Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [11]
A third man slapped him hard on the shoulder. “You daft? Boy’s run away. Sergeant won’t join him up.”
“Please,” Caelan said anxiously. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
The tattooed man was still looking him over. “Well- dressed boy. Good clothes. Warm and close-woven. You from the town?”
“Meunch? Yes,” Caelan lied. He didn’t want them to know he’d run away from school. With a yank he pulled off the torn remnants of his robe and tossed it away.
“Takes money to join up,” the tattooed man said, fingering his earring. His eyes looked dark and intense over the jagged symbol of Mael on his cheek. “Seven hundred ducats for a kit.”
Caelan’s heart plummeted. It was a fortune. He had nothing but a few coppers in his pocket.
“Naw,” the other one said scornfully. “That’s officer’s kit. This big, strapping lad ain’t wanting none of that lot.”
“Why not? He’s well born.”
“Take him to the sergeant,” said the man holding the lantern. He spat near Caelan’s foot, and Caelan flinched involuntarily.
“The sergeant won’t take him.”
Caelan frowned, trying to follow their argument. They were staring at him in a peculiar way he didn’t much like. At some point they had spread out and formed a circle around him. He swallowed and felt suddenly alone and vulnerable.
“There must be something I can do,” he said nervously, eying them. “I’m old enough to join and strong enough to march.”
“And squalling like a baby for its mother when that lurker was after you.”
The men roared with laughter. Caelan felt ashamed of his earlier fear now, but tried not to let it show.
“How much you got?” the tattooed man abruptly demanded.
“Sir?”
“How much money you got?”
Caelan looked up at their faces. “I—not much.”
“You can’t join without buying in,” the man said gruffly. He stepped forward, and Caelan cringed back. “Hand it over.”
Caelan shook his head. “I don’t have any—”
They grabbed him then and lifted him bodily despite his struggles. Rough hands patted him down and turned out his pockets. The meager remnants of his allowance spilled onto the road and lay gleaming in the lantern light.
The men swore with disappointment and dropped him bodily onto the ground. One of them kicked him.
“Is this all he’s got?”
“Pipsqueak!”
“Faure consume his liver!”
“Damn!”
They kicked him again. Caelan lay huddled face down on the road, clenching his fists and trying not to cry.
“Get up,” growled the tattooed man.
Caelan heaved himself up to his hands and knees, but then with an oath the man seized him by the back of his shirt and hauled him to his feet.
“Where do you live in town?” he asked.
Caelan stared at him, seriously frightened now.
“Those ain’t working hands you got, boy. Your da a rich man?”
Caelan swallowed hard. He shook his head.
“Leave him,” said one of the others. “Let’s go and see what better sport we can find.”
“What about that fancy hold down the road a bit? Good pickings in there, I’ll bet.”
“No!” Caelan cried involuntarily. He thought of the gate he’d so carelessly left open, and his face flamed hot.
The tattooed man smiled. “So you’re a schoolboy, eh?”
His eyes were terrible, pinning Caelan’s and holding them. The obscene figure engraved on his cheek moved with every shift of his jaw. It was all Caelan could do not to stare at it.
“Yes, sir,” Caelan finally said.
“I thought as much. You wearing that cute little schoolboy robe no longer than your bottom.”
The men all laughed again, and Caelan’s blush intensified. He felt raw with humiliation.
“So what kind of school is it? And no more of your lying.”
“It’s a school for the healing arts,” Caelan said.
They groaned.
“No money boxes in that kind of place.”
The man with the tattoo narrowed his eyes. “Still want to join up?”
Caelan hesitated, then nodded warily.
Someone behind him snickered, but the tattooed man didn’t smile.
“You’re no good for it,” he said, his voice cutting and contemptuous. “We’ve no use for such cowards.”
Caelan flinched. “I’m not—”
“Aye, coward!” the man roared, silencing him. “A braggart and a fool, as well. You