Inda kept his eyes forward and suppressed a wry look at the voice of the annoying lick everyone was calling Smartlip.
The arms master looked around with exaggerated surprise, and someone muffled a snicker. “Is there one of my dragoons about?” Gand asked, and of course no one answered. He then faced Smartlip and studied the scrawny boy for a long, long pause. A very long pause, during which not just Smartlip but his friends began to feel the prickle of fear, as did others who were afraid of more mass punishments than they’d already gotten. Smartlip’s sharp face lost its smirk, his expression going from blank to lip-biting fear, and sure enough, out came his tongue licking round and round his chapped lips.
Gand finally spoke. “You are not a dragoon, last I heard, Lassad. Am I misinformed?”
“No, Master Gand,” Smartlip quavered.
Only the cold breeze moved, bringing the smell of rain. “You are a scrub, and I am your tutor. I am not your captain. If you ever manage to gain the age, the experience, and the wit to be put into a dragoon riding, then, and only then, will you address me as Captain Gand. Until then, you will not presume, or you and I and ‘Captain’ Willow will have a little discourse on assumptions. And Captain Willow has a lot more to say than Master Willow. Understood?”
“Yes, Master Gand.”
“Now, ask your question.”
Smartlip swallowed, his sweaty hands stiff.
“Are we going to wait all morning?” Gand asked in a low voice that struck fear into every single boy.
Smartlip glanced in fear his crony’s way, getting a glare in return, and Smartlip realized he was in trouble no matter what he said or did. So he stated in a wooden voice utterly devoid of the enjoyment he’d so looked forward to, “Master Gand. We . . . I . . . it’s been two days. You haven’t permitted us to speak. At mess. Master Gand. I just wanted to say that some of us . . . I . . . feel that we ought not to be punished for the sloppiness of two people.”
Master Gand stopped right in front of Smartlip, but his eyes—pale they were, and merciless—appraised the entire row. The breeze fingered the pennants overhead, and scoured the bare necks of the still, silent, frightened boys.
At last Gand said in that terrible, low voice, “You will stay silent at mess for a month, Lassad. A month. Do you comprehend
month,
Lassad?”
“Master Gand.” A nod.
“Thirty-six days. Perhaps, in that time, you will come to realize that I am not stupid.” A smile. “I suspect that the reverse probably won’t happen.” He looked up. “As for the rest of you, I think silence is to the benefit of all. You will continue to remain silent at mess until I see . . . shall we say . . .” His gaze drifted along the row. “. . . a better attitude toward learning.” His gaze did not stop on Inda, or Dogpiss, whose beds had been scragged and who had gotten stable duty as a result. His gaze lingered on the husky boy now called Tuft who at Landred Marlo-Vayir’s insistence had put Smartlip up to the questions, a boy from a powerful family made up of two great clans. The boy swallowed, feeling very small just now, and hoped that Smartlip wouldn’t break and squeal.
Meanwhile Master Gand’s gaze moved to Marlo-Vayir, who kept his sneer hidden, though it made his teeth ache.
“Dismissed.”
The scrubs filed out in silence, most of them so relieved their knees shook, a couple of them angry, one or two thoughtful, and Dogpiss—as usual—barely restraining laughter.
During breakfast Dogpiss kept making horrible grimaces and insulting gestures toward the miserable Smartlip, encouraged by the strangled snickers of his own friends.
Most of the boys ate fast and bustled out. There was no reason to stay, enduring the inventively derisive comments of the pigtails and being unable to respond. Inda ate a little more slowly, grateful for the chance to sit, think, and watch.
Beginning with freckle-faced Kepa, who was sitting next to Sponge. Inda had seen him snickering with Marlo-Vayir Tvei, but he was always making jokes with everyone, mostly stupid jokes, about which masters looked like which horse butts, and the like. His laugh, his grin, brought to mind Cousin Branid at home in Tenthen. Branid grinned just like that during the winters when he bootlicked Tanrid by spying on everyone and reporting it back—and then joked around with his victims, insulting Tanrid behind his back, all as if he really thought no one noticed.
Dogpiss grinned all the time too, but after two days it was clear that he thought everything was funny, even getting muzzled at mess and having to talk with hands and grimaces.
Dogpiss made jokes just to make jokes; Kepa made jokes to bootlick. That was the difference.
