Valdemar 06 - [Exile 02] - Exile’s Valor (20 page)

Besides, it wasn't Alberich that she wanted to make jealous.

Though, on second thought, there really wasn't
anyone
in her entire Court or the Heraldic Circle she wanted to make jealous. Honestly, if the whole business of trying to get her to marry someone who was tied to a whole pack of special interests was put aside, the real reason she didn't want to marry any of the Council's choices was that they all
bored
her. There wasn't one of them that was worth spending an entire after- noon with, much less a lifetime. There wasn't a single unattached male in the entire Court that even gave her a flutter of interest.

She was just so tired of it all; tired of the ache in her soul, tired of the loneliness, tired of trying to outmaneuver the people she
should
have been able to lean on. It seemed as if her entire life was nothing more than dragging herself through an endless round of weariness and grief, and she just wanted an end to it all.

She buried her face in her pillow, not to muffle more sobs, but to block out—everything. If only for a moment.

It was when she woke again to the sounds of her servants and attendants bustling around the room that she realized she must have fallen asleep again. And if she didn't feel
better,
at least she felt a little less tired.

Enough so, that she felt she could probably face the day. She didn't want to, but she could.

:I think,:
she told Caryo, as they came to get her out of bed and dress her,
:I think we'll have our morning ride before breakfast.:

:Good,:
Caryo said simply.
:I'd like that. Thank you.:
Keep moving. That was the only answer. Just keep moving. . . .

And if that wasn't an answer, at least it was a way to keep her from just—stopping. Stopping and never starting again.

For Alberich, the day after the Festival's climax began just as any ordinary day did—the only differences being that now, at least, he didn't have to concern himself with making preparations for Selenay's appearance, and now that he knew the identity of the young man he'd been looking for, he could concentrate on thinking of ways to find out what was going on.

But as far as the young Trainees went, apparently, the end of the Festival meant restlessness and discontent. They'd had an unexpected break in their routine, and as Alberich was woefully aware, any break in a youngster's routine generally meant trouble in getting him back into that routine.

As a consequence, the first class of the morning was a disaster. Far too much time was wasted in trying to get his students back on track after the excitement of the Ice Festival. And they fought him every step of the way, performing their warmups lethargically, running through the initial exercises in a state of distraction, and wasting time in chattering about the pleasures of the day before.

And part of him was still puzzling over the question of Devlin Gereton, why he would be receiving information from a play-actor, and what that information could be. It took real effort on his own part to put that aside and concentrate on getting some results out of the class.

But it was a futile effort. The Trainees were utterly disinclined to settle down and work, and finally, in desperation, he decided that if all they could do was chatter about ice sports, well, he'd
give
them an ice sport they would never forget!

After all, they were going to have to learn to work together, in coordinated teams. . . .

“Silence!”
he barked. “Weapons
down.
”

Startled, they shut off the chatter, dropped weapon points, and stared at him.

“Weapons put away. Get the staves,” he ordered grimly. “Now. Then on with cloaks, and follow me.”

Now looking apprehensive and guilty, they obeyed. He snatched up his own cloak, hid a little surprise inside it as he did so, and stalked out, followed by a suddenly subdued tail of Trainees of all four colors.

Out into the snow they went, out past the practice grounds and into Companion's Field, following a path beaten by others into the thigh-deep snow. It was another cloudless, bone-chilling day, and sunlight poured pitilessly down through the skeletal branches of the trees. He led them to one of the frozen ponds in Companion's Field, one that had been cleared off so that it could be used for skating, but was far enough from the Palace and the Collegia that it wasn't in use very much. In a welcome release for his temper, he kicked three basket-sided holes in the snow at the edge of the ice, one at each point of an imaginary equal-sided triangle laid on the pond, then divided the class into two teams. He made sure that the Trainees were fairly evenly distributed between both teams, and he made a point of dividing up friends as much as he could. If they were mad for sport, well, he'd give them bloody sport indeed. . . .

:Chosen, I hope you aren't releasing a wolf from a trap, here,:
Kantor said, full of amusement.
:Are you sure you know what you're doing?:

:No,:
he said honestly.
:But at least they'll get some stave practice out of this.:

Then he dropped what he had picked up onto the ice in front of them.

It was one of the little round cushions that they used over their knuckles when they were practicing bare-fist fighting. They looked at it, then at him, then back down at it, without any comprehension at all.

“Pah. You are two teams of fighters now.
There
are your goals. First team—there, second team, there.” He pointed. He thought he saw comprehension beginning to dawn. He hoped so. They'd
all
seen the broom-ball competition. He hoped they weren't so dense that they could-n't figure this out! “The third goal neutral is. Either team may score there. The cushion, into the opposite goal, or into the neutral goal, you are to put,” he said icily and moved carefully off the slippery surface of the ice with as much dignity as he could muster, heaving a sigh of relief when he reached the bank and could stand there with his arms folded over his chest, under his cape.

“But is this like broom-ball? What are the rules?” someone asked, and “But we don't have skates!” protested another.

“There are rules in war? I think not,” he retorted. “Skates you will be carrying in the field? Enough. No rules. The cushion, in the goal, you will put. How it comes there, your problem is. Hit it, you may. Kick it, carry it, I care not. You have staves. Use them. Fight with them.
No rules.
”

He hadn't been altogether certain what their response would be. On the one hand, they were Trainees, and had a modicum of training in organization. On the other hand, they were overstimulated adolescents with too much restlessness to settle down. They
could
settle in and make some rules, assigning tasks and responsibilities before they set to their new version of broom-ball.

