rix_scaedu

This started out as a response to the Thimbleful Thursday prompt "thumb one's nose" and then I added on the prompt "upset the applecart" and I've still come in over word count at 976 words.

“No,” said Cory firmly. “I’m not going to Eastbridge or joining the Army now. Dad and I agreed that we’d discuss it when he comes home.”

“His replacement was killed and that war’s gotten hot again, so your father’s posting’s been extended,” said his grandfather patiently. “You’ve finished school and now it’s time to take your next step.”

“That next step can be university until Dad comes home,” replied Cory.

“Young man,” his uncle sounded a lot less patient than his grandfather, “until your father comes home we’re your responsible adults and you’ll do as we say. No lollygagging – the commencement ceremony is in two days’ time. We’ll pick you up at eight thirty in the morning, and if you’re not dressed ready to go, I’ll dress you myself.” The older, larger man’s glare was a threat in itself.

At the appointed time on the appointed day, Cory was on a Tribal-flagged ferry crossing the Northwest Strait and more than technically no longer in the same country as his grandfather and uncle. Two days later he was in the Northern Tribal Alliance’s capital and enrolling in university. He assumed a local style patronymic and spent the time before classes started doing intensive work improving his grasp of the local language.

His uncle found him at first snowfall. Cory and his study partners, Tatarra and Rudvig, were crossing the main quad on their way from the library to their dormitories and they first thought the three men were associated with the big dinner in the Main Hall that night. “You’ve had your fun, boy. Now it’s time to come home.” His uncle’s voice wasn’t quite loud enough to echo off the surrounding walls. People who were associated with the dinner looked around.

“Not until Dad’s back.” The two large men flanking his uncle moved forward.

“Make this easy on yourself and come quietly,” said one just before they grabbed at him.

Cory dodged. Tatarra screamed and hit at one with her book bag. One thug off-elbowed Rudvig into the ground as the other dodged the book bag, extended a flexible shockstick with a flick of his wrist and swung it at Tatarra. Rudvig wasn’t moving but Cory pivoted, grabbed the arm holding the shockstick, and broke it across his knee. The second man moved to support his colleague but now Cory had the shockstick in his hand.

“How much do you really want to try that again?” Cory’s voice was trembling, maybe from adrenalin.

“You think you’ve been clever?” His uncle’s words were laden with sarcasm. “The Tribal Alliance’s laws regarding minors are much stricter than ours. I just have to go to the nearest police station, show them my papers, and you’ll be in my care, on a plane home by dawn.”

“That rather depends on him being a minor, doesn’t it?” The new voice floated across the open space, charming, erudite and lightly accented because it was speaking Cory’s native tongue, not its own. The owner was tall and male with shoulder-length dark hair and dressed for a formal dinner. “And why didn’t you do that in the first place? As the Ekkanru Lawspeaker and Lorespeaker, I can assure you that age isn’t the only method of attaining adulthood.” He smiled genially. “There’s trial by combat, for instance. In front of competent witnesses. Such,” he looked over his shoulder, “as the participants in the Tribal Leadership Convocation.”

A solid body of people, mainly men, stood outside the door and down the steps of the Main Hall. Some were on their phones, talking. Several others were filming. There was a lot of whispering going on, and some note passing.

“So, young man,” the Ekkanru Lawspeaker and Lorespeaker turned to Cory, “who are you?”

Cory didn’t turn his eyes from his two assailants and didn’t lower his acquired weapon while he answered, “Cory surl Henrix.”

“No grandfather’s name?” There was a sense of raised eyebrows in the question.

“He’s one of the people who want me to break my agreement with my father.” Cory risked a glance at Rudvig. “Uh, my friend needs an ambulance.”

“Being arranged,” the Ekkanru assured him. “So, what is your agreement with your father?”

“That he comes home again from the war.” Cory’s voice was grim.

“Ah,” the Ekkanru nodded. “One of the high magics indeed.”

“Magical thinking!” Cory’s uncle snorted. “Ridiculous in this day and age.”

