The seniors hesitated, and Shevraeth ventured a comment, “Wouldn’t they search him first anyway?”
“True,” the riding captain commented. “But the torture idea sounded like more fun.”
The prisoner muttered a couple of choice epithets.
“So what is it, anyway,” the second senior asked, squinting at the letter in the faint light of a corner glowglobe.
They all got up, including the prisoner, and moved to the light. The message was written in an alphabet none of them recognized.
“Code,” the prisoner said in gloomy satisfaction. “And no, they didn’t tell me what it said, only whom to take it to.”
“So that’s what we’d torture you to get, then,” the captain said. “Then dump your body.” He looked up. “Everyone agreed?”
They agreed, then returned at a loping run to Keriam’s tower, where they found the others already gathered, everyone talking at once.
Senrid was there, perched on the edge of Keriam’s desk, a foot swinging as his head made minute jerks back and forth, his eyes narrowed and intent as he tracked at least three conversations.
Keriam loomed out of the crowd. “Ah. Here’s our last group. Report?”
The senior said, “We stationed ourselves around the guardhouse we’d been assigned to watch, and as soon as we saw our man here in uniform skulking along the road we dropped on him. Got this.” He held up the message. “We would have tortured him to find out who was to receive it. He didn’t know what the message contained.”
Again everyone started talking at once, but this time Senrid flipped up his hand, and they all shut up abruptly.
“No written codes,” Senrid said, holding up a finger. Then another. “If someone can read it, they can be tortured for it. And what if the senders don’t find out, then the code becomes a tool for the enemy, not for us. No uniforms, dead of night will be bad unless our people can stay unseen. No fellows who look like obvious couriers. Good enough for the first mission—we’ve found out a whole lot about what won’t work, even if we still don’t know what will.”
“More safeguards—”
“Couriers who know each other—”
“Light of day?”
“Disguises—”
“Those assigned to patrol go be seen, then get some sleep. All of you,” Keriam ordered.
They trooped out, still talking, though in low voices.
The first-year seniors formed around Stad, Senelac behind them.
Stad said, “Torture is going to be the threat no matter what. I’ll wager anything they try magic next. We won’t be involved in that.”
“Unless it’s magic and us, combined,” someone said. And added with grim humor, “So the mages sit tight and we still get the torture threat. Because you know it will be us, and not them, doing runner duty.”
Some of them separated off. Senelac waited until she and Shevraeth were alone. “He’s almost right,” she said. “But what do you want to wager it’s us, and not you, who’ll be running messages?”
Shevraeth looked over. “You girls?”
She smiled. “Yes. And we’ll be better at it.”
He did not ask how she felt about torture. Her chin was up, her dark eyes wide and her smile the tight-cornered grin she got when she was thinking headlong. He already knew the answer: whatever fears she had wouldn’t be shared, and she’d go right like that, wide-eyed, smiling, into danger, because that’s what Marlovens did. That’s what Senelacs did.
THIRTY-SIX
Russav: I cannot believe how many days have slipped past. This spring has been so busy I fall into bed asleep before I hit the pillow, and it seems I draw a single breath before the morning bells have us up at dawn. Just last night Vandaus, who’s about the most even-tempered fellow I’ve ever known, was grousing that there’s no use in having a senior rec room when we never even get to step in it—except to sweep before inspection.
Things in no particular order. Teaching small boys to throw knives is nothing I ever thought I’d be doing. But it’s fun. Except when I’m trying not to laugh.
Lance practice on war horses is another laugh. When it’s not painful.
We did another comm run. Now they’ve got all these safeguards built in. It’s an elaborate system. It broke down, in fact, because not everyone remembered all the rules. So we’re going to have to drill before the runs, and they’re adding more rules.
My first overnight as a rad is day after tomorrow. So I get tomorrow night off...
Shevraeth stopped, pen hovering above the page—a slow drip of ink formed, and he hastily dropped the pen into the well.
