“Yes, Weaponsmaster,” they said in a ragged chorus.
Harrow, quicker than the others, looked pale, but asked, “You mean, we’re trying to repeat what killed the King and the Monarch’s Own Companion?”
“You are striving to prevent that,” Alberich corrected gently. “And it will take time. So here you will be, every day, for two candlemarks or a full game, whichever arrives first.”
“But what if we’ve got a class or work scheduled?” one of them piped up, voice trembling only a little.
“See Talamir; he will tend to it,” Alberich ordered. “This class, precedence has.” And several of them exchanged meaningful glances. Sober ones, too, he was proud to see. So, they knew; somehow in this first round of mock-combat, they had learned that deadly lesson, that fighting was dirty, foul, and ugly—that combat meant hurt. That they could be hurt, which was a difficult lesson for any young person to grasp.
He did not think that they had yet come to grips with the other lesson—that they could die. But at least they knew that there was no glory to be found in this, and there was a great deal of danger.
He hoped.
:Oh, they know. And they’re thinking furiously, trying to come up with the reason for all of this,: Kantor told him. :Don’t worry; we’ll encourage the “right answer.”:
Good. He needed them to concentrate on that “answer.” Because by the time the snow was falling, he’d have them practicing in full armor.
And by the time it melted, he would have them practicing in sets of custom-made armor that would not show under Trainee Grays. When that armor arrived, he wanted them to be firmly fixated on their own answer, and not his.
He raised his stick; automatically, they raised theirs, and they all clashed together overhead. “Good game,” he said with satisfaction. “Same time tomorrow.”
***
Fat, fluffy flakes of snow fell thickly from a sky that was a uniform, featureless gray from horizon to horizon. The damp, still air seemed oddly warm, but perhaps it was only because there was no wind blowing at the moment. Already the new snow was a thumb’s-breadth deep everywhere, covering the old, crusty, knee-deep stuff, softening the harsh, bare bushes and skeletal tree limbs.
It covered everywhere, except the Hurlee field, which was a churned-up mess of dirty snow, clods of earth, and grass. There was not a single spot on the field that wasn’t pounded down with hoofmarks.
Despite the muffling effect of the falling snow, the game was loud enough. Not because of the shouting of spectators (there weren’t any), nor the shouts of the players themselves (mostly they just grunted). No, it was the clash of stick on armor.
Every one of the players wore armor, including Alberich; thigh-, shin-, and foot-guards, breast- and back-plates, shoulder-, neck-, and arm-guards, and, of course, the helm. It wasn’t articulated plate of the sort that a knight might wear; the Trainees wore protective plates riveted onto leather. Much lighter and easier to move in—relatively.
Easier to fit under or over other garments, anyway. Under the armor, they wore padded gambesons, and over it, padded surcoats. The Companions were armored, too, at least for these practice sessions—a face-plate to protect their heads, articulated plate along their necks, and leg-guards. Alberich didn’t want any of them injured either—
He was on home-goal guard this session, which gave him more opportunity to watch the rest as they skirmished. And they had made amazing progress in the past few moons.
I should have expected it, I suppose, looking back on how all those young Trainees drove themselves before the last Tedrel War. He felt a warmth toward them that was almost paternal; challenge them, and they rose to the challenge. Let them but think that there was a challenge in the offing, and they rose to it. And they’d go through fire to meet it.
Most of the noise was coming from sticks connecting with the Companions’ armor, since they weren’t wearing any padding over it, and he wondered if perhaps he shouldn’t order the armor off. When the day came that they began riding guardian on Selenay, there was no way to disguise what was essentially horse-armor, so the Companions would have to do without. If it was making the Companions dependent, possibly careless—
:It’s not; they just aren’t ready yet to have us dodging underneath them. Not with all that extra weight.:
Kantor’s assurance was all he needed; he stopped worrying about it. This was only the third session under armor, and they still weren’t used to it. Fortunately, the custom-made and fitted armor he had ordered up for them was going to be lighter than this stuff. Not as strong or protective, but it should easily be good enough against the kinds of light court-blades that the Prince and his friends sported, if Alberich’s worst fears came true.
