A line had formed for dormitory assignments, and Dominicus found being in yet another crowd of Ainjir who were taller than him nerve-wracking. Any second, he would be noticed. Somebody would challenge him. He wasn’t sure how a brawl would turn out in this setting, but he was sure he didn’t want to be in one.
The man handing out numbers went through the order fluidly – one through five – but when Dominicus reached him he fumbled. Only for a second, but he went from one to giving Dominicus a three.
“You were on two,” Dominicus said.
“I was on shit, cadet, up wit’ your fusty bag an’ get on before I get you stripes aren’t sewed on.”
Though not entirely sure exactly what that meant, and unsure a man who otherwise looked like a clerk could follow up such a threatening tone, Dominicus went on, betting on three being the third building from the gate.
Standing outside this building was a tall – even for an Anjir – person dressed in a very neat but somehow different gray uniform. Not a cadet; the cadet uniforms possessed almost no distinguishing features or fine tailoring. He watched Dominicus approach like a heron watches fish, but when it came time, he only pulled a leather fob off a wide bracelet around his forearm, and gestured him on.
The leather fob had a turtle on it. Dominicus entered the building – carefully, as the floor was slightly askew – and looked for a turtle.
It turned out to be on the second floor, just at the head of the stairs. Having looked at the other rooms, he could tell this one was slightly smaller, being in a corner, but had the benefit of having the chimney from the room below running through it. Two beds had bags on them – one by the window, which would be miserably cold in a month, and the bottom of a set of two stacked on top of one another by the door, who would never get peace. Dropping his bag, Dominicus put a hand to the whitewashed wall, trying to guess the warmth they might get, if any.
“Oh, sweet Peace, I was worried we wouldn’t get any help.”
An Ainjir walked in, holding one end of a stuffed chair, his companion with the other side, shortly after. He quickly dropped his side of the chair – without warning – and walked over to the bed by the window. “Are you with the room, or the building in general?”
The other Ainjir, whose red hair Dominicus found slightly disturbing, finished pushing the chair into place and brushed his hands on his pants before sticking his arm out for Dominicus to clasp. (This was also disturbing, but something he had at least prepared for, expecting Ainjir greetings at an Ainjir school).
“Ruaridh,” he said.
Dominicus clasped his forearm. “Dominicus Galen.”
Smiling, the red-haired one slapped his arm, just at the bend, once freed. “Aim for the elbow next time – I’m no lord.”
The brown-haired Ainjir, face flushing, dashed over to offer his own arm. “Feichín…Caellaigh? Do… do I know your family name?” he asked the other Ainjir.
This time Dominicus aimed for the elbow, hoping this one… wasn’t a lord either?
“No – that’s a Midraeic thing – that’s your whole name, right?”
“It’s… it’s my name,” Dominicus said, feeling the inadequacy of his Ainjir language abilities.
“We lived behind a Midraeic stall for a while, over in Eastgate. They greeted each other with kisses,” he pointed to his forehead, “or bows, and always said out their whole name, every time.”
Sometimes he landed very heavily on the hard sounds of the language, and he spoke faster than anyone Dominicus had ever met, and if he had gone on any longer Dominicus surely would have been lost.
“Interesting!” the other Ainjir said, in a cheerful but not at all inquisitive way. He had brown hair, and other than being only slightly taller than Dominicus had no distinguishing features except a strangely bright demeanor. He turned to Dominicus, hands clasped before him. “So – yes – do say, you know – what are you here for?”
Dominicus hadn’t expected to be challenged so forthrightly, but he squared himself. “This is my room.”
“Ah, so it’s by room? That’s awfully fancy…” he glanced at the other Ainjir, who had gone over to the bottom bed by the door to pick up his jacket.
Dominicus picked up his bag, and put it on the top bed, but stopped to check how the beds were stacked. The red-haired one watched him in a curious way, but didn’t interfere.
“This should be over there,” Dominicus said, pointing to the wall by the chimney.
“Too tall,” the red-haired one said.
“Split them, or shave it down on the bottom,” Dominicus offered.
The red-haired Ainjir seemed… suspicious? Hesitant. He glanced at the chair, then at the beds, then at the other Ainjir, who appeared to be waiting to be noticed.
“Excuse me?” the other Ainjir said. Why had he waited to say that?
“Split them,” the red-haired one said.
