Oathblood

SPRING PLOWING AT FORST REACH

There was no light but that of the hearty fire in the Lord's Study at Ashkevron Manor, but neither of the two inhabitants of the study needed any other illumination. It was clearly a "man's room," comfortably crowded with furniture that the Lady of the manor deemed too shabby to be seen elsewhere, but too good to be relegated to the rubbish room. Distantly related if one looked back far enough, Lord Kemoc Ashkevron and Bard Lauren would seem unlikely companions to an outsider, and sometimes even seemed so to those who knew them both, but the improbable friendship had prospered for many years and showed no sign of changing. The bard played a soft melody on his gittern as Lord Kemoc seemed to doze, the golden firelight flickering over both of them.

Kemoc opened his eyes and roused, cocked his shaggy-haired head to one side and frowned at something he'd heard that wasn't music. Bard Lauren stopped playing immediately; he'd been trying to soothe Kemoc's aching joints with his Healing-music, and had thought he'd been succeeding. With every passing year, Lord Kemoc's joints hurt more when the cold wind out of the north swept down over Forst Reach at winter's beginning. Even here, in this comfortable wood-paneled room, deep within the belly of the manor, Lord Kemoc could not escape the aching of his bones.

"Is there something wrong, old friend?" Lauren asked anxiously. Kemoc shook his grizzled head ponderously, looking more bearlike than usual, and motioned him to silence.

Lauren held his peace, flattening his palm over the strings of his gittern so that not even a breath of draft would set them murmuring.

"Do you hear that?" Kemoc asked abruptly.

Lauren listened, as only a Bard could, taking note of anything that could be termed sound. Past the crackling and hissing of the fire, past the sound of Kemoc's breathing and his own, there was a different note in the sound of the wind about the walls of Forst Reach. "The wind's changed direction?" he replied tentatively.

Kemoc nodded and sighed, both with relief and regret. "It has. It's out of the south, old boy. In a few days, we'll have our thaw, and it'll be time for plowing. And happy as I'll be to see the spring, it's just that much that I dread the plowing. I'm getting too old to cope with it; it's worse than a battle campaign."

Lauren blinked at him in surprise. "Dare I ask, why?"

Kemoc bared his teeth in a grim smile. "Stick around here instead of flitting off as you usually do come spring, and you'll see for yourself."

Now Lauren's curiosity was aroused. "I've nowhere in particular to go," he began, "And if you'll have me-"

"If?" Kemoc's grim smile lightened. "Don't see enough of you, old son. I'll be glad enough to keep you a bit longer-but I warn you, spring plowing around here is not for the weak of heart. I've heard it said that at Forst Reach, 'plowman' and 'wild beast tamer' are considered to be one and the same thing."

Now Lauren's curiosity was more than roused, it was avid. "In that case, I don't think you could be rid of me if you wanted to!"

He attempted to get more information out of Lord Kemoc, but a spirit of mischief -- or maybe devilment -- had infected the Lord of Forst Reach, and nothing more would Kemoc tell him. Lauren went up to his bed that night with his curiosity completely unsatisfied.

Lauren was happy to spend the winters at Forst Reach -- winter being the only season when his services as a Master Bard were not needed at Haven, for all the Master Bards that had no families came crowding back to avoid the harsh weather. Kemoc was an old friend from the time Lauren had first gone out on his Journeyman's wanderings, and since he had nowhere in particular to go in winter and no great desire to spend it on the road or in Haven, Lauren welcomed the invitation. In the spring, he would return to Haven bearing all the news of this part of the world back to the capital -- and in greater detail than the Heralds of this region did, since he spent more time here than a Herald on circuit could. For his part, Lauren found in Kemoc's household the family he had never known. Perhaps it was easier because he had come into this "family" without any of the burden of childhood memories. It is easy for parents to pull the strings that make one dance, he reflected, as he closed his door behind him, After all, they are the ones who tied those strings in place. Perhaps it was just that he was familiar enough for the Ashkevron household to be easy with him, yet not so familiar that anyone inflicted family grievances on him.

Or perhaps it is because they know that as a Bard, I might well be tempted to turn an absurd grievance into a comic song.

Lauren knew Lord Kemoc well enough to realize that behind the joking and the grim humor, there was some real worry. But why should he be so concerned over a little matter like spring plowing?

Lauren crossed the room unerringly, even in the darkness. There was no doubt that the wind had turned; now it blew full against the shutters of his room, and there was a gentler, wetter scent to it, where it leaked in past the leaded glass window-panes, than there had been this morning. He put his gittern into the stand by touch and knelt to blow the fire to flame.

In the ten years he'd spent winters here, Lauren had never seen anything to make Kemoc this concerned. Forst Reach was a prosperous and peaceful holding. Spring plowing, he wondered again. Why should he have compared it to a coming battle? Just how difficult could spring plowing be? He realized that he was not country-wise enough to know everything about life on the land, but surely the weather couldn't become that vicious in the spring or he'd have heard something of it by now.

It was as he thought that -- though he did not realize it at the time -- that he got his first clue. For on the wings of the warming wind came the squeal of an angry stallion from the stable.

Lauren listened to the horse telling the world that he was ready to take on all comers, mare or competitor, and chuckled. No doubt; even the beasts recognized the turning of the season. And since Kemoc had gone coy, he might as well get to sleep; he'd find his itch of curiosity eased all in good time.

Two days later, the last trace of snow was gone, and although the air was chilly and the breeze brisk, it was no longer so bone-chillingly cold. It was time for the first plow to cut the first furrow, while the earth was still damp, but not muddy. Right after breakfast, Kemoc had brought Lauren out to the back of the barns where the harnessing took place, and the sounds of angry horses had rung through the air even before they reached the yard in front of the barn. Now Lauren stared at a pair of fighting, kicking geldings -- geldings, not stallions! -- being dragged to their harness by two sturdy plowmen, and felt his eyes widening.

"Spring plowing," said Kemoc with resignation. "There you have it, the sum and total of our problem."

"But-but -- I thought plowhorses were, well, docile," Lauren protested, trying to reconcile the fact that he knew those horses had been gelded with the fact that they were acting like fighting stallions. The first horse had been dragged to his appointed place and with two people holding his bridle, a third was managing to get a harness on him. The second had already kicked his harness off, and was trying to bite the first horse, whose ears were back and whose yellowed teeth were bared.

