First Test

  No one handed a practice sword to Kel. She was able to try several before choosing one. It felt easy in her grasp, almost feather-light after her lance. The exercises were like those for the staff; the thing to remember was that the weapon was shorter. They were paired off as usual. Wyldon and Ezeko took them through the basics, high blocks against high strikes, middle strikes to middle blocks, and low blocks against low strikes. Ezeko then led the older boys in more complex exercises as Lord Wyldon stayed with the first-years. To Kel’s surprise, Neal practiced with the oldest pages. As a nobleman’s son he’d been tutored in the use of a sword for the last seven years.

  Lord Wyldon took Neal’s place in the first-year pairs, with Merric as his partner. Kel practiced with Esmond, and found she enjoyed it. Sword work was completely new, so she never had to worry about confusing it with anything she had learned in the Islands. Blocking and striking came easily. When the bell rang for the end of practice, she was sorry to quit. So was Esmond, it seemed— he actually gave her a friendly clap on the shoulder before he put away his practice sword.

  After her last class, Kel trotted to her rooms, whistling cheerfully. She was tired and sore as always, but for once she was ahead of the others. It looked as if she would be cleaned up and ready to wait on Wyldon’s table on time.

  Once dressed in a fresh tunic, she opened her door cautiously, checking overhead for buckets and the floor for anything smelly. Locking up, Kel set off briskly. Two steps, and her feet skidded out from under her; down she went on her back. When she finally managed to get to her feet, there was oil on her clothes and in her hair. The light cast by the hall torches had not shown her oil smeared on the gray flagstones.

  Back into her room she went, to wash and change clothes again. As she dressed she heard the boys leaving for supper. Now she was going to be late.

  This time when she left her room she skirted the oil and trudged down the hall. Joren, Vinson, and Zahir waited for her near the mess hall.

  "I guess you’ll learn not to tattle," sneered Vinson.

  "I didn’t tattle," she said. "The servants told him."

  "Never mind that," Joren said, glaring at Vinson. "You’ve had it easy, wench. That’s at an end. You should have fled while you had the chance." Zahir opened the mess-hall door.

  "You were going to be rid of me by now," she said, her voice ringing clear against the stone walls.

  Vinson started to turn back. Joren grabbed his tunic and shoved him through the mess door.

  Zahir called over his shoulder, "You won’t be here come spring, probationer."

  For her late arrival, Wyldon assigned Kel to wait on his table through the month of January. His guests that night, two grizzled warriors from the northern army, spent the meal telling jokes about women who were never prompt. Kel had to remind herself often to be as stone.

  After that, she left her room to wait on Lord Wyldon by climbing through her shutters. She did it even when the drifts were high in the courtyard: snow could always be brushed off.

  Six days later Midwinter Festival began, celebrating the rebirth of the sun and of the year after the longest night of winter. There was no classroom work during the week-long holiday, so the pages could ready themselves to serve in the great banquet hall for each night of the feast. Kel had dreaded her first experience of waiting on the great people of the realm, but to her relief, the first-year pages were spared the ordeal of service in the public eye. Instead she spent the banquet hours at the head of the kitchen stairs. There the first-years passed the plates of food from the servants to the second-, third-, and fourth-year pages, who actually waited on the diners.

  She decided that the worst part of her chore was constantly being under the eye of Master Oakbridge, the etiquette teacher. He missed nothing, either in the banquet hall or on the stairs. No one was allowed to relax for so much as a breath as long as the feasts went on. Kel would have loved the chance to look inside the hall at the nobles and all their finery. In the Yamani Islands the holiday was spent in quiet, at home with family. The colorful celebrations of the Eastern Lands—with the great logs for the hearths, the fantastic structures of cakes and candy shaped like castles and immortals, the silk garlands, and the performances of players—were just a dim memory for her. She would have liked to see more than hot, sweaty kitchen folk and nervous, sweaty senior pages.

  It was also annoying to have to wait the long hours until the pages’ supper. Only after the king and queen led their guests to a ballroom were the pages released from duty. The squires got to wait on the great ones while the pages ate silently and fell into bed.

