Kerowyn's Ride

“But—” Kethry said, faintly.

Tarma kept right on going. “I think the experience will be good for both of them, actually. The boy has probably been playing a poor third to Faram-the-heir and Thanel-the-beauty. It’ll be nice for him to have a young lady paying attention to him.”

“But—” Kethry repeated.

“And you have to admit, I’m hardly the one to give Kero the basics of nature. I’m celibate, remember?” Tarma was enjoying her partner’s discomfort. Keth had landed her with the job of explaining those basics to every boy that ever passed through their schools, and since there were usually twice as many lads as girls passing through their hands, Tarma found herself with that uncomfortable duty far oftener than Keth. Now the shoe was on the other foot, and Tarma intended to enjoy the fact.

“Besides,” she finished, “if your own daughter was such a dunce as to leave her completely ignorant, it’s up to you to rectify the situation.”

Kethry’s mouth tightened in dismay. “You’re right, of course. And if she’s going to join a Company, she’s going to have to know all of it.”

“Damn right she is,” Tarma replied, becoming serious. “From camp-hygiene to post-rape trauma. And since you worked with the Healers in the Sunhawks, you’re better equipped for that than I am. Those aren’t the kind of problems lads are going to face, and they aren’t the kind of problems I ever had to deal with on my own. But you can take it slowly, I think. Give her the basics and pregnancy prevention, and take care of the rest later.” She grinned. “Think of it as my fee for agreeing to take Daren on.”

Kethry shook her head. “Still a mercenary.”

Tarma chuckled. “That’s how you tell a merc is dead; he just stops collecting paychecks.”

Kero knew that there was something in the air; Tarma had been a little absentminded lately, with that slight frown she always wore when she was thinking. But once she’d satisfied herself that she wasn’t the cause of the frown, she relaxed. Whatever it was that was bothering Tarma, it was not under her control.

So she kept a weather eye out, but concentrated on the things that were in her power to deal with. She had speculations, but nothing concrete to go on.

Finally all speculations came to an end, when she showed up at the practice ring with her arms full of equipment to find Tarma there already, fully armored (complete with full helm), working out. And Tarma wasn’t alone.

There was a young man with her; that was surprise enough. He looked around Kero’s age, and she stiffened reflexively as they both stopped what they were doing and turned at the sound of her footstep. He was rather handsome, in a lanky, not-quite-finished sort of way. His long hair was somewhere between brown and blond, his eyes between gray and hazel. He was taller than Tarma, and moved like a young colt that still isn’t quite certain where his feet are going to go when he puts them down. His armor was good—very good, use on it, but well-maintained and in perfect condition. And there was a surcoat lying crumpled up with some other odds and ends in one of the little alcoves. A surcoat that was as well-made as the armor, and looked as if it was blazoned with some kind of familial device.

All of which added up to one conclusion: he was some kind of nobility. Kero did not like the implications of that.

Tarma waited for Kero to come up to them before speaking. She pushed the face-guard of her helm up, and gave Kero a cool, appraising look. The young man did the same with his helm, then shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“Kero,” Tarma said, in a neutral, even voice, “This is Darenthallis—Daren to us. He’ll be training here with you.”

Kero’s first reaction was of resentment. Why? Her second was of jealousy. We were just fine with the two of us.

She stepped forward slowly, keeping her expression neutral, but not her thoughts. They don’t need the money—and now Tarma is going to be spending half her time with him, which means I won’t be learning as much from her. It isn’t fair! By the look of him, he could have any teacher he wanted! Why should he steal mine?

She eyed his armor with envy; up close, it was even better than she’d thought, combination plate and chain mail, the chain mail so fine it looked to have been knitted, with articulated plate that had to have been specifically fitted to him. And he wasn’t finished growing yet—which meant that someone, somewhere, didn’t care how much it cost to keep fitting him with new armor every time he put on a growth spurt. Then she recognized the name—after all, there weren’t that many young men named Darenthallis in the world, and there was only one likely to have armor of that quality.