Shaman's Crossing
“I will always have the time where our cavalla is concerned.”
“And where your son is concerned, I suppose.” Colonel Stiet smiled narrowly.
My father’s expression was calmly affable. “As from today my son is a member of the king’s cavalla. I trust that if I concern myself with the best interest of the cavalla, the cavalla will, as it always has, look after its own.”
There was a moment of silence. “Indeed,” said Colonel Stiet, and that was not the affirmation of fellowship I had hoped for, nor did I think his lukewarm response pleased my father.
Caulder Stiet reentered the room quietly, to stand at parade rest behind his father’s shoulder. He had not made a sound, and yet Colonel Stiet seemed immediately aware of him. He spoke to his son without looking toward him. “Show Cadet Burvelle to his quarters. Let my secretary know that I will be occupied for a short time, showing Lord Burvelle about the Academy grounds.”
“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.
I followed 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 gray 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 story, 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 paneled walls. In the center of the room, a gray-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 gray eyes; rather he reminded me of a weary shepherd dog given yet another task.
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.
“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 traveled 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 basement 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.