Free Treason's Shore by Sherwood Smith Page A

will be here soon enough.”
    He flopped back and after a time his breathing slowed. He was asleep. Tdor lay awake, wondering if he was missing Signi more than he admitted—maybe more than he knew.
    She hated the jealous feelings these questions stirred. Poor Signi is gone, probably because of me, and here I am putting her between Inda and me in spirit . She rolled out of bed; if her mind insisted on worrying at things it couldn’t fix, it might as well concentrate on real work.
    When Inda woke next it was from a vivid dream, so intense—the details so sharp, down to the color of the morning light stippling the stone walls of his room, and the smell of his green-dyed linsey-woolsey quilt when it first came out of the cedar chest in autumn—he believed he was in his bed at Tenthen. But the shapes and shadows in the lifting darkness confused him. He lurched toward what he thought was the stair to the baths below, slammed into a door he’d forgotten was there, and reeled back, a hand to his throbbing nose. He hadn’t had that dream about Tanrid since he was on board the Pim ships. And wasn’t there a worse one earlier?
    Before she left, Signi had renewed the glowglobes. He clapped, and there was his enormous bedroom with nothing in it but the bed, behind him two doors, and another door on the adjacent wall. Three days here, and he still wasn’t used to it yet!
    He scowled at each door. The first led down to the baths, the one next to it to the next room, and the adjacent door to the main room. He had to get accustomed to this. His life had changed again, but it was a good change, full of honor. He was Harskialdna, not Sponge’s uncle, and Sponge was the king.
    So why would he have dreams like these? He wrestled into his clothes, ran down to morning drill, then to the baths. When he emerged he discovered new clothes waiting for him. He was still wearing the boots Cherry-Stripe Marlo-Vayir had grown out of, though they’d probably be replaced soon, too. He was supposed to dress correctly now, something he hadn’t thought about since the days he was a scrub in the academy, lining up for inspection.
    The academy! His mood lightened. Evred had said they would talk about the academy today.

    While he walked rapidly down the hall, eating his breakfast on the way, Tdor found Hadand on the sentry walk above the court where the women did their own morning warmups.
    Mistress Gand, wife of the academy headmaster, conducted the women’s drill in the mornings. This job she looked forward to resigning into Tdor’s hands as soon as the new Harandviar was ready.
    “Why aren’t we down there?” Tdor asked.
    “I wanted you to see how I conducted drills, when I had to do it. Mistress Gand thinks it looks pompous to drill ’em from up here,” Hadand said as the women whirled and leaped and posed below, knives glinting ruddy in the firelight. “But I like it up here. I see more. You being a Harandviar, you can be here, too, if you like.”
    “I’m used to drilling in your mother’s style,” Tdor admitted, watching the women sheath their knives and pick up their bows and thumb guards. “First in line, down in the court.”
    “Take aim,” Mistress Gand shouted.
    Hadand tipped her hand, frowned, and jerked an elbow; Mistress Gand bawled, “Get those elbows straight!”
    Tdor had thought them good enough, but women straightened spines, aligned shoulders, flexed muscles and their form improved in a blink, straight lines from arrowhead to back elbow.
    “Shoot!”
    Strong and sure, the women loosed their arrows straight into the mark. “I think I’d better practice with her before I take over,” Tdor said. “If I may?”
    Hadand’s brows lifted. “Hadn’t considered that. I always think Mother does everything perfect. But I can’t believe Tenthen women are sloppy.”
    “Not sloppy, exactly, just not as sharp as what I’m seeing. Maybe we’ve worsened since the old armsmistress died, and we didn’t notice.” She’d