Chapter 3 Declarations

[frenzied67]

Alren's prison was a series of four rectangular buildings, three stories tall, set at the cardinal points of the compass. One twenty foot tall cement wall with eight towers surrounded those buildings; guards walked parapets that faced inward. Another twelve foot high wall surrounded that inner defensive barrier. This structure sported four towers and one gate, there were no parapets, but thin blades and broken glass festooned the tops of that outer wall: complete with old brown stains showing the barriers effectiveness. One road ran from Alren's eastern curtain wall, meandering through the tall grasses burned brown by the summer's sun. This stone road ran five hundred yards to connect the disheveled prison to the town, the tall grasses extended out for half a dozen miles spotted with farms and orchards.

Guards in the towers flanking the gates kept their eyes on a lone figure waiting on the little stone road, no doubt sweating in the mid summer light. Gilserand could no longer be mistaken for a boy, and he no longer thought of himself as one. In three days time he would turn fifteen and become a legal adult. Gil had grown a lot since his disappointing Gathering Day, his hair darkening to a brown color. Though he was still youthfully slender, he had taken on the physique of a man. Broad shoulders and narrow waist, veins standing out on his hands and forearms. He even sported fuzz that could be mistaken for whiskers some day. His freckles had also blended with the rest of his skin tone, and his features had taken on a chiseled look; his baby fat softness gone.

Sweat stood out on his face, plastering his side burns down. Impatiently, Gilserand glanced at the gate wondering when it would open. A couple of year ago he had gone to Captain Kinnert and had asked the man about the woodcutters who had brought him out of the forest to Alren. As a favor, the captain had done a little light investigation. One wood cutter, who had been named Trint, had been killed in a Sauri or Gobesh ambush in the forest. The other man had been imprisoned seven years ago for killing someone in a knife fight, his name was Hughberk. For the last year Gil had been waiting for this Hughberk to be released so he could ask him about his birth mother.

Three days! Everything is going to change in three days! Gilserand did not know how much he should worry about his upcoming birthday. Sure, he would not have to go to school anymore, but he would also be expected to find a job. Naively he worried that the process of gaining employment would be similar to the harrowing experience he had faced on his Gathering Day. This may be my last chance to question Hughberk, working a job isn't going to let me have free time to investigate who my parents could have been. Another worry reared up. Is he actually going to be released today? Gil had pestered the prison guards until they had sent him to the court. Court records had indicated that mid summer of this year was Hughberk's release date; this day.

Corporal Graeseed and Sergeant Dilburd, his old friends, had also looked up the day of Hughberk's release for Gilserand. They were quite familiar with both the documents and the procedures of the court system, since they had to file those documents when they arrested someone. They knew how important this was to Gil, they would not play one of their pranks on him for this. Would they? Waiting and heat gave his imagination too much time to concoct uncertainties. Wait, he suddenly realized. I might be stationed here if the guards hire me. I might become a prison warden, or a camp guard for the woodcutters. Those jobs did not sit well with the youth, his ideal was to police Alren and arrest criminals; maybe even be called out of Alren's walls to scare off the non Human tribes that lived in the woods and jungles.

What do I do if the guards don't hire me? That was one of the scariest questions of all. Gil had never thought about his future until about three years ago, when Dilburd and Graeseed had shown an interest in him. Ever since then, Gilserand had set joining the guards as his paramount goal. In the year leading up to his Gathering, he had also tried working for West Alren Standard a printing company. A job that had proven too intricate for his twelve year old self, and one that just did not appeal to this day. He had also worked at a grocers for a few weeks, that was a job that was not intricate or stimulating. Why aren't there jobs with adventure included. I would like to travel to foreign lands, meet interesting people, maybe face strange situations that gets the blood pumping.

Shifting his coat to his other arm, Gilserand looked back at Alren. Over the wall he could see small shapes erecting scaffolding around a three story house. Someone was adding another floor to their existing building. Our town is growing. I wonder if the rumors are true? Is the council going to petition the king in Bolloren to allow us to expand our defensive walls? Will we be able to grow our town into a city? That would mean that there would be a new outer ring of streets. Would money come into his neighborhood so that he and The Widow would not have to live in the poor quarter anymore?

