Sasha (36 page)

Damon completed a count of the assembled riders, as groups of giggling noble girls gathered nearby, pointing and whispering. “We're a rider short,” he realised.

“Danyth's shoulder came up sore from yesterday's fall,” said Jaryd. He swiped with his hook, a shiny, curved length of wood as long as his forearm, with a wide blade like a shovel, and a long, sharp edge at the end. No question about it, Damon thought—Jaryd was angry this morning. He wondered what had happened. “I found a replacement.”

“No shortage of those,” said Damon. To represent one's province in a great Rathynal tournament was an honour indeed. Although, it was the tradition in such tournaments that the princes of Baen-Tar would not take one side, but rather would spread their number across the various teams of cenayin. To be royalty was to take no side. Damon was pleased to know that he, at least, had qualified on merit—he did not feel any awe of the Tyree men he rode with, except perhaps Jaryd. “Who'd you get?”

“Over there,” said Jaryd, pointing toward the cluster of replacement horses, chewing and drinking from temporary mangers and water troughs. Damon looked, and saw two people astride the same horse. The first was Sofy, laughing with delight as the rider behind guided her hands on the reins and indicated when to apply the heels with a tap on the leg. Most unbecoming of a Verenthane princess, Sofy's dress was pulled up nearly to her knees and folks in the surrounding crowd were staring. Surely that could not be a man behind? Archbishop Dalryn would have his head…

The horse turned and Damon saw short dark hair, a lithe figure in pants and jacket, with a blade strapped diagonally to her back. He gave Jaryd a disbelieving look. Jaryd snorted and tightened his glove.

Sasha had arrived yesterday afternoon, accompanied by two male friends from Baerlyn, itself something of a minor scandal. Koenyg was unhappy that one was Teriyan, who Damon recalled from his stay in Baerlyn as a smart-mouth. The other was a gangly lad who had worked the ranch with Sasha for years.

Kessligh was not with her, and that too had sent the rumourmongers scurrying like rats in a granary. Sasha said he'd gone to Petrodor, but rumours suggested he was either dead, in hiding, riding north to do battle with the Hadryn single-handedly, or that he and Sasha had had a lover's tiff and he'd abandoned her. Some suggested she was with child and he'd left for Petrodor because his task was done. And other rumours as well, too stupid to mention.

Damon had found last night's family dinner a chore. Alythia had sent icy barbs Sasha's way and Sasha had replied with hot ones. Koenyg had asked suspicious questions of Kessligh and this Teriyan Tremel. Father had said little—a dark, sombre sentinel at the end of the table—while Wylfred had attempted to explain to Sasha why it was not proper for a young Verenthane lady to travel alone with two male companions. Only Myklas had seemed to enjoy it, the way any sixteen-year-old boy might enjoy watching dogs fight, or a carriage load of history scholars falling off a cliff.

If a strong family was the core foundation of virtue, as the Verenthanes insisted, then Damon reckoned his family's house might have all the godly virtue of a Petrodor brothel.

“I realise this is a stupid question,” Damon remarked, turning to Jaryd, “but is that wise?”

Jaryd shrugged. “As the only Nasi-Keth present, she is officially the Nasi-Keth's representative in this Rathynal. Form dictates one person from each represented party should be invited to participate in the tournament.”

“And that answers my question how?”

Jaryd scowled. “I had a bad opinion of her myself, once. Then I saw her swordwork with my own eyes and I came to know her at least a little, person to person. She forced me to reconsider. The audience here today is a little larger, but she deserves the chance to do the same.”

Sasha had torn strips off many a young man's pride in junior lagand tournaments across the years, in Damon's memory, and people had not loved her any more for it. But the look in Jaryd's eyes suggested he was not to be argued with. As team captain, he could pick whomever he wished.

A rising gasp came from the crowd, then a roar as the Taneryn scored. Damon wondered if Lord Krayliss himself was playing. Sasha and Sofy's horse came trotting over and Sasha leaped off, then helped Sofy from the saddle.

“You'd best prepare, M'Lady,” Jaryd told Sasha, pointing to her bundled gear. “One more score and we're on.”

“Do you always tuck your pants into your socks?” Sofy asked the young champion, with mild curiosity.

Jaryd looked down, confusedly. “The…I mean, a man's pants can become entangled in the stirrups, Your Highness. Or worse, in your opponent's stirrups, or their spurs if they wear them.” He managed a mischievous smile. “A man's pants have been known to come clean off, in such an encounter.”

