Poor World by Sherwood Smith

in there unwanted.
    He was busy at his desk, which worsened my sour mood. Part of my reason for going out to practice all morning had not just been to get a chance to see the girls, though that was most important, but also because the past few mornings Kessler had wanted to do map work. Afternoons, he’d gone out doing whatever it was that he did.
    Well, the only thing I’d accomplished on this particular morning was sweating out all that practice at sword fighting, knife-throwing, and the rest, in the hot sun.
    â€œCherene,” came The Voice. “We can work at the maps right now.”
    I was beginning to hate the sound of my own name.
    I went in. Kessler was already restacking papers in order to make room for his maps. I couldn’t think of any excuse to avoid it, especially as he was obviously setting aside his own kafuffle in order to train me in this stuff.
    With a quick gesture he unrolled one of his maps, spreading it over the desktop. I felt a yawn threaten and stifled it, blinking back tears as I looked down.
    I did not recognize the kingdom; the outline of the continent was vaguely familiar from another map session. Some cryptic notes in Kessler’s neat, small Chwahir print lined the top.
    The horrible thing is that I wasn’t supposed to learn where the kingdom lay. I think he believed I already knew. ‘Studying maps’ didn’t mean learning about interesting faraway places — about magic races or ancient forests or beautiful cities from Old Sartoran days, about interesting people and places.
    â€˜Studying maps’ meant planning wars. Nothing more.
    Nothing less .
    â€œThere are three points of entry,” Kessler said. “Show me.”
    I fought the urge to scream pocalubes, and ransacked my aching head in order to parrot back what he’d said before on ‘entry points.’ “Here, here, here.” I pointed.
    â€œNo,” he said when I was done. “Look again. See it from the occupants’ perspective, then. Where must you set up defenses, and where are your natural defenses?”
    â€œNatural defenses,” I repeated, recalling one stray fact I was sure of. “High mountains. Lakes. Bogs ...”
    We went on until I said what he wanted me to say about that stupid map — I can’t remember what. I didn’t really listen. He was very patient, even though he had stacks of stuff awaiting his attention; I was bored and angry by turns, and fought to keep it hidden. Who cares about all that conquering junk? I kept saying inside my skull. I will never, ever in my life use it.
    But once I’d managed to gabble back what he wanted to hear he went right on, this time expecting me to ‘name my resources’ — which meant what kind of army and weapons and related flummery that I’d want to take there. Wow. You can just imagine how useful and interesting I found all this idiocy. It was torture to sit there and keep my face bland and not say things like It’s easy — I wouldn’t attack them in the first place! or I’d put together a spell, turn everyone — on both sides — into hop toads for ten years, and save us all a lot of bother. Except maybe for the local flies.
    When it was finally over, Kessler said, “Once you know how to assess what you are seeing I will take you on some field maneuvers.”
    â€œHere?”
    â€œNo, we practice in various terrains,” he said.
    â€œOh, that will be interesting,” I responded — thinking of escape.
    â€œYou can tell me what you are seeing. What you’d do. Perhaps even give commands so you can learn to assess action as it happens, and test your tactical ideas. So you must study the map here that I’ve set out for you, and consider these things, so that when we reach the field ...”
    I didn’t hear the rest of his plans for a Fun Outing, Kessler-style. Disappointment made my head pang: if we left, he’d be