:He might not be aware of the actual flow of politics, but he knows to think ahead about them, and he knows how to spot a potential spot for a bit of trouble. It might only be that he’s just not privy to a lot of the information yet. I’d bet one or both of his parents are. And I’d bet they’ll coach him in Court politics more as he gets older. I’d consider him for the future. I’ll remind you to ask Nikolas about him.: Dallen was already on top of that idea, which pleased Mags. It was good to know that he was getting good at figuring out people who had the potential to help him in the future.
Gennie blinked, then turned to Mags. Mags was already Mindspeaking Nikolas, because Byren had put his finger on that potential problem, and only Nikolas was likely to have an answer. Fortunately, Nikolas had anticipated Byren’s concern and must have been keeping his ear to the ground for the last couple of days. “Nikolas says no worries,” he replied with relief. “The Prince is the . . . ah . . . Nikolas says, sentimental favorite, ’cause of the wedding. An’ he and the King have already worked out that if the Whites win, the King’ll present the prize to Lydia, an’ if the Blues win, the Prince’ll present the prize to the Queen.”
“Ah, well then, sorted!” Byren replied with relief. “I’d much rather play the game without worrying about politics. So, about getting that goal!”
“Anybody see any obvious weak points aside from the Riders and the fence?” Gennie asked.
“Not a weak point, but there’s something we might be able to use in the terrain,” said Pip. “Our side, just at the boundary line, left, there’s a clump of bushes with a pocket at the base. Looks like it just grew that way over the summer. If we popped the ball in there, then tore off for the fence with the Trainees, we might trick them into thinking the Trainees had the ball, and while they’re confused, the Riders can kick the ball out and make a run for the goal.”
Gennie nodded. “That would be the time for you to accidentally tell both sides Pip had the ball, Mags. It’s earlier than I thought we’d use that trick, but it would be a good time for it.”
He nodded.
“Right then, it’s set,” Gennie said. “Let’s play it.”
But White got the ball first, and the players were determined to keep it away from the fence. They’d learned from the first quarter, and it was a fierce fight up and down the field as they looked for a weak point in the Blue defense. Finally Blue was able to force them into another scrum, but in the middle of the field and not nearly close enough to that clump of bushes to do any good.
:Where’s the ball?: Mags asked desperately, as the dust from the churned-up ground rose about them all in a cloud.
:Under my tail,: said Companion Dustin. :And that wretched White horse knows it, he’s kicking at my hocks! Ow!:
Dallen crabbed sideways and gave the offending mount a good shoulder-shove. Dallen’s weight prevailed; the horse went down on his haunches for a moment and gave Mags a chance to lean down in the saddle while Dustin held very still for just a heartbeat, and Mags bunged the ball out of the scrum and toward the bushes.
Away the whole pack went after it, but the Blues got there first and wedged it in, then kicked up enough dust to hide what they’d done before the Whites got there. The lot of them milled in confusion as the dust rose in clouds about them and coated their armor in a white film.
:Pip’s got the ball!: Mags shouted to every familiar mind—which, of course, included their former teammates on the White side. Pip shot out of the pack like a bullet from a sling, followed by the Blue Trainees, all heading for the fence on the grandstand side. And enough of the Whites peeled off after him to let the Blue Riders kick the ball out of its hiding place and bung it down the field toward the White goal.
The Whites caught on to the ruse immediately, but the Blue Riders had distance on them, and even their long-legged cavalry horses couldn’t make it up. There was some fast ball-passing at the goal, with the White Foot trying to be in six places at once, then three attempts at the goal, and the last one got in to tumultuous cheers from the crowd. And just then, the signal sounded for the end of the quarter and a change of horses for the Riders.
“They’re going to be hopping mad now,” Gennie observed, as they huddled up for the third quarter. The water carriers had brought out damp rags for washing the dust off armor; Mags opted to upend an entire bucket of water over his head instead. This was excellent preharvest weather, nice and dry, allowing crops to ripen and not rot, but it made the Kirball field dusty. He coughed, hard, trying to clear his throat, then took off his helmet, wrapped one of those damp rags around his nose and mouth, and put the helmet back on. He didn’t need to talk, anyway.