Dominicus shrugged – if he didn’t want warmth that was up to him. “Later.”
The red-haired one nodded. Dominicus walked between the two Ainjir and out of the door, but he could still hear them.
“That’s a lot of floor space to give up. Shouldn’t he know how the room’s supposed to be?” the cheerful Ainjir asked.
“That’s a cadet-hopeful, not a servant,” the red-haired one said. “I think.”
“But they don’t–”
By then, Dominicus was out of hearing, walking towards the giant waving flag; he’d seen too much stupid today to be very angry, and anyway, being angry with them would do no good. He would have to get along with roommates.
Esras ran, partially due to the force of the crowd, and partially to catch up to what unfortunately seemed like an early alliance. Cruvcrudiach he didn’t mind – didn’t know him that well, but he had never displayed any reprehensible character or bad habits Esras had ever heard about. Maoilin…
Maoilin was very valuable, because his arrogance was not wholly unearned; he was actually quite good. He also wasn’t entirely expected, so there was something that had prevented him from following the noble line instead of continuing into a military career, which potentially meant he was manipulable. That he knew some of Esras’ more damaging secrets, and that he was a complete asshole, meant keeping him close was the next best alternative to never interacting with him at all.
Oisin was keeping up for now, but he couldn’t maintain the pace for long. Many of the aspiring cadets were already spent, having run to each station on their way. Esras watched thorough the gaps as the aspirants just getting to the field trickled on to the track, partially driven by a cadet directing any who asked, partially just falling in with what seemed to be the next task.
Esras made sure to catch Oisin’s eye, so he didn’t lose him in the crowd, then shoved his way over to the outside of the track. A clear glance back revealed that the cadets with the crates, the last few having been delivered, were only now starting to open them.
The speed of the run and the thickening of the pack kept him from being able to see what they were taking out, but he had an informed guess.
“Maoilin!” He couldn’t see whether he had heard or not in the sea of bobbing heads. “Maoilin! Outside run!”
Maoilin appeared in the clear at the outside of the track, and though his glance back was equal parts disdainful and suspicious, he dropped his pace to fall in.
“It’s not place, it’s endurance. And they haven’t even started counting yet. When we come ‘round look for the sticks.”
Maoilin dropped his pace even further, and Esras followed suit. Oisin couldn’t keep gratefulness from slipping into his expression, alongside suspicion. A whole small cabal of runners dropped pace with them, and Esras tried to take note of the faces. Two were forced to nod back, being fellow cadets from Prep.
Maoilin had noticed, too, and nodded to no one.
“Sabotaging the first run seems a little petty for you, Esras Cole,” he said lightly.
“How would they track the winners with no starting line?” Esras replied, trying hard not to let his anger creep into his voice. They had done endurance runs many times at Prep; he would know how they tracked the number of laps with colored sticks. He would have his proof if he looked for it – and he wouldn’t have dropped his pace if he didn’t believe Esras. He said it solely to sow doubt.
After an equivocal shrug, Maoilin conceded. “Fair point.”
Most of the aspirants in the first group passed them in a great bulk, like leaves in a stream past a heavy log. As they passed the point where the new joined in, few could go much faster, though some did.
“Think anyone will drop dead this time?” Maoilin asked.
“Are you asking what I think or what I hope?”
Maoilin laughed, and a few of the group around them weakly joined, but not many.
As they rounded the last corner, Cruvcrudiach began to come up behind them. Esras waved, and with a grim set to his face, he diverted towards them despite the disadvantage of moving outside, but made no move to slow down.
“It’s endurance – not a race!” Esras called.
They barely caught the words as he passed, “Always testing.”
That prompted a few of their group to speed up – none had a chance of catching up, but his determination was inspiring, in a way. Most couldn’t even try. Envy touched Esras’ heart, but envy should have no hold on him; even at his fastest, Esras reasoned, Cruvcrudiach’s physical advantages in height and muscle would’ve made him faster.
Some solace could be gained from reaching the cadets by the crates just in time to see the first band of colored sticks being held out. Maoilin took the front, but that was fine for now; the rest of the group lined up behind him, and each received their first reward.
