Redoubt

by Mercedes Lackey

  Gennie shrugged. “They should be. I think they must have voted Corwin as their leader. We don’t dare let their Foot get a chance at the ball, or there will be no way of getting it away from them short of hurting someone.”

  One of the Riders scratched his head as a horse pawed the ground restlessly, and another let out his breath in an impatient snort. “That leaves us thin on the ground for strategy, Captain.”

  Gennie shrugged. “It’s what we’ve got, until we know how they work together.”

  “Keep away from the Foot, get the Riders to the fences and scrum there?” Jeffers shook his head. “That’ll make for a slow game.”

  She made a wry face. “It’s not a demonstration, we aren’t trying to impress anyone, and most of the people here are likely to drift in and out of watching the game. The ones that care about Kirball love a good scrum, so we won’t disappoint anyone who cares. For the rest? We’re just one of the entertainments. It won’t matter if it’s slow; they’ve got plenty of other things to go watch and listen to. The thing is this—I really want to avoid having an injury. Some people would take that for a bad omen, and I know the Royals would be upset.”

  Mags didn’t like to think about that. He’d had his fill of omens and what people made of them. He didn’t want any omens marring Sedric and Lydia’s wedding. He knew at first hand how people could blow such things up and twist them around.

  One of their own Foot raised a finger. Gennie nodded at him. “You know, there’s something nobody’s tried for a while,” he said. “Taking the flag while everyone’s tied up with a long scrum.”

  “Nobody’s tried it ’cause nobody ever leaves the goal unguarded even in a long scrum,” Jeffers objected. Which was true; although it was, theoretically, still a viable strategy, in practice it was impossible to pull off.

  “Aye, but that was when the Mindspeakers were only chatting to their own teams.” The fellow looked straight at Mags. “But what if our Mindspeaker was to make a mistake and let slip something to both teams?”

  It took Mags a moment to get the gist of what the fellow was suggesting.

  Gennie gazed at him in undisguised admiration. “You sneaky beggar!” she exclaimed. “Mags, what do you think?”

  “That it’d be nothing to slip control and let both sides hear what I was telling you all,” he confirmed. “It’s a lot harder to keep things confined, and no one would think twice about it in the middle of the game.”

  “Narvil can’t do that,” offered one of the other Riders. “He has to head-talk one person at a time.”

  “The only problem I can see is it’s awful hard for one Mindspeaker to lie to another,” he pointed out. “The truth tends to leak through, no matter what you try.”

  “It’ll be in the heat of a scrum,” Pip put in thoughtfully. “The Horse and Foot don’t have Gifts, and they won’t know it’s a lie. All we really need is confusion for a moment; we don’t really need to convince anyone of anything for very long.”

  The Companions nodded or otherwise indicated their agreement, as Mags sensed that they approved of this. That made him feel a good bit better about it. If the Companions felt he could do this, then he’d give it the best try he could.

  “I like this plan more and more,” Gennie said with glee. “But we can’t use it more than once, so we’ll have to pick our time carefully.” She considered the Foot thoughtfully. “You know, we could do something else, if you lads are game for it. All four of you make for the flag, then when one of you has it, hide it, split up, and run like billy-oh for our side. When they realize one of you has it, they won’t know which one, and that will force them to split up too. And meanwhile, they’ll still have to watch the ball, or we’ll take it over and keep them away from it. We might even get a chance at a goal.”

  “What about our goal?” Pip wanted to know.

  Gennie looked penetratingly at Mags. “Think you and Dallen can hold it alone?”

  Mags thought for a moment and then got an idea. “Nothing in the rules about me being dismounted, is there?” he asked. “That’d make two guards instead of one. I can run pretty fast, an’ Dallen moves like a scared cat.”

  :I like that plan.:

  “Nothing in the rules,” Gennie said cheerfully. “And there’s plenty of times in a real fight you’ll be going dismounted, so I doubt very much anyone is going to object. At least not for this particular game.”

  This was sounding better and better.

  “And nothing in the rules says that you have to hit the ball with the stick.” He grinned. “Plenty of times in the scrum Companions’ve been kicking the ball around, right? Well, Dallen and I have been working on something, something you have to be in the open to do. I lob the ball to him, he kicks it to the sky. More up than straight, and no direction to speak of, but that’s good ’cause they’ll have to figure out where it’s coming down. If they come at the goal when we’re there, taking a chance on the Foot not getting through, that’s what we’ll do. Bet they’ll be so busy skywatching they won’t see the flag stealer till it’s too late.”

  It was obvious from the now eager expressions on his teammates’ faces that everyone liked this plan. Even the horses seemed to catch the excitement and brought their heads up, looking alert and ready to play.

  “I like it,” Gennie said firmly. “Right, then. Everyone mount up, and let’s go through the usual drills. The sooner we turn ourselves into a team, the better. Mags, you and Dallen sort out whose heads you’re supposed to be in, and make that your priority. Now let’s get working. We only have until lunch to turn ourselves into the team worthy to be called the Prince’s Choice.”

