what to do. He glanced at Hadand’s brother, looking so much like Hadand he’d recognized him right away. Hadand had said, Please watch out for my brother. He would do anything she asked.
He said, “I know a good bakery.”
“Don’t got a flim,” Lemon-hair admitted, grinning as he pointed to the pockets of his worn breeches.
“I happen to have lots left over from the journey south,” said another boy, the one with the long hound-dog face and short dark hair. “May as well get rid of ’em now.”
Nods. The boys moved off in a group. The king’s son—still enjoying his anonymity—took them by a back route (away from the stables and weapons courts) to the gate to the city, and suddenly they passed from the austere military atmosphere to one of comparative light and color. The walls were still the same honey-colored stone, but the buildings were a jumble of sizes, some with signs, windows with painted shutters, and window boxes growing early flowers. People moved about, some on horseback, others driving carts and wagons, many more walking. Everywhere the new boys observed guild colors, and what seemed to their eyes, accustomed to the sameness of provincial castle life, a wild variety in civilian clothing. The air smelled of horse, of blooms, of roasting chicken and cabbage and bread.
Then came the moment the king’s second son dreaded. Lemon-hair grinned. “So what shall I call you?”
“Inda.”
“Flash,” another said, laughing. He was a wiry boy with sun-streaked brown hair. “M’ brother started calling me that when I was little. On account of how slow I was.”
“Lan,” mumbled another blond boy shyly. “Lan Askan.”
“My family name is Toraca, but you may as well call me Noddy,” said the dark-eyed, dark-haired boy with the hound-dog face. “Everyone at home does. Noddy Turtle.”
“Why?” someone asked.
“Turtle on a fence post.”
The boys snickered, even though it didn’t make sense.
“Turtle?” Lan murmured. “Fencepost?”
Noddy didn’t smile. They were to learn that he almost never smiled. “What I looked like when I was little.” He shrugged his shoulders up under his ears, his arms dangling, and they saw it: he did look rather like a turtle. “You never get away from these things.” He shrugged again, a normal shrug. “So why try?”
Lemon-hair grimaced. “I thought about that all the ride down,” he said. “Picking a new name. Something heroic, maybe. I mean my first name’s Kendred, but I never heard it, that I recollect. If someone called ‘Kendred!’ I’d think it meant for one of the other Kendreds. Has to be a handful of ’em here.”
Everyone agreed with that. Marlovan names were always repeated back and forth across generations, families, allies, and clans. Of course there would be others with all their names.
“So,” Lemon-head went on, waving a grubby hand. “So I thought, a new nickname, see? Then I saw me the arms master that’s been to our house for sup at least once a year since I was born, and of course there’s my brother in the pigtails.”
“So?” Inda prompted.
“So you’re gonna hear my dad’s name, sure as fire, and then it’s all up,” the boy went on. And, as it chanced, the very moment he said, “On account of my dad being Horsepiss Noth, everyone calls me Dogpiss,” a local hound lifted his leg against the corner of a shop.
The name, spoken just as the blithely unconscious dog let go the yellow stream, strengthened by the taboo nature of urine in a world where the Waste Spell had been almost the only magic to endure from the terrible war that had nearly wiped magic—and humans—from the world centuries before, it made them all laugh, even Noddy, though his laugh was a kind of snort, his long face still blank.
The stream was only there for moments. A member of the Wanders Guild popped round the shop corner (probably following the dog, who’d been sniffing about) and waved his wand over the dark puddle.
He said, “I know a good bakery.”
“Don’t got a flim,” Lemon-hair admitted, grinning as he pointed to the pockets of his worn breeches.
“I happen to have lots left over from the journey south,” said another boy, the one with the long hound-dog face and short dark hair. “May as well get rid of ’em now.”
Nods. The boys moved off in a group. The king’s son—still enjoying his anonymity—took them by a back route (away from the stables and weapons courts) to the gate to the city, and suddenly they passed from the austere military atmosphere to one of comparative light and color. The walls were still the same honey-colored stone, but the buildings were a jumble of sizes, some with signs, windows with painted shutters, and window boxes growing early flowers. People moved about, some on horseback, others driving carts and wagons, many more walking. Everywhere the new boys observed guild colors, and what seemed to their eyes, accustomed to the sameness of provincial castle life, a wild variety in civilian clothing. The air smelled of horse, of blooms, of roasting chicken and cabbage and bread.
Then came the moment the king’s second son dreaded. Lemon-hair grinned. “So what shall I call you?”
“Inda.”
“Flash,” another said, laughing. He was a wiry boy with sun-streaked brown hair. “M’ brother started calling me that when I was little. On account of how slow I was.”
“Lan,” mumbled another blond boy shyly. “Lan Askan.”
“My family name is Toraca, but you may as well call me Noddy,” said the dark-eyed, dark-haired boy with the hound-dog face. “Everyone at home does. Noddy Turtle.”
“Why?” someone asked.
“Turtle on a fence post.”
The boys snickered, even though it didn’t make sense.
“Turtle?” Lan murmured. “Fencepost?”
Noddy didn’t smile. They were to learn that he almost never smiled. “What I looked like when I was little.” He shrugged his shoulders up under his ears, his arms dangling, and they saw it: he did look rather like a turtle. “You never get away from these things.” He shrugged again, a normal shrug. “So why try?”
Lemon-hair grimaced. “I thought about that all the ride down,” he said. “Picking a new name. Something heroic, maybe. I mean my first name’s Kendred, but I never heard it, that I recollect. If someone called ‘Kendred!’ I’d think it meant for one of the other Kendreds. Has to be a handful of ’em here.”
Everyone agreed with that. Marlovan names were always repeated back and forth across generations, families, allies, and clans. Of course there would be others with all their names.
“So,” Lemon-head went on, waving a grubby hand. “So I thought, a new nickname, see? Then I saw me the arms master that’s been to our house for sup at least once a year since I was born, and of course there’s my brother in the pigtails.”
“So?” Inda prompted.
“So you’re gonna hear my dad’s name, sure as fire, and then it’s all up,” the boy went on. And, as it chanced, the very moment he said, “On account of my dad being Horsepiss Noth, everyone calls me Dogpiss,” a local hound lifted his leg against the corner of a shop.
The name, spoken just as the blithely unconscious dog let go the yellow stream, strengthened by the taboo nature of urine in a world where the Waste Spell had been almost the only magic to endure from the terrible war that had nearly wiped magic—and humans—from the world centuries before, it made them all laugh, even Noddy, though his laugh was a kind of snort, his long face still blank.
The stream was only there for moments. A member of the Wanders Guild popped round the shop corner (probably following the dog, who’d been sniffing about) and waved his wand over the dark puddle.
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