“They’ll get a goal on us,” Pip predicted. “I can’t see them letting this go.”
“Maybe we can use that. We let them have a goal, then we try our Foot for the flag.” Gennie grabbed an offered bucket of water from one of the water carriers, took a drink from it, and poured the rest over her Companion’s head. “That will give us a lively fourth quarter if we pull it off, which wouldn’t be a bad thing. And if we don’t, we can try it in the fourth anyway.”
But the Whites were incensed at the Blue’s deception, and nothing in the third quarter went as it should. To begin with, the Whites got hold of the ball, and the Trainees kept it in the air with some brilliant stick play. They all were so busy keeping watch on the ball that they never noticed when one of the Riders broke away from the fight, and Mags knew something was up only when he heard a desperate mental howl from their own Foot. The Rider was managing to keep them encircled with his wickedly fast cavalry horse, and there was nothing they could do about it.
:The Foot!: Mags “shouted,” but by then it was too late. The White Trainees shot the ball toward the goal and screamed after it, and one of their Riders smacked it right from underneath the nose of Gennie’s Companion and into the goal. And that was the end of the third.
“Now or never,” was all Gennie said, as the Riders changed horses. They all nodded. “And they’ll be expecting something from us.”
“Whatever happens, no one can say we didn’t play the game,” said Alton, one of the Foot, with some satisfaction. “Take a look over at the rails.”
They all did. And there was not a face out there that was not turned toward them.
“I’d call that a job well done,” Gennie said with some satisfaction. “All right then. Win or lose, well played, Blues. Let’s give them the best quarter of the game.”
When the ball was in play, a White Rider immediately headed for their Foot. :Get on him, Mags!: Gennie called, as the pack fought for the ball. :We’ll hold them off if we can!:
Mags and Dallen charged after the Rider, full speed. He’d already started his encircling strategy when they ploughed into him. They were matched for size and weight, and Dallen made no attempt to check his speed at the last minute; Dallen had never made a full-out body-slamming charge before in this game, and no one expected it of him.
:Get ready to jump!: Dallen told him, just before they hit.
Both Rider and Dallen went down on their haunches, and Dallen went right over, but Mags was ready and had jumped out of the saddle before Dallen went down. Mags was on fire with anxiety, even though he hadn’t felt anything from Dallen
:I’m fine!: Dallen said, scrambling to his feet.
The same could not be said for the Rider’s horse, who got himself up but with a bad limp. The referees whistled for a halt, and play stopped while the rider got himself another mount.
:Stay down, Mags,: Gennie ordered. :Tell our Foot if they get a chance to go for the flag, but otherwise, I want you and Dallen down there to keep them off our goal.:
He and Dallen arranged themselves at either end of the goal area, and a good bit ahead of the Foot, ready to move at any instant. It was a little disappointing, not to be able to get right in t
he fight, but on the other hand, it would be a lot more disappointing to see the Whites score on them. He noticed the referees watching them and conferring with each other; he figured that they must be trying to work out whether being on foot was against the rules. But a few moments later, they broke apart, without anything happening, so he reckoned that they were going to let it pass.
Despite being a Trainee short, the Blues managed to fight the ball down the fence well into goal-range on the White side. From where Mags stood they were just a tangle of limbs and dust; he was peering after them when something caught the corner of his eye.
:Ware the flag!: he yelped to his own side, just as Dallen rushed the Trainee who had dismounted and snuck up within snatching distance of the flag. :Halleck, you sneaky git!: he growled, and was rewarded with Halleck’s chuckle as the Trainee’s Companion materialized out of nowhere and Halleck remounted at a run.
:Sneaky is as sneaky does,: Halleck mocked, and suddenly the scrum broke away from the fence and headed their way at a gallop.
Mags saw the ball speeding straight for him. He didn’t even think. He stood right in its path with his stick in both hands, braced for impact. The ball hit him hard enough to drop him on his behind in the dirt, but the ball went up, and Dallen somehow managed to get under it, and with a mighty kick, sent it soaring.