"They are," Kemoc replied heavily. "Everywhere but here. Come along, old lad. I'll show you what we're up to here. This is all due to a decision made by one of my ancestors, and the idea was a sound one, but -- well -- there are some problems with the execution, you might say."

Farther along the row of horses being readied for the field, a pair of mares with foals at heel were also being harnessed up. The foals were clever, nippy little demons, who obviously resented the fact that their meal-producers were being interfered with. The men harnessing the mares had to keep them off by main force, and wore leather shirts to protect against bites. "We're famous for our Ashkevron breed of war horse," Kemoc explained. "There was a horse -- allegedly a Shin'a'in warsteed -- called the Gray Stud. He was the foundation-stallion; we took him to our hunters and plowhorses -- in the first generation. He was a fighter and he was smart, everything you'd want in a war horse, but he wasn't big enough to carry a man in full plate armor. We were looking for intelligence and fighting spirit from him, agility and speed from the hunters, and size and strength from the plowhorses. We crossed the sons from the hunters to the daughters from the plowhorses, and that gives us our basic warhorse. We continue crossing the best of the best; geld everything we don't use at stud, and sell the ones we won't breed. Trouble is, we can't afford to keep horses around eating their heads off and doing nothing but breeding, so everything is broken to harness and plow except the breeding stallions. Which makes spring plowing time -- exciting. The geldings all retain every bit of a stallion's fight. That's why people pay a small ransom for them."

"I can see that," Lauren replied, watching with stunned amazement as a gelding -- another gelding! -- left alone for a moment in a loose box, proceeded to attempt to batter the thing to splinters in an effort to get at the gelding tied to the outside of it.

"The Gray's temper went hand-in-hand with his intelligence and both traits bred true, which makes them finely-honed killers on the battlefield, but no joy in harness," Kemoc continued glumly. "Most of the year you can handle them, but spring brings out the worst in them. There'll be broken bones before the day's over."

And before the day was over, Lauren saw Lord Kemoc's prediction proved true. One pair of geldings decided to go over a stone fence, plow and all, and hung the plow up on the top. A foal ripped out a hank of one plowman's hair (roots and all) in fury when the man wouldn't unharness his dam and tried to separate them. Two more geldings too intractable to be harnessed in a team with anything saw each other and conceived an instant hatred for one another; they dragged their plows and plowmen with them across the width of two fields to meet in the middle in a furious clash that left both plows in splinters. And one of the breeding stallions broke out of his field to get at a harnessed mare, which incident resulted in the first broken arm of the season.

"It could have been worse," sighed Kemoc at the end of the day, as he and Lauren shared a bit of bread, cheese, and beer. "It could have been a broken skull."

"I hope you'll forgive me for asking the obvious, but haven't you tried breeding something with a good temper into the line?" Lauren asked.

"Oh, we've tried, but the Gray Stud's temper always comes through." Kemoc shook his head. "I've never seen anything like it. People want the geldings as war horses, there's no shortage of takers for them, but by the gods, it gets hard and harder to survive this season every year! And breeding season's no festival either. The mares fight back even when they're hard in season, often as not, and there's damage all around before they get separated from the stallion."

Lauren pondered this for a moment. "It -- really isn't very funny, is it?" he said. "I mean, it sounds funny at first, but people are getting hurt."

"And it's only damned good luck that no one has gotten killed," Kemoc agreed. "How long before my people start refusing to plow with these beasts? What will we do then? We can't afford to keep one herd of plowhorses and one herd of warhorses, the damned things eat too much."

Lauren didn't say anything then, nor did he mention that he had an idea even when he left Forst Reach to return to his duties at Haven and the Court - but he had made up his mind to try and do something to solve Kemoc's problem before the next plowing season.

* * *

Cold rain drummed on the roof of the indoor riding arena, and Tarma shena Tale'sedrin blessed the break in the weather that had allowed her to send her young pupils home for summer holidays before the weather turned this ugly. She'd sent them off a bit early this year, in no small part because they'd gotten an early start last fall, and it hadn't seemed fair to keep them away from home longer than usual.

And besides, she'd had a particular project in mind that she didn't want an audience for -- the very project that kept her in the arena at this very moment.

Tarma already had her hands full and didn't really need anything to distract her when one of the servants edged nervously up to the fence intended to keep spectators out of the riding arena. She spared a moment to glare at the hapless servant, silencing him before he had a chance to speak, and turned her attention back to seven-year-old Jadrie, Kethry's eldest.

As blonde as her mother, as blue-eyed as her father, young Jadrie was a pretty child who threatened to become a beauty. Fortunately, it hadn't occurred to her that beauty was a cause for vanity, and neither parent had any intentions of letting her know that fact. Today she wore her oldest, most practical clothing of well-worn woolen tunic and breeches, and scuffed riding boots; she had her hair done up in a practical tail, and looked very much as her mother must have at her age.

This was a special day for her. Tarma had judged her old enough for a horse of her own this year -- and in Shin'a'in terms, that meant something of great and specific significance -- nothing less than a rite of passage.

Jadrie had been carefully coached for all the winter months in the Shin'a'in art of horse-talking, and now she was putting her new knowledge to the test with an unbroken, green filly, three years old and fresh off the Plains and the Tale'sedrin herds. If she really had learned her lessons correctly, the young filly would be carrying her willingly by the end of the day. If she hadn't, Tarma would take over and tame the horse herself, and Jadrie would go back in humiliation to her fat little pony for another year.

A little harsh on the child, maybe -- but better that than spoil horse and child together. There's no second chances on the Plains, and it's never too early for a child to learn that.

But things were going very well, so far. The tiny blonde child had the sorrel filly pacing in a circle with her at the center, keeping her going with gentle tosses of a lead rope, making it land just behind the horse's moving feet. As the little girl flicked her soft rope at the heels of the filly, watching the horse with such intensity that her blue eyes shone, the horse turned her near-side ear to catch the girl's murmurs of encouragement.

Another round of the circle, and the filly dropped her head, flicking out her tongue at the same time. Jadrie dropped her eyes back to the horse's shoulders, then to her rump. The filly dropped her head further, chewing at nothing. That was the signal Jadrie was waiting for, and Tarma with her.

Right, girl. Remember your lessons. The filly's saying, "I don't want to run in a circle, I'd like to stop. Can't we eat together and be herdmates?" Don't wait for a second invitation.

