Inda (19 page)

Buck cursed under his breath, grabbed his Tvei’s tunic front, and hauled him back out of horsetail territory and into one of the adjacent passageways.

He thrust Cherry-Stripe against the wall so his head thocked against the mossy stone. “What?” His tone—
it had better be good
—promised trouble.

Cherry-Stripe swallowed and knuckled his eyes. “Kepa got jumped. Just now.”

“And?”

“Bunked. Can’t move.”

Buck frowned. “Go on.”

Cherry-Stripe went on rapidly. “It was Cama Tya-Vayir. Made him say he was a lick three times, then thrashed him. Bad.”

Buck pursed his lips.

“Look, Buck, it’s not working,” Cherry-Stripe whispered in agony. “We done everything you said. We hit ’em when they’re with Sponge, or try. But it’s hard because when they’re with him, it’s in a group. A group that gets bigger, not smaller.”

Buck waved that off. “That Kepa Kepri-Davan
is
a lick.” Yet Kepa’s Ain, a horsetail, was popular. Strange, that.

Cherry-Stripe almost retorted,
He’s near all I have left to command—him and Smartlip
. “He does what I say. Likes to scrag.”

“Does he like getting scragged?” Buck laughed. “What’s Cama’s work worth?”

“Bruised ribs, black eye, wrenched arm.”

“Beaks?”

“We made sure Kepa told ’em he fell down the steps.” Cherry-Stripe shrugged, his voice scornful. “He won’t dare snitch. They know nothing. But he can’t go on the game with us tomorrow; he’s bunked three days.”

His Tvei’s easy dismissal of the masters was the ease of ignorance; Buck suspected the masters knew what was going on. As usual. That might explain some of the sudden, savage punishments, the arduous assignments that seemed to come out of nowhere, the gatings when one expected free time.

It had been a difficult month. In the past no one paid any attention to squabbles among scrubs. Buck had counted on that when he’d given his orders to his brother. It was different now because there were brothers here. That had to be it. At first it had been fun watching the brats busy scragging one another, on his orders, but since then there’d been trouble not just with the beaks but other horsetails.

Not just horsetails. Even pigtails, like Whipstick Noth. Sidelong glances
his
way, and even the Sierlaef’s way.

Buck sighed. The truth was that it was all on account of the Sierlaef and his insistence his brother was a rabbit—when no one had reported any signs whatsoever of cowardice from Sponge. Nothing but his bad training, and who was responsible for that? No, no, no it was crazy to even
think
that.

While he brooded, with a lifetime of practice Cherry-Stripe successfully assessed his brother’s mood; not violent, not yet.

So when his brother looked up, he went on. “They won’t stop running with Sponge.”

“Why not? Don’t they see he’s poison?”

“Somehow . . .” Cherry-Stripe’s shoulders tightened, and he looked away. “Somehow it’s become a matter of honor to stick it out.”

“Honor,” Buck repeated, frowning. “How did that happen? Has Sponge come on the strut? Giving orders?”

“No. He won’t. He won’t even captain a riding.”

“So he is a rabbit, then?” That would make everything so much easier.

“No,” Cherry-Stripe muttered. He, too, felt life would be easier if Sponge showed the least hint of cowardice or frost. “Everyone knows he tries the hardest, and he’s learning.”

“Landred, if
you’ve
done anything cowardly—”

“No, no, no,” Cherry-Stripe said, hopping from one foot to the other in his desperation to make his brother understand before he struck. “We did everything you said and we’re not
winning.
We’re looking
stupid.
”

Buck’s lip curled.

Cherry-Stripe went on quickly, “I think even Rattooth would be one of them if his Ain wasn’t a Sier-Danas, for he’s always sneaking off to talk to Sponge when he thinks I don’t see. And he always has an excuse not to scrag.”

“Talk to Sponge about what?”

“About
history
. Great battles. Rattooth knows the ballads best of anyone in the pit. He sings for Restday drums. He talks about the stories in the songs. Sponge reads all that stuff up there in the king’s books.”

“Hunh.”

“And others are joining ’em, like I said. I hate it, Buck.”

Buck shook his head. “Stop whining. Look, here’s what matters. You know the Sierlaef wants me as Sierandael when he’s king. If I get that, you’ll be Jarl of Marlo-Vayir. You want to be Jarl?”

One nod.

