CHAPTER 7
Zhepal ducked into the square tent, which was barely taller than he was, and Butu followed him. Inside were several trunks. The quartermaster grabbed a long piece of string with knots along its length at regular intervals. He spoke no more than a few curt words as he took the boy’s measurements. A moment’s search in one trunk produced a pile of cloth that he tossed to Butu.
“Try those on. Do you know how to tailor?”
“There’s holes and fraying seams and tears. We’ll patch and sew and make repairs,” Butu said, repeating the chant as he pulled the sand-colored shirt over his head. It was too large, but they probably expected him to grow into it. The shirt felt rough and uncomfortable against skin not used to wearing shirts.
It could just be the cloth, though.
“A simple ‘no’ will suffice, if you can’t do it without magic,” Zhepal said. “As small as you are, you’ll learn quickly enough once you start outgrowing your clothes every few months.”
“What does it matter if I can’t do it without magic if I can do it with magic?” The pants were better, though the legs were too long and too tight, restricting his movement somewhat. He made two thick, deep cuffs.
Zhepal’s snort made him wince.
“I’m going to lay down a few rules for you right now, recruit. One. You don’t question anyone of higher rank, and you especially don’t question the sarge. If you do or say anything Sergeant Aeklan doesn’t like, it will be bad for you. Polishing equipment is the kindest punishment he will assign.” His watery eyes puckered.
“How am I supposed to learn anything if I can’t ask questions?” Butu wrapped the belt around his waist, staring at the socks and boots they wanted him to wear. He had never worn shoes before. “It’s not as though I know anything about where anything is, or how it’s run.”
The quartermaster wiped the bridge of his nose. “The first time you’re given an order, it’ll be made clear to you who, what, when, and how it is to be done. The next time, you’ll be expected to know how to obey.” He produced a pebble and lodged it in his mouth. “Two. When you’re given an order, you will perform it right away, and as fast as you can. You will do it faster if the sarge gives an order to you.”
Butu grinned up at Zhepal as he was pulling on the boots, which, amazingly, fit perfectly. “Don’t worry about that. I’m very fast.”
The quartermaster frowned back. “Three. No magic in the camp.” A pause. “Or anywhere else, for that matter. Sordenu don’t use magic. It will be easier for you later on if you learn not to rely on it now.”
What? Butu wanted to ask but he kept silent, for now. The quartermaster wasn’t the one to ask. Zhepal went to the largest of the trunks. With a grunt, he pulled out a large, bulging canvas sack. Whump! He dropped it at Butu’s feet.
“Your kit,” he announced, waving his hand dramatically over it. “Bedding, eating utensils, canteen, ration box, sewing kit, grooming supplies, and strips of cloth for pryuds, bandages, and so on.”
“When do I get a sword?”
“When you’re ready for one, which is whenever the sarge says you are.” He adjusted his own pack. “No more questions, or you’ll learn what happens if you disobey orders. Take that to barracks four, and then get some food. Blay’s expecting you.”
“Yes, sir!” Butu said, and pulled at the bag, which shifted slightly. Zhepal snorted, dropping the tent flap as he left. Butu managed to drag the bag out of the supply tent in one good heave. He tried to ignore the stares and comments of the sordenu who noticed his struggles as he tried to get to the barracks.
Suddenly, someone lifted the bag from his hands, almost pulling Butu up with him.
“First day?”
Butu looked up at the man who had taken pity on him. The sordenu was probably less than a cycle older than him, but he was more than a foot taller, with thick arms that held the pack like a sack of marbles. His skin wasn’t so much brown as a very dark red.
“Um, yeah.” Butu had to jog to keep pace.
“Barracks four, then. What’s your name, kid?” he asked. Usually, Butu hated it when adults called him “kid” or “boy,” but something about this man’s disarming tone made it inoffensive.
“Butu tem Ahjea,” Butu said. “Sir,” he added, just in case.
“None of that. Name’s Tirud ku Ahjea, but call me Tirud. I’d stick to calling yourself Butu. Everyone here belongs to the same clan, and most of us sordenu are tems or kus. Here you are. Upper bunk okay?”
“Uh, sure.”
Tirud set the sack down on the upper bunk, and Butu put his personal knapsack next to it with a jingle.
Tirud reached into the small pack and removed the pouch of coins, which he tossed to Butu. “Better keep that with you. We punish thieves harshly when we catch them, but only when we catch them.” He held out one calloused hand, and Butu took it. “See you around, kid.”
“Nice meeting you, Tirud.”
Worried about missing breakfast, he ran to the mess, dodging the working sordenu. He ran to the table where cooks served with ladles from big iron pots. He grabbed a ceramic bowl from a stack nearby and held it out. He saw one of the cooks sneer, but they all ignored him.
“Am I too late for breakfast?” Butu asked, stomach rumbling.
One of the cooks gave a smile missing a couple of teeth. “Oh, no. Not at all. But you don’t want any of this.” He lifted up the ladle and poured a mix of gruel and ham back into the pot. “I got just the thing for you.”
One of the other cooks snickered and walked through a gap in the canvas. Butu felt him rummage through some crates. He returned a moment later with a waterskin, which he handed to the first cook. The first cook removed the stopper and poured white liquid into something behind the table. A moment later, he showed off a skin with a leather nipple on the top.
“Here you are, little one. Still want breakfast?”
Several other sordenu made cooing sounds and babbled at him like he was an infant.
“You’re not the brightest recruit, are you, little one?” one with an eyepatch said.
Butu scowled at him without thinking about it and took the bottle. He pulled the nipple off and drank from it.
“No magic in the camp,” the sordenu with the eyepatch said severely.
“What do you mean? I haven’t used any yet.”
“You did when you ran over here. You ran too fast.”
Butu stared back the way he had come. Everything from the whole morning rose in him right now. It’s all so unfair. I don’t know anything and no one tells me anything, either. “That was just running! I didn’t want to miss breakfast.”
“Next time, miss breakfast.” This from the first cook, who snatched the skin back.
Butu opened his mouth to shout curses at them all. I can’t just kick sand on it! I may as well count all the grains of sand in Pophir!
“Come here, Butu.” It was Blay, in a calm voice that quieted everyone. Butu stared wildly about, clutching nervous palms. He stepped around eyepatch and sat down, tensely, with Blay.
“Don’t take it personally,” Blay said, sliding his bowl toward Butu. “Here. You can have the rest of mine.”
Butu watched the gruel. “Do they do this to all the new recruits?”
“Only the ones who use magic in full view of the other sordenu.”
“I didn’t try to use magic. It just happened. That’s what magic does. It’s not my fault! It seems stupid to ban it anyway.”
“I know it’s hard to understand it right now, but there’s a reason for every rule we have. The Treaty of Mnemon says no clan may use magic in war, so if you’re going to be a sordenu, you have to learn not to use magic to fight.”
“Why would anyone want a treaty that forbids magic? It makes no sense!”
Blay’s features softened at Butu’s outburst. “A blood priest should be telling you this, not me.”
Butu stared hard into the sordenu’s eyes. “Tell me what?”
Blay stared right back, face ha
rdening. “It’s going to go away, Butu. You might have a talent or two that stays with you, but the real reason adults don’t use magic is because they can’t. In a few weeks, you won’t be able to, either.”
“The blood priests ...” Butu started, and Blay shook his head.
“Hours of chanting, long rituals, special tools, strict limitations — it’s not the same magic as children have. If you learn to live without magic, it will be easier for you to cope when your magic fades away forever.”
Butu stood up and turned away to hide the shock on his face.
“I’m sorry,” Blay called as Butu left the mess hall without responding.