First Test

‘I told you, it’s your job to perform a warrior’s tasks. We do this kind of work,’ Salma replied. ‘Leave this to me. By the time you come back from supper it will be as good as new. Are you going to change clothes?’

Kel nodded.

‘Why don’t you do that? It’s nearly time for you to wait outside. I’ll need your key once you’re done in here.’

Kel scooped up the things she needed and walked into the next room. Small and bare, it served as a dressing room and bathroom. The privy was behind a door set in the wall. There was little in here to destroy, but the mirror and the privy seat were soaped.

Kel shut the door. Before she had seen her room, she had planned to wear tunic and breeches as she had for the journey. She’d thought that if she was to train as a boy, she ought to dress like one. They were also more comfortable. Now she felt differently. She was a girl; she had nothing to be ashamed of, and they had better learn that first thing. The best way to remind them was to dress at least part of the time as a girl.

Stripping off her travel-stained clothes, she pulled on a yellow linen shift and topped it with her second-best dress, a fawn-brown cotton that looked well against the yellow. She removed her boots and put on white stockings and brown leather slippers.

Cleaning the mirror, she looked at herself. The gown was creased from being packed, but that could not be helped. She still had a black eye. There was nothing she could do with her mouse-brown hair: she’d had it cropped to her earlobes before she’d left home. Next trip to market, maybe I’ll get some ribbons, she thought grimly, running a comb through her hair. Some nice, bright ribbons.

She grinned at her own folly. Hadn’t she learned by now that the first thing a boy grabbed in a fight was hair? She’d lose chunks of it or get half choked if she wore ornaments and ribbons.

Overhead a bell clanged three times. She winced: the sound was loud.

‘Time,’ Salma called.

If she thought anything of the change in Kel’s appearance, she kept it to herself. Instead she pointed to yet another piece of writing: Girls Can’t Fight! Salma’s mouth twisted wryly. ‘What do they think their mothers do, when the lords are at war and a raiding party strikes? Stay in their solars and tat lace?’

That made Kel smile. ‘My aunt lit barrels of lard and had them catapulted onto Scanran ships this summer.’

‘As would any delicately reared noblewoman.’ Salma opened the door. Once they had walked into the hall, she took the key from Kel and went about her business, nodding to the boys as they emerged from their rooms.

Kel stood in front of her door and clasped her hands so no one could see they shook. Suddenly she wanted to turn tail and run until she reached home.

Wyldon was coming down the hall. Boys joined him as he passed, talking quietly. One of them was a boy with white-blond hair and blue eyes, set in a face as rosy-cheeked as a girl’s. Kel, seeing the crispness of his movements and a stubbornness around his mouth, guessed that anybody silly enough to mistake that one for a girl would be quickly taught his mistake. A big, cheerful-looking red-headed boy walked on Wyldon’s left, joking with a very tall, lanky youth.

A step behind the blond page and Wyldon came a tall boy who walked with a lion’s arrogance. He was brown-skinned and black-eyed, his nose proudly arched. A Bazhir tribesman from the southern desert, Kel guessed. She noticed several other Bazhir among the pages, but none looked as kingly as this one.

When the training master halted, there were only five people left in front of doors on both sides of him: four boys and Kel. Her next-door neighbour, a brown-haired boy liberally sprinkled with freckles, bowed to Wyldon. Kel and the others did the same; then Kel wondered if she ought to have curtsied. She let it go. To do so now, after bowing, would just make her look silly.

Wyldon looked at each of them in turn, his eyes resting the longest on Kel. ‘Don’t think you’ll have an easy time this year. You will work hard. You’ll work when you’re tired, when you’re ill, and when you think you can’t possibly work any more. You have one more day to laze. Your sponsor will show you around this palace and collect those things which the crown supplies to you. The day after that, we begin.’

‘You.’ He pointed to a boy with the reddest, straightest hair Kel had ever seen. ‘Your name and the holding of your family.’

The boy stammered, ‘Merric, sir – my lord. Merric of Hollyrose.’ He had pale blue eyes and a long, broad nose; his skin had only the barest summer tan.

The training master looked at the pages around him. ‘Which of you older pages will sponsor Merric and teach him our ways?’

‘Please, Lord Wyldon?’ Kel wasn’t able to see the owner of the voice in the knot of boys who stood at Wyldon’s back. ‘We’re kinsmen, Merric and I.’