And if the Prince and his friends elected to attempt to hire professionals rather than doing the dirty work themselves, Alberich would hear about it. There was no job involving dirty work in Haven that at least one of his personae didn’t hear about, either via the rumor vine, or directly.
If the Prince decides to hire out his evil work, wouldn’t it be a great irony if he approached me directly?
Just as he thought that, the melee surged toward his goal; he judged his moment, and as soon as they drew near enough to be a threat to the goal, Kantor charged the rider nearest him. The Companion’s powerful muscles surged under him. Kantor’s unusual weight and size—quite as large as any war-horse—was next to impossible for another Companion to stand up to. The best they could do was to try and turn aside at the last moment so that he slid along a flank—or to dodge out of the way.
But there was nowhere for this Companion to dodge to, and no room to turn. Kantor hit him hard, and the shock of the meeting jarred both his body and Alberich’s. They bounced back; Kantor anticipated the shock and caught himself without a slip. The other Companion’s hooves scrabbled desperately in the snow as he tried to stay upright; the rider dropped his stick, grabbed the hold on the pommel, and hung on grimly.
And Kantor charged again, while Alberich swung at the rider.
It was a short charge, more of a push, but the other Companion’s hind feet slid right out from under him, at the same time that Alberich’s stick connected with the rider’s helm with a solid clang that vibrated up the stick and into Alberich’s arm.
Down they both went, the Companion sliding over sideways with a squeal of pain, the rider just—falling. Not jumping free, not even trying. And Alberich knew as soon as they started to fall that they were both hurt.
Blessed Sun lord. . . .
So did Shanda, who was refereeing; she gave a blast to her whistle as the two hit the slushy ground, and the scrum instantly stopped.
What have we done?
The rider groaned, and tried to rise as Alberich leaped off Kantor’s back and ran for him. The Companion got to his feet, with a lurch and a scramble, whining under his breath with pain, but when he stood, it was on only three legs.
:Not broken,: Kantor relayed instantly, :but it’s a bad sprain.:
Alberich unfastened Harrow’s helm strap and lifted the helmet from Harrow’s head. “Look at me,” he commanded, and it didn’t take a genius to see from the unequal size of the boy’s pupils that he’d been concussed. And it didn’t take a genius to see why either; the padding had come loose and slid down the back of the helm to bunch up against the neck protector.
Shanda was on the case already; she and her Companion were dragging up the two-horse stretcher they kept at the side of the field. Alberich didn’t have to give them a single order.
They worked as if they had rehearsed for this disaster; half of them lifted Harrow straight up off the ground without moving his back or neck, and placed him on the stretcher. Within a moment, they were heading toward Healer’s Collegium with Harrow held securely by the straps around the stretcher.
Meanwhile the other half of the Trainees left behind were buckling Harrow’s Companion onto the saddles of two more Companions so they could take some of his weight and he wouldn�
��t have to put that injured leg to the ground. In another moment they, too, were on their way to the Healers, picking their way through the uneven snow.
Alberich was left to pick up the helm and stare numbly after them. He felt sick, but what could he do? There were injuries like this even in normal practice, much less the risky stuff he was asking them to do now. And if he didn’t push them—if they didn’t push themselves—if it came to a real fight, they might not live through it. He wasn’t going to apologize—
But what were they thinking?
“Find us a substitute, Weaponsmaster,” called Brion over his shoulder as the second lot limped toward the Collegium with Harrow’s Companion. “We’re not good enough yet, and this just proves it. Get us a substitute, or get us just a referee and you substitute, and we’ll pick this up tomorrow.”
The words both startled and gratified him, and for a moment, he actually felt his eyes burn. “I will!” he called after them, hoping that they didn’t notice the slightly choked quality caused by the lump in his throat. “But session is ended for today, I think.”
:Tell the others with Harrow, will you?: he asked Kantor.
