When Raoul and Kel had seen the entire village, they returned to the gate. “Well, squire?” Raoul asked. “What do you make of this?” He indicated the ground at the stockade gate.
Kel looked at the churned mud. “I’d guess twenty-five, maybe thirty centaurs,” she replied, not sure if she had read the signs correctly. Lindhall Reed, one of her teachers in immortal studies, had shown the pages centaur hoofmarks in plaster so the pages would recognize their tracks. “Twenty or so humans. The humans left their horses outside the gates—there’s marks of horseshoes and picket stakes beside the wall. Centaurs aren’t shod.”
“Very good,” Raoul said. “I wasn’t sure you’d seen that. Go on.”
“I agree with the priestess. The gate was opened.” She motioned to the gate. “It’s whole, the hinges are solid, there’s no blood or anyone dead. Even if the guards were fooled into opening up, there’d be signs of a fight. And they’d have shouted. We were told everyone was abed when the raiders got into the houses.” Something in the mud caught her eye: a doll, half-buried in muck. She picked it up and began to clean it with a handkerchief. “Setting fires after they stole, that’s mischief, or settling old scores,” she remarked. Her hands trembled with rage. The waste and cowardice—robbing their own people in the middle of the night!—had to be punished. “They took every animal they could sell. People are saying they cleaned out the valuables before they set their fires. And if folk here recognized the humans with the centaurs, they’re keeping quiet.”
“They’d have to, wouldn’t they?” Raoul asked. “Villages like this, cut off from most of the world, everyone’s related. A raider could be an uncle, a cousin, a brother.”
Kel nodded, cleaning the doll as people reported to Raoul and the squad bound for the palace left. This was the lowest kind of betrayal, for kinsmen to steal what little people had. She could not understand those who liked romantic songs of highwaymen and pirates. Anyone who took poor people’s life savings was not worth a song.
The centaurs were just as bad. They’d been given homes after they had sworn to heed the realm’s laws. Now they were robbing those who had taken them in.
She waited until Raoul had finished talking with his squad leaders before she asked, “My lord?”
Raoul looked at her and raised his eyebrows.
“They won’t stay local, will they?” she asked. The doll was as clean as she could get it. Kel thrust it into her belt. “They took all they could move. They’re on the run, looking for a place to hole up or another village to rob.”
“Absolutely,” her knight-master replied. “We’ve got serious work ahead. Don’t worry, though. With help, we’ll bring these muck suckers to bay.”
The local centaurs arrived. Kel watched the introductions, happy not to deal with these creatures, particularly the centaur chief, Graystreak. His black-and-gray hair was twined and oiled into ringlets, a style she disliked. Graystreak wore a dirty wrap-around shirt with a tangle of ribbons, beads, and chains around his neck, wrists, and pasterns, and braided in his tail. Only the belt at his waist was unornamented by anything but weapons. His human parts were those of a fair-skinned man in his fifties; his horse parts were blue roan.
Suddenly the chief broke off greeting Lord Raoul to approach Kel. He walked around her as if she were a filly for his inspection, ignoring Jump’s low growl. On his second circuit the centaur was smiling. “A female. A strong one, not a pitiful two-legger stick girl,” he commented. “You will breed easily, perhaps even bear sons of my kind.” His voice slid over Kel like oil.
She swallowed hard. Keeping her face Yamani-blank, she imagined Graystreak put to dray horse work in the northern mines.
The sparrows leaped from their perch in a nearby tree to dart shrieking at the centaur. Graystreak backed up, trying to shield his face. Jump advanced on him, hackles up, snarling.
“Jump, enough,” ordered Raoul, coming over.
The dog shook his head.
“I need to talk to him. You aren’t helping,” the knight told the dog.
Jump sighed. He walked away, frequently glancing over his shoulder as if to say, “I have to let him go?”
“This is unnatural,” Graystreak snapped, still warding off sparrows. No matter how quickly he swatted, he never touched them. “Take these things away!”
“It’s rude to single out the squire and ignore the knight,” Raoul said politely. “I didn’t give you permission to address her. Kel, call off the birds.”
