In the 19th and 20th years of the reign of Jonathan IV and Thayet, his Queen, Spring 458-Spring 459
fifteen
TILT-SILLY
The progress left Persopolis, turning east into the hill country, then south. The succession of events and meetings with people from Tusaine and Tyra blurred together, along with the names of those who held large and small fiefdoms along the way. Fed up, Kel still refused all challenges and matches, no matter how many insults her would-be foes paid her. Instead she practiced her weapons with her own circle.
Kel did enjoy some new things they encountered, like dishes of rice studded with raisins, almonds, and peas, or balls of chickpea batter fried and served with a creamy sauce. But it seemed to her that grape leaves stuffed with ground lamb, and hot mud baths for the skin, were jokes the locals played on gullible northerners. The markets of Pearlmouth, just across the border from Tyra, were interesting, particularly those that showed the work of Carthaki smiths. Kel wanted one of those blades. She loved the rippled tempering that made art out of steel, art that helped it hold on to its edge longer. Someday, she told herself, if she did so great a service that the Crown gave her a purse of gold, she would buy such a blade for herself.
They were camped outside Port Legann when Kel, bored, decided to use some of her bounty of griffin feathers. Raoul found her working behind their tents so the wind would blow away the smell of the glue she used.
“This is good,” he said with approval, inspecting a finished arrow. “If you give up this mad knighthood thing, you’ll do well as a fletcher.”
Kel grinned at his joke. “Some of these are for you, sir,” she pointed out.
“I accept them happily. In the meantime, do you remember Bay Cove?”
Kel had to think. It seemed as though she’d been there ages past, but in truth it had been less than a year. “Smugglers,” she said at last.
“They might be glad we captured them. The place was struck with an earthquake last night—their mage reached the king through his crystal. The town’s about to slide into the ocean.” He glanced at the sun’s position. “Grab supper as you pack. We have a serious ride to make.”
Group Askew and Thayet’s Dogs joined them. Raoul only took six squads that night; the other four would come at a slower pace with wagons of supplies. They would have a bad time of it, Kel realized as they rode on roads turned to mud by winter rains. It was a wet, cold, windy trek north along the coast, but their thanks came from Bay Cove’s people, driven into the open in winter. The town, perched on a rocky slope to the sea, was a shambles. The few buildings that stood looked like collapses waiting to happen.
The locals needed all they had brought in their saddlebags and more. The Riders and Raoul’s men scoured the countryside for miles to find households that could take refugees or donate supplies, a hard choice with at least a month of winter to go. Men of the Own, whose big horses didn’t tire as quickly as Rider ponies in icy mud, found the bogged-down wagons, filled their packs, and brought emergency supplies to the town. Once the wagons finally came in, they bore away whole families to any town or castle that could take them.
Eight days after their arrival Kel and Raoul joined a crew that pulled down buildings too unstable to leave standing. Peachblossom and Raoul’s warhorse, Drum, were hitched to heavy ropes; these in turn were tied to support beams inside a two-story house.
“The glory of knighthood is lovely, isn’t it?” Raoul asked as they urged the indignant Peachblossom and the calm Drum to pull. “The brilliance and fury of battle, the sound of trumpets in the air, the flowers, and the pretty girls—or pretty boys, in your case—climbing all over us.”
Kel, every bit as muddy and weary as her knight-master, grinned. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, my lord. You are a bad man.”
The progress moved inland while they continued to labor in Bay Cove. Kel missed Cleon desperately, but duty meant helping those in need as winter faded and spring arrived. If the town were to survive the next winter, its people needed help. Kel was better at some kinds than others. For one thing, she had no talent for carpentry.
“This is silly,” Dom told her one night, inspecting blood blisters under three of Kel’s nails. “My lord, this is silly,” he told Raoul, who came to see why one of his sergeants held his squire’s hand. “She hits the nail half the time and herself the other half. Let Kel hunt. She’s a fine shot, and she won’t kill herself with a hammer.”
“I’m fine,” Kel said, pulling her hand away. She was almost immune to Dom by now. When her attraction to him surfaced, she made herself think of Cleon. “And I’m learning carpentry.”
