Inda (36 page)

All Inda wanted was for the scrubs to win.

The masters always picked the sons of the Jarls as leaders, except for Inda, son of a prince. No one wasted time questioning why. Cherry-Stripe and the others depended on Inda for plans; Inda’s plans didn’t always work but they were by far the best, and he always figured out why they didn’t work, explaining it to the others afterward. Not that everyone listened—indeed, along with Cherry-Stripe, only Sponge, Noddy, Cama, Cassad, and sometimes Flash (if he and Dogpiss weren’t busy with more important matters, like stinging off the older boys and getting away with it) listened.

Inda, delighted when his tactical experiments worked, was content to keep his leadership strictly within the confines of their pit. He’d already learned the difference between being appointed leader by someone outside and leading because others chose to follow.

But, unknown to most of the boys, political tensions rapidly worsened, tightened by the sinking of the three great ships that had been intended to form the core of the king’s envisioned fleet, and tightened again by the repercussions of the Battle at Marlovar Bridge.

Men sent Runners back and forth with messages questioning the truth of the rumor that someone had betrayed the king’s plan—which meant that someone had put a price on the heads of the Jarls. And a prince.

Of the young people only Sponge and Hadand saw some of what was happening, Sponge by watching the tension and whispered conferences among masters, and Hadand by observing Ndara-Harandviar’s tension, her worries about her Runners until they arrived safely back. But neither was able to see the other long enough to safely talk.

Inda was oblivious to the political realm outside the academy. But he was not unobservant within his own world.

 

 

 

“Dogpiss, I don’t think a sting is a good idea.”

Dogpiss paused in the middle of pitching hay, his blue eyes wide and surprised. “What? Why?”

Inda glanced at the hay sifting down through the tines of the pitchfork onto the hard-packed ground that they had just swept, and snickered.

Dogpiss, glancing down, sighed. “Aw, horseshit.” He jabbed his pitchfork into the pile of hay on the cart and flung it over into the horse’s stall. “I think we need a sting.”

Inda shook his head. “Haven’t you see how the beaks are always watching, whispering? I think if we do
anything
on the banner game, Starthend is going to use it as an excuse to gate us all. If not worse.”

“I’m not afraid of Starthend.” Dogpiss frowned over his shoulder. “Why are you?”

Inda sighed, knowing he’d expressed it wrong. “It’s not fear, it’s keeping your head low when there’s lightning all around. There’s something wrong somewhere. Haven’t you heard about some of the duels fought over in the Guard? Duels! If they get caught, it’s a flogging!”

“That’s just Kepa drooling,” Dogpiss scoffed. “He wants to see a flogging, so he’s listening to every rumor he can find—”

“Dogpiss, do you really think I give Kepa’s rumors the worth of half a horse fart?”

Dogpiss sighed again, this time because he knew Inda was right. In fact, Whipstick had recently taken him aside and muttered, “Father says lie low. There’s trouble up in command. Don’t draw attention.”

Dogpiss said, “But, see, when it’s like this is when we need a laugh most. A good sting would get everyone laughing.”

Inda paused to wipe his forehead against his sleeve, hating the hot, still weather. He couldn’t remember so rotten a summer. Miserable heat trading with fast, violent storms. Maybe that was the reason for all the vile tempers.

Vile temper. “If your great sting tosses a shoe, Master Starthend is going to land on us all with willow aswing. And you know he doesn’t think anything funny. Ever.”

Dogpiss grimaced and for answer threw another load of hay so violently it scattered clear over the horse’s back like spindly snow. His last attempt at a practical joke, aimed at the pigtails just above them, who had been (in the scrubs’ opinion) far too assiduous in staff practice, had failed—they were spotted by a pair of pigtails illegally perched on a wall, gambling, who promptly snitched on them.

Though only Dogpiss, Basna, Flash, and Fij had been involved, Starthend had punished them all, making the scrubs sweep down the great parade ground on Restday, since they obviously had too little to do. And he promised the punishment for their next infraction would be far more painful.

Dogpiss thought about that, looked over at Inda, and said, “Maybe, but I tell you, that’s exactly why we need a hoot.” He grinned wryly, and then his smile faded. “And the horsetails need a lesson.”

