He broke the drill, banging Kel’s legs hard as he swung his wooden practice sword from left to right. She backed up and he followed; when he struck overhand, she knocked his sword aside and struck him in the ribs. “We don’t wear veils!” she whispered in reply.
Zahir growled, “A woman out of her place is a distraction to men!” and struck her repeatedly until Kel kicked him in the stomach to make him back off Joren, Vinson, and a few other boys closed around them to cut them off from the sergeant’s view.
Neal saw them bunch up and came to Kel’s defense, dragging Zahir’s friends out of his way. When Vinson hit Neal from behind, the prince yanked Vinson off him. Merric threw himself onto Joren’s back. Faleron and Seaver went for Zahir. The battle ended only when Sergeant Ezeko waded in and pulled everyone apart.
Lord Wyldon was livid. He sentenced all of them to a week of early-evening duty in the palace laundry. The laundrymaids, a set of rough, no-nonsense women with muscles that Kel envied, had a field day with the lads assigned to help them.
“It’s not fair,” Merric grumbled as he wrung out sheets. “Zahir started it.”
“But you lot didn’t have to pitch in,” Kel reminded him. “Besides, this may be the only time all winter that we get the mud out from under our nails.”
Merric glowered at her, and Kel waited for the explosion. Instead he shook his head, smiling wryly. “Don’t you get mad about anything?” he demanded in amused exasperation. “You know they call you the Lump.”
“I try not to show anger,” Kel explained. “The Yamanis won’t talk to you if you let your feelings out. To them it’s like picking your nose at table. Besides, haven’t you noticed how tiring losing your temper is?”
“I’ve noticed it gets you punishments,” the redheaded boy replied with a shrug. “Maybe it’s the same thing.”
“Well, you’re tired at the end of both, so there you are,” Kel said practically. “Help me wring out this blanket?”
nine
TESTS
The week’s punishment left everyone too worn out to do anything but classwork. Kel knew that was temporary. Joren, Vinson, and another third-year named Garvey had not given up their harassment of the first-years completely: during the day they took every chance to bump, casually push, or thump the younger pages. On their first night without linens to scrub, Kel changed from dress to shirt and breeches after supper, and went to Neal’s room to study as usual. Merric, Seaver, the prince, Faleron, and Neal himself were there when she came in. Cleon arrived not long after she did. He sat with Neal at the writing desk, talking about a paper the third-years had to write for Master Yayin.
The room settled into its usual library-like quiet. Everyone whispered to keep from disturbing the others. Kel, Seaver, and Merric worked on the day’s mathematics problems together for a while. When Kel knew that she wouldn’t be needed right away, she rose and stretched. Then she casually walked out of the room.
Neal followed her and closed the door behind him. “I’d like a word,” he said.
Kel looked at him. “I’ll be right back,” she began.
“You’re not fooling me, you know,” he informed her. “Every night you put on a dress for supper. That’s to remind us you’re a girl and you’re not ashamed of it. Fine. I understand perfectly. But some nights, when you don’t have punishment work and Joren and his pack are being rowdy? You go and change into your fight clothes,” he waved at her shirt and breeches, “and you take a little walk. Sometimes you come back just fine, and some nights they haul you and whoever you mixed it up with before the Stump. You go looking for trouble!”
“Neal,” she said nervously, “keep your voice down.”
“Why? You don’t seem to care if you get caught!” It was an accusation, but he lowered his voice to say it. His face turned red with the effort.
She sighed. “That’s not it at all.”
“Then what is it?” he demanded hotly. “Are you some kind of—of tavern tough that likes to brawl?”
Kel shook her head. “Not hardly, since I lose every time.”
“Then what is it? I want to know!” cried Neal, his voice cracking. “I’m your friend and what you’re doing worries me sick!”
“This isn’t the time or the place—”
“It is if I say it is,” he snapped. “I mean it, Kel. I swear by Mithros, if you try to leave I’ll call the servants out myself. I’ll tell the Stump.” He stood between her and the halls she patrolled, arms akimbo, his green eyes mulish.
