The geography class concentrated on learning the topography of South Fenola. Implicit was that officers in the Wizard Corps would use that knowledge in the years to come.
In those four months, as more recruits were added, Quint’s seven strings led the barracks, and it was hard for Quint to hold back. He knew sixteen strings with varying degrees of proficiency since he couldn’t practice with magic. That would have been enough to earn him the rank of Corporal once he was released from training, but he was content to stay in familiar surroundings as long as the beatings didn’t go too far.
Two more recruits achieved Soldier and left. Four recruits joined them. None were pressed. They came from prominent willot families who lived in Bocarre, the Racellian capital. Their arrogance repulsed Quint, but all of them were man-sized and were at least a couple of years older than him. They could end up like Sarza if they didn’t respond to the fort’s discipline.
They were a vicious clique who disrupted the classes and demanded most of Master Pozella’s time.
“How could a hubite learn five strings in five months,” one of them said. “How much are you paying the master?”
Quint snorted. “Where would I get enough money for that? Anyway, I’ve never seen Master Pozella take money for advancement. He is already spending most of his time helping you.”
“Are you accusing us of bribing him?” another said.
“No,” Quint said. “He does what he does. He wants all four of you to move quickly to your next ranks.”
The recruit closest to Quint pushed him to the floor. “Just what are you getting at? We don’t need favoritism to succeed in this place.”
Favoritism or not, Quint had to endure minutes of kicking. The other recruits looked on. Quint could see the fear in their faces.
“Why are we doing all the work? Help us humble a hubite!”
In a moment, every recruit was beating on Quint, and when they tired of their sport, Quint had lost consciousness.
He woke in a tiny room. Quint rolled over, a painful experience, and looked out the window. He was in a different room on a different floor.
His possessions were tossed in a corner. Quint tried to get up but was unable to. He thought he had a broken wrist and a broken ankle. He laid back down and added a few ribs to the list.
The door opened, and a woman wearing a white coat over her black uniform entered.
“You regained consciousness. Good!” she said. “We didn’t know if you were going to make it. Sergeant Deck has been demoted and reassigned to the Barellian border. The four recruits received slight slaps on the wrists and are still in barracks.”
Quint gulped a breath, but the woman stopped him from speaking. “You won’t be returning to the barracks,” the woman said. “The fort commander was not happy that he had to reassign the sergeant, but if the four had killed you, Sergeant Deck would have been executed for dereliction of duty. You will have this room as your own until you are promoted out of this fort.”
“What about my classes, ma’am?”
“You will continue your studies. Master Pozella thinks you can qualify on your magic alone and will work with you.”
“Why am I not discharged, ma’am?” Quint asked.
“One of the boys is the grandson of a High Council member, and he is unhappy with his son’s son. He is ordering you to be successful to spite his grandson.”
“Won’t that make the four recruits treat me even worse?”
“If the High Councilman hadn’t intervened, you would have been left for dead. Don’t spit on good fortune,” the woman said. “As you may know, magical healing isn’t much better than common medical treatments, but they will help knit your broken bones. You can be released for classes in two weeks. Master Pozella might not wait that long.”
She worked on Quint. The pain of wizardly healing was almost as bad as the beating, but Quint didn’t know when the woman left since he had lapsed into unconsciousness again.
“Twenty!” Master Pozella said. “Ten more, and they must classify you as an officer. Outstanding, Quint.”
“I’m a Level Two, sir?” Quint asked. He knew the answer, but he felt he had to continue to hold back. Quint knew six more strings than he had demonstrated to Pozella. Four more, and he could leave the fort as an officer. The minimum rating that Pozella thought Quint could survive with.
“When you get your next ten, it is doubtful you will get a commission,” Pozella said, “but your standing will keep you out of a barracks, which is your greatest danger.”
“Do I get tested again?” Quint asked.
“Most certainly, and it won’t just be magic this time. That was why I wanted you to wait a year. You’ll have more strings than you need; now, your education will determine what battalion you will be assigned.”
Quint still worked with the wizard healer to gain physical strength. He had started to grow into a man. He was skinny, but his bones were lengthening, and with more painful treatments, the healer claimed his bones would be stronger than usual because of her magic.
Quint had no reason to doubt her, but also, he had no reason to believe her. But he did feel stronger as he grew and worked out with the soldiers, not the recruits in the training field. His appetite was healthy and sometimes the commissary servers grumbled about all his extra helpings.
“You can start sunbathing,” Pozella said. “You must use good judgment. Too much sun can ruin your skin and make it dry and diseased, but not enough will not give you enough power now that you are adult-sized. Here is the pass to the tanning compound. Your skin can get as brown as a willot, but that is when you have overdone it.”
“I understand,” Quint said. “I’m ready to prepare myself for the outside.”
“Once you are in the wizard corps, you never are truly on the outside again,” Pozella said.
Quint spent all his time concentrating on his four subjects. When he felt he had learned all he could out of the four books, he had mastered thirty-three strings, including four psychic strings: lying detection, weather, portents, which was a very unpredictable form of divining the future, and confusion, which was useful when you wanted your opponent to think less clearly. He was still working on a mental shield from strings that affected the mind. The weave was very complex, and Pozella said even he couldn’t rely on achieving the weave consistently.
“The fort commander insists on demonstrating all thirty of your strings,” Pozella said. “I know you can do it, but it will take a full day, and you will have to do it all over again wherever you are assigned.”
“There is resistance, sir?” Quint asked.
“For you, there will always be resistance, Quint. You know that.”
Quint frowned. “Then I will work on the shield string. I don’t trust a test that isn’t normally given.”
