He grinned when he saw her. “Kel, my squire, pull up a chair. Tonight we start lessons in calculating supplies for different numbers of men under your command.”
Kel looked at him, seeing unholy amusement in his face. He had to know how her body felt. Finally she said, “Begging my lord’s pardon, but you are a bad man.”
He laughed. By now she had learned that she could get away with remarks Lord Wyldon would call insubordinate. “I am a bad man,” Raoul said, falsely contrite. “Chair, squire. If you’d like a cushion, there are some in the window seat.”
Kel hobbled over to a chair and carried it to his desk. Putting it down, she eyed the papers, slates, chalk, and abacus he’d laid out, then fetched a cushion.
Some time later she reviewed a problem he’d just set her: to calculate the number of bowstrings a company of archers might need for a six-week campaign in damp country, using a formula he’d given her. Kel put the slate down. “My lord, if I may . . .”
He was writing in an account book, waiting for her to solve the problem. He put his quill down. “What?”
“You say to calculate for people under my command. These problems are for large groups, not the ten-man squad sizes we learned as pages. Um . . .” She hesitated. How could she phrase it so he wouldn’t think she felt sorry for herself?
“And?” he nudged.
“Sir, people never wanted me to make it to squire. They won’t like it any better if I become a knight. I doubt I’ll get to command a force larger than, well, just me.”
Raoul shook his head. “You’re wrong.” As she started to protest, he raised a hand. “Hear me out. I have some idea of what you’ve had to bear to get this far, and it won’t get easier. But there are larger issues than your fitness for knighthood, issues that involve lives and livelihoods. Attend,” he said, so much like Yayin, one of her Mithran teachers, that Kel had to smile.
“At our level, there are four kinds of warrior,” he told Kel. He raised a fist and held up one large finger. “Heroes, like Alanna the Lioness. Warriors who find dark places and fight in them alone. This is wonderful, but we live in the real world. There aren’t many places without any hope or light.”
He raised a second finger. “We have knights—plain, everyday knights, like your brothers. They patrol their borders and protect their tenants, or they go into troubled areas at the king’s command and sort them out. They fight in battles, usually against other knights. A hero will work like an everyday knight for a time—it’s expected. And most knights must be clever enough to manage alone.”
Kel nodded.
“We have soldiers,” Raoul continued, raising a third finger. “Those are warriors, including knights, who can manage so long as they’re told what to do. These are more common, thank Mithros, and you’ll find them in charge of companies in the army, under the eye of a general. Without people who can take orders, we’d be in real trouble.
“Commanders.” He raised his little finger. “Good ones, people with a knack for it, like, say, the queen, or Buri, or young Dom, they’re as rare as heroes. Commanders have an eye not just for what they do, but for what those around them do. Commanders size up people’s strengths and weaknesses. They know where someone will shine and where they will collapse. Other warriors will obey a true commander because they can tell that the commander knows what he—or she—is doing.” Raoul picked up a quill and toyed with it. “You’ve shown flashes of being a commander. I’ve seen it. So has Qasim, your friend Neal, even Wyldon, though it would be like pulling teeth to get him to admit it. My job is to see if you will do more than flash, with the right training. The realm needs commanders. Tortall is big. We have too many still-untamed pockets, too cursed many hideyholes for rogues, and plenty of hungry enemies to nibble at our borders and our seafaring trade. If you have what it takes, the Crown will use you. We’re too desperate for good commanders to let one slip away, even a female one. Now, finish that”—he pointed to the slate—“and you can stop for tonight.”
Kel wrote the answer without working the problem out on the slate. She liked mathematics, and could do far more complicated sums than this one in her head.
Raoul glanced at her answer. “Show-off,” he told her. “Begone!”
Kel obeyed, bowing to him before she closed the door behind her. Then she sat beside her window, staring out at the torchlit courtyard. He had given her serious matters to consider.
