"Are you alright?" Sir Myles asked him, hazel eyes flickering with concern as Alex presented him with the rosewater bowl.

He hadn't been able to get back to him and apologise earlier, and Alex had come with an apology prepared, fully expecting to be given a detail of punishment work. Or to report to Duke Gareth and explain the incident, and wait for him to assign punishment work, of course.

Nowhere in his calculations of how the night might unfold had included Myles asking him if he was alright, as if he was Sanya, or Duncan.

He froze. "Ah…"

Myles' frown deepened. "That bad?" He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Alex. If I could–" he cut himself off.

If you could what? Turn back time? Let Hill Country be independent powers again, bordering on Tortall and not part of it? If you could restore all of the blood spilled from the Tirragen Confederacy? Make Jasson something other than he was?

Alex shrugged. "What can you do?" he said, quietly. It was the closest thing to a peace offering that he could make, and they both knew it.

Myles reached for his goblet. "A refill, please, lad," he said, instead.

Alex snorted, shaking his head. "I'm not going to help you poison yourself, Myles."

"You're a cruel, cruel page, Alexander," Myles returned, his eyes crinkling with humour.
"So be it," Alex shrugged again, turning back to the hall to return the rosewater bowl, and bring out the next course.

So. He had to have a very, very long talk with Jason when he got home. In the mean time, though, at least his relationship with his favourite teacher seemed restored.

He'd have punishment work for not being in Philosophy, of course. But that was standard. That was to be expected.


5th of May,

427 H.E

Dear Alex,

Come home. No, don't worry, this isn't a summons to duty. We haven't been stricken by fire or flood or anything else. This is a much more joyous reason. I am to be married soon, to Nike of Eldorne, although of course her father continues to insist on referring to her as Victoria. I'm not sure why; her name is still as Hill Country as mine is not, and it's not like we're at Court, so what's the point?

Second reason is that Miranda's due date is approaching, and I'm sure you want to meet your future niece. Or nephew. Who knows? Either way, I'm sure you want to be here to meet the newest member of our family.

Alex's eyes widened. He'd known Miranda and Jason were trying to have a child. The letter that Jason had sent him several months ago when the healers had declared her to be beyond the first danger zone had almost dripped with joy and pride. But somehow, he'd managed to forget about it, in the whirl of page training.

Nice work, Tirragen, he thought with a sigh.

The wedding day takes place on June 28th, so there should be plenty of time for you to take this to the Duke and be released, or so Jason assures me. If you can hurry home, I would be forever grateful. Our dearest older brother thinks it necessary to tell me a great many things about married life, seeing as our father isn't here to do it, and in the process, I have learned a great many things that I can never un-know. Not to mention that Leila insists on conducting a great many trade negotiations, which she insists that I sit in on as the future consort of the Lady of Eldorne. Goddess be praised, Nike has a head for good concessions and goods that I don't, so I can provide useful counsel for her as to what Tirragen really can't do, and what's just posturing.

Alex grimaced. Mama would not be happy to be losing that advantage in trade negotiations. It simply wouldn't occur to his brother to keep any secrets from his bride about their fief.

Ah, well. Not his fault, nor his headache. Not yet, anyway. Goddess be praised. Should he tell his Mama? Probably.

Please come home, little captain. We miss you, and I would see the swordsman that you are becoming before I marry. There will be delegations from the tribes, of course. And Delia would be delighted to see you before she goes to the Convent.

Is the bruise balm serving you well? Hurry back.

Love,

Duncan

P.S.

Jason has enclosed a letter for Duke Gareth. Apparently this one isn't suitable. Thank Mithros I'm not him!

So. Back to Hill Country for the summer. He understood that, even agreed with it, but he couldn't help but feel restless. He'd always had a vague idea that one day, he'd go to the tribes, and make sure that no girl was ever, ever in the same position as his Mama had been. Yet he'd never even been to the Great Southern Desert. Wouldn't he have to go at some point?

He shook his head. It was what it was. He'd go back to Hill Country, ride and hunt with the tribes, and stand with Duncan at his wedding. That would be that.

"It's going to be fine," he said aloud.

He wasn't sure why he sounded so unconvinced.


He only had a week left before he was due to go home, he reminded himself. He only had to last that long.

And, more pressingly, had to last against someone else in the match.

The training jacket was thick around his shoulders. It'd make it harder to move, but then again, Aramis had always been complaining of his tendency to swing from the shoulder instead of the elbow and wrist.

