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
DOGPISS 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.
These boys’re like dogs, Dogpiss thought, watching the two rows slowly break into tight knots. Scout dogs, he thought, trying to be fair. Not pugs, which were lapdogs, usually spoiled. Scout dogs, but still dogs. Those quick looks at everyone else, the mutters, even the snickers, were ear-twitching and butt-sniffing and prowling around and around, maybe showing teeth, hackles not quite up, tail tips waving warily.
What was the rest of Dad’s advice about command? Second thing: that natural command arises less out of being strongest than out of knowing what to do and doing it.
Dogpiss decided to test it. He knew what would happen if he stepped out and began organizing people: loud hoots about frost. Marlo-Vayir would surely see it as an excuse to start pounding him.
But if he just acted? He walked to the stack of practice padding on a long table, and picked up the first jacket.
“Sure that’s a good idea?” There was Inda, looking uneasy.
“We weren’t ordered to wait,” Dogpiss said. “We were just ordered to be here at firs
t-bell.”
Inda’s light brown eyes narrowed, then he gave a short nod. “True. But could it be a trick of some sort? Are our shoulder blades gonna kiss the willow for frost, or something?”
Dogpiss shrugged. “Aren’t we here to learn to command?”
“That’s right.” The soft voice was from Sponge, coming up on Dogpiss’ other side. “But we haven’t the authority to order the others, and wouldn’t they love to see us try?”
“So we ‘order’ us.” Inda grabbed a jacket. “I’m for it.” The three got into practice gear, followed a few moments later by small, quiet Mouse Marth-Davan, who usually lost himself inside the biggest group or else somehow managed to vanish altogether. Inda had not exchanged more than a dozen words with him so far, but for Tdor’s sake, he’d made those words friendly. And now Mouse, with a determined air, silently joined them.
Behind him came several of the others, some with furtive glances both at the open entrance to the court and at Marlo-Vayir.
Dogpiss kept his gaze on his companions, but his attention on the bullies behind him. For a time there was silence, then furtive whispering from the perimeter. Now watch. As soon as we touch a weapon and no master appears and lands on us, Marlo-Vayir will grab a practice blade, and he won’t put on gear. He’ll say something about how only pugs use gear.
Inda and Sponge hefted some practice swords—then moved to a corner, and squared off into a familiar warm-up pattern, Dogpiss following along, but keeping Marlo-Vayir in view. Cama and Noddy, hastily fastening their gear, joined them, and for a moment they regarded one another, wondering who would signal the beginning. Sponge felt eyes turning his way, and he studied the ground.
“Hep!” Inda grunted, and weapons came up. As he counted in Marlovan under his breath, they began the double-circle swing that every boy learns first, then the blocks and thrusts.
When they began on the square form—and no master was yet in sight—Marlo-Vayir, who had been muttering insulting comments to his snickering cronies, lifted his voice. “Just follow me. Unless you’re afraid.”
He started toward the weapons. With a look of scorn the big blond boy eyed the rack, yanked out the biggest practice blade, and sent it round in so fast a circle it whooshed in the air.
Dogpiss sighed. He’d figured the Marlo-Vayirs would be well trained, though it would have been fun if the bully had turned out to be clumsy and slow. Marlo-Vayir’s thick, bony wrists showed the ease of long drill, and he handled the blade deftly.
“All right, square off,” Marlo-Vayir ordered Smartlip, who had gotten his own blade.
“But what about gear?” Smartlip asked, picking nervously at his lips.
Marlo-Vayir sneered Sponge’s way. “That’s for rabbits and pugs.”
An intense thrill burned through Dogpiss. He knew bullies. Most of ’em were predictable. The ones you feared were the smart ones, the ones who seemed to think ahead of you. Marlo-Vayir Tvei was not a smart bully.
Within moments the other boys followed, and you could divide their partisanship by how many first put on practice padding and how many didn’t.
They’d paired off and begun old routines when Master Gand and two other tutors walked through the archway, put horny old hands on their hips, and looked around with a pensive air. All three masters then strode to the padding bench and pulled out the bigger jackets and helms. They alone used real swords.
Then, without wasted words they called names, and began to put the boys through basic drill, and then a bout. Nobody made the unpadded ones get padded, but when Dogpiss turned away from his bout, sweaty and his arms feeling like spindled wool, he stared at Marlo-Vayir, crimson with tiny cuts all over his face and arms. Smartlip had them too, though he had fewer. And each of the other unpadded boys had at least three or four cuts, tiny ones, the sort of cut that the practiced duelist inflicts as a humiliation or a goad.
One by one the scrubs went silent in shock, uneasiness.
We’re training for war, you brickheads, Dogpiss thought.
Sponge thought, There’s blood in all the old stories, but no pain. All you hear about is honor and courage.
Inda thought, Master Gand is warning them.
