Free Inda by Sherwood Smith

So her mother had taught her, a lesson reinforced by Ndara-Harandviar, wife of the king’s brother, the Sierandael.
    The music pattered on, syncopated as the last drops of rain from a passing storm, until the distant bells rang.
    “My dears, we will retire,” the queen said, rising.
    Hadand also rose. At last! But here was poor little Kialen Cassad, designated by treaty before she was even born to marry the king’s second son and be his Harandviar. Kialen’s frail fingers crumpled like spider legs close to her thin chest, her dark-ringed eyes wide and fearful. She’d seen Tesar as well.
    Hadand made the finger sign that represented lilies, the sign for danger, the signal for a smooth face. Kialen obediently did her best, trotting close behind Hadand as they moved to Hadand’s rooms down the hall. Hadand had been given her rooms at age ten, after eight years in the royal nursery with Sponge and the other royal children, though they still sometimes used the big nursery room for study. By the time she was twelve she did not require Ndara’s warnings—real lilies, drawn ones, or finger signals—to know which rooms were safe to speak in and which were not.
    Tesar, Hadand’s trusted personal Runner, fifteen and equally old in deception, said, “Kialen-Hlin, Hadand-Hlinlaef, the stable master bade me inform you that Evred-Varlaef has made his riding horses over to you for the summer. He awaits your orders.”
    “Very well,” Hadand said, carefully bland. She turned to Kialen. “There is just time enough to bathe, and then we might work on your Old Sartoran vocabulary before we attempt that scroll on the seasons. Tesar, please bring clothes to us in the baths.”
    They passed by the Runner, who saluted while her other hand, so deft, so practiced, slid a tiny roll of rice paper into Hadand’s fingers. Then Tesar vanished on her errand.
    On a landing down the narrow back stairwell, Hadand paused and read the tiny Old Sartoran script: He struck at supper, through Marlo-v. 2. I. fought back. Noth boy target.
    That was all. Hadand translated. “I” meant Inda. “Marlo-v. 2.” was Marlo-Vayir Tvei, the second son of the Jarl of Marlo-Vayir, who had done something to the son of the famed Captain Noth of the Dragoons. All of it designed to get at Sponge in some way—just as they had predicted. “He,” of course, meant Aldren-Sierlaef, king’s heir, the enemy, Sponge’s brother.
    Hadand’s future husband.
    Poor Kialen’s face was blanched with fear. “It’s all right,” Hadand whispered. “It’s about my brother, not Sponge.”
    The girls passed down the last stairway to the warm stream-fed baths under the castle, Hadand having swallowed the note. Voices of off-duty female Guards echoed from the old stone walls, and nearby two of the queen’s women talked quietly about the new fashion in the queen’s old country: chimes braided into women’s hair for dancing. They would never do that here.
     
     
     
    When Inda woke, just before dawn, he couldn’t remember where he was. He was aware of that wool and wood and puppy dog smell again, the sounds of many boys breathing; then, “Up! Up!” someone yelled. “You know we’ll have an inspection after the shearing. Let’s clean now, and save our backs.”
    Inda had no idea how to make a bed look smooth or how to sweep a floor. Fiam had always taken care of that. But Fiam was on the long ride home, probably looking forward to wargaming all the summery days . . .
    Trying to fight away homesickness, Inda thrashed into his clothes. Habit caused him to fling his nightshirt down, but he picked it up again. Those hooks on the wall beside the headboards, yes, they were for nightshirts. He watched the rest of the boys, did what they did, and at last stood back and in the blue predawn light compared his efforts with everyone else’s. He didn’t see any difference.
    “Straighten your breeches. You’ve got ankle rumps,” Noddy whispered to him, pointing down to where