No, he couldn’t write about Senelac and ‘taking a walk in the park.’ That part of their twoing was wonderful—but the rest... He frowned. Savona did write about his struggles with Tamara, ans Shevraeth had been destroying the letters, so it was not likely there’d be gossip.
The Marloven girl I’ve mentioned before. She reminds me of Tamara. Not only her dark curly hair, though Senelac’s is as short as ours. The resemblance is more in that sense of your being on a runaway horse, when you told me about Tamara’s temper. It’s not temper in Senelac, at least not the way I think of temper. Cursing, fists, throwing things. But I don’t know what to liken it to. We’ll be talking easy as a canter on an open road about command class, and battles, and family histories, but if I stray into Colendi history—any kind of parallels—she shuts up. Not only that, she gets impatient. What seems so interesting to me is obviously boring. How can that be when we share so many other interests? But it’s true.
And if we see one another at the academy—and it happens—she walks by without a word or a look, as if I’m not there. I know why, and the reasons are good. Well, I don’t know about the word ‘good’ in reference to war, and how females fit into it, and all that. Say, her reasons make sense. Yet, I still am bothered because there are others twoing, and they sometimes smile across a room. Nothing more. No one really notices, unless you’re already thinking about these things. And a smile doesn’t break any rule—
Tang tang! Tang tang!
Shevraeth sighed, folded the letter twice over—despite the last words still being wet—shoved it into the box, and sent it. It was either that or destroy it. He never left letters lying in his box unfinished if they mentioned his private life. It might be two weeks before he had a chance to write again. And two more weeks, if not longer, before Savona could answer, because he knew the existence of the golden box at the other end still had to be hidden from the king.
He threw the box into his storage chest and ran out, straightening his tunic and shoving the stupid brass-topped wand into his belt as he ran.
At least he did not have lance practice today; but the rest of the day was full enough. He ran down to the Puppy Pit, aware of the sun on the back of his neck. After the cold of winter, the sun had gained strength again. He supervised knife throwing, then ran for his staff and sword practice, then archery, and the midday meal, after which he discovered the day had grown so warm he was sweaty, so he crossed the short distance to the senior barracks, delighting in its proximity. He dashed through the cleaning frame, felt the morning’s grit vanish, and changed to his lighter summer tunic. Then paused, looking around. The bright slants of light through the windows, making dots of fire of the lazy dust motes drifting in the air; the beds, alternating between sunlit and shadow, were all empty.
So he checked his gold box, not really expecting a message, now that court was again required to convene at Athanarel Palace. In spring and summer he could go weeks and even a month without one. But to his surprise, there was already one from Savona.
Danric: Tamara and the runaway horse was a better metaphor than I had first imagined. No, I will not bore on about my business until I at least acknowledge what you wrote me about.
I know only what little you’ve told me about this girl of yours, so you have only yourself to blame if I’m misjudging the situation. But it sounds from here like you don’t share sim
ilar interests so much as you share some of hers, and she likes that, but she doesn’t share any of yours.
Or maybe my view’s fractured from the latest way Tamara’s taken a hammer to it. Though she’s been blabbing all over court that I am too selfish to live. You be the judge. We’re getting along fine, more than fine out in the orchard, fragrant air, soft grass. Lemon-curd and kisses, that sums up Tamara in a good mood. And the mood stays good as long as we talk about court, and what she thinks of this boy, or that girl, or that couple. What clever thing she said at the ball. At the regatta. At the point-to-point. At the card party. Her new clothes, her hair (she got the hairdresser to do some spell and changed it to gold), what jewels go best in gold hair, who copies her styles and what she thinks of that...
I said, I like to touch your hair. I like the way it smells. But do we have to talk about it? Mistake! She says I only want kisses, I don’t want to know what she thinks. Vastly unfair since she’s been talking for two bells. I say yes I do and she says who had the best hair style last night and I know the right answer to that one! I say you, and she says oh yes then describe it. And when I say that I can’t describe anyone’s hair, I don’t even remember what my own looked like, she says that’s proof “you boys” only want one thing and dusts off, leaving me thinking, two bells worth of talk for about two kisses.
