Redoubt (6 page)

“We might want to consider the politics at this point,” put in another of the Blue
Trainees, thoughtfully, as he paused in drinking down about half a pitcher of water.
He was one of the older lot; Mags knew him only as Byren, and not much else about
him, except that he was highborn. He passed the pitcher to Gennie, who drained it
and handed it back down to the bearer.

“How so?” Gennie asked. “You’ve more of a head for court politics than I do, Byren.
How can the game make any difference?” She eyed him with speculation, not skepticism.
Mags figured at that point that this Byren probably knew what he was talking about
and might be another person to add to his personal circle of helpers. It would help
to have someone besides Amily around who know about court politics.

“Well, there’s the thing. Is it better for the Blues or the Whites to win? Better
to keep balance in the Court,” he said, then elaborated. “What sort of message will
the rest of the Court read into a victory for either side? Because they will, it’s
inevitable; no matter what happens, they are going to read
something
into it. If the Blues win, will they read that as Sedric getting impatient for the
Throne? If the Whites win, will they read it as Sedric not being experienced enough?”
Byren’s Companion shuffled uneasily beneath him, as if this sort of talk made him
uncomfortable. “I’m the last one to suggest that either side throw the match, but
I’d like to know if there are going to be any possible ramifications for a win. If
there are, well, we need to consider that as much as how we play the game.”

:He might not be aware of the actual flow of politics, but he knows to think ahead
about them, and he knows how to spot a potential spot for a bit of trouble. It might
only be that he’s just not privy to a lot of the information yet. I’d bet one or both
of his parents are. And I’d bet they’ll coach him in Court politics more as he gets
older. I’d consider him for the future. I’ll remind you to ask Nikolas about him.:
Dallen was already on top of that idea, which pleased Mags. It was good to know that
he
was getting good at figuring out people who had the potential to help him in the
future.

Gennie blinked, then turned to Mags. Mags was already Mindspeaking Nikolas, because
Byren had put his finger on that potential problem, and only Nikolas was likely to
have an answer. Fortunately, Nikolas had anticipated Byren’s concern and must have
been keeping his ear to the ground for the last couple of days. “Nikolas says no worries,”
he replied with relief. “The Prince is the . . . ah . . . Nikolas says,
sentimental
favorite, ’cause of the wedding. An’ he and the King have already worked out that
if the Whites win, the King’ll present the prize to Lydia, an’ if the Blues win, the
Prince’ll present the prize to the Queen.”

“Ah, well then, sorted!” Byren replied with relief. “I’d much rather play the game
without worrying about politics. So, about getting that goal!”

“Anybody see any obvious weak points aside from the Riders and the fence?” Gennie
asked.

“Not a weak point, but there’s something we might be able to use in the terrain,”
said Pip. “Our side, just at the boundary line, left, there’s a clump of bushes with
a pocket at the base. Looks like it just grew that way over the summer. If we popped
the ball in there, then tore off for the fence with the Trainees, we
might
trick them into thinking the Trainees had the ball, and while they’re confused, the
Riders can kick the ball out and make a run for the goal.”

Gennie nodded. “That would be the time for you to
accidentally
tell both sides Pip had the ball, Mags. It’s earlier than I thought we’d use that
trick, but it would be a good time for it.”

He nodded.

“Right then, it’s set,” Gennie said. “Let’s play it.”

But White got the ball first, and the players were determined to keep it away from
the fence. They’d learned from the first quarter, and it was a fierce fight up and
down the field as they looked for a weak point in the Blue defense. Finally Blue was
able to force them into another scrum, but in the middle of the field and not nearly
close enough to that clump of bushes to do any good.

:
Where’s the ball?:
Mags asked desperately, as the dust from the churned-up ground rose about them all
in a cloud.

:Under my tail,:
said Companion Dustin
. :And that wretched White horse knows it, he’s kicking at my hocks! Ow!:

Dallen crabbed sideways and gave the offending mount a good shoulder-shove. Dallen’s
weight prevailed; the horse went down on his haunches for a moment and gave Mags a
chance to lean down in the saddle while Dustin held
very
still for just a heartbeat, and Mags bunged the ball out of the scrum and toward
the bushes.

