Читать книгу: «The Protector of the Small Quartet», страница 3

Nealan gave no sign of hearing, but marched towards seats at the end of one table. As they sat across from one another, the boys closest to them moved. Two seats beside Nealan were left empty, and three next to Kel.

‘This is nice,’ Nealan remarked cheerfully. He put his food on the table before him and shoved his tray into the gap between him and the next boy. ‘Usually it’s impossible to get a bit of elbow room here.’

Someone rapped on a table. Lord Wyldon stood alone at a lectern in front of the room. The boys and Kel got to their feet as Wyldon raised his hands. ‘To Mithros, god of warriors and of truth, and to the Great Mother Goddess, we give thanks for their bounty,’ he said.

‘We give thanks and praise,’ responded his audience.

‘We ask the guidance of Mithros in these uncertain times, when change threatens all that is time-honoured and true. May the god’s light show us a path back to the virtues of our fathers and an end to uncertain times. We ask this of Mithros, god of the sun.’

‘So mote it be,’ intoned the pages.

Wyldon lowered his hands and the boys dropped into their seats.

Kel, frowning, was less quick to sit. Had Lord Wyldon been talking about her? ‘Don’t let his prayers bother you,’ Nealan told her, using his belt knife to cut his meat. ‘My father says he’s done nothing but whine about changes in Tortall since the king and queen were married. Eat. It’s getting cold.’

Kel took a few bites. After a minute she asked, ‘Nealan?’

He put down his fork. ‘It’s Neal. My least favourite aunt calls me Nealan.’

‘How did His Lordship get those scars?’ she enquired. ‘And why is his arm in a sling?’

Neal raised his brows. ‘Didn’t you know?’

If I knew, I wouldn’t ask, Kel thought irritably, but she kept her face blank.

Neal glanced at her, shook his head, and continued, ‘In the war, a party of centaurs and hurroks—’

‘Hur – what?’ asked Kel, interrupting him.

‘Hurroks. Winged horses, claws, fangs, very nasty. They attacked the royal nursery. The Stump—’

‘The what?’ Kel asked, interrupting again. She felt as if he were speaking a language she only half understood.

Neal sighed. There was a wicked gleam in his green eyes. ‘I call him the Stump, because he’s so stiff.’

He might be right, but he wasn’t very respectful, thought Kel. She wouldn’t say so, however. She wasn’t exactly sure, but probably it would be just as disrespectful to scold her sponsor, particularly one who was five years older than she was.

‘Anyway, Lord Wyldon fought off the hurroks and centaurs all by himself. He saved Prince Liam, Prince Jasson, and Princess Lianne. In the fight, the hurroks raked him. My father managed to save the arm, but Wyldon’s going to have pain from it all his life.’

‘He’s a hero, then,’ breathed Kel, looking at Wyldon with new respect.

‘Oh, he’s as brave as brave can be,’ Neal reassured her. ‘That doesn’t mean he isn’t a stump.’ He fell silent and Kel concentrated on her supper. Abruptly Neal said, ‘You aren’t what was expected.’

‘How so?’ She cut up her meat.

‘Oh, well, you’re big for a girl. I have a ten-year-old sister who’s a hand-width shorter. And you seem rather quiet. I guess I thought the girl who would follow in Lady Alanna’s footsteps would be more like her.’

Kel shrugged. ‘Will I get to meet the Lioness?’ She tried not to show that she would do anything to meet her hero.

Neal ran his fork around the edge of his plate, not meeting Kel’s eyes. ‘She isn’t often at court. Either she’s in the field, dealing with lawbreakers or immortals, or she’s home with her family.’ A bell chimed. The pages rose to carry their empty trays to a long window at the back of the room, turning them over to kitchen help. ‘Come on. Let’s get rid of this stuff, and I’ll start showing you around.’

