Inda (31 page)

“The royal city?” Inda repeated, disbelief warring with joy. “When?”

“Father’s orders; we’re to ride by noon. We’re meeting a war party on the road. Going after those brigands that killed Mother’s Runner.”

“War party?” Inda asked. “Then it wasn’t a few skulkers?”

“Father says some spy discovered a whole wing’s worth of ’em, maybe more, massing at the river fork in the south of Hesea, to attack all spring travel—south, north, west.” Tanrid grinned. “Instead of farmers and tradesmen, they’re gonna find us.” He strode rapidly down the hall.

Inda laughed with an elation he hadn’t felt for months. “Fiam!” he yelled, dashing out the door. “Fiam!”

Long before noon he stood in the sleety rain by the horses the Riders had gathered in the courtyard. A war party! And after that? The academy! With Sponge, Noddy, Dogpiss, and Cama!

He was full of joy until Tdor appeared at his side, rain making her thin nose glow dull red and turning her lips blue. She gazed into Inda’s face, wincing away from the new black eye and the cuff-mark on the opposite cheek-bone, upset to see the joy he did not try to hide. “Just remember this plan is not a war game, you haywit,” she scolded.

Inda stared at her in surprise. Of course he knew that. And he could have explained that he was just so happy to be getting away from the long, cold winter of drudgery, of beatings, of enforced silence, of hard stable work and even harder work down in the women’s court, unseen by his brother, who had assumed he was lazing around in bed, and punished him for his own good.

But she should know all that, he thought hazily, feeling angry, betrayed even, so he snapped, “Of course it’s not a game.” His voice came out sounding hard, with as much derision as Tanrid used on a good day. She stepped back a pace, her eyes rounding in hurt surprise as he added, “What d’you think we’ve been training for, anyway?” which was another of the things Tanrid had said, usually before one of those beatings.

Tdor’s lower lip trembled. Remorse snuffed his anger but she was already headed back to the castle.

His father appeared then, like all of them wearing his winter riding coat, bespelled against cold and wet weather. He was escorting Joret and her personal Runner, who were riding with them, as Joret was to begin the queen’s training this spring.

The noise of everyone mounting up was louder than the rain.

They formed up swiftly into two columns. The bannermen moved to the front, their horses shaking their heads. The Adaluin raised his arm, then flattened his hand in the signal to wait as the Iofre appeared, rain speckling her robes darkly.

She came to Inda and reached up to caress his face. “Be well, my son,” she murmured; then, she turned to Tanrid and spoke her farewell, touching the hand that loosely held his reins.

She moved to Joret and stood on tiptoe to whisper to her. Joret leaned down to clasp her hands, her blue eyes serious as she spoke her soft farewell. Inda looked past them for Tdor, who did not appear. But they were about to ride.

He gestured to his mother, “Tdor—” He realized he didn’t know what else to say without sounding whiny.

The Iofre read his unhappy, half-ashamed, half-stubborn expression, and recognized the underlying regret. She said, “I will carry your farewell to her.”

Inda winced, swallowing in a tight throat. It was better than nothing; it would have to do. He’d make it up to her when he returned in the autumn, he promised himself.

The Iofre last exchanged a few low-voiced words with the Adaluin, who bent from his saddle pad to hear her. Then she stepped back, now thoroughly wet, but she did not heed it.

Her worried gaze lingered on Inda as the Adaluin raised his fist. The cavalcade rode out through the gates, turning westward instead of to the east.

 

 

 

Two weeks later they met the Jaya-Vayir war party on the coast road at a small village a day’s ride north of Marth-Davan. By then Inda was familiar with his father’s plan, as amended by the king and agreed to by the Jarls of Cassad and Jaya-Vayir.

Inda’s excitement bounced between the plan and the prospect of seeing some of his scrub friends again: not just Rattooth Cassad, but Cama Tya-Vayir, who had been sent south out of Iasca Leror in search of a healer trained in arts unknown in Marlovan-held territory. The Cassads still had connections in that part of the world, and so the Jarl of Cassad had sent his sons to keep Cama company as well as to see a bit of the world.

The Algara-Vayir war party halted when they saw dust hanging high in the air. Inda peered down the sunny road past the last round-walled house, spotted the yellow and white banners of the Cassads, the green and purple of the Jaya-Vayirs. Past them . . . He gave a yip of joy when he saw the pale yellow head riding between Cama’s dark one and Rattooth’s straw-colored, messy locks: Dogpiss!