Jadrie coiled up the rope and let the filly slow and stop, then walked toward her. The filly started to take a single nervous step away, but before she could, Jadrie looked away from her, then turned away, making chirruping sounds.

Good, good. You're doing everything just right. Keep her soothed, look at her, but not directly. Invite her into your herd.

The filly stepped tentatively toward the little girl, then stopped again. Once again, Jadrie faced her, then turned away, looking back at the filly briefly over her shoulder out of the corner of her eye. This time the filly approached further, one slow step at a time, until she stopped, not quite coming as far as Jadrie's shoulder.

"Good girl!" Jadrie crooned. "That's right, pretty girl! Come on, then-"

Still murmuring, Jadrie walked slowly away. After a moment of hesitation, the filly followed.

Tarma grinned. Jadrie was going to be the envy of her siblings this summer; there was no doubt that she'd mastered all of Tarma's coaching in horse-talk. The Shin'a'in didn't break horses, they spoke to them, working with their own body language and instincts to convince them that their would-be riders weren't two-legged, horse-eating predators, but were potential partners. With nothing more than hands, mind, voice, a blanket, and a soft rope, any Shin'a'in over the age of ten could have even the wildest horse carrying him willingly in less time than it took to bake a loaf of bread. And since Kethry's children -- or, more properly, those who chose the life -- were to become Shin'a'in in everything but looks, they were going to have to learn horse-talking.

Unless she changed her mind drastically when she grew older, Jadrie would be the first of the renewed Clan of Tale'sedrin. Right now, Jadrie wanted nothing more than to live her life on the Plains; in fact, this last year she'd spent her first autumn fostered with a family of Clan Liha'irden before returning to Kethry's Keep with the first snow, and had gloried in every moment. This little test only proved that she had everything in her to prove to the satisfaction of even the sternest of Clan Chiefs and Shamans that she had the true spirit of a Shin'a'in.

In short order, Jadrie's filly had accepted the rope around her neck, then the blanket on her back, then Jadrie herself on the filly's back with nothing to "control" her but a crude halter made of the rope. As the little girl trotted the filly gleefully around the ring, blonde tail bouncing with the movement of the horse, Tarma turned her attention to the servant.

The man was watching Jadrie with his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide with shock. Tarma snapped her fingers at him to break him out of his trance. "Well?" she said, a little impatient. "What was so important that you had to come down here to interrupt a lesson?"

He stared at Tarma and gulped. "What sorta witchcraft be that?" he asked.

"None whatsoever," she countered. "It's nothing more complicated than paying attention." But she really didn't expect the man to believe her, and it was clear that he didn't. The servants that had come with this place were a mixed bag of good and bad, and the bad tended to be ignorant, superstitious, and foolish rather than of ill-intent. Jadrek was gradually replacing the bad ones, but it was slow going. "So?" she repeated. "What sent you down here?"

"There's a man t'see you, m'lady," the fellow said diffidently. "From King Stefarisen. He's with Lady Kethry."

From Stef? Huh. She made a shooing motion with her hand. "Well, get back up to the house and tell them I'll be there as quickly as I can."

She pointedly turned her attention back to Jadrie; the servant waited a moment longer, but when it was obvious that she wasn't going to say anything more, he took himself and his message out.

Tarma sighed; the fellow was one of the ones due for replacement, and obviously Jadrek hadn't found anyone with his skills and good common sense. It took a certain sturdiness of character combined with a stolid acceptance of anything that came along to work out as a servant at the Keep. As a consequence, they always seemed to be a little shorthanded.

Can't really blame people for getting spooked around here, Tarma reminded herself. If it isn't the barbarian, raw-meat-eating Shin'a'in leading her pack of male and female hooligans in mock wars, it's Lady Kethry's mage-students blowing up storms or setting things afire or conjuring up weird beasts out of the Pelagirs. And if it isn't either of those things, it's Lady Kethry's own brood wreaking some hellishness or other!

There'd be more mischief, that was sure, now that Jadrie had her very own, grown-up horse. The others would be all over themselves coming up with some prank to counter her new-won glory. Tarma expected to hear tales of woe from the village any day now, of sheep turned interesting colors, or puppies trained to herd chickens, or some strange contrivance powered by a kidnapped and irritated billy goat positioned at the well, a contraption designed to bring up water with no effort. And whatever it was that had happened would all be well-intentioned, meant to help, but the end result would be to scare the whey out of the long-suffering villagers.

Eventually, she supposed, they'd get used to it. But the youngsters had only been at this "helpful" stage for a couple of years, and it would probably take a couple more before that happened.

Jadrie, at least, would be well-occupied for the spring, and the first day of summer would be the signal for the annual trek to the Plains, which would at least get the children away from the village for the all-important summer growing season. The Liha'ir-den found the little ones' pranks amusing, sometimes even hilarious, and were not at all taken aback by them.

They'd howl with laughter at sheep with pre-dyed wool. And it wouldn't matter what mad color the pranksters painted the woolies, there's not a color in the rainbow that my people don't like.

:feh. I know,: said a voice in her head. :You'd think that after a few centuries they'd have developed a little taste.:

Tarma disdained to reply to Warrl's jibe; she had more important things to concentrate on. Jadrie had begun guiding her mare through more complicated moves than simply trotting in a circle, and she wanted to pay close attention to the behavior of both horse and rider.

But there were no problems, none at all. The filly moved well and willingly, head and ears up, tail flagged, and although Jadrie still wore her look of intense concentration, it was overlaid with an expression of intense joy. Tarma knew exactly how she felt; she'd felt that way herself when she'd tamed Kessira. Probably every Shin'a'in child felt that way after taming a horse for the first time -- it was a little like magic, and altogether thrilling to have something that large accept you and work with you on its own terms.

Finally Jadrie brought her horse to a neat halt, a few paces away from Tarma, and looked expectantly at her teacher. Tarma gave her a grin of approval, and the smile Jadrie flashed back at her lit up her face.

"Good job, kitten," Tarma approved. "Now, go cement your friendship with a little sweet-feed. You've worked her enough for today, and tomorrow, if the weather's good, we'll move outside."

Jadrie nodded, her tail of blonde hair bobbing with enthusiasm, and slid down off the filly's back with great care to avoid startling her. With a hand on the horse's shoulder, she led her new prize off to the stable, where the filly's good behavior would be rewarded by something the grass-fed beast had never yet tasted -- a sweet treat of treacled grain. Then she'd be rubbed down with a soft cloth, although she hadn't been worked up enough to break a sweat -- it was the contact that mattered. Jadrie had groomed enough beasts by now to know all the "good spots," and she'd be sure to scratch every one.