Salma found them as they were leaving the mess hall. She drew Kel aside and gave her two keys. One was brass, the other iron. ‘I’m the only one with copies of these,’ Salma told her quietly. ‘Even the cleaning staff will need me to let them in. Both keys are special. To open your door, put the brass one in the lock, turn it left, and whisper your name. When you leave, turn the key left again. The iron key is for the bottom set of shutters. It works the same as the door key. Lock the shutters every time you leave, or the boys will break in that way. Leave the small upper shutters open for ventilation. Only a monkey could climb through those. Don’t worry if any of the boys can pick locks. Anyone who tries will be sprayed in skunk-stink. That should make them reconsider.’

Kel smiled. ‘Thank you, Salma.’

The woman nodded to her and Neal, and left them.

Neal walked over to Kel. ‘If they can’t wreck your room, they’ll find other things to do,’ he murmured. When Kel raised her eyebrows at him, he explained, ‘I learned to read lips. The masters at the university were always whispering about something.’

Kel tucked the keys into her belt purse. ‘I’ll deal with the other things as they come,’ she said firmly. ‘Now, where to?’

‘I bet you’d enjoy the portrait gallery. If you’re showing visitors around, it’s one of the places they like to go.’

After leading Kel past a bewildering assortment of salons, libraries, and official chambers, Neal showed her the gallery. He seemed to know a story about every person whose portrait was displayed there. Kel was fascinated by his knowledge of Tortall’s monarchs and their families; he made it sound as if he’d known them all personally, even the most ancient. She stared longest at the faces of King Jonathan and Queen Thayet. She could see why the queen was called the most beautiful woman in Tortall, but even in a painting there was more to her than looks. The girl saw humour at the back of those level hazel eyes and determination in the strong nose and perfectly shaped mouth.

‘She’s splendid,’ Kel breathed.

‘She is, but don’t say that around the Stump,’ advised Neal. ‘He thinks she’s ruined the country, with her K’miri notion that women can fight and her opening schools so everyone can learn their letters. Anything new gives my lord of Cavall a nosebleed.’

‘Still determined to go to war with the training master, Nealan?’ enquired a soft, whispery voice behind Kel.

She whirled, startled, and found she was staring at an expanse of pearl-grey material, as nubbly as if it were a mass of tiny beads melted together. She stumbled back one step and then another. The pearl-grey expanse turned dark grey at the edges. Looking down, Kel saw long, slender legs ending in lengthy digits, each tipped with a silver claw.

She backed up yet another step and tilted her head most of the way back. The creature was fully seven feet tall, not counting the long tail it used to balance itself, and it was viewing her with fascination. Its large grey slit-pupilled eyes regarded her over a short, lipless muzzle.

Kel’s jaw dropped.

‘You’re staring, Mindelan,’ Neal said dryly.

‘As am I,’ the creature remarked in that ghostly voice. ‘Will you introduce us?’

‘Tkaa, this is Keladry of Mindelan,’ said Neal. ‘Kel, Tkaa is a basilisk. He’s also one of our instructors in the ways of the immortals.’

Kel had seen immortals other than the spidren on the riverbank, but she had never been this close to one. And it – he? – was to be one of her teachers?

‘We basilisks are travellers and gossips,’ Tkaa remarked, as if he had read her mind. ‘I earn my keep here by educating those who desire a more precise knowledge of those immortals who have chosen to settle in the Human Realms.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Kel said, breathless. She started to curtsy, remembered that a page bowed, and tried to do both. Neal braced her before she could topple over. Once she had regained her balance, the red-faced Kel bowed properly.

‘I am pleased to meet you, Keladry of Mindelan,’ the basilisk told her as if he hadn’t noticed her clumsiness. ‘I shall see you both the day after tomorrow.’ With a nod to Kel and to Neal, he walked out of the gallery, tail daintily raised.

Neal sighed. ‘We’d better get back to our rooms. Tomorrow’s a busy day.’ He led her back to her room, pointing out his own as they passed it. ‘We’ll meet in the mess hall in the morning,’ he told her.