Not that any of it mattered. Inda dug his wooden spoon into the thick oatmeal that was considered good for both boys and horses who were facing a heavy day of training.
The important thing first. Sponge’s royal brother evidently didn’t like Sponge, but Inda couldn’t imagine why not. He bent lower over his food, eating slowly as he thought over the past two days. Sponge had not done anything wrong by Inda’s standards.
The urge to ask Tdor, so habitual, had to be dismissed. But in remembering that she was far to the southwest, Inda also remembered his promise. He was supposed to talk to Hadand, but he had no idea how to find her—if he even got the time away. So far they had not one free moment, and how was he supposed to get into the royal castle without getting himself in more trouble than he was already in?
Inda sighed, shifted on the bench, then brought his mind back to Sponge. He remembered Tanrid’s words about the Sierlaef. Hadand was to marry him! Did she hate Sponge too?
The questions bred more questions, multiplying so rapidly he groaned and got up, his food half-eaten, to try to distance himself from his thoughts. A mistake. They stayed right in his head.
He remembered the long labors lying ahead until midday meal, and as he walked he forced himself to swallow down the last few bites, shoveling them in so fast his nose stung. He stashed bowl and spoon in the barrel of magic-cleaned water, surreptitiously brushing his fingers over the rim to feel the tingle of magic. He liked the weird sensation of magic, rare as it was.
Inda then ran back to the scrub barracks, apprehensive of what he might find—especially when he spied Marlo-Vayir Tvei and Smartlip over by their own beds. But then he saw Noddy and Sponge busy tidying things; then, Noddy took up the broom from the corner and slowly started sweeping it over the already clean floorboards, which were scuffed by several generations of boys’ boot heels. Inda, old hand at practical jokes, knew instantly that they were on guard. But they weren’t guarding Dogpiss’s or his own bed. Oh, of course! Oldest trick there is.
A single bell rang, echoing against the stone walls.
Sponge just stood, arms folded.
“Come on, we’ll be late,” Smartlip muttered.
Marlo-Vayir cast a glance back, then vanished out the door.
Inda said, “They were going to do their beds and blame us.”
Sponge whistled softly. “I wasn’t sure if they’d have the frost, after that warning today.”
“We stayed around to make sure they didn’t try,” Noddy said over his shoulder as he restored the broom to its place.
Dogpiss appeared, breathing hard. “They scrag their own bunks?”
Inda shook his head. “But we can’t watch every day. What if we’re late?”
“I’ll watch,” Sponge said. “You go from mess to work.”
Noddy’s dark gaze was sober. “You’ll get gated for delay.” His voice was tentative—more question than statement.
“Oh, yes, I’ll get gated.” Sponge shrugged. “But I don’t care. Then it’s just me.”
Noddy’s face was blank as usual, except for a faint pucker between his straight, dark brows. He said slowly, “You know Marlo-Vayir Tvei’s brother is—”
“—Buck Marlo-Vayir, one of my brother’s Sier-Danas.” Sponge lifted one shoulder. “If you mean, was the Sierlaef probably behind that?” He waved at Inda’s bed, and none of the listening boys missed the fact that Sponge did not use his brother’s name, but only his title, just like everyone else. “I say yes. That boot, the bunk-scrag, were aimed at me, but Marlo-Vayir didn’t know who I was. Thought Dogpiss was me, probably because my brother has the same color hair as Dogpiss. My brother’ll be mad at Marlo-Vayir Tvei for being too obvious, as well as the mistakes. I think . . .” He paused, staring down at the old, kick-scarred doorway.
“Go on,” Inda urged.
Sponge’s mouth was tight, reminding Inda of Joret when people talked about her looks as though she weren’t there. Then he faced them. “Here’s what I believe—what I guess, anyway. My brother won’t let them touch me now. What he’ll do instead is make the rest of you the targets, just because you’re seen to be . . .” He paused, looking away, as if unable to get the word out.
So Inda said it, wondering why it was so difficult. “You mean they’ll go after your friends, right?”
Sponge looked down.
“Well, that’s easy,” Inda said, relieved. He knew how to plan for that. So did Dogpiss, for whom barracks life, with all its rough games, was home.
Noddy gave his turtle-on-the-fencepost shrug and led the way out. They found Cama hovering just outside the pit. He asked in his kitten squeak, “They scrag their own bunks?”
“No. We stayed there the whole time.” Noddy sighed.