"And what do you two think?" she asked the other two spectators, who had remained respectfully silent until now.

Tiny, ice-blonde Jodi, formerly one of Tarma's scouts in the Sunhawks, clasped her hand to her forehead woefully. "Eh now, lady, ye'll be purtin' me an' Beaker out of business here if ye keep trainin' up more horse-talkers!" She imitated Kyra's back-county accent perfectly, Tarma noted with amusement.

Her business partner and mate Beaker, also a former Sunhawk, nodded glumly. He would have been utterly forgettable except for his impressive jut of a nose -- and the fact that one of his special messenger-birds, a creature about the size of a crow, with a black body and green head, sat on his shoulder. Tarma laughed at both of their long faces. She'd taught both of them the Shin'a'in ways with horses when they'd come to her asking if she needed instructors at her new school. She hadn't, not yet anyway, but she'd asked them if they had any interest in another trade.

"No fear of that," Tarma replied. "That girl can't wait to get out on the Plains. If her mother would let her, she'd be fostered out at Liha'irden this moment." She was pleased, though, with the implied compliment. "What brings you two out here again, anyway?"

"The usual," Beaker told her laconically. "Still looking for someplace to settle down. Trouble is, nobody in this part of the world needs horsetalkers all year 'round. We're getting a bit long in the tooth for the road life." He looked at her hopefully. "Don't suppose you've heard of anything?"

"Not yet, but -- why don't you stick around for a fortnight or so?" she told them. "Maybe something will come up."

"I'd as soon sleep in one of your beds as the floor of an inn," Beaker replied with gratitude. "Thanks."

"No worries," Tarma told him, "You've stayed here often enough; put your mares up, get your gear and find a room, and I'll see you at dinner. Keth'll be glad to see you."

As the two Sunhawks (former Sunhawks, she reminded herself) disappeared through the stable door to get their gear, Tarma turned to leave through the outer door. "Coming, Furface?" she asked over her shoulder, as Warrl's great bulk uncoiled from behind the fence.

:I wouldn't miss this for the world,: Warrl replied smugly.

Tarma cast him a look of suspicion. Just what did he know about the visitor?

But the kyree wasn't talking, so the only way for her to find out what was going on was to get up to the manor.

She found Jadrek and Kethry in the solar, entertaining an ordinary-looking fellow with brown hair, a neatly-trimmed brown beard, and a charming, open face. But it was his clothing that immediately explained the reason for Warrl's amusement. He was dressed in scarlet from his collar to his boots, and there was only one thing that could mean.

Oh, gods, she groaned, as Warrl chuckled unmercifully in her head. Not another bard!

"Tarma! Just the person we needed!" Jadrek said genially, before Tarma could duck out of sight and hide. "Please join us!"

She sighed, and schooled her face to a pleasant -- or at least neutral -- expression as she entered the warm, firelit solar. "I really shouldn't," she began. "I've just been in the stables, I smell like horse-"

"But that's precisely why I'm here," the stranger exclaimed, turning toward her eagerly. "Horses! A very dear friend of mine and a very important noble of the Valdemar Court is suffering from a rather extreme set of problems with his horses-"

"And you came here?" Tarma allowed one eyebrow to rise quizzically as she chose a sturdy chair and flung herself into it. "Why on earth did a Bard of Valdemar come here for help with horses?"

"Because Roald sent him to Stefansen, and Stef sent him here, of course," Kethry replied, a twinkle in her green eyes. She twined a tendril of hair as golden as her daughter's around one finger in an absentminded gesture Tarma knew meant she was highly amused.

"Ah." Tarma let the eyebrow drop again. "Roald" was King Roald of Valdemar, who was Stefanson's friend and had been since the days when they were merely Prince Stefansen and Herald Roald. Jadrek had been Archivist to Stef's father, and he and Tarma and Keth had helped put Stef on the throne of Rethwellan after his brother usurped it, tried to murder him, and succeeded in murdering their sister. She in turn had been Captain Idra, leader of the Mercenary Guild Company Idra's Sunhawks -- which had employed Tarma as Scoutleader and Kethry as Company Mage. It sometimes made Tarma's head spin, what with being a Shin'a'in Swordsworn and simple trainer of would-be warriors on one hand, and on a first-name basis with the Kings of two countries on the other.

"Well," she said, leaning over to help herself to food and drink with a long arm. "You're a bard, you ought to know how to tell a tale in a straightforward manner, so why don't you start from the beginning and explain the situation to this poor bewildered barbarian?"

Nothing loath, the young man launched into his story. Tarma had a difficult time keeping her face straight when he related the fable of the Gray Stud being a Shin'a'in warsteed. Nothing was more unlikely, and she said so.

"I can promise you that we haven't lost a stud off the Plains in our entire history," she told him. "And it's damned unlikely that your friend's ancestors even got an accidental halfbreed. Battlemares are perfectly capable of keeping an unwanted male at bay, and even if one had the poor taste to mate with something other than another warsteed, I can guarantee you she'd be back on the Plains as soon as her rider knew she was pregnant. We simply don't let the bloodline out of our hands."

Bard Lauren shrugged. "I'll admit that the story sounded odd to me," he admitted, "but it's one of those family legends that no one contradicts." His face fell a little. "I came here in hope that since the problem stems from that bloodline, you'd know how to deal with it," he concluded in resignation. "And since the bloodline isn't what I was told, I won't waste any more of your time-"

"Whoa up, there!" Tarma exclaimed. "I didn't say I couldn't help you. As a matter of fact, I'm fairly certain I can."

:Just what are you up to?: Warrl asked with alarm.

With no students to train, I was afraid I was going to be bored waiting for the summer trek, she thought gleefully. This will be a marvelous way to do a little traveling. I'll ask my Hawkbrother friend to magic us up to the north and back, and it won't take any time at all.

:You wouldn't!: Warrl said in horror. He hated the Gates, though he and Tarma had only needed to use them once before, when the Hawkbrother mage she and Kethry had rescued had asked for some assistance in tracking a weird Pelagir beast and bringing it to bay.

Tarma chuckled under her breath.

The Bard's face lit up as brightly as the sun at high summer. "You can?" he exclaimed.