That would allow Randera the Widow to have better clients who lived closer to her, people willing to buy the fantastic clothing she designed. As it was, she had to travel to the center of town to consign her designs in the well to do inner circles of Alren. That was where she made good coin, pentamarks of silver or sometimes those coveted gold marks. All her nearby clients could not afford the velvet, silk, and lace that were Randera's favorite mediums, the clothes they could afford brought in kippers or single marks.... Tung tung screeeeeee! That noise had come from inside the prison, beyond the outer wall.

This had been the first new sound coming out of the penal enclosure, and the only double retort and squeal loud enough to have reached town. That has to be the inner gates, Gilserand determined, hating that he could not see through the wall at this moment. When he looked at them, the young man learned the guards of the outer towers were looking into the outer yard rather than waiting for Gilserand to do something other than shift from foot to foot in the heat. There! Though the voices did not make distinct words, someone inside the wall was shouting. How communications were passed by the wardens, and all other military groups.

Gilserand drew himself into attention, standing on his toes as if that would help him see inside. Some of the tower guards were shouting back.

"Yes Sir! We are ready to discharge Prisoner one four eighty eight, our security detail is ready to merge with your unit, Sir." This is it! he exulted, meanwhile anxieties played a new worry into his brain. What if this isn't Hughberk? What if they are discharging another prisoner? A few moments passed where he did not realize he was shifting from foot to foot, like a kid trying to figure out whether to run away or not. With a metallic pop and ear numbing squeal, the outer gate doors swung ponderously open.

An officer with a satchel accompanied a tall man wearing ill fitting clothing, he was holding his full length pants up with a hand. Ten yards behind the two, a dozen armed guards seemed to be shepherding them towards the gates, their spears held to receive. Their crescent formation walked casually despite their ready weapons, keeping in step with the odd duo. Though he was fifty yards away from the gate, Gilserand could see and feel their eyes upon him. Soon, however, after the officer and civilian passed through the gates, the pressure of being watched left Gil when the ensemble stomped to a halt. With a militaristic pivot step, the captain faced the freed man offering the canvas and wood satchel.

After the tall man accepted the bag's handle, the officer lifted his right leg for another left foot pivot. His stamped foot heralded the officer now facing the gate, and without further flourish or drama, proceeded to return to his post behind the walls. When the gates protested being closed, the tall man glanced up the towers, seeing a few crossbows aimed his way. Gil couldn't see the man's expression, but what he did see was a man with a long rectangular face. Sandy blond hair, shot through with white at his temples and sideburns, was cut short. Craggy features locked onto Gilserand before the gate was half way shut. And even though Gil could not see an expression, he knew the man was fixed on him as he began to walk falteringly down the little south wandering road. Those wincing steps were due to the man being shoeless, One hand had gathered the extra material of his pant's waist, gripping the cloth so that the breeches did not fall to his ankles.

Nearer, Gil could see the man had a tall ski slope nose with somewhat wide nostrils. The eyes were a pale blue, and they showed a mix of curiosity and a bit of disappointment while viewing Gilserand. He showed the man a smile, but he knew his offering was anemic.

"Are you the wood cutter Hughberk?" he asked when the man was close enough that raising his voice would not be necessary. Those pale blues narrowed.

"Who wants to know?" The stranger's voice was naturally raspy, like someone who either drank hard liquor too often or who had smoked tobacco for too long. His voice was higher than what Gil had anticipated, though still deep enough to not be too disconcerting.

This isn't how I had imagined it would be, Gil confessed to himself. At this moment his uncertainties plagued his mind, wanted to steal away with his need to know. How was he to respond? Should he respond? Gilserand's hesitation saw full suspicion freeze on the older man's face. He was in prison for knifing someone in a fight. What made me think I could deal with this man? Tension and wariness made the man stop several steps away, and Gil knew he had to do or say something to alleviate their little drama.

"Fifteen years ago, you found me in the woods. You and a friend brought me to Alren."

The light dawning on the older man's face came with widened eyes and a little chuffing noise, like a boxer who had taken a thump to the guts. It is him! For a few moments they stood in silence, the man looking him up and down. The wood cutter did not see the old clothes or the worn leather boots. Hauberk studied the young man before him, and seemed to come to a favorable opinion. Almost smiling while shaking his head the man moved over and sat down on the grass.