  The morning after the longest night of the year, the fourth day of the seven-day celebration, was the time when gifts were exchanged. They all took their packages to Salma so that when the servants came to lay the first fires of the year, they could also bring each page’s gifts.

  Kel had thought long and hard about her gifts. Neal was easy: she gave him one of her lucky cats, since he never came into her room without looking at them. "With your tongue," she wrote on her note to him, "you need all the luck you can get!"

  Gower received a silver noble for the work he did in her room. Money would not have been right for Salma. Instead Kel gave her a silver humming-bird pin from her trinket box.

  The prince had been a source of worry. She thought it might be presumptuous to give him a present, but she really wanted to. She gave him a small Yamani painting of a bridge over a forest stream. The colors were dreamlike: grays, faded blues and greens, stark browns. It always gave her a feeling of peace, and she hoped it would make Roald feel better about his coming marriage.

  For Crown and the other sparrows she had gotten raisins and dried cherries, a rare treat for the birds. They were pecking at the fruit when Gower knocked on Kel’s door.

  In addition to her wash water he carried a sack containing three gifts. One came from Neal, a leather-bound volume about the female warriors who had once defended the realm of Tortall. To Kel’s surprise, Prince Roald gave her a blown glass horse no longer than her thumb. When she saw the flattened ears and the bared teeth, she laughed. It looked very like Peachblossom.

  There was no name on the third gift. Kel undid the crimson silk wrap to find a stone jar as broad as her palm. It was made of green jasper and the words "Bruise Balm" were carved into the stone stopper. Kel opened it and sniffed. The thick ointment inside had a delicate smell. Curious, she put a dab on a knuckle she had bruised in yesterday’s hand-to-hand combat. The moment the bruise balm touched it, the ache that had plagued her all night stopped. By the time she had washed up and cleaned her teeth, the swelling had started to go down.

  Neal banged on her door as she finished dressing. Kel let him in, remembering to leave the door open. "I love that little cat," he said, ruffling her hair. "Thank you."

  Kel grinned. "You’re welcome. Neal, who do you think sent me this?" She handed the jar to him.

  Neal opened it, sniffed, and frowned. He sniffed again, then waved a hand over the jar. "Ouch!" he cried, startled. "Well, label me very impressed and ship me to Carthak."

  "Are you hurt?" she asked. What if the ointment was some kind of nasty trick? "What happened?"

  Neal replaced the lid and offered the jar back to Kel. "There’s serious healing spelled into this," he informed her. "It’s worth its weight in gold."

  "But who?" Kel asked. "Who would give me such a thing?"

  "Don’t look at me." Neal tore up a dried cherry that had caused some disagreements among the sparrows. "I might have the skill to brew something like this in ten years, but only then. Wasn’t there a note?"

  Kel shook her head. She rested a hand on her belt-knife, wondering. She had never told Neal about the peerless blade with its plain sheath and hilt. Now she did, and showed him the knife.

  "So maybe somebody with money and taste knows what a page needs and wants you to have it," he suggested as they went to breakfast. "Too bad they couldn’t arrange to have the Stump done away with for you."


  "I don’t want him done away with," she told him as they walked into the mess hall. "I just want him to take me off probation."

  Neal was about to reply but changed his mind. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t spoken.

  "You watch," Kel informed him stubbornly. "I’ll do so well he’ll have to let me stay."

  "A wish for the new year," her friend said, passing her a tray. "So mote it be."

  "So mote," whispered Kel, and followed him into the line for breakfast.

  With the Festival’s end, winter settled in. The sparrows decided to make Kel’s room their quarters. Each day they chirped what she hoped were encouraging remarks, not bird jokes, as she did her pre-dawn exercises. They even ate from her hand as well as from the shallow dishes she’d found for them. Kel was grateful that none of the servants had complained about droppings. She would have hated to give up her feathered companions. The single-spot female, Crown, was particularly devoted over the gray days and cold nights, perching on Kel’s shoulder whenever the girl was in her room.