A plan was rapidly forming in her mind, and she turned to Kethry. "You won't need me back here until the trek to the Plains for the summer, will you?" she asked.

Kethry shook her head. "Not that I can imagine -- and until then, the rains should keep the childrens' mayhem to a minimum."

"Good! Try and keep them out of the village, will you? They'll probably all try and do something to match Jadrie's new horse if you don't. I've got a notion to see how our old friend Roald is doing, and a run will do Warrl a world of good." She smiled maliciously as Warrl made a sound of inarticulate protest. "I hope you haven't unpacked your things, Bard Lauren; we'll have to leave in the morning if we want to get to your Forst Reach by spring plowing."

The Bard placed one hand over his heart and bowed to her formally. "Swordlady, a Bard can always be on the road at a moment's notice -- and if you can solve Lord Kemoc's problem, I will be eternally grateful and at your service for as long as you please."

She chuckled. "Save your gallantries, my friend, and prepare for a hard ride."

* * *

Tarma had to give the man credit; he endured the difficult journey without a single complaint. He weathered the passage of a Gate from one Hawk-brother Vale to another farther north, right on the Border of Valdemar, and he put up with the ride by horseback afterward, in spite of the fact that they rose in the dark and didn't look for beds until well after nightfall, or that the rain drenched them every single furlong of the trip eastward. "I've ridden with Heralds a few times," was all he said, and of the three of them, Tarma was the only one who had any vague idea of what that might mean. She knew what Companions were -- and if they were capable of the sorts of endurance wonders she suspected they were, then the Bard was a tough trooper indeed.

As one of the few Shin'a'in to leave the Plains, Tarma had more contacts among the Hawkbrothers than most of her kin, and partnering with a sorceress had given her a certain stolidity about magic. Her two friends were used to war-magic, and although the Gate excited a little curiosity in them, they weren't terribly startled by it. It was the Bard Tarma expected trouble from--

But strangely enough, it was almost as if his mind went blank from the time they entered the Vale to when they crossed the Valdemar Border. He literally did not remember how they had gotten there. And if Tarma had been inclined to worry about such things, that memory lapse would have seriously bothered her -- but knowing the Hawkbrothers as she did, she suspected they had diddled with the man's mind to make him forget them, and she had no particular objection to such meddling.

Beaker and Jodi were looking forward to this job at Forst Reach, and had immediately fallen into the old habit of looking to her as their commander. She had more experience than they did at handling entrenched behavior problems in horses, but she had every confidence, not only in them, but in their mounts. Graceless and Hopeless were as ugly as their names implied, but they were almost as intelligent as a battlesteed, and had been trained for just this sort of situation. What Jodi and Beaker couldn't handle, their mares could.

And for the really difficult customers -- which would probably be the stud stallions -- Tarma had both Ironheart and Hellsbane. She rode the former, and the Bard and his meager pack and hers were gingerly perched atop the latter, though Tarma had to give Hellsbane special commands before the battlesteed would permit a stranger to ride. Warrl rode on his pillion pad behind Tarma.

This strange little cavalcade clattered up the lane to the Ashkevron Manor just as the wind, which had been blowing steadily out of the north, suddenly turned and came from the southwest.

They were met at the door of the Manor by the Lord himself, whose first words were for Lauren, although he couldn't quite keep his startled gaze off Tarma and her companions. "By the gods, Lauren, we missed you this winter, and your mysterious letter was no compensation! Where in all the hells were you?"

"Finding you that help for your spring plowing problem, old friend," Lauren said wearily, but with a wide smile at the shock and surprise on Lord Kemoc's craggy face. "May I present to you my friends the Swordlady Tarma shena Tale'sedrin of the Shin-'a'in, and her two compatriots, Jodi n'Aiker and Beaker Bowman, of Rethwellan?"

"A Shin'a'in?" Lord Kemoc's eyes nearly bulged out of his face, but he recovered quickly. "You're right welcome to Forst Reach, Ladies, Gents-" He looked somewhat at a loss for something to say, but his lady-wife was under no such difficulty.

"Come in, you're soaked to the skin and no doubt tired to the bone," she said firmly. It was obvious that although she was at a loss as to what their rank and status might be, she was taking them at face value as Lauren's "friends" and ranking them as his equals at least. "You need dry clothing, a good meal, and a warm bed, and anything else can wait until morning," she concluded, with a warning glance at her spouse.

He, wise man, immediately gave way before her; Tarma was not going to argue either.

The lady herself showed them to three rooms, all in a row, with doors on a common corridor. Tarma was in the first, and cheerfully dropped her pack on a bench at the foot of the bed. Neither large nor small, neither luxurious nor sparse, her room had a comfortable-looking bed, a chair, and the bench, with a washstand and a mirror on one wall in the way of furnishings. A fire burned cheerfully in the small fireplace on one wall, and there was glass in the window that looked out over the lane they had just ridden up.

Warrl sighed, and curled up on the hearth rug. :I wonder how the lady plans to solve the riddle of where to seat us at dinner?:

"She won't be seating you anywhere, Furface," Tarma laughed, just as someone tapped on the door.

Like a miracle, there were two servants, one with covered dishes on a tray -- which neatly solved the question of how the lady was going to puzzle out their ranks -- and one with water and a bowl of meat trimmings for Warrl.

Tarma was inclined to be more amused than offended at their hostess's neat sidestepping of protocol. She got a dry tunic and breeches out of her pack and changed into them, draped her wet clothing on the mantle to dry, and left her boots off, wriggling her toes in the warm fur of the rug beside her bed as she sat down to demolish the dinner that Lady Ashkevron had supplied her.

"I hate to admit this, but I prefer this to facing two dozen strangers all staring and trying to pretend they aren't," she told Warrl, once a taste had assured her that the savory portion of meat pie would not have to be put to rewarm beside the fire.

:You'll get your staring eyes soon enough. Tonight the Bard will let the Lady know you're fit for the High Table, and everyone will be able to stare at you as much as they want,: Warrl said, a trifle maliciously. He still hadn't forgiven Tarma for the Gate.

Her high good humor was too strong to let a little jibe like that affect her.

She put her tray outside the door and trotted down the hall to check on Beaker and Jodi. As she had expected, Jodi had simply moved in with Beaker rather than trying to make herself understood, figuring that their hosts would get the correct idea when only one room was in use. Jodi was just finishing her own dinner; Beaker had inhaled his and was examining one of the half dozen books that graced a little desk in their room.