Kel ran her fingers through her hair. He really would be difficult about it; she knew him well enough to be sure of that. And she wanted someone to know she didn’t get into fights because she liked it. “It’s that earning-your-way custom, where the older boys make us do their errands. It’s stupid and it wastes time. That’s bad enough. But what Joren does, and his friends—they take it way too far. They use it to bully first-years, and that’s just plain wrong.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, wonderful. You’re on a hero’s quest to get rid of bullies.”
Kel glared at him. “Someone has to!”
“And if this wish of yours is so glorious, why haven’t you asked anyone to join you, hm? We’re all would-be knights, aren’t we? If you aren’t just enjoying the fights, why not ask for help?”
Kel planted her fists on her hips. “Because I had no reason to think I would get it!”
“What?” said a startled voice nearby.
Kel and Neal turned toward his door. At some point during their argument the boys inside had eased it open a crack to listen.
“Merric, you dolt!” they heard Faleron say. The door opened wide. They all stood there, even Prince Roald, looking at Neal and trying not to look at Kel.
“Well, she as good as said we agree with, with Joren and his pack,” stammered Merric.
Kel inspected each of them. “None of you ever spoke against it,” she replied, picking her words carefully. “Even when it was you being picked on”—she rested her eyes on Seaver and Merric— “once it was over, you didn’t say how it wasn’t right and ought to be stopped. You just came here to Neal’s room, to work with the group. I figured I was the only one here who thought it was all wrong. I thought maybe I saw it different because I’m a girl. I could do something about it, but I didn’t think you would.”
Neal turned away, running his fingers through his hair.
“Now, wait,” protested Cleon. “You can’t go setting tradition on its ear. Hazing is the way new boys become pages. They have to earn respect from the older ones, and we teach them to obey orders.”
“So I should let this go on because it’s always been that way?” she asked.
Cleon, the prince, Faleron, all nodded.
“No,” she said flatly. “I know what you mean, Cleon. I do your chores.” She met each boy’s eyes. “But this custom leads to worse things. Cleon sends me for papers, but someone else traps a first-year in a corner and keeps making him do stupid tasks. He’ll maybe hit the first-year to smarten him when the first-year slows down—and that is dead wrong. If we take this as pages, what about when we are knights? Do we say, Oh, now I’m going to be nice to the weak and the small? Or do we do as we learned when we were pages?” She stopped, breathing hard. It was the longest speech she’d ever made. “I don’t mean to lecture. You can laugh and say I’m a silly girl—but when I see anyone big pick on someone small, well, there’s going to be a fight.” She looked at Neal. “Joren and his friends are out there looking for someone to hurt. I want to stop them.”
“They’ll beat you up,” the prince remarked quietly.
“I think of it as combat exercise,” Kel replied with grim good humor. “And I’m learning new ways to do combat all the time. So if we’re all finished here?”
She walked through them and down the hall, turning into the library corridor. Running footsteps approached. She turned to find Neal.
Kel stared at him. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Exasperated, Kel put her fists on her hips. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Neal thrust his hands into the pockets of the breeches he wore at night. “It means I’m trying to justify to myself the fact that the best lesson I ever had on chivalry came from someone five years younger than me. When you put it that way, well, I guess I’d better help.”
Kel shook her head. “All right, but it’s going to hurt,” she said, and set off down the hall.
“You don’t have to tell me that,” Neal said, keeping up with her. “Don’t forget, I see your bruises every day.”
They heard laughter from the stair leading to the teachers’ quarters and ran to investigate. They climbed to the landing between that floor and the teachers’ floor to find Joren and Vinson pushing Quinden up and down the steps as Garvey watched. The moment they saw Kel and Neal, they stopped.
