“Ah—and did you remind her about it, Neime?”
“No, your highness. I figured you must enjoy the suffering, to incur it in the first place.”
Juimei sighed, and rested his chin on his hand so he could look at his page. “You don’t like the count. Why?”
Neime scowled. “Not my place to say.”
“Never stopped you before and you know it. He said I should turn you off for your insolence.”
The lad looked at him with startled hurt. “Your highness? Would you?”
“No. But I’d like to know what offence he’s given you. He’s one of the most senior nobles in my father’s court, you know. An important man. Kin, though distantly. If nothing else, it would be diplomatic to feign politeness towards him. You’re smart enough to know that.”
Neime scowled. “He’s lazy. Arrogant and lazy. Not your match by any measure, Juimei.”
“So you’re jealous. Want to be warming my bed yourself, do you?”
“No! Your highness!”
“So you don’t find me attractive?”
Neime clenched his jaw and stood. “If my services aren’t required here for the moment, your highness....”
He reached over and tugged on Neime’s jacket. “Oh, sit down, lad, I’m only teasing. By Sephiz’s beard, I thought you had a sense of humour.”
Neime sniffed. “Not about that man, no. He’s only using you to advance himself.”
“Hardly. He doesn’t need me to do that. I appreciate your concern for my welfare, but....” Juimei glanced down at the beautiful ring on his finger. “His grace may become a rather more permanent part of my life at some point.”
“Are you...you really would life-bond to him?” Neime’s mouth hung open in surprise. “Truly?”
“I’m considering it, certainly. Would that make your position impossible?”
His page bit his lip, and wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I swore to serve you for the rest of my life, whatever happens, unless you turn me off. But....” He looked up. “I would always think you could have done better. Will you really bond with him?”
“Maybe. I don’t want to hurt you, and I certainly don’t want you to serve me if it causes you offence. If I decide to bond with him and he accepts, I’ll find you an honourable post here in the palace.”
Neime’s eyes widened, but then his expression suddenly closed off. “Yes, of course, your highness,” he said dully. “Thank you.”
“Neime? Is that not acceptable?”
“Yes, your highness. Of course it is. Thank you.”
Juimei sighed again. “It’s only a possibility, lad. As you know, he’s returning to his estate next week until the middle of autumn, so nothing will happen until then. But while he’s around, I’d like you to at least be pleasant to him, if only for your own sake. You know what it’s like here—his people could make life difficult for you, and I don’t want that in my household.”
“No, your highness.”
“Good. Now eat up, and then we’d better get over to the stables. I want to check my gear again.”
Neime nodded, but still seemed rather subdued. Juimei didn’t know whether to be touched by his devotion, or annoyed at the aspersion cast on his taste and sense. But Neime was a good lad—a younger son from an eastern tribe, who’d applied for a position at court and a chance to improve himself. Juimei’s mother had suggested him two years ago as a replacement for Juimei’s previous manservant who had decided to join the army. The lad had been an excellent servant, a pleasant companion, and a good friend. Having to place him elsewhere would really rankle, but if he wouldn’t get past this odd dislike of Miki....
Miki was arrogant, and lazy too. But he had a mind like a steel trap, and his estate was very efficiently run, since his laziness was of the type that saved unnecessary effort rather than avoided work altogether. He would make an excellent life-mate for a prince of the blood, and could have a place on the council for the asking. He was also, Juimei thought, concealing another wince, an incredibly gifted lover, and very devoted. A man could hardly ask for more, and Juimei certainly didn’t. In his position, there weren’t many people who would make an acceptable partner while still allowing him to follow his path at the court.
Mikinze suited him very well, and really the only thing making him hesitate was the idea that his lover might not feel the same way. But glancing at the ring on his finger again, he thought he had the answer to that now. It was the kind of thing one gave in advance of a betrothal—and it was most likely Miki was only waiting for Juimei to do the asking, as was only proper given their positions.
