Inda (9 page)

 

 

 

When Inda woke, just before dawn, he couldn’t remember where he was. He was aware of that wool and wood and puppy dog smell again, the sounds of many boys breathing; then, “Up! Up!” someone yelled. “You know we’ll have an inspection after the shearing. Let’s clean now, and save our backs.”

Inda had no idea how to make a bed look smooth or how to sweep a floor. Fiam had always taken care of that. But Fiam was on the long ride home, probably looking forward to wargaming all the summery days . . .

Trying to fight away homesickness, Inda thrashed into his clothes. Habit caused him to fling his nightshirt down, but he picked it up again. Those hooks on the wall beside the headboards, yes, they were for nightshirts. He watched the rest of the boys, did what they did, and at last stood back and in the blue predawn light compared his efforts with everyone else’s. He didn’t see any difference.

“Straighten your breeches. You’ve got ankle rumps,” Noddy whispered to him, pointing down to where he’d stuffed his breeches into his riding boots, and Inda saw that they were flat in front and pouched out behind. He pulled at the loose material until it draped more or less evenly around each boot; then, he reached for his braid—and dropped his hands. No use in struggling with two-day-old knots when it would soon be gone.

Besides, the others were already running out to the parade court, to be in line before the sunup bells. Torches still lit the court, for the sun at this time of year still rose after the sixth-hour bell. A fine mist had moved in, making it darker, but at least it wasn’t miserably cold.

On the first clang of the bell Master Gand marched out of the big building opposite the castle wall, where the masters lived. If he was pleased to see this year’s scrub class neatly lined up and ready, he showed no sign of it. His mouth soured. “So how many of you are going to waste my time telling me you’ve been riding from the time you could walk?”

By now they’d learned not to volunteer any commentary.

“Good. Because those would be the ones needing a month or two of wanding the stable floors, to unlearn all the rotten habits they’d picked up since they started walking.”

Pace, pace, high-heeled cavalry boots crunching bits of gravel on the old, worn flagstones.

“You are eventually going to learn command of cavalry. All three branches: light, heavy, dragoon. But if you think that means you are ready to ride horses, think again, my little lambs. You are ignorant. And as such you are more danger to the horses than you are to any enemy. You little Vayir-dals left the real horse care to your armies of stable hands at home. Well, here’s news for you: in the field, there are no servants, and farriers don’t follow you about in case your horse throws a shoe. You’re going to learn how to take care of your horses, including their feet. And you’re going to do it fast. And right. In the dark. Before you ever sit on a horse’s back.”

Silence, except for the wind rushing through the pennants overhead.

“The first month or so, you ignorant lambs are going to learn everything there is to know about horses’ habits and needs, and that means you are going to work. Hard.”

Pause. Pace, pace, no answer.

The tutor lifted his hand toward the gate to the training areas. For the very first time he spoke Marlovan, the language of war. “And now, my little lambs, it is time to be sheared.”

A great shout went up from behind the gate, and Inda and the boys all drew together instinctively. Inda, remembering his brother’s lavishly described horror stories about the traditional shearing of the scrubs, saw the tall blond boy who’d kicked Dogpiss in the mess hall—his name still unknown—looking pale and scared. Inda turned away, pleased, but not two breaths later a painful jab in his back brought his head around to see that same boy, a big, brawny boy, staring straight ahead, a telltale smirk twisting his lips.

The scrubs shuffled through the gate, to find the expected, seemingly endless two rows of older boys waiting. Not the seniors, the ones who had earned the right to bind their hair up into horsetails. These were the eleven- to sixteen-year-olds, the older ones with hair in clubs, the younger with their shorter hair pulled into squirts in back: the pigtails.

“Go! Go! Go!” The Marlovan chant sent birds squawking.

The first boys began running down the middle of the lines, and of course got slapped and shoved from side to side, some of them falling, to be kicked until they rose again and ran on.

Three. Four. Inda felt a spurt of anger almost as hot as the one he’d felt at the senseless attack on skinny little Dogpiss, who hadn’t given that big turd the least trouble.