Kel used the key as Salma had directed, and entered her room. Everything was in place, her bed freshly made up, curtains and draperies rehung. A faint scent of paint still drifted from the walls. ‘Gods of fire and ice, bless my new home,’ she whispered in Yamani. ‘Keep my will burning as hot as the heart of the volcano, and as hard and implacable as a glacier.’

A wave of homesickness suddenly caught her. She wished she could hear her mother’s low, soothing voice or listen to her father read from one of his books.

Emotion is weakness, Kel told herself, quoting her Yamani teachers. I must be as serene as a lake on a calm day. It was hard to control her feelings when so much was at stake and she was so far from home.

But control her feelings she would. If anyone here thought to run her off, they would find she was tougher than they expected. She was here to stay.

To prove it, she carefully unpacked each porcelain lucky cat and set it on her mantelpiece. Only when she had placed each of them just so did she scrub her face and put on her nightgown.

Climbing into bed, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She imagined a lake, its surface as smooth as glass. This is my heart, she thought. This is what I will strive to be.

CHAPTER 3
THE PRACTICE COURTS

The next morning Kel heard the chatter of birds. She crept over to her open window and peered outside. It was nearly dawn, with the barest touch of light colouring the sky. Before her was a small courtyard with a single bedraggled tree growing at its centre. On it perched house sparrows, drab in their russet brown and tan feathers, the males with stern black collars. Several birds pecked at the circle of earth around the tree. Kel watched them as the pearly air brightened. Poor things, she thought, they’re hungry.

In her clothespress she had stowed the last of the fruit-bread Mindelan’s cook had given her for the journey south. Kel retrieved it and broke it up into crumbs, then dumped it on the courtyard stones. She was watching the sparrows devour it when the first bell rang and someone rapped on her door. She opened it and said a cheerful good morning to the servant who stood there with a pitcher of hot water.

‘Good is as good does, Page Keladry,’ he said, his long face glum. He placed his burden on her desk. ‘I’m Gower. I’m to look after you.’ He began to sweep out the hearth as Kel took the water into her dressing room.

A new fire was laid when she returned to the main room, her face washed and her teeth clean. ‘If you’ve anything special you require, soap or cloths or such, tell me,’ Gower said sorrowfully. ‘Within reason, of course.’

Kel blinked at him. She’d never met anyone this gloomy. ‘Thank you, Gower,’ she replied, intimidated. ‘I don’t need anything just yet.’

‘Very good, miss,’ he said, then shook his head. ‘I mean, Page Keladry.’

She sighed with relief when he left, and hurried to dress.

Undiscouraged by Gower, she wished Neal a good morning when she found him in the mess hall. He looked at her through bleary eyes and mumbled, ‘There’s nothing good about it.’ Kel shook her head and ate breakfast in silence.

The day flew by. It began underground, where the palace stores were kept. A tailor took Kel’s measurements. Then his assistant dumped a load of garments into her arms. She got three sets of practice clothes, sturdy tan cotton and wool garments to be worn during the morning. She also received three changes of the pages’ formal uniform – red shirt and hose, gold tunic – to be worn in the afternoon and at royal gatherings. Shoes to match her formal gear were added; her family had supplied boots for riding and combat practice. Neal took the cloaks and coats she was given for cold weather.

Once she had stowed her things, Neal took her for another tour. They spent the morning inside, visiting the classrooms, libraries, indoor practice courts, and supply rooms like the pages’ armoury on the first level underground. After lunch, Neal took her to the outdoor practice courts and stables; the gardens, where she might wait on guests; and last of all, the royal menagerie. That night she dreamed the hooting calls of the howler monkeys from the Copper Isles and the chittering of brightly coloured finches.

The next day she woke not to the gaudy finches’ calls or the songs of Yamani birds, but to the friendly gossip of the courtyard sparrows. In hopes of seeing them again, she’d swiped a couple of rolls from the mess hall. Now she tore the rolls up and put the scraps outside the window for the birds.

