Tamora Pierce - Squire

‘They’ll have to sing a sweet song to get out of a hanging,’ Raoul said grimly, picking up his empty dishes.

Kel shuddered: she hated hangings. No matter what the crime was, she saw no malice in those hooded and bound silhouettes dangling against the sky. Worse, to her mind, was the thought that the condemned knew they were to die, that a day and time had been set, that strangers planned each step of their killing.

Flyndan misunderstood her shudder. ‘That’s right. It’s not glamour and glory. It’s hard, mud-slogging work. If you wanted it easy, you should have taken a desk knight.’

‘Stop it, Flyn,’ Raoul said, his voice firm. ‘See her in action before you judge.’

‘I know, she rallied those lads while we handled the spidren nest. You’d think she’d be over this warrior thing by now.’ Flyndan carried his dishes away.

‘Kel?’ Raoul asked.

Kel was buttering a roll. She knew what he wanted. ‘I’ve heard it before, my lord.’

Raoul patted her shoulder and took his dishes to the scrubbers.

‘He’s not the easiest second in command, but he’s good at it.’ Kel looked up to meet Dom’s very blue eyes. ‘You need someone a bit stiff to offset my lord. He’s too easygoing, sometimes. Flyn will let up, once he sees this isn’t a hobby for you.’

Kel shrugged. ‘I don’t need to be liked, Dom. I just need to work.’

When she rose with her dishes, he did as well. ‘And you’ve a knack for it. I heard what you did with the spidrens, your first year. And then with the hill bandits, your second summer.’

Kel glanced up at Dom, startled. ‘How did you know about that?’ She handed her bowl, plate, and cup to the dishwashers. One of them was Qasim. He smiled at Kel and Dom, and meekly bore a scolding from the village woman beside him, who said it took more than a swipe with a cloth to get a bowl clean.

‘How did I know?’ Dom asked, and chuckled. ‘My cousin the Meathead, remember? He wrote about both in great detail. I feel sorry for him these days, though.’

‘But he’s got the Lioness for knight-master!’ protested Kel.

Dom grinned down at her. ‘You think that’s fun ? Maybe we’re not talking about the same Lioness. The one I know rides with us a lot – my lord’s one of her best friends. She’s the one with the temper. And if Neal’s learned to keep his opinions to himself, it’ll be more than any of us were ever able to teach him.’

Kel started to argue, and changed her mind. Dom was certainly right about Neal.

‘Trust me,’ Dom said, resting a hand on Kel’s shoulder, ‘I bet he wishes right now you had his place!’ He went to help some men carry a heavy beam down the street.

Kel resisted the temptation to rub the spot where Dom’s hand had rested. She needed to find work. Was she some kind of fickle monster, that Dom’s smile and touch could make her giddier than Neal’s had? Was she one of those females who always had to moon over a man? Did other girls’ emotions flop every which way? Lalasa had never mentioned it, if hers did, and she was quite good at explaining such things.

‘That’s my doll.’

Kel looked down. A small girl stared up at her with accusing brown eyes. She was streaked with mud and soot; there were charred places on her skirt, but there was nothing afraid or weary in those eyes.

‘I looked and looked and looked. I thought Gavan stole it because he knew I would cry. She’s my favourite.’

Kel had forgotten the doll she had cleaned and thrust into her belt. Now she gave it to its owner, who informed Kel that ‘Mama needs help lifting.’

‘Take me to your mother, then,’ Kel said.

The girl’s home was a shambles. Soot streaked the walls above the windows. Men and boys were on the roof, tearing off burned thatch as they searched for hidden fires. A figure the size of an infant lay in front of the house, covered with a cloth square.

‘That’s my brother,’ the girl said, her face stony. ‘We were running across the street. The house was on fire, and men were shooting arrows, and one hit him. He died.’

She led Kel into the house. A woman whose eyes were red and puffy from weeping struggled to right an overturned table. A toddler clutched her skirt. Kel got to work with the table while her guide took charge of the toddler. The young mother was happy for the assistance, and asked nothing of Kel past her name.

They had set the room in order and put the beds out to air when Kel heard someone yell for her. She apologized to the family and ran out, to find Lerant in the street.

‘What have you been doing, rolling in muck?’ he demanded scornfully, looking down his short nose at her. ‘Well, never mind. The Rider Groups are here, and the centaurs, the ones who are going to help search. They’re in a tent outside the main gate. My lord wants you to wait on them. The wine service is in the bags with the blue rawhide ties, with the packhorses. There’s two small kegs of wine in general supplies.’ He trotted away, not giving Kel time to reply.

She drew a bucket of water from a nearby well and poured it over her head to rinse off most of the dirt. Then she went to find the supplies outside the stockade.

The packs lay on the ground. Raoul’s personal ones had his crest pressed into the leather. Those with blue rawhide ties lay beside them. She had gone through one and was opening the second when a man shouted, ‘Hey! You! What are you after, grubbing in the captain’s things? Get out of there!’

A servingman ran over to grab Kel’s arm. ‘You think you can steal whatever you like, is that it? Well—’

‘Hold it, Noack,’ someone interrupted. It was the burly Sergeant Osbern. ‘What’s this noise? They can hear you at the council tent.’

‘He was in Captain Flyndan’s bags, and I’m not to squawk?’ the man Noack demanded.

‘Squire Keladry?’ Osbern enquired. Kel nodded.

‘Squire?’ cried the testy Noack. ‘Squire or no—’

Osbern raised his eyebrows. Noack went silent and let go of Kel.

‘I was told my lord’s wine service was here, and that I should bring it and the wine to the council tent,’ Kel said evenly. ‘I didn’t know those were Captain Flyndan’s bags.’

‘Who told you?’ the sergeant enquired.

Obviously Lerant was having fun at her expense, but she would keep that to herself. ‘One of the men, Sergeant,’ she replied. ‘I don’t know the names yet.’

Osbern pursed his lips. ‘Too bad, because I would have a thing or two to say to that man,’ he told Kel, his voice dry. ‘It isn’t just the captain’s bags, Squire Keladry. My lord doesn’t drink spirits, and he doesn’t serve them. He says he had a problem as a young man, so he doesn’t care to have liquor about. Captain Flyndan likes a glass or two. He serves it in his tent, but only when my lord isn’t there. A water service will do today.’

Kel nodded and found the pitcher, tray, and cups in Raoul’s general supplies. The company mages had declared the town’s wells to be clean, with no sickness in them. Kel used the well nearest the gate to fill her cups and pitcher, then carefully took the whole into the council tent.

Its sides were raised to accommodate five centaurs, who stood with the humans around a large table on which maps had been placed. These were younger than Greystreak, and looked to be in their twenties and thirties, though with centaurs it was hard to tell. Their youth lasted for two centuries; like other immortals, they never aged past mature adulthood. Unless an immortal was killed by accident or in a fight, she or he might live forever.

There were four human newcomers in plain white shirts, brown tunics and trousers, and riding boots. They wore the emblem of the Queen’s Riders, a crimson horse rearing on a bronze-coloured field, circled by a ring. One Rider wore a crimson ring around his badge, the sign of a Rider Group commander. Two wore a crimson ring with a thin black stripe in the middle: they were second in command. The Riders had a looser command structure and did not follow traditional military rankings.