"This is the last thing in the world that I had expected," Hughberk said as he began to rummage around in his satchel. And just like that, Gilserand felt ignored. The attention he had received was gone just that fast, as Hughberk pulled a crazed leather belt forth. The worn out strap was set aside as the recently freed man continued to search around inside the bag.

Without using his eyes, the man rummaged around. His longing look was directed at Alren's walls. "I lost a lot of weight in there. My clothes don't fit anymore," Hughberk suddenly announced, pulling forth a stocking of thick gray material. Too many cross stitched threads around the toes showed the footwear had been worn beyond its natural life span. He went back to rummaging. "Been fifteen years, what can I do for you?" Now faced with the question that was the crux of his reason to be there, Gilserand's thoughts tried to evaporate once again. Then one of Randera the Widows lessons on courtesy reared up.

"Oh, I... uh, my name is Gilserand. The lady you dropped me off with gave me that name." His words made Hughberk turn his head and look at Gil. He gave a nod, but the questions remained in the man's eyes.

Why was this suddenly not as easy as he had thought it would be? "The older I get, the more I wonder where I come from," he finally got out, hoping his hesitations were not being seen as rude. From his seat in the pushed down grass, the man produced a single pitch stained glove.

"I don't know what I can do about that," Hughberk stated stuffing the glove back in and resuming blindly groping about. Ire flooded Gilserand, and his eyes narrowed. Then he realized Hughberk's words were more true than he himself had wanted to hear, he probably did not know any more than what Gil had been told. Yet this guy had been there. His memory could hold details that might help me out.

As a boot with another often mended gray stocking came out of the canvas satchel. These joined the first sock and the worn belt in the grass near the stone road.

"So you did not know the woman you found me with? You had never seen her before?" A shrug came before the disappointing answer.

"Nope, I had never seen her before. Look, me and an old friend who is dead now, were out in Oldbeard. We heard you crying from some distance, so we came to investigate. We found you next to this dead woman. You were still attached to her by this gut tube in your belly button. That's all I know kid." Okay, proof that the woman was really my mother. That is progress.

Smiling now that he had hope some details were still with Hauberk, he squatted down to eye level. Hughberk had not been expecting Gilserand to do this. He was slow pulling out the last boot, puzzlement stark on his features.

"That actually helped. Some people had doubts that the woman out there had actually been my birth mother. Was she young, middle aged, older?" Viewing Gilserand's smile seemed to break through Hughberk's disinterest. The idea that he was actually helping produced the twitch of a return smile. This from a man who did not come across as expressive.

"She was young, maybe a handful of years passed her Gathering age. Trint thought she was a princess cause she had the good looks, fancy clothes, and jewelry of one." Hughberk said, stuffing a foot into a stocking that was begging for retirement.

She was rich? That would make her stand out. Rich women don't vanish without someone going out of their way to find them. These clues were pure gold!

"Do you think she came from Bolloren? Was she wearing the fashions of our capitol?" While drawing the boot over his heel, Hughberk gave a slight chuckle.

"Listen kid, I'm a woodcutter. I wouldn't know fashion if it came up and bit me. One thing I can tell you, no one around Alren wore clothes like she was wearing. She also had the brown eyes and brown skin of them folk who live near the southern sea. Trint, before he got himself killed, he checked up with the guards. The guards had sent a sketch of your mother to Bolloren. No one knew her in the capitol. No one came looking from foreign parts. Don't know what to tell you about that."

No one looked for my mother? That doesn't add up, Gilserand thought, trying to do the math without the full formula to work with.

"Did she have anything with her name on it, or was there a necklace or ring with a family crest on it? You said she was rich." Hughberk pondered this query as he laced up his boot. He shook his head before the words came out.

"No nothing like that. Her jewelry was nothing but fancy metals and fancier gemstones, those were in the only pouch she had on her. Nothing in there but a few rings, some bracelets, and a fancy silver necklace. If we had been big criminal masterminds, me and Trint would have nicked some of that stuff. Neither one of us knew a fence, or had ties with the syndicates. We talked ourselves out of it cause we were sure someone would come looking."