As she finished, the bell rang. Gower rapped on her door as he’d done the day before, bringing hot water. Once he had cleaned the hearth and gone, Kel got dressed and ran to the mess hall. Her first day as a page had begun.

After breakfast, the pages flocked to one of the practice yards. Kel would take her first steps on the path to knighthood in these wood-fenced bare-earth rectangles and their adjoining equipment sheds. I’ll work hard, she promised herself. I’ll show everyone what girls can do.

Two Shang warriors, masters of unarmed combat, awaited the pages in the first yard. One of them sat on the fence, looking them over with pale, intelligent eyes. Her short-cropped tight grey curls framed a face that was dainty but weathered. She was clothed in undyed breeches and a draped, baggy jacket.

The other Shang warrior stood at the centre of the yard, his big hands braced on his hips. He was a tall Yamani, golden-skinned, with plump lips and a small nose. His black eyes were lively, particularly for a Yamani. His black hair was cropped short on the sides and longer on top. His shoulders were heavy under his undyed jacket. Both he and the woman wore soft, flexible cloth shoes.

‘For those who are new,’ he said, no trace of accent in his clear, mellow voice, ‘I am Hakuin Seastone, the Shang Horse. My colleague, who joined me this summer, is Eda Bell, the Shang Wildcat.’

‘Don’t go thinking you can bounce me all over the ground just because I look like somebody’s grandmother,’ the woman said dryly. ‘Some grandchildren need more raising than others, and I supply it.’ She grinned, showing very white teeth.

Kel saw the redheaded Merric swallow. She agreed: the Wildcat looked tough.

‘You older lads, pair up and go through the first drill,’ ordered Hakuin. ‘Grandmother here will keep an eye on you. As for you new ones …’ He beckoned them over to a corner of the yard. Once they stood before him, the man continued, ‘Your first and most important lesson is, learn how to fall. Slap the ground as you hit, and roll. Like this.’ He fell forward, using his arms to break his fall. The boys jumped; the sound and the puff of dust he raised made the fall appear more serious than it was.

The Horse got to his feet and held a hand out to blond Quinden. When the boy took it, he found himself soaring gently over Hakuin’s hip. Only after he landed did the boy remember to slap the ground.

‘You have to do that earlier, as you hit,’ said Hakuin gently, helping Quinden up. ‘Now.’ He beckoned to Kel and offered a hand.

She took it, meaning to let him throw her as he had Quinden, but the moment she felt his tug, six years of Yamani training took over. She turned, letting her back slide into the curve of his pulling arm as she gripped him with both hands and drew him over her right hip. He faltered, then steadied, and swept Kel’s feet from under her. She released his arm, then tucked and rolled forward as she hit the ground. She surged back up again and turned to face him, setting herself for the next attack.

He stood where she had left him, smiling wryly. Horrified, Kel laid her hands flat on her thighs and bowed. She expected a swat on the head or a bellow in her ear – Nariko, the emperor’s training master, had had no patience with people who didn’t complete a throw or counter a sweeping foot.

When no one swatted or bellowed, she looked up through her fringe. Everyone was staring at her.

Kel looked down again, wishing she could disappear.

‘See what happens when you get too comfortable, Hakuin?’ drawled the Wildcat. ‘Someone hands you a surprise. If you’d been a hair slower, she’d’ve tossed you.’

‘Isn’t it bad enough I am humbled, without you adding your copper to the sum, Eda?’ the Horse enquired. ‘Look at me, youngster,’ he ordered. When Kel obeyed, she saw Hakuin’s black eyes were dancing. ‘Someone has studied in the Yamani Islands.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she whispered.

‘Your teacher was old Nariko, the emperor’s training master, am I right? She always did like that throw. She drilled me in it so many times I wanted to toss her into a tree and leave her there.’

Kel nodded, hiding a smile.