Dominicus could not tell what was going on at the track; he started running towards it, instinctually, even as he wondered at the gyre of people circling. He saw a cadet lazily urging people towards it, and fell in on the beaten track. Some were running very fast, but many, out of fatigue and choice, seemed to be in no rush at all. When he came along the row of cadets holding out sticks, some dipped in green, others in red, he ran past the large group holding out green ones before he could understand why the cadets holding them kept shouting “One, one, one,” over and over again.
Turning in his tracks, he was thinking about running back, when he spotted familiar figures: his friends from the gate.
Much delayed, probably because half their baggage was burned.
And he watched them all pick up green sticks, and then see him, running conspicuously backward ahead of them. With no stick.
Dominicus did what he had yearned to do at several points in the day: turned and ran.
Generally, he was a good runner. Or, good enough for his purposes; he lost to Catillia all the time because she had longer legs than him. Which was also true of most of the Ainjir here, including the ones currently chasing him.
Generally, he had good endurance. But he had also had a very stressful day, and been running a lot in general. He didn’t know how long he could keep up this pace, or how long he would have to. The scattering of Ainjir holding their sides – or just sitting down and panting – on the outskirts of the track told him it could be a long time.
Generally, he was good at losing people. Only a few times had he needed to outrun anyone, as there was usually some way to just avoid them. But the set track made that difficult, and the crowds were not quite thick enough to be useful. In fact, between some walking – apparently successfully – away from the track, and some having to stop or slow down, the numbers on the track were thinning.
He took a glance over his shoulder, and noticed the little pack of Ainjir had slowed down. But when he slowed down, they sped up. He sped up again, and they fell back.
Because, they had realized slightly earlier than him, that even if he outran them, his only choice was to run up behind them. Either way, four-on-one, and running in crowds was bound to generate ‘accidents’ that might excuse some pretty extensive injury.
Or, he could get off the track.
Others were doing it, because they could not go on. Maybe some were lazy, or doubting their course of action, but most seemed tired. Most weren’t prepared for the kind of exertion already demanded of them, much less running in a big stupid circle for an indeterminate amount of time.
He glanced back; the little pack was gaining, but they were also smiling, trading jokes with one another. Not at all in a rush to exact a little inevitable vengeance.
It gave Dominicus time to think, which Catillia had always said was the worst possible thing to give him.
Dominicus ran, and watched the cadets lazily break open the last crates, gathering sticks colored an uneven, dark blue.
At the last turn, he seized his side, adding a slight hitch to his run. Looking back, the pack had noticed, and sped up. Lurching greatly, Dominicus sped up, too – but the pack still gained, running harder to make the most of their opportunity.
A break in the crowd made it dangerous to catch him – the attrition of runners left them out in the open – but they pressed harder anyway. Gasping, Dominicus felt a stick start to prod him the back; he heard the pounding of their feet on the dirt behind him, a growing, but breathless, laughter.
He lurched into a faster pace, practically dragging his foot. They pushed forward – now one slight touch, now another, as they half enjoyed the game of his being partly out of reach. Still laughing, when they could catch their breath, they now threw out the occasional insult, or animal call, a sweet noise as would draw a pet or a summoning bark for a farm animal.
The cadets passing out sticks, from the first group with green to the last with blue, were watching them approach, with a mild curiosity. Almost everyone else was just running – or trying to survive running. Sure, a few were showing off, trying to get noticed for being in particularly good shape or being unaffected by the strain. A rare few were chatting with friends (how did they have friends already?). Dominicus and his pack of hunters were a spectacle.
Dominicus released the hold on his side to seize a green stick, pulling ahead as they passed the line. The pack, already having green, sped up yet again, falling into a line to get their red sticks before they caught up to him.
Dominicus dropped to the ground, pulling himself into a tight ball like a thrown stone, just past the first red-stick cadet. He held his arms behind his head, as some measure of protection, but it still hurt when the first of the pack tumbled over him. Rolling towards the outside of the track, he heaved the first pack member off his back in the direction of the stick holders, as the second pack member tripped over his legs.
The sticks made catching a rolling body difficult, so two of the cadets went down with the first pack member. The third had time to stop, but the second had hit the track hard. Dominicus didn’t have time to evaluate the damage, but got to his feet as fast as he could, taking a fistful of red sticks and flinging them back at his pursuers.
They weren’t very impressive sticks, so they didn’t do much damage, but they gave him a moment to start running again, the last two pack members at his heels.
Spurred by anger, they followed him right off the track, through the rest of the red stick-holders, now in disarray, like thread through a seam.
