alone for a moment in a loose box, proceeded to attempt to batter the thing to splinters in an effort to get at the gelding tied to the outside of it.
'The Gray's temper went hand-in-hand with his intelligence and both traits bred true, which makes them finely-honed killers on the battlefield, but no joy in harness,' Kemoc continued glumly. 'Most of the year you can handle them, but spring brings out the worst in them. There'll be broken bones before the day's over.'
And before the day was over, Lauren saw Lord Kemoc's prediction proved true. One pair of geldings decided to go over a stone fence, plow and all, and hung the plow up on the top. A foal ripped out a hank of one plowman's hair (roots and all) in fury when the man wouldn't unharness his dam and tried to separate them. Two more geldings too intractable to be harnessed in a team with anything saw each other and conceived an instant hatred for one another; they dragged their plows and plowmen with them across the width of two fields to meet in the middle in a furious clash that left both plows in splinters. And one of the breeding stallions broke out of his field to get at a harnessed mare, which incident resulted in the first broken arm of the season.
'It could have been worse,' sighed Kemoc at the end of the day, as he and Lauren shared a bit of bread, cheese, and beer. 'It could have been a broken skull.'
'I hope you'll forgive me for asking the obvious, but haven't you tried breeding something with a good temper into the line?' Lauren asked.
'Oh, we've tried, but the Gray Stud's temper always comes through.' Kemoc shook his head. 'I've never seen anything like it. People want the geldings as war horses, there's no shortage of takers for them, but by the gods, it gets hard and harder to survive this season every year! And breeding season's no festival either. The mares fight back even when they're hard in season, often as not, and there's damage all around before they get separated from the stallion.'
Lauren pondered this for a moment. 'It -- really isn't very funny, is it?' he said. 'I mean, it sounds funny at first, but people are getting hurt.'
'And it's only damned good luck that no one has gotten killed,' Kemoc agreed. 'How long before my people start refusing to plow with these beasts? What will we do then? We can't afford to keep one herd of plowhorses and one herd of warhorses, the damned things eat too much.'
Lauren didn't say anything then, nor did he mention that he had an idea even when he left Forst Reach to return to his duties at Haven and the Court - but he had made up his mind to try and do something to solve Kemoc's problem before the next plowing season.
* * *
Cold rain drummed on the roof of the indoor riding arena, and Tarma shena Tale'sedrin blessed the break in the weather that had allowed her to send her young pupils home for summer holidays before the weather turned this ugly. She'd sent them off a bit early this year, in no small part because they'd gotten an early start last fall, and it hadn't seemed fair to keep them away from home longer than usual.
And besides, she'd had a particular project in mind that she didn't want an audience for -- the very project that kept her in the arena at this very moment.
Tarma already had her hands full and didn't really need anything to distract her when one of the servants edged nervously up to the fence intended to keep spectators out of the riding arena. She spared a moment to glare at the hapless servant, silencing him before he had a chance to speak, and turned her attention back to seven- year-old Jadrie, Kethry's eldest.
As blonde as her mother, as blue-eyed as her father, young Jadrie was a pretty child who threatened to become a beauty. Fortunately, it hadn't occurred to her that beauty was a cause for vanity, and neither parent had any intentions of letting her know that fact. Today she wore her oldest, most practical clothing of well-worn woolen tunic and breeches, and scuffed riding boots; she had her hair done up in a practical tail, and looked very much as her mother must have at her age.
This was a special day for her. Tarma had judged her old enough for a horse of her own this year -- and in Shin'a'in terms, that meant something of great and specific significance -- nothing less than a rite of passage.
Jadrie had been carefully coached for all the winter months in the Shin'a'in art of horse-talking, and now she was putting her new knowledge to the test with an unbroken, green filly, three years old and fresh off the Plains and the Tale'sedrin herds. If she really had learned her lessons correctly, the young filly would be carrying her willingly by the end of the day. If she hadn't, Tarma would take over and tame the horse herself, and Jadrie would go back in humiliation to her fat little pony for another year.
A little harsh on the child, maybe -- but better that than spoil horse and child together. There's no second chances on the Plains, and it's never too early for a child to learn that.
But things were going very well, so far. The tiny blonde child had the sorrel filly pacing in a circle with her at the center, keeping her going with gentle tosses of a lead rope, making it land just behind the horse's moving feet. As the little girl flicked her soft rope at the heels of the filly, watching the horse with such intensity that her blue eyes shone, the horse turned her near-side ear to catch the girl's murmurs of encouragement.
Another round of the circle, and the filly dropped her head, flicking out her tongue at the same time. Jadrie dropped her eyes back to the horse's shoulders, then to her rump. The filly dropped her head further, chewing at nothing. That was the signal Jadrie was waiting for, and Tarma with her.