Hakuin looked at the older pages. ‘I believe you were practising the first drill for the Wildcat?’ he asked mildly. Instantly there was a flurry of activity, patterns of kicks, throws, and punches. Hakuin turned back to Kel. ‘Come and show the other new ones how to fall. While they practise, we can see what else you know.’

‘Just what they taught the court ladies,’ Kel said. ‘Mostly counters to being grabbed or struck.’

‘You were with the embassy?’ he asked.

Kel nodded.

‘That explains everything.’ To the other new pages he said, ‘Watch how Keladry falls.’

They all stared at her with a combination of confusion and dislike. It occurred to her that she had done the very thing her brother had warned her against. The other pages thought she was showing off. She couldn’t help that now. The damage was done. She would just have to make sure that she didn’t repeat her mistake.

With a sigh, she toppled forward, as she had so often in the Islands, and smacked the ground.

When the next bell of the morning rang, they moved to another practice yard. A short black man in the maroon and beige uniform of the palace guard waited for them beside a barrel filled with long wooden staffs. Each of the pages selected one as he passed by.

‘I am Sergeant Obafem Ezeko,’ announced the uniformed black man in unaccented Common. ‘Formerly weapons instructor to the Imperial Guard of Carthak, now serving the crown of Tortall. Lord Wyldon and I will instruct you in the use of various weapons. Pair up. You new ones at this end of the line. Cleon of Kennan and Vinson of Genlith, come up here to demonstrate.’

Cleon was the big, redheaded boy who was Esmond of Nicoline’s sponsor. He went to stand beside the sergeant, spinning his staff idly in his hands. Vinson faced off with him. He was a bony, tall youth. Kel had seen him eating with the handsome Joren at supper and breakfast.

‘Show them a high block,’ instructed the sergeant. ‘Vinson defending, Cleon striking.’

Cleon pulled his staff back and swung it first up, then down. The blow he’d aimed would have struck Vinson on the head or collarbone if it had landed. Instead Vinson gripped his staff, his hands spread wide apart, and raised the weapon a few inches over his head. Cleon’s staff met his with a loud clack.

‘Observe the strike,’ the sergeant told them. ‘Again, Cleon.’ The big youth repeated the strike, moving slowly. Kel nodded, watching the way his hands shifted on the smooth wood as he lowered it to tap Vinson’s skull. From the way Vinson scowled at the bigger youth, Cleon’s tap was a little harder than necessary.

‘Your turn,’ barked Ezeko. He watched as the assembled pages did the strike. The newest boys were clumsy, although they should have had staff practice from their family men-at-arms. Kel was comfortable with the move. The only difference between this and the strike of a Yamani glaive, the weapon she knew best, was that she had no razor-sharp eighteen inches of steel at the end of her staff.

‘Repeat the high block, Vinson,’ ordered the sergeant. Everyone watched as Vinson moved his hands apart on the staff and thrust it hard into the air, stopping just three inches over his head. He angled the staff down on the right to shield his face as well as his head. The sergeant made everyone do the same movement. He then had Cleon and Vinson demonstrate the middle strike and block, which centred on the chest and belly, and the low combination, to attack and defend the legs. Each time he made the pages try the moves.

Once they had practised each movement, Ezeko had them stand in two lines. The newest pages were paired together. Neal, who was still new despite having been there during the spring and early summer, was partnered with Seaver of Tasride, the dark-haired, dark-eyed boy who looked as if he had a Bazhir ancestor. Kel was paired with redheaded Merric of Hollyrose. He was short, compact, and intent on their exercise. Kel licked her lips and settled the weapon in her hands.

‘Left line strikes; right line blocks,’ the sergeant told them. He walked along the double line of pages, checking everyone’s hold on the staffs. After he’d changed some boys’ grips and nodded approval for others, he stepped back. ‘To my count,’ he bellowed. ‘High! Middle! Low!’ Staffs clacked as the exercise began and wood met wood. ‘High! Middle! Low!’