“I should not want to see
that
!” Sofy remarked, in a tone that suggested much the opposite. “Sasha, why did you not inform me as to this most unexpected aspect of lagand before?”

“Because it's such a boring, bloodthirsty activity,” Sasha replied, fastening armguards over her shirt sleeves. “You said so yourself.”

“Well, perhaps one could learn to appreciate it better,” Sofy said mildly, with a mischievous glance at Jaryd. “If one were educated properly.”

“It's just a bunch of sweaty men on horses whacking each other with sticks,” Damon said dryly. Sofy had never liked lagand. Her tastes were more refined. “Why are you boring yourself with us savages, don't you have a poetry recital to attend? A Larosan ode to how we are all but smelly undergarments dangling from the tree of life?”

Sofy scowled at him. “Sarcasm is the surest sign of savagery, dear brother,” she said disdainfully. “I wish to see my sister ride, is that so uncommon?”

A tangled melee of horse came thundering by, punctuated by the yells and grunting exertion of men. Past the waiting riders, Damon caught a glimpse of wild-haired Goeren-yai men of Taneryn astride their little dussieh, their lagand hooks flailing.

“Here,” said Sasha, handing Sofy her sword in its scabbard. “There's no swords allowed on the field.
Don't
hand it to a guard to mind, I'd rather you kept it yourself. In hand.”

“Is it valuable?” Sofy asked dubiously, taking the scabbard with careful hands.

“It's Saalshen-forged and at least five hundred years old,” Sasha told her. “Probably it could buy every horse on the field today.”

Sofy pulled the blade a short way from its sheath. “Five hundred years? It looks so new!”

“Careful! Don't play with it. And for spirits’ sake don't try the edge, you'll lose a finger.”

“Okay, okay!” Sofy slapped the hilt back into the scabbard. “I'll be watching from the box. I made Myklas promise he'd sit with me for a while…he's playing later today for Baen-Tar against Isfayen, his friend Master Serys invited him.”

“He's been playing for Baen-Tar province with Serys for the past four days,” Damon told her.

“Well, I didn't know, okay?” Sofy pouted. “I've had other things to do. Anyhow, Myklas said he'd explain the rules to me.”

“Rules, Your Highness?” Jaryd asked with a mischievous glint.

“Oh, Master Jaryd!” Sofy scolded. “Noblemen are such savages!”

“And noblewomen find it so distressing,” said Jaryd, with a glance toward the clustered, whispering girls nearby.

Sofy looked amused. “Best that you tighten your belt, Heir of Tyree. I'd hate to see a young man lose his pants before such an admiring crowd.” She gave Sasha and Damon each a kiss on the cheek and departed in a swirl of skirts. A pair of Royal Guardsmen followed and the crowd parted before them.

“Am I mistaken,” Jaryd said uncertainly, “or was the princess flirting with me just now?”

“A princess of Lenayin does not flirt,” said Damon. “Everyone knows that.”

“I've heard it said that a princess of Lenayin does not fart, either,” Sasha said cheerfully, pulling on her heavy gloves. “But I happen to know differently.”

“Master Jaryd!” came a new, angry voice. Damon turned to find Pyter Pelyn pushing past the jostle of horses. “This is Danyth's replacement?” He pointed his lagand hook at Sasha.

“You have a problem with that?” Jaryd asked.

“You insult me, and you insult my family's honour! I'll not ride with this…”

“Half the Falcon Guard know what truly happened to your cousin!” Jaryd retorted. “If you'd ask them, you'd discover the truth, but no, you insist on preferring my father's lies because it suits your purposes!”

“My father also says that Sashandra Lenayin killed cousin Reynan!” Pyter snarled. “Do you call
him
a liar too?”

“Your father was not there! Neither was mine. I killed your cousin, Pyter. I killed him with my own blade as he attempted to kill Sashandra from behind like a coward! Sergeant Garys was there, he can vouch it true!”

He pointed to the sergeant, a short, thick-built man with a bushy beard and tattoos on his forehead. Sergeant Garys looked at the ground. “Aye,” he said reluctantly. “On my honour, you killed him, Master Jaryd. And it was well done.”

“It's a conspiracy!” Pyter fumed. There were friends at his back, now—fellow nobles all. The Falcon Guardsmen, Damon noted, gathered more to Jaryd's side. “Family Nyvar have never liked Family Pelyn, you fear us a threat to the great lordship!”