  In late January, Kel was studying in the library when she noticed that Seaver had come and gone three different times in one evening. He would take a volume, return at a trot with it, and find another. The last time he searched the shelves, she closed her own book and followed him. He turned into Joren’s room.

  "You still haven’t gotten it right," she heard Joren cry as Vinson giggled. "Are you deaf? We need the third book on the Hunger Wars in Galla!"

  "You said it was the second volume on farming in Scanra." Kel had to strain to hear Seaver. Of all the new boys, he was the quietest. "You—ow!"

  "Hit him again, Vinson," Joren advised. "Knock the wax from his ears."

  Kel opened the door in time to see Vinson cuff Seaver. "Just when I finished most of my punishment work, too," she announced.

  "It’s the Lump," Vinson told Joren, as if the blond youth couldn’t see that for himself.

  "What will it take to get through your thick skull?" Joren demanded, getting to his feet. Vinson stepped to Kel’s left, so the two third-years could come at her from either side. "Perhaps we ought to break it this time."

  "Where’s Zahir? Did he lose the belly for your silly games?" Kel asked. "Seaver, please go."

  Seaver looked from Vinson to Joren.

  "Stay if you want," Joren said, his eyes on Kel. "We’ll bash you, too."

  Vinson kicked Seaver without warning. Kel lunged, grabbing Vinson by the tunic, and hurled him into Joren. Seaver ran out of the room as the two older pages scrambled to get Kel.

  The rest went as she expected. She lost, but struck a few good blows she might not have managed earlier in the year. They all told Wyldon the traditional lie and took their punishment chores without complaint. At this rate, Kel thought, I won’t have a free hour between now and summer solstice.

  The next evening Kel, the prince, and Neal decided to study in Neal’s room. They had just opened their books when someone knocked on the open door. It was Seaver, his books under one arm. Behind him stood Merric’s sponsor, Faleron.

  "I need help with mathematics," Seaver told Kel, his dark eyes meeting hers squarely. "Would you mind?"

  Kel shook her head.

  "You got space for me?" Faleron wanted to know. "I need to pick Neal’s brain for this paper Sir Myles wants me to write. Besides, everybody knows it’s warmer with more people in the room."

  They had excuses that first time, but apparently making up fresh ones after that was too much work. Merric came with them the next night and gave no explanation at all. The newcomers became regular additions to Neal’s study group. If the boys noticed that Kel left the group once an evening and came back rosy-cheeked from a run through the halls, none of them commented.

  Longtime palace residents said it was the hardest winter in over a decade. Servants labored to clear paths between the outbuildings and the palace. Game grew scarce as the weeks remained cold and snows piled high. In February, Lord Wyldon and Sergeant Ezeko led the pages on an overnight hike, teaching them how to dress and camp in heavy snow. Joren picked up the tracks of a lone deer that led them to a small herd. When they took the meat to a village that had been cut off from supplies, they were welcomed gratefully.

  The pages warmed up now with staffs, then moved on to sword practice. Only a day a week was spent in more complex staff work. After three weeks, Kel told Neal that she was so out of practice with pole arms that the most timid of the emperor’s ladies would be able to gut her with the glaive in a flash. Neal found this infinitely amusing and told Kel that he admired her sense of humor.

  Kel blinked at him. "I’m serious, Neal."

  He patted her shoulder. "Of course you are."

  "One day you and I will visit the Islands," she informed him, "and then you will know better."

  Reviewing her schedule, Kel decided she could fit in a pattern dance before supper, and another before she went to bed. Pattern dances were linked techniques, to give the dancer practice in combat moves when no opponents were about. That night she forced herself to do a complex dance just before supper. She did a simpler one before she went to sleep. The exercises became a permanent addition to her routine.

  The work she put into pattern dances and exercises for her arms began to show in practice. As her sword skills improved, Lord Wyldon and Sergeant Ezeko began to pair her with older pages. No one objected until one afternoon in late February, when Lord Wyldon was called away from the court. When he left, the older pages moved around. Kel found herself facing Zahir.

