Not much technique, Kel thought as she got to her knees, but he’s got plenty of heart.
Joren’s arm wrapped around her neck, cutting off her air. Vinson attacked her, cursing, his blows nearly as wild as Owen’s. Kel’s vision was going dark when hands pulled Joren’s arm away. Kel gasped for air. Dark breeches and white shirts on her rescuers told her palace servants had put a halt to things.
Two hands wrapped around her arm and drew her to her feet. Kel looked down a couple of inches into Owen of Jesslaw’s shining gray eyes. "That was jolly!" he said. Apparently a bloody nose and a cut that dripped blood into his ear were not important. "Did you learn to fight like that here?"
"So." Lord Wyldon coldly eyed Kel and Owen. "Already you instruct the new boys in your brawling ways."
"We fell down," Kel replied steadily. She knew this play by heart; so did the training master. First he questioned the senior pages, who claimed they had fallen. Then he questioned her—and, for the first time, the boy who’d been the object of the hazing. No other first-years had stayed to help before.
"Three footmen and a torch boy said you were fighting," Lord Wyldon pointed out.
"They were mistaken, my lord," she replied.
Wyldon drummed his fingers on his desk. Finally he said, "Owen of Jesslaw, you have made a very poor start. Report to Osgar Woodrow at the forge outside the squires’ armory for the first bell of time every night after supper for a week. You may cool your passions by sharpening swords." His brown eyes locked on Kel. ’’As for you, Mindelan— report to Stefan Groomsman at the same hour. He is to find you work pitching hay down from stable lofts."
Clammy sweat broke out between Kel’s shoulder blades. "St-stable lofts, my lord. Of course." At training camp before the summer holiday, Lord Wyldon had made Kel climb every day to deal with her fear of heights. Kel bit her lip guiltily: while she had trained all summer, she had not tried to look down from anything higher than a few steps. I bet he knew, she thought queasily. I bet he knew I didn’t climb anything on holiday.
"A final word, Page Keladry." Lord Wyldon stood, bracing his hands on his desk. "This will stop," he said tightly. "There was never so much fighting before you came. It will end now."
Maybe you just never heard about all the fights, Kel thought wearily. Big boys picking on little ones just to be mean. Maybe no one made enough of a fuss to bring it to your notice.
From the corner of her eye she saw the red-faced Owen open his mouth. Kel bowed to Wyldon and managed to stumble, banging into the new boy. The training master waited for them to stand at attention once more, then dismissed them.
"Why’d you do that?" demanded Owen when they closed the door behind them. "Why’d you bump me?"
"Because you were about to say something," she replied calmly. "You aren’t supposed to say anything except that you fell down. Whatever punishment he gives you, whatever he says, you take it in silence."
"But they started it," he argued. "You were helping out another noble, like we’re supposed to, and they waded into you."
Kel sighed. "That’s not why I did it."
Turning into their own hallway, Kel and Owen halted. The prince, Neal, Cleon, and Kel’s other friends stood there, waiting.
"Good evening, your highness," Kel said.
Prince Roald nodded gravely.
Neal strode over to her. "What on earth did you think you were doing? I thought we solved all this last year!"
Kel replied, "We did."
"Then why did you patrol without us? We had a deal. We went with you and we dealt with that lot as a team."
"Don’t yell at her," Owen snapped. "You should have seen her fight. And they started it."
The prince smiled at him. Roald of Conté was a fourth-year page, quiet and contained, with his father’s very blue eyes and black hair that could have come from either of his parents. He was so polite that he appeared stiff, and he made friends with difficulty, but when he spoke, he was listened to. "We have been trying to stop the hazing of first-years," he told Owen. "And I believe I suggested that you study with our group." Roald was Owen’s sponsor, charged with teaching him palace ways.
"But there was a library, your highness," Owen said. "A big one. I was just going to look."
"And I wasn’t patrolling," replied Kel. "I had to see Daine. When I came downstairs..." She shrugged.
’’And got a black eye for your pains," Neal said with disgust. He reached toward her, green magical fire shimmering around his fingertips.
Kel stepped back. "You’ll get in trouble with my lord if you heal something he can see," she pointed out. "Fix Owen’s cut."