“Then you have to fight for it. I’m tough, so I get to be Royal Shield Arm. You get to be tough, and you’ll be Jarl. I’ll sound the Sierlaef, but I told you what he wants right now.”

Cherry-Stripe grimaced, searching for words. His brother poked him in the chest. “You said it’s a matter of honor. If you haven’t rabbited, then someone made it that way. Who leads ’em?”

“Inda,” Cherry-Stripe said with conviction, and then looked puzzled. “That’s another thing. He doesn’t give any orders; they always just
listen
to him, want to know what he thinks—”

“Never mind. You know what the Sierlaef wants. Scrag Inda, then. And Cama. And Noddy as well, as he’s Cama’s riding mate. Don’t just scrag ’em, bunk ’em.”

Cherry-Stripe grimaced. Buck looked down into his brother’s face and saw reluctance and dismay, and wondered just what was going on in that scrub pit. Before this strange order that brought brothers to the academy, he’d been fighting mean, trained to thrash anyone who showed any hint of competition. The perfect future Randael to uphold the family honor.

Buck poked him again. “Clear strategy. They bunk one of you, bunk three of them. Cama, Inda, Noddy. All tonight. Make sure all are bunked before the game tomorrow. Got it?”

Cherry-Stripe gulped. “Yes.” Talk was over, then and it was amazing that he’d gotten that much.

“I want to hear scrubs squeaking and squealing about it at morning mess. I’ll expect to hear it. Right?”

“Right.” Cherry-Stripe wondered miserably who he’d get to carry out these orders.

“Then get out of here, and don’t come back. Everyone knows you were here, and if there’s trouble from it, you’re the one who’s going to feel it.” Buck shoved his brother back toward the other side of the compound and strode rapidly off.

Chapter Thirteen

“
B
UT ... I can’t ... breathe,” Inda whispered.

Gentle fingers brushed hair away from Inda’s closed eyelids, a furtive caress that brought his mother to mind so vividly and so suddenly that Inda sighed on his outgoing breath, “Mama.”

Sponge winced. Inda seemed to be out of his mind. He tried again. “Inda. You must get to the east postern of the throne room. The archive is adjacent, and Hadand will be there. Do you hear? Hadand will be waiting for you, at Sec ondday bells.”

A soft moan escaped Inda.

Sponge put his mouth close to Inda’s ear. “Hadand. She will be there—I just saw her, for it was I the master sent to find the healer. It’s the only way you can see her. We’ll be on the road, no one here except Kepa, and you can sneak out.”

Inda gave a single, brief nod.

“As for getting up—if they offer you kinthus, take it. It kills pain.” He watched Inda for comprehension and reaction.

Inda, roused to awareness by the urgency in Sponge’s whispering voice, felt his dreams dissipate in the running stream of pain, the effort that breathing took, in, out, in—not too much, not too deep, or he’d get that sharp stab of lightning.

“Did you hear me, Inda? Kinthus. Take it.”

Another nod. Inda did not seem to know what kinthus was. Or he knew but did not care. After a month of precious moments of wide-ranging conversations, of shared laughter and effort, Sponge was certain that Inda did not care—if he even knew about white kinthus, which was the strongest painkiller, far stronger than green. So strong it was dangerous, for it killed pain by sundering the ties of body and mind instead of just masking them. Some minds, unmoored, did not find their way back.

Sponge, looking down at Inda, realized that Inda would not care that the herb removed not just pain but inhibition, that under its influence one talked, that secrets were impossible to keep. Inda did not appear to have secrets, at least not the dreary little secrets of betrayal, of ugly ambitions, of covert cruelties and weaknesses that could occasionally be glimpsed behind the bland masks of those in power or those who tried to gain power.

Sponge looked at Inda’s profile against the weak predawn light, and anguish stung his eyelids, for he knew that his own friendship was the direct cause of Inda’s pain, yet he could not bear to give it up.

He touched Inda’s forehead again, just the smallest touch, a wordless gesture of friendship, of sympathy, of kindness, apprehensive that he might be perceived to have crossed a personal boundary.

Inda said nothing, and so Sponge moved away and slipped back into his own bunk to wait, eyes wide open as he listened to Inda’s painful breathing until the wake-up bell.