“Peachblossom is a better plough horse than you are a carpenter,” Raoul said with cheerful brutality. “We’ve been selfish, having fun while others suffer on progress. Besides, we’re out of work.” He beckoned to Emmit of Fenrigh, one of their healers. “Tend those fingers, will you?” he asked Emmit. “She’ll need them if she jousts again. I’ll tell the lads to pack. We’ll relax in Corus a week, and catch up with their majesties by the River Tellerun.”
Kel’s Yamani calm evaporated. She’d see Cleon soon! She jumped up, hugged her knight-master fiercely, and ran to her tent to pack. Emmit had to follow her to work a healing on her fingers.
Corus was a delight, particularly the palace baths, but it was better still to ride north after the progress. Kel fidgeted every inch of the way. What if Cleon had found someone new, someone small and lovely? What if he’d found someone with dimples? Dimpled girls were her worst daymare: men were supposed to be unable to defend themselves against them. She had decided years before that she was no prize on the romance market. Being away from Cleon for so long, she forgot the things about herself that made him like her.
After hard riding they caught up with the rear of the train late one spring afternoon. The progress had already stopped for the day. Its camp sprawled over the lands on either side of the road. Raoul went on alone to learn where they were supposed to go. As he returned, he looked at the western sky. It was growing dark. Kel’s heart sank.
“Well?” Buri asked when he reached them. “I was right, wasn’t I? Barely room to swing a stunted cat, let alone camp, until we get to Arenaver.”
Raoul nodded, with a rueful look at Kel. She hadn’t mentioned Cleon, but she wasn’t surprised that Raoul knew she’d like to see him. Raising his hand, the knight signed for the double column of Riders and Third Company to turn. “That pond a mile back had plenty of room,” he told Flyndan. “And we have enough no-bugs potion with us.”
Flyn turned and galloped down the columns, telling them where they were bound.
“Sorry, Kel,” Raoul said quietly.
“No, sir, you’re right,” Kel replied cheerfully. “Better to stop now, while there’s room.”
Once she had pitched her tent and cared for her animals, Kel sat on her cot, dejected. It was silly to fall into gloom when she would see Cleon tomorrow, the day after at the most. They couldn’t have gone on today, not when ground fit to camp on would be so jammed over the next ten miles that they’d have to sleep standing up.
Kel was about to leave for supper when the flap blew open. She was yanked into a hug against a body as hard as a tree. Strong arms clutched her tightly as Cleon whispered, “My sunrise!” His lips met Kel’s and they clung to each other. When he drew his mouth away, he brought it back instantly, as if he couldn’t bear to stop. Kel felt the same. He was wonderfully solid in her arms, and she wanted to keep him there.
At last she got a chance to breathe. Calmly she asked, “You missed me, then?”
That got her another round of very warm kisses. They had each other’s tunics off and were fumbling with shirt lacings when Raoul called outside, “Kel? Suppertime.”
“Festering tree stumps,” Cleon whispered.
“That’s mild,” protested Kel.
“I don’t feel mild,” Cleon told her, and kissed her so sweetly that she half-hoped she might faint.
&nb
sp; “Whose horse is that?” asked Buri. She sounded close enough to make the pair jump apart. Hurriedly they untangled their discarded tunics and put them on.
“We’re all right,” Kel called to Raoul and Buri, then grimaced for that slip of the tongue.
“We?” asked Raoul. He opened the tent flap.
By then Kel sat cross-legged on the ground, roughhousing with Jump. Cleon stood peering into the mirror attached to a tent pole, straightening his red curls. He bowed courteously to Raoul and Buri as they looked in.
“Hullo,” he said cheerfully. “Have you enough food for a hungry knight who’s been riding sweeps all day?”
Later Kel would wonder about those discarded tunics and half-opened shirts. Did they almost make love? Ought she to look into a mage-charm against pregnancy? She didn’t want a child she couldn’t look after, not after seeing how well her own parents had done the job. Any child Kel had, in the very distant future, would be born into a family, not dragged hither and yon by a knight-mother. In the meantime she was nearly seventeen and not planning to marry. Why shouldn’t they go to bed?