Without a word from Kel the birds flew to her. Crown and Freckle perched on her shoulders. The rest lined up on a branch.
Graystreak looked at Raoul. “I will give three slaves for her,” he announced. “Two more if she breeds successfully within a year.”
Kel stiffened. Slaves? There were no slaves in Tortall!
Raoul thrust his hands into his pockets, still the picture of goodwill. “You forget our customs, Chief Graystreak. Offer all the horses you like, human females are not for sale. And you can’t have heard—I said she is a squire. A knight-in-training. She’s busy. Now, explain to me how you are not at fault for this.” He jerked his head toward the ruins of the village.
Graystreak spread his hands as his expression slid from greedy to innocent. “These young stallions give me no peace,” he whined. “I cast them from the herd. Some females were silly enough to follow them. They are no longer my problem.”
“You never thought they’d turn on us?” demanded the headman. “Centaur females leave males who can’t give them gifts. If you kicked young bucks out with nothing, how were they to get presents if they didn’t steal?”
Graystreak looked shocked. “I assumed their two-legger friends would warn Haresfield, since they live here. Had I known this would happen, of course I would have given warning. I prize the goodwill I have built up.” He looked at Kel again and sighed before turning to Raoul. “Since I know nothing more, I take myself off. I’m sure you will catch these brigands.” He shook his head woefully. “There will be no trade for us here for some time. I shall have to find another market.”
The headman cursed and snapped, “Fair-weather friend, aren’t you, Graystreak? When we can do business, you and your people are in and out all the time. When it looks like we’ll be months restoring what we’ve lost, you’re on your way!”
The centaur raised his brows. “My friend, I too have females. Without gifts, they attack males.” He offered his bare forearms for inspection: they were covered with old scars. “Our females can be”—he hesitated, looking at Kel once more—“overly spirited.”
She met his gaze levelly. I’ll show you how spirited human females are, you sideslipping sack of ooze, she thought.
Graystreak walked toward the gate, only to halt. Somehow Peachblossom and Raoul’s warhorse, Drum, had pulled free of their pickets. They stood between the centaur and the gate. Black Drum pawed idly at the ground, as casual as if he had stopped to graze in this bare spot. Peachblossom’s head was slightly lowered, his ears flat to his skull. He kept one eye on Graystreak.
The centaur reared to show the geldings his stallion parts, and hissed at them in his own language. Drum flicked one ear forward and the other back, all equine blandness. Peachblossom waited until Graystreak settled onto his fours, then struck, snakelike, his teeth coming together with an audible click as he missed. Graystreak scrambled to get out of range; he nearly fell.
But they’re geldings, Kel thought, flabbergasted. Geldings don’t face down stallions!
“Get these slaves out of my way,” snarled Graystreak.
“That’s the interesting thing about having the Wildmage about.” Raoul was relaxed and cheery. “Palace animals are changing. Soon most will work for us only if they want to. Some animals are further along, of course.”
More of the King’s Own mounts had freed themselves of the picket lines. They walked through the gate to stand behind Peachblossom and Drum, forming a barrier of horseflesh between Graystreak and escape.
“I to
ld my lord the other day that horses in particular are showing a smart streak,” Flyndan added. “You’d best be careful, Chief Graystreak. Your own slaves might rebel.”
Graystreak glared at the humans, trembling with rage. “Tell them to move,” he said, his polite mask in tatters. “You’ve corrupted them! No gelding defies a stallion, not in the history of horsekind!”
“You don’t think history gets rewritten, sometimes?” Flyndan inquired mildly.
“I’ll ask them to step aside in a moment,” Lord Raoul told the centaur. “There is one thing. I know you weren’t trying to avoid the issue—I’m sure it just slipped your mind—but under your treaty, you’re required to supply a third of your people to help capture these rogues. I know you’d have remembered in a moment. Our horses just saved you the extra steps.”
Graystreak’s fists clenched. Then he smiled, his mask back in place. “Forgive me,” he said. “I was trying to decide who to send with you, and was preoccupied.”
The wagons from the palace arrived shortly before noon. Kel got to work ladling out soup in a mess tent. Raoul stood beside her to issue bread to the diners as they filed by. Only when everyone else had been served did they eat.