It was just a damn shame Neime was so hostile, because he was terribly fond of the lad. But he wouldn’t give up Miki just to keep his page happy—that would be utterly ridiculous, and Juimei intensely disliked the idea of appearing the fool. If Neime couldn’t get used to the idea, then he’d have to go, all regrets aside.
But to preserve peace, he didn’t bring Mikinze’s name up again, and they ate lunch in companionable silence, except for Neime’s quiet questions about the meeting with Edikio and Juimei’s appointments on the following day. The lad was such an efficient assistant. The answer had to be to get him to accept Miki, and then all would be well. He didn’t want to lose either of them.
The cream thoughtfully—if mischievously—supplied by his mother helped considerably, though Juimei thought he really would have to ask Miki to be a little more careful if they made love before a major tournament. His main gear was stored at the stables, but he changed into the royal team colours in his rooms, as did Neime to show support. Then they headed out for the playing field.
Though it wasn’t far, there was no question of him walking there, or going with only Neime as his companion. A squad of soldiers formed a necessary barrier between him and the enthusiasm of the crowds lining the narrow streets, all anxious to wish him a happy birthday as well. Juimei rather suspected it was his success on the ito field as much as his royal birth which made him popular, and he had no doubt a lot of money would be changing hands after the match. All quite illegal naturally—and quite impossible to stop. His father never tried that hard. Juimei, loving the sport for its own sake, found the betting distasteful, but was resigned to its existence, and just hoped some of the cheering people along the route to the field would actually enjoy the match itself. Flags with the royal colours waved everywhere he looked, though here and there he saw those of the remote districts and clans. It was a fine day—it would be a lovely spring, he could feel it in his bones.
Father was right—there were a lot more people around this year for the royal tournament. Probably because it had been a harder than usual winter, so people felt a bit stir-crazy. The thaw was always eagerly awaited since one could not play on frozen ground, and it had been late this year. The royal tournament marked the start of the doig-ito season throughout Andon, and all the young bloods in Visiqe hoped to make a mark early and win honour for their tribes and families. Perhaps it was a silly game, just as mother had said—but it was a very useful way of working off excess energy and aggression, and encouraged good riding and tactical skills. It was one of the more popular recreations among the army for that very reason. The main playing field was next to the barracks, and it was the soldiers who maintained it for their own use as well as the visiting teams.
His teammates were already at the stables, and he was greeted cheerfully, with best wishes for his birthday, and many promises of razika to celebrate their certain victory over the western province team, their strongest opponents. Juimei thought the royal side was better, but it all depended on how the match went on the day.
He’d noted that there was still snow on the ground in parts. “Anyone checked that the ground is actually thawed?”
“Yes, your highness. Can’t have you landing hard on that royal arse, can we?” Tetwei said, grinning cheekily.
“I seem to recall it was you who ended up arse skywards last time we played, you brat. Neime, bring my guards and helme
t over, would you? I just want to check my mount.”
The doigs were all impatient, stamping their hairy hooves, and snorting as if they couldn’t wait to get out on the field. Juimei fed his chosen animal a handful of grain and patted it. “Fat little bugger,” he said, nodding at Neime. “He can do with the exercise. Maybe I should get you riding him when I can’t.”
“No thanks, your highness. I’ll ride if I need to, but not for fun. Urs beasts make a better mount.”
Juimei grinned. “Call yourself an Andonese? And did not Sephiz in his benevolence create these animals for our comfort and convenience?”
“Convenience, yes. Comfort—well, your highness, I imagine you’ll find out all about that in a few minutes.”
Juimei rolled his eyes at the unsubtle reference to his aching bottom, and Neime laughed. He brought over the leather protective gear and helped Juimei strap on the arm and leg guards, finally checking the helmet was firmly and securely in position. The rest of the team were coming in now, and it was time for him to mount up.
“Wish me luck, Neime!”
“Good luck, your highness. For the glory of the king and council!”
