“Um. Sort of,” she whispered. “Sort of.” Which meant she’d taught them. Even better.
“Wonnerful.” Well there was no helping it. He had a song about him now. The best thing he could do would be to see if she could bury it with a better one. “Well, then, Lena Marchand, you owes me. An’ I am gonna collect.” He fastened her with a stern gaze, which was altogether ineffective since she was staring at her hands. “Yer gonna write ’nother song ’bout Dallen. An’ yer gonna make it better’n the one ’bout me.”
Now she looked up, with a slightly panicked look on her face. “I can’t promise it will be better!” she protested.
He didn’t relent. “Are ye a Bard, or no?” he countered. “Bards write t’ demand all th’ time. Ye jest said so. Well, I be yer first customer. Ye might’s well start learnin’ how t’ please the customer now, an’ be done wi’ it.”
She sighed heavily and dropped her gaze to her lap again. “All right,” she replied unhappily. “I’ll try.”
He could hardly believe it. He’d only been tucked up in Healer’s Collegium for a little more than a day and already this had happened.
Well, the best way to deal with it was to act as if it wasn’t important—and neither was he. But this was certainly nothing like what Herald Nikolas wanted him to do.
His thoughts were interrupted by Lena, speaking in what was almost a whisper. “Don’t you want to hear it?” she asked. “Even a little?”
He almost snapped out “No!” when he got a good look at her face.
Oh, how could he make her even more unhappy than she already was? That would just be the height of cruelty.
“All right,” he said, trying not to show his reluctance. “It was damn nice on ye, Lena. ’S jest, I don’ wanna fuss about me, an’ I thought ye knew that. I didn’ like the bad fuss, an’ I don’ like a good fuss about the same. Jest don’ like any fuss, ye ken?”
She nodded.
He reached out and patted her hand. “Bet it’s real good though. So le’s hear it.”
She lit up with a smile and reached down for the little gittern next to her chair. And Mags got to listen for the next half candlemark all about what a brave hero he was, when in fact, he was dead certain he was nothing of the sort.
“You’re sure you can see all right?” Gennie asked anxiously. From inside the helmet, Mags nodded, the helm following the motions of his head and turning them into something ponderous. So did all the rest of them.
“All right, you lot. Remember. Play with your heads as well as your hands and feet,” she said to the team that had gathered around her. “Listen for Mags in your heads. But if you see something that opens up in front of you, think it as hard as you can.”
They stood in a circle, with the horses and Companions on the outside, reins held loosely in their riders’ hands. They could all hear the murmur of the crowd huddled up against the fence surrounding the field. A lot of people had turned up today; it was a gorgeous, sunny, warm day, perfect for just about anything. One enterprising fellow was peddling apples. Pip had taken a look at the crowd and remarked that before long they were going to need stands for the spectators. Mags had thought he was joking, but now he wasn’t so sure.
They were all unmounted for the moment, the horses stirring uneasily at the ends of their bridles, sandwiched in between Companions to keep them out of mischief. The horses were mostly well-schooled and well-behaved, but they were horses, and one perceived nip or bump might start something, wasting energy that they would need for the game.
“Riders, we’ve got a disadvantage; the Riders on North are all well monied and they have a horse for every quarter. We don’t.”
They all nodded. Of them all, only Jeffers had three horses; the other riders had a pair apiece. That meant they’d be alternating, one to ride, one to rest. The second quarter each horse played was going to be hard on them—and even Jeffers was going to have to go with a barely-rested horse for the fourth quarter.
“So ride smart. Let your beasts rest as much as possible, and see to it that theirs don’t get a chance to. Just remember this, though, your horses are all tough and scrappy. Theirs are high-bred and all nerve and nose. Chances are we can make them or the riders lose their tempers, and if we do that, we win the game. Provided you can keep yours.”
She turned to the Foot. “You lot have our secret, but remember to wait until we tell you to use it, because once we do, it won’t be a secret anymore and everyone will use the trick. We have to plan this and plan it well. Right?”
One of the Guard boys saluted. No one found that funny. Gennie nodded. “Right then. Check the saddles, bits and boots for your mounts. Check your paddle-straps. Check your armor. Let’s play the game.”
The South team lined up in the middle of the field. After a moment, the North did the same, opposite them. Mags noticed something immediately.
:The North Riders have whips in their hands,: he projected to all of them. :They won’t be able to manage reins, whip and paddle.:
He saw Gennie nod slightly, and narrow her eyes.
:Tell them this again from me. Play together, play with your heads, and follow the ball. If North gets it, drive the ball to the Riders and let them fumble it. Keep it away from the Trainees.:
The “ball,” a curiously soft thing about the size of a baby’s head, lay on the ground between the two teams. It could be kicked by the Companions or by the Foot, it could be snatched up and carried, thrown, or hit with the paddles. Anything was fair. All eyes were on it.
“Ho!” shouted the referee, and the Trainees from both sides dove for the ball.
But Jeffers, on a pony barely big enough to be a mount for him, dove in under the nose of one of the North Trainees, leaning down out of his saddle, and scooped up the ball. The indignant Companion pulled up with a whinny. As he hauled himself back up, he threw the ball toward his side.
Gennie snagged it out of the air and she and her Companion scrambled for the North goal.
No one—well, perhaps no one except the South team—had expected anyone to get his hands on the ball that fast. The North was caught unprepared, and pelted after her.
But their Foot were already moving to intercept her.
:Pip!: she called out, and feinted toward the goal while throwing the ball in a fast, shallow arc toward her teammate. It came at him like a comet, but he knew this maneuver of old and he stood up in his stirrups and smacked it with his paddle with both hands, as hard as he possibly could.
The ball flew, high and true, and in through the open door of the North goal.
The crowd of spectators—for there was a crowd—went insane.
:We’ve made ’em mad,: Mags warned, catching some black looks from the North team.
:Good. Now we tire them out with some football,: Gennie replied.
And so they did.
North got the ball this time, but as Gennie had told them to do, the team crowded the ball handler and kept the Trainees tied up so that the ball went to a Rider—and then South Riders and Trainees pressed the Riders hard, keeping them away from the North Trainees and from each other. They ran the North Riders all over the field, took them on scrambles over the rises, made them leap the little fences and tear down into the gullies, taking them over every thumb-length of ground. The horses lost their heads over this; they hated being run in this way, and as a consequence they became handfuls, fighting the bits and their Riders, forcing the Riders to use those whips in their hands. Which meant the Riders couldn’t use the paddles. And finally, the ball-carrier fumbled, and Pip nipped the ball out of the air in midfall, just as the whistle blew for the end of the quarter.