The disarray, while not a predictable result, helped, as Dominicus slammed into the first blue stick-holder, spinning him around to block the remaining two pack members. By this time, the stick-holders were starting to at least get out of the way, but Dominicus – running for his life – still had to leap past one as he continued on – his leap directly onto an open crate of blue sticks.
The crate, never having meant much as storage in the first place, gave immediately upon being hit; he had landed against the side, and with the choice between losing the side panel entirely and tipping over, the crate did both. Dominicus hit the ground on hands and knees, hard, but so did dozens of blue-tipped sticks, scattering on the field around him.
He didn’t have time to check for his enemies, but they weren’t his goal. Up again, Dominicus turned away from the track entirely, running at full sprint for the group of officers standing by the edge of the stream of aspirants leaving it (that stream had damned, as the brief chaos caught their attention). This was not an inconsiderable distance to sprint, but again, Dominicus was running for his life, so he didn’t really notice.
Fortunately, the cadets streaming off the field opted to get out of his way, since most of them had stopped to watch anyway. Dominicus stumbled his way into a halt before the officers, and held out the three colored sticks had had gathered.
“Laps don’t matter, you want sticks, yes?” he said between breaths, refusing to look behind. If they were back there, surely he would see it on these officers’ faces.
There had been no instruction, nor had there been any attempt to organize the running cadets. Even once Dominicus had arrived on the track, there had been no attempt to ensure any efficient or accurate count of the number of times one ran around the track – no one was even entering the track at the same time. Not even all of the boxes of sticks were opened, and if nobody happened to have a stick held out for you of the right color when you ran by, you were screwed. The cadets refused to move faster to get sticks, but they also wouldn’t let you stop running anywhere near where the sticks were being handed back, nor were you allowed to run against the flow on the track to pick one up you missed.
Yes, this would be a minor test of endurance, but there would be no winning, and no record of your effort, success, or even honesty. The only thing being meaningfully measured was whether or not you gained the requisite materials to finish.
So Dominicus did.
The one on the left started laughing. Uproariously. Inappropriately, if the expression on the one in the middle was any indication.
“Yes!” said the laughing one, heartily, taking the sticks from his hand. It was entirely unclear what was so funny, but again, Dominicus hadn’t wanted to die, and maybe wasn’t going to, at least right now, so whatever he was laughing at could go fuck itself.
It at least seemed he wasn’t laughing at Dominicus, as he mostly turned towards the other officers to do it. A little ripple passed through the half-halted group of aspirant cadets, and suddenly two of the other officers in the group seemed to spring to life.
“Run! Run, you maggots! Who said you could stop?”
The left the cluster to cajole and usher the cadets – some of whom were trying to insist they had finished – back onto the track. One headed towards the stick-cadets, equally excoriating them for failing to attend to their duty and guard their sticks. Some few had sprung on the opportunity, and gathered their own complete set of sticks, but those who didn’t move fast enough were harried away by the now ferociously defensive stick cadets.
The middle officer – who still didn’t look very pleased – gestured wordlessly for Dominicus to continue on, turning his attention back to those still on the field. Starting a gentle jog away, following the slow moving line of other dismissed runners – only now did Dominicus look back. Thank God, none of his hunters had the wit to figure out what he was doing. They had been pushed back onto the track, where he could see them circling, more than a few looking hatefully in his direction. Some had even lost the sticks they had already gained, and had to start over. So that was some time, at least, Dominicus could breathe again.
He was so focused on finding his pursuers that one of the stick cadets was nearly upon him before he noticed. Dominicus stopped and drew back, but the cadet only held something out to him, making sure to catch his eyes as he did so. Dominicus held his hand out for… a wet leaf?
“Only once, pull shit like that before an ollamh they’ll stripe you ‘til you wash.”
Pressing the wet leaf into Dominicus’ palm he turned and started to jog back without another word, waving to the watching fellow cadets as he ran back to his post.
This was… confusing? Better than threatening, he supposed. If it wasn’t a threat. Dominicus didn’t know what to do with the leaf, so he put his hand in his pocket, where he felt the leather fob with the turtle on it. Those words in that order meant nothing to him, but it was far from the last test of his Ainjir for the day.
“What do you think that was?” some fellow aspiring cadet asked. Esras hadn’t caught his name.