Now it was the plump boy’s turn to step back. "What?" Owen demanded nervously.
"Neal has the healer’s Gift of magic," said the prince. "Don’t be silly. He can at least make it so that cut and your nose don’t hurt as much."
Owen rolled his eyes, but let Neal care for his injuries. The cut in his scalp was shallow; Neal shrank that. "The nose isn’t worth troubling with," he told Owen. "It’s not broken. Just be careful how you blow it." He looked at Kel with a rueful smile. "Might we at least get some classwork done?"
Kel went to her rooms. Gathering her books, she was trying to remember her assignments when she heard a sound behind her. She whirled, dropping her books. Someone gasped and ducked inside the dressing room.
"Who—?" Kel began, then remembered: Lalasa. She would sleep in the dressing room, like the servants who attended other pages. Kel had seen Lalasa’s cot and the wooden screen that gave her privacy when she took her bath. "It’s just me."
The older girl peered around the door, then ran forward and knelt to gather Kel’s fallen books. "My lady, forgive me, I never meant—" She glanced up at Kel and gasped again. "My lady, your pardon, your poor eye! Who could have done such a thing? Shall I fetch a healer—no, Uncle says only my lord Wyldon may approve healers...A cut of meat, perhaps ice from the ice house if they’ll let me have it. Oh, my lady," she wailed, her hands clasped before her.
Kel blinked at her. "It’s just a black eye," she said. "Please don’t dither at me."
"But it’s all swollen! How can you see?"
"Badly," admitted Kel. "It’ll mend. I’ve had them before."
"Doesn’t it hurt?" begged Lalasa. "You act like it’s nothing."
Kel shrugged. "It hurts, yes, but not as bad as some I’ve had. May I have my books, please? I have to study."
Neal stuck his head in the door. "Are you com’ing?" he demanded. "We only have a bell left before bedtime, and half of us are stumped on that catapult mathematics problem. Who’s she?"
Kel sighed and introduced Neal to Lalasa. The girl who had been so outspoken in her dismay went quiet the moment she saw Neal. Silently she backed toward the dressing room, stopping only to curtsy when Kel gave her friend’s name.
Why hide? wondered Kel as she left the room with Neal. "Does she know you?" she asked as they went to his rooms.
"No—should she? I mean, I saw her working in the squires’ wing once or twice last year. Timid little creature."
His chambers were crowded. With the addition of the first-years to their study group, there was a boy on every surface that might be claimed as a seat. The cluster on the bed shifted, making room for Kel. They were all boys who had gotten her help with mathematics before: it was Kel’s favorite subject, and she was good at it.
Who would believe it was just Neal and me a year ago? she thought. I thought we’d never have any friends, what with Lord Wyldon hating him for being fifteen and educated, and me being The Girl.
About to take the offered place, she had an idea. "You know, they do allow study groups to meet in the libraries." She smiled. "I believe there’s room for us in the classroom-wing library." Last year Joren and his friends had made life miserable for any first-year who entered the room. It was only right that their group reclaim it for people who wanted to study.
The boys looked at each other, then at Kel. Without a word they g
athered their things and streamed out of Neal’s room. Owen left skipping to a soft chant of "Books, books, books!"
Neal threw open his arms as if to embrace his now-empty chambers. "What shall I do with all this space in the evenings?" he inquired airily, waving Kel out ahead of him. "Plant a garden, perhaps, begin my eagerly awaited career in sculpting—"
"If I were you, I’d practice my staff work," Kel replied. "You need to."
The bell that signaled the end of their day clanged, and the pages returned to their rooms. By then Kel felt each and every bruise from the fight and from her day’s training with that weighted harness. Stiffly she put her books on her desk, noticing a mild, clean scent in the air.
"I fixed willow tea for my lady," explained Lalasa as she poured a cup from the kettle on the hearth. "And Salma gave me a package for you."
Kel looked the package over. It was like others she’d received from an unknown benefactor: a plain canvas wrapper tied with string and a plain label. She undid the knots and pulled the canvas away to reveal a small wooden box.
She wriggled the top off to reveal the contents: a pamphlet and three oval leather balls, each of a size that would fit into her palm. Did her mysterious well-wisher want her to learn to juggle? She picked up a ball, which was heavier than it looked. Kel squeezed it. From the texture, it was filled with sand.