Her days took on a pattern. In the morning she fed the griffin, bathed him if he needed it, preened him while trying to keep him from savaging her fingers, and got him to exercise his wings. She took care of her latest griffin wounds, then tended Lord Raoul’s armor and weapons. After that she looked after her own gear and fed the griffin again. In the early afternoon she practiced weapons with men of the Own and rode Hoshi to get used to the mare and her paces. She gave the griffin yet another feeding and more exercise, picked up the things he knocked over as he prowled the room, then left for the stable. There she saddled Peachblossom and rode him to her flying lessons from Raoul, always with far too many people gathered to watch. A hot bath and gossip with the serving women followed, then supper, a last meal for the griffin, and finally lessons in logistics and supply, the proper military names for planning and paperwork.
It was nice to have a routine, if only for a while. Two emergency calls came in during those days, but they required one squad or two, not Third Company. Kel knew Raoul would have liked to go, but he seemed to feel her tilting and logistics instruction to be more important.
They had been jousting for three weeks when Raoul came to the grounds with two new men. They were dressed for practice and leading mounts with tilting saddles. Kel knew the knight, Sir Jerel of Nenan, only because she had been interested in the man who chose Garvey of Runnerspring as his squire. Garvey had belonged to the clique led by Joren of Stone Mountain. Seeing Kel now, Garvey made a face and murmured something to his knight-master.
Raoul introduced them to Kel—if he knew of the feud between Kel and Joren’s old crowd, he hid it. “We need a change of pace,” Raoul explained. “You want to tilt against different opponents, to learn their techniques.”
“You’re going to enter her in the tournaments during the Grand Progress, Raoul?” asked Sir Jerel with a smile.
Raoul nodded. “I’m going to win money on her,” he said, with a wink at Kel. “Squire Garvey, why don’t you two give it a try?”
Garvey bowed and led his mount to the far end of the tilting lane. Kel watched him go, wondering if he planned anything nasty. Joren claimed that he had changed after he became a squire—perhaps Garvey had, too.
Kel led Peachblossom to her starting point and mounted up, then positioned her lance and shield. What had Garvey been up to during the last two years? Had he matured at all? Sir Jerel had been posted on the southwestern coast, helping to defend that part of Tortall from slave traders and freebooters. Garvey would have seen a fair bit of combat.
Raoul gave the signal. Garvey kicked his horse into a gallop as he brought his shield down and his lance up. Kel followed suit, narrowing her focus to her target.
Garvey hit her shield squarely, thumping her back in the saddle. Kel struck his shield as well; he didn’t falter. She rode back to her place, taking inventory of her pains. Apart from the fading ache of impact in both arms, she barely had any. Even those weren’t as bad as they would have been had she clashed with Raoul.
There was the signal. Now Garvey galloped down the lane hard: he meant business. He and Kel struck each other’s shields squarely. Kel resettled herself and came on for their third pass, knowing just where to strike to slam the shield into its bearer. Instead, her lance shattered on contact. Garvey’s skidded off her shield. Instead of turning his mount, he surged forward. In a slide/hook motion, he locked Kel’s shield with his, trapping her.
“Getting fancy, aren’t you, Lump?” he asked with a crooked smile. “When do you surrender and go home?”
Kel shoved sideways, freeing her shie
ld. “Never,” she retorted. “You want to dance, or do you want to take another run?”
“I’d love to knock you on your rump, but I’m late for my appointment at the perfumery,” he retorted, turning his mount. “The scent I’ve been wearing just isn’t fussy enough.” He shook his head. “I need a feminine perfume, the way court is going to the girls.” He rode over to speak to his knight-master.
Raoul walked out. “Are you all right?” he asked Kel. “Was he being unchivalrous?”
Kel sighed. “No—he was just being Garvey.”
“I see,” Raoul commented, his voice dry. “Are you done in, or would you like a go with Jerel?”
“If he wishes to, I’d be honored, my lord,” Kel said, forgetting about Garvey.
Jerel mounted and took his place at one end of the lane. Qasim brought Kel a fresh lance with coromanel tip. He hadn’t padded it, as he did the lances she and Raoul used. Kel hoped he knew what he was doing. As she took her place, she realized Garvey’s lance had not been padded, either.
I guess—I hope—Sir Jerel doesn’t hit as hard as my lord, she thought. Raoul gave the signal. Peachblossom surged into his mild gallop without being told: he was used to the routine. Kel thundered toward Jerel, focusing on his shield, and struck him squarely. He did the same to her. There was more force behind his impact than Garvey’s, but it was still bearable. Taking her place for the next run, Kel wondered if she would measure every opponent by Raoul.