Hughberk had been busy stuffing toes into his other old stocking when he said that. After the admission had passed through his mouth, the man realized he might have triggered the offspring of the dead woman. Having grown up in the poor quarter of town, Gil did not have the instinct to protest such behavior. He knew he would have faced the same temptation if he had been there. He just nodded at the older man, as he tried to think of some other means there were for identifying a person. Relieved, the woodcutter quickly put his last boot on and began to work the laces.

"Did she have any tattoos or scars on her, anything that would stand out and help identify her."

Now sure that he was dealing with a person he could relate too, Hughberk's mien took on a little more animation. His smile actually lingered for a few seconds.

"Man, you think like a guard. When Trint got killed, I had to answer a whole batch of clever questions like that," Hughberk said, tugging the laces taut. Gil blinked at the compliment, even though the former prisoner had not thought it one. "Nah, she didn't have no visible scars or tattoos on her. Just her face. Sometimes it would be nice to have the tongue of a bard, cause when you see a beauty like that you wish you had the words to describe her, to make other people believe. Even dead, she hit me and Trint right here," he said, thumping himself in the center of his chest.

Gilserand found himself smiling, relating to the former prisoners longing for eloquence. He rose from his squat, still trying to find questions that would make tracking his real family down easier. Instead of an idea, Hughberk gathered the excess cloth of his pants then reached a hand out for Gil to help him up. Having grown up working hard, then playing even harder, Gilserand was able to heave the larger man to his feet. Awkwardly, the wood cutter began to feed his old worn out belt through the breeches belt loops. They both began speaking at once, Gil readily gave way to his elder with a hand gesture.

"I wanna thank you, Gilserand. I just got out of that bleak little hole and I was certain life out here wouldn't have been any better. You showed up and reminded me that I have done some good in my life, and that I still can do good. It has been a real pleasure seeing you, and seeing that you have grown all the way up."

Not certain why Hughberk would say something that nice too him, Gilserand was almost nonplussed. He recovered though, his own parting message needing to be expressed.

"It was nice meeting you too, Hughberk. Thank you for answering my questions. You may not know it, but you tripled my knowledge of that long ago day. A lot of people doubted that woman had been my mother at all. People thought I had been stolen from my real parents by a crazy lady." Hughberk studied him earnestly for a moment, taking in his features as if trying to memorize them. That moment eased when the older man smiled and nodded a farewell to Gil. Leaving Hughberk still threading the decrepit belt onto his pants, Gilserand turned south and faced the distant west bend in the stone road, and began the long walk back home.

Five Days Later

How can bitterness and excitement be working in me at the same time? Gilserand asked himself taking his place in a line of twenty people, many of whom were as young as he was. Possibly they were all there in Alren's Central Administration building looking for one of the many jobs the city had openings for. Even though he had a long wait before him, Gil felt an odd excitement. He was about to apply for a position in the guards, his first and hopefully his last application. However, his choice of careers was the reason why Randera the Widow and he had clashed that morning. Gil knew his joy was greatly muted from the words they had exchanged.

He had come out of his room that morning wearing the nice new clothes Randera had made for him, tailor fit for his fifteenth birthday. He was proud of the silver knee length breaches, and the rose red hose under them. His red shirt and silver vest actually complemented each other, and his silver tailed coat tied the whole suit together with its rose lining. These were the types of clothes that lace and embroidery had been made for, though those features were lacking. Satin begged for such embellishments though. Between the privacy closet and his bedroom was a full length mirror, one of the most expensive furnishings in their house.

The Widow found Gilserand admiring himself before the mirror as she came out of her own room, stuffing a shirt into one of the non hooped skirts she wore while working.

"Now I know why you say a tailored fit is much better than a general cut," he had said turning to see his profile and feeling lordly. These were the best clothes he had ever worn, and the fact they were his tended to boggle his mind. Though she smiled briefly, she seemed distracted as she weaved by some of her dummies holding partially completed projects. Her goal was the ofenherd, which he had stoked before getting dressed. Discovering that she did not have to light a fire, she wrested a skillet off the wall and started warming it before going to the cabinet that held ingredients.