Inda fidgeted until the outriders met, followed by the Adaluin and the Jarl of Jaya-Vayir. As soon as the leaders signaled consent to break formation, he yelled, “Dogpiss!” The younger boys all rode to one side, the horsetails to the other. “What brings you here?” Inda exclaimed.

Dogpiss grinned. “M’ father was sent down by the king himself as a reinforcement to your dad. Since we were leaving for the royal city anyway, he brought Whipstick and me along. We rode down the coast road, missed you, met these pugs”—his thumb jerked between Cama and Rattooth—“so we turned back.”

“Pugs!” Rattooth snorted. “I loved how Whipstick pugged you good last night, when you kept farting and wouldn’t let us sleep.”

On Dogpiss’ crack of laughter the boys glanced at Dogpiss’ brother, who had not been invited into the horsetail group. Whipstick, thin, brown as a seasoned dragoon and almost as tough, knew better than to join the horsetails uninvited so he stayed with his father’s men. When the scrubs all turned his way he lifted a hand in salute. Inda saluted back.

The three scrubs did not have the frost to summon him over, not Whipstick Noth, captain of the pigtail scrappers. And Dogpiss, who could have beckoned his brother over, did not because he wanted his friends to himself.

Dogpiss said, “Cama was sent south with the Cassad boys for his eye.”

“I know. How was it?” Inda asked, turning to Cama, who was silent as usual. “Did you see any—”

“Later. Blab about sightseeing later. You got a hoof-kiss,” Dogpiss observed, examining Inda’s almost-healed black eye. “Fall down the stairs?”

Hearing scrub slang again was weird after a long winter only seeing family. Inda snorted, “Most every day.”

Dogpiss snorted as well. It was easy enough to see that Inda had had a nasty winter. Well, it was time for some fun now. They weren’t scrubs anymore, not strictly, though there wouldn’t be a regular Ain-scrub group until next year. Oh, they’d still be at the bottom rank, but at least it wasn’t all new. More important, Dogpiss had prepared for some prime practical jokes.

“Have any fun this winter?” he asked.

Inda just shrugged. “Naw. You?”

“Oh, I have some good stings,” Dogpiss whispered. “But I won’t tell you. I’ll show you. Too good to risk spoiling. I don’t trust the Ains not to nose ’em out.” He turned his head, his pale hair lifting on the breeze. “Hey, Squint! You know they’re gonna call him Squint, now.” Dogpiss snickered. “I’m trying to get him used to it.”

Cama, standing out amid all these fair heads with his dark curls and his black eye patch, shrugged and tried to look sour. It was evident he’d already resigned himself to a new nickname—they didn’t know he privately preferred anything to Meow.

The Adaluin, as ranking commander, gestured to his bannermen to signal
fall in.
Scout dogs scrambled in and around the horses’ legs, sniffing, tails waving warily, but returning to heel at the snapping of the handlers. Tanrid whistled to the Algara-Vayir dogs, who raced to him, muzzles lifted, tails wagging as they pranced around his horse. He leaned down to pat every head before turning back to his friends, who, having been accustomed for eight years to parting before winter and meeting again in spring, had exchanged brief greetings. All faced the northern hills on the other side of the Chardaus River, where through the interlaced trunks and branches of budding trees they glimpsed the great east-west road.

Inda, riding across the bridge behind the horsetails, saw them exchange fierce grins of pleasure at the prospect of battle.

“What happened?” Dogpiss asked Inda from behind his hand.

“One of my mother’s Runners was attacked and killed by brigands. Just before New Year’s, on the edge of Cassad lands. Shepherds found her, recognized the Runner blue and the owl badge. They reported it to the Cassads, who sent a Runner to tell us. Their attacks across the plains all the way to the mountains have worsened. And now they burn what they can’t take. Father asked the king if he could raise a force and clear them out.”

Dogpiss rubbed his hands. “Won’t Cherry-Stripe howl when he hears we were in a battle!”

“And Tuft,” Rattooth added.

While the scrubs were exchanging their news, the horsetails had been doing the same.

“Have you had a Galloper recently?” Cassad Ain asked, his prominent front teeth gleaming in the soft gray light.

