The King’s Buccaneer. Raymond E. Feist

to vent his anger.

      A moment later, the ball went out of bounds. Marcus reached over and picked it up, saying, ‘I’ll throw it in.’

      Nicholas ran out onto the field and glanced around. He waved over a kitchen boy and said, ‘What’s your name?’

      The boy said, ‘Robert, Highness.’

      Nicholas frowned and shook his head. ‘I’m the Duke’s Squire. Who’s our side?’

      Robert quickly pointed out the seven boys that made up the rest of the informal team and Nicholas said, ‘I’ll guard Marcus.

      Robert grinned and nodded. ‘No one will dispute you that privilege, Squire.’

      Suddenly Nicholas was moving, cutting off a boy who was hurrying forward to take the toss in from Marcus. By throwing his body almost out of bounds, he managed to kick the ball to a startled boy on his own team. After a brief hesitation, the fray was on.

      Harry guffawed and said to the girls, ‘Nicholas is as good at stealing inbounds as anyone I’ve seen.’

      Margaret watched her cousin pick himself up off the hard ground and race to rejoin the game and said, ‘That must hurt.’

      ‘He’s tough enough,’ answered Harry. Glancing at the two girls beside him, he said, ‘Any bets?’

      The two girls looked at each other. ‘Bets?’

      ‘On who will win,’ said Harry as Marcus deftly made a sliding tackle on the ball, knocking it loose for one of his teammates to intercept.

      Abigail shook her head. ‘I don’t know who’s better.’

      Margaret gave an unladylike snort of contempt. ‘Neither is “better,” but those two will kill each other trying to find out.’

      Abigail shook her head as Nicholas was slammed from behind by one of Marcus’s teammates, out of view of the referee, so that no penalty was called. The boy threw a forearm at the back of Nicholas’s head that had him seeing white lights for a moment. Marcus shook his head in sympathy as Nicholas pulled himself together and jumped to his feet. The boy who had leveled Nicholas was somewhere down the field. ‘Got to keep your wits about you,’ shouted Marcus. ‘Not a lot of subtlety in this game.’

      Shaking his head to clear it, Nicholas said, ‘I’ve noticed.’

      Then both boys were off toward the ball.

      Harry said, ‘Damn, they look alike out there, don’t they?’

      Abigail said, ‘They could be brothers, certainly.’

      In the middle of the fray, Marcus and Nicholas both angled for the ball, attempting to kick it out of the mess, each leaning into the other, elbows slamming into ribs.

      Harry surveyed the two girls and said, ‘About the bet?’

      Margaret looked at Harry and her smile was wry. ‘The stakes?’

      ‘Easy,’ said Harry, attempting an offhand manner. ‘There’s a festival in two weeks, I’ve been told. You’ll need an escort.’

      Margaret smiled and glanced at Abigail. ‘Both of us?’

      Harry guffawed. ‘Why not? It’ll drive them both crazy.’

      Margaret laughed aloud. ‘Some friend you are.’

      Harry shrugged. ‘I know Nicholas, and if I’m not mistaken, he and Marcus are only beginning a long and possibly colorful rivalry.’ Looking directly at Abigail, he said, ‘I think they’re both smitten, my lady.’ Abigail had the courtesy to blush, but her expression looked as if the observation was not news to her.

      ‘And what are your ambitions, Squire?’

      Margaret’s frank question caught Harry off guard. ‘Why, none, I think,’ he said in confusion.

      Margaret patted him in familiar fashion on the leg and Harry found he was now the one blushing. ‘Whatever you say, Squire,’ said the Duke’s daughter.

      Harry felt his body stir and warm at her hand on his thigh, and suddenly wanted to be anywhere but sitting next to her. He had never had a problem talking to the younger women of the Prince’s staff in Krondor, either the serving women who were disadvantaged by their rank, or the daughters of the court nobles who were disadvantaged by their youth. But there was nothing of the shy, inexperienced girl in Margaret’s manner. There was something positively worldly about this girl, who was almost the same age as Harry and Nicholas.

      Abigail watched the game with obvious divided loyalties, but Margaret showed little interest. She glanced around and saw Anthony standing behind them in the garden and waved for him to join them.

      The young magician came to where they sat and bowed awkwardly. Margaret smiled at him. ‘Anthony, how are you?’

      ‘Fine, my lady,’ he said softly. ‘I thought I’d get some air and sun and watch a bit of the game.’

      ‘Sit there next to Abigail,’ ordered Margaret with humor. ‘She needs support. Two fools are shedding blood in her honor.’

      Abigail blushed furiously, and her tone was cold. ‘That isn’t funny, Margaret.’ They had never been particularly close; Margaret had spent most of her childhood playing with her brother and his rough friends. The few town girls – daughters of the richer merchants – who had been selected as her companions had been as appalled as Margaret’s tutors when the Duke’s daughter had shown indifference to the training reserved for young ladies of rank. Her mother had lived her early life as a warrior and had seen no benefit in much of what they attempted to teach Margaret, save reading and writing, and often spared her daughter punishment when she abandoned her needlework to go riding or hunting.

      Abigail was just the most recent of a long line of companions for the Duke’s rugged daughter, no better matched to Margaret than the others, save she got on her nerves less than most. Abigail usually had a good sense of humor, which was being sorely tested by her friend as, with a cheery air, Margaret said, ‘I think it is.’

      Harry smiled, glad the attention was off him for the moment. As the Duke’s daughter watched the game, he studied her profile. At first glance, she was not a terribly pretty young woman, but there was something almost regal in the way she held herself, erect and proud: not the posturing of a vain court woman, but rather the same upright bearing her mother showed, that of a woman who had no doubt of her own ability or her place in the world. Suddenly Harry felt deeply inadequate.

      The game moved up and down the field, and Harry observed that at some time in the last five minutes Nicholas had acquired a bloody nose. Scanning the field for Marcus, he noticed that the Duke’s son was not too far from Nicholas, and that his left eye was puffing.

      Harry caught Nakor’s attention across the field, and the little man rolled his eyes heavenward and made a motion with his finger to his head indicating someone was crazy. Harry made a sign asking which one, and Ghuda, who had followed the exchange, motioned that both were. Harry laughed.

      Margaret said, ‘What?’

      ‘They play rough here, don’t they?’

      Margaret laughed a very unladylike laugh, slightly more delicate than a honk, and said, ‘Only when they think they have something to prove, Harry.’

      Harry had never seen Nicholas play so aggressively. The boy had always used his head and his natural quickness in whatever sport he undertook, but he was hurling himself around the field with abandon, his play reaching previously unmatched heights of madness.

      Marcus pushed himself away from Nicholas, and made a running interception of a pass, breaking toward the goal set up at the far end of the field. Nicholas was hot after him, and those looking on cheered loudly at the spectacle.

      Margaret laughed and Abigail sat with her hands clenched in her lap, an expression of open concern on her face. Harry started to cheer, but the sound died in his throat. Nicholas was