By the Sword (20 page)

All of which added up to one conclusion: he was some kind of nobility. Kero did not like the implications of that.

Tarma waited for Kero to come up to them before speaking. She pushed the face-guard of her helm up, and gave Kero a cool, appraising look. The young man did the same with his helm, then shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“Kero,” Tarma said, in a neutral, even voice, “This is Darenthallis—Daren to us. He'll be training here with you.”

Kero's first reaction was of resentment. Why? Her second was of jealousy.
We were just fine with the two of us.

She stepped forward slowly, keeping her expression neutral, but not her thoughts. They don't need the
money—and
now Tarma is going to be spending half her
time with him, which means I won't be learning as much from her. It isn't fair! By the look of him, he could have any teacher he wanted! Why should he steal mine?

She eyed his armor with envy; up close, it was even better than she'd thought, combination plate and chain mail, the chain mail so fine it looked to have been knitted, with articulated plate that had to have been specifically fitted to him. And he wasn't finished growing yet—which meant that someone, somewhere, didn't care how much it cost to keep fitting him with new armor every time he put on a growth spurt. Then she recognized the name—after all, there weren't that many young men named Darenthallis in the world, and there was only one likely to have armor of that quality.

His Highness, Prince Darenthallis, third son of the King.

Which explained how he'd gotten Tarma to agree to teach him, and virtually guaranteed that the Shin‘a'in would be spending the lion's share of her time with
him.

The privilege of rank.
Kero's resentment trebled.
I have to earn my way here, and he walks in and takes over
.

But she kept it out of her face and manner; she'd learned to school her expressions long ago. Rathgar took a dim view of resentment and rebellion in his children.

Daren smiled; he looked self-confident and sure of his superiority. Kero's temper smoldered. Well,
we'll just see how superior you are. Especially once we get into the woods. If you've ever had to track anything in your life, my fine young lord, I'd be very much surprised.

She cleared her throat, and made the first move. “I'm Kerowyn,” she said, nodding a little, not holding out her hand; she could have freed one to shake his, but she chose not to.

“Daren,” he said. “Are you one of Lady Kethryveris' students?”

Ignoring the fact that
I'm
carrying armor. Assuming I
couldn't
possibly be
anything
other than a nice little ladylike mage.

“I'm her granddaughter,” she replied acidly. “And I'm Kal‘enedral Tarma's student.”

Tarma's left eyebrow rose a little, but otherwise her face was completely without expression. “Well, now that you've met,” she said quietly, “why don't we get down to business.”

 

Kero's resentment continued to simmer over the next several weeks. Daren wasn't any better than she was, especially not at archery. But he kept acting as if he were, giving her unasked-for advice in a patronizing tone of voice that said
What's a little girl like you doing man's work, anyway?
and made her blood boil.

But she kept her temper, somehow; always turning to Tarma after one of those supercilious little comments, and asking her advice as if she hadn't heard Daren's.

Unfortunately, from time to time this backfired. Tarma would occasionally give her a slow, sardonic smile, and reply, “I think Daren hit it dead in the black.” Daren would smirk, and Kero's ears would burn, and she would have to bite her lip to keep from “accidentally” bringing her shield up into that arrogantly squared chin. And then she'd pull her face-guard down and do her damnedest to give him the trouncing of a lifetime.

At night, before Warrl arrived for her evening lesson in mind-magic, she'd lie back in her bath and seethe.
It's not fair
, she'd repeat, like a litany.
He's had the best trainers from the time he was able to walk; I've only had Tarma for a few moons! Why should I have to share her? And what makes him so much better than I am that money and power didn't buy for him?

But that was the problem, wasn't it; life
wasn't
fair, and power and gold bought whatever they needed to. From people's skills to people's lives. And if anyone happened to be in the way, it was too bad. Money had doubtless bought the near-ruin of her family; power was probably keeping the real perpetrator safe. And now both were conspiring to steal her future—

—if she lay down and let it happen.

I
won‘t, she resolved every night.
I'll make him compete with me for every moment of time. I'll be so much
better than he is that
Tarma
will see
she's
wasting her
time with him and concentrate on me again. I'll do it.

It helped that he was as helpless as a baby in the woods, and when he started, he couldn't even track the most obvious of traces. She would give him advice in the same kind of patronizing tone he used with
her—
and she laughed inside to see how he bristled.

She was planning on doing just that this morning, as she skipped down the stairs to the stable, humming a little tune under her breath. Today was going to be a day-long stalk-and-trap session, a “hound and rabbit game,” Tarma called it, and Warrl was going to be the “rabbit.” Daren hadn't yet figured out that Warrl was anything more than a very large, odd-looking dog, and Kero wasn't going to tell him. After all, they were supposed to be using their minds and paying attention to things, and if he hadn't been able to figure out that the
kyree
was something rather different by now, she didn't see any reason to enlighten him.

Besides, it would give her an edge. That edge, combined with her tracking skills, should enable her to beat him to the quarry by whole candlemarks.

The meeting point was the stables; Kero reached them ahead of both Daren and her teacher. A brief look out the window this morning had told her all she needed to know about the weather—today was going to be a typical late-fall day for these parts; cold, wet, and miserable. Even though there were no clouds overhead, Kero had seen them on the horizon, the kind of flat, gray clouds that meant an all-day drizzle. So she'd dressed for it; a waterproof canvas poncho over lambswool shirt, and heavy sweater, sheepskin vest, and wool hose and breeches, and her thickest stockings inside her boots. Daren had dressed for the cold, but not an all-day chill in wet weather; he was wearing mostly leather, which looked very good on him and would keep him warm at first, but would do nothing for him once it was soaked. His only concession to possible drizzle was a wool cloak, a bright russet that would stand out in the gray-brown woods like a rose in a cabbage patch. And which was going to get caught on every twig and thorn unless he was very careful. Kero's gray poncho wouldn't; it was belted tight to her body at the waist, and thorns wouldn't catch so easily on the tightly-woven, oiled canvas. Kero hid a smirk with some difficulty.