Away the whole pack went after it, but the Blues got there first and wedged it in,
then kicked up enough dust to hide what they’d done before the Whites got there. The
lot of them milled in confusion as the dust rose in clouds about them and coated their
armor in a white film.

:Pip’s got the ball!:
Mags shouted to every familiar mind—which, of course, included their former teammates
on the White side. Pip shot out of the pack like a bullet from a sling, followed by
the Blue Trainees, all heading for the fence on the grandstand side. And enough of
the Whites peeled off after him to let the Blue Riders kick the ball out of its hiding
place and bung it down the field toward the White goal.

The Whites caught on to the ruse immediately, but the Blue Riders had distance on
them, and even their long-legged cavalry horses couldn’t make it up. There was some
fast ball-passing at the goal, with the White Foot trying to be in six places at once,
then three attempts at the goal, and the last one got in to tumultuous cheers from
the crowd. And just then, the signal sounded for the end of the quarter and a change
of horses for the Riders.

“They’re going to be hopping mad now,” Gennie observed, as they huddled up for the
third quarter. The water carriers had brought out damp rags for washing the dust off
armor; Mags opted to upend an entire bucket of water over his head instead. This was
excellent preharvest weather, nice and dry, allowing crops to ripen and not rot, but
it made the Kirball field dusty. He coughed, hard, trying to clear his throat, then
took off his helmet, wrapped one of those damp rags around his nose and mouth, and
put the helmet back on. He didn’t need to talk, anyway.

“They’ll get a goal on us,” Pip predicted. “I can’t see them letting this go.”

“Maybe we can use that. We let them have a goal, then we try our Foot for the flag.”
Gennie grabbed an offered bucket of water from one of the water carriers, took a drink
from it, and poured the rest over her Companion’s head. “That will give us a lively
fourth quarter if we pull it off, which wouldn’t be a bad thing. And if we don’t,
we can try it in the fourth anyway.”

But the Whites were incensed at the Blue’s deception, and nothing in the third quarter
went as it should. To begin with, the Whites got hold of the ball, and the Trainees
kept it in the air with some brilliant stick play. They all were so busy keeping watch
on the ball that they never noticed when one of the Riders broke away from the fight,
and Mags knew something was up only when he heard a desperate mental howl from their
own Foot. The Rider was managing to keep them encircled with his wickedly fast cavalry
horse, and there was nothing they could do about it.

:The Foot!:
Mags “shouted,” but by then it was too late. The White Trainees shot the ball toward
the goal and screamed after it, and one of their Riders smacked it right from underneath
the nose of Gennie’s Companion and into the goal. And that was the end of the third.

“Now or never,” was all Gennie said, as the Riders changed horses. They all nodded.
“And they’ll be expecting something from us.”

“Whatever happens, no one can say we didn’t play the game,” said Alton, one of the
Foot, with some satisfaction. “Take a look over at the rails.”

They all did. And there was not a face out there that was not turned toward them.

“I’d call that a job well done,” Gennie said with some satisfaction. “All right then.
Win or lose, well played, Blues. Let’s give them the best quarter of the game.”

When the ball was in play, a White Rider immediately headed for their Foot.
:Get on him, Mags!:
Gennie called, as the pack fought for the ball.
:We’ll hold them off if we can!:

Mags and Dallen charged after the Rider, full speed. He’d already started his encircling
strategy when they ploughed into him. They were matched for size and weight, and Dallen
made no attempt to check his speed at the last minute; Dallen had never made a full-out
body-slamming charge before in this game, and no one expected it of him.

:Get ready to jump!:
Dallen told him, just before they hit.

Both Rider and Dallen went down on their haunches, and Dallen went right over, but
Mags was ready and had jumped out of the saddle before Dallen went down. Mags was
on fire with anxiety, even though he hadn’t
felt
anything from Dallen

:I’m fine!:
Dallen said, scrambling to his feet.

