Glitter, flash, the puddle was gone, the Wander walked past, and the boys continued on, still gasping and shaking with laughter, some of them considering the news: here was the son of the famous Horsepiss Noth, who captained the King’s Dragoons. The Dragoons were tough (many said the toughest) and their captain had to be even tougher. Those boys with brothers in the pigtails had already heard of Whipstick Noth, Dogpiss’ older brother, and knew he was going to be the same.
“Oh, oh, oh, it hurts,” Dogpiss said, holding his sides. “Oh. Someone say something quick! Something sour—”
“We’ll be sour enough come morning,” Noddy predicted.
“True,” Dogpiss agreed, but he still laughed, his thin body shaking, wisps of short, yellow hair hanging in his eyes.
“How’d your Ain escape being a ‘piss’?” Noddy asked, his long face blank, which got the others laughing all over again.
When Dogpiss could breathe, he wheezed, “B-brown hair . . . like Ma’s . . . I got the piss-yellow . . . like Dad . . .”
When his snickers subsided they turned expectantly to the red-haired boy, whose voice and manner so subtly set him apart.
Evred-Varlaef, the king’s second son, felt and instantly repressed the familiar sense of sick certainty at what was to come. His brother would see to that, he knew it, he just knew it. But he would postpone the inevitable as long as possible. “Well, you may as well call me Sponge.” At their surprise, he added, “Got it from my cousin, who was sent to sea.”
The others nodded, thinking of the reddish-brown sponges pulled up from the ocean floor and used in cleaning.
They turned to the last of the group, a tall, powerfully built boy with unruly black hair. He’d not spoken once, though he’d been quite helpful in shifting heavy chests without any apparent effort. Even his laughter was silent. Now his face creased in misery. In a tiny voice like a kitten’s squeak, he, well, he mewed, “Camarend Tya-Vayir. Cama.”
Inda had to bite hard on his tongue to keep from hooting. Though he could not have described to Tdor how he knew, he recognized instantly that while Dogpiss didn’t mind being laughed at, this boy would feel terrible.
Half the others identified him as younger brother to the horrible bully hated by most brothers: Horsebutt Tya-Vayir.
Sponge studied Cama’s square face under his shock of black waving hair, and thought, He doesn’t look at all like Horsebutt. But he didn’t speak, for he was still elated over his anonymity, the easy acceptance of the others. He’d enjoy it while he could.
They turned down an alley that dead-ended against the city wall, and ducked through a narrow door below a weathered bakery sign. Those with money crowded up to the counter. Inda sat on the edge of a bench, breathed in the smell of baking rye bread, a scent that reminded him so forcibly of home he felt a squeezing in his throat, and his tired eyes burned. He propped his elbow onto a barrel; on his other side sat a boy whose name he’d already forgotten. A moment later he heard footsteps, and a big plate of berry cakes appeared, with hot jam to pour over them.
He took one, but scarcely tasted it. The other boys crowded onto the bench and passed the plate back and forth, chattering about home. Inda leaned his head on his hand, hearing only boys’ voices, no words.
His mind slid away, back, back to being woken at lastnight bell, the third hour of the morning, for that cold, long ride across the plains of Choraed Hesea. He had not even had time to say farewell to Captain Vranid or Fiam . . .
“Supper!” someone exclaimed, and Inda jerked awake, his hand numb, drool on his cheek. He wiped his mouth on his shoulder, got to his feet, and followed, legs heavy, mind stupid, longing for bed.
The musical clang of the sunset bells— sundown —announced the end of the day, as did the lengthened shadows. Inda followed the others into the mess hall, a long room with a wooden
“Oh, oh, oh, it hurts,” Dogpiss said, holding his sides. “Oh. Someone say something quick! Something sour—”
“We’ll be sour enough come morning,” Noddy predicted.
“True,” Dogpiss agreed, but he still laughed, his thin body shaking, wisps of short, yellow hair hanging in his eyes.
“How’d your Ain escape being a ‘piss’?” Noddy asked, his long face blank, which got the others laughing all over again.
When Dogpiss could breathe, he wheezed, “B-brown hair . . . like Ma’s . . . I got the piss-yellow . . . like Dad . . .”
When his snickers subsided they turned expectantly to the red-haired boy, whose voice and manner so subtly set him apart.
Evred-Varlaef, the king’s second son, felt and instantly repressed the familiar sense of sick certainty at what was to come. His brother would see to that, he knew it, he just knew it. But he would postpone the inevitable as long as possible. “Well, you may as well call me Sponge.” At their surprise, he added, “Got it from my cousin, who was sent to sea.”
The others nodded, thinking of the reddish-brown sponges pulled up from the ocean floor and used in cleaning.
They turned to the last of the group, a tall, powerfully built boy with unruly black hair. He’d not spoken once, though he’d been quite helpful in shifting heavy chests without any apparent effort. Even his laughter was silent. Now his face creased in misery. In a tiny voice like a kitten’s squeak, he, well, he mewed, “Camarend Tya-Vayir. Cama.”
Inda had to bite hard on his tongue to keep from hooting. Though he could not have described to Tdor how he knew, he recognized instantly that while Dogpiss didn’t mind being laughed at, this boy would feel terrible.
Half the others identified him as younger brother to the horrible bully hated by most brothers: Horsebutt Tya-Vayir.
Sponge studied Cama’s square face under his shock of black waving hair, and thought, He doesn’t look at all like Horsebutt. But he didn’t speak, for he was still elated over his anonymity, the easy acceptance of the others. He’d enjoy it while he could.
They turned down an alley that dead-ended against the city wall, and ducked through a narrow door below a weathered bakery sign. Those with money crowded up to the counter. Inda sat on the edge of a bench, breathed in the smell of baking rye bread, a scent that reminded him so forcibly of home he felt a squeezing in his throat, and his tired eyes burned. He propped his elbow onto a barrel; on his other side sat a boy whose name he’d already forgotten. A moment later he heard footsteps, and a big plate of berry cakes appeared, with hot jam to pour over them.
He took one, but scarcely tasted it. The other boys crowded onto the bench and passed the plate back and forth, chattering about home. Inda leaned his head on his hand, hearing only boys’ voices, no words.
His mind slid away, back, back to being woken at lastnight bell, the third hour of the morning, for that cold, long ride across the plains of Choraed Hesea. He had not even had time to say farewell to Captain Vranid or Fiam . . .
“Supper!” someone exclaimed, and Inda jerked awake, his hand numb, drool on his cheek. He wiped his mouth on his shoulder, got to his feet, and followed, legs heavy, mind stupid, longing for bed.
The musical clang of the sunset bells— sundown —announced the end of the day, as did the lengthened shadows. Inda followed the others into the mess hall, a long room with a wooden
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