:Certainly,: There was a pause. :Harrow says to tell you he apologizes for not checking his helm better, and that this is all his fault.:
That called for an apology. :Tell him that he is right—but that it is also my fault for not checking the equipment first myself, and that I also beg his pardon for my carelessness.:
:That ought to scare him out of his bed,: Kantor chuckled. :You, apologizing!:
But as Alberich hung the faulty helm on the pommel of his saddle, and turned to mount Kantor’s saddle and head for the salle, he caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye.
For one horrible moment, he thought it was someone from the Court. Perhaps one of the Prince’s people—
Which could be a disaster.
Then he saw the color of the mount and the rider’s clothing and had another sickening feeling. This was another Trainee and Companion, and they’d seen the accident. If he thought he was being portrayed as a monster before—
:No Companion thinks you’re a monster.:
He hadn’t seen them there; he’d thought there had been no one watching. In a moment, he recognized them, with something of a start. The Trainee was young Mical, his Companion Eloran—two of the unholy trio whose antics had broken that mirror in the salle and had inadvertently sent him down the road to discovering what the actor Norris had been up to.
What were they doing here?
But Mical’s punishment was long since over; what could he possibly have been doing out here? It wasn’t for pleasure; he looked practically blue with cold, and he must have been here the entire time they’d been playing.
“Weaponsmaster Alberich?” the boy called, as soon as he was within easy conversational distance. “Can we volunteer to be that substitute?”
Alberich raised an eyebrow, making certain that none of his considerable surprise showed on his face, although his jaw ached with the effort of keeping it from dropping. He knew very well that young Mical had a reputation as a demon Hurlee player, despite the late start that he and Eloran had on it because of the punishment work he’d been doing. But that was regular Hurlee, not this—this combat version. Surely no one sane would volunteer for this, not after today, not seeing that the Weaponsmaster would injure one of the Trainees and apparently not think twice about it. And Mical had at least three more years to go in his training, not one or less than one.
“How long have you watching been?” he asked, keeping his tone flat. He expected to hear a slightly cocky “Long enough,” but once again he got a surprise.
“A little more than two moons,” Mical replied. “It took me a while to get my chores scheduled so I had the candlemark free. I heard about it, and I started watching. At first it was—well, because it was Hurlee.” He emphasized the game as if invoking the name alone would explain everything. “Then I stayed.”
Kantor snorted. :Well, well. This is interesting.:
“This no kind of game is,” Alberich told him, harshly. “Not anymore. Not this group. There is this, serious injury today. More, there are likely to be.”
“I know that, Weaponsmaster,” Mical replied, head up, eyes blazing. “But I’m good, really good at regular Hurlee, and I want to help.” His Companion moved forward until he was nearly nose-to-nose with Alberich, and the rest of his speech was made in a whisper. “I know why you’re doing this,” he continued, and if his hands and voice trembled a little, his gaze was firm. “That is, I think I know what you’re doing. You’re training up a bunch of people who are always at the Collegium until they graduate into Whites, and who nobody is going to even consider as adequate protection. Not even the Queen, so we could go anywhere. You think that if the Queen ever leaves the Palace grounds, someone is going to try to kidnap her. Maybe even the Prince’s friends, to try and get the Queen and the Council to agree to make him a King.”
Since that was very near to what Alberich was afraid of, he actually started, and stared at the boy, and this time he didn’t even try to keep his jaw from dropping. “But—how—” he began.
Mical shrugged. “Healer Crathach is my second cousin, and my uncle knows people who know the Prince’s set. I’m good at putting things together, and my Gift is Touchreading.” At Alberich’s puzzled look, he explained. “If I pick up something barehanded, and I want to know, sometimes I can tell where it’s been and what it’s been doing going back to when it was first made.” He gulped. “I haven’t had it working for long, not so I could trust it. Otherwise I’d have told you.”