Squatting with her head seemingly inside the cabinet, Randera the Widow called out an admonition.

"I made those clothes so you could go out and get a job, not for your everyday wear." Turning some more to see how well his suit fit him from behind he had to admit the coats tails were indeed unique and flattering. Breaking free from his reflection Gil also weaved around a stack of partial bolts of cloth and a modeling dummy with just a pinned up pattern on it.

"That's what I'm going to do. I'm going to eat then I'm going to go land a job." She popped out of the cabinet to give Gil a look, balancing three decent sized tea tins. Those containers had been repurposed to hold other sundries.

Setting one tin on top of their miniature larder, Randera the Widow's put the other two tins back inside then started moving things around on another shelf.

"So soon? You just had a birthday. You just got out of school. I thought for sure you would take a few days to catch your bearings." Gil started clearing off the end of the six person table closest to the ofenherd, but an imp of humor took hold of him.

"I'm old enough to drink now, and the road to alcoholism takes coins. As they say, time is wasting."

Popping out of the cabinet with a basket holding four eggs, The Widow gaped at him. An expression that turned sour when she witnessed his self satisfied grin. She was definitely not humored.

"That is not funny Gilserand. Why do you have this rush to grow up and get a job, why can't you wait?" Age had been catching up with Randera the Widow this last year. Her smile lines were now very pronounced and her crows feet showed full time rather than when she just smiled. Her hair had white roots as hair dye was a luxury item that she had to save up for. Seeing that she was not in a mood for levity, Gilserand sobered up. Why doesn't she want me to get a job...? Oh, she doesn't want me growing up on her.

Suddenly understanding Randera the Widow's motivations, Gil felt a wave of fondness fall over him. Since one seat was already ready and in position, Gilserand began clearing fabric scraps and a pin cushion off the other.

"When I was young, bringing a few fish home was a big help. Doing chores around the house was a big help. You know what would be a bigger help? Me doing those things and adding a job. Me working might just keep us from just scraping by." Features softening, Randera moved over to the table with several tins and eggs. Her next move was to grab her medium mixing bowl and their bottle of milk.

"What places are you going to apply at today?" she asked after she had let her feelings marinate for a minute.

Knowing Randera the Widows preferences, Gil moved the pin cushion to a small stand in the north west corner of the house. The drawer was full of pin cushions, but her favorites were displayed on top of the yellow painted furnishing.

"I'm going to apply with the guards first, Central Admin might take me the whole day...."

"No!" The Widow's voice cracked like a whip, making Gilserand turn to face her. Her face was splotchy with parts that were too red surrounded by flesh that was too pale, she was aiming a batter dripping whisk at his chest. "I was hoping you would grow out of that phase of your life. Every boy wants to be a soldier or a fireman because boys are stupid! Dammit, why haven't you grown out of it? Those jobs are dangerous!"

Gilserand had seen The Widow angry before, he himself had gotten on her bad side a number of times, but this display was something new. The woman who had raised him looked like she was ready to launch herself across the room at him.

"It's not that dangerous...," he started confused by her reaction. Randera the Widow did not allow him to finish, she actually advanced halfway by their six person table on him, the whisk held sword like in her small hand.

"Dammit Gil, the guards are constantly in danger! Every day...." Catching momentary control of the fury possessing her, she drew a deep breath that barely calmed her. "Is this because you like to fight? Were you a bully in school, Gil? Is that why you were always in trouble with Miss Hollobrand, you like the violence and now you want to continue beating on people?"

For half a second Gilserand was stung by the accusation, then his own anger flared. She fell back when he began to step around the table, his face twisted by how lowly Randera thought of him.

"Me a bully?" he hissed. "Everyone I ever fought was a bully. All the kids in school looked to me to protect them from the bigger kids! How dare you call me the bully!" Though he had stopped advancing his words seemed to drive Randera back to the ofenherd. Thoroughly stung by her baseless accusation Gil just marched for the exit. Slamming that door behind him, Gilserand had left the house and had stormed off for the center of town.

