Squire. Tamora Pierce

and raised his eyebrows.

      ‘They won’t stay local, will they?’ she asked. The doll was as clean as she could get it. Kel thrust it into her belt. ‘They took all they could move. They’re on the run, looking for a place to hole up or another village to rob.’

      ‘Absolutely,’ her knight-master replied. ‘We’ve got serious work ahead. Don’t worry, though. With help, we’ll bring these muck suckers to bay.’

      The local centaurs arrived. Kel watched the introductions, happy not to deal with these creatures, particularly the centaur chief, Greystreak. His black-and-grey hair was twined and oiled into ringlets, a style she disliked. Greystreak wore a dirty wrap-around shirt with a tangle of ribbons, beads, and chains around his neck, wrists, and pasterns, and braided in his tail. Only the belt at his waist was unornamented by anything but weapons. His human parts were those of a fair-skinned man in his fifties; his horse parts were blue roan.

      Suddenly the chief broke off greeting Lord Raoul to approach Kel. He walked around her as if she were a filly for his inspection, ignoring Jump’s low growl. On his second circuit the centaur was smiling. ‘A female. A strong one, not a pitiful two-legger stick girl,’ he commented. ‘You will breed easily, perhaps even bear sons of my kind.’ His voice slid over Kel like oil.

      She swallowed hard. Keeping her face Yamani-blank, she imagined Greystreak put to dray horse work in the northern mines.

      The sparrows leaped from their perch in a nearby tree to dart shrieking at the centaur. Greystreak backed up, trying to shield his face. Jump advanced on him, hackles up, snarling.

      ‘Jump, enough,’ ordered Raoul, coming over.

      The dog shook his head.

      ‘I need to talk to him. You aren’t helping,’ the knight told the dog.

      Jump sighed. He walked away, frequently glancing over his shoulder as if to say, ‘I have to let him go?’

      ‘This is unnatural,’ Greystreak snapped, still warding off sparrows. No matter how quickly he swatted, he never touched them. ‘Take these things away!’

      ‘It’s rude to single out the squire and ignore the knight,’ Raoul said politely. ‘I didn’t give you permission to address her. Kel, call off the birds.’

      Without a word from Kel the birds flew to her. Crown and Freckle perched on her shoulders. The rest lined up on a branch.

      Greystreak looked at Raoul. ‘I will give three slaves for her,’ he announced. ‘Two more if she breeds successfully within a year.’

      Kel stiffened. Slaves? There were no slaves in Tortall!

      Raoul thrust his hands into his pockets, still the picture of goodwill. ‘You forget our customs, Chief Greystreak. Offer all the horses you like, human females are not for sale. And you can’t have heard – I said she is a squire. A knight-in-training. She’s busy. Now, explain to me how you are not at fault for this.’ He jerked his head towards the ruins of the village.

      Greystreak spread his hands as his expression slid from greedy to innocent. ‘These young stallions give me no peace,’ he whined. ‘I cast them from the herd. Some females were silly enough to follow them. They are no longer my problem.’

      ‘You never thought they’d turn on us?’ demanded the headman. ‘Centaur females leave males who can’t give them gifts. If you kicked young bucks out with nothing, how were they to get presents if they didn’t steal?’

      Greystreak looked shocked. ‘I assumed their two-legger friends would warn Haresfield, since they live here. Had I known this would happen, of course I would have given warning. I prize the goodwill I have built up.’ He looked at Kel again and sighed before turning to Raoul. ‘Since I know nothing more, I take myself off. I’m sure you will catch these brigands.’ He shook his head woefully. ‘There will be no trade for us here for some time. I shall have to find another market.’

      The headman cursed and snapped, ‘Fair-weather friend, aren’t you, Greystreak? When we can do business, you and your people are in and out all the time. When it looks like we’ll be months restoring what we’ve lost, you’re on your way!’

      The centaur raised his brows. ‘My friend, I too have females. Without gifts, they attack males.’ He offered his bare forearms for inspection: they were covered with old scars. Our females can be’ – he hesitated, looking at Kel once more – ‘overly spirited.’

      She met his gaze levelly. I’ll show you how spirited human females are, you sideslipping sack of ooze, she thought.

      Greystreak walked towards the gate, only to halt. Somehow Peachblossom and Raoul’s warhorse, Drum, had pulled free of their pickets. They stood between the centaur and the gate. Black Drum pawed idly at the ground, as casual as if he had stopped to graze in this bare spot. Peachblossom’s head was slightly lowered, his ears flat to his skull. He kept one eye on Greystreak.

      The centaur reared to show the geldings his stallion parts, and hissed at them in his own language. Drum flicked one ear forward and the other back, all equine blandness. Peachblossom waited until Greystreak settled onto his fours, then struck, snakelike, his teeth coming together with an audible click as he missed. Greystreak scrambled to get out of range; he nearly fell.

      But they’re geldings, Kel thought, flabbergasted. Geldings don’t face down stallions!

      ‘Get these slaves out of my way,’ snarled Greystreak.

      ‘That’s the interesting thing about having the Wildmage about.’ Raoul was relaxed and cheery. ‘Palace animals are changing. Soon most will work for us only if they want to. Some animals are further along, of course.’

      More of the King’s Own mounts had freed themselves of the picket lines. They walked through the gate to stand behind Peachblossom and Drum, forming a barrier of horseflesh between Greystreak and escape.

      ‘I told my lord the other day that horses in particular are showing a smart streak,’ Flyndan added. ‘You’d best be careful, Chief Greystreak. Your own slaves might rebel.’

      Greystreak glared at the humans, trembling with rage. ‘Tell them to move,’ he said, his polite mask in tatters. ‘You’ve corrupted them! No gelding defies a stallion, not in the history of horsekind!’

      ‘You don’t think history gets rewritten, sometimes?’ Flyndan enquired mildly.

      ‘I’ll ask them to step aside in a moment,’ Lord Raoul told the centaur. ‘There is one thing. I know you weren’t trying to avoid the issue – I’m sure it just slipped your mind – but under your treaty, you’re required to supply a third of your people to help capture these rogues. I know you’d have remembered in a moment. Our horses just saved you the extra steps.’

      Greystreak’s fists clenched. Then he smiled, his mask back in place. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I was trying to decide who to send with you, and was preoccupied.’

      The wagons from the palace arrived shortly before noon. Kel got to work ladling out soup in a mess tent. Raoul stood beside her to issue bread to the diners as they filed by. Only when everyone else had been served did they eat.

      ‘You won’t get a traditional squire’s education with me,’ he told her between mouthfuls of soup. ‘Serving refreshments in meetings, well, you’ll do that. It’s the best way for you to hear what’s said and who says it. I’ll want your impressions afterwards, so be sharp. But waiting on me hand and foot is plain silly. So’s caring for my horses in the field. For one thing, I like to do it. For another, you’ll be too busy. Tend to your own mounts first.’

      Kel nodded. After she swallowed a mouthful, she asked, ‘Why Rider Groups, my lord? Aren’t there enough of us?’ He had led all one hundred warriors of Third Company into the forest that morning, not counting the servingmen.

      ‘A different tool for a different job,’ explained Raoul. Flyndan, seated across from them, made a face and nodded. ‘We’re conspicuous,