  * * *

  Mags rather liked the look of the new armor. Rather than repainting the old, two teams’-worth had been made in their specific team colors, and basic tunic and trews in matching colors were passed out along with it. That was a lot of work and quite a bit of money, and that made him wonder if Nikolas and the King had some notion of creating Kirball teams for the adults once enough players had gotten out of Grays to form two sets of four. It might be a good idea . . . it would certainly be something to look forward to. But realistically, how often would they actually get to play? Once Heralds went into Whites, they generally spent the majority of their time in the field. The odds of actually getting eight players at the Collegium long enough to practice and play on a team were fairly long.

  Or maybe the King was thinking about making this sort of match an annual or semiannual affair. The sort of thing that could be played down in the city, for instance. . . .

  He thought about that with some glee. What if there were an abbreviated version of Kirball, something that used only eight Trainees, maybe with a simple goal instead of the goal and the flag, and played on a plain, flat field? Would people like to watch that? He knew he would enjoy playing it. Any time he got to play a game on Dallen’s back was—

  :Wake up, dreamer. Game time.:

  He blinked and put his mind firmly back in the present. And, predictably, the nerves started.

  He always had nerves before a game. He had too cursed good an imagination. He could picture all sorts of things going wrong, anything from messing up so badly he looked an utter fool and was asked to never play again, to causing some sort of hideous accident. And no matter how many games he played, he never got over having the nerves. It made him feel keyed up, muscles tense, and just a little bit sick. Gennie and Pip always looked so relaxed at this point, and he could never imagine how they managed it.

  He comforted himself with the fact that once the game started, he would be far too busy for nerves.

  And if he hadn’t been picked for either team, he would not be getting any sort of holiday today; like Nikolas, he would be working. He would probably be in a servant’s uniform or a page’s tabard, moving among the audience, observing and
listening. If the nerves he was experiencing now were bad, the nerves he would be experiencing out there would be much, much worse. The last time he had been watching a crowd, Amily had nearly been kidnapped. Every time he thought about that, he got a sick, horrible feeling, thinking about what could have happened to her.

  The assassins had intended to use her as a way for the Karsites to ruin her father, the King’s Own, and utterly discredit the Heralds for being unable to properly protect one of their own. They’d nearly managed it, too.

  No, no one, least of all Mags, had forgotten for a moment that there was still a set of skilled, determined, and unknown assassins out there, hired by Karse. They had not fulfilled their contract, and without knowing whether Karse had dismissed them or they had forfeited, there was no choice but to assume that they were still bound to that contract.

  That, in truth, was why the newlyweds were spending their wedding nights in Companion’s Field rather than some other romantic and secluded venue. The last several monarchs, for instance, had used a royal hunting lodge, but that was quite out of the question at this point. Nothing and no one was going to get past the ring of determined Companions that surrounded them while they were there. Even the food and drink brought to them was left well away from their pavilion and brought to them by the Prince’s Companion or one of the four trusted—and tested—servants that were with them. Short of dropping down out of the sky, there was no way to approach them, which was exactly how everyone wanted it.

  :Hello? Game?:

  Mags shook his head a little. He really was going to have to do something about the way his mind wandered.

  As Mags lined up with his team, the Prince and Princess arrived to a fanfare, galloping up to the viewing stand with an escort of Companions. It made a very pretty sight, but Mags had other things to watch than the Heir, who at this point was probably the safest person up here on the Hill, what with Guards and Companions and Heralds all on alert for danger.

  He resolutely put his mind back in the game, sizing up their opponents on the White team.

  He worried less about the ones he hadn’t worked with than his former teammates; he’d faced all of them over the ball many times already. He reckoned that being from different teams would matter less to the Foot and the Riders than it would to the Herald Trainees. And the four Trainees on the White team were all from different Kirball teams, which might give them just a moment or two of hesitancy that Mags, Gennie, and Pip wouldn’t have. But the Foot and Riders from Gennie’s original team knew her style and knew how the Reds tended to come up with unexpected strategies; they might not be fooled when Mags “accidentally” Mindspoke to all of them.

  The sun was high overhead now. The Prince had timed his wedding well, insofar as it did not interfere with the lives of his subjects. This was the end of summer. It was not yet harvest time, yet harvest time was near enough that not even Karse would be insane enough to attack with an army that would pull men away from the fields near the time they would be most needed. Foods that were not harvested in the fall were abundant, it had been easy to transport them here, this was right in the middle of trading season, so traders were perfectly happy to have excuses to set up fairs alongside all the wedding celebrations taking place all over the country. The weather was absolutely splendid—dry, warm, perfect for outdoor celebrations.

  Unless, of course, you were wearing half your own weight in Kirball armor.

  Mags was already sweating, and he was grateful for the breeze that was making the pennants at the grandstand snap and pop.

  :Whether or not our old teammates believe your “slip” won’t matter as long as the rest are fooled,: Dallen pointed out, swishing his tail slightly as the wind played with his mane and forelock. :It will take their Mindspeaker longer to sort that out and tell them than it would you. That will translate into a lot of distance for the Foot with the flag.:

  The referee was coming out with the ball, and time for woolgathering was over.