"Wish I could read this," he said wistfully, as he put it down and moved to join Tarma and his partner in the door of his room. "I can speak a bit of their lingo, but the writing's beyond me."

"You aren't going to have time to read," she told him. "At least not for the next couple, weeks. Did you see the size of the stables as we rode in? Figure on the sheer number of problem children they've got!"

While Beaker sat down on the hearth rug beside Warrl, using him as a backrest, Jodi's eyes lit up. Jodi was never happier than when she was working.

"I speak the language pretty well, so just let me translate for now," Tarma went on, sitting tailor fashion on the bed so that Jodi could take the chair. "If we do well here -- tell you what, this just might be the long-term position you were looking for. It's obvious they don't know a thing about horse-talking, or they wouldn't be having the difficulty that they are."

Jodi nodded, pursing her lips. "This is all speculation, of course, but I'll bet that though their foundation stud did have a miserable disposition, the only thing wrong with their current crop is that they're too intelligent. They know they can get away with misbehaving, so they do. These horses are spoiled, that's what's wrong with them."

Beaker snorted. "Hellfires, they're expected to misbehave! Expect anything out of a horse, and you'll probably get it!"

Tarma grinned, pleased with herself and them. "The big question is, how do you want to play this? Do we demystify our hosts, or do we play this up as some sort of singular mind-magic?"

Beaker chuckled, and ran his hand through his short crop of graying hair. "We don't demystify them unless we decide we don't want to stay here -- and right now, I wouldn't mind settling here for the rest of my life!"

On that cheerful note, the three of them parted company, and Tarma stretched herself out beneath a thick woolen blanket with every feeling of contentment.

But the shrill trumpeting of a stallion woke her at dawn, and sent her tumbling out of that warm, comfortable bed with a great deal more eagerness and enthusiasm than she had expected. She followed her nose to the kitchen, where an intimidated servant gave her hot bread and milk, and then followed her ears to the stables, where a battle royal was in progress. And quick as she had been, Jodi and Beaker were there waiting for her.

So was Lord Kemoc, and she took charge of the situation immediately.

"Whoa-up!" she shouted at the two stablehands struggling to get the recalcitrant beast into harness. "Leave off!"

Startled, they obeyed; she marched up and seized the reins of the horse, a gelding, looking him over quickly to judge his age and guess at the amount of behavioral damage she was going to have to undo. "Stubborn, aren't you, my lad?" she murmured, seeing that he was no more than three with a touch of relief. "Well, I'm not surprised. But you aren't getting away with this nonsense anymore."

The horse looked at her and snorted, as if daring her to make him behave. She laughed, somewhat to the Valdemaran's surprise. "Lord Kemoc, are these horses ever in harness except at plowing time?"

"No--" came the answer.

She shrugged. "Well, then -- what you've got is two problems. The first is that these fellows never get a chance to understand what their job's all about. You shove them into harness, then they get something chasing at their heels for a fortnight or so, then you run them loose again. The other problem is that you need to speak their language."

Kemoc's mouth literally dropped open. "We-- what?" he spluttered.

"You need to speak their language," she replied firmly. "You're trying to break them, when they're too spirited and too intelligent to be broken, then when they misbehave, you give up. You just need to talk to them, and make them understand that good things happen when they behave themselves. Beaker, show him how to handle a youngster like this one -- I doubt he's got too much to unlearn."

Beaker took the halter of the gelding and led him into a small enclosed exercise yard. Over the course of the morning, he worked what to the Valdemaran probably seemed like a miracle. Using many of the same techniques that Jadrie had used in taming her new filly, he soon had the gelding standing placidly under his harness. But then, instead of hitching him immediately to a plow, Beaker walked behind him, guiding him with the reins as if he were plowing, but without the plow in place; he kept looking back at Beaker in puzzlement, but instead of punishing him for stopping, Beaker simply gave him encouragement. Once the gelding was used to taking his orders from behind, instead of being ridden, Beaker got him accustomed to pulling against a weight -- himself, leaning against the harness. Only then did he attach a sack full of gravel to the harness and guide him around the yard until he was comfortable with the idea of pulling against something and have that "something" right at his heels. Every time the horse began to act up, Beaker went back to the beginning -- showing the horse that his behavior was not proper to herd etiquette, rather than punishing him.

Tarma explained what he was doing each step of the way, stressing that it was as important to act on what the horse was trying to tell his handler as it was to get the horse to do what you wanted, but as she expected, the Valdemarans assumed that this was some sort of magic rather than simple common sense and observation. By the time they broke for a little lunch, Lord Kemoc and his stablehands were just about convinced that Beaker was using something akin to a Herald's Gifts. Tarma overheard them muttering about "mind-speech" and "animal mind-speech," and had to stifle her grin.

They took a short break for a little lunch-eaten,

Tarma noted, in a common group that included Lord Kemoc. That boded well for Jodi and Beaker's future. Afterward, she instructed the stablehands to bring in fresh horses two at a time. One by one, Jodi and Beaker took the youngest of the geldings into the exercise yard and ran them through the training routine, only turning them over to the plowmen when they were sure that the horses understood what they were being asked to do. By then, Lauren was nearly beside himself with delight, and Lord Kemoc was eyeing the three outlanders as if he suspected them of far more power than they were demonstrating.

"I still don't understand how you're doing this," he said, "but I'd be a fool to argue with the results. What next?"

"Next, while Beaker and Jodi keep on with the geldings, I deal with the mares with foals -- or rather, I deal with the foals," Tarma said firmly.

The mares were easy enough to harness up -- they were used to being in harness, since they pulled carts and other farm implements all year long when they weren't in foal. They were also not used to being allowed free rein to their annoyance. It was the foals themselves that were the problem, and that problem was solved rather easily. Whenever one tried to nip, Tarma maneuvered quickly so that it nipped its mother instead of the human. Mother reacted predictably, with a squeal and a lashing hind hoof, or by turning to nip her youngster, and the foal was punished for its behavior by the authority it respected, in a way that it understood, and in a way that did not leave it with a fear of the human.

"Now, let the foals walk alongside while you plow," she instructed the plowmen. "Don't try to separate them from their mothers at this age; they aren't going to trample the plowed earth the way an adult would, and once they understand that mother isn't going to be taken from them, you won't have any more trouble with them. Stop when they need to nurse; they won't take that long. On the whole, I suspect they'll come to enjoy this as a new kind of game."