Quinden made his escape. Kel, Neal, and the three senior pages, not wanting to be heard by anyone on the teachers’ floor, went cautiously down the stairs. At the bottom, Joren threw a punch at Kel, who ducked. Vinson tackled Neal, who threw him into Garvey. They were in the thick of combat, giving and exchanging blows, when the air seemed to grow as heavy as velvet, weighing their limbs and shoulders down. Suddenly fighting or even speech was an effort. Slowly the five pages looked toward the stair. A tall man—a very tall man, Kel realized—with tousled black hair and large, dark eyes stood there, hands braced on either side of the door frame. He was dressed in a flowing white shirt and black breeches. The sparkle of magic glittered in the air between him and them.
“Such animosity will not do,” he observed in a light voice. “You’ve managed to affect my current working; if it were to go astray...Except that it’s not going to, because you are going to drop this and go do whatever it is pages are supposed to do at this time of night. Run along, please.”
Although they were dismissed, none of them could move. The man frowned when he saw he wasn’t being obeyed. Finally Neal managed to croak, “Spell.”
“Spell? Oh, yes, of course. How careless.” The sparkle of magic vanished. Kel and the others could move again. “Now you may go.”
He turned and climbed up the stairs as Joren, Vinson, and Garvey ran. Kel and Neal remained there, staring up the stairs as the man disappeared from view around a turn.
“Will he report us?” Kel asked. If so, she wished he’d do it. She hated waiting for a summons.
Neal chuckled. “Master Numair? I doubt he’ll remember why he left his workroom, once he gets back to it. That must be a sensitive spell, though, if we affected it.”
“Numair,” she murmured to herself with a frown. The name seemed familiar.
“Numair Salmalin,” replied Neal. “Only the most powerful mage in the realm. He’ll be teaching the magic classes about dragons and griffins in a month or so.”
“He’s Daine’s—” Kel started to say “lover,” but didn’t when she saw Neal frown. “Friend?” she supplied hastily.
Neal sighed and nodded. “He’s too old for her, you know.”
Kel gave him a sympathetic pat on the back as they headed back to the others.
They were at Neal’s door when he suddenly turned cheerful. “At least Joren won’t stage any of his little scrambles near the teachers’ quarters again,” he pointed out. “He’s probably thinking right now he’s lucky Master Numair didn’t turn him into a tree.”
“Oh, as if Master Numair could,” retorted Kel. Only in stories did mages turn people into things, and she had noticed such stories always took place in the very distant past. In real life it was supposed to be impossible.
Neal grinned at her. “When he’s upset enough, he can do pretty much what he wants. He turned an enemy mage into a tree just two years ago, at Fief Dunlath.”
Kel gaped. “I never heard that, and we got all the news in the Islands. You’re sure?”
“I had it from Father, who had it from the king.”
Kel shook her head, impressed, and Neal opened his door. “Hello, my ducks,” he caroled as they walked in. “Did you miss us?”
The next night, when Kel stood to go through the halls, Neal closed his book and stood with her. Faleron hesitated, then got to his feet, as did Merric. Seaver was already opening the door.
Kel looked at the other boys. Cleon had returned to study with them; his open, direct face was confused. The prince met Kel’s gaze and shook his head, a wistful expression in his eyes.
Poor Roald, Kel thought. His life would be so much easier if he didn’t worry about what people might say. She smiled at him and led the others outside.
There was no sign of Joren and his cronies that night, or the next. The third night they found Joren and Vinson in a courtyard, forcing Esmond of Nicoline to do bows made to a monarch over and over. The two third-years looked up, saw the size of their company, and fled. Neal slung an arm around Esmond’s shoulders. “Want to join our study group?”
They had a brisk skirmish with Joren and Vinson the night after their meeting with Esmond. It ended quickly, all of them running when they heard the approach of a group of servants. The night after that, Cleon put his book aside with a sigh as Kel got up. “I’d better come keep you children out of trouble,” he said with a grin at the older, taller Neal. Prince Roald and Esmond, who had joined them, stayed to work as Kel and her supporters patrolled the halls. With the addition of Cleon to their group, the fights ended. He and Neal were too big, and the others too many. Joren, Vinson, and their friends decided to find other ways to spend their time until spring.
