Redoubt (5 page)

The Companions nodded or otherwise indicated their agreement, as Mags sensed that
they approved of this. That made him feel a good bit better about it. If the Companions
felt he could do this, then he’d give it the best try he could.

“I like this plan more and more,” Gennie said with glee. “But we can’t use it more
than once, so we’ll have to pick our time carefully.” She considered the Foot thoughtfully.
“You know, we could do something else, if you lads are game for it. All
four
of you make for the flag, then when one of you has it, hide it, split up, and run
like billy-oh for our side. When they realize one of you has it, they won’t know
which
one, and that will force them to split up too. And meanwhile, they’ll still have
to watch the ball, or we’ll take it over and keep them away from it. We might even
get a chance at a goal.”

“What about our goal?” Pip wanted to know.

Gennie looked penetratingly at Mags. “Think you and Dallen can hold it alone?”

Mags thought for a moment and then got an idea. “Nothing in the rules about me being
dismounted, is there?” he asked. “That’d make two guards instead of one. I can run
pretty fast, an’ Dallen moves like a scared cat.”

:I like that plan.:

“Nothing in the rules,” Gennie said cheerfully. “And there’s plenty of times in a
real fight you’ll be going dismounted, so I doubt very much anyone is going to object.
At least not for this particular game.”

This was sounding better and better.

“And nothing in the rules says that you
have
to hit the ball with the stick.” He grinned. “Plenty of times in the scrum Companions’ve
been kicking the ball around, right? Well, Dallen and I have been working on something,
something you have to be in the open to do. I lob the ball to him, he kicks it to
the sky. More
up
than straight, and no direction to speak of, but that’s good ’cause they’ll have
to figure out where it’s coming down. If they come at the goal when we’re there, taking
a chance on the Foot not getting through, that’s what we’ll do. Bet they’ll be so
busy skywatching they won’t see the flag stealer till it’s too late.”

It was obvious from the now eager expressions on his teammates’ faces that everyone
liked this plan. Even the horses seemed to catch the excitement and brought their
heads up, looking alert and ready to play.

“I like it,” Gennie said firmly. “Right, then. Everyone mount up, and let’s go through
the usual drills. The sooner we turn ourselves into a team, the better. Mags, you
and Dallen sort out whose heads you’re supposed to be in, and make that your priority.
Now let’s get working. We only have until lunch to turn ourselves into the team worthy
to be called the Prince’s Choice.”

* * *

Mags rather liked the look of the new armor. Rather than repainting the old, two teams’-worth
had been made in their specific team colors, and basic tunic and trews in matching
colors were passed out along with it. That was a lot of work and quite a bit of money,
and that made him wonder if Nikolas and the King had some notion of creating Kirball
teams for the adults once enough players had gotten out of Grays to form two sets
of four. It might be a good idea . . . it would certainly be something to look forward
to. But realistically, how often would they actually get to play? Once Heralds went
into Whites, they generally spent the majority of their time in the field. The odds
of actually getting eight players at the Collegium long enough to practice and play
on a team were fairly long.

Or maybe the King was thinking about making this sort of match an annual or semiannual
affair. The sort of thing that could be played down in the city, for instance. . . .

He thought about that with some glee. What if there were an abbreviated version of
Kirball, something that used only eight Trainees, maybe with a simple goal instead
of the goal and the flag, and played on a plain, flat field? Would people like to
watch that? He knew he would enjoy playing it. Any time he got to play a game on Dallen’s
back was—

:Wake up, dreamer. Game time.:

He blinked and put his mind firmly back in the present. And, predictably, the nerves
started.

He
always
had nerves before a game. He had too cursed good an imagination. He could picture
all sorts of things going wrong, anything from messing up so badly he looked an utter
fool and was asked to never play again, to causing some sort of hideous accident.
And no matter how many games he played, he never got over having the nerves. It made
him feel keyed up, muscles tense, and just a little bit sick. Gennie and Pip always
looked so relaxed at this point, and he could never imagine how they managed it.

He comforted himself with the fact that once the game started, he would be far too
busy for nerves.

And if he hadn’t been picked for either team, he would not be getting any sort of
holiday today; like Nikolas, he would be working. He would probably be in a servant’s
uniform or a page’s tabard, moving among the audience, observing and listening. If
the nerves he was experiencing now were bad, the nerves he would be experiencing out
there would be much, much worse. The last time he had been watching a crowd, Amily
had nearly been kidnapped. Every time he thought about that, he got a sick, horrible
feeling, thinking about what could have happened to her.

The assassins had intended to use her as a way for the Karsites to ruin her father,
the King’s Own, and utterly discredit the Heralds for being unable to properly protect
one of their own. They’d nearly managed it, too.

No, no one, least of all Mags, had forgotten for a moment that there was still a set
of skilled, determined, and unknown assassins out there, hired by Karse. They had
not fulfilled their contract, and without knowing whether Karse had dismissed them
or they had forfeited, there was no choice but to assume that they were still bound
to that contract.

That, in truth, was why the newlyweds were spending their wedding nights in Companion’s
Field rather than some other romantic and secluded venue. The last several monarchs,
for instance, had used a royal hunting lodge, but that was quite out of the question
at this point. Nothing and no one was going to get past the ring of determined Companions
that surrounded them while they were there. Even the food and drink brought to them
was left well away from their pavilion and brought to them by the Prince’s Companion
or one of the four trusted—and tested—servants that were with them. Short of dropping
down out of the sky, there was no way to approach them, which was exactly how everyone
wanted it.

:Hello? Game?:

Mags shook his head a little. He really
was
going to have to do something about the way his mind wandered.