  The two teams got into place. The Foot went to the blue and white goals, the Riders and Trainees gathered around the referee. Mags leaned forward over Dallen’s neck, feeling the Companion’s muscles tensing under his legs.

  He was amazed the ball didn’t burst into flames from the intensity of the glares on it.

  The ball went up in the air, and the referee scrambled for cover. As the team had anticipated, the moment the ball hit the ground, the scrum was on.

  Mags was pressed on both sides by tall cavalry horses, but Dallen was just as tall, and heavier, and not at all averse to shoving back. He had no idea where the ball was, and neither did his Companion. They milled with the others in a tight mob. There was no need to put on a showy exhibition for the crowd this time; those who were watching were here to ogle the new Princess, to be seen themselves, or to watch the game. For the first two groups, it wouldn’t matter what happened on the field, and for the last, everything that happened on the field was of intense interest.

  :Aha. The ball’s under the feet of that tall roan!:

  :Under the roan!: Mags “shouted” to his teammates.

  Those wicked little ponies on the Blue side went straight to work, and Jeffers got control of the ball, but they were matched by mounts and Riders on White who loved a good dust-up. Mags backed a little out of the scrum, just enough that he could see the ball among all the hooves, and kept them all aware of where the ball was; but it was going to take an accident, a misstep, or a lucky move to get it out from under the ponies’ hooves and noses.

  :I told you it would be easier to keep track of your teammates than you thought,: Dallen pointed out as he warned one of the Riders that they were about to lose the ball.

  :Huh. Practice?:

  :Generally makes perfect, yes. Or at least “much better.”:

  The scrum moved slowly up and down the field without getting far from the center until just that lucky move on the part of a White—a daring and accurate hit with the stick—sent it skittering out of the scrum and toward the Blue goal.

  Off went the Riders and half of the Trainees, following it like a cat after a mouse. Gennie and Mags stayed behind a little, in case someone got the ball away from the Whites, and he finally got a lungful of air that wasn’t full of churned-up dust. Quarter-time can’t come too soon. They were barely into the game, and already his throat was parched. and he desperately wanted a drink.

  After drilling all morning, Gennie was confident in the ability of their own Foot to keep anyone from scoring on them. The Prince had chosen shrewdly, picking people who were agile, quick, and utterly fearless in the face of risk—people who, in fact, were being trained as battlefield messengers.

  Even as Mags thought that, one of the Whites bunged the ball toward the goal, and one of their own literally leaped for it, intercepted it with his body with an audible impact, rolled around it, tumbled, rolled to his feet—

  Coming at you, Mags! he heard the thought in his mind and was ready when the Blue whirled and flung the thing at him like a woolsack. He forgot all about his dry mouth, the persistent tickle in the back of his throat, and the sweat pouring down the back of his neck and gave the ball a whack with his stick, sending it to Gennie who was closer to the goal. She took a chance and gave it another smack, sending it toward the dead center of the goal, but she wasn’t really expecting to get it in, so the team was ready when the White Foot intercepted it and bunged it back to their own Rider.

  That was when the Blue Riders and Trainees rushed him and forced him into a scrum on the fence. He was almost bowled over by the avalanche of Companions and horseflesh; desperately trying to control the ball, he was carried along in the direction they wanted to go.

  The White Trainees were good, but the Riders were fighting their horses to get in close. Blue kept the scrum right up against the fence for the rest of the quarter, as Mags warned them every
time it looked as if the ball was going to escape into the open, and it ended without either team managing to score.

  The team huddled up to consider the strategy for the next quarter.

  Mags pulled off his helmet and poured water over his head, then poured more over Dallen’s. The sun was punishingly hot out here; only that stiff breeze was keeping things bearable.

  “It would be awfully nice to actually get a goal,” Jeffers said wistfully.

  “We might want to consider the politics at this point,” put in another of the Blue Trainees, thoughtfully, as he paused in drinking down about half a pitcher of water. He was one of the older lot; Mags knew him only as Byren, and not much else about him, except that he was highborn. He passed the pitcher to Gennie, who drained it and handed it back down to the bearer.

  “How so?” Gennie asked. “You’ve more of a head for court politics than I do, Byren. How can the game make any difference?” She eyed him with speculation, not skepticism. Mags figured at that point that this Byren probably knew what he was talking about and might be another person to add to his personal circle of helpers. It would help to have someone besides Amily around who know about court politics.

  “Well, there’s the thing. Is it better for the Blues or the Whites to win? Better to keep balance in the Court,” he said, then elaborated. “What sort of message will the rest of the Court read into a victory for either side? Because they will, it’s inevitable; no matter what happens, they are going to read something into it. If the Blues win, will they read that as Sedric getting impatient for the Throne? If the Whites win, will they read it as Sedric not being experienced enough?” Byren’s Companion shuffled uneasily beneath him, as if this sort of talk made him uncomfortable. “I’m the last one to suggest that either side throw the match, but I’d like to know if there are going to be any possible ramifications for a win. If there are, well, we need to consider that as much as how we play the game.”