Quietly she found a midwife-healer traveling with the progress and purchased the charm against pregnancy. It hung around her neck on a fine gold chain, tucked under her clothes. If she and Cleon got carried away without interruptions, she would be prepared.
As they rode north, the progress dictated their time alone. This meant that she and Cleon returned to kisses and an occasional embrace. Kel wore the charm anyway, as a declaration that she could decide some things for herself.
Northern roads were narrower than southern ones. Rocky hills and dense forests made them so, forcing the progress to slow down until the pace that had annoyed Kel the year before now seemed lightning-like. She had not jousted since Persopolis, but these days, frustrated with dawdling and having so little time alone with Cleon, pounding an opponent in the lists began to look attractive.
Blue Harbor was the last big port on the northern coast. Since it was also the largest colony for merfolk in Tortall, the monarchs would stay longer than usual. There would be more celebrations and more serving duties. Reading the schedule, Kel could bear it no longer. She put her name on the boards for matches.
“Frustrated?” Neal asked as she wrote.
“You’ll be too, with all the banquets they mean to stage,” she retorted.
Neal shrugged. “I won’t be here. Lady Alanna, seeing the floating pavilion built for these affairs, tells me we are riding ahead.” His smugness made Kel long to beat him with a loaf of bread, as she had when they were pages. “Simply viewing the gentle slap of wavelets on anything makes her seasick.”
“You’re joking,” Kel said. How could the Lioness, the King’s Champion, be prey to something that inglorious?
“Ask Lord Raoul. He had a sea voyage with her, when she brought the Dominion Jewel home.”
Kel asked Raoul that night when she returned his cleaned armor to his tent. “Gods,” he said with a laugh. He was shaving. “Green the whole trip, I swear.”
“Well, she’s riding ahead, since she gets seasick, ” Kel said glumly. “She and Neal are going tomorrow.”
Raoul wiped lather away from his ear. “His majesty tells me I have no excuses. He believes I took advantage of our efforts in Bay Cove to stay away. He won’t admit I’m right and all this mummery is not the best use of Third Company. Instead he’s decided that, like a dog, I have to be retrained to remember who is king and who is not.”
“He wouldn’t take the Own away, would he?” Kel asked, horrified. The king could be unfair, but surely not that unfair.
“Worse.” Raoul patted his face with a cloth. “He said if I take more time away from his bootheels for my own pleasure, he’ll seat me with the greediest matchmaking mother in each district.”
Kel winced. Surely there ought to be laws against that kind of punishment. She had to compliment the king on underhandedness, though. He’d picked the penalty Raoul dreaded more than fines or the loss of noble privileges.
That night after supper, Kel took a long walk with Cleon, Neal, and Esmond of Nicoline. Owen joined them: he had arrived with Lord Wyldon the day before, stopping for a few days before they headed to Northwatch Fortress and the Scanran border. The squires wandered in the city, then headed back to camp. On the way Kel asked to stop at the challenge boards. She wanted to see who she would face the next day.
Neal, Esmond, and Owen left them at the tournament grounds. Neal had to pack, he said. Esmond had a letter to write. Owen, after his arms were tugged by the other two, decided he had stockings to mend. Cleon smiled at Kel as their friends left, trailing weak excuses.
“Apart from Raoul and Buri, we must be the worst-kept secret in this traveling gossip show,” he remarked as they read the lists of matches. “Have you—Mithros, guide us. We’re back to this. Do you really want to die a virgin? I keep telling you, we can fix that.”
Kel looked at Lord Wyldon’s name and shook her head. Then she rounded on Cleon. Stabbing him in the chest with a forefinger, she demanded, “What if I took you up on it? What if I said, All right, I don’t want to die a virgin?” She mock-glared up into his eyes, noting with glee that he looked panicked. “You are just trifling with my maiden’s heart. I’ve heard about fellows like you, who talk so beautifully and run when they might have to keep their promises!” She turned and folded her arms over her chest. Charm or no, accusations or not, she was as timid as he, but she needed to know, did he want her? When he kissed her or looked at her with liking and pride, she went all warm inside. Did he feel the same?