Juimei saluted, then signalled to the rest of the riders to mount and fall into line. He led them out onto the field, and the cheers of two thousand voices hit him as people recognised the colours of the local heroes. He stood in his stirrups, waving to acknowledge the accolade, then he led the players over to where the other three teams waited before the royal dais. He bowed his head as his father raised his hand to greet him. Juimei saw his mother looking too, so he lifted the little pendant from inside his shirt, kissed it, then tucked it safe away again—she smiled and nodded at the gesture.
The match marshal came forward, and at the king’s nod, lifted his flag. “Players—to your quarters! Prepare for battle!”
Western province got first throw, and the royal team thundered after the ito which had flown hard into the army quarter. Juimei swept it up and pitched long into their area, but a Western player was there, defending. Tetwei managed to hook it and carry the save, but lost it trying to be clever. Juimei cursed and whipped his mount in pursuit of the lost ito.
They made mistakes, but they were the first to score, and then again before the Westerns gained the advantage. Merchants formed a brief alliance with the army to get the ito back over to the army quarter, and scored, but Juimei led his side through breaches in their shoddy defences, and, at the price of a few bruises and even a bite from a disgruntled beast, scored again. The crowd screamed their delight at the Royals’ success, and emboldened by their support, two of the minor players on the team, mainly used to distract, managed a nice little play of their own and hurled the ito into the basket. Juimei bellowed his approval at them as they galloped past. “Well thrown! Do it again!”
“Yes, your highness!”
The teams managed to stop any of the others scoring, but that was all until half-time. Juimei accepted fruit juice and a sweetmeat for the energy from Neime who had organised refreshments, but his mind was still on the game. “We need to keep Merchants and Army from allying. Godo, you did nice work out there—think you can do it again?”
“I hope so, Jui,” his younger teammate said.
“Right—then here’s the plan. Anytime we seen Merchants and Army teaming up, I want an attack on the Army flank—they’ve got their weakest riders on that side. Tetwei, if we have to drive ito, that’s the direction we go in. Godo, they won’t be watching you if Tetwei or I are in play—that’s your chance to be sneaky again.”
“Right you are, Jui.”
Frustratingly, Army scored twice in the first few minutes of the second half, bringing the total score equal to the Royals’. Juimei wouldn’t be satisfied with a draw—he’d rather lose fighting all the way down than merely draw while wearing his mother’s favour. But he was determined to win.
Keqwino got the ito, and suddenly the match went their way—two more in-throws pushed their score up. All they had to do was keep the others from scoring, but the other teams didn’t see it that way. A three-way alliance was suddenly formed, and boxing the Royals in. It took a bit of nastiness to get free, and Juimei was hit on the upper arm by a carelessly flailed stick, but they managed it, only to lose the ito clear across the field when the Merchants got it and fled. More by surprise than skill, they scored, and then the Westerns, stronger than either Merchants or Army, stole the ito back.
Damn it—level pegging again, and the last but one sand timer was already running. It was time to cast what little caution they’d been exercising to the winds. “All or nothing,” Juimei said to his team as they lined up for another throw. “Lose or win, but I don’t want any bloody draws on my scoreboard. Right?”
“Right!” his team bellowed back, and he grinned in a feral way. Those Westerns were getting too confident. Time to show them the real value of the blood royal.
The ito flew, and Godo got it, deflecting nicely and skittering away on his lighter mount from under the grabbing stick of a huge Western. “Jui!” Godo cried, and tossed it his way. Juimei raised for it, but had to defend sharply against a sneak Army attack—Tetwei saved it, and raced off, hotly pursued by two Westerns and a Merchant. Juimei shouted for his people to deflect and defend, but that inconvenient alliance between the other teams was back in full force, and they couldn’t get an edge.