Tarma glanced at her in a way that Kero couldn't read, but said nothing. Daren just took in the peasant-style clothing, and gave her an amused and superior little smile.

Kero had been toying with the notion of warning him about the oncoming rain, but that smile made up her mind for her.
If he's too stupid to read the weather, and too cocksure to ask advice when he sees someone dressed for weather he didn't expect, he can suffer,
she thought with angry anticipation.
And I can't wait
to see
him
shiv
ering and chafing in that fancy wet leather.

“I told you yesterday that this was going to be another ‘hound and rabbit' game following Warrl,” Tarma said, interrupting her thoughts. “I didn't tell you that it would be under different rules.”

Kero stiffened, and dropped her thoughts of revenge. She noted that Daren lost his little smile, and fixed his eyes on Tarma as if he was trying to read her mind.

“This is going to be a ‘hostile territory' game,” the Shin'a‘in continued. “Rule one: you're in enemy territory, behind their lines, following a spy. Assume that anything you do or say may give you away to the enemy. Rule two: leave no traces yourselves; assume the enemy may have someone trailing you. Rule three: this is a real scouting mission, which means you are not working alone. Rule four: both of you come back, or you both lose the game.”

At “rule three” Kero realized what Tarma was pulling on them. At “rule four,” Daren figured it out. The glare of outrage he gave her was only matched by the exasperation she dealt him in return.

She can‘t—I'm going to be saddled with this overbearing fool all day long? And if I don't
keep
him from falling on his face
,
I'm going to lose the game?
She wanted to tell her teacher exactly what she thought of the idea, and only one thing kept her quiet. The sure and certain knowledge that Tarma was testing her, as she had been tested at the crossroads. Only this time the test was not for courage, but for good sense, and the ability to take orders.

Such considerations did not hamper Daren.

“You can't mean that!” he said angrily. “I've had
years
of training, and you expect me to drag this little tagalong and take care of her—”

“I expect you to take the orders you're given and follow them, young man,” Tarma replied evenly, with no display of emotion at all. “I expect you to keep your mouth shut about it. I have my orders from your father. You are to treat me as your commanding officer at all times, and I have your father's full permission to do whatever I like with you. Be grateful this is all I've ordered you to do. How do you ever expect to give orders that will be obeyed if you never learn how to follow them yourself?”

Daren stared at her with his mouth hanging open for a moment, while Kero fumed.
Tagalong, am I? Years of training, hmm? Then why can't he even follow a rabbit track a furlong without losing it?

“I've given you your orders,” Tarma said, putting one finger under his chin and shutting his mouth for him. “Remember the rules.”

She turned on her heel, and went back up the staircase, leaving the two of them alone in the stable. Daren's stormy expression did not encourage conversation, so Kero just shrugged and headed out into the valley.

Daren followed, overtaking her in the tunnel, so that when they emerged he was in the lead. Kero hung back, deliberately, so that he would have to wait for her. After all, under the rules, if he ran off without her, he'd lose.

I'm beginning to see some advantages here, she
thought, as her anger cooled.
Provided I can keep my own temper.

The clouds were already moving in; the sky was gray from horizon to horizon, or at least as much of it as Kero saw beyond the black interlacing of leafless trees. Daren waited impatiently for her beside the hidden stable door, and pointed at Warrl's obvious clawmarks in the dust beside the path.

“He went that way,” the young man said, and plunged off into the underbrush, leaving a telltale thread from his cloak on the very first thornbush he passed.

Kero would have left it, except that
she
remembered the rules.
Leave no traces
. And since she was being graded on his moves as well as her own....

She sighed, and picked the russet thread out of the thorns before she passed on. She was still sucking a stuck finger when she caught up to him.

“You left this,” she said sardonically, holding it out to him before he could accuse her of lagging. He took the thread from her, his mouth shutting with a snap, and frowned. Without saying a single word, he turned back to studying the ground, ignoring her.

She saw that Warrl's tracks vanished here, as his trail crossed a dry streambed. The obvious answer was something any reasonably smart animal would do—run along the streambed for a while, then leave it at some point that wouldn't show much disturbance. A bed of dry leaves, for instance.

But Warrl wasn't an animal.

Kero studied the trail, and noticed that the tracks were blurred, the claws dug in a bit too deeply.

He walked backward in his own tracks, the beast! she
thought with admiration.
I didn't think he could do that!

Instead of following downstream (as Daren was moving upstream and obviously expected her to take the other direction), she traced the tracks back, and found where Warrl had leapt out of them and into—yes—a pile of dry leaves off to the side of the trail. There were several old, wet leaves on top of the dry ones, and a few more scattered against the direction of the last winds, showing that the leaves had been disturbed.

She waited beside the telltale traces until Daren came storming back. By that time the expected drizzle had been falling for about a candlemark; and as she had anticipated, his cloak and his leathers were soaked through. He was shivering, and the leather was probably chafing him raw wherever it touched bare skin, and his temper was not improved by his discomfort.

“You were supposed to take downstream!” he shouted. “I had to take both! You lazy little bitch—you're supposed to be
doing
something, not standing around waiting for me—”

“He left the path here,” she said, clenching her hands to keep from hitting him. “He walked backward in his own tracks, and then jumped off the trail into that pile of leaves.”