  Uh-oh, she thought as the Bazhir’s dark eyes blazed. I’m in trouble now.

  They began with the strike-and-block combinations. Ezeko stood over them as they moved on to combinations like three high cuts, two low, with blocks to match. He watched Kel and Zahir through two complete sets and part of a third, then walked down the line to see how Quinden did against Faleron. The moment the sergeant’s eyes were elsewhere, Zahir hissed, "It’s time for you to take your place behind the veil, where you belong!"

  He broke the drill, banging Kel’s legs hard as he swung his wooden practice sword from left to right. She backed up and he followed; when he struck overhand, she knocked his sword aside and struck him in the ribs. "We don’t wear veils!" she whispered in reply.

  Zahir growled, "A woman out of her place is a distraction to men!" and struck her repeatedly until Kel kicked him in the stomach to make him back off Joren, Vinson, and a few other boys closed around them to cut them off from the sergeant’s view.

  Neal saw them bunch up and came to Kel’s defense, dragging Zahir’s friends out of his way. When Vinson hit Neal from behind, the prince yanked Vinson off him. Merric threw himself onto Joren’s back. Faleron and Seaver went for Zahir. The battle ended only when Sergeant Ezeko waded in and pulled everyone apart.

  Lord Wyldon was livid. He sentenced all of them to a week of early-evening duty in the palace laundry. The laundrymaids, a set of rough, no-nonsense women with muscles that Kel envied, had a field day with the lads assigned to help them.

  "It’s not fair," Merric grumbled as he wrung out sheets. "Zahir started it."

  "But you lot didn’t have to pitch in," Kel reminded him. "Besides, this may be the only time all winter that we get the mud out from under our nails."

  Merric glowered at her, and Kel waited for the explosion. Instead he shook his head, smiling wryly. "Don’t you get mad about anything?" he demanded in amused exasperation. "You know they call you the Lump."

  "I try not to show anger," Kel explained. "The Yamanis won’t talk to you if you let your feelings out. To them it’s like picking your nose at table. Besides, haven’t you noticed how tiring losing your temper is?"

  "I’ve noticed it gets you punishments," the redheaded boy replied with a shrug. "Maybe it’s the same thing."

  "Well, you’re tired at the end of both, so there you are," Kel said practically. "Help me wring out this blanket?"

  nine

  TESTS

  The
week’s punishment left everyone too worn out to do anything but classwork. Kel knew that was temporary. Joren, Vinson, and another third-year named Garvey had not given up their harassment of the first-years completely: during the day they took every chance to bump, casually push, or thump the younger pages. On their first night without linens to scrub, Kel changed from dress to shirt and breeches after supper, and went to Neal’s room to study as usual. Merric, Seaver, the prince, Faleron, and Neal himself were there when she came in. Cleon arrived not long after she did. He sat with Neal at the writing desk, talking about a paper the third-years had to write for Master Yayin.

  The room settled into its usual library-like quiet. Everyone whispered to keep from disturbing the others. Kel, Seaver, and Merric worked on the day’s mathematics problems together for a while. When Kel knew that she wouldn’t be needed right away, she rose and stretched. Then she casually walked out of the room.

  Neal followed her and closed the door behind him. "I’d like a word," he said.

  Kel looked at him. "I’ll be right back," she began.

  "You’re not fooling me, you know," he informed her. "Every night you put on a dress for supper. That’s to remind us you’re a girl and you’re not ashamed of it. Fine. I understand perfectly. But some nights, when you don’t have punishment work and Joren and his pack are being rowdy? You go and change into your fight clothes," he waved at her shirt and breeches, "and you take a little walk. Sometimes you come back just fine, and some nights they haul you and whoever you mixed it up with before the Stump. You go looking for trouble!"

  "Neal," she said nervously, "keep your voice down."

  "Why? You don’t seem to care if you get caught!" It was an accusation, but he lowered his voice to say it. His face turned red with the effort.

  She sighed. "That’s not it at all."

  "Then what is it?" he demanded hotly. "Are you some kind of—of tavern tough that likes to brawl?"