“Oh,” the Ekkanru turned in place to face the older man, “are you so certain that this agreement isn’t central to your brother’s mental resilience? What would you do if knowing that his son is waiting for him is what’s keeping him alive and sane?”

“That’s nonsense.” Cory’s uncle was scathing in his dismissal.

“On the contrary. One of my PhD theses was on mental resilience in warriors and you’d be surprised.” The Ekkanru smiled sweetly.

Well, it should have been a sweet smile and fortunately there was an interruption from the crowd on the steps before anything else could be said. “This impromptu session has reached a decision!” It was a ringing voice and the older man who owned it wore his hair in braids bound with metal rings. “It is the view of the Combined Chiefly Councils of the Northern Tribal Alliance that the youth, Cory surl Henrix, has demonstrated by feat of arms in the face of attack and threat to his companions that he is fit, ready, and capable of carrying out the part of an adult in this world. These assembled Councils therefore recognise him as such and direct that he take up those responsibilities in truth.”

Cory’s uncle opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, the thought that, yes, they could do that obviously running through his mind.

“So,” said the Ekkanru Lorespeaker and Lawspeaker cheerfully, “now you just need a clan, a tribe and a totem.”

It’s after three in the morning when a key turns in the lock of the front door of a flat in Oswinford. The young man with black nail polish who opens the door is surprised to find not one but two young women waiting for him. “Arleen,” he tiredly, perhaps cautiously, acknowledged the taller, thinner, angry looking, black haired and black lipped one who stood in the middle of the room tapping the black boot on the end of her black clad right leg. “Gwedd,” this affectionately to the curvier girl with black dyed hair who sat on the end of the lounge screwing up a handkerchief between her hands, “My note said not wait up.”

“You expected her to go to sleep with you out after curfew?” Arleen attacked with what was clearly pent up frustration. “And there was fighting in the streets tonight – we could hear the explosions from here, of course she was worried! And what on earth are you wearing?” Her eyes were taking in the detail of the military issue camouflage he was wearing now and the Heroghast rifle slung over his shoulder and her mouth widened in a silent “Oh.”

“You left me all your money,” Gwedd’s voice sounded small and distant as she turned to face him, “I know how much you get, and you left me everything.”

He scratched his head, a sign of either embarrassment or avoidance, “Well, I was here to run up the utility bills and you’ll need to pay the rent before you can get someone in to help you with it.” He went on, “I just have to pick up a bag from the back of the wardrobe. If things don’t go the way we hope you don’t want the Margasans to find its contents in your possession.” He went through into the bedroom and re-emerged a few moments later with a nondescript brown gym bag.

“What would have happened about that if you’d been killed tonight?” asked Arleen snarkily.

“Someone else would have come to get it,” was the calm reply, “And if the Margasans do come to question you about me, both of you, tell them the truth. The absolute truth – you knew nothing about what I was up to until I came back here tonight.”

“So, what were you doing for the last ten months?” Arleen continued in the same tone, “Besides propping up in the bar in our favourite pub?”

“Picking up useful snippets of information from Margasans on leave who were intelligent and sensible enough to fancy witch girls,” he shrugged, “It’s amazing how much men will tell you if they think you can give them an in with a girl they fancy.”

“With me?” Gwedd’s voice held a different hurt tone now.

“No,” he was firm, “You’re my girlfriend. Arleen, Fenna and Renne were my stalking horses.”

“Next, you’ll tell us you were killing Margasans in your spare time,” Arleen gave a nasty little laugh, “Something useful to the war effort.”

“What I was doing was potentially useful,” it was a quiet reply, “Or I wouldn’t have been ordered to do it. And before tonight, I killed three Margasans in the last ten months. All of them had identified people doing more dangerous jobs than mine for what they really were. So I got rid of them before they could report in and made it look like a one person accident each time. Happy, Arleen?” He turned to Gwedd and went down on one knee to bring his face level with hers, “Love, if I don’t come back, it’ll be because I can’t, not because I don’t want to.” He glanced at his watch, “I’m sorry, I have to go.” He stood, “Take care of each other, you two.” He walked out the door and pulled it closed behind him. After a few minutes the girls could hear, through the early morning silence, a vehicle pulling away from the bottom of the building.

