Dominicus Galen walked to his Swordplay class.
A wide bubble of empty space surrounded him, despite the growing cluster of cadets heading in the same direction.
In no other class was this as pronounced at Swordplay. In no other class did some cadets test their mettle and demonstrate their disdain by walking boldly through the bubble, as if scandalized by their fellows’ timidity.
Another bubble, an unseen border, was crossed when the class assembled and they entered the sphere of Ollamh Corin. Within the sphere of Ollamh Corin they could press in, jostle, jockey amongst themselves.
Ollamh Corin, whose bruised face (should anyone get close enough to see (nobody got close enough to see)) had been patted slightly pale with make-up, had taken to utterly ignoring Cadet Galen’s existence, unless he could be expelled from class (preferably to be punished, but Galen very scrupulously avoided earning punishment). But this equally meant that wrongs done to Cadet Galen were invisible.
However.
The first class after their clash had been still with uneasy anticipation of what the ollamh’s reaction would be. The next had been a bit heady with uncertainty. But once the third made the new rules clear, the opportunities it presented evident, the reaction had been... unwise.
That is, they could do whatever they wanted to Cadet Galen. Rather, they could try.
And Cadet Galen made it clear that they would regret trying.
“We have made a mistake.”
“We may have made a mistake,” Keoghvran softened Beiyal’s assertion, selecting a pastry to hold above the other one he was not eating, perhaps to keep it company.
“Hard to say,” Mullin murmured, not breaking his fixed stare at the fire, really too warm for the weather, kindled in the Cogadh’s judges Tower room.
Another week, another set of matches. The Second Years had dragged themselves somewhat out of their infamy, managing to pull together some decent coherent and reactive strategies in their matches of late. It was perhaps underwhelming, but still a promising the result. This week had ended with First Year matches, however.
“Oh,” said Ichtoran into the reluctant silence. “How so?”
Mullin shut his eyes and leaned back in his chair, revisiting his memories of the matches in accordance with some other conversation he was apparently having with himself. Keoghvran would sooner die than say it. Beiyal, who hadn’t so much as looked at the brandy since they had entered the room, now glanced at Corin, who stood in the furthest corner from the fire – he had been avoiding close proximity with anyone lately – and upon being looked at drew up in an immediate fury.
Teistiméir Carraig, sick of Corin’s furies for many long years now, croaked into the conversation.
“Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with Cogadh.”
“That is, perhaps, why we ought to be very considerate of our exact phrasing if we should decide to discuss...”
“Shut it, Keoghvran,” Carraig said. “It’ll do you no favors.”
“It’s none of our business,” Corin said, deciding to cool his fury. “If it’s a mistake, it’s a mistake that was made long before it got to us.”
“Well, yes, which is part of the job of the Cogadh to correct,” Beiyal said, ignoring the burden of implication that came with Corin’s statement.
“But,” Mullin mused, rejoining the room, “how to correct it?”
“It’s fairly straightforward, isn’t it?” Ichtoran said.
The room fell silent, all eyes fixed on their senior member, a second time.
“We’ll need to do some rebalancing of the classes.” He sipped his tea, looking not at anyone, but at everyone.
“It is your bailiwick,” Beiyal started, only to be interrupted by Corin.
“Nonsense! This is utter hogwash. No adjustments need to be made for such an error except one.”
“If you could, for a moment,” Mullin said mildly, looking up at Corin from his leisurely seat, feet up, in his armchair, “refrain from imagining a Midraeic cadet is a great insult to the institution...”
“If it was,” Ichtoran said before Corin could cross the room to start a fight with a junior officer, “then that would also be my mistake.”
“It’s not yours,” Carraig said. “That’s just not how any of this works. It’s always been strange that it’s never been proposed before. Someone just finally put it forward.”
“It’s not like Midraeics aren’t important members of our soldiery, either,” Mullin said.
“I’m not even sure why we’re discussing a particular cadet – that particular cadet – at this moment – who didn’t even compete in this weeks’ matches...” Keoghvran ventured.
“Ah, yes,” Carraig said, not quite able to stifle some amusement, “but you’re seeing the effects... definitely the effects...”
“I simply thought this week’s matches went well,” Keoghvran replied.
“Hardly attributable to cadet who wasn’t even there,” Corin said.
“It’s never just one cadet,” Mullin observed.
“The atmosphere among the class is changing,” Ichtoran said in agreement. “It’s never just one cadet, but sometimes one cadet can be a catalyst.”