After a moment he muttered, “I—I need to talk Mother around.”
Her blood went cold. She was justly punished for teasing him. There was only one reason he would feel he couldn’t bed her until he talked his mother around. That scared her far more than sex.
He’d told her about his mother, his father’s early death, the lack of money to do much-needed work at Kennan. “Your marriage is arranged,” Kel reminded him softly. “With an heiress.” The girl’s mother was his mother’s friend. Everyone in their district expected the wedding eventually.
Neither Kel nor Cleon had uttered two words for fear of disaster: “love” and “marriage.” If he wanted to talk his mother around, he was talking marriage. “I’ll work it out, somehow,” he said, his voice shaky. “We’ll just have to be really heroic and bring in plenty of Crown purses.”
“I’m not ready,” she whispered. “I have no dowry, I want my shield—”
Cleon turned her into his arms and kissed her long and sweetly, not caring who saw them. At last they broke apart, panting a little. “Rest, love,” he murmured, cupping her cheek in one hand. “You court death by flying tomorrow.”
The next day Kel and Peachblossom waited for the match before theirs to end. Kel winced as two fourth-year squires came together in a crash of splintering lances and retired for their final run. They would be black and blue all over in the morning.
She was sweating before she even put on her helm. Wyldon was there, on the sidelines at the far end of the field. She’d seen Owen too, in the stands. It seemed Kel’s former training master really did like to wait in quiet, alone, before his matches began. Most knights wanted their squires nearby when they jousted.
The two contestants knocked one another from the saddle in their third run and were carried off the field. Monitors cleared away their debris as Kel mounted Peachblossom.
The herald beckoned to Kel and Wyldon, who took their places. Conversation in the stands ended. The only sounds were the flap of pennants and Peachblossom’s snort. The trumpet blew; Peachblossom took off. As she rose in the saddle and set the position of her lance, Kel realized something funny: I’ve actually missed this.
There was no time to think anything else. On came Wyldon, riding a large gray warhorse. Kel aimed her lance straight and true. The big hammer of Wyldon’s impact struck her shield and shield arm; the little one of her own strike slammed her lance hand. Her lan
ce splintered, pieces falling. Kel and Wyldon turned their horses and trotted back to the start points. Kel shook out both arms, then her head and neck for good measure, and accepted her second lance.
The trumpet called. On came Wyldon again, faceless in his helmet, lance steady in his grip. Kel shifted her position. They came together hard: this time it was Wyldon’s lance that broke.
Third time lucky? Kel wondered giddily as she worked first one arm, then the other. The field monitor insisted on giving her a fresh lance.
Kel didn’t pray to the gods for victory in the lists. It was never good to bother them, particularly over something that was a very rough variation of a game. Today, though, she wished she had the nerve to do it as she settled herself on Peachblossom’s back.
Once more, and then I can lie down, she told herself grimly, turning to face Lord Wyldon.
The trumpet called. Peachblossom hurtled down the lane. Kel shifted, then sank a little, looking for the best way to hit that oncoming shield. She leaned in and braced herself for the impact.
When it came, it slammed so hard Kel’s vision went gray. Peachblossom danced to keep her in the saddle until she could settle back. Her ears roared; her vision slowly cleared. She nearly dropped her lance, but clung to it grimly as Peachblossom carried her back to her side of the field.
When the monitor tugged the lance, Kel needed a moment to see that he wanted to take it. “Judges gave the victory to my lord Wyldon,” he told her.
“Oh, good,” Kel said weakly, body pounding, muscle and bone telling her in no uncertain terms how they felt about this treatment. She didn’t see the monitor flag another man to help him get her shield off, or she might have scolded when Peachblossom tried to bite him. Instead she swayed in the saddle, grateful it was there, knowing she really ought to dismount. It seemed like such an effort.
“Mindelan.” Once that voice had driven through solid terror to make her pay heed. She turned toward it now, and saw a broad hand held out to her. She took it. “Very well done. Very well indeed. You listened to my advice about your shield—but then, I expected no less. I only wish—”
Protector of the Small Quartet Page 60