She stalked out, letting the door slam behind her. Only when she reached her room did she allow herself to cry. The sight of those familiar bodies in a bloody heap would haunt her for weeks.
Spring, in the 18th year of the reign of Jonathan IV and Thayet, his Queen, 457
ten
THE GREAT PROGRESS BEGINS
Third Company took to the road just two days after Kel’s encounter with the Chamber door, to escort the outgoing Tyran ambassador to his own border. They rode south on a trip Lerant mockingly described as “departing the land of snow and sleet for the land of rain and sleet.”
Kel was relieved to be away. She hadn’t seen Cleon privately since that astonishing kiss. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to see him or never to see him again. She didn’t know which would be worse, finding that he’d done it on a dare or that he’d done it because he’d wanted to. Either reason meant a rat’s nest of problems.
At the Tyran border they said farewell to the outgoing ambassador and welcomed the new one. Third Company got ten days to recuperate before they escorted the new ambassador and his lady to Corus. Kel, seeing all of the goods in the Pearlmouth marketplaces, did some of her shopping for next Midwinter. The way things went with the Own, she wanted to do such tasks when she could. An emergency might interfere later.
In February after they returned to Corus, Third Company headed down the coast. They were accompanied by Baron George Cooper of Pirate’s Swoop, a man people both pitied and looked down on for marrying Alanna the Lioness. Kel watched him intently. She wanted to know why the Lioness had married this man, who wasn’t even handsome, for all that he was well muscled for someone in his late forties. The only attractive thing about him was a pair of humorous hazel eyes. Nice eyes hardly seemed to Kel like grounds for marriage.
The baron had heard of pirates who spent the winter near a town called Bay Cove. He led Third Company there over a series of goat trails. It gave them a good vantage point from which to scout the pirates’ nest and plan their attack. There was a short, pitched fight, which Third Company won easily. Kel did little more than stand by Raoul, listening to the orders he gave and the reports he got. With pirates in tow, they sought the Port Legann magistrate. That meant another series of trials, another set of executions. More than once she wished there were a different way to handle murderers.
In March they stayed with the Bazhir. Kel, Lerant, Dom, and some of the others raced against the Bazhir, though Kel seldom won. Hoshi was fast and strong, but she was no match for the dainty-boned Bazhir horses, called by their proud owners “children of the wind.” Raoul gave her more jousting lessons, something that puzzled Bazhir men and amused Bazhir women. They would gather around Kel afterward to put balm on her bruises and tease her.
They spent April on the banks of the Drell River, which flooded when the winter snows melted. Kel’s back was a solid ache as she labored with Raoul and the men to shore up the flood walls.
In early May they returned to the Bazhir and helped the headman of the Sunset Dragon tribe celebrate the birth of twins to his wife. After that Raoul led them back to the palace.
There wasn’t a noble in sight. The immense parade of the Great Progress, designed to introduce Tortallans to Shinkokami and to renew the people’s ties to the monarchs, had departed. With it rode courtiers, maids, hostlers, clerks, barbers, huntsmen, guards, cooks, errand boys, and anyone else who might prove useful. The palace was not deserted: while the nobles might be gone, hordes of workmen had arrived to fix anything that needed repair, apply fresh coats of paint and whitewash, and pursue other loud, dusty tasks. The kingdom’s administrators still worked at their desks. The courts still met; the officials who ran the kingdom’s tax collections and postal service labored here. Still, compared to the palace at Midwinter, Kel found the place sadly empty.
“Peace and quiet!” Raoul said as his company rode into their courtyard. “I revel in it!”
“But we will be catching up?” prodded Flyndan.
“When we’re rested,” said Raoul gravely. “I myself feel quite tired.”
“And every time you get the bit between your teeth and decide you don’t care what the king wants, you two end up butting heads. One day you won’t be able to charm your way out of a royal reprimand.” Flyn kept his voice low—only Kel heard him, though she pretended she didn’t.
“He wouldn’t butt heads with me if he didn’t keep using us like a garland of pearls to dress up his majesty,” Raoul said, keeping his own voice down. “We’re a combat unit, not a dance troupe. We leave when we’re rested.”