‘And kinsmen should stick together. Well said, Faleron of King’s Reach.’ A handsome, dark-haired boy came to stand with Merric, smiling at the redhead. Wyldon pointed to the freckled lad, Esmond of Nicoline, who was taken into the charge of Cleon of Kennan, the big redhead. Blond, impish Quinden of Marti’s Hill was sponsored by the regal-looking Bazhir, Zahir ibn Alhaz. The next pairing was the most notable: Crown Prince Roald, the twelve-year-old heir to the throne, chose to show Seaver of Tasride around. Seaver, whose dark complexion and coal-black eyes and hair suggested Bazhir ancestors, stared at Roald nervously, but relaxed when the prince rested a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Only Kel remained. Wyldon demanded, ‘Your name and your fief?’

She gulped. ‘Keladry of Mindelan.’

‘Who will sponsor her?’ asked Wyldon.

The handsome Zahir looked at her and sniffed. ‘Girls have no business in the affairs of men. This one should go home.’ He glared at Kel, who met his eyes calmly.

Lord Wyldon shook his head. ‘We are not among the Bazhir tribes, Zahir ibn Alhaz. Moreover, I requested a sponsor, not an opinion.’ He looked at the other boys. ‘Will no one offer?’ he asked. ‘No beginner may go unsponsored.’

‘Look at her,’ Kel heard a boy murmur. ‘She stands there like – like a lump.’

The blond youth at Wyldon’s side raised a hand. ‘May I, my lord?’ he asked.

Lord Wyldon stared at him. ‘You, Joren of Stone Mountain?’

The youth bowed. ‘I would be pleased to teach the girl all she needs to know of life in the pages’ wing.’

Kel eyed him, suspicious. From the way a few older pages giggled, she suspected Joren might plan to chase her away, not show her around. She looked at the training master, expecting him to agree with the blond page.

Instead Lord Wyldon frowned. ‘I had hoped for another sponsor,’ he commented stiffly. ‘You should employ your spare hours in the improvement of your classwork and your riding skills.’

‘I thought Joren hated—’ someone whispered.

‘Shut up!’ another boy hissed.

Kel looked at the flagstones under her feet. Now she was fighting to hide her embarrassment, but she knew she was failing. Any Yamani would see her shame on her features. She clasped her hands before her and schooled her features to smoothness. I’m a rock, she thought. I am stone.

‘I believe I can perfect my studies and sponsor the girl,’ Joren said respectfully. ‘And since I am the only volunteer—’

‘I suppose I’m being rash and peculiar, again,’ someone remarked in a drawling voice, ‘but if it means helping my friend Joren improve his studies, well, I’ll just have to sacrifice myself. There’s nothing I won’t do to further the cause of book learning among my peers.’

Everyone turned towards the speaker, who stood at the back of the group. Seeing him clearly, Kel thought that he was too old to be a page. He was tall, fair-skinned, and lean, with emerald eyes and light brown hair that swept back from a widow’s peak.

Lord Wyldon absently rubbed the arm he kept tucked in a sling. ‘You volunteer, Nealan of Queenscove?’

The youth bowed jerkily. ‘That I do, your worship, sir.’ There was the barest hint of a taunt in Nealan’s educated voice.

‘A sponsor should be a page in his second year at least,’ Wyldon informed Nealan. ‘And you will mind your tongue.’

‘I know I only joined this little band in April, your lordship,’ the youth Nealan remarked cheerily, ‘but I have lived at court almost all of my fifteen years. I know the palace and its ways. And unlike Joren, I need not worry about my academics.’

Kel stared at the youth. Had he always been mad, or did a few months under Wyldon do this to him? She had just arrived, and she knew better than to bait the training master.

Wyldon’s eyebrows snapped together. ‘You have been told to mind your manners, Page Nealan. I will have an apology for your insolence.’

Nealan bowed deeply. ‘An apology for general insolence, your lordship, or some particular offence?’

‘One week scrubbing pots,’ ordered Lord Wyldon. ‘Be silent.’

Nealan threw out an arm like a Player making a dramatic statement. ‘How can I be silent and yet apologize?’

‘Two weeks.’ Keladry was forgotten as Wyldon concentrated on the green-eyed youth. ‘The first duty for anyone in service to the crown is obedience.’