There was only one person dressed better than Gilserand in the line waiting for city applications. It was an overly plump older woman in embroidered pink silk, she had lace at her wrists and along the edge of the equally pink parasol she held over herself. Women are batty as hell, Gil observed placing his attention on the parasol. She's indoors, why, by the Burning Spirits, does she have that parasol open in here? Eventually he chalked the woman's behavior up to habit or affectation. After looking at the garb everyone else was wearing, Gilserand felt superior at first, but as he thought about things that feeling shifted and he began to feel self conscious. He stood out, and that might not be the best thing. Guards were never this fancy.

Without a clock, the wait in line started to weigh on the young man heavily. Though he doubted he had been waiting for a full hour, Gil thought that time mark might be very close. In that time only three people had received paperwork, and were shown to the left side of the waiting room where worn cubicles and ink quills waited. A familiar figure stepped through an eastern door that was only open to the bureaucrats working in the admin building. After turning around from closing the door behind himself, Capatiann Kinnert started to move across the room. Naturally the officer's eyes were drawn to the pink lady near the front of the line of people, but Gilserand was the second person that caught his glance. Gil thought it comic the way the man in his dark green and black uniform performed his double take. About to dismiss the young man in nice clothes, Kinnert's eyes snapped back as his boots squeaked on his sudden swaying halt.

Grinning at the surprise on the man's face he sketched a partial salute to acknowledge the captain. Wherever the officer had been heading proved to be unimportant as Captain Kinnert pivot stepped and marched directly towards Gil. Several of the other patrons in line started to watch the officer as he neared, finding the stimulus, any stimulus, was better than their wearisome wait.

"Are you here for what I think you are here for?" Captain Kinnert asked, studying Gilserand with his sharp dark blue eyes. Kinnert was tall and burly, capped with dark hair. His face was not the most expressive, but was usually set in negative lines as if he were ever ready to bark at a person's trespasses. He did have a pugilist's mashed nose and cauliflower ears, since he had been on the boxing team in his youth.

Despite his severe aura, Captain Kinnert was actually a gentle man. When Gil had been volunteering with the guard two years ago, the captain had been very receptive to his young often immature questions. The directions he had given Gilserand had always been thorough and well described, making the boy's training so much easier. If it had not been for Captain Kinnert doing him a favor, Gil would never have learned how to find the wood cutter Hughberk, volunteering his time to help cut through the red tape that would have caught the thirteen year old Gil up.

"Yes Sir," Gil said, drawing himself up, almost at attention. "I'm applying to the guard today."

Those eyes seemed to penetrate Gilserand as the officer studied him.

"Are you old enough yet? If you're trying to join before you're fifteen the guard will never take you." Gil's face must have assured Captain Kinnert before his answer issued forth.

"I turned fifteen two days ago, Sir." Please notice how soldier like I am being, he begged in his thoughts, trying to read the older man's mood through his visage. The soldier actually swayed a bit as puzzlement flashed on that hard mien.

"I partied for a week when I turned fifteen. What's your rush, Gilserand?" Because it is hard to respond to such an accusation when you do not think you are in a hurry, Gil was momentarily nonplussed. Soon his grin won forth as his mind found the perfect answer, however the man behind Gil cleared his throat. The line had advanced and they were holding the people behind up.

Taking Gilserand by his arm, Captain Kinnert eased the younger man out of the queue of people. No one hesitated taking Gil's place once he was clear. Feeling the loss of his position, Gil completely forgot to answer the officer's question. However, it seemed Captain Kinnert did not require one.

"Come with me, Gilserand. We'll get you set up in my office." Performing a smart about face, the officer started marching for the same door he had exited moments before. Elation began to fill Gilserand as he fallowed the officer to the north east of the waiting area, by having his application put directly in an officer's hand he was bypassing scores of indifferent bureaucrats. His papers would go directly to the high ranking officer's who actually made the hiring decisions.

From his position a few steps ahead, Captain Kinnert spoke again.

"Did you know Sergeant Dilburd and Corporal Graeseed recommended we take you on Gathering Day two years ago?" Pivoting to turn sideways, Captain Kinnert looked back at Gil while he reached for the door's handle.

"Yes, Sir. They had been thinking about advancing my name since I was eleven, almost twelve." Creases formed between Captain Kinnert's eyes as he ushered Gil through the threshold, obviously this was news to the officer. Gilserand waited for the soldier to take the lead again, as he had no idea where they were heading down the long white tile hall ahead.

