looked down at the segmented armor and kilt, the scarlet tunic and black trousers, the buff coat and reinforced leather trousers, the forest green jerkin and leggings, the long mail hauberk and coif, and the bewildering array of boots, pieces of joint-armor, bracers, and leather reinforcements.
“The Army’s made up of different units and they all wear different uniforms,” Fred explained. “So we got to learn the lot, case we get sent to the Legion, the Horde, or the Regiment…or one of the other ones. I forget what they’re all called. That armor there, the long narrow pieces that slide together and you do up with the laces, that’s Legionary wear. Scarlet’s for the Regiment, and the Horde wear the knee-length ironmongery. They’ve all got different weapons too. We’ll learn ‘em all, Ray.”
“I guess I’d better sort them out according to this plan,” said Arthur. He put The Recruit’s Companion down on the bed and unfolded the poster-sized diagram out of it that showed the correct placement of every one of the 226 items Arthur was now personally responsible for. “Though I don’t see anyone else putting their stuff away.”
“They’re ordinary-grade Denizens,” said Fred, whose bed and locker were patterns of military order. He said this as if it explained everything.
“What do you mean?” Arthur asked, since it didn’t really explain anything to him.
“They won’t do anything until they’re told to,” said Fred, with a puzzled glance at Arthur. “Are the ordinary Denizens different in the Lower House? All this lot are from the Middle. Paper-cutters, most of them, though Florimel over there, she was a Binder, Second Class. Haveto watch out for her. She thinks she ought to be Recruit Lance-Corporal because she’s got the highest precedence in the House of the lot of us. I guess she’ll find out that doesn’t matter here. All of us recruits are equal in the eyes of the Army: low as you can go. The only way from here is up. I reckon I might be able to make general by the time my hitch is up.”
Fred liked to talk. Arthur listened to him as he packed away his equipment, a process that was much more difficult than the illustration indicated. Though Fred had only been at Fort Transformation for a day longer than Arthur, he had already found out a lot about their training, the training staff—or training cadre, as they were supposed to be called—and everything else.
“The first week is all getting to know how to look right and some marching about and such-like,” Fred explained. “At least, that’s what’s on the schedule. Over there.”
He pointed at the door. It was so far away, and the light from the hurricane lights so dim, that Arthur couldn’t tell what he was pointing at.
“On the noticeboard, next to the door,” continued Fred. “Let’s go take a look. We’ve got five minutes till dinner’s over and we’ll need to be over there anyway.”
“How do you know?” asked Arthur. His watch haddisappeared when the recruit uniform had swarmed up his arm.
“Axeforth just went out the back door. He’ll march around to the front, come in, and shout at us to line up there like he did before. It’s called ‘falling in.’ Don’t ask me why. You need your hat on.”
Arthur picked up his pillbox hat and put it back on, grimacing at the feel of the chinstrap under his mouth rather than on his chin, which he felt was the proper place for something called a chinstrap. But everyone else wore theirs the same way, under the bottom lip, and the strap wasn’t long enough to do anything else.
“Ready?” Fred stood at attention next to Arthur. “We have to march everywhere, or we’ll get shouted at.”
“Who by?” asked Arthur. The other twenty Denizens in the platoon were all lying down on their beds, staring at the ceiling.
“Sergeants, corporals…noncommissioned officers they’re called,” said Fred. “NCOs. They appear mysteriously. Best not to risk
“The Army’s made up of different units and they all wear different uniforms,” Fred explained. “So we got to learn the lot, case we get sent to the Legion, the Horde, or the Regiment…or one of the other ones. I forget what they’re all called. That armor there, the long narrow pieces that slide together and you do up with the laces, that’s Legionary wear. Scarlet’s for the Regiment, and the Horde wear the knee-length ironmongery. They’ve all got different weapons too. We’ll learn ‘em all, Ray.”
“I guess I’d better sort them out according to this plan,” said Arthur. He put The Recruit’s Companion down on the bed and unfolded the poster-sized diagram out of it that showed the correct placement of every one of the 226 items Arthur was now personally responsible for. “Though I don’t see anyone else putting their stuff away.”
“They’re ordinary-grade Denizens,” said Fred, whose bed and locker were patterns of military order. He said this as if it explained everything.
“What do you mean?” Arthur asked, since it didn’t really explain anything to him.
“They won’t do anything until they’re told to,” said Fred, with a puzzled glance at Arthur. “Are the ordinary Denizens different in the Lower House? All this lot are from the Middle. Paper-cutters, most of them, though Florimel over there, she was a Binder, Second Class. Haveto watch out for her. She thinks she ought to be Recruit Lance-Corporal because she’s got the highest precedence in the House of the lot of us. I guess she’ll find out that doesn’t matter here. All of us recruits are equal in the eyes of the Army: low as you can go. The only way from here is up. I reckon I might be able to make general by the time my hitch is up.”
Fred liked to talk. Arthur listened to him as he packed away his equipment, a process that was much more difficult than the illustration indicated. Though Fred had only been at Fort Transformation for a day longer than Arthur, he had already found out a lot about their training, the training staff—or training cadre, as they were supposed to be called—and everything else.
“The first week is all getting to know how to look right and some marching about and such-like,” Fred explained. “At least, that’s what’s on the schedule. Over there.”
He pointed at the door. It was so far away, and the light from the hurricane lights so dim, that Arthur couldn’t tell what he was pointing at.
“On the noticeboard, next to the door,” continued Fred. “Let’s go take a look. We’ve got five minutes till dinner’s over and we’ll need to be over there anyway.”
“How do you know?” asked Arthur. His watch haddisappeared when the recruit uniform had swarmed up his arm.
“Axeforth just went out the back door. He’ll march around to the front, come in, and shout at us to line up there like he did before. It’s called ‘falling in.’ Don’t ask me why. You need your hat on.”
Arthur picked up his pillbox hat and put it back on, grimacing at the feel of the chinstrap under his mouth rather than on his chin, which he felt was the proper place for something called a chinstrap. But everyone else wore theirs the same way, under the bottom lip, and the strap wasn’t long enough to do anything else.
“Ready?” Fred stood at attention next to Arthur. “We have to march everywhere, or we’ll get shouted at.”
“Who by?” asked Arthur. The other twenty Denizens in the platoon were all lying down on their beds, staring at the ceiling.
“Sergeants, corporals…noncommissioned officers they’re called,” said Fred. “NCOs. They appear mysteriously. Best not to risk
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