Flyndan shook his head and dismounted.
They had two lazy weeks before a firm message arrived from the king. Third Company packed and rode slowly for six days. At last they topped a ridge that overlooked the city of Whitethorn, tucked into a delta formed by the rivers Olorun and Tirragen. There they watched the fat, glittering serpent of the royal progress come into view. The local people had the same idea: they lined the road in their festival best, all wearing some bit of royal blue ribbon. More people flooded onto the road through Whitethorn’s open gates, eager to see the realm’s notables.
The city was swathed in banners and garlands. Tortallan and Yamani flags waved atop every tower. Grave town fathers in long robes and elegant hats stood on the wall over the main gate. Little girls in white bearing flower garlands stood with them.
The procession came on. With her new spyglass Kel could see the riders behind the heralds. The king and queen rode with Roald and Shinkokami between them. Prince Eitaro scowled on the king’s right—Kel knew his arthritis must be bothering him—as his wife serenely guided her mount on the queen’s left. Behind Thayet rode her ladies, fourteen young women of good family and education, who could grace a party and ride and shoot well enough to keep up with Queen Thayet in an emergency. Yuki and Lady Haname rode with them. Kel smiled: her Yamani friends had been adopted.
“Don’t be greedy,” Dom said, elbowing her. “A chivalrous knight shares.”
His nearness still did mad things to her emotions, though lately she kept thinking about Cleon, wondering what it would be like to kiss him back. Kel handed over the spyglass. “Try not to steam it up looking for pretty girls,” she ordered. The griffin cawed and flapped from his post on the placid Hoshi’s saddle horn, as if he echoed Kel.
“You just don’t understand a fellow’s interest in females,” Dom murmured, glued to the spyglass.
“How many fighters are with them?” asked Raoul.
“Four Rider Groups,” replied Dom. “The Fourth—the Queen’s Rabbits. The . . . First. They don’t have a nickname,” Dom said when Kel made a questioning noise. “They’re just the First. The Fourteenth, Gret’s Shadows, and the Seventeenth, Group Askew. There’s Commander Buri. Oh, splendid—Captain Glaisdan and First Company. He looks as sour as a pickled beet.”
“If he’s wearing his old-style armor, probably his face is the same color,” Flyndan said. “Why couldn’t that fusspot stay at the palace? First Company’s all wrong for this.”
“If I pretend I like you, squire, can I use the spyglass?” Lerant asked Kel.
“Please don’t try,” she replied. “You’re not that good an actor. Dom, he can look when you’re done.”
“Some people are cocky ever since they killed a whole centaur,” Lerant remarked to the air.
“Some people are annoying,” Dom retorted, giving him the spyglass. “So, Kel, about the Yamani ladies . . .”
The royal courier who had twittered at Raoul’s elbow all the way from Corus said, “My lord Knight Commander, why do we hesitate? The king was quite firm—”
“So you’ve said. Often,” Raoul growled, black eyes smoldering. He raised his voice. “My dears, there’s no help for it. Let us join in the panoply.” He urged Amberfire into a careful walk.
Lerant handed the spyglass to Kel and hoisted the Knight Commander’s banner, setting his mount forward. Flyndan joined him, his doughy face as gloomy as Raoul’s.
“Not too fast,” called Raoul. “Let’s not scare anyone.”
“His majesty said with all deliberate speed!” chirped the courier. He flinched under Lerant’s glare.
“That’s how we’re doing it,” Raoul told him. “Deliberately.”
Kel hid a smile. Raoul had argued that one company of the Own on progress was sufficient. The king had overruled him and here they were. They merged with the progress, Third Company behind the ranks of nobles as Raoul, attended by Kel, caught up with the monarchs.
The king glanced at Raoul. In a less exalted man his expression might have been called a scowl. Prince Eitaro let Raoul take his place.
“Master Oakbridge has found you hosts to lodge with in the city,” Kel heard Jonathan say coldly as they approached the main gates. “Near the governor’s palace, so you won’t have any excuse for lateness at the social events.”