Inda grimaced. The way the horsetails—no, the Sier-Danas—had been riding the younger boys of late might be just a result of the weather, or it might be anger at the fact that they had been closed out of the great city-game. And Master Starthend had seen to it that the Tveis hadn’t enough free time to hide out like last year: in fact, he sent them over to the horsetail pit to work. “Training,” he called it. “In obedience.”

Dogpiss leaned on his pitchfork and wiped his forehead. “Once we’re out on the banner game we might be able to hide.”

“True.” Inda heard Starthend’s hard heels on the warped wooden flooring leading to the tack rooms, and hastily turned back to work.

 

 

 

And while the boys did their best to look diligent, on the other side of the castle, Chelis the Runner self-consciously smoothed a plain tunic over her own Runner blue and joined the other girls. No one gave her a second look. They were too self-conscious themselves and too awed by their surroundings.

Ndara-Harandviar appeared moments later, dressed as plainly as they were. “Come, we have plenty to accomplish.”

She led the way to the first of the long barracks rooms used by the girls in the queen’s training, which looked like barracks rooms the kingdom over: bunks, trunks, windows. Dust circling lazily in the hot, still summer air caught the eye, drawing attention to slanting golden shafts that fell on worn linen quilting neatly smoothed over each bunk.

“I have found that it is much swifter to do my yearly check on the bedding when the girls are out. They all have such different ideas on what constitutes wear and tear . . .”

Ndara-Harandviar continued in a calm voice, describing exactly what to look for, and what to do, and the city girls hired for the occasion forgot they were in the very rooms the Queen’s Guard and future Jarlans and Randviars used, breathing their air, touching their things. There was practical work to be done, and they knew well enough how to do that.

And so it began. One by one the girls were divided between the rooms, Chelis held back for last. “You will work here.” Ndara-Harandviar led the way down a dark, worn-stone hall.

But no barracks waited. They turned through a narrow door, and climbed narrow stairs. Up, and up, to another door that opened onto bales and bales of undyed wool. The smell of it was strong in the windowless little chamber.

With shaking hands Ndara clapped alight a glowglobe, shut the door, and kept her back to it. She observed Fareas’ chosen emissary, a tall, strong, quiet, capable girl, and drew a deep breath. “Fareas-Iofre has a message?”

Chelis said, “My message is: What have you discovered about the betrayal of the plan for the attack at Marlovar Bridge?”

Ndara said, “Brigands are not born from rocks. They come from families, and even have families of their own. Many are former Riders, dismissed for breaking rules or stealing or fighting. One of my Runners has a daughter who works for a tavern keeper in town who hears and passes on careless castle talk to his brother, who is an ex-Rider.”

Chelis gripped her hands. “And so the treachery they all speak of. The betrayal of the plan. It was a gabby servant in the king’s employ, or a drunken guard who hinted at the plan?”

Ndara whispered, “I believe it was my husband.”

Chelis felt her heartbeat in her temples. Pandet, the Runner killed, had been her guide when she first began training. She worked her lips, then said, “The Sierandael plots against the king, then, is that it?”

Ndara gave an impatient, dismissive shake of the head, a gesture too desperate to be perceived as arrogant. “If only it were that simple! If the Sierandael sought to murder his brother and take the crown, I could shout,
Treason!
before the throne, and might even be heard. The Sierandael loves his brother. He adores his brother. He loves and adores him so much he would do anything to be first in Tlennen’s heart, first in his respect. And being first in his respect means proving that he is always right about matters military—even if it means careless talk of the sort that leads to pirates finding where our ships are and careless talk about Jarls and an Adaluin whom he considers troublesome, therefore bad for his plans, therefore bad for the kingdom. Do you see? He is in his own mind’s eye the rescuer of the kingdom.”

Chelis turned her thumb up, her mouth still dry.

“Further, you must remember that the king adores the Sierandael. Honor and love bind them both, and the Adaluin is also bound to the king by the same bonds. Therefore the message I have for you is for his wife, and not for him.”

Chelis passed a hand across her forehead, then said, “I don’t understand. I mean, I see why we cannot tell Jarend-Adaluin without proof. But I do not understand how the Shield Arm is not betraying the king by talking carelessly, as you say, about the king’s own plan for the Marlovar Bridge attack, so someone heard and passed it on.”

