Drie blinked but didn’t answer.
The randon snarled and launched his bird. The merlin dived straight for the delinquent cadet’s face, shearing off at the last moment with a near squawk. Drie scrambled to his feet, suddenly wide awake, and fled, closely pursued. Behind him he left a trail of wet footprints.
“Damn,” said Tarn. “Now we’ll probably never find out.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Jame said. “Now I’m curious.”
“Huh-oh.” Gari shivered. “Why do I smell disaster?”
In exiting the door, Drie nearly collided with Gorbel as he entered, pook under his arm.
“You said I should ask,” he growled at Jame. “Falconer, am I bound to this thing?”
The “thing” wriggled and produced a pair of button eyes amidst all of its shaggy fur. “Woof,” it said, and produced a red, panting tongue.
Pooks were odd, native creatures. Technically canine, despite diminished smell and sight, they could track prey across the folds in the land, which made them invaluable to those Kencyr who admitted that said folds actually existed. Gorbel had sent to Restormir, his father’s keep, for this particular specimen when he had set out to hunt the cave bear that was preying on Tentir’s herd. Arguably, the pook had saved his life by guiding Jame to him.
Master and dog scratched their ears simultaneously. The infestation of fleas that Gari had set loose during the Winter War in the Caineron barracks still seemed to be rampant. Gorbel glared at Gari.
“Sorry about that. I’ll clear them out if you like,” Gari offered.
“You do that.”
Torvi the Molocar rose and ambled over to inspect the new dog. His paws on Gorbel’s shoulders, he presented the lordan with jaws capable of removing the front of his head, skull and all. Gorbel held the squirming pook out of reach. “Down,” he said with the authority of a hunt master. Torvi licked his face apologetically and retreated.
“There’s definitely some link there,” said the Falconer, “but undeveloped. You’d better start attending my classes.”
The Caineron sat down with a grunt next to Jame and wiped the dog slather off his face with a sleeve. “Is this going to help?”
“I’m not sure. The skill seems to be something that can be learned, but not necessarily taught.” She scratched what she thought was the pook’s head, only to have a short tail wave in her face.
Soon after, the class ended.
“Who was that cadet who nearly ran me over?” Gorbel asked as they left the mews together.
“Drie, one of Timmon’s ten-command. No one has figured out yet what creature he’s bound to.”
“Humph. Well, it may mean nothing, but last fall, hearing that he didn’t like to swim, Fash and Higbert threw him into the Silver. Don’t look at me like that; it wasn’t my idea. Most people don’t come out alive. He did, with a smile.”
“So Drie may be bound to something aquatic. Well, that’s no surprise, if definitely weird.”
On the boardwalk that ran around the training square they encountered Fash, one of Gorbel’s ten-command but never noticeably subservient to him. To Fash, everything seemed to be a private, not very pleasant joke. Jorin growled at his scent. During the Winter War, the Caineron had only been stopped from skinning the ounce alive by Shade’s intervention. He grinned at the furry bundle under Gorbel’s arm.
“Good old One Eye. No, wait. I think you’re carrying him backward.”
Gorbel hoisted the pook and examined him, one end, then the other. “You’re right. I swear this pup can turn around inside his own skin.”
He trudged off, bright eyes peering back at them from under his arm.
Fash transferred his toothy grin to Jame. “Good old Gorbelly. Don’t they make a sweet couple? Of course, the question is ‘A couple of what?’ ”
“Half of it is the lordan of your house.”
“For a while. Until his father gets tired of his failures.”
“Which are?”
His smile broadened. “Well, you’re still here, aren’t you? At least until this afternoon.”
“And then?”
“You’ll see, beastie girl. You’ll see.”
With that he turned on his heel and strolled off, laughing softly.
Brier Iron-thorn spent the lesson period after lunch in the barracks, overseeing the ongoing renovations to her lady’s chambers and setting the garrison’s affairs in order for the coming week.
She preferred to do the latter in the privacy of the empty dining hall, having only learned how to read and write since she had come to Tentir and feeling that her efforts still halted badly.
There. The wretched quill had sputtered and blotched again as she leaned too heavily on it. Incompetence fretted Brier almost as much as cowardice; certainly, one saw the first more often than the second in the Kencyrath, where neither should exist at all. Grumbling, she started afresh, a swath of hair like fresh-cut mahogany swinging into her jade-green eyes.
Like most traditional Kendar, Brier trusted her memory more than words on paper. Paper could be destroyed. Well, then, so could people. That had been an added tragedy to the Falclass="underline" so much knowledge had been left behind that now fact and the singers’ cherished Lawful Lie were often hard to tell apart. There was something to be said, however, for a notice that could be nailed to the wall rather than repeated nine times to the other house commanders. Certainly, the posted, official lesson schedule made planning easier, even when subject to last-minute alterations.
It still struck her as odd that, following Vant’s demotion and subsequent death, she had become the barracks’ acting master-ten while remaining the Knorth Lordan’s five-commander, a backward situation if ever there was one. The former never would have worked in her early days at the college when most Knorth had seen her only as a Caineron turn-collar inexplicably accepted by the Highlord into his service. She supposed that she had won their trust, although how remained a mystery to her when she still didn’t trust herself. Maybe being competent was its own reward, assuming that she was.
Her own feelings about her change of allegiance remained confused. Yes, she would serve her new lord with body, soul, and honor, yet behind her stood generations of Caineron yondri-gon. Did one ever successfully change houses or lords?
Scullery, stable, laundry, latrine, trock duty . . .
With their lord’s newfound wealth from selling Aerulan’s death banner in perpetuity to the Brandan, he could have afforded to assign some of his Kendar to act as servants for his cadets as was done in other houses such as the Caineron and Ardeth. However, Jameth hadn’t asked for them. Brier approved. They had done well enough so far without such help, sharing the least favorite duties. Being a randon wasn’t all glory—far from it. Lessons in discipline and endurance learned at the college would be invaluable later.
She paused to consider what to assign her own ten-command with its lordan leader. Vant had thought he could drive Jameth out by heaping unpleasant chores on her, not that her ten had let her accompany them on the worst of these. To have their lordan up to her knees in sewage hadn’t pleased any of them, as willing as she had been to serve. But she was also considerate and honored their feelings.
Usually.
All in all, thought Brier, dripping the pen again, what a long way they both have come.
In the early days at the college, no one had been able to look the Highborn in her bare face, so used were they to females of her sequestered caste wearing masks. And that scar across her cheekbone—could it really have come from some squabble in the Women’s Halls? Who would have dared to cut her? Moreover, how had they survived her backlash? People didn’t affront Jameth without cost. That much Brier had learned in her short time under Knorth rule. Once the thought of a lady striking back would have horrified her house. Now most of its Kendar showed an odd pride in Jameth’s eccentricities and knack for absurd situations.