Dogpiss had grown up in barracks under a father who taught him to be observant, so his assessment of his fellows’ abilities did not vary much from the masters’. But few are universally vigilant, and so it was with Dogpiss. His attention was on the other scrubs and the masters watching the scrubs. He never once looked up, and so he did not see five horsetails slip along the new walls adjoining the nearby barracks and vault lightly up to run along the rooftop. Of course the sentries could easily see them from the higher walls of the royal castle along the eastern perimeter of the academy, but they immediately recognized the Sierlaef and four of his five Sier-Danas. They’d no sooner report them than they would a passing flight of birds or the prowling cats.
The rules were that they’d be caned if they were caught, but by their second year the Sierlaef’s chosen band knew the difference between what the masters had to officially notice and act on and what they could ignore. As long as the five lay quietly and didn’t talk loud, much less hoot or throw things, the masters wouldn’t notice them. Not officially, anyway.
With dispassionate expertise the royal heir’s four friends observed and commented on the scrubs at their sword-work. The Sierlaef stayed silent, watching.
“Hoo. Your Tvei’s wilder than Peddler Antivad the Drunk when he met the wind funnel, Cassad.”
Cassad Ain snickered. “Weird. Seeing Rattooth down there.” He hid how anxious he was as he watched his buck-toothed, yellow-headed brother Rattooth busily hacking away at a hound-faced boy. The thing about brothers being here was that your own training was right there, being seen by everyone. Your own brother you never thought anyone outside of home would see—
Brother.
Pause. Glances the Sierlaef’s way. All four saw the king’s second son fumbling through a practice bout with another boy. He was by far the worst. Clumsy, slow, tentative. Untrained.
The Sierlaef felt those gazes, but kept his focus on the court below, and the others returned to their comments, keeping them general, and by unspoken agreement avoiding the subject of the red-haired boy known as Sponge.
The Sierlaef scanned the academy, both the older buildings and the new ones his father had ordered built last year, now occupied by the seniors. The academy was his own domain, for he and his companions were the leaders among the leaders. But the royal heir was impatient of this pretend command. He wore a horsetail now. He was no longer a boy, but was not yet regarded as a man, and he hated it!
He squinted against the hazy sunlight, gazing beyond the academy compound to the real world: the guard barracks commanded by his uncle. Here, it was just boys and play war, and though he was a horsetail, he was only a first-year horsetail, with two long years before he could go over to the guard side and live with men, and war would be real.
Real, and one day mine, he thought, glancing up at the great walls surrounding the castle, and the sentries in their steady, vigilant tread. All of it mine to command.
To command! I will not be Aldren-Sieraec, I will be Aldren-Harvaldar, the war king, and afterward they will proclaim me Aldren-Harvaldar Sigun. The Victorious.
His gaze returned to the court, and the hated red-haired figure down there, flailing away inexpertly with the practice blade, and anger boiled in his guts.
Memory images, unwanted, of four years ago: Your brother has already mastered the Sartoran script; why can’t you trace your name right in simple Iascan?
And just last week:
Your brother can already read this entire record. Can’t you get through a single phrase?
Anger forged into hatred, but of course the Sierlaef did not speak of it. His father thought him stupid when he couldn’t read a damned line of that damned Sartoran squiggle, but Uncle Anderle-Sierandael knew he wasn’t stupid.
The Sierlaef sensed the others waiting for a cu
e from him before they said anything about his own brother. He had no interest in their appraisal. He knew Sponge was bad because he got little training. Was it his fault if the brat was always sneaking off to the library, or hiding with cousin Barend whenever they knew he was looking for them?
It was not, and his uncle knew it. That’s what mattered, that his uncle knew. His uncle even agreed: Sponge was only good for heraldry, for grubbing in an archive, not for war.
His uncle would be the real leader, if the Venn made war.
Down in the court Sponge flailed grimly away, taking hit after hit without flinching. The Sierlaef, watching, felt beneath the anger a pool of cold fear, but he refused to accept it. Sponge was not smarter, that was all. And he’d prove it.
He took a deep breath, watching Sponge’s partner, a small, brown-haired boy who looked a lot like Tanrid Algara-Vayir. The voices around him resolved into words again.
“Tlen, your Tvei’s not bad on defense,” Cassad said. “Gand seems to like him.”
Hawkeye Yvana-Vayir sat back, powerful arms crossed. He spoke for the first time. “All of ’em look solid.”
Tlen, whose chunky little brother was already being called Biscuit, flicked a look at Hawkeye. The latter alone didn’t have a brother in the scrubs, as his twin brothers were nine. Tlen got a wild grin in return.
The Sierlaef watched that exchange, quick as it was. His uncle had warned him when he was a pigtail that the Tlens and the Sindan-Ans were as tight as they were ancient clans, along with the Tlennens that his father was named for. And the Marlo-Vayir family was allying with them through a complicated series of intermarriages.
Hawkeye Yvana-Vayir alone of all his companions didn’t care about power alliances, though his mother had been the Sierlaef’s aunt. My uncle picked the clan heirs for my friends, the Sierlaef thought, his mood shifting from anger to approval. And he was right, and I like them well enough, and I know they will back me in my future wars, but Hawkeye I chose myself.