Tamora Pierce - Squire

Kel hugged the girl, who was as much friend as maid, then grabbed the basket and gave her key to Lalasa. ‘Tell Neal and the others I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye,’ she said, and raced down the hall with Jump and the sparrows.

In the stable Kel and over a hundred men saddled riding horses and put lead reins on their remounts. Qasim had left a pack with Kel’s name on it for her spare clothes; she filled it from her basket and gave the pack to the supply officer when he collected them.

Qasim had put a burnoose, weapons, mail, helmet, and shield with her tack. Kel popped out of her tunic, slid into the mail shirt, then pulled the tunic over it. The men of the Own wore burnooses as cloaks. Kel fastened hers at the neck, hoping Qasim would show her how to shape a hood from it and fix it to her head when there was time.

She fastened her shield and weapons to her saddle, then donned her helmet. She was ready. Looping Hoshi’s reins around one hand and Peachblossom’s around the other, Kel walked out of the stable with her mounts and Jump. The sparrows had vanished into Jump’s carrier on Hoshi’s back.

Kel tethered her horses on the edge of the courtyard where the company assembled. The torches, blown by the wind, gave the scene a dreamlike feel as the faces of the men were first brightly lit, then shadowed. The night itself was a cool one, the wind smelling of water and the first hay cutting of the summer.

Kel watched the men unnoticed. Some were thirty or older, but most were young, single men in their twenties – married men were not allowed to join the King’s Own. A third were Bazhir. Of all the realm’s forces the King’s Own had done the best at enlisting the once-scorned Bazhir. That was Lord Raoul’s doing: he had taken the Own to live among the Bazhir for two seasons and recruited new men from their sons.

‘So who’s this youngster?’ someone asked. Hoshi’s bulk shielded Kel from the men’s view. ‘We’ve got Lerant here for standard-bearer.’

‘A squire,’ sneered a young man’s voice.

The one who’d first spoken exclaimed, ‘He’s never wanted a squire—’

Kel stroked Peachblossom’s nose. Eavesdropping had become a vice for her. She strained to hear a whispered remark, but didn’t catch what was said. Then:

‘The Girl ?’ someone demanded.

‘I don’t care if she’s the Wave Walker,’ someone drawled. ‘She’s green as grass.’

‘She better not foul us up in the field,’ another voice proclaimed.

‘Don’t you saddle rats have better things to do?’ a gruff voice demanded. ‘Let’s have an inspection. Mithros witness, if I find one strap undone, heads will roll.’

‘But, Sergeant Osbern, sir, I like my head,’ someone muttered.

‘Very well, Gildes of Veldine. Let’s inspect you first and put you out of your misery,’ the decisive voice said.

Now that they were no longer talking about her, Kel emerged from between the horses. Gildes must be the drooping fellow who led his mounts to a blond, barrel-chested man. The others were double-checking their things.

‘Did you eat?’ someone asked Kel. A young man about four inches taller than she approached her. He gave Kel a warm turnover. ‘Just rolled out of bed and came charging on down, I bet. You’ll learn. Eat.’

Kel bit and discovered sausage and cheese inside the turnover. ‘It’s good!’ she mumbled, her mouth full.

The stranger grinned cheerfully at her. In his early twenties, he was broad-shouldered, big-handed, and very handsome. He wore his dark hair cut just below his ears. His mouth was long and made for smiling. He wore the uniform of the Own: loose dark trousers, chain mail shirt, blue tunic with silver trim, and a white burnoose. The crimson band around his biceps showed a dark circle with a black dot at its centre: a sergeant’s badge.

‘I see you’ve still got your overgrown horse,’ he remarked with a nod towards Peachblossom. ‘I was new to the King’s Own that day we saw you tilting. Everybody but me bet you’d come straight off his back when he reared. I won a meal at The Jugged Hare because I bet you’d stay on.’ He bowed to Kel as she wiped her fingers on the handkerchief she kept tucked in her boot top. ‘Domitan of Masbolle at your service, Squire Keladry. Your page-sponsor was a certain mad cousin of mine.’

She squinted to get a better look at him. His eyes – impossible to tell their colour at the moment – were framed by wide, arched brows and set over a long nose slightly wide at the tip. It was Neal’s nose, on someone else’s face. Kel smiled. ‘You’re related to Neal?’

‘Sadly, yes. I call him Meathead. Have you ever met anyone so stubborn?’ Domitan tucked his big hands into his breeches pockets with a grin.

‘He can be difficult, um … Sergeant?’

He shook his head. ‘Technically you’re not in the Own. Besides, he’s written me so much about you I feel like I know you. Call me Dom.’ He offered his hand.

‘Kel,’ she said, taking it. He gave her a firm squeeze, reassuring, not trying her strength as so many young men did, and let go. She felt breathless and tingly.

‘You sure grew into this bruiser,’ Dom remarked. When he offered a hand for Peachblossom to sniff, Kel yanked him back just as the gelding struck. ‘Oh, I see,’ Dom remarked, unruffled. ‘A testy pony.’

Kel giggled, then saw that Lord Raoul, Captain Flyndan, and two men, farmers by their clothes, had emerged from the palace. Stablehands brought horses and remounts forward.

‘We’re ready to do business,’ Dom remarked. ‘Welcome to the Own, Kel.’ He swung himself onto his saddled mount, a dappled grey gelding.

Lord Raoul rode over. ‘All set to give Hoshi a try?’ he asked. Kel nodded. ‘Mount up. Normally our remounts go in a string at the rear – the servingmen lead them with the supply train. We’ll make an exception for Peachblossom. You ride a neck length back on my left, and keep him with you. Behave,’ he told Peachblossom, speaking directly to the horse. ‘Or I’ll muzzle you like a dog.’

Peachblossom shook his head vigorously. Kel hoped that was restlessness, not disagreement. With no time for another word with him, she gave a silent prayer to any listening gods for his good behaviour and swung into the saddle. Hoshi stood patiently as she settled in.

Kel twisted to look into the carrier behind her saddle. ‘You have to move,’ she told the drowsy sparrows huddled there. ‘Otherwise Jump will squash you.’

The birds hopped out. Once the carrier was empty, Kel nodded to Jump: he sprang neatly into the leather box. Hoshi flicked two ears back, then swung them forward again. Not even Jump could shake the mare’s calm.

‘Well, I’m impressed,’ drawled Raoul, who had watched. ‘Come along, Squire Keladry. Time to get your feet wet.’

Following him to the front of the mounted force, Kel took note of the dogs. Thin, fine-boned greyhounds sat on the ground beside three riders. Four other men rode with terriers in carriers like Jump’s. Six wolfhounds stood beside Captain Flyndan, tails wagging. There was no sign of Third Company’s hunting birds – probably they were in carriers, asleep.

Lord Raoul faced his men. ‘Doubtless you know as much as I do,’ he said, his calm, steady voice carrying over the fidgets of horses and the creak of leather. The men fell silent the moment he began to speak. ‘Haresfield in the Royal Forest was attacked by a band of centaurs and humans. We’ve got reports of twenty-three dead. Balim’s squad is there now. Chances are the raiders cleared the district, but they could be stupid enough to stay around. Keep your eyes open.’

He wheeled to face the gates, raised a kid-gloved hand, and brought it down, nudging his big bay mare into a trot. A brunette young man with a snub nose rode on his right, carrying the flag that announced they were Third Company of the King’s Own. Captain Flyndan rode on the standard-bearer’s right. Obeying her instructions, Kel followed Lord Raoul on his left. Behind her she heard the thunder of hooves as the riders took places in a long double column.