The last timer was turned over. Tetwei was cornered, and in desperation threw it high. Keqwino got it, belted off towards their corner, but found himself stopped by two Army, and with nowhere legal to run. “Damn it—someone, take it!” he yelled, and threw. Juimei lunged for it, scooped it out from under the nose of a Western, wheeled and ran, praying someone was running cover for him behind, because all he wanted to concentrate on was getting near enough to that basket to throw.
They came from every side, but he pushed his mount until the damn thing was almost shuddering with the effort. He couldn’t make progress, ducking and avoiding and trying to keep the ito from being knocked from his stick. He was running out of time—but he couldn’t get any closer. Finally, in desperation and with no expectation of success, he threw wildly, with all the force in his frame. The ito hit a post—then bounced into the basket. Juimei blinked—that had never happened before.
The horns sounded, and he realised they’d done it. They’d bloody won, by Sephiz!
He tore off his helmet and tossed it up in the air, as did the rest of the team, while the crowd roared their delight, the pennants and flags in the royal blue and yellow being waved everywhere he looked. His teammates piled on him, hugging and crowing at their victory.
“You’re a bloody miracle, your highness!” Tetwei yelled, ruffling his hair happily.
“We all are. For king and council!” he cried and the crowd roared back its approval.
Still muddy and heart pounding from the rush of the game, he led his somewhat disorderly team over to the dais, the losing sides trailing after them disconsolately. The marshal decreed, to more roared cheers, that the royal team had retained the prize for another year, and then Juimei’s father rose, accepting the victor’s sash from an attendant. “My son, approach me.”
Juimei climbed the stairs, grinning like a fool. His father beamed too, for all his professed dislike of the game. “Well-played, your highness,” he said, as he put the sash over Juimei’s head.
“Thank you, your majesty.”
He rose and turned, and received the adulation of the crowd, his teammates applauding and stamping their feet in approval. The roars grew even louder as he indicated his team below. He was so proud of them, he felt like his chest was about to burst. Truly, was there a finer feeling than this in the whole world?
Neime came up to attend him as he left the field, and he threw a happy arm around the lad. “Did you see? Wasn’t I magnificent?”
“You were. Magnificent and modest with it.” Neime ducked before Juimei could poke him in revenge for the smart remark. “Did you get hurt? I saw the s
tick hit your arm.”
“Probably bruised,” Juimei said cheerfully. “The steam room’s all I need. Razika! Someone bring me a damn drink!”
A flask was broached and passed around the team, and there was a lot more yelling and backslapping before they got back to the stables. Neime offered to settle Juimei’s mount but he insisted on removing the tack and brushing the beast down himself—only fair since the little bastard had done so well. But he was happy enough to let Neime take his muddy gear away to clean—he wanted more razika and to celebrate a little more with his teammates before he went back to the palace.
“Well-played, your highness.”
He turned, and grinned in delight to see Mikinze in the doorway of the stables. “Just the man I wanted to see—I want a word with you, your grace,” he said, bounding over to him, grabbing his lover’s arm, and tugging him around the side of the building. “And a kiss for the victor too.”
“Your highness, discretion, please,” Miki said, glanced around quickly, but giving him a peck on the cheek anyway.
“Oh, piss on discretion. Miki, I want you to bond with me. Say you will.”
Miki laid a hand over his heart, as if profoundly shocked. “Jui? Are you serious?”
“Don’t you want to?”
“Of course! It’s just...I wasn’t expecting....”
“I know, but I thought...I’m not getting any younger. You do want to, don’t you?”
His lover smiled. “Yes. Yes, I do. And I will. But I want to tell my father first. Can you bear to wait until the winter feast to announce it?”
“I can wait forever, so long as you’ll be mine,” Juimei declared, pulling Miki close and kissing him firmly, though being careful not to muddy the fine clothes his lover was wearing. “By the benevolent god, I love you, Mikinze.”
“And I you, Juimei. I’ve long hoped for this day.”
Juimei held up the hand with the beautiful ring. “And this was a hint, yes?”
Home Ground (Darshian Tales #4) Page 22