“You won’t get a traditional squire’s education with me,” he told her between mouthfuls of soup. “Serving refreshments in meetings, well, you’ll do that. It’s the best way for you to hear what’s said and who says it. I’ll want your impressions afterward, so be sharp. But waiting on me hand and foot is plain silly. So’s caring for my horses in the field. For one thing, I like to do it. For another, you’ll be too busy. Tend to your own mounts first.”
Kel nodded. After she swallowed a mouthful, she asked, “Why Rider Groups, my lord? Aren’t there enough of us?” He had led all one hundred warriors of Third Company into the forest that morning, not counting the servingmen.
“A different tool for a different job,” explained Raoul. Flyndan, seated across from them, made a face and nodded. “We’re conspicuous, in our blues with the pretty silver mail and all,” Raoul continued. “Our horses are big—good for open ground, slow over broken terrain and forest. Third Company does the main sweep, talking to other villages and making noise. The Rider Groups scout on our left and right flanks—our sides. Their little ponies will cover rocky terrain, marshes, and so on. The enemy will be on the move. Once we know where they are, we’ll send half the company around to their rear, to set up a trap. Then we drive ’em into it.”
“We’ve done it before,” Dom told Kel. He sat with Flyndan, polishing his empty bowl with a crust of bread. The smile he directed at Kel made her heart turn over, just as Neal’s smile did. “We clank around, make a lot of fuss, let the bandits think they’ll always be two steps ahead. Then we close the net and haul them off to royal justice.”
“They’ll have to sing a sweet song to get out of a hanging,” Raoul said grimly, picking up his empty dishes.
Kel shuddered: she hated hangings. No matter what the crime was, she saw no malice in those hooded and bound silhouettes dangling against the sky. Worse, to her mind, was the thought that the condemned knew they were to die, that a day and time had been set, that strangers planned each step of their killing.
Flyndan misunderstood her shudder. “That’s right. It’s not glamour and glory. It’s hard, mud-slogging work. If you wanted it easy, you should have taken a desk knight.”
“Stop it, Flyn,” Raoul said, his voice firm. “See her in action before you judge.”
“I know, she rallied those lads while we handled the spidren nest. You’d think she’d be over this warrior thing by now.” Flyndan carried his dishes away.
“Kel?” Raoul asked.
Kel was buttering a roll. She knew what he wanted. “I’ve heard it before, my lord.”
Raoul patted her shoulder and took his dishes to the scrubbers.
“He’s not the easiest second in command, but he’s good at it.” Kel looked up to meet Dom’s very blue eyes. “You need someone a bit stiff to offset my lord. He’s too easygoing, sometimes. Flyn will let up, once he sees this isn’t a hobby for you.”
Kel shrugged. “I don’t need to be liked, Dom. I just need to work.”
When she rose with her dishes, he did as well. “And you’ve a knack for it. I heard what you did with the spidrens, your first year. And then with the hill bandits, your second summer.”
Kel glanced up at Dom, startled. “How did you know about that?” She handed her bowl, plate, and cup to the dishwashers. One of them was Qasim. He smiled at Kel and Dom, and meekly bore a scolding from the village woman beside him, who said it took more than a swipe with a cloth to get a bowl clean.
“How did I know?” Dom asked, and chuckled. “My cousin the Meathead, remember? He wrote about both in great detail. I feel sorry for him these days, though.”
“But he’s got the Lioness for knight-master!” protested Kel.
Dom grinned down at her. “You think that’s fun? Maybe we’re not talking about the same Lioness. The one I know rides with us a lot—my lord’s one of her best friends. She’s the one with the temper. And if Neal’s learned to keep his opinions to himself, it’ll be more than any of us were ever able to teach him.”
Kel started to argue, and changed her mind. Dom was certainly right about Neal.
“Trust me,” Dom said, resting a hand on Kel’s shoulder, “I bet he wishes right now you had his place!” He went to help some men carry a heavy beam down the street.