Kel struck carefully. Proving herself tough on a smaller opponent wasn’t right, and Merric looked nervous. The lightness of the staff bothered her. A Yamani glaive was far heavier. She knew that if she forgot she held a lighter pole, she would hit too hard.

‘Faster! Swing ’em!’ cried the sergeant. ‘I want to hear wood clack! You don’t master the staff, you’ll never master the sword. High! Middle! Low!’ Over and over he chanted, increasing the speed. Kel bit her lip, locking her attention on the weapon.

‘Ow!’ someone cried as wood struck flesh. A few moments later there was another yelp.

‘Keep going!’ yelled Ezeko. ‘If your fingers hadn’t been in the way, they wouldn’t have been hit. Move ’em apart! The rest of you don’t need me to count, do you? High, middle, low! I want to hear those staffs beat as one, understand me?’

They had been at it long enough to begin to sweat when Lord Wyldon came into the yard. He and Ezeko walked up and down the two lines of pages. Wyldon changed Prince Roald’s footing. Ezeko corrected Esmond of Nicoline’s grip. Wyldon thrust Neal’s high block higher. They reviewed and changed each boy’s work until they got to Kel and Merric. Rather than speak to them or change the way they exchanged blocks and strikes, both men turned and went back up the line, inspecting and correcting the other boys a second time. Kel watched them go; Merric banged her fingers as a result. When she looked at him, he glared at her.

It wasn’t my fault they ignored us, she wanted to protest. She didn’t. Warriors didn’t make excuses.

‘Switch places!’ cried Ezeko when he reached the far end of the line of pages. They all stopped and repositioned themselves. Ezeko began the chant again. ‘High! Middle! Low!’

Merric seemed glad to be the one to hit. His blows fell harder and faster than the count, forcing Kel to respond in kind. Their rhythm fell out of time with their classmates’. Kel knew the men saw it, but they continued to focus their attention on the other pages. She kept up with Merric, blocking his strikes easily. She’d already attracted enough attention for one morning.

‘Enough,’ said Lord Wyldon at last.

‘Next,’ the sergeant informed them, ‘you will use strikes and blocks in combination. This time, strike your partner, then block his return strike.’

‘Change partners,’ added Wyldon. ‘Older pages, pair with the new ones, and see if you can better their speed. Come on, switch pairs!’

The boys looked around, trying to get to the partners they wanted before someone else did. Unsure of what to do, Kel remained where she was. When everyone formed into two lines once again, she was facing the beautiful Joren. Seeing that Kel stared at him, Joren smiled.

Kel hid her confusion. The day before, Neal had told her that Joren thought girls did not belong there. Now Joren smiled at her as if she were his friend. Does he want to make amends? she wondered.

‘Get to it,’ Ezeko ordered. ‘Right line starts with a high strike. Left line does a high block, then a high strike. Right line, high block, then high strike. Older lads, go slow with the new ones. Strike! Block! Strike! Block! Nealan, stop flinching – if you get hit, you get hit. Strike! Block! Strike! Block!’ He kept them at that for a few moments. Joren politely tapped his staff on Kel’s as she blocked him; Kel then returned the hit and was blocked by Joren. They continued the rhythm easily.

‘Switch to middle strike, middle block on my mark,’ Wyldon ordered. ‘Ready … middle strike! Middle block! Strike – King’s Reach, stand still! You don’t get dancing lessons till later.’

Ezeko picked up the count. After a while they switched to putting low strikes against low blocks.

Kel relaxed. Joren was a good partner, meeting her with just the right amount of force. They traded blows and blocks easily, which gave Kel time to study him. Joren had to be the prettiest boy she’d ever seen. For all that he was older, a third-year page, he was only an inch taller, his gorgeous blue eyes nearly level with hers. He’d combed back his long, white-blond hair and secured it in a horsetail for the morning’s work. If he were a Player, Kel thought, they’d have him doing the young god Balcus Starsworn all the time.