“You can’t track any of this to that one cadet,” Corin said, volume rising with his anger. “And what business of ours is atmosphere? The blithering of cadets amongst themselves? Our concern is the Cogadh. We are to judge the matches as they come, no more or less.”
“Oh,” Mullin breathed, tinged with dismay – as if realizing for the first time that they had been talking past one another.
“We have an excellent array of Ainjir cadets, come directly from Preparatory, which is exactly the purpose of the place, who are providing more than enough leadership to account for any changes, and you refuse to see it. You instead favour some anomaly. The patterns are being followed exactly – there is nothing in need of an anomalous explanation.”
“Indeed there is,” Ichtoran said with gentle (perhaps feigned, thought some of the others) surprise. “That all of our highest ranked cadets have ended up in a single grouping of the class is indeed an unacceptable imbalance. In general, we wouldn’t tolerate such an arrangement to occur accidentally.”
“Well,” Corin hesitated, anger floundering out, “that’s... that can happen...”
“I wonder what would happen if we made it worse,” Ichtoran said.
Corin, flabbergasted, fell silent. Mullin raised his brows and left them there. Beiyal sighed and walked to the brandy. Keoghvran gathered a third pastry. Carraig, after some moments peering at Ichtoran, began to chuckle.
“That’ll solve it.”
A cadet named Tibb was, with deeply sullen reluctance, attempting to catch Cole’s eye across the field.
Cole was not being caught.
As the shortening of the days and threatening chill of the wind closed in on them, the First Years had taken en masse to bringing whatever work they might need to do out in whatever warm sunlight they could find. If they stayed in the fields where they typically did Stands, outside the dormitory, they were unlikely to be harassed by any wandering higher-classed cadets, but still – there was safety in a crowd. So they clustered, groups here and there working together, or pretending to work, at least, on whatever task could occupy them and let them remain in the shrinking light of day.
Naturally, the Prep cadets gathered together, and drove off anyone they didn’t want to deal with by exceeding their capacity – in combat or discussion – until they could feel the unwelcomness of their presence. Then they usually lapsed into discussion of whatever idiotic drama really preoccupied them. It was actually relaxing both not to be bothered and not to bother with anything for a moment. Even Lin was pleasant.
Tibb, clearly not contributing to his little grouping, apparently had some unpleasantness directed his way, and by his gestures responded in kind, then – glaring at where Cole still failed to notice him – stomped away.
“You should really be kinder,” Aspen said to him, under the murmur of conversation.
Cole hadn’t been unkind. In fact, he was probably being much kinder than Aspen knew, as Tibb hardly attracted him, and the effort would hardly be worth it to either of them. And, anyway, Tibb had upset himself, really. Cole had been a little obvious with Hal during Tibb’s venturing for his attention, but Tibb’s timing was all his own choice.
Cole opened his mouth but Aspen said, “Don’t quote any poetry at me,” so Cole closed his mouth again.
Aspen grunted and plucked a bit of grass to chew. Cole, lying back on the little hillock, hands behind his head, could occasionally crack his eyelids open to survey the whole field under the glare of sunlight.
Hal was nice, but he had a point. Cole liked variety. And, anyway, Hal’s star had risen, as it was evident he had somehow gotten his hands on manoeuvres taught to higher classes. He was busily making the most of the connections this interesting achievement got him, and well done to him for it. But it did mean he was busier than usual. And he did need his strength for his upcoming match.
This is also what preoccupied Aspen, though nobody else thought he had anything to worry about. As usual, Aspen refused not to take the challenge seriously, eyes fixed on his higher goals, which was perhaps why he and Cole got along. While they had opposite approaches, they viewed the present struggle very much the same – a stepping stone, to the next, higher aspiration. Aspen’s gravity and Cole’s carelessness marked them less than their shared (and mutually recognized) ambition, so why not get along?
Well, that and Aspen wasn’t a dick. Maybe Cole should take his admonishment a little more seriously. Aspen didn’t bother with them often. It must mean something.
But by then his half-closed eyes had been following a bright patch of blonde in amongst the green and gray of the field. Curly-haired, blue-eyed, robustly shouldered – he knew that cadet’s name, somewhere deep down, if be bothered to dig for it.
Nothing impressive. Not too smart. A worker, certainly – a well and able mid-tier cadet. Maybe a little lower.
Piet. Piet, framed in the dip between two little hillocks, laughing along with whatever his group was talking about, finally noticed he was being stared at.
Cole smiled.
Piet smiled back.
Maybe Hal would get his break.