As with the waiting room, the hall was lit by Gachtler made glow rods spaced every ten feet overhead. Those wrist thick, four foot long rods looked like some strange metal that glowed bright white. No Human knew how the clever little delvers made such fantastic contraptions, but over the last century, the price of these rods had come down so that they were becoming common place in many of the well to do districts in Alren.

"Dilburd and Graeseed are some of my best men. They're only alive because they work so damn well together. Highest arrest record in my unit, those two," Kinnert said as he moved ahead to lead the way. To Gil, it seemed the officer had been assessing him with his eyes in passing, whether for good or ill he did not know.

Half a step behind and on the officer's left, Gilserand had to agree with the older man's assessment. Doorways with numbers on them alternated every ten feet on first to the left then on the right, they passed one side passage that headed west on their northern route.

"Yes Sir. Sergeant Dilburd and Corporal Graeseed have been looking out for me for most of my life. They kept quit a few bullies off my kiester when I was just a scrawny little pup, until I could take care of them on my own. They may come off rough, but they are both fair." Stopping before a door numbered 462, Captain Kinnert opened the door and again indicated Gilserand to enter before him. The office was small, almost claustrophobically so.

There was a picture along the north wall, over a bank of three foot tall filing cabinets. The country scape west of Alren was captured in fine detail, though the bridge and track were shown to be rutted dirt. The picture must have been painted before Alren had laid the planed stone roads. East were more filing cabinets with barely any space to allow Captain Kinnert to squeeze by and get behind his spacious desk. That furnishing butted up against the south wall with two padded chairs that had floral patterns. Droll daisies vied with vivid pansies on the chair's fabric, they too lined the south wall. Behind the door was an unused coat rack.

As Captain Kinnert was taking his own seat, he indicated that Gilserand should pull out one of the gauche chairs for himself. After Gil was situated, the officer continued to fidget behind his desk, pulling out drawers and not finding what he was after. The man had to push back his big black leather seat in order to access the main drawer in front, his quick grin noted success as the man pulled out some papers, a quill, and ink bottle. An anomaly on the paper drew Gilserand's eye.

"Let's get you started Gilserand. Let's start with your full name." Gil saw the application in front of the captain already had his name spelled out in the first box, and Kinnert was just now unstopping the ink bottle.

Confused, Gil hesitated.

"Uh, Gilserand." Still not ready to begin writing, Captain Kinnert distractedly replied.

"No, son, we need a last name to put of this application." Gravity and clear thought seemed to distort at those words, Gil felt his heart sinking.
"I... I'm an orphan. I... was found in the woods. I don't know my father's surname... I don't know my father." Kinnert stopped casting about his desk for the item he seemed to have misplaced, his eyes were sharp but compassionate.

"That doesn't matter, Gilserand. We need a last name on this application, so make one up. It doesn't matter what it is, just as long as we fill that space in." Seeing that Gil was thinking about the instructions, the officer resumed casting about. The man had to retrieve another piece of paper from the front drawer, before he turned his attention back onto Gilserand. An eyebrow raised with expectation.

Though he had always wondered who his father might be, what his surname actually was, in all of his fifteen years Gil had never thought of granting himself a last name. While the officer had been casting about for his folded paper, Gil had been constantly distracted in his surname quest by memories of the fight with The Widow. The deep ache of her accusation of bullying still felt like a sundering wound in his chest.... That's it! It's a bit dramatic, but it sounds cool! Waiting with his pen poise to dip in ink, Captain Kinnert sat expectantly.

"The Rivenheart," he blurted, then calming he said it again with more dignity. "I am Gilserand Rivenheart." For once the smile stayed on the officers face for more than a few seconds.

"Ooh, I like that. Very dramatic. It's sure to get the ladies all bothered, that's for sure," Kinnert stated while nodding his approval.

As the quill wiggled back and forth in the writing process, Gilserand watched the new last name form upside down after his lifelong first name. That made him wonder why the captain had an application with Gil's name already on it. "Okay, we already know you're a resident of Alren. Do you have a house or are you to be quartered in the barracks with the other enlistees?" He found himself blinking at that question, Gil had assumed that his first year would have been spent in the barracks.

