Harry Turtledove - Into the Darkness

“Ealstan son of Hestan,” he repeated, as if he’d never heard the name before. But his fingers belied that; they sorted through piles of paper with amazing speed and sureness. The registrar plucked out the couple of sheets that had to do with Ealstan. Glancing at one, he said, “Your fees were paid in full at the beginning of the year.”

“Aye, Master,” Ealstan answered with quiet pride. In spite of everything, his father did better than most in Gromheort.

“Here are your courses, then.” The registrar thrust the other sheet of paper at Ealstan. Did he wince as he did so? For a moment, Ealstan thought he was imagining things. Then he remembered the shouts and arguments he’d heard. Maybe he wasn’t.

He looked at the list. The Algarvian language, history of Algarve, something called nature of Kaunianity… “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to it.

“New requirement,” the registrar said, which was less informative than Ealstan would have liked. By the set of the man’s chin, though, it was all he intended to say on the subject.

With a mental shrug, Ealstan glanced down the rest of the list: Forthwegian language and grammar, Forthwegian literature, and choral singing. “Where’s the rest of it?” he asked. “Where’s the stonelore? Where’s the ciphering?”

“Those courses arc no longer being offered,” the registrar said, and braced himself, as if for a blow.

“What?” Ealstan stared. “Why not? What’s the point of school, if not to learn things?” He sounded very much like his father, though he didn’t fully realize it.

By the look on the registrar’s face, he didn’t want to answer. But he did, and in a way that relieved him of all responsibility: “Those courses are no longer offered, by order of the occupying authorities.”

“They can’t do that!” Ealstan exclaimed.

“They can. They have,” the registrar said. “The headmaster has protested, but he can do no more than protest. And you, young sir, can do no more than go out that door yonder so I can deal with the next scholar in line.”

Ealstan could have done more. He could have pitched a fit, as several of his schoolmates had done before him. But he was too shocked. Numbly, he went out through the door at which the registrar had jerked his thumb. He stood in the hallway, staring down at the class list in his hand. He wondered what his father would say on seeing it. Something colorful and memorable, he had no doubt.

Sidroc came through the door less than a minute later. Smiles wreathed his face. “By the powers above, it’s going to be a pretty good semester,” he said. “Only hard course they’ve stuck me with is Algarvian.”

“Let’s see your list,” Ealstan said. His cousin handed him the paper. His eyes flicked down it. “It’s the same as mine, all right.”

“Isn’t it fine?” Sidroc looked about to dance for joy. “For once in my life, I won’t feel like my brains are trying to dribble out my ears when I do the work.”

“We should be taking the harder courses, though,” Ealstan said. “You know why we’re not, don’t you?” Sidroc shook his head. Ealstan muttered something his cousin fortunately did not hear. Aloud, he went on, “We’re not taking them because the redheads won’t let us take them, that’s why.”

“Huh?” Sidroc scratched his head. “Why should the Algarvians care whether we take stonelore or not? I care, on account of I know how hard it is, but what difference does it make to the Algarvians?”

“Have I told you lately you’re a blockhead?” Ealstan asked. Sidroc wasn’t, not in all ways, but he’d missed the boat here. Before he could get angry, Ealstan went on, “They want us to be stupid. They want us to be ignorant. They want us not to know things. You don’t see Forthwegian history on this list, do you? If we don’t know about the days of King Felgild, when Forthweg was the greatest kingdom in Derlavai, how can we want them to come back?”

“I don’t care. I don’t much care, either,” Sidroc said. “All I know is, I’m not going to be measuring triangles this semester, either, and I’m cursed glad of it.”

“But don’t you see?” Ealstan said, rather desperately. “If the Algarvians don’t let us learn anything, by the time our children grow up Forthwegians won’t be anything but peasants grubbing in the dirt.”

“I need to find a woman before I have children,” Sidroc said. “As a matter of fact, I’d like to find a woman whether I have children or not.” He glanced over at Ealstan. “And don’t tell me you wouldn’t. That blond wench in mushroom season—”

“Oh, shut up,” Ealstan said fiercely. He might not have sounded so fierce had he found Vanai unattractive. He had no idea what she thought of him, or even if she thought of him. All they’d talked about were mushrooms and the Algarvians’ multifarious iniquities.

Sidroc laughed at him, which made things worse. Then his cousin said, “If you’re going to cast books like Uncle Hestan, I can see why you might want more ciphering lessons, I suppose, but what do you care about stonelore any which way? It’s not like you’re going to be a mage.”

“My father always says the more you know, the more choices you have,” Ealstan answered. “I’d say the Algarvians think he’s right, wouldn’t you? Except with them, it’s the other way round—they don’t want us to have any choices, and so they don’t want us to know anything, either.”

“My father always says it’s not what you know, it’s who you know,” Sidroc said, which did indeed sound like Uncle Hengist. “As long as we can make connections, we’ll get on all right.”

That had more than a little truth in it. Ealstan’s father had used his connections to make sure no one looked too closely at where Leofsig had been before he came back to Gromheort. In the short run, and for relatively small things, connections were indeed splendid. For setting the course of one’s entire life? Ealstan didn’t think so.

He started to say as much, then shook his head instead. He couldn’t prove he was right. He wondered if he could even make a good case. Whether he did or not, Sidroc would laugh at him. He was sure of that.

Even though Ealstan kept his mouth shut, Sidroc started laughing anyhow, laughing and pointing at Ealstan. “What’s so cursed funny?” Ealstan demanded.

“I’ll tell you what’s so cursed funny,” his cousin replied. “If you can’t get the courses your father thinks you ought to have here at school, what’s he going to do? I’ll tell you what: he’ll make you study those things on your own. That’s what’s funny, by the powers above. Haw, haw, haw!”

“Oh, shut up,” Ealstan said again, suddenly and horribly certain Sidroc was right.

King Shazli beamed at Hajjaj. “We shall have vengeance!” he exclaimed. “King Swemmel, may demons tear out his entrails and dance with them, will wail and gnash his teeth when he thinks of the day he sent his armies over the border into Zuwayza.”

“Even so, your Majesty,” Hajjaj replied, inclining his head to the young king. “But the Unkerlanters are suspicious of us; Swemmel, being a treacherous sort himself, sees treachery all around him. As I have reported to you, my conversations with the Algarvian minister have not gone unnoticed.”

By Shazli’s expression, he started to make some flip comment in response to that. He checked himself, though, at which Hajjaj nodded somber approval. Shazli could think, even if he remained too young to do it all the time. “Do you doubt the wisdom of our course, then?”

“I doubt the wisdom of all courses,” the foreign minister said. “I serve you best by doubting, and by admitting that I doubt.”