Exile's Valor

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.”

“Probably,” he agreed, feeling relieved and irritated at the same time. Cadets would never have been allowed such foolishness. But then again, as he had noted before, Heraldic Trainees were not Karsite Cadets. . . . “I had noted that on the river, the players of the broom-ball game required much drinking of wine and beer to continue the game past the first few goals.”

“And without that, it isn’t nearly as much fun.” She chuckled. “Right. That’s what I’ll tell the others. They were afraid it was going to take over the Collegia.”

He thought about that for a moment. Thought about the fact that a certain level of madness seemed to come out of the confinement of winter. And thought about all the high spirits generated by the Festival. “It will, probably, for a short time,” he decided. “But that gives a painless punishment as well. For those of the Collegia at least, who will not settle and study, forbid them from playing. Make playing contingent upon good marks. Blues, we can do little about, if they are highborn children. But then again—time, they have, to waste. At least melees on ice harm them only.”

“Oh—ouch. Very good indeed,” Myste laughed. “That should do the trick.”

They finished dinner quickly; so much time spent out in the cold used up a lot of energy, and he was wolf- hungry.

Only after they had cleared the dishes away into the hampers did it occur to him to wonder why she had come there tonight. It couldn’t have been because she wanted his company—could it?

At that thought, he got a very odd feeling in the pit of his stomach. Not unpleasant, no, but—fluttery. It disconcerted him. It disconcerted him so much that he just blurted out what was in his head.