At least I’m not flying yet, she thought as Raoul gave the signal.
She and Jerel hit one another perfectly. Kel rode to her start point, thoughtful. Jerel wasn’t as strong in the saddle as Raoul. And he didn’t surge hard behind his lance—because she was a squire, or because she was a girl?
Raoul gave the signal. Kel and Jerel came on, Kel studying the knight. She rose, changed position, and jammed her lance into Jerel’s shield, just to one side of the center boss. As she struck she threw her entire weight behind the thrust.
Jerel’s shield jerked aside; Kel’s lance rammed through. Jerel swerved to avoid being hit. Kel jerked her lance up as Peachblossom turned.
“Whoa,” she ordered. The gelding halted.
Sir Jerel turned, shaking his head. “Well done, squire!” he called. “If I’d been in armor you’d’ve had me on the ground!” He shook out his shield arm as Kel always did after a pass with Raoul.
Kel wondered if she ought to go again and see if she could unhorse the man. A look at Peachblossom changed her mind. His withers were sweat-streaked. While he could go longer and might have to one day, she saw no reason to exhaust him to satisfy her pride.
“Thank you, Sir Jerel,” she said politely instead. “You’re too kind.”
Raoul walked over to take her shield and lance; Dom came to do the same service for Jerel. “Well said, Kel,” he told her quietly. “I see you know it’s bad form to gloat.”
“If I’d actually had him out of the saddle I’d have gloated a little,” she replied. “Maybe not. He’s a decent sort.”
Raoul grinned up at her. “And so are you. Go on, take Peachblossom in. I’ll see you at supper.”
seven
OLD FRIENDS
Aweek of flying lessons later, Raoul took his squire and half of Third Company into the Bazhir desert. They represented the Crown at a headman’s wedding and negotiated the end of a blood feud between two tribes. In Haresfield they hunted and fished, and then smoked the meat to add to winter stores for the victims of Maresgift’s band.
Kel did it all with the griffin in tow. He rode in Jump’s carrybox on Hoshi’s saddle, where he had a view of the leather jerkin she wore to protect her back from his assaults. Nothing protected her ears from his rich vocabulary of squawks and screeches. Jump ran or rode with Dom or Qasim, while the sparrows claimed perches on Peachblossom’s mane. They had already learned that the griffin would try sparrow meat if they came too close, and Peachblossom couldn’t abide the immortal.
Third Company took its time on its ride back to Corus, passing from autumn on the southernmost edges of the Royal Forest to nearly winter on the northern. Once they were on the palace wall approaches, it took some time to reach their quarters: an uncommon amount of traffic clogged every gate. The men grumbled; even Kel felt cross by the time they groomed their mounts and washed up.
That night she went to eat in the pages’ and squires’ mess for the first time since she’d joined Raoul. It was November, the end of the raiding season in most of the country. Many knights and squires would be returning for the winter.
In the mess she was greeted boisterously by her friends among the pages: Owen of Jesslaw, in his fourth year and still unable to keep his foot from his mouth, and his third-year kinsmen, Iden and Warric. Of the squires, Balduin of Disart and Prosper of Tameran were already seated, along with Garvey and Zahir ibn Alhaz, a Bazhir who had once belonged to Joren’s circle. Kel got on with Balduin and Prosper and was setting her tray beside them when the doors flew open. In came a big redheaded squire in the colors and badge of Fief Mindelan, Cleon of Kennan, who was not only her friend but squire to her brother Inness. Neal followed him.
They headed for the servers’ line without looking to see who was there. Kel watched them, feeling odd. Neal looked like any other male. There was no special luster about him as she watched him put food on his tray. She was delighted he was there—she had missed him—but she didn’t feel her normal quivery blend of happiness and pain at the sight of him.
I don’t love him anymore, she thought, relieved, then distressed. Relieved, because it had hurt to know he barely remembered she was female, distressed because she had believed she would want him forever. Immediately she thought of Dom’s bright blue eyes and bold, flashing grin, the way his shoulders fit his tunics. The way he made almost anything seem funny.