Alberich blinked again. So did Kantor. :I was under the impression that Mical’s Gift was fairly unreliable.:
“My Gift-teacher still thinks it’s unreliable,” Mical continued. “But in the last moon it’s been getting a bit more under control, and that was when I noticed something. If someone has been handling what I pick up very recently, and feeling strongly about something, it’s pretty dead-accurate. I can pick up bits of what they’ve been thinking about. When I realized there was something strange about this Hurlee team, I—” He flushed. “I started snooping on you. You’ve been awfully worried lately, and you’ve been doing a lot of repairs on the practice equipment.” His chin firmed. “I know this is dangerous; you just cracked Harrow’s skull for him, and that was just in practice! But I still want to help.”
Alberich thought about it for a long, long moment, as the snow fell all about them, sealing them off from the rest of the world inside a wall of white curtains.
“All right,” he said at last. “Come down to the salle with me. I will need to measure you, and get you armor. And your gods be with you.”
***
Mical went off with his measurements taken, a set of armor of the approximate size ready for him, and an admonishment to say nothing of his speculations, not even to his fellows on the team. “Tell them that you are the substitute, you may,” Alberich told him. “If you care to.”
Mical just shook his head. “They aren’t my yearmates, and it’ll be better coming from you,” he replied, showing a maturity that Alberich hadn’t expected. “If you say it, they’ll just figure you picked the best you could think of. If I do, it’ll sound like I’m boasting.”
It sounded as if young Mical had learned a lot more in that glassworks than how to make mirrors.
And there had not been one single attempt on Mical’s part to suggest some of the stage-fighting techniques he had been so enamored with a year ago. He’d done a great deal of physical growing in the past year, too; he’d gone from weedy adolescent to a young powerhouse with muscles as hard as rocks. It was no wonder that he was reputed to be such a demon Hurlee player. Evidently pumping those bellows had been very good for him.
But as Alberich brooded over his solitary supper, he was still worried. The boy might be big and strong, but he was still a boy, still three years younger than the rest of the team. He’d volunteered
, but did Alberich have the right to accept him? He thought of poor Harrow, even now being taken care of by the Healers. He would be throwing young Mical into the middle of a team that was already playing a deadly game; they’d had moons of practice at it, and Mical and Eloran didn’t.
:But he’s been watching,: Kantor reminded him.
:Watching isn’t the same as playing.: Would Mical just end up in a bed next to Harrow in the next day or two?
:Eloran is getting some special coaching, this minute,: Kantor told him. :This business is half the Companion’s job, remember. And Eloran is a lot faster than Harrow’s Companion.:
Another shock; this was a day full of them. :I thought all of you were fairly equal—:
:Oh, no. Not that any of us is the Companion equivalent of Myste—: There was a snicker in that, and Alberich could hardly blame him. Poor Myste! By now she was so notorious that Selenay just had a page assigned to her to follow around behind her, picking up the things she dropped and gathering up the things she put down and forgot. Well, she might forget where she left her spare pair of lenses; she never forgot a fact, a law, or a precedent.
:Some of us have different priorities,: he replied truthfully.
:As do we. At any rate, Eloran is a little nimbler than Lekaron, with slightly better reactions. That should make up for lack of experience.: But he detected a hint of doubt in Kantor’s mind-voice, and oddly enough, that comforted him. If Kantor was having feelings of guilt, at least it meant that Alberich wasn’t being overly nice about this situation.
:They’re terribly young,: he said gloomily.
:Lavan Firestorm and his Companion weren’t any older.:
:And Lavan never got the opportunity to grow any older.:
Kantor was silent for a moment. :Lavan never really got the opportunity to volunteer. Mical did.:
There was that. But could someone that young have any real idea of what he was volunteering for? Bad enough to take the Trainees he had—all adolescents to one extent or another thought they were immortal, that death was something that happened to someone else; the older lot at least were well aware that they could be horribly hurt. But fifteen-year-olds truly thought that they were immortal, yes, and invulnerable, that even injuries would nod and pass on by. And in spite of what he’d seen, was this truly informed consent?
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