At the end of March, another thaw was followed by a blizzard that laid more than two feet of snow on the ground. Three days later it had all melted, creating seas of mud everywhere. Planks laid on the mud to provide dry footing sank and disappeared. Weapons and unarmed combat practice were held indoors.
When they were done, Lord Wyldon demanded their attention. “I won’t have good horses lamed from riding in this if it isn’t necessary,” he told the pages. “Instead we’ll go for a run, from one end of the curtain wall to the other.”
Kel’s skin rippled with goose bumps. The wall that cupped the palace in a flattened half circle was thirty feet high. True, the top was broad enough to allow five men to walk abreast, but the thought of being up there made her sweat.
I should have known, she thought, trotting up a narrow stair to the top of the wall in Merric’s wake. I was lucky to go for so long without facing this. I should have known it couldn’t last. And I’ll just have to do it, that’s all.
“Waiting bores me!” she heard Wyldon roar from the open door above. “Get those legs moving!”
Kel locked her eyes on Merric’s ankles as they ran gasping out of the tower. Don’t look ahead, don’t look to either side, she ordered herself. Just follow Merric.
“Go!” Wyldon bellowed. “Don’t wait for permission, I told you run the wall, so run it. Smell that fresh air! Don’t make a face, Queenscove, air is good for you. Breathe it!”
Stone after stone passed under Kel’s nose. Her feet, shod in thin leather slippers, slapped the ground.
“You run like a lamb, probationer!” The boom of Wyldon’s voice in her ear made her jump. “Open your stride—put some distance between your knees. Plant those feet—don’t touch on your toes and kick up your heels. I hope your precious Yamanis don’t run like this.”
I’d like to see how you run with a silk kimono wrapped around you from thigh to ankle, Kel thought as she lengthened her stride. The thought of Wyldon in Yamani dress made her giggle as her thigh muscles strained, then relaxed, easing into the new way to run. A quick glance ahead told Kel the boys were starting to race. Let them—she was going to stay right behind Merric’s steadily churning feet.
Wyldon slowed them to a walk, then made them run again. He alternated walking and running, never allowing them to come to a complete stop.
They were a strong group, hardened by a winter of short runs to the stables and back. This was an easy track, flat and dry, but the length began to tell on them. Keeping her eyes down, Kel moved up until she was between Merric and Seaver.
“How’s Lord Wyldon?” she inquired, gasping.
“Fresh as rosebuds in May,” growled Merric.
“Don’t you two know?” Seaver asked. “His lordship runs this whole wall, both ways, every morning before dawn. My cousin says that’s how he got the lungs to yell like he does.”
“I hate the Stump,” Merric said tightly He liked Neal’s term for Wyldon.
“As if he cares a docken,” Kel remarked. “How’s Neal?”
Seaver looked up, scanning the pack of older boys. “He’s ahead of everybody.”
“Horse blood,” guessed Merric. “There must be some in the Queenscove family.”
“A racer,” agreed Seaver, panting. “The family keeps it hushed up.”
Kel would have laughed, but she was too breathless. She stayed with her two friends as they ran to the end of the wall. They stopped at the watchtower that marked one end of the flattened half circle.
“Keep moving!” ordered Wyldon, running in place as he watched the pages. “Don’t stop—you’ll cramp. If you throw up, do it outside of the wall— the wind can’t blow it back in your face.”
“Oh, good,” gasped Esmond, who looked like he might well vomit. “That’s an important tip.”
I’d better not get sick, then, Kel thought. She stubbornly kept her eyes on the walkway as the boys drifted toward the view of the city. She’d heard it was splendid.
Wyldon had come to a halt. As the pages drew within earshot, he said, “You might one day command an attack on a walled fortress. How would you approach this position? Quinden of Marti’s Hill?”
“I’d go around the back,” he said, and smirked as the other pages laughed.
“Very true,” Wyldon said frostily. “With no attacks on this palace in centuries, previous monarchs who wished to expand knocked out the rear wall. We are discussing a hypothetical, Page Quinden—a chance for you to use your imagination. How would you attack, Page Merric?”
Protector of the Small Quartet Page 13