The same could not be said for the Rider’s horse, who got himself up but with a bad
limp. The referees whistled for a halt, and play stopped while the rider got himself
another mount.

:Stay down, Mags,:
Gennie ordered
. :Tell our Foot if they get a chance to go for the flag, but otherwise, I want you
and Dallen down there to keep them off our goal.:

He and Dallen arranged themselves at either end of the goal area, and a good bit ahead
of the Foot, ready to move at any instant. It was a little disappointing, not to be
able to get right in the fight, but on the other hand, it would be a lot more disappointing
to see the Whites score on them. He noticed the referees watching them and conferring
with each other; he figured that they must be trying to work out whether being on
foot was against the rules. But a few moments later, they broke apart, without anything
happening, so he reckoned that they were going to let it pass.

Despite being a Trainee short, the Blues managed to fight the ball down the fence
well into goal-range on the White side. From where Mags stood they were just a tangle
of limbs and dust; he was peering after them when something caught the corner of his
eye.

:Ware the flag!:
he yelped to his own side, just as Dallen rushed the Trainee who had dismounted and
snuck up within snatching distance of the flag.
:Halleck, you sneaky git!:
he growled, and was rewarded with Halleck’s chuckle as the Trainee’s Companion materialized
out of nowhere and Halleck remounted at a run.

:Sneaky is as sneaky does,:
Halleck mocked, and suddenly the scrum broke away from the fence and headed their
way at a gallop.

Mags saw the ball speeding straight for him. He didn’t even think. He stood right
in its path with his stick in both hands, braced for impact. The ball hit him hard
enough to drop him on his behind in the dirt, but the ball went up, and Dallen somehow
managed to get under it, and with a mighty kick, sent it soaring.

All eyes followed it. It seemed to hang in the air forever, a tiny speck you had to
squint to see.
:Flag!:
he shouted into the minds of the Blue Foot, who split up and began using the tactics
they had been taught as battlefield messengers to sprint from bit of cover to bit
of cover, leaving him alone at the goal.

But everyone else was after the ball.

And for one mad moment, Mags thought the ploy just might work.

But the one thing that no one had reckoned on was that the time ran out on the quarter,
and just as the first of their Foot reached the White flag—in fact, as he got his
hand
on it—the whistle blew, signaling the end of the game.

The end, and a dead tie.

* * *

The bathing room was noisy with good-natured complaints. Really, no one was unhappy
with a tie. No one could claim that either side had given away anything. Both sides
had proven themselves. Everyone agreed that both teams were made up of the best of
the best. “The only ones who lost were the people making bets,” Corwin observed from
somewhere in the steam.

Mags had managed to lay claim to his favorite tub and was lying in the hot water with
his eyes closed, soaking his sore muscles.

“Well the more fools they,” snorted Lord Wess. “That maneuver with your Foot, Mags,
was brilliant. Too bad the time ran out. Was that yours or Gennie’s?”

“Gennie’s,” he replied, scooting down up to his chin in hot water, nursing his bruised
chest and content knowing that Dallen was getting the expert attention for that tumble
that he deserved. “But the kick was me an’ Dallen.”

“Another good move. We should practice that.”

:Not today,:
Dallen said firmly.

“Without th’ standin’ there and blockin’ the ball,” he said, firmly.

“Whatever demon suggested you just
stand
there and let the ball come at you like that?” Corwin asked.

“Prolly the same one that told you to pull the stunt that got your arm broke,” Mags
retorted. The hot water felt very good, but he didn’t think he would be trying that
particular trick any time soon. When he’d taken his armor off, his chest had a most
interesting black and blue bar right across it. Not much by the standards of his injuries
at the hands of the Karsite agents, but enough to make breathing a bit achy.

“I think we need to stop listening to demons,” Corwin muttered. The steam was as thick
as a pea-soup fog. It was easing the cough in Mags’ chest and the scratchiness of
his throat. But he had a notion he would be coughing up nasty dust for days.

“I think you should listen to them more,” Halleck said cheerfully. “Those were brilliant
moves. You just go right on listening to them, I’ll watch and applaud.”