It was his turn, and he began to run, shoulders hunched, jaw tight, until he realized that the slaps were mere stings, and he’d received much worse from his brother. He did stumble and fall once, but the kicks thudded with more sound than sensation against his sturdy tunic. He scrambled up to the sound of laughter, felt the hands propelling him onward. Run, run, and there was the end, and the
Go! Go! Go!
was laughing, not cruel, and then one of the orderlies reached for him, whipped out his hair tie with expert fingers, and snip, snip, there went his braid. His head felt light, his neck cold, and he couldn’t help fingering his hair as he joined the small group of shorn boys. His hair, never neat, had sprung up in curls all over his head, but at least he wasn’t the only one with that problem.

They all looked strange. No, they all looked the same, with their squared-off hair in back, and Inda, staring at the boys, realized that the shearing run wasn’t just a way to humiliate them with this silly short hair. He realized it had made them into a group, even that big blond horseapple. Well, they were academy boys now, and city people would know them as academy, commanders-in-training, set apart from civilians. They
belonged.

He rejoiced in his heart, grinning foolishly like most of the others.
Why, that wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d heard.

Some of the boys had already vanished, and the arms master howled at the rest of them to get ready for inspection and their very first callover, and if they weren’t ready, they’d be scrubbing floors for a month . . .

Inda laughed as he ran back to the barracks, noticing that he had no problem finding it. Breathless laughter, joking insults about looks, easy chatter—until they reached the pit. The blond boy and a couple of others were still missing.

But that was not what made them all stop, staring in shock.

There was his bunk next to Dogpiss’, but their carefully smoothed sheets were trampled all over with dirty, horse dung-clumped hay, their mattresses ripped and scattered, their gear chests open and full of
something
that reeked enough to make their eyes water.

Inda looked up, dazed, sick. Several boys backed slowly away, their gazes averted. He remembered Tanrid’s stories, and knew what it meant.

He and Dogpiss had been bunk-scragged.

Chapter Six

TWO days later, Inda finished up his punishment chores in the stable and trudged back toward the scrub barracks. He tucked his cold hands inside his armpits—

Pain! Elbow! The world spun. A familiar grip on his arm, familiar breathing, and Inda resigned himself to a thrashing. He just hoped Tanrid would tell him why.

Tanrid pulled Inda around the side of the stable, next to one of the huge feed sheds, held him against the wall, and frowned down into his face. There were his hard brown eyes, his unsmiling mouth, his sun-streaked brown hair now pulled proudly up into a tail high on the back of his head.

Tanrid’s frown was not angry, it was urgent. Inda could see that clearly enough in the reflected light from the torches on the castle wall just behind the sheds. “I heard you got shit-scragged. First morning!
And
a fight in the mess hall?”

“Not shit-scragged—” Inda gasped.

“What were you thinking?” Tanrid shook him, thumb pressed agonizingly into that awful place just beside his elbow joint.

Inda blinked away tears and managed to get out two words: “Attacked . . . Dogpiss . . .”

Tanrid abruptly eased the pressure, but kept hold. Inda drew in a shuddering breath and spoke faster. “The fight in the mess hall was instinct. Marlo-Vayir Tvei kicked Dogpiss Noth off the bench, his head cracked, and, well, I just acted.”

“Did the beaks come in? Wave the willow?”

Inda shook his head. “No beaks, no caning. Pigtails landed on us, pulled us apart. But I—”

“No buts. Do.
Not.
Fight in the mess hall.” Another jab in the elbow joint, and Inda gasped. “Any fight, they don’t like the reasons—and they never do—we all eat outside. All. Rain or not. There’s always rain this time of year. No justice, no negotiation. Happened twice to me so far, both times from scrubs scouting the rules. If your fart-faced litter of scrubs lands us outside, we’ll scrag you all. Got it?” Another poke.

“Yes.”
You never told me that,
Inda thought with resentment.
You never told me anything that didn’t make you look good.

“So you weren’t shit-scragged?”

“Not dog turds, or shit.” Inda looked down in embarrassment. He’d only actually seen human excrement once—the inevitable experiment of the small child. But he’d heard about how not using the Waste Spell, and putting your own shit in someone else’s shoes, or room, or bed, had not only sparked feuds between entire clans, but even wars. “In our bunks.”

