Arwell got dressed silently in the morning chill and built a fire in the hearth. By the time Mom and Dad woke up, the house would be above freezing, if not exactly toasty warm. Shivering, he grabbed the two large pails and headed for the well. The pails full, he attached one to the hook above the fire. Most of their neighbors heated water with a simple magic spell. It was fast and reliable, and the family had enough hot water for a full day of bathing, washing and cooking. Dad refused to use magic, save in the most dire circumstances.
School was not in session just now, since Professor Homby had accompanied Deputy Governor Greena to the Feast of Axeshame in Zormine. Arwell had all morning to finish his chores, but was used to getting them done before breakfast. He checked the wagon, applying grease to one of the wheels. He dropped several bales of hay from the loft onto the wagon. Those caribou are spoiled, he muttered to himself. Before we came, they got by in the winters with nobody bringing them hay. Of course, he reminded himself, before we came, they didn’t get slaughtered every year either.
Mom made griddlecakes with caribou sausage for breakfast. Arwell dug in like a trencherman.
“Learned any magic at school?” asked Dad around a mouthful of cake.
“A little,” replied Arwell. “I could heat a few liters of water in the mornings. Make it easier for Mom to get started cooking and do laundry.”
“No, son. We’ve talked about this. I’m glad you’re studying magic, but I want you - I want all of us - To learn to survive without it. Who knows what the future holds? Maybe you’ll end up in Goerthe, where the Diaballicans will ride you out of town on a rail for practicing magic.”
“I wish Greena and Homby hadn’t gone to that Diaballican festival in Zormine,” put in Mom. “Those people hate us. Why should our leaders associate with them at all?”
“I think it’s a good idea,” said Arwell. “The reason they hate us is because they don’t know us. Once the Goerthens learn we’re regular folks, like them, they won’t be so hostile.”
“Aye,” agreed Dad. “The tension between our countries is growing. If we don’t try to defuse it, who knows what might happen?”
“Arwell, do you have cadet training this afternoon?” asked Mom. All persons, male and female, between fourteen and twenty had to participate in the military, either as reserves or full time soldiers. Baxlana was very aware that her son might someday have to march to battle against the superior Goerthe army.
“Yes. School’s closed, but we’re still working on Old Frigate.” Arwell had finished basic training and applied to serve in Boutland’s fledgling navy. Problem was, Boutland had no war ships of any kind. Old Frigate was a freight ship, hauling mostly lumber from inland forests down the Polona to growing communities along the Riparian. Arwell and his squad spent their three hours a day rigging the schooner as a fighting vessel.
A sharp rap came from the door. All three family members stopped chewing and looked at each other. They seldom had company, and never at breakfast time. Dad got up and opened the door.
Phleeben stood there. A slight, sandy-haired man, he appeared the same age as Arwell, though he was nearly thirty. He wore only a light cloak over the traditional Boutland toga, his magic obviously keeping him warm. Arwell’s first thought was a twinge of jealously that the man used magic so freely. His second was: Governor Greena’s assistant here?
Dad held the door wide. “Please come in, Assistant Phleeben.”
“Thank you, Jemmer, but no time. Prince Stigson was assassinated last night. Evidence points to a member of Governor Greena’s traveling party. There may be war.” He looked past Dad, to the two people sitting at the table in obvious astonishment. “Cadet Arwell, we are mobilizing your unit. Please report for duty immediately.”
“NO!” cried Mom. “He’s too young!”
Phleeben stepped back from the door. “I have other households to notify. Good day to you.”
Arwell wasn’t so ravenously hungry anymore. He sat staring at the table, trying in vain to speculate on his fate. Somebody murdered the heir to the throne of Goerthe? What could Greena, or anybody in Boutland for that matter, gain by such violence? Would they launch Old Frigate against Goerthe? Since the ship wasn’t ready and her crew not trained, would they transfer him to the infantry?
“Arwell,” said Mom sharply, “you must not go. We can plead hardship. Your father cannot handle the caribou herd without your help.”
That wasn’t quite factual. Dad already did pretty much everything except the few chores Arwell did before breakfast. Still, Arwell told himself, he’d be aiding the war effort if he stayed here. After all, somebody had to provide food and leather goods to the fighting men.
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