“As my king orders,” said Raoul, his voice blandly pleasant. Kel glanced at him. What was he up to? The griffin squawked, and she returned to their game: trying to wrestle a rawhide strip out of his beak. He rarely bit or scratched her while playing.
The king was also suspicious. “It is, eh?”
Raoul indicated the immortal, who growled as he wrestled with the leather. “Did Oakbridge mention our friend?” inquired Raoul. “Where Kel goes, he goes.”
“No one’s going to want a griffin in his house,” the king snapped. “Most folk don’t believe it’s just people who actually handle the thing who get attacked. She’ll have to camp with the rest of the progress.”
“I’m to attend balls and banquets without my squire?” demanded Raoul, all innocence. “I can’t handle things like requesting water to shave with, or getting my clothes pressed. I need Kel.”
“You managed for twenty years,” growled the king, blue eyes flashing in anger.
“This is different,” Raoul informed him.
Jonathan stared grimly ahead, drumming his fingers on his saddle horn. Finally he ordered, “Tell the Lord Seneschal to give you a place in the camp, then. And I expect you to be on time for social events!”
“Sire,” Raoul said, bowing deeply in the saddle. He motioned to the side of the road with his head, and turned Amberfire out of the main parade. Kel followed, her face Yamani-straight.
The Lord Seneschal nearly screamed when he realized he needed to find a place in the camp for the Knight Commander. Drawing up these camps required tact, diplomacy, and quick thinking. Obviously enemies could not pitch their tents side by side, and the most important nobles would not take it well if they camped cheek by jowl with soldiers. For a moment Kel feared the Seneschal was going to have an apoplexy as his face turned a rich plum color. He grabbed a map on a parchment and hurriedly drew a square, putting Raoul’s name on it. He squawked a servant’s name, then turned to his next problem.
The man he’d summoned did not turn colors or raise his voice. He gave a few commands, then led Raoul and Kel down a grassy lane between tents, explaining the customs and layout of the camp. By the time he’d shown Raoul and Kel the privies and open-air kitchens and escorted them to their assigned space, servants had set up a large tent for Raoul, connected to a smaller one for Kel.
“And they say a stolen griffin’s unlucky,” Raoul told her smugly as they inspected their new domain.
At Whitethorn castle a servant directed Kel to an assembly room. She joined other squires to await their usual spate of banquet instructions from the palace master of ceremonies, Upton Oakbridge. He was in hurried conference with a man in Whitethorn colors and a woman who bore the smears and smutches of a cook.
Neal wasn’t present. Cleon was, smiling at her in a way that made her feel odd, warm and shivery at the same time. She wasn’t sure that she liked it and welcomed the distraction of greeting the others. Her five year-mates were present. So were the newest squires.
“Owen, you’ve joined our ranks?” Kel teased. Of course he’d passed the big examinations. She didn’t have to ask if he’d found a knight-master. His clothes told the tale: he wore the blue shirt and hose and the silver tunic of a squire attached to palace service.
“I’ve got the title, but not the work,” Owen said glumly. He was a plump fourteen-year-old, two inches shorter than Kel, with unruly brown curls and gray eyes. He loved books and had no sense of tact. He also had a wild courage that led him to plunge into battle outnumbered. Gloom was not his natural state.
“What happened?” she asked. “I thought surely you’d be chosen.”
“Lord Wyldon says it’s like last year,” Owen told her. “You had the congress, so everyone took their time picking. Now it’s this progress. There are squireless knights everywhere, but they’re in no rush. It stinks. And in the meantime I get to answer to him.” He nodded toward Master Oakbridge, who was sending the Whitethorn man and the cook away.
“Attention!” called Oakbridge. Kel hugged Owen around the shoulders as they faced the master of ceremonies. Oakbridge did his work with dramatics and prophecies that all would go horribly awry. Having dealt with him over Midwinter, Kel wondered why the man hadn’t died of a heart attack. Instead he seemed to thrive on disaster and finding people seated in the wrong places. The thought of Owen’s having to report to him day and night made her wince in sympathy.
Briskly Oakbridge gave instructions. These banquets were only a little different from page service: squires were assigned to a table where their knight-masters were joined by a dinner companion and other notables. Once the feast was over, guests roamed while squires remained at their posts, refilling glasses, offering sweets, fruits, and cheeses, and providing finger bowls and napkins.