 

 

 

Dust motes hung suspended in the air far above Inda, who stood, panting softly, just within the door to the vast throne room. The light slanted down from the tall windows on the east wall, splashed with startling vividness along some of the banners hanging below the windows, and painted squares of light on the smooth stone floor. The silence was profound, the moment so still that he seemed to drift in light-stippled eternity.

Those banners, motionless above him, he could just about name them all, and the battles at which they’d been borne. He could hear the war ballads in Marlovan, sung each New Year’s Week to the beat of the war drums, and on Restdays that fell closest to each battle during the year. Beyond the rumble of drums and soaring voices he could hear other sounds in the distance: the thunder of hooves, the shouting of voices, the clashing of weapons, the wind moaning across the plains—

“Inda.”

The gentle whisper sundered the vision and reformed the ties between spirit and flesh.

Inda looked up, mildly pleased to see his sister at last. She seemed taller. Brown eyes much like his own, the same square-cut chin he saw reflected in steel or glass, wavy brown hair, though lighter in color, pulled back in the child’s tail. Her eyes brimming, he saw in vague surprise, with tears that glittered with refracted light.

She took his hand, her own as rough as his, or nearly.

“Inda.” Her voice trembled. “You’re hurt.”

He smiled. “The orderly wrapped me tight. So I can’t turn sideways. The Healer said they can’t reknit bone. Only bind it together with magic. And then bandages, to keep it in place.” He winced slightly, paused to draw a slow breath. “Did you know the Old Sartorans used. To be able. To reknit broken bones?”

Hadand gazed down into her brother’s face. His pupils were huge, his expression bemused. She considered what effect kinthus would have on him, other than bringing out the truth as he perceived it. He might remember this conversation all his life, or it might vanish like a dream. He couldn’t be one of those rare visionaries that occasionally turned up in records, ones who hear others’ thoughts, much less the one who sees beyond the veil of time. Not Inda, who Tdor said had shrugged off Joret’s ghost with total disinterest. Straightforward Inda, truthful Inda. She could not endanger him further.

“Yes. Now, tell me what happened.” Hadand dug her nails into her palms.
Be precise with those full of kinthus, or you will get their entire life history
. “Last night. To your ribs.”

Inda whispered, “Cherry-Stripe’s cousins and Smartlip. Cut out Cama and Noddy and me. Scragged us. All at once.”

“Why?”

“I—I don’t know. Cherry-Stripe didn’t talk. I just stepped outside, and there he was. Punched me in the face. I couldn’t see. Fell on the stones. Torches, all alight. People yelling. Tuft and Noddy wrestling. Then Smartlip—that’s Lassad Tvei—kicked in my ribs. Laughing, like Branid at home . . .”

“What did they say? Anything?”

“I . . . it was all at once.
Think you’re gonna run a riding, Prince Strut?
That was Smartlip.
That’s enough, that’s enough.
Cherry-Stripe said that, very loud. Smartlip left me alone. Then I heard Cama crying out,
My eye, my eye!
And Cherry-Stripe yelling at Smartlip to stop.”

“Damnation,” Hadand whispered, sickened. She’d heard that a boy had been carried over to the Guard lazaretto, but not why.

“The rest all fades together,” Inda murmured, his voice hoarsening. “Why couldn’t I see you before? I mean. I know why I couldn’t come. Why didn’t you come. To see me?”

“We are all watched, not just you boys. I’d hoped I could sneak down to see you, or Sponge could bring you, but it just wasn’t possible. I’m sorry, Inda,” Hadand said, and kissed her brother. His brow was warm and clammy; when the kinthus wore off, he’d be in considerable pain. She must get him back before it did.

“Inda.
Listen.
Will you stay away from Sponge? You’re a target only when you are with Sponge. It—it’s his brother behind all this scragging. There’s reasons why, but I will tell you later.”
When you are not full of kinthus, and blabbing everything you hear and think.
“It is for you to choose to stay away from Sponge, because he won’t send you away.”

“No,” Inda said. “And. Tell me now. Tdor said. Ask you. I’m asking. Why does the Sierlaef . . . hate Sponge?”

Hadand repressed a groan. What could she say? No, what
dare
she say?

She took his face gently in her hands and pressed her forehead against his the way she’d seen Tdor and Inda do when they were upset and talking just to each other. “Listen. But never speak about it. It’s because the Sierlaef cannot read. It’s the same with Barend, too, though not quite as bad.”