I’m fickle, Kel thought gloomily. Who falls in and out of love over a summer? Were my feelings even real?
Suddenly she was very grateful that he’d never guessed how she felt. How embarrassing, if they’d cared for each other and she stopped!
Spotting her, Neal shouted: “Mithros defend us, it’s the King’s Own squire!” He came over to the table, clapped Prosper on the shoulder, nodded to Balduin, then slid into the space across from Kel. “When did you get back?” he demanded. “And where’s your fledgling?” He picked a tiny orange bit of down from Kel’s shoulder.
“Um, Kel? Is this place taken?”
She looked up, and up, and up. Cleon seemed to stretch toward the ceiling. “Please sit,” she begged. “It hurts my neck to look at you. Since when do you ask for permission to sit, anyway?”
Cleon sat next to her. “When did you get back?” he asked. “We weren’t sure how long you’d be gone—”
“Or if you’d ever eat here again,” added Neal. “We heard you mostly take meals with the King’s Own.”
“Because my friends were away,” Kel pointed out. “When did you get back?”
“I’ve been here a week,” Neal said, “hiding from my lovely knight-mistress. She doesn’t need a sword—that temper sharpens her tongue just fine. This redheaded giant’s been in three days.”
“Scanran border’s cooled down,” Cleon said, still looking at Kel. “All the weather auguries are for a bad winter. Bursetin Pass is already snowed shut. Sir Inness decided if we were to reach the palace this year, we’d best go now.”
“You see much action up there?” asked Balduin. “We’ve been on the Gallan border—not that it’s a picnic, mind.”
“The Scanrans are fidgety,” Cleon replied. “Used to be, the border clans would raid on their own. Annoying, but you don’t need an army to pound them, just whoever’s about. Last year, though, one of the southern clans elected a war leader, Maggur Rathhausak. He brought five clans together and they overran Northwatch Fortress in June.” Every- one who could hear winced: he’d named the key to the northern border defenses. “We got it back. One of the haMinches, General Vanget, took command and cleaned Nor
thwatch out.”
“Who was in command when it was overrun?” Prosper wanted to know. “And where was he?”
Cleon grinned. “Hunting. General haMinch court-martialed all the officers but the junior ones.” He looked at Kel. “What about you? Is Lord Raoul kin—” He changed his mind and used another word. “—easy to work with?”
Kel smiled up into Cleon’s eyes. “He’s the best master I could have hoped for. And working with the Own is interesting.”
“Meet anyone worth having a conversation with?” Neal asked wickedly.
“You mean relatives of yours?” Kel asked, all innocence. “You know, Neal, I think your branch was cheated when they handed out brains, because Dom—” She ducked the roll Neal threw at her.
“My cousin Domitan of Masbolle’s a squad leader in Third Company,” Neal told the others. To Kel he said, “And he says you tangled with a centaur—”
“Heads up,” Balduin said, getting to his feet.
Everyone stood as Lord Wyldon entered the mess, accompanied by Kel’s brother, Inness of Mindelan. Once Lord Wyldon had given the evening prayer, he and Inness sat at his table. The pages and squires jammed themselves onto the benches and began to eat.
“So what’s this about a centaur?” Balduin inquired. “You fought one?”
“Oh, that,” Kel said, cutting her vegetables. “Yes, on foot, and he almost kicked my belly through my spine. I’d rather hear about Scanra.”
“Did you use sword or spear?” demanded Prosper.
“My lord lets me use my glaive,” she replied. “All the men carry some kind of pole arm.” She turned to Cleon. “So who’s this new warlord?”
Cleon was telling what he knew when the door opened. A bright figure walked into the open space between the tables and the dais on which Lord Wyldon and Inness sat.
The newcomer wore two of the floor-length wrap dresses known as kimonos, one over the other. The outer one was cream-colored silk with orange and yellow maple leaves printed on the fabric; the edges of her inner kimono were orange. The kimonos were secured by a wide, stiff sash called an obi, this one of bronze silk. The lady’s feet, in brown silk slippers, made a shushing sound in the suddenly quiet room. Her ebony hair was parted at the center and combed out straight to her waist. Two short locks framed her face exactly.
Squire Page 10