“At dawn,” Tanrid said. “Not long before we met you. Came up from the southeast under cover of dark. He said your father’s hiding out at the attack site, along with handpicked warriors from Tlen and Tlennen. I guess they were doing some training runs together in the hills over winter.”

“Hoo! M’ cousin’ll be with them,” Cassad pronounced with conviction. “They’d have to tie him up else.”

The four Tveis, now all listening to the horsetail conversation, exchanged grimaces. That meant three of the Sier-Danas along with Inda’s Ain. At the very least they’d be doing the horsetails’ field chores. Still, chores were inevitable, and meanwhile, the prospect of action was delightful.

All was happening according to plan, Inda thought, glimpsing his father’s profile at the head of the column. Jarend-Adaluin’s lined face was watchful, but the set of his mouth, the ease of his shoulders, indicated that he was pleased with the unexpected augmentation of their war party.

“So where’s the attack going to be, then?” Cassad asked.

“Your father and his people are camped up behind the hills above the big bridge where the Chardaus River meets the Marlovar River . . .” Tanrid began. He outlined the plan, and who was to be there, and how they would trap the brigands against the river, force them to surrender, and sweep most of them off to the eastern hills to dig for ore in the mines, accomplishing two things at once: giving the local farms and villages relief from the constant raids, and gaining more miners. “It should be prime fun, at least for us to watch. We don’t get to be in it. King’s orders.”

Groans at that, but the word “king” kept them from expressing themselves more fluently.

“We should be able to watch, at least,” Tanrid finished.

Inda didn’t listen. He knew the plan. He had also studied the great field map in his father’s tent the first night of their journey, while rain drummed around them: he knew that no one would be south of the Chardaus, which was the northern border of Montredavan-An territory, forbidden to them, and patrolled by the King’s Guard. What he’d learned was that no one patrolled north of the river—the king’s forces were stretched too thin—so that brigands had been preying on travelers across the southernmost reaches of the plains of Hesea, despite its being the heartland of Marlovan territory.

Inda remembered the Galloper arriving in the bleak, bitter darkness just before dawn, his horse steaming, his blue tunic obscured by mud. Inda had watched the man gulp down hot brew with shaking fingers. He couldn’t even talk at first. He’d sat there with bowed head, hands around the mug as Jarend-Adaluin waited until he could croak out, “They are there.”

Yes, everything was according to plan. Excitement and anticipatory triumph made Inda grin, but along with it came, well, worry, though he wouldn’t actually say it out loud, not before the others—especially the horsetails.

But he had to figure out why he was worried. It had begun when he first saw that grown man shaking with cold, the near-dead horse. You didn’t ride horses like that in war games; you’d get yourself thrashed. As well you should.

Inda could almost hear Tdor’s voice:
Just remember this is not a war game, you haywit
.

But now, watching how some of the men checked and rechecked weapons, the way the horses’ ears twitched northward, he realized what she’d meant: that the attack was real, that someone might die. Someone besides brigands.

Inda’s stomach swooped.
That’s just cowardice,
he told himself angrily.
Especially since
we
don’t even get to ride to the attack.
Jarend-Adaluin had made that clear. The boys, Joret and her Runner, and the horsetails had to remain on the outside. He’d promised the king.

No one argued with
that.

A shifting in the lines snapped everyone’s attention forward. They’d been riding up a ridge, shaded by early leafing nut trees. The flag dipped twice, meaning it was time to break column and set up camp.

As always, the young people were assigned to the middle of camp, directly under some leafing birch. Dogpiss and Rattooth happily squabbled over the grassiest spot for their bedrolls.

Tanrid chirruped between his teeth and the roaming scout dogs bounded instantly to his side, lolling about, muzzles grinning, tails beating the air. Tanrid bent, examining paws, rubbing backs as the animals stretched, noses high in bliss. Inda wondered how it was that the dogs merely obeyed him, but loved his brother. Meanwhile the boys were on watch, expecting the horsetails to land on them in some form or other, but to their surprise they paid the scrubs no attention.

It was Inda who spotted why: Joret. Even Tanrid watched her with a kind of brooding expression that Inda could not define; he was too young to recognize it as a kind of baffled mix of embarrassment and desire. Maybe it had to do with that sex stuff. Inda still didn’t understand it, nor did he care, except for enjoying the little respites over the winter when Tanrid went off to the pleasure houses with some of the younger Riders.