All eyes followed it. It seemed to hang in the air forever, a tiny speck you had to squint to see. :Flag!: he shouted into the minds of the Blue Foot, who split up and began using the tactics they had been taught as battlefield messengers to sprint from bit of cover to bit of cover, leaving him alone at the goal.
But everyone else was after the ball.
And for one mad moment, Mags thought the ploy just might work.
But the one thing that no one had reckoned on was that the time ran out on the quarter, and just as the first of their Foot reached the White flag—in fact, as he got his hand on it—the whistle blew, signaling the end of the game.
The end, and a dead tie.
* * *
The bathing room was noisy with good-natured complaints. Really, no one was unhappy with a tie. No one could claim that either side had given away anything. Both sides had proven themselves. Everyone agreed that both teams were made up of the best of the best. “The only ones who lost were the people making bets,” Corwin observed from somewhere in the steam.
Mags had managed to lay claim to his favorite tub and was lying in the hot water with his eyes closed, soaking his sore muscles.
“Well the more fools they,” snorted Lord Wess. “That maneuver with your Foot, Mags, was brilliant. Too bad the time ran out. Was that yours or Gennie’s?”
“Gennie’s,” he replied, scooting down up to his chin in hot water, nursing his bruised chest and content knowing that Dallen was getting the expert attention for that tumble that he deserved. “But the kick was me an’ Dallen.”
“Another good move. We should practice that.”
:Not today,: Dallen said firmly.
“Without th’ standin’ there and blockin’ the ball,” he said, firmly.
“Whatever demon suggested you just stand there and let the ball come at you like that?” Corwin asked.
“Prolly the same one that told you to pull the stunt that got your arm broke,” Mags retorted. The hot water felt very good, but he didn’t think he would be trying that particular trick any time soon. When he’d taken his armor off, his chest had a most interesting black and blue bar right across it. Not much by the standards of his injuries at the hands of the Karsite agents, but enough to make breathing a bit achy.
“I think we need to stop listening to demons,” Corwin muttered. The steam was as thick as a pea-soup fog. It was easing the cough in Mags’ chest and the scratchiness of his throat. But he had a notion he would be coughing up nasty dust for days.
“I think you should listen to them more,” Halleck said cheerfully. “Those were brilliant moves. You just go right on listening to them, I’ll watch and applaud.”
The sound of a sponge hitting someone in the head—probably Halleck—ended that particular line of thinking.
Mags let the heat lull him into a pleasant stupor until the water began to cool, then reluctantly pulled himself out of the tub. Back in clean Grays, he gingerly made his way out of the Collegium. :Need me, sir?: he asked Nikolas, tentatively.
:As a matter of fact, yes,: came the reply. Mags stifled a moment of disappointment; he really would have liked to track down Amily and get some much deserved sympathy for his bruises. :Would you come over to the south side of the rose garden, please, and let yourself be fussed over? Yes, for once I want you to be conspicuous.:
Mags sighed again but obeyed, slipping through the crowd as best he could with his head down to avoid being intercepted. When he got to the appointed spot, it was pretty obvious who Nikolas wanted him to distract. A knot of people in extremely expensive clothing were arguing heatedly, with a lot of energetic gestures.
One of them spotted him. “Ah, look, just the person we need to settle this!” the man exclaimed. “You’re Mags, yes?” He waved at Mags, indicating that he wanted the Trainee to join his group.
Mags immediately went into his “good natured but slightly dim” persona, the one he cultivated when being feted for his Kirball prowess. “Aye, milord,” he said with a sheepish smile. “At your service.”
“Did you collude to have a tie?” demanded another man, a balding, strongly built noble who looked as if he spent a lot of time under armor. He spoke angrily, without so much as an introduction.
Mags made his eyes go big and round. “What?” he exclaimed. “No!” He rubbed his ribs ruefully, and winced. “Milord, if there’d been any colludin’ about, I wouldn’ be standin’ here with a bruise like I’d been beat with a broom acrost my ribs.” He shook his head. “Jest how it come out, is all, an’ we’d have won, if the time hadn’t run out on us. We had that flag-stealin’ move planned from this mornin’ when we trained up t’gether.” Now he sighed with unfeigned regret. “Wish’t the time hadn’t run out. Feels like I got beat up for nothin’.”