That brought them to the end of the first day; fully half of the mares and a quarter of the geldings had worked calmly in harness, and although far fewer horses were out plowing, far more had gotten accomplished on this first day than ever had before. Furthermore, no one had been injured! Lord Kemoc was beside himself with joy, and insisted on having all three of them beside him at the head table, displacing his wife and two of his children. Fortunately, those displaced didn't mind in the least and simply added to the chatter; the whole family seemed to be good-tempered and far less concerned with rank than Tarma had expected. When Lord Kemoc learned that the three of them had served in a mercenary company, he was full of questions, and with Tarma translating, Jodi and Beaker soon had the table roaring with laughter with some of their stories.

:They're doing well,: Warrl observed, from his place with the family wolfhounds next to the fire at the end of the great hall. :They're making themselves well-liked as well as respected.:

What do you think of this place? she thought to him. Do you think they'd suit here?

:I think they'd fit in like a hand into a well-made glove,: Warrl replied. :Lord Kemoc's people are well-fed and content with their overlord, and no one here seems to stand too much upon rank and class.: There was amusement in his next thoughts. :I did overhear some of the stablehands though-they think Jodi and Beaker had it "easy" today. Tomorrow they'll get the older geldings, the difficult cases, and the ungelded males. They don't think horse-talking is going to work.:

Well, they're right, but we have more than one trick up our sleeves, don't we? she replied, just as amused as Warrl.

The next day proved the truth of what Warrl had heard. After Tarma reassured the foals that today would be just like yesterday, and Jodi and Beaker coaxed the young geldings into their harness and plows, the first of the "hard cases" was brought out, rearing and kicking. It took two men to hold him, one on either side, and even then he wasn't what Tarma would have considered to be "under control."

Jodi took one look, and turned around and went into the stable, but before Lord Kemoc's men could do more than begin to chuckle at her "cowardice," she had returned, with Graceless and Hopeless in a very special triple harness.

"This lad has a lot to unlearn," Tarma explained, as Jodi and Beaker replaced Lord Kemoc's two men -- and Warrl rose up out of the shadows beside the stable to approach the horse from the front. Never having seen a kyree, the horse started and tried to shy, all of its attention on the possible threat and none of it on Jodi or Beaker. As Warrl slowly stalked toward the horse, it backed up willingly, and before the gelding knew what was happening, it was between Graceless and Hopeless. Quicker than thought, Jodi and Beaker buckled the gelding into the harness and Beaker took up the reins as Jodi stood aside.

Warrl turned and loped away, out of sight, and the gelding woke to its situation. Predictably, it immediately tried to kick and rear.

Graceless and Hopeless didn't nip and didn't kick -- instead, they leaned. They were heavier than the gelding and a half a hand taller, and as they leaned toward each other, the gelding was held immobile between them. They remained that way until he stopped fighting, then they shifted their weight again, freeing him.

He seemed very surprised and unsure of what to do; Jodi clucked to the two mares, and they moved forward a few steps, bringing the gelding perforce with them. Now he resumed his bad behavior -- and they leaned into him again. A little harder this time, squeezing a bit of breath out of him.

Jodi took the three into the yard and put them through the same paces as before, while Beaker watched. The Valdemarans didn't watch, they stared, with their mouths dropping open.

Tarma took the opportunity to get Lord Kemoc aside. "What's the hardest case you have?" she asked.

"A gelding that stood at stud for a while, and thinks he's still whole," Kemoc replied, mopping his brow with a cloth.

"Bring him out," she told him, and went to get Hellsbane and Ironheart.

The chestnut gelding in question needed four men on him; squealing and sweating, he fought every inch of the way.

Bad, or just angry and confused? I can't tell. There was always a percentage of horses in an inbred line like this that were just -- crazed. The only way to tell for certain would be to work him with Hellsbane and Ironheart.

"Turn him loose in that yard," she said, pointing to a smaller, ring-shaped exercise yard. The men looked at her as if she was crazy herself, but did as she asked.

The gelding entered the yard kicking and bucking, and soon had rid himself of every bit of harness except his halter. That was fine with Tarma; she didn't want anything getting in the way. She let him run and buck in circles for a while to wear himself out; when he finally stopped, so drenched with sweat he looked black, she whistled softly to the two warsteeds, and calmly walked into the yard while the stablehands hissed in surprise.

As she had half expected, the gelding charged her; it was a sham charge -- though if she'd turned to run, he'd have chased her right out of the yard. Instead, she stood her ground with the warsteeds on either side of her, and he stopped short, snorting with surprise.

"Now, my lad," she said calmly to him, "you've been allowed to get away with a lot of bad habits, and we're going to civilize you."

He snorted and danced at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, arrogance in every line of him. You can't tame me! his attitude said, as plain as if he could speak. I'm a Stud! I'm a King! I can do anything I want!

Then his attention turned to the warsteeds, and his nostrils flared, taking in their scent. They weren't in season, but that wouldn't matter to a gelding who thought he was still potent. His ears came up, and he arched his neck. Mares! said his body language. Girls of my dreams! Don't I impress you? Aren't I wonderful? I'm a Stud! Come over here, and I'll show you just how Studly I am!

Ironheart yawned, Hellsbane snorted in contempt. Both looked to Tarma.

"He needs taming, ladies," she told them in Shin-'a'in. "Go give him his lessons."

Ironheart shook her head and ambled forward, with Hellsbane half a length behind. Both of them were a full two hands taller than this would-be stud, and correspondingly heavier, but what mattered to the gelding was that they were mares.

He curveted toward Ironheart, dancing sideways, quite clearly intending to mount. But he kept an eye on her teeth, just in case she took a notion to bite him. Much to his shock, she neither bit nor allowed him to mount her; instead, she sidestepped, neatly maneuvering out of his way.

More determined now, he pursued her, which was exactly what she wanted. After a few feints, she had him positioned right where she wanted him -- between herself and Hellsbane.

At that moment, Hellsbane closed in before he could move out of the way, sandwiching him between the two warsteeds as neatly as if he'd been harnessed there.

Graceless and Hopeless could not have maneuvered a loose horse like this, but warsteed mares were quite used to handling herd-studs this way when they got out of hand. This was the way they kept their would-be mates in line when they weren't in season or didn't particularly care for their hopeful mate. This was just as well, given the training that warsteeds had in combat. If they hadn't been able to handle unwanted mates in a nonviolent manner, there would be serious damage done every spring.

