Oathblood

rewarm beside the fire.

:You'll get your staring eyes soon enough. Tonight the Bard will let the Lady know you're fit for the High Table, and everyone will be able to stare at you as much as they want,: Warrl said, a trifle maliciously. He still hadn't forgiven Tarma for the Gate.

Her high good humor was too strong to let a little jibe like that affect her.

She put her tray outside the door and trotted down the hall to check on Beaker and Jodi. As she had expected, Jodi had simply moved in with Beaker rather than trying to make herself understood, figuring that their hosts would get the correct idea when only one room was in use. Jodi was just finishing her own dinner; Beaker had inhaled his and was examining one of the half dozen books that graced a little desk in their room.

'Wish I could read this,' he said wistfully, as he put it down and moved to join Tarma and his partner in the door of his room. 'I can speak a bit of their lingo, but the writing's beyond me.'

'You aren't going to have time to read,' she told him. 'At least not for the next couple, weeks. Did you see the size of the stables as we rode in? Figure on the sheer number of problem children they've got!'

While Beaker sat down on the hearth rug beside Warrl, using him as a backrest, Jodi's eyes lit up. Jodi was never happier than when she was working.

'I speak the language pretty well, so just let me translate for now,' Tarma went on, sitting tailor fashion on the bed so that Jodi could take the chair. 'If we do well here -- tell you what, this just might be the long-term position you were looking for. It's obvious they don't know a thing about horse-talking, or they wouldn't be having the difficulty that they are.'

Jodi nodded, pursing her lips. 'This is all speculation, of course, but I'll bet that though their foundation stud did have a miserable disposition, the only thing wrong with their current crop is that they're too intelligent. They know they can get away with misbehaving, so they do. These horses are spoiled, that's what's wrong with them.'

Beaker snorted. 'Hellfires, they're expected to misbehave! Expect anything out of a horse, and you'll probably get it!'

Tarma grinned, pleased with herself and them. 'The big question is, how do you want to play this? Do we demystify our hosts, or do we play this up as some sort of singular mind-magic?'

Beaker chuckled, and ran his hand through his short crop of graying hair. 'We don't demystify them unless we decide we don't want to stay here -- and right now, I wouldn't mind settling here for the rest of my life!'

On that cheerful note, the three of them parted company, and Tarma stretched herself out beneath a thick woolen blanket with every feeling of contentment.

But the shrill trumpeting of a stallion woke her at dawn, and sent her tumbling out of that warm, comfortable bed with a great deal more eagerness and enthusiasm than she had expected. She followed her nose to the kitchen, where an intimidated servant gave her hot bread and milk, and then followed her ears to the stables, where a battle royal was in progress. And quick as she had been, Jodi and Beaker were there waiting for her.

So was Lord Kemoc, and she took charge of the situation immediately.

'Whoa-up!' she shouted at the two stablehands struggling to get the recalcitrant beast into harness. 'Leave off!'

Startled, they obeyed; she marched up and seized the reins of the horse, a gelding, looking him over quickly to judge his age and guess at the amount of behavioral damage she was going to have to undo. 'Stubborn, aren't you, my lad?' she murmured, seeing that he was no more than three with a touch of relief. 'Well, I'm not surprised. But you aren't getting away with this nonsense anymore.'

The horse looked at her and snorted, as if daring her to make him behave. She laughed, somewhat to the Valdemaran's surprise. 'Lord Kemoc, are these horses ever in harness except at plowing time?'

'No--' came the answer.

She shrugged. 'Well, then -- what you've got is two problems. The first is that these fellows never get a chance to understand what their job's all about. You shove them into harness, then they get something chasing at their heels for a fortnight or so, then you run them loose again. The other problem is that you need to speak their language.'

Kemoc's mouth literally dropped open. 'We-- what?' he spluttered.

'You need to speak their language,' she replied firmly. 'You're trying to break them, when they're too spirited and too intelligent to be broken, then when they misbehave, you give up. You just need to talk to them, and make them understand that good things happen when they behave themselves. Beaker, show him how to handle a youngster like this one -- I doubt he's got too much to unlearn.'