but found a helm I could bang the dents out of.”
“Great Kernos!” excleaimed Setham, as he approached with someone in tow. “You all have been... creative.”
“That’s being generous, sir,” Gennie laughed.
“Well this is all rather interesting, because besides our first practice, I was going to get your help in designing what will be our specialized armor.” Setham nodded at the solemn-faced young man that was with him. “My friend here will draw it up for me, I’ll consult with the other coaches, who are doing the same, and we’ll have the armor made up before the first match.” He peered at Corwin’s helm. “That miserable excuse for a helm—is that Karsite?”
“Aye sir, I think ’tis,” Corwin replied. “Found it at a stall in the market.”
“Well get one from the armory; those Karsite buckets are notorious. A baby could dent it, and a good hard blow will crack your skull right through it.”
By this point, a cart had lumbered up, laden with what looked like the cast-offs and discards from the Guard armory. At least, it was all in dark blue and flaking silver.
“If you haven’t ferreted out your own, or want to replace something, rummage through that,” Setham said, waving a hand at it. “We can wait.”
Corwin was first at the wagon, probably being very eager to replace his bits of stovepipe with something less makeshift.
When everyone was suited up, Setham went over the rules for the game again. “Now, obviously, since you foot-players are less mobile, you’ll be guarding the goal, both the flag and the ‘castle,’ ” Setham said. “But don’t think you will be confined to that by the rules. If there is a way for one of you to get a ball in the other castle or steal the flag, then your Captain will suggest it and you should try it. We decided to make the only rules of this game about safety. So no pulling a rider out of the saddle for now—although as you get better, that actually will be allowed. Riders, no running the foot-players down. That will never be allowed, because we can’t trust the ordinary horses to do it safely.”
They all nodded. Of course.
The rest of the practice session was confined to some very simple exercises with an end toward making them a team and getting them used to working with each other. Setham seemed satisfied. There was a lot of ball passing: Gray to Gray, Gray to Rider, Gray to Foot, Rider to Rider, Rider to Foot, Foot to Foot. There was a lot of goal blocking, first by just the Foot, then by the Riders, then by the Grays. Mags was kept busy “shouting” Gennie’s directions into the heads of the UnGifted, though he quickly discovered that everyone reacted faster when he showed them a picture than when he used words. Useful, that. It was faster for Gennie to send a picture to him, and easier for him to send a picture out.
When they were dismissed, however, Mags was not done with the team. He approached young Jeffers, still on Dallen, before the latter could ride back into Haven. “Reckon ye still wanta learn weaponry?” he asked diffidently. “I made some ’rrangements, if ye do.”
Jeffers’ eyes lit up, and his tired horse even raised his head, as if sensing his rider’s excitement.
Mags held up a cautioning hand. “Got t’ warn ye. Gonna be tedious fer a goodly while. But I got t’ thinkin and I asked Weaponsmaster if he could be workin’ out exercises ye kin pass off as Kirball stuff, that’ll strengthen ye up i’ the right way for weapons, an’ ’e showed me some. This’s all stuff ye kin set up t’ do when ye’re at home. So e’en though ye ain’t actually practicin’ with sword or whatnot, ye’ll be practicin’ fer ’em at home.” He scratched his head. “Happen ye kin practice a-horse too, which ain’t a bad thing. Yon cob of your’n is steady ’nough in Kirball so far, he’ll be steady ’nough right off in this stuff.”
Now Jeffers lit up even more; his eyes shone with happiness and he grinned for the first time since Mags had met him. “Mags, I can’t even begin to thank you enough! No wonder Amily and Lydia think you are clever!”
Mags just shook his head. “Ain’t clever. Jest used t’ gettin’ round rules and sneakin’, ye ken? I mean, gettin’ done whatcha need t’ do, wi’out lyin’ or getting’ caught at it. That ain’t clever, jest a way of thinkin’ that ye got to learn when—”
He broke it off. Jeffers didn’t need his story. Or Jeffers might already know it. In either case, telling him wouldn’t serve any good or useful purpose.
“Anyway, I jest got figgerin’ out how to get somethin’ thet I want bad kinda ground inter me.” He shrugged. “An’ I don’ see no harm in you learnin’ this, an’ neither does Weaponsmaster. So, come on, an’ we’ll get ye started. Hellfires, prolly do ye good in Kirball too, top of ev’thing else.”
“I can’t stay too much longer,” Jeffers warned. “My parents. And—they don’t know anyone in the Foot or anyone in the Riders to ask, but—they might in the Heralds—”
Mags nodded. “Lemme check,” he said.
Dallen engaged in that long silence that meant he was speaking to all of the Companions within reach, as the two of them headed up toward the salle.
“Dallen sez yer covered,” Mags reported just as they got to the salle itself. He listened to what Dallen had to say and repeated it verbatim. “He sez if some’un comes up here lookin’ fer ye, Heralds an’ Grays’ll say yer at salle getting’ some tips on hittin’ an aimin’ from Weaponsmaster. Weaponsmaster’ll say same. Ain’t a lie, neither. An’ afore anyone gets there, they’ll be warnin’, so ye kin get rid of weapon an’ it’ll look like ye was jest talkin’.”
Jeffers dismounted, grinning ruefully. “And you say you aren’t clever!”
“Hey, twasn’t me,” he protested. “That twas Weaponsmaster’s ideer. Now, ye go ’long t’ him, I’ll rub down yer cob an’ walk ’im cool. “
“Mags—” Jeffers was at a loss for words. “You are a star.”
Mags knew he wouldn’t be long. Not like his own practices—Jeffers’ parents probably wouldn’t quibble up to a candlemark for “extra practice” but they certainly would say something about more than that. He got Jeffers’ horse and Dallen rubbed down and in good condition, and Dallen took the cob’s reins in his teeth to lead him off to the horse stables.
Then Mags and the Weaponsmaster showed the young man the exercise they had worked out to simulate sword play. Normally this sort of thing was done by striking with a wooden blade—often weighted—at a padded pole called a “pells.” Obviously that wasn’t realistic for Jeffers to set up in a yard, since everyone knew what a pells looked like. So what the Weaponsmaster had decided on was for Jeffers to take swings with a weighted wooden club at a ball about the size of a melon, suspended at various heights to represent the various target areas on a human.
He could tell them it was Kirball. He wouldn’t even be exactly lying, since one of the defensive moves they had all planned for was to smack the ball away from the goal with a much broader sort of club, more like a paddle, and the Kirball was about the same size. If he was ever challenged, he could say that working with a club instead of the paddle was to make his aim better, because it was harder.
When Jeffers had to leave, he took a club and a leather ball and its marked string with him, nearly falling over himself with gratitude.
But life continued to slide downhill into the mud. Aside from the Kirball practices, in which no one acted as if he was any different than he had been before all those ridiculous visions, that session with Jeffers was the last completely comfortable, happy moment Mags knew.
Gossip about the Foreseers’ vision reached into every nook and cranny of the three Collegia, as did Mags’ own revelation that he was foreign-born. He found himself the focus of far too many speculative glances, laden with suspicion. Granted, most of them did not come from Trainees or Heralds—but some did. And the most suspicious were from the Bards and especially the Bardic Trainees, who had far, far too much imagination for their own good.
