sisters. Not about running around acting like a whore, but old tales, of girls meeting masked gods at Dark Evening celebrations, and being granted gifts by them, like spinning straw into gold or being able to dance two inches above the floor. Just pretty stories.

‘Then one year my father caught my three sisters dancing in the dark in the garden, in just their knickers. He was very upset about it, but my mother asked him what harm could it do, so long as there were no young men about. He said it was the idea of it, and forbade them from ever doing such a thing again. But,’ and Kort leaned closer to us, as if fearing that someone else might hear, ‘I think they still keep the holiday that way.’

‘Even my Talerin?’ Natred asked intently. I could not tell if he was scandalized or delighted.

‘I do not know for sure,’ Kort cautioned him. ‘But I have heard that many women have rituals and rites of their own for Dark Evening. Sometimes, I think that there is much about our women that we do not know.’

Such talk made me wonder about Carsina. For an instant, I imagined Carsina dancing near naked in a darkened garden. Would she? I suddenly did not know if I hoped she did or didn’t. Were there rites and rituals that women observed and we men knew nothing about? Were they all in the service of the good god or did women secretly still worship at some of the old altars? Such questions whetted my curiosity for Dark Evening in Old Thares. To be turned loose in the great old city with my fellows, a man among men on a wild festival night, was something I had never imagined. I counted up my allowance that I had hoarded and felt that the holiday would never come.

In the middle of that week, what began as a good-natured snowball fight with the old nobility first-years from Drakes Hall turned into a nasty pitched battle, with ice and rocks replacing the earlier missiles. I had been at the library, and only learned of it through Rory’s retelling when our patrol gathered at the study table that night. Rory had a black eye and Kort a swollen lip to show for it. The skirmish had dissolved when several older cadet officers had come upon the scene. Even so, Rory was rejoicing over making an antagonist ‘bleed some of that fine old blood out of his fine old nose.’ Trist had also been a participant, as had Caleb. Oron had only witnessed it and yet seemed more upset than Rory. Twice he said aloud, ‘I just don’t understand it. We are all cadets here. What could have made them hate us so suddenly?’

The second time he said it, Gord shut his book with a sigh. ‘Don’t any of you read the newspapers?’ he asked, and did not wait for the reply before adding, ‘The Council of Lords has just voted on taxation for the King’s Road. The Old Nobles opposed it, arguing that they need their monies for roads and improvements in their own territories rather than “the road to nowhere” as Lord Jarfries called it. The old nobility had expected to easily defeat the proposal to channel a portion of their tax income to King Troven’s coffers for the road. I even read that some of them laughed aloud when a New Noble named Lord Simem first proposed it. Yet when the ballots were counted, three times and no less, the vote was in favour of taxation for the King’s Road.’

He said this as if it were of immense importance. We all stared at him silently.

‘Puppies!’ he said at last in disgust. ‘Think about what it means. It means that enough Old Nobles crossed the line to vote with the New Nobles, secretly, that the King is regaining a stronger hand in the country. The Old Nobles who thought that power was coming slowly but surely into their hands have suffered a major setback. They resent it, and because of that they and their sons resent us all the more. They thought they were on the path to running this country, with the King as little more than a figurehead. But for our fathers, it would have come true. The old nobility would have continued a slow march upon the monarchy, taking more power and control for themselves, retaining more taxes, building more wealth … Don’t any of you see what I’m talking about?’ Sudden frustration broke in his voice.

‘The good god put King Troven over all of us, to rule us justly and well. All of holy writ tells us that the lords should serve their king as a good son serves his father; in obedience, respect and gratitude for his guidance.’ Oron said this so solemnly that I nearly bowed my head and signed the air with the good god’s sign. He sounded more like a bessom at that moment than Gord ever had.

Gord snorted. ‘Yes. So we have all been brought up to believe, every soldier son of us, every son of a New Noble father. But what do you think the Old Nobles have told their first sons and their soldier sons? Do you think they have been taught their first duty is to the King, or to their own noble fathers?’

‘Treason and heresy!’ Caleb said angrily. He pointed a finger at Gord accusingly and said, ‘Why do you say such things?’

‘I don’t! I serve the King as willingly as any man here. I only say that perhaps we have been brought up not to question and, as a result, you do not understand those who do question. You do not see how our loyalty might offend those who are not so blindly loyal themselves.’

‘Blindly loyal!’ Rory was incensed. ‘What’s blind about knowing that we owe the King our loyalty? What is blind about knowing our duty?’

Gord sat back in his chair. Something hardened in his face. He had changed in the last couple of weeks, in a way I could not clearly define. He was still as fat; he still sweated through drill and panted with the effort of heaving his bulk up the stairs, but there seemed to be something of steel in him now. When he had first joined us he had laughed along with his mockers when people made jokes about his weight, and sometimes even made fun of himself. Now he kept silent and merely stared at those who baited him. It seemed to make some of the fellows angry, as if he had no right to stand on his dignity and refuse to accept their mockery as his due. Now he looked round the table at those of us gathered there, and I suddenly perceived that it was not just maths that he was good at. There was more intellect behind those piggy little eyes than I had credited him with. He licked his plump lips, as if deciding whether to speak or not. Then the words seemed to break forth from him, not in a torrent, but in a deliberate cascade of derision.

‘I said blindly, not stupidly, Rory. I don’t think it’s stupid for us and for our fathers to give loyalty to a man who benefited us greatly. But we should not be blind to what he gains by it, nor to what it does to others. Did none of your fathers ever discuss politics with you? When we take our history lessons, do any of you listen? We are to be officers and gentlemen when our schooling is done. Loyalty is fine, but it is even better when it is backed up with intellect. My dog is loyal to me, and if I sicced him on a bear, he would go with no questioning of whether I knew what was best for him. But we are not dogs, and though I believe a soldier must go where he is ordered and do as he is told, I do not think he must march forth in ignorance of what propels his commander’s decisions.’

Caleb had never been especially quick-witted, and that day he decided that Gord’s words had insulted him. He came to his feet and loomed over the table. His long, skinny frame made it difficult for him to look threatening but he knotted his fist and said, ‘Are you saying my father is ignorant just because he didn’t talk politics at me? Take it back!’

Gord did not stand up but he didn’t back down. He leaned back in his chair as if to disarm Caleb’s aggression, but spoke firmly. ‘I can’t take it back, Caleb, for that isn’t what I said! I was speaking in generalities. We all came here, I hope, knowing that our first year is a winnowing process. We expected to be hazed and to have strict teachers and boring food and a burden of assignments and marching and tasks that no sane man would ever make his daily regimen. Yet we undertake it, knowing full well, I trust, that they deliberately make it more difficult and stressful than it needs to be. They are hoping that the weak and even the not-very-determined will be dissuaded by the process and turn away. Better to cull them out now than to have a battle whittle them away, with other men losing their lives in the process! So, we do obey, but we do not obey blindly. That is what I am saying. That we endure what we endure here because we know the reason for it. And when I am a cavalla officer in the field, I expect that I will do the same there. I will obey my commander’s orders, but I hope I will remain intelligent enough to discern the reasons behind my orders.’

He looked round at us all. Despite ourselves, we were hanging on his words. He nodded, as if in appreciation of that, and went on, almost as if he were lecturing us, ‘And thus we come back to Oron’s question: what makes the old nobility first-years dislike us so much if we are all cadets here? And the answer is, they are taught to. Just as we are subtly schooled to resent them. It probably began as a way to wring the best out of us, just as they encourage each house and troop to compete against their fellows. But the politics of our fathers have infected it now, and made it something uglier.’