The Choice of Magic - Michael G. Manning Page 0,114

only paid four clima per week. After expenses they only net one clima. Are you sure you’d like to do that?”

For the first time, Will was glad that he had learned to do simple sums in his head. If the conscripts only received one clima a week then they’d barely make five gold crowns in an entire year, whereas an enlistee would get a little more than ten crowns. “How much is the cost of the spear and shield, Lieutenant?”

“Five clima each,” said the officer immediately.

Doing the math, Will realized it would take him five weeks to pay for the equipment, at a cost of one crown, leaving him nine crowns for the year, or four crowns more than a conscript would receive. From the point at which he had finished paying for the shield and spear, he would be making double what the conscripts made. “I think I would prefer to be an enlistee then, sir,” said Will.

Lieutenant Stanton smiled again, and this time it reached his eyes. He gestured toward the clerk. “Enlistees need to sign the contract roll, but you can simply make a mark and Sergeant Kavanaugh will witness it.”

The sergeant handed him a quill pen and turned a large book around to face him. It appeared to contain page after page of names with an x marked beside them, though occasionally he saw places where someone had written their own name. Curious, Will closed the book and opened it to the first page, which turned out to be a contract for his term of service. He could read it, though he didn’t understand some of the meaning. “Five years, sir?” he asked.

The lieutenant and sergeant glanced at each other, mild surprise showing on their faces. “Five years is the standard term for a private soldier. I should have mentioned that. Another difference between enlistees and conscripts is that conscripts are discharged from service as soon as the Royal Marshall decides they are no longer needed.” He paused, then asked, “You can read?”

Will nodded, then after a second he hurriedly added, “Yes, sir. I can write too.”

“What other skills do you have, Mister Cartwright? We should list those since you may be eligible for other posts after your training period,” said Lieutenant Stanton. Meanwhile the sergeant was muttering to himself and thumbing through a separate stack of papers.

“Cartwright, Cartwright, that name rings a bell for some reason,” said the sergeant as he searched.

Will answered the lieutenant’s question, “I can count and do sums. I’m well versed in fractions, ratios, geometry and stoichiometry. My mother was a midwife, so I’ve learned a lot about plants and treating wounds and illnesses.”

The officer stared at him, his face blank. “Stoichi—what? Were you an accountant or something?”

“It’s a type of math used for alchemy, sir. My grandfather was teaching me before he died,” explained Will.

The lieutenant nodded. “You’ll need to spell that for us when Sergeant Kavanaugh lists your skills. Is there anything else?”

“I’m a fair cook,” said Will. “I’m not sure if that matters, though.”

Lieutenant Stanton looked thoughtful. “Ever cook for large numbers of m—”

“Found it!” interrupted the sergeant. “Sir, Mister Carwright is listed on the service exceptions roll.” He held up another small ledger, pointing at one of the entries.

Lieutenant Stanton’s expression changed to one of annoyance. “Is there something you should have told us already, Mister Cartwright? Why are you here today?”

“Sir?” said Will, puzzled. “I came to enlist.”

“Then why did someone pay for an exemption for you?” The lieutenant glanced at the sergeant. “Who paid the fee?”

“Baron Nerrow, sir.”

Lieutenant Stanton studied Will for a while, his eyes full of questions. Eventually Will felt compelled to say something. “I’ve met him a couple of times, sir.” The lieutenant continued to stare, so Will pointed at his cheek. “I got this from his carriage driver. I saw Lord Nerrow’s daughter reach down to pick up a snake and pushed her away. His servant took after me with the coachwhip, thinking I was trying to do her harm.”

Lieutenant Stanton shook his head in disbelief. “You’re telling me that you were whipped by mistake after saving the baron’s daughter?”

Will nodded, forgetting to answer properly.

“And that the good baron decided to buy an exemption for you because of that?”

“That’s the only thing I can think of, sir,” said Will with a shrug. It was a lie, of course, but he didn’t want to admit to being a nobleman’s bastard son. He went over to look at the service exemption ledger. As