Suddenly Joren’s staff shifted under hers, sliding out of position for a block. He drove the lower end of his weapon under her guard, aiming for her ribs. Kel foiled him by stepping out of line.

‘Back in place, probationer,’ barked Wyldon.

The exercise changed again, this time to a high strike against a high block, then a middle strike and middle block, followed by a low strike and low block. The speed picked up as well. More and more pages, not all first-years, began to make mistakes.

Ezeko stood by her and Joren, yelling out the count. Kel took up the rhythm of the exercise, but now all of her senses were alert. When the pair next to them lost track of which block followed which strike, the sergeant moved to them. In the next moment Kel struck low and felt Joren’s staff glide out from under hers. He swung his staff around and up, slamming it down at her collarbone. She whipped the foot of her staff up and around her arm to deflect him.

‘This isn’t a game, probationer!’ snapped Wyldon. ‘Stick to the drill!’

Kel saw a mocking gleam in Joren’s eyes. So Neal was right, she thought. He isn’t nice at all.

Joren held to the drill, but now each block had more force behind it, making it a block and a blow. Each time he struck he was a little closer to her. Will they yell at him if he drives me back? Kel wondered. Or will they only yell if I move out of line?

‘Come on, Queenscove!’ cried Zahir, the tall young Bazhir page. ‘Stop flinching!’

Kel glanced over: Zahir was driving Neal out of the line of boys, his staff a blur in the air. Neal was blocking Zahir’s strikes, but just barely.

Wyldon and Ezeko went to Neal and Zahir just as the tip of Joren’s staff banged into Kel’s cheekbone. He forced her backward, striking hard. She kept her fingers away from his weapon, thinking fast. If Wyldon or the sergeant wasn’t going to put a stop to this, she had to.

She turned to the side, forcing Joren to move out of line to keep up. In turning, she discovered that the other boys had gathered around Zahir and Neal. They formed a kind of wall in front of Joren and Kel. Neither of the teachers would be able to see what Joren was doing until they forced the pages to form lines again.

Joren hit Kel hard and fast, raining blows on her. ‘Do you like this?’ he demanded breathlessly as he pressed her. ‘Do you think you can keep up? Why don’t you go home?’

‘I belong here,’ Kel said grimly. She gave way before him, pushing his strikes to either side, thrusting their power away from her. ‘Just like the Lioness.’

‘Your precious Lioness is a mage and a cheat,’ sneered Joren, hate making him ugly. He tried thrusting his staff past her blocks. When she intercepted him, he’d swing to the side hoping to smash her ribs. Kel saw they had almost reached the barn that served as one wall of the yard. She would have to do something when they got there.

The butt of Joren’s staff caught the big muscle in her left thigh. Kel winced, thinking that she’d had just about enough. Joren was all right with a staff, but he wasn’t one of the emperor’s ladies. Her brother had warned her against showing off her Yamani skills, but surely he didn’t mean for her to lie down for a bully.

‘Why don’t you just get out while you can still walk?’ Joren whispered as Kel ran into the barn. He faked a strike at her knee. When she blocked it, he turned his staff over, driving it at her ribs. This time Kel swung her weapon across her chest, pushing Joren’s staff into the clear air at her side. Joren recovered, slightly off balance, and swung the butt of his weapon towards her ribs again.

Kel pivoted to the side, letting Joren’s momentum carry him towards the barn. Holding her staff near the top, she thrust its low end between Joren’s calves. He crashed face-first into the building. He spun – he was quick, she admitted – and struck at her wildly.

I’m done being polite, she thought grimly.

This time she thrust her staff under Joren’s and up, between his hands. A quick twisting jerk yanked the wood from his grip and sent it flying. Kel then drove her staff towards the flesh at the base of his neck. There she let it rest. As Joren slid away from her along the barn, she followed, keeping the light pressure on his windpipe. If she’d had a glaive rather than a staff, she might have given him a scratch to make sure that he remembered the lesson.