He glanced back at the track, but they were far enough away and he was tired enough that all he really noticed was that he couldn’t see anything except some unusual clumps of crowds that had stopped running. They could already hear the yelling as the clumps were started up again.
“Oh, how I missed that sound,” Maoilin muttered grimly.
“So, you went to Preparatory?” Oisin – barely recovered enough to stop gulping air – asked.
Maoilin, lip curled, looked back at him but didn’t answer. Oisin’s eyes, though, had quickly slipped from Maoilin to Esras, his new roommate, the look on his face perhaps less disdainful, but no more pleased than Maoilin’s had been. They had been followed by a little crowd, those who had profited from adopting Esras and Maoilin’s method and gotten off the field at the same time. Now, like tendrils of smoke, the little crowd swayed and bumped and reformed is constituent parts as each tried to evaluate who knew what, who seemed like they might be friendly enough to explain, and who might be unfriendly but worth getting to know anyway.
At least, that’s what Esras assumed they were doing. He was surprised at how tired it made him, just hearing Maoilin’s voice again, and the familiar strains of exclusivity. It was the way to thrive, though – he could certainly withstand it for as long as he needed to. What he was going to have to do, though, was keep it from costing him. And there were many ways it could cost him.
“Esras,” Maoilin said, ticking his head over to call him up, the way one would a dog.
“Maoilin,” Esras said drawlingly, leaning back as if stretching in his slow walk and snatching at a bit of grass.
“Suppose there’s what… a couple of hundred of us?”
Esras wasn’t looking at him – he wasn’t even trying to keep up with him – so Maoilin matched his ease, turning to squint at the field behind them while walking backwards. “Seems like – almost as many as were at Prep overall, at least.”
“So there will be at least two groups,” Esras said. “I would do three, if it were me.”
“If it were you, I doubt we would be running,” Maoilin said. “Probably reciting poetry.”
Instead of stabbing him in the eyes with bits of grass, Esras smiled at him and gestured towards the hall they were heading to. “We might get that, too.”
“Poetry?!” One of the followers cried, despair overtaking him.
“Worry not, young cadet,” Maoilin said, “they don’t give a shit about poetry here, and if they do, Esras Cole will guide us through.”
“Oh, that rhymed a bit,” another follower said.
Maoilin bowed sarcastically.
“Point is,” Esras said, “we could be split up. There’s too many of us to run one big group, so there’s going to be at least two classes. I would expect they’ve probably already worked it out, so in addition to our odds and evens, there’ll be ones and twos.”
“Please,” Maoilin said, “let’s not drown in jargon. Plus, I did come for a new start, I would hate if this were just Prep all over again.”
“Makes sense,” Oisin said, curtly. “We’ll have classes split into alternating days, odds and evens, and in addition, an overall division into two groups, ones and twos.”
“Yes,” Maoilin said, and for once managed not to sound condescending, though Esras assumed he meant it that way. “But let’s not let it make strangers of us. You know, friends should stick together.”
“At least until they’re ranking us,” another follower said, mouth screwed into a contemplative frown.
Maoilin smiled indulgently, but Esras said, “They’re always ranking us. Cruvcrudiach is right, you know. From here out, it’s battle.”
“So serious for a poet,” Maoilin said, voice light, but looking at Esras from under a raised and warning brow.
“Ah,” Esras said, “well, poetry is very serious. It’s war that’s a game.” He threw down a bit of grass. “At least here.”
“At least here,” Oisin said, looking between the two sharply, “we should be friends.”
“Capital idea,” Maoilin said, only a little sarcastically. “Lets.”
Esras found himself stuck. He heaved a theatrical sigh, squinting up at the sunlight. “Let’s betroth and change our rings, and hope in heav’n for better things, for blood and earth to be as one, before betraying th’other one.”
“Poetry…” said one of the followers, slightly awe-struck.
“I believe that speech is said by a clown,” Maoilin said, grinning.
“A clown who gets stabbed,” said another follower.
Esras shrugged. “But aren’t we all, in the end, clowns who get stabbed?”
Esras, and Maoilin, and maybe a few others of the group knew: A third of their class would leave, for various reasons, by the end of their First Year. So it more a plea against the odds than he realized, perhaps, when one said,
“Tits. I hope not.”
*** To Proceed to the next chronological post in the story, go here: