Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series soon.

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The ninth chapter of Shaman’s Crossing, “The Academy,” begins with Nevare noting being too early deposited at the titular school. The general layout of the facility is described as Keft brings Nevare to check in with the institution’s head, Colonel Stiet, meeting the colonel’s son, Caulder, as they go. Keft and the colonel exchange introductions, and he introduces his son to his new commander. Conversation follows, somewhat awkwardly, with Nevare listening until Caulder returns and is directed to conduct Nevare to his quarters.

Nevare follows Caulder across the Academy grounds to an older building, where he presents him to Sergeant Rufet. The sergeant brusquely takes Nevare in charge, rebuking the new cadet for his reliance on the youth, and Nevare stumbles through his initial interaction with the man before seeing to his billeting. Reporting to his quarters and reminiscing wryly on them, Nevare meets Natred Verlaney and Kort Braxan, exchanging introductions with the other young men as he sets about securing his goods. They are joined soon after by Spink Kester, and the four are contrasted with one another as they begin their acquaintance.

The initial exchanges are interrupted by the arrival of Nevare’s father in his quarters, and introductions are made between the new cadets and the elevated soldier. Keft speaks highly of Spink’s father, the late Kellon Spinrek Kester, the manner of whose death is something of an exemplar in Gernian history. Keft has Nevare accompany him back to his conveyance to make his departure, offering fatherly advice and a warning about Colonel Stiet before giving his son his blessing and heading back to his brother’s estate.

Alone, Keft returns to his quarters and is greeted by his roommates and others of his incoming class of cadets—Rory, Gord, and Trist—who are described in varying levels of detail as they fall in together and begin exchanging stories and experiences. Rory makes note of news from his cousin Jordie of “cullings,” presumptive reductions of Academy cohorts, and the implications of those reductions are traced. Others join the group—Oron, Caleb, Jared, Trent, and Lofert—and are introduced and described.

At length, the dinner bell sounds, and Nevare joins his cohort in heading toward the meal. They are taken in charge by Corporal Dent, a second-year cadet under whose authority they are placed, and he makes a point of haranguing them physically and verbally as they go to and arrive at dinner. Back in their quarters afterward, Nevare and his companions discuss events for a time before some good-natured roughhousing ensues. Dent arrives to break up matters, chiding the new cadets and informing them of expectations for the next day.

So much done, Dent departs, leaving the new cadets to confer. Rory notes that such haranguing is to be expected, and most of the new cadets make ready for bed. A few, led by Trist, go to play dice, meeting with some resistance by the more rules-minded of the soldier sons. Spink, in particular, rebukes Trist, not only for the violation but for putting his fellows into the position of being obliged to report the violation. Trist offers a mocking apology and departs to his own room, followed by Oron and Gord. Nevare reflects on a lesson from Sergeant Duril, and after some further discussion that takes in Trist’s intransigence, Nevare finds his way to bed and sleep.

To address the chapter-length issue: the present chapter, in the edition of the novel I’m rereading, runs 18 pages in length, approximately 3.12% of the novel. The chapter runs long on explication, fittingly enough for the introduction of a new setting, although it must be remarked that there is a lot of explication in place in the novel already. Some of that is the nature of a first volume of an announced trilogy; following the model of Lord of the Rings, it might be better to regard the series as a single work than as a collection of separate works (although the case can be made for separation, as noted previously). In that case, spending so much of the initial novel on explication makes some sense, as it must introduce characters, the milieu as a whole, and specific locations within it. Since the Soldier Son moves away from the Tolkienian tradition in several ways, it cannot rely on quite the same commonplaces and short-hands to familiarize readers as a more “normal” fantasy work, but must explain more things in more detail for a readership that is, presumably, not so familiar with tropes of the American West as some might be. This is true whether that familiarity rises from experience growing up in particular parts of the world (for example) or from doing a lot of reading, whether of history or of Western fiction (although readers of both genres might well find commonalities, as I’ve gestured towards and as others might well have remarked with more force).

Also, for indexing purposes, the following: Antoleran, Caleb, Carneston House, Caulder Stiet, Cavalla, Colonel Stiet, Corporal Dent, Culling, Dewara’s stone, Ebonis, Fit for Command, General Tersy Harwod, Gord, Hare Ridge, Jared, Jordie, Keft Burvelle, Kellon Spinrek Kester, King’s Cavalla Academy, Kort Braxan, Lieutenant Geeverman, Lofert, Natred Verlaney, Nevare Burvelle, Old Thares, Oron, Penny Adventure, Plainsfolk, Red Desert, Roark Kester, Rory, Sefert Burvelle, Sergeant Duril, Sergeant Rufet, Spinrek “Spink” Kester, Trent, Trist. As noted, there’s a lot of explication going on, so there is a concomitant quantity of items introduced.

Of note in that explication is the assertion not just that there is writing to be found, that Gernia is a literate culture (established previously and reasserted emphatically here), but the identification of specific works of note within it, both highbrow and lowbrow in culture. Harwood’s Fit for Command and the Penny Adventure pieces one new cadet loans out among his comrades are the easy examples in the present chapter. The latter calls to mind the penny dreadfuls originating in Victorian England and soon finding parallels in the westward-pressing United States, especially in dime novels; in both cases, the works evoked are cheaply made and produced, disseminated widely, and generally associated with the lurid if not the lewd, which evocation is affirmed by Nevare’s reactions to his initial perusal of such a volume.

The former calls to mind any number of military histories such as have long graced bookstore shelves, glosses of people and events written by those in command after they have relinquished command, allowing them not only to provide “authoritative” comments on events and so shape understandings of them, but also to allow their authors to continue to profit from their time in service past when that service ends. In effect, it’s the kind of thing that such colonialist powers as Gernia do to provide ongoing ideological justification for their colonialist projects, reaffirming the parallel of Gernia to the manifest-destiny-driven United States despite the occasional motion away from a one-to-one correspondence between the two. And it does return to Hobb’s writerly emphasis on the value of writing (about which some relevant remarks can be found here, here, and here, among others); literacy and its products are held up in the juxtaposition of the two cited in-milieu pieces as pervasive of Gernian culture, reinforcing the importance of the written word within a work of writing.

The present chapter, with its emphasis on a description of a boarding school and new roommates, brings to mind a series of books and movies centered on a certain scar-headed orphan wizard, the popularity of which series were high at the time Shaman’s Crossing was published (and presumably written). While detailed comments on those series exceed what I am willing to give here, and for several reasons, the thought occurs to me that part of what is going on in the present chapter functions as an attempt to capitalize on the aforementioned popularity. (I am not treating intention; I have no way to know what it is, and what is meant to happen is far, far less important than what actually happens.) It’s a sensible enough thing, in itself; selling books helps writers keep writing, and I happen to be glad Hobb has kept writing. But that it is sensible does not mean it does not attract attention; indeed, it would be good if more people paid more attention to what is sensible—myself included.

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