"Sir, I thought I had to live in the barracks at first?"

"Oh, you will. At least through your boot training, which takes about six to eight weeks. We are just wondering if we have to provide your housing and keep, or if you will be taking some of that expense upon yourself. The army likes to save a kipper when it can. believe me, the term food wants no association with the slop we serve in the barracks. You'll see."

With the troubles at home, Gil hesitated. Randera the Widow may be mad enough to kick me out. Should I assume that she'll be okay with me staying there? Should I just leave home now and be done with it? The officer broke in on his thoughts. "Your pay will be a little bit higher if you remain home, but not by much. We can change your status if you require it at any time in the future. We just need to know how you're initially going to set up just in case we have to fit you in. You lose about a pentamark each month staying in the barracks." A whole pentamark! How much does a guard get paid? Gilserand had never thought to ask in all his years of associating with Alren's soldiery.

"Unless I get kicked out, I have a place near the west walls."

"Okay." Kinnert said as he filled in the box, only pausing to take on fresh ink every once in a while.

That pen continued to fill in boxes, even though Captain Kinnert had not asked a further question. Gil wondered what information the paper was asking for.

"Sir, how much does an enlistee earn each month?" He felt silly asking that question, wondering if it might reflect poorly on him, make him seem greedy. Without looking up from his work, the officer had no qualms in answering, allaying the younger man's fears.

"You'll be getting twelve marks a month, since we won't have to get you in condition. If you were fat or skinny then you would only get ten marks a month because we would have to get you in shape. After you get out of boot camp, and you're more buff then you've ever been in your life, then your pay will increase to fifteen marks. Pay raises after that are at the discretion of your commanding officer."

Gilserand was stunned. He would be doubling the income Randera was already making. They could pay off the house in just a few years, and never go without meals again!

"That woodcutter got out of the pen almost a week ago, did you ever speak with him?" Captain Kinnert's query sideswiped Gil. He had not known that the captain would have remembered that detail of their earlier dealings, it had been two years ago. On top of that, the topic seemed out of place; they were filling out his application for a job after all.

"Uh, yes Sir, the man had some details that no one knew before." The quill stalled for a second as Captain Kinnert looked Gil in the eye, an eyebrow raised expectantly. "Uh, I had indeed been born on the spot, and my mother died. He said the umbilical was still attached. My mom had the brown skin of the folk living near the southern seas, wore nice clothes of a foreign design, she had some fancy jewelry in a pouch, and supposedly she was young and very beautiful."

The captain had returned to filling out Gilserand's application for him as the fifteen year old spoke.

"Do you think she was a noble woman?" Kinnert asked without looking up.

"I don't know. It sure seems she might have been. Hughberk had that impression, because of the fancy clothes, but even more so for the jewels." Now checking some boxes on Gil's behalf the officer did not raise his head.

"She might have been a pretty girl who caught the attention of a noble or royal. A noble man is not above lavish gifts when seducing a pretty face. They are also notorious for assassinating the mother's of their unwanted bastard children. Don't forget that fact. There are always alternate reasons for the way something seems. It will be your job to consider all the options why things could be the way they are, and not fixate on what looks most obvious. Details save lives. What major illnesses have you had in the past?"

The transition from lesson to question threw Gil off for a moment.

"Uh, I- yes Sir. Fogair fever when I was nine, Sir." More boxes were checked at speed. "Uh, Sir? Why would you have an application ready with my name on it?" Captain Kinnert partially looked up, the quill pausing mid stroke, but raised up off the ink starved paper. The gaze was sharp and the Captain's lip twitched up a smidgen. The older man pondered for a moment, then he responded without touching the question laid before him.

"From day one you are going to find yourself singled out like no other recruit. The officers will pick on you, make you work harder than the others. They are going to try and break you. Don't let them do it, Gil. Do the extra work, do it well. Don't give them a real reason to berate you. Memorize your books, absorb every lesson imparted on training days. Just don't quit! Promise me that you will honor your declaration to serve and not break, Gilserand Rivenheart?" Gil did not understand, but Captain Kinnert's sharp hopeful gaze was compelling.