This was what Graceless and Hopeless had been trained to do with a harnessed horse. They themselves were of Shin'a'in breeding, but from a small herd dedicated to producing working farm horses, a herd carefully preserved as one of the warsteed foundation lines. When problems showed up in a warsteed breeding herd, the stallion was put to one of these mares, and the resulting offspring bred back into the warsteed herd. They weren't as intelligent as the warsteeds, and certainly not as surefooted and quick, but by keeping this herd of foundation-stock intact, the Shin'a'in prevented some of the problems that came with heavy inbreeding.

When the gelding found himself wedged between the mares, he was astonished. How did this happen? said his ears and head. What's going on here? I'm a Stud! And he tried to struggle loose.

Ironheart flipped an ear. Oh, really? said her attitude, and just as Graceless and Hopeless had done earlier, she and Hellsbane leaned toward each other.

But they were not just trying to immobilize this importunate young fellow, they were going to teach him a lesson. They squashed him between them so hard he couldn't move at all.

Not that he didn't try, every hair on his body erect with indignation. You can't do this to me! I'm a Stud! I'm your Master! You were born to serve me!

Hellsbane twitched her nose. I don't think so, said her ears and tail, and she leaned harder.

In short order, the warsteeds had the gelding squashed so firmly between them that they had shoved all the breath out of him, his eyes bulged like a fat frog's, and his hooves no longer quite touched the ground. They let him hang there for a moment, then took some of their weight off him, allowing him to drop down between them.

He stood there, panting, his head drooping, and quite clearly trying to figure out what had gone wrong. By now the yard was ringed with spectators, all of them holding their breath to see what would happen next.

The gelding tried to get away twice more; twice more the warsteeds squashed all the air out of him. Finally, he gave up, and stood between the mares with his head dropped down to his knees. Now it was Tarma's move.

She approached him with a bridle and bit in her hands; when he saw the hated bridle, his head came up and he tried to rear.

But the mares wouldn't let him. Once again they closed in on him, not leaning, not yet, but making it very clear that if he acted in a way they didn't approve of, they would.

Tarma approached his head with the bridle. He tossed his head out of the way. The mares leaned, just a little, then let their weight off him. Tarma tried again, patiently, until once again, he gave up, and she was able to get the bit between his teeth and the bridle on him.

Now was the trickiest part; getting the harness on. She went back to the railing of the yard and collected it, then gave Hellsbane a handsignal. The mare moved out of the way, and the gelding eyed Tarma warily, but with new respect. It was evident now to him that Tarma was a member of the herd, not just one of those annoying two-legs. More than that, by the way that the others were obeying her and cooperating with her, she must be the lead-mare! This was a concept that left his poor head spinning.

Tarma walked calmly up to him, and laid the harness on his back, just as Beaker had done with the younger gelding. He, of course, immediately shook it off. She did it again, he shook it off again. She put it back on for a third time, and his head snaked around to snap at her.

Tried, rather, because before he could move, Ironheart had the back of his neck in her strong, yellow teeth, and gave him a good, hard bite. He squealed and tried to kick, but Hellsbane nipped his rump first.

He was every bit as intelligent as Lord Kemoc had claimed for the breed; this time, he didn't try to bolt, or bite -- he stood there, shivering and thinking.

Tarma laid the harness over his back; he left it there. She buckled it up; he let her.

And now she did something he would never have expected; she praised him, got out a soft cloth and wiped him down, scratched all the places where sweat had collected and dried, and which were itching him like the sting of a horsefly. Had he ever been praised and petted before?

Probably not, she decided, judging by the way he started and jumped, then rolled back his eye to look at her with utter bewilderment. But he liked it, oh my yes! He liked it a very great deal, leaning into her scratches, and even rubbing his nose against her tunic.

Spoiled rotten and too full of himself, but not mistrained, she decided with satisfaction. This won't take long at all.

She took the harness off him, and the bridle, and let him loose for a moment, then approached him with the bridle again. Of course he wasn't going to let her put it on him now that he'd gotten rid of it! But the warsteeds were ready for that, and quickly had him neatly sandwiched between them again, and this time it didn't take nearly as long to get him bridled and harnessed.

By the end of the day she had him pulling a plow, harnessed between her mares. If he shirked and didn't take his share of the load, they squashed him. If he tried to run away with the plow, they squashed him. If, however, he behaved himself, Tarma was there with a word of praise.

She was concentrating so hard on handling this horse that she completely forgot about her audience, and when she brought the gelding back in to be put up in his stall and fed, the stablehands treated her with a respect verging on awe. "We'll have to work him between my mares for a few days," she told Lord Kemoc, "But after that, he'll go all right for you this spring, and Beaker and Jodi will be able to train him to saddle and sell him afterwards -- which I gather you weren't able to do before."

Lord Kemoc could only shake his head in wonder.

She and Beaker and Jodi worked with Lord Kemoc's horses for a week before all of them were working properly in harness. By the end of the third day, Lord Kemoc had voiced delicate hints about their employment status, and by the end of the week, he and Jodi and Beaker had successfully concluded negotiations that gave them equal pay and status with Lord Kemoc's Weaponsmaster. Tarma was completely satisfied at that point; the worst of the horses had learned proper behavior, and with Jodi and Beaker in charge, from now on the foals would never have a chance to learn bad habits. The Ashkevron horses should be the most sought-after in the Kingdom.

She and Hellsbane and Ironheart rode into the gates of their own home just as the spring rains began to break up. Jadrie rode up to meet her on her own sweetly-tempered little mare, full of spirit and impatient to be off to the Dhorisha Plains for summer holiday. Over dinner that night, Tarma had the whole family in stitches over the story of the poor, squashed gelding with his eyes bulging like a frog's.

Kethry wiped away tears of laughter from her eyes with a napkin. "So Jodi and Beaker are safely ensconced, and Lord Kemoc's horses are all going to behave themselves from now on? I'd say that was a successful ending to your assignment! But you still haven't told us what you said to the Valdemarans to explain your training techniques-"

"Well, they probably still think it was magic, Greeneyes," Tarma told her with a chuckle. "But what I told them was the truth."

"And what was that truth?" Jadrek asked.

Tarma grinned. "That it was just the proper application of peer pressure."