"What on earth?" she muttered, and leafed through the pamphlet. It was hand-lettered and clearly illustrated. Suddenly she began to grin.
"What is it, my lady?" asked the maid.
"Exercises," replied Kel. "For my arms and my hands." She molded the leather ball in her left hand, squeezing hard. "This is supposed to strengthen my grip." How does he know, or she, what’s needed? Kel wondered, scanning the descriptions of the exercises. Last year it had been a good knife, her jar of precious, magicked bruise balm, and a fine tilting saddle for Peachblossom. Now it was more exercises, small ones she could do any time, that would help to build strength in her hands and arms.
Reminded of the bruise balm, Kel took the jar out of her desk and dabbed a little on her swollen eye. The throbbing ache in it began to fade.
I wish I knew who you were, she thought, sipping the tea that Lalasa had made. I would like to thank you—and ask why you do these things for me.
three
BRAWL
The next morning Kel rose before dawn as always. It was not easy. She felt stiff, old, and battered. When she stubbed her toe, she remembered that she could only see through one eye. At least the blackened eye no longer ached so much.
I could have had ice, Kel thought bitterly. But no. I had to be tough. I was mad when I chose this life, she decided as she unlocked her large shutters. I was stark raving mad, and my family was too polite to mention it. That’s what living with the Yamanis does to people. They get so well-mannered they won’t mention you’re crazy.
She opened the shutters wide. Outside lay a small stone-flagged courtyard with a slender, miserable tree at the center. The flock of sparrows perched on its branches headed for Kel, swirling around her in a rustle of feathers and a chorus of peeps. Except during winter, they preferred to sleep outside and join her for seed and water in the short gray time before sunrise. While most of the birds went straight to the dishes, a few landed on her shoulders and arms. Kel gently stroked their heads and breasts with a finger. She had nearly thirty after the spring nesting. Brown-and-tan females and males, the males also sporting black collars, they appeared to see Kel as a source of food and entertainment. They chattered to her constantly, as if they hoped that with enough repetition, this great slow creature would understand them.
She was admiring the male whose pale-spotted head had earned him the name Freckle when something large and white vaulted the windowsill on her blind side. It landed beside her with a thump as the sparrows took to the air. She backed up to look at it properly.
The dog Jump grinned cheerfully at her, tongue lolling. His crooked tail whipped the air briskly.
"Absolutely not," Kel said firmly. She pointed to the window. "You live with Daine now! Daine!"
Jump stood on his hind legs and thrust his heavy nose into Kel’s hand.
"How did you know to come in here?" Kel leaned out of her window. If she hadn’t been so vexed, she would have been impressed—it was four feet from the ground to her sill. She turned to glare at the dog. "Back to Daine, this instant!" she ordered. "Out!"
"Out?" a quavering voice inquired. Lalasa stood at the dressing room door. "What did I—"
Kel pointed to Jump.
"Oh. The dog has returned." Lalasa padded out into the main room and poked up the hearth fire, then put a full pot of water over it. "My lady should have roused me. I did not mean to lay abed after my lady was up."
"I wake before dawn," Kel said, going to the corner where she had left her practice glaive. "I practice before I dress." She gave the weapon an experimental swing, making sure there was plenty of clear space in this part of her room. She didn’t want to break anything as she exercised.
At least she had gotten some real glaive practice over the summer. While her sisters Adalia and Oranie, young Eastern ladies now, had lost the skills they learned in the Yamani Islands, their mother had trounced Kel every day for a month before Kel’s old ability had returned. Kel often thought that Ilane of Mindelan could give even the Shang warriors who taught the pages a real fight with a glaive.
Kel swept the weapon down and held it poised for the cut named "the broom sweeps clean." Her grip was not quite right. She adjusted it and looked up, ready to begin the pattern of movements and strikes that were her practice routine.
Lalasa stood against the wall beside the hearth. Her hands, covered by the large quilted mitts used to lift hot things off the fire, were pressed tight over her mouth. Her eyes were huge.
Now what? Kel wanted to say. She wasn’t used to explaining her every move to someone. Instead of scolding, she bit her tongue and made herself think of a lake, quiet and serene on a summer’s day. When she had herself under control, she asked, "What’s the matter, Lalasa?"