As Mags lined up with his team, the Prince and Princess arrived to a fanfare, galloping
up to the viewing stand with an escort of Companions. It made a very pretty sight,
but Mags had other things to watch than the Heir, who at this point was probably the
safest person up here on the Hill, what with Guards and Companions and Heralds all
on alert for danger.

He resolutely put his mind back in the game, sizing up their opponents on the White
team.

He worried less about the ones he hadn’t worked with than his former teammates; he’d
faced all of them over the ball many times already. He reckoned that being from different
teams would matter less to the Foot and the Riders than it would to the Herald Trainees.
And the four Trainees on the White team were all from different Kirball teams, which
might give them just a moment or two of hesitancy that Mags, Gennie, and Pip wouldn’t
have. But the Foot and Riders from
Gennie’s
original team knew her style and knew how the Reds tended to come up with unexpected
strategies; they might not be fooled when Mags “accidentally” Mindspoke to all of
them.

The sun was high overhead now. The Prince had timed his wedding well, insofar as it
did not interfere with the lives of his subjects. This was the end of summer. It was
not yet harvest time, yet harvest time was near enough that not even Karse would be
insane enough to attack with an army that would pull men away from the fields near
the time they would be most needed. Foods that were not harvested in the fall were
abundant, it had been easy to transport them here, this was right in the middle of
trading season, so traders were perfectly happy to have excuses to set up fairs alongside
all the wedding celebrations taking place all over the country. The weather was absolutely
splendid—dry, warm, perfect for outdoor celebrations.

Unless, of course, you were wearing half your own weight in Kirball armor.

Mags was already sweating, and he was grateful for the breeze that was making the
pennants at the grandstand snap and pop.

:Whether or not our old teammates believe your “slip” won’t matter as long as the
rest are fooled,:
Dallen pointed out, swishing his tail slightly as the wind played with his mane and
forelock.
:It will take their Mindspeaker longer to sort that out and tell them than it would
you. That will translate into a lot of distance for the Foot with the flag.:

The referee was coming out with the ball, and time for woolgathering was over.

The two teams got into place. The Foot went to the blue and white goals, the Riders
and Trainees gathered around the referee. Mags leaned forward over Dallen’s neck,
feeling the Companion’s muscles tensing under his legs.

He was amazed the ball didn’t burst into flames from the intensity of the glares on
it.

The ball went up in the air, and the referee scrambled for cover. As the team had
anticipated, the moment the ball hit the ground, the scrum was on.

Mags was pressed on both sides by tall cavalry horses, but Dallen was just as tall,
and heavier, and not at all averse to shoving back. He had no idea where the ball
was, and neither did his Companion. They milled with the others in a tight mob. There
was no need to put on a showy exhibition for the crowd this time; those who were watching
were here to ogle the new Princess, to be seen themselves, or to watch the game. For
the first two groups, it wouldn’t matter what happened on the field, and for the last,
everything
that happened on the field was of intense interest.

:Aha. The ball’s under the feet of that tall roan!:

:Under the roan!:
Mags “shouted” to his teammates.

Those wicked little ponies on the Blue side went straight to work, and Jeffers got
control of the ball, but they were matched by mounts and Riders on White who loved
a good dust-up. Mags backed a little out of the scrum, just enough that he could see
the ball among all the hooves, and kept them all aware of where the ball was; but
it was going to take an accident, a misstep, or a lucky move to get it out from under
the ponies’ hooves and noses.

:I told you it would be easier to keep track of your teammates than you thought,:
Dallen pointed out as he warned one of the Riders that they were about to lose the
ball.

:Huh. Practice?:

:Generally makes perfect, yes. Or at least “much better.”:

The scrum moved slowly up and down the field without getting far from the center until
just that lucky move on the part of a White—a daring and accurate hit with the stick—sent
it skittering out of the scrum and toward the Blue goal.

Off went the Riders and half of the Trainees, following it like a cat after a mouse.
Gennie and Mags stayed behind a little, in case someone got the ball away from the
Whites, and he finally got a lungful of air that wasn’t full of churned-up dust.
Quarter-time can’t come too soon
. They were barely into the game, and already his throat was parched. and he desperately
wanted a drink.

After drilling all morning, Gennie was confident in the ability of their own Foot
to keep anyone from scoring on them. The Prince had chosen shrewdly, picking people
who were agile, quick, and utterly fearless in the face of risk—people who, in fact,
were being trained as battlefield messengers.

Even as Mags thought that, one of the Whites bunged the ball toward the goal, and
one of their own literally leaped for it, intercepted it with his body with an audible
impact, rolled around it, tumbled, rolled to his feet—

Coming at you, Mags!
he heard the thought in his mind and was ready when the Blue whirled and flung the
thing at him like a woolsack. He forgot all about his dry mouth, the persistent tickle
in the back of his throat, and the sweat pouring down the back of his neck and gave
the ball a
whack
with his stick, sending it to Gennie who was closer to the goal. She took a chance
and gave it another smack, sending it toward the dead center of the goal, but she
wasn’t really expecting to get it in, so the team was ready when the White Foot intercepted
it and bunged it back to their own Rider.

That was when the Blue Riders and Trainees rushed him and forced him into a scrum
on the fence. He was almost bowled over by the avalanche of Companions and horseflesh;
desperately trying to control the ball, he was carried along in the direction
they
wanted to go.

The White Trainees were good, but the Riders were fighting their horses to get in
close. Blue kept the scrum right up against the fence for the rest of the quarter,
as Mags warned them every time it looked as if the ball was going to escape into the
open, and it ended without either team managing to score.

The team huddled up to consider the strategy for the next quarter.

Mags pulled off his helmet and poured water over his head, then poured more over Dallen’s.
The sun was punishingly hot out here; only that stiff breeze was keeping things bearable.

“It would be awfully nice to actually get a goal,” Jeffers said wistfully.