Tell me your girl isn’t the same.
Shevraeth tried to imagine Senelac gossiping about girls’ head-dresses, and laughed aloud at the unlikely picture. He turned the letter over and scrawled hastily, If Senelac ever talks about any royal court—or her hair—then I’ll eat horse feed for a month. Tamara as I remember her and Senelac have fewer interests in common than either of us could possibly be accused of having with either of them. Does that make sense? I don’t have time to stop and parse.
Fold, send.
Then he was off again to afternoon classes.
The next evening was his night off. He paid more attention to the set of his tunic and to brushing his hair than he ever did during the day, and then he was off through the tunnel to the eatery Senelac had chosen for their meeting place.
With a mood of pleasant expectation he made his way southward down the main street, then paused in surprise when he heard “Shevraeth!”—not a female voice, but male.
He looked round. “Marec!”
Both reacted in surprise—Marec to see Shevraeth crossing the street toward an eatery with such a happy smile of anticipation, and Shevraeth to see his old friend tired and tense.
“Going into Lancer’s?” Marec asked, indicating the eatery, from which promising smells of braised chicken emanated.
Shevraeth found lying unpleasant at any time, but when he saw the hopeful expression puckering Marec’s tense forehead, he flicked out his hand in assent. Why not add Marec to the party? This was perfectly legitimate—broke no rules. He was on liberty, and girls and boys could meet anywhere outside of the academy. In fact, last year, hadn’t the three of them sat together over command class problems? Of course, command class had been the night before, and Marec and Senelac were actually on the opposing team for the next communication run, but they could talk generally, couldn’t they? And then he could walk out with Senelac after?
At any rate, he would not stiff-arm a friend who clearly wanted company.
“Come on in,” he said. And with a smile, “Tomorrow it’s camp grub, so tonight it’s real food.”
Marec gave a tight half-smile, and they made their way in. The place had become popular ever since the introduction of a new pastry that Shevraeth could have identified for the locals as a famed Colendi layered cake—a simplified version. But to the Marlovens it was a new, exotic treat, the flavoring of crushed almond-paste, the light whipped custard made with distilled vanilla bean and a touch of ground cinnamon, all in between layers of cake, something that hadn’t crossed the border in centuries. Every time the Marlovens went to war against their neighbors, the restricted trade treaties after they were beaten back had choked off import of fine things like vanilla, and the next few generations were back to honey-tarts and berry-bread.
Not that you could smell the dessert. The delicious aromas were of hot olive oil used to crisp potato-and-onion slices, as well as the chicken braised in beer, and the fish poached in white wine and herbs.
The owners had responded to their new popularity by squeezing in more tables, and hiring some locals to make music. The sound of a young girl singing ancient ballads to the accompaniment of a drum and flute caused many of the younger journeymen and women to pull up chairs and join in, some with hand drums brought for the purpose. They took up most of the far wall. By unspoken but mutual consent Shevraeth and Marec chose a table close to the door. The constant comings and goings were somewhat distracting but at least they could hear one another.
Also, Shevraeth could keep an eye on the door.
A woman in an apron shouldered through the crowd. “Fish or chicken?”
“Chicken for me,” Shevraeth said, and when Marec waved a hand, he added, “Two. We’ll have ale with it, and the pastry at the end.”
Marec hunched over, fingers tapping restlessly in time to the drum beat on the far side of the room.
“It’s not going well with the new colts?” Shevraeth asked.
Marec looked pained. “Are you blind?” He groped, his fingers stiff, then dropped his hand and bowed his head. “No. Sorry. I forget. I know how much you House seniors are working, and tomorrow you’ll get an all-night patrol. But you really don’t know what’s going on?”
Shevraeth opened his hand. “I don’t. Should I? In truth, I thought this year so far was shaping up to be as easy a year as last.”