"I—I want to be out of your way, my lady, is all. It’s so big. Do you always swing it like that?"
Kel looked at her weapon, confused. It was just a practice glaive, a five-foot-long wooden staff with a lead core, capped by a curved, heavy, dull blade eighteen inches long. "That’s what it’s for. See, you can wield it like a long-handled ax"—she brought the glaive up overhand and chopped down—"or you can thrust with it." Kel shifted her hands on the staff and lunged. "Or you can cut up with the curved edge." She swung the weapon back to the broom-sweeps-clean position, and stopped. Lalasa was plainly more frightened than ever. "You could learn to use it," offered Kel. "To protect yourself. The Yamani ladies all know how to wield the glaive."
Lalasa shook her head vigorously. Grabbing the pot of hot water, she scuttled into the dressing room with it.
I wish she wasn’t so nervous, Kel thought, clearing her heart for the pattern dance. I hope she gets over it.
She put Lalasa from her mind and took her opening position. Step and lunge... Her stiff body protested. She was panting by the time she was done. Next she forced herself through twenty of the floor press-ups that Eda Bell, the Shang Wildcat, had said would strengthen her arms. As she finished, the great bell that summoned all but the deafest nobles from their beds rang. It was the beginning of another palace day.
Kel walked into the dressing room. Hot water steamed in her basin; soap, drying cloth, brush, comb, and tooth cleaner were all laid out neatly beside it. Even in here, Lalasa had made things more comfortable. A tall wooden screen hid her bed and the small box that held her belongings. She had found a scarlet rug somewhere, a brazier for heat when it turned cold, and a cloth hanging to cover the privy door. Kel’s morning clothes—shirt, canvas breeches, stockings, boots, a canvas jacket—were draped neatly over a stand that Kel had always thought was a hurdle put in her room by mistake.
"Lalasa," she said when
she was dressed, "would you like to learn ways to make people let go? Holds, and twists to free your arms, grips that will make them think twice about bothering you? I know some, and—"
Lalasa shook her head so hard that Kel wondered if her brain might rattle. "Please no, my lady," she said in her tiny, scared voice. "It’ll be different now, with my having a proper mistress. That’s what Uncle said. The nobles don’t mess with each other’s servants. And I’ll be careful. I’ll be no trouble to you, my lady, you’ll see."
"Hey, Mindelan!" someone yelled in the outside hall. "Come on!"
Kel sighed and looked at Jump. He had watched her get ready, his tiny eyes intent. "After breakfast, will you take him to Daine?" she asked. "She’s on the floor above the classrooms, with—"
Lalasa was shaking her head again. "My lady, she’ll turn me into something. She’s uncanny, forever talking to animals and covered with the mess they make..."
Kel was a patient girl, but there was something to Lalasa’s meekness that set her teeth on edge. "That’s silly," she snapped.
Lalasa stared at the floor.
And here I’ve frightened her again, thought Kel. Now her head ached as much as the rest of her. "Look. Will Gower do it, if you ask him? Take Jump up to Daine?"
Lalasa nodded. "Yes, my lady."
"Then please ask him to." Kel left before she could say anything else.
Lalasa just needs to get used to me, she told herself as she joined the boys headed for the mess hall. She just needs to learn I won’t be mean to her. Then she won’t be so, so mouse-ish. Please, Goddess.
Neal’s first block of Kel’s first punch felt every bit as soft and weary as her blow. They both made faces.
"What’s the matter, second-years? Tired?" Kel had always thought that Hakuin Seastone, the Shang Horse, was improperly cheerful for a Yamani. Now he circled her and Neal, grinning. He was tall for an Islander, with plump lips and dark, almond-shaped eyes framed with laughlines. His glossy black hair was cropped short on the sides and long on top, so a hank of it always lay against his broad forehead like a comma. He wore plain practice clothes and went barefoot. "Add two pounds of weight to your chests and you act like you carry the world. Put strength into your blocks. I want those punches to mean something! What if you’re unhorsed and fighting in mail or plate armor? You’ll wish you’d listened to old Hakuin then. Ready, begin. High punch, high block! Middle punch, middle block! Low punch, low block!"