Inda contemplated that as they loped toward the long rows of stable buildings. It was a nasty ruse: wreck their own beds and then get the blame shifted to Inda and Dogpiss, who would then get the blame among the boys for not passing first week inspection. That meant daily callover in the parade court, and daily inspections, for a whole month. And that meant getting up earlier. Everyone else got callover in their own courts after meals, and only weekly inspections. A sure way to get them hated by all the boys.
All because the Sierlaef hated his brother and because Marlo-Vayir had mistaken Dogpiss for Sponge.
Not just the yellow hair but because Dogpiss was the center of attention,
Inda thought.
Like the Sierlaef is, among the horsetails.
What did make sense was this: “So Marlo-Vayir and his clan-cousins are the enemy,” Inda said aloud.
“Mine,” Sponge said. “Not yours if you sheer off from me.”
Inda didn’t bother trying to figure out why. This problem seemed way beyond his reach, like the towers of the royal residence that they all could see but never would enter.
I need Hadand to explain it,
he thought.
Reminded again of his promise to find his sister, he shifted his pace so he ran next to Sponge, who looked over in mute question. Inda hesitated.
Sponge, son of a king, felt the hesitation, and held his breath, his heart thumping as he jogged. Was Inda about to say, as politely as he could, that they’d be better off not talking to one another? And if he did, what was Sponge to say in return?
Plays, songs, poems make much of those moments that affect, unalterably, the remainder of people’s lives. Most decisions don’t have irrevocable consequences; lost ground is recovered, sometimes rapidly, sometimes slowly. Sometimes there is an awareness of those moments that seem to change the world. Inda was aware of no such thing. He hesitated because of his brother’s words, because so much of what was going on he didn’t understand, but instinct had been his surest guide so far, and instinct prompted him to look over and say, “I need to get to Hadand. In secret, I guess. Know a way?”
Sponge nodded once, his face pale, hazel eyes wide and, right now, very green. He could not bear to speak, right then, and anyway they could smell the proximity of the stable, a familiar smell they’d known all their lives.
So Sponge said nothing more. He knew Hadand wanted to see her brother. He knew it would take thought and care to arrange the meeting, but all that could wait. What he cherished now was the realization that Hadand’s brother had not rejected him. In fact Inda trusted him, in the same unthinking way—as if it was as natural as breathing—as his sister Hadand did. People in Sponge’s life so far despised him, watched him, scorned him, judged him, flattered him, ignored him, lied to him, told him what they thought he wanted to hear, beat him, tried to influence him, but no one, except Hadand and his cousin Barend (the rare times he was home) trusted him. Until now.
Chapter Seven
D
OGPISS was the first inside the practice court. He slunk inside warily, stopping with his back to one of the high stone walls, where he could watch the rest enter and not be taken by surprise. The single clang of first-bell had long since faded into the breeze, but no master was here. Curious.
Dogpiss watched the boys shuffle uncertainly. Three days ago they would have scrambled for the practice weapons in the racks. Now they stood in two rough rows, waiting for a master to arrive and issue orders—or for someone to go first and take the blame. Dogpiss whistled softly under his breath.
Horsepiss Noth had said,
I won’t tell you the tricks of the training trade, my boy. You won’t learn anything, then. Just remember these two things: first, that most of those boys will forget within a day that they’re there to learn command . . .
Wrong. At least, that Marlo-Vayir horse plop had certainly acted fast enough, their very first day, there in the mess hall.
Except now Dogpiss wondered if Landred Marlo-Vayir was just a follower after all, doing what his brother ordered, who did what the Sierlaef ordered. For whatever reason.
Look at him,
Dogpiss thought, repressing a grin. Marlo-Vayir wanted to get at those weapons so bad he was almost drooling.
But look at the way he’s nudging Smartlip and his cousins and muttering. He’s trying to get them to go first! That’s not command.
Meanwhile, no sign of a master.
Dogpiss saw he wasn’t the only one scanning the bare stone walls for clues, and the blank windows of the masters’ building above, but no one else seemed to want to move either. Why not get them started? Marlo-Vayir wouldn’t listen, of course. Dogpiss wondered if any of the others would. Supposedly they were all equal, but what had his father said about that?
There isn’t any “equal.” Not with human beings. First will probably be the king’s son and his friends, the ones with “Vayir” hanging on their names, if he’s anything like his older brother. Then come the smart ones, and the ones with skill.