Kel listened, committing what Oakbridge said to memory. When he finished, she found Cleon beside her. He followed Kel to the table where finger bowls and towels were laid out.
“I thought you would never get here,” he said as they took up towels and bowls.
“Lord Raoul was just finishing up a few things,” she replied, eyes fixed on her bowl. It quivered; she was trembling for some reason, and much too aware of Cleon’s warm body at her side.
“Finishing up? Hah,” said Merric of Hollyrose behind them. He was a wiry, lanky boy with very red hair, Kel’s year-mate and friend. “Everyone knows the king sent him a message saying catch up now.”
“Well, is social scheduling what you thought you’d do as a knight?” Kel asked as they started for the banquet hall.
“I didn’t think,” Merric said cheerfully. “I just did what my parents told me, for once.”
They split up, going to the tables where their knight-masters sat. Kel looked for Owen, who went to the table where Prince Roald and Princess Shinkokami sat and got a smiling welcome.
Kel was edgy, as she always was when she had new social duties, but tucked it behind her Yamani mask. Raoul had no bland face to hide behind. With the pretty eighteen-year-old daughter of a local baron as his dinner partner, he turned into a block of wood. His companion, made nervous by his rank, age, and silence, chattered. Numair and Daine, seated with them, were too busy talking about books to rescue them.
Kel looked around to see who she could recognize. Buri was as wooden as Raoul. A local guilds-man was her partner; he had no trouble talking at the wordless K’mir. The king and queen looked as if they enjoyed talking with the Whitethorn governor and his lady, while the Yamani ladies kept those who shared their tables politely occupied.
At last came Kel’s favorite part of a state banquet. Artful creations in jellies, cakes, and sugar called subtleties were served between courses for diners to admire and eat. The first ones were simple, like the spun sugar crowns that represented the four royal personages in attendance. By the end of the feast they were works of art.
Whitethorn’s cooks surpassed themselves. Their last subtlety was a silvery winged horse of molded sugar and marzipan. It reared on its hind legs, bat-like wings extended, forelegs pawing the air. Before it stood a foal, wings hanging limply, legs hardly strong enough to
support it. But for the size they could be real, thought Kel as she joined the diners in applause. She wished she could make beautiful things like that.
Musicians took the center of the room. Raoul excused himself to his dinner partner and went to greet his friends. As soon as he left, a young man came to lead Raoul’s dinner partner into a group of people their own age.
Kel remained at her post, talking with Numair and Daine and waiting on those who came to sit with them. At last Raoul signaled that he was ready to go. Kel turned in her pitcher and tray and ran to fetch Amberfire and Hoshi.
They were halfway back to camp when Raoul broke their comfortable silence. “They’re holding a tournament over the next two days. I want you to have a look before we enter you in the competitions—you’re about ready. Have you seen one?”
Kel shook her head. “The Yamanis don’t have them. They just beat each other half to death in training.”
“They sound like sensible people. Do they hold banquets?” Raoul asked wistfully.
“Better,” Kel told him. “They have parties where they view the moon in reflecting ponds, or fireflies in lanterns, or patterns of cherry tree blossoms against the sky, and they make up poetry about it.”
Raoul shuddered and changed the subject.
The tournament, held just before Kel’s sixteenth birthday, was educational. It was also the first time Kel squired for Raoul in the traditional way. Since Raoul was scheduled to joust in the afternoon, she had all morning to inspect, clean, and polish his armor and that of his warhorse, black Drum. The metal pieces were clean—she had scoured them at the palace—but an extra rub of the polishing cloth never hurt. She also checked each of his weapons: an assortment of lances, should one break, his sword, and his mace. He shouldn’t need the last two—these were exhibitions, not true combat—but Kel wanted everything ready, just in case. She shook out Drum’s saddle blanket and went over his tack, polishing and testing each join and stitch. Lord Wyldon had pounded it into the pages’ heads: equipment not in perfect condition was a danger to the one who used it. Kel took his words to heart.
Protector of the Small Quartet Page 52