“Because he always has to be right. Up there with his brother, the Sierandael loves glory. If he can win glory and his brother’s regard, he would do anything. Anything,” she repeated, her voice a mere whisper. “Including bring war to us.”

Chelis looked confused. “War. But we are prepared for that, are we not? We always hear about the Venn coming—”

Ndara sighed. “Never mind the Venn. For now, you must realize that you are now involved in high politics. Everything I tell you, everything the Iofre tells you, must stay secret. Who the person was who overheard him, and brought word to the tavern keeper to pass on to his brother, we may never know. My Runner’s daughter only accidentally heard the brothers talking out at the stable. What we do know is that the repercussions are severe. Angry Jarls who feel that betrayal of some could lead to betrayal of all. Others making demands for the price of alliance.”

Chelis could understand that. So the Sierandael was feeling the effects of the betrayal, then, even if he wasn’t
consciously
aware of betraying anyone.

Ndara said, “We must return, and you must leave with the girls, and wear that servant gown right out of the city. One of the Iofre’s Runners has already died this year, and three of mine. Brigands still exist, and for them torture for information is campside entertainment. Do you know how to go to ground?”

Chelis’s mouth was now very dry. “We trained.”

“Do it. Always. A different route every single time. No matter how bad the weather is. Pandet’s mistake was reusing the same route, thinking winter protected her.”

Ndara saw comprehension in Chelis’ face and said, “Last. A spy—and I am one, make no mistake; I spy on my own husband—a spy seldom hears everything she must hear. Usually it’s a caught word, a night of searching papers for a single line, days of sitting and listening to the chatter of the unwary for the possible mention of a name, a place.”

Chelis’ insides tightened. Here was something new.

“So we have to listen to everybody my husband talks to when we can. One is the royal heir, the Sierlaef. One of my ears, shall I say, overheard last month a scrap of, oh, not protest, but surprise from him. The exact words were
Inda Algara-Vayir? Why a disgrace? He’s just a scrub.
Repeat that.”

Chelis easily repeated not just the words, but also the careful tone. That had been one of her earliest lessons.

“Fareas-Iofre must hear it exactly that way, so she can help us interpret what it might mean. We listen, we spy, but as yet we cannot fathom what it means.”

Chelis rubbed her sweaty hands down the gray tunic. “The Iofre has been afraid for him ever since he came here. She fears he’s a hostage.”

“He is.” Ndara sighed. “No one understands why the Sierandael does not like the Algara-Vayirs, it’s just accepted that he doesn’t. And it’s also accepted that having both his sons here would insure that Jarend-Adaluin does nothing in the south without the king’s sanction. We assumed that would be the end of it, and so it was last year, but not now. What inspired the Sierandael not just to notice Indevan, but to order the heir to disgrace him—if that’s what it meant—I don’t know for sure. I wish I did. There is something, as near as I can tell, about the Marlovar Bridge Rout that started this new plan. And I have been waiting a month for Fareas to send you to me, because three of my trusted personal Runners have died mysteriously since last summer, and I have only one left. I dare not send her south.”

Lockets. Magic. War. Ndara pressed her thin fingers against her temples, and then sighed. She had a headache, a bad one, getting worse. Not the imminent storm, but the sense that clues, important clues, were escaping her, and the kingdom was sliding toward disaster. The mind wills unceasing vigilance, but the body is not, cannot be, unceasingly vigilant.

Ndara said, “You must go. Whatever Fareas can do must be done soon. Of that I am certain.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

T
HE Sierlaef and Buck Marlo-Vayir perched on the north tower battlements, watching the Guards’ war game in the city below.

The boys were sour. All summer they’d expected the horsetails to be running in this game as attackers. The Guard was in it, the girls were in it, but only the senior year horsetails from the academy were in it.

The Sierlaef had been watching Tanrid’s betrothed perched on a low roof, her profile highlighted against the honey-colored stone of the high building beyond her. The girls were snipers, all armed with jelly-bag-tipped arrows, as the Guard and seniors chased one another through the streets below.