“Horse?” Tanrid spoke in relief.

“Yes.”

Tanrid nodded once. “That’s what I thought. Just a bunk-scrag, but there are three different rumors going around, and as usual people only tell the story they think is the fun niest. I had to check, because if it wasn’t horse, Father would want to know. It becomes a family matter. Details?”

“After the shearing, we got back for inspection and our first callover, and there were our beds, torn up, horse plops in hay all over. Our tack, full of horse piss. We got wands, of course, but we couldn’t fix the beds in time—”

“You
didn’t
blab.”

Inda couldn’t hide his scorn. “Course not. We got a jawing for being slobs. Stuck with a month’s stable cleaning, only it’s swap-off. One, then t’other. Entire pit got mess hall gag.”

“Ah.” Tanrid’s expression altered. “The swap means they knew you weren’t to blame.”

“That’s what a couple of boys said.”

“But the mess gag, well, it could mean anything. Go on. You know who did it, right?”

“Not sure. They must’ve done it right after they were sheared, because they weren’t with the rest of us. But they kept laughing when we tried to clean up before inspection.”

“Who’re ‘they’?”

“Marlo-Vayir Tvei and someone called Basna Tvei. I learned their names at callover. Who are the Basna family?”

“Northerners. They owe fealty to Sindan-An from way back, before they allied with Tlen.”

Sindan-An and Tlen, two powerful landholding clans, so famed for their prowess their names appeared in most of the ballads. They were the crown’s supporters in the north.

Tanrid added, “Basna Ain is one of the senior horsetails, going into the King’s Dragoons next year.”

“Oh.” The king. Inda had also learned that Sponge was the king’s second son—something Sponge had tried to hide and that Inda was still trying to comprehend. “But I don’t know who else bunk-scragged us. Or why.”

Tanrid glanced about again, then muttered, “I don’t know—yet—if there’s any connection, but you better know this. The Sierlaef hates his brother.”

Inda gaped. “Why? Sponge is the future Sierandael!”

“The rumor is, he wants Buck Marlo-Vayir as Sierandael. I don’t know how true it is. I don’t run with the Sier-Danas.”

Sier-Danas
. The Marlovan term for “high rank Honor Guard.” So the royal heir had a gang of privileged followers, then. Huh.

Tanrid said in a rapid whisper, “As for the bunk-scrag, there are other ways to find things out. You can’t bribe the stable hands to get wands and not have someone pay more to find out who bribed ’em. But you listen.” He shook Inda once, hard. “If you disgrace the family, I’ll scrag you myself.”

Tanrid let him go and strode away. Moments later the sunup bells began to ring, and Inda dashed through narrow causeways between stone buildings, falling in with the scrubs who tumbled out of the barracks, still warm and sleepy-eyed.

Dogpiss was first, his wispy yellow hair drifting into his watchful blue eyes. He mouthed,
Where were you?
and Inda mouthed back,
Brother ambushed me.

Dogpiss grimaced in sympathy, but they did not speak as they followed the others to the parade court, some still tugging and tucking at clothing.

Master Gand waited, his sun-bleached horsetail flagging in the wind, his old gray military coat straining at powerful arms crossed before him, booted feet planted apart. A single glance at him was enough to straighten up the lines of boys.

Master Gand looked down their neat rows, expression blank, and began the callover. A visceral awe, a kind of thrill-pang, suffused Inda when he heard “Montrei-Vayir,” the name of the royal family, and Sponge sang out, “Here.”

In Marlovan. Now they spoke the language of the old plains warriors from whom most of them had descended. The bunk-scrag had taken some of the joy out of that. But it was still so strange to be standing right next to a member of the royal family, about which he’d heard so many stories—good ones as well as bad—bringing a brief image of Shendan Montredavan-An to mind.

Gand said, “After inspection, report to the stable. First-bell after noon, report to the east practice court. We’ll find out if you know which end of a sword to grip.”

Intake of breath. Everyone wanted to get at weapons—whether bow, lance, or sword, it didn’t matter.

“In a day or so we’ll form up ridings. Questions?”

“Captain Gand.”