Free Inda by Sherwood Smith Page A

he’d stuffed his breeches into his riding boots, and Inda saw that they were flat in front and pouched out behind. He pulled at the loose material until it draped more or less evenly around each boot; then, he reached for his braid—and dropped his hands. No use in struggling with two-day-old knots when it would soon be gone.
    Besides, the others were already running out to the parade court, to be in line before the sunup bells. Torches still lit the court, for the sun at this time of year still rose after the sixth-hour bell. A fine mist had moved in, making it darker, but at least it wasn’t miserably cold.
    On the first clang of the bell Master Gand marched out of the big building opposite the castle wall, where the masters lived. If he was pleased to see this year’s scrub class neatly lined up and ready, he showed no sign of it. His mouth soured. “So how many of you are going to waste my time telling me you’ve been riding from the time you could walk?”
    By now they’d learned not to volunteer any commentary.
    “Good. Because those would be the ones needing a month or two of wanding the stable floors, to unlearn all the rotten habits they’d picked up since they started walking.”
    Pace, pace, high-heeled cavalry boots crunching bits of gravel on the old, worn flagstones.
    “You are eventually going to learn command of cavalry. All three branches: light, heavy, dragoon. But if you think that means you are ready to ride horses, think again, my little lambs. You are ignorant. And as such you are more danger to the horses than you are to any enemy. You little Vayir-dals left the real horse care to your armies of stable hands at home. Well, here’s news for you: in the field, there are no servants, and farriers don’t follow you about in case your horse throws a shoe. You’re going to learn how to take care of your horses, including their feet. And you’re going to do it fast. And right. In the dark. Before you ever sit on a horse’s back.”
    Silence, except for the wind rushing through the pennants overhead.
    “The first month or so, you ignorant lambs are going to learn everything there is to know about horses’ habits and needs, and that means you are going to work. Hard.”
    Pause. Pace, pace, no answer.
    The tutor lifted his hand toward the gate to the training areas. For the very first time he spoke Marlovan, the language of war. “And now, my little lambs, it is time to be sheared.”
    A great shout went up from behind the gate, and Inda and the boys all drew together instinctively. Inda, remembering his brother’s lavishly described horror stories about the traditional shearing of the scrubs, saw the tall blond boy who’d kicked Dogpiss in the mess hall—his name still unknown—looking pale and scared. Inda turned away, pleased, but not two breaths later a painful jab in his back brought his head around to see that same boy, a big, brawny boy, staring straight ahead, a telltale smirk twisting his lips.
    The scrubs shuffled through the gate, to find the expected, seemingly endless two rows of older boys waiting. Not the seniors, the ones who had earned the right to bind their hair up into horsetails. These were the eleven- to sixteen-year-olds, the older ones with hair in clubs, the younger with their shorter hair pulled into squirts in back: the pigtails.
    “Go! Go! Go!” The Marlovan chant sent birds squawking.
    The first boys began running down the middle of the lines, and of course got slapped and shoved from side to side, some of them falling, to be kicked until they rose again and ran on.
    Three. Four. Inda felt a spurt of anger almost as hot as the one he’d felt at the senseless attack on skinny little Dogpiss, who hadn’t given that big turd the least trouble.
    It was his turn, and he began to run, shoulders hunched, jaw tight, until he realized that the slaps were mere stings, and he’d received much worse from his brother. He did stumble and fall once, but the kicks thudded