Kel resisted the temptation to rub the spot where Dom’s hand had rested. She needed to find work. Was she some kind of fickle monster, that Dom’s smile and touch could make her giddier than Neal’s had? Was she one of those females who always had to moon over a man? Did other girls’ emotions flop every which way? Lalasa had never mentioned it, if hers did, and she was quite good at explaining such things.
“That’s my doll.”
Kel looked down. A small girl stared up at her with accusing brown eyes. She was streaked with mud and soot; there were charred places on her skirt, but there was nothing afraid or weary in those eyes.
“I looked and looked and looked. I thought Gavan stole it because he knew I would cry. She’s my favorite.”
Kel had forgotten the doll she had cleaned and thrust into her belt. Now she gave it to its owner, who informed Kel that “Mama needs help lifting.”
“Take me to your mother, then,” Kel said.
The girl’s home was a shambles. Soot streaked the walls above the windows. Men and boys were on the roof, tearing off burned thatch as they searched for hidden fires. A figure the size of an infant lay in front of the house, covered with a cloth square.
“That’s my brother,” the girl said, her face stony. “We were running across the street. The house was on fire, and men were shooting arrows, and one hit him. He died.”
She led Kel into the house. A woman whose eyes were red and puffy from weeping struggled to right an overturned table. A toddler clutched her skirt. Kel got to work with the table while her guide took charge of the toddler. The young mother was happy for the assistance, and asked nothing of Kel past her name.
They had set the room in order and put the beds out to air when Kel heard someone yell for her. She apologized to the family and ran out, to find Lerant in the street.
“What have you been doing, rolling in muck?” he demanded scornfully, looking down his short nose at her. “Well, never mind. The Rider Groups are here, and the centaurs, the ones who are going to help search. They’re in a tent outside the main gate. My lord wants you to wait on them. The wine service is in the bags with the blue rawhide ties, with the packhorses. There’s two small kegs of wine in general supplies.” He trotted away, not giving Kel time to reply.
She drew a bucket of water from a nearby well and poured it over her head to rinse off most of the dirt. Then she went to find the supplies outside the stockade.
The packs lay on the ground. Raoul’s personal ones had his crest pressed into the leath
er. Those with blue rawhide ties lay beside them. She had gone through one and was opening the second when a man shouted, “Hey! You! What are you after, grubbing in the captain’s things? Get out of there!”
A servingman ran over to grab Kel’s arm. “You think you can steal whatever you like, is that it? Well—”
“Hold it, Noack,” someone interrupted. It was the burly Sergeant Osbern. “What’s this noise? They can hear you at the council tent.”
“He was in Captain Flyndan’s bags, and I’m not to squawk?” the man Noack demanded.
“Squire Keladry?” Osbern inquired. Kel nodded.
“Squire?” cried the testy Noack. “Squire or no—”
Osbern raised his eyebrows. Noack went silent and let go of Kel.
“I was told my lord’s wine service was here, and that I should bring it and the wine to the council tent,” Kel said evenly. “I didn’t know those were Captain Flyndan’s bags.”
“Who told you?” the sergeant inquired.
Obviously Lerant was having fun at her expense, but she would keep that to herself. “One of the men, Sergeant,” she replied. “I don’t know the names yet.”
Osbern pursed his lips. “Too bad, because I would have a thing or two to say to that man,” he told Kel, his voice dry. “It isn’t just the captain’s bags, Squire Keladry. My lord doesn’t drink spirits, and he doesn’t serve them. He says he had a problem as a young man, so he doesn’t care to have liquor about. Captain Flyndan likes a glass or two. He serves it in his tent, but only when my lord isn’t there. A water service will do today.”
Kel nodded and found the pitcher, tray, and cups in Raoul’s general supplies. The company mages had declared the town’s wells to be clean, with no sickness in them. Kel used the well nearest the gate to fill her cups and pitcher, then carefully took the whole into the council tent.
Its sides were raised to accommodate five centaurs, who stood with the humans around a large table on which maps had been placed. These were younger than Graystreak, and looked to be in their twenties and thirties, though with centaurs it was hard to tell. Their youth lasted for two centuries; like other immortals, they never aged past mature adulthood. Unless an immortal was killed by accident or in a fight, she or he might live forever.
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