[ Marten ]
Commander Bryce was shorter than me, and I was the shortest person in our group, which meant that the man running Alden's Cross could walk under Torvald's chin without bending.
"The children," he said, looking at us.
"Recruits, sir," Kess said.
"Right. Recruits." He said it the way you say "sure" when you don't believe something but don't have the energy to argue. "Hallam's?"
"Yes, sir."
"She still doing the chicken thing?"
Torvald made a noise like a balloon with a slow leak. I didn't step on his foot this time because I was too busy trying not to laugh.
Bryce walked us through the compound. It was small — everything in it was a miniature version of the Southern Shield, like someone had built a garrison for dolls and then decided people should live in it too. The barracks had four cots instead of fourteen. The mess hall had three tables instead of ten. The stable had eight horses, and Torvald counted them twice because he didn't believe a garrison could function with only eight horses.
"Eight," he said. "EIGHT horses. We have more horses than this just for Asha's bad moods."
"Asha is one horse," I said.
"Asha is an EXPERIENCE. You can't measure Asha in horse units. Asha exists outside the normal horse spectrum."
Bryce showed us the mess hall and told us to compliment the cook's soup.
"Even if it's bad?" Torvald asked.
"It's not bad."
"But hypothetically—"
"It's not bad, recruit. Vera takes pride in her soup. You will take pride in eating it. This is not a negotiation."
Torvald opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"The soup is already good and I haven't tasted it yet," he said.
"Better."
Bryce left. We stood in the barracks. Four cots, one window, a view of the river that was the most interesting thing any of us had seen in eight months that wasn't sand.
Torvald immediately went looking for stairs. He found them at the end of the corridor — a wooden staircase leading to the second floor where the officers' quarters were. He stood at the bottom and stared up at them with the expression of a man beholding a religious monument.
"Stairs," he whispered.
"Don't—" I started.
He was already climbing. He got three steps up before a voice from the top said, very clearly: "Recruit. Those are officer's quarters."
Torvald froze. One foot up, one foot down, dignity somewhere in between.
"I was just… checking the structural integrity."
"The structural integrity of the off-limits staircase."
"…Yes?"
"Get down."
He got down. His face was the specific shade of red that meant he was simultaneously embarrassed and completely unrepentant.
"I touched stairs," he told me, back in the barracks. "Actual stairs. With my actual feet. Nobody can take that away from me."
"Your military career might be over."
"WORTH IT."