“Well,” said Arleen as she sat down beside her friend, “I knew he was keeping secrets from you but I never expected any of that.” Her arm went around Gwedd’s shoulders as the other girl silently began to sob. “I suppose if we get questioned, he expects us to tell the Margasans everything he just told us?”

“I think so,” Gwedd was trying to swallow her tears, “But he doesn’t think he’s coming back! He left me all his money.” And she began to cry again.

It was dark on the road to Pelosa in eastern Hyperfaell but the girls in the car had special permission, obtained the previous day, to be on the road before the end of curfew. They were Margasan, part of a programme called Communities to Communities set up by the Margasan government to spread the benefits of Margasan everyday medical and technical advances to the rest of the world. Aside from attracting those with a genuine desire to make the world a better place it offered tertiary education benefits to those who served certain amounts of time. “Where do you think all these army trucks are going?” The dark skinned driver peered out the windshield at the tail lights in front of her, “And why have they stopped? I hope it’s not going to be a big delay, we’ve barely got enough time to get there to open the clinic as it is.”

The front passenger leaned to the left and peered ahead into the pre-dawn light. “Looks like they’re turning off here.” She switched on a small hand held light and shone it at the road map on her lap, “I don’t know where they could be going though, there doesn’t seem to be anything marked on the map.” She turned off the light, “At least if they’re not in front of us we might be able to pick up a bit of speed.”

The blonde third girl, seated behind the driver in the back asked, “Hang on, is that someone directing traffic? All the way out here, in the middle of nowhere?”

When their headlights hit the figure it was clear that he was wearing the odd greeny-brown the Margasan Federated States’ Army dressed their military police in to distinguish them from other soldiers. Beyond him was a road block with more military police and, off to the right, some sort of office building. He held up his hand, commanding them to stop, and the driver obeyed. The man, a major by his rank tabs, leant over and shone a torch into the car through the driver’s window. After looking at each of their faces, “Ladies,” he acknowledged, “There’s a bit of a problem on the road ahead, nothing for you to worry about, but I think you’ll be more comfortable in the office until it’s cleared.”

“Couldn’t we follow the trucks?” asked the freckled brunette in the front passenger seat, “We’re supposed to be in Pelosa by half eight to open a baby clinic.”

“You are cutting it a bit fine to get to Pelosa by then,” he acknowledged easily, “But that road only leads to the back gate of the airfield, it won’t get you to Pelosa. The office has flush toilets and hot coffee,” he added invitingly, “And if the delay makes you late, I can give you a note for your supervisor. Please park over there.” He pointed at a sign that said “Parking” in Hyperfaellan.

The driver smiled, agreed, “Yes, sir,” and pulled into the parking lot.

“He did say flush toilets, didn’t he?” asked the girl in the backseat, “I’ve been dying to go for about the last half hour.” Behind them the major called one of his men over to the spot he’d been using to flag the traffic down and followed the girls to the office door.

“As you can see, ladies,” the major opened the door and ushered them in, “Lights, heat, coffee, and the toilets are through that door over there,” he pointed at the far rear corner. “I’ll be back when you can continue on your journey.” He closed the door behind him, and only Saira, the driver, was close enough to hear the lock snick as well.

The dark skinned girl grabbed the handle and tried to turn it. “Girls,” the other two, one at the coffee and the other half way to the toilets, turned, “We might have a problem. The door’s locked, and he never did ask us for our id or our permission to be out during curfew.”

“Well, we are Margasan and he probably doesn’t want us wandering around in the middle of whatever that problem is,” said the blonde, “Excuse me, but I’m busting.” She dashed for the far door.

“The other thing,” went on Saira, “Could you pick where in Margasa he was from, Dee?”

“No,” said the brunette prosaically as she poured herself a cup of coffee, “But maybe he moved around a lot growing up. And maybe you watch too many cheap thrillers on the television.”

Saira looked worriedly at the door, “Maybe,” she agreed reluctantly.