Lynn Flewelling - The Bone Doll's Twin

But Ki understood, and so did the Companions—even the ones who were kind. Tobin hadn’t understood the shame Ki felt when a drunken prince had slapped him so carelessly with a sword and dubbed him “Sir,” bestowing on him a grass knight’s hollow title—with its boon of a warhorse and a yearly purse of money. For all the lessons and proper speech he’d learned from Arkoniel, everyone here knew who his father was and had seen how his “knighthood” had been earned.

No, Tobin couldn’t understand any of that, and Ki kept his promise to Tharin and didn’t tell him. Pride kept him from confiding even in Tharin, though they visited him as often as they could.

Still, it wasn’t all bad, he often reminded himself. Tobin was like a drink of sweet water in a swamp, and there were those who knew how to appreciate him. Korin did, when he was sober, and so did the better ones among the Companions: Caliel, Orneus, Nikides, and little Lutha. Their squires were courteous to Ki out of respect for that, and some of them accepted him as a friend.

On the other side of the fence were Squire Mago and his faction; it hadn’t taken Ki long to peg them as trouble. They spared no effort to remind him that he was a grass knight, and a poor man’s son. Whenever they could corner him out of earshot of the prince—at the stables, in the baths, or even when they were sparring in the sword circle—they hissed it at him like rock vipers: “Grass knight!”

To make matters worse, Moriel, the boy whose place Ki had taken, was fast friends with Mago and cousin to Quirion’s squire, Arius. Evidently Moriel’s appointment was to have been his way into the Companions.

There was something wrong there, Ki thought. Korin didn’t seem overly fond of some of his own Companions, even though they were touted by all as a closely bound elite, the future generals and councilors of a future king. It seemed to Ki that Korin would do well to rid himself of a good many of them when he was old enough to choose for himself.

None of that is my concern , he reminded himself. He was Tobin’s squire and in that he was content. Nothing the other squires could say to him would interfere with that.

Or so he thought.

By the end of Rhythin Ki was beginning to get his bearings at table. He could serve any type of dish through a twelve-course banquet without spilling a drop, knew all the right serving dishes, and was feeling rather proud of himself.

That night at mess it was only the Companions and Porion at table. Tobin was seated between the arms master and Zusthra. The older boy was still hard to read; he seemed sullen, but Porion treated him with high regard and Ki took that for a favorable sign.

Tobin seemed happy enough, if quiet. Korin was drinking and going on again about the latest report from Mycena. Apparently the king had routed a Plenimaran attack along some river and everyone was drinking to celebrate the victory, and growing more morose as they grew drunker, convinced the fighting would be over before they were allowed to go.

Ki went out for more platters, and by the time he came back Caliel and Korin were arguing about why hounds didn’t like Tobin and hawks did. Ki wished them luck with that one; even Arkoniel had had no answer for the dog question. They’d had to give Tobin’s gift hounds away, but he’d turned to out be a fine hand with falcons. Caliel spent a great deal of time with him, teaching Tobin how to use the hoods, jesses, and whistles. In return, Tobin had fashioned a beautiful ring for him from wax, in the shape of a hawk with outstretched wings, and had a goldsmith cast it. Caliel wore it proudly and was the envy of the Companions. Thanks to that, Tobin had switched from wood carvings to jewelry making and their room was littered with gobs of wax and sketches. Tobin already knew half the goldsmiths near the Palatine, and was making inroads among the gem carvers as that took his fancy. Korin dubbed him the Artist Prince.

Ki was pleasantly lost in these happy thoughts as he balanced two half-empty sauce basins back to the kitchen. He was nearly to the sideboard when Mago and Arius cornered him. He glanced around quickly but Barieus was nowhere in sight. The cooks and scullions were busy with their own work.

“No, it’s just we three,” said Arius, guessing his thought. He jostled Ki on one side and Mago did the same on the other until they had him backed into a corner. Ki barely managed to get the sauce basins down onto a table before they spilled.

“Well done, grass knight,” snickered Arius.

Ki sighed and waited for them to back off now that they’d had their fun. But they didn’t.

“Well done, for a horse thief’s son,” sneered Mago, not even bothering to lower his voice.

Ki felt his face go hot. “My father’s no thief.”

“He’s not?” Mago made round eyes of surprise at him. “Well, then you’re the cuckold’s bastard I took you for all along. Old Larenth has been stealing my uncle’s horses for years and everyone knows it. He’d have hanged your brother Alon if he hadn’t run away to the war before the bailiff caught him.”

Ki faced him down, holding his clenched fists against his thighs. “He’s no thief! And neither is my father.”

“Then he’s not your father,” said Arius, pretending to reason with him. “Come on now, which side of the blanket were you born on, Sir Kirothius? Or do you even know?”

It doesn’t matter. Ki clenched his fists so tightly he felt the nails bite into his palms. Only honor matters. Don’t dishonor Tobin by losing your temper.

“What’s a prince doing with a grass knight like you for a squire, I wonder?” said Mago.

Arius leaned in closer. “Well, you know what they say about him— ”

Ki could hardly believe his ears. Were they daring to insult Tobin now? Both boys turned and were gone before he could gather his wits to respond.

“Ki, don’t stand there dreaming. Fetch in the damson tart!” snapped Chylnir, who’d just come in.

Honor. Ki summoned Tharin’s voice in his mind as he hoisted the heavy pastry dish. Whatever a squire does reflects on the lord he serves. Keep that thought first in your heart, no matter what, and you’ll always do what’s proper.

Thinking of Tharin calmed him. By the time he reached the dining room, he could wish Mago and Arius dead without so much as frowning in their direction.

Instead, he brought all his anger and resentment to the training fields the next morning and every day after. Whenever he could, he paired off with his enemies for swordplay or wrestling, and let his body speak for him. The other boys were good fighters, too, and he didn’t always best them, but they soon learned to avoid him when they could.

He and Tobin were hailed as equals of all but the oldest boys, and Ki wasn’t sure they couldn’t have taken some of them on, but Porion wouldn’t allow it. Crowds gathered to watch the new prince fight. Some of the squires and other blades, including Lutha, began to adopt plainer garb on the training field, though nothing so worn as Tobin’s old jerkin. Ki had even sided with Molay and Lord Orun on this issue, trying to talk Tobin into adopting better garb to suit his station, but he wouldn’t be moved. He’d wear any finery they wanted to feasts and around the city, but remained stubborn on that point, even when he overheard some of the onlookers joking that they couldn’t tell him from Ki in a match. In fact, it seemed to please him.

It was only much later that Ki realized that Tobin understood and resented the petty meanness directed at them as well as Ki did, and chose his own ways of fighting back.

Autumn came on in a series of terrible thunderstorms that swept in off the sea. Lightning flashed down, striking buildings and sometimes even people. Rain ran in torrents from rooftops and through the streets, washing the year’s refuse down to the sea.