“There, see?” the one who had accosted Mags said in triumph. “I told you. Nothing more sinister than two evenly matched teams.”
“An’ we knowed each other’s main strategy, milord,” Mags pointed out. “There was people from all four Kirball teams on both the Blues an’ the Whites. I reckon the two best strategists were the captains; I know I’d put Gennie again’ anyone else. We could all pretty well predict what’d happen, what th’ other side’d do. Coulda been a stalemate. Coulda spent all four quarters scrummin’ up an’ down the field. But we all play th’ game, so we come up with some new stuff. Some worked, some didn’, an some, the time ran out on.”
The first man nodded with understanding; reluctantly, so did the second. Then the entire group began an intense questioning of him that went over every point of the game. Mags wasn’t sure what Nikolas was getting out of this, other than the fact that these men were positively Kirball fanatics, but it must be something.
Once they were all convinced he was telling them every bit of the truth, they became more affable, if just a tiny bit sour over no one winning any bets. They waved a page over, ordered Mags to ask for whatever he wanted, and moved to where he could sit down, and gave him permission to do so. Which was no small consideration, among the highborn; he might be a Heraldic Trainee, but he was still only a Trainee, and his birth was the lowest of the low. For them to insist on his being seated in their presence was quite the mark of conciliation. And . . . quite the mark of politeness, when it was all said and done.
When they finally let him go, he felt as if they had turned his brain inside out like a bag and shook it to make sure there were no crumbs of information remaining.
But Nikolas was clearly pleased. :Well done, Mags
,: his mentor said warmly. :Now, there’s another group over by the rose trees . . . :
Mags resigned himself. It looked as if he would be talking Kirball until he ran out of wedding guests or ran out of voice. Whichever came first.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like talking Kirball. He could probably talk about it for days. But he’d rather talk about it with the other players, not people who thought they knew what Foot, Riders, and Trainees should be doing (as opposed to what they were actually doing). Some of their ideas were reasonable, but most ranged from silly to dangerous. Silly, he didn’t mind, but dangerous?
Reckon ye kin keep yer ideas to yerself, unless you be the one ready to try it first, he thought as he approached another gesticulating group. Then, mebbe we’ll talk!
3
Nikolas—apologetically—kept Mags “working” until he was quite ready to pack it in. It wasn’t all Kirball talk; once the evening really started and the drink began to flow, he was welcome as a sort of ornament to knots of guests, rather than as an active participant in conversation. Once that started to happen, rather than being conspicuous, Nikolas asked him to merely stand in the background and listen. This was where he was more than grateful for Dallen’s help, “listening” through Mags; though a bit sore himself, Dallen was more than willing to filter what Mags overheard for useful bits and relay only those useful bits on to Rolan and Nikolas. He was somewhat relieved to discover that her father had set Amily at the same task; they crossed paths several times during the evening and were able to steal a kiss or two before going their separate ways. At least she wouldn’t feel slighted, thinking he didn’t want her company. And although this wasn’t quite the holiday he’d had in mind when the wedding was announced, he was still getting a break from classes and training, eating some amazing food, and getting to spend more time with Amily and his friends than his schedule usually allowed.
He was beginning to get the shape of what Nikolas was looking for a couple of candlemarks before he began to get so tired he was having a little trouble keeping track of who was saying what. It wasn’t that Nikolas was interested so much in what was said, as in who was saying what to whom. He figured that out after Nikolas asked him to follow a couple of people from group to group. That was when he ran across a couple of instances where a particular courtier expressed one opinion to one group of people and the contradictory—or at least, differently slanted—opinion to another. Alliances within the Court were always shifting, and Nikolas was keeping track of just how they were shifting. And it wasn’t that anyone was actually up to any mischief—at least, not overtly. But it definitely was that the wedding was shifting the power within the Court, people were looking for opportunities, and this was like putting dye in the water to see where the currents were going.
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