They
could.
But they didn't.

With a yell, someone broke and swatted at the cushion with his stave, and the melee began as someone else jumped for the cushion, and half of the other team piled onto the one making the move. It was, in a sadistic sort of way, rather entertaining for the onlooker. Staves went everywhere—though not as successfully as if the fighting had been on solid, unslippery ground. Bodies went everywhere. Most of them ended up sprawled on the ice. The cushion tended not to get anywhere near a goal.

He had been counting on the ice to ensure that no one was able to get in any dangerously hard blows with the staves, and the ploy worked. Even the ones that were good skaters found the going slippery, and none of them were used to trying to stay balanced on the ice while simultaneously swatting with a stave. And all of them were fairly good at stave work to begin with, so if someone swung for an opponent instead of the cushion, there was a good chance that he'd find the blow blocked. But none of them were doing much in the way of coordination or teamwork; it was pretty much every man for himself, and Alberich had ensured that the little amount of teamwork that
might
have occurred naturally was sidelined by breaking up friends onto opposite teams.

It got pretty wild out there, though, before it was all over. He didn't know if any of
them
were keeping track of the number of goals that were made. He certainly wasn't. All he was interested in was to make sure that no one was injured beyond falls and bruises and bumps on the head. Putting them on the ice had another effect; even when someone connected with a stave, most of the force of the blow went into sending the opponent flying like a giant version of the cushion. Oh, they were going to be aching and stiff when it was over.

:There's going to be competition for the bathtubs today,:
Kantor observed, sounding highly amused.
:And calls for liniment, I suspect.:

:They wanted excitement,:
he told his Companion.

If they were going to act like a lot of wild hill brats, then by the Sunlord, they were going to learn why discipline and organization were necessary if you wanted to win a fight.

By the time that class was over—more to the point, by the time he broke up the melee that the “game” had turned into and sent them all back to their other classes—it didn't appear that the lesson had sunk in yet.

But he was relatively certain that eventually it would, as they thought back over the chaos on the ice. Certainly they were, one and all, winded, weary, aching in every limb, and there wasn't one of them that wasn't sporting some sort of injury. There were a hefty number of black eyes, and lots of bruises in places that didn't show. And a strain or two, and lumps on the skull. And he would have laid money on the fact that not one of them was going to give the other instructors any trouble for the rest of the day.

But most of all, for the sake of the lesson in teamwork, it was painfully clear that no one had any idea who had won.

So when the next class showed the early symptoms of the same “disease,” he administered the same “cure.” It was only when he got the final-year students that he got any signs of sense and steadiness out of them, and managed to run a normal class.

He didn't have the option of thinking much past the fact that at least he'd gotten some work
out
of them, and a lesson of sorts
into
them. After classes were over, some of the Guard appeared for a little training, and he was able to work out some of his own frustration in a satisfying series of bouts. When the last of the adults had gone, and the last of the daylight faded, leaving the salle in blue gloom, he was more concerned with a hot shower than anything else.

He went back into his quarters and got himself cleaned up, coming out of his bathing room to find that the servants had come and gone from the Collegium, leaving behind both his dinner and a visitor.

“What in the bloody blue blazes did you infect your students with today?” Myste demanded, peering at him through her thick glass lenses, pausing in the midst of laying out plates, cups, and cutlery. “They look like they've been through the Wars, and they're chattering like magpies about some ice exercise you invented.”

He stared at her for a moment, bemused both by her presence and by the question. He hadn't thought much beyond exhausting the worst offenders; it hadn't occurred to him that they'd actually
take
to the exercise. Well, not really, anyway. Maybe some of the Blues, the courtiers' children, who hadn't anything better to do with their time. “They would not settle,” he replied after a moment. “So, to exhaust them, I decided. And to show them, organization is needed, a battle to win.”

“Well, your little experiment in ice warfare is being talked about over all three Collegia,” she said in a rueful tone, as if she could hardly believe it. “And the ones that hadn't tried it yet were mad to, while the rest are trying to come up with rules, so-called ‘proper' equipment, scoring. It's all anyone could talk about over luncheon
and
dinner, and they want to do it in their free time—”

He interrupted her with a gust of incredulous laughter. “No—they mean to make a
sport?
”

“Evidently.” She shook her head, and dished out food for both of them. Then she sat down, next to the fire, with a bowl of stew in hand. “I suppose we should be grateful. It's new, it's a good alternative to tavern hopping and getting into pranks,
and
it's exercise.”

“And they will weary of it, soon enough,” he said. “If they do not, when the ice melts, over it is.” He couldn't believe that anything as ridiculous as the foolish melee he'd put them through had suddenly become an all-consuming interest.

“Hmm.” She ate a little, chewing thoughtfully, as the fire crackled beside her. “I think what's likeliest to happen is that they'll all try it, but the only way to keep from getting bruised up and battered over it is to have a lot of rules, and maybe purloin the padding and helms used for weapons practice into the bargain. But having a lot of rules means that they'll have to
agree
over the rules. No two sets of would-be players are going to have the same idea of what the rules should be. And in the end, they won't have agreed before the ice melts.”