“For you seniors it is. Though it won’t be when the rot spreads.” Marec sighed. “It’s the second-year colts.” A quick look. “No, it’s Marlovair. He and his soul-rotted horse apple followers. I think they want to ruin everything and everyone. Drawing not only their year—both Houses—into their fights, but now they’re trying to strong-arm the first-year colts in—”
Shevraeth grimaced. “I had no idea. My regular rad duties are with the scrubs.”
Marec said in a low, bleak voice, “I don’t think I can hold them from following. And I’m not alone. But it’s far, far worse for Evrec.”
Who was the aran radlav for the second-year colts, Shevraeth remembered. Evrec, Stad’s best friend, and the toughest of their entire year—except for Stad. The two had had a friendly rivalry going since they were scrubs, meant to shape them into the best. And they were the best. So... what had happened?
“That’s a tough group, but I thought Evrec was tough. Everyone says he and Stad are tougher than the seniors the year ahead of us.”
“They are.” Marec bent forward. “But. The other colt rads think Command will put Stad in with the second-years, and take Evrec out. Evrec!”
“Why?” Shevraeth whistled soundlessly. Of course. “Evrec isn’t from a high ranking family, I gather?”
“Saddle-makers.” Marec made a fist, thumping it lightly on the table as he muttered, “Every night ends with the breezes blowing, but those boys just get worse. Never anything that would get them sent up to the tower.”
“So it’s a deliberate campaign?”
“Oh, yes. Must have plotted it all winter long. They’re determined to ruin Evrec. I don’t think they’d even respect Forthan. After all, he committed the cowardly crime of being born to farm people.”
A flicker of movement, and Shevraeth looked up. Senelac paused in the doorway. He smiled, about to welcome her, when she shook her head, backed away, and was gone a moment later.
Marec’s gaze was on the rough grain of the old table, and he did not notice.
Shevraeth’s good mood evaporated. “What does Keriam say?”
“No one has ratted to Command, of course. Or to Stad. We’re supposed to be able to solve academy problems ourselves. When Command steps in, it means we’ve lost control. Remember how savage Zheirban was, the year
Forthan got caned? Well, I didn’t realize it at the time. But I know what he felt like. We all do. If we can’t hold ’em, how do we hold a rough patrol in war time? Evrec is sick about it. We all are. We meet every night, with Evrec and without. He’s been asking our help, he doesn’t swank about saying he’ll go it alone like some idiot in a hero ballad, and so we try different things—”
The food clattered down in front of them, swiftly followed by the tunk of beer mugs, and Marec sighed. “Oh, never mind. It’s not like you can do anything. Just, you be on the watch tomorrow. And it’s a two-nighter! Or maybe they won’t be so full of swank, being with Stad in command of the exercise. Still. There’s talk of going back to the old way—two masters as well as two seniors on each game.”
Two years ago Shevraeth would have shrugged. Now he understood the disgrace everyone would feel that they could not continue with last year’s single master overseeing two senior rads on overnights. Two masters would put everyone back to the rules of Shevraeth’s first colt year.
“Those boys were in the Puppy Pit the year Sindan forced Forthan into that cursed brushfire,” Shevraeth said. “You’d think they’d remember what happened as the result of getting the entire academy involved in their quarrel.”
Marec sighed so hard he blew a potato crisp off his plate. He plucked it up then waved it in the air as he said, “Oh, but this is different.” And popped it in his mouth.
Shevraeth laid his spoon neatly on his plate, wondering when he’d eat with a fork again, then leaned back. “How could they possibly justify that? Trouble is trouble. And wasn’t the Sindan problem something or other to do with rank?”
“In a way.” Marec wrinkled his nose. “That time, it was more like rank wafting you past the standards. It was the way things were done under the Regent, d’you see? If a family of rank supported the Regent, their sons would get command even if they slacked off through their years here. Forthan moving up through the ranks shocked them. But last year, they accepted it—their fathers have now seen Forthan in action at the Convocation games, and in various field exercises over the kingdom, with the Guard. Forthan’s rep overcame his background.”
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