“I'd have more fear of a sick goat,” said Jaryd.

“Enough!” Damon shouted, stepping between them. “This is the grandest tournament of the year! Tyree's honour is at stake. The team is chosen and we shall compete! This bickering achieves nothing.”

Pyter glared at him, as if weighing the consequences of an insult to a prince's face. Then he spat and stalked back to his horse, his friends following.

Damon turned on Jaryd. “What's got into you today?” he demanded. “Are you determined to start a fight? We're at more risk now from those fools on the field than we are from the Banneryd.”

Jaryd snorted and turned back to his horse, unanswering. “No matter, Your Highness,” said Sergeant Garys, watching Pyter's departure with a dark stare, “we'll watch that one for you. He'll not cause any accidents without befalling one himself, I'll promise that.” Several guardsmen growled agreement. The Falcon Guard were mostly
not
nobility. Even the Verenthanes among them were not overly fond of the likes of Pyter Pelyn. They had, however, appeared to come to a liking for Jaryd Nyvar.

Damon turned to Sasha. She appeared not at all perturbed by the argument, stretching her arms behind her back, gloved fingers interlaced. “It's going to get rough out there,” Damon ventured.

“Good,” said Sasha.

“Look, matters would be vastly improved if you just declined to take part…”

“Give in to those lying thieves, you mean?”

All the rationalisations, all the possible defences for Tyree's nobility flew through Damon's mind. But it was all manure and he knew it. “Yes,” he said instead, with mounting exasperation. “Give in, Sasha. Just this once.”

“No,” said Sasha. “That's where it starts.”

“Where what starts?”

“If you don't know that,” Sasha snorted, “then you're the biggest fool here.” And she also attended to her horse.

Taneryn scored a winning goal and paraded around the field in ferocious, fist-waving celebration. Then a herald on a white horse galloped onto the field and announced the next two sides. Damon put heels to his horse and the Team of Tyree galloped onto the field. Banneryd came out opposite, fourteen big men on big horses, holding a perfect line. Cavalry men of the Banneryd Black Storm, as grim-faced and strong-muscled a selection of Lenay soldiery as one was ever likely to see. At their head rode Captain Tyrblanc, with a big square beard and a close-shaved scalp. He rode with a hand on one hip, straight-backed in the saddle despite his wide girth, and with barely a glance at his opposition.

Only as they drew closer did Damon recognise the man who rode second, with a Banneryd black and blue shirt and saddlecloth. It was Koenyg, as broad and strong as any of the cavalry, astride his favourite chestnut stallion.

The adjudicator waited astride his white horse with a ballskin dangling from his hook. He dropped it as the two teams lined up opposite each other, and Jaryd and the Banneryd captain dismounted to inspect it. The ball was a folded bundle of skins wrapped with twine and leather strips, about the size of a man's chest. Jaryd dug his hook into the folds and lifted, then tried the same with a hook through the outer straps and twine. Tyrblanc did the same, and both seemed satisfied. They clasped forearm to forearm, but if words were exchanged between them, Damon could not hear. Tyrblanc was the larger, and by far the more ferocious-looking, but skill in lopping heads was not necessarily the same as skill in hauling the ball.

The teams then lined up abreast, facing the scaffold seating. Archbishop Dalryn stood in his robes before the royal box and proclaimed the gods’ blessing upon proceedings. As that lineup dispersed, the Tyree Goeren-yai performed a chant in a tongue Damon did not recognise. The captains returned to the centre circle with several others, and the rest found their starting positions across the field.

Damon found himself starting next to Koenyg. His big brother smiled at him, the dark, knowing smile that only an older brother could manage, foreboding of future torments and humiliations.

“I'd thought you were busy?” Damon suggested, as their horses jostled and snorted, eager to be underway.

“Not too busy to teach my little brother a lesson or two in horsemanship,” Prince Koenyg replied. Damon sat taller than Koenyg in the saddle, yet he knew better than to take comfort in that. Koenyg was all muscle and determination. He was Commander of Armies now, Kessligh's old title, besides his usual responsibilities as the heir—defence of the realm primary amongst them. The king made broad decisions, but where force and strategy were in question, it was up to Koenyg to turn those decisions into action. Such responsibilities were the apprenticeship that would prepare an heir for the task of kingship. There were those, however, who suggested that the king had delegated too much.

“What's she doing here?” Koenyg asked, nodding to Sasha on the far side of the field.