Excerpt

The final hall ended in a small antechamber, holding a central door opposite, a side door to the left whose purpose Justin already knew, and a small desk to the right where the adjutant sat. The man rose at once, and Justin recognized both the face and the officer's brevet. "Dekentar M'nesa Zetee, cadet Justin reporting as ordered."

"Cadet Thyme," the slender elf returned, "I recall well your family; your father was not unknown to my grand-uncle, who spoke well of his character. I regret his death, sir." This kind word, coming from the youngest scion of such a distinguished noble line, formed a most gracious gesture, and Justin bowed his head in recognition before stiffly taking a seat to wait. A stretch of near-silence ensued, underscored by the deep indistinct murmur of the Commander's voice in the office beyond. One more captain being created, Justin thought bitterly to himself. He wondered if he could raise the question of a clerical error without loss of face. No, it wouldn't do—this was the end of his family, no respectable marriage for a line so many times disgraced.

"You seem nervous, sir, if I may make so bold," the dekentar Zetee said, and Justin snapped back from his reverie to check his comportment: he was fiddling with his sword-top making it tap against the wall. "I will not be so free to speak, I am certain, in a few minutes when you outrank me."

"You are most kind, dekentar," Justin managed formally. "In point of fact, I shall be washed out; my grades are the lowest of the corps."

"Lowest for the rank of captain's cadets?" Zetee returned incredulously.

"Lowest for the entire cadre of officers, at any level." Justin rose and drew forth the paper, advancing to hand it over for inspection. The adjutant was already shaking his head, and glanced at it only once.

"This is not correct, sir. I recall well the privilege of serving under you in certain exercises."

"The flanking maneuver, by the ford, yes. I thought we did rather well."

"Our score was perfect, every point the examiners could see to earn, sir. And I can tell you with candor, the other dekentars have related to me opinions similar to my own. We will talk, of an evening."

"Of my family?" Justin challenged with a wry smile.

"Of your performance in command," Zetee admitted. "This score cannot be yours—sir."

"I, well I had suspected perhaps an error of filing…" Justin trailed off when he saw the dekentar's face rise to meet his own.

"I file the grades myself, sir."

"Then I have given insult, and would formally beg—"

"You have given no insult to me, sir," M'nesa was so moved as to interrupt, and Justin's training could see other signs of stress in his character, though partly hidden. "This simply cannot-"

The door opened and an elven noble strode forth, no cadet's bar or any other decoration on his jacket. Without saluting or looking to either side, he strode between the two and through the left-hand door, slamming it behind him. On the heels of the noise came a voice from within that nearly made the furniture vibrate.

"Are there any more, Zetee?"

"One, sir, cadet Justin Thyme to see you."

A short pause, a slight rustle of papers, and then—"Send him in."

Justin retrieved the grading paper and gave M'nesa Zetee a salute, closer and closer to his last, he reflected. The young elf hesitated, then leaned in to speak in low tones of urgency.

"Sir, I cannot understand what has happened to you. Perhaps it would be best to extend my sympathies here. But I would rather—that is, if you would consider…"

"Dekentar?"

"Will you take me on your command, sir? If you should earn one, that is."

Justin was stunned—in truth, a refined and noble officer like Zetee would have been one of his top choices, if he'd had his way. This was an extraordinary compliment, under the circumstances. With a smile, Justin held out his arm and gripped the adjutant's, saying "You honor me sir, and I thank you. If it will please you to hear it, of course I would be happy to have you in my command. But don't wait for me—even elves get old."

Zetee smiled, and gestured to the open door. Justin closed it behind him.

At once, as always, Justin's eye flicked towards Hansen's left arm and the blade affixed to his severed wrist. The human Commander of the Imperial Array, master of more than twelve thousand men now independent of the traditional feudal levy of Argens, loomed well over six feet and bore his full scale armor like an afterthought as he gazed down at his desk. To judge by the rictus across his scarred face, the piled papers there were his real enemy. Justin held his salute until Hansen looked up and returned it. The gaze of Hansen's eyes, one with a crooked scar running over it from outer temple to the bridge of his nose, was always fierce. Since the Commander usually found an excuse to be angry on the training grounds, it was difficult to tell what other emotions, if any, he held, much less how he showed them. More scar-tissue around his naked muscular arms told of warfare and adventure (that word! Even now Justin recoiled a bit to think of the man's former career). He looked on Justin an extra moment, inscrutably—humans were normally so hasty—and then gestured him closer before returning to shuffle his briefs.

One leather wallet open on his desk bore the name "Justin Thyme", full to bursting with thickly marked papers. Hansen rooted about among the other folios buried on his desk, seeking just one amid the throng, and at last withdrew a valise with a name Justin did not see.

"Somehow," Hansen remarked with a tone of fraying patience, "these reports are continually filed in the wrong places." Justin thought of Zetee's remark cut short, and swallowed hard. Perhaps this was his chance.

"Commander, if I may, there has perhaps been-"

"There we are," Hansen interrupted with satisfaction, so like a human to break in. "All papers back where they belong." He inserted the much larger, marked-up notes from Justin's valise to the other, and put in their stead the thin, barely-written comments from the unknown. Thumping Justin's valise to the desk and sitting, Hansen remarked with great emphasis, "That's better. You sir, are washed out."