They'd paired him against Raoul, of course. Alex was convinced that the fighting masters had a grudge against him. Thankfully, this wasn't actually about brute force as much as it seemed. It'd help, of course, seeing as Raoul could simply knock the sword out of Alex's hand, if the angle was right, and all Alex would accomplish in that case by trying to hold onto the blade would be to put his fingers out of joint.

So.

"Begin!" Sklaw barked.

Raoul promptly advanced. Straight line, a decent fencer's lunge; Alex sidestepped, brought his practise blade under Raoul's, flicked. No use. Raoul's grip was too strong to shift.

Should've thought of that.

Raoul had pivoted to face him now, and Alex jumped backwards, gaining as much distance as he could as he analysed.

There was no help for it. He had to get inside Raoul's guard.

Raoul's sword flashed overhead.

Dammit!

They didn't practise with shields, he couldn't take the blow – he sidestepped again, the dull wood of the practise sword thudding into his left shoulder, but no time for that, he took another step to the left and advanced, flicking his wrist so that the blade went for Raoul's middle.

The dull wood of his practise sword met Raoul's jacket with a thud, slamming into his ribs.

Sklaw whistled. "Well, my beauties, that was prettily done, indeed. Tirragen, you could save yourself a good deal of trouble if you fought more like Goldenlake, instead of sidestepping like a shy serving wench, especially since you were fighting a bigger opponent; Goldenlake, you'd do well to calm yourself and think properly, before you fight. Tirragen, why did you shift tactics halfway through?"

Alex shrugs, flinching as he felt his shoulder protest. That was going to leave a wonderful bruise later on. "It was a–" he had to swallow before he said it. "Mistake to try and just rely on leverage against Raoul. Seeing as he's much bigger."

It was odd, though, Alex thought, as a memory gnawed at him. Hadn't Sanya said that most Tortallan fencing masters placed heavy emphasis on defence?

…And just when Alex thought the sights of the Palace couldn't get any scarier, Arram Sklaw proved him wrong again, when the swordmaster smiled.

"Well, by the Goddess, it looks like you might have a brain."

Alex couldn't stop his eyebrows from lifting a bit. That almost sounded like a compliment from the sword-master.

"Ah, no matter, I'm sure it was just a passing illusion," the man continued. "Naxen, Nond, you're up next."

"I don't believe it," Raoul whispered in his ear. "You almost got a compliment from him."

"Don't be silly," Alex murmured back. "Sklaw never compliments anyone. I think we're hallucinating."

Raoul grinned back. "They say everything's possible."


There was one thing Alex hadn't reckoned with, though, in going back to Hill Country. When he told his friends at supper, Selwyn accepted the news with a cheerful nod, and a mention that he would also be going back to Pearlmouth in a week or so. Raoul and Francis and Gary had all nodded understandingly. Raoul and Francis had the same understanding of what it meant to look after a fief bred into them, not to mention that Francis had several sisters. Gary didn't, having spent so much of his life at court that he barely knew Naxen, and merely looked put out.

"But I do some of my best work when you're around!"

Alex grinned at his friend. He'd long since discussed with the sharp-eyed Naxen scion that really, his political position at court was a little too precarious for him to be a prankster on the level that Gary was.

"Not to mention that you're too stiff to do it," Gary had said, a smirk on his lips and a cheerful light in his eyes.

Alex had, in a rather sterling example of maturity, stuck out his tongue in response. "True," he admitted, reluctantly. The facts were the facts. He didn't have to like them, but…Alex, in and of itself, simply didn't have the talent or inclination to pranks that Gary did. Perhaps it was family history, perhaps it was just a question of temperament. "Doesn't mean I don't have ideas on how you can do it, though."

And so their alliance had begun. Alex would consult with Gary on how to best set things in motion, minimise the damages, who the appropriate targets were, and, if his involvement was discovered, would accept the punishment with good grace.

It was a mark of Duke Gareth's infuriating sense of humour that his punishment was decreasingly less work in the stables, armoury or laundries, and equally likely to be increased hours of studying Philosophy.

"You'll just have to go on without me," Alex replied. "I'm sure that everyone else will be more than willing to help. Right, fellows?"

Raoul smirked. Francis studied his plate, a shy smile tweaking the left corner of his mouth, and nodded. Selwyn sighed.

"I'm going to miss all the stories. Keep me updated, will you, Raoul?"

"It's not fair!" Jonathan burst out.

Alex raised his eyebrows.

"What, that I'm better at practical jokes?" Gary asked.

Jonathan shook his head. "No. The fact that you're leaving. You can all leave in the summer, if you want. I can't."

There was a brief silence as Alex took in the words. Jonathan acted the part of being one of them very well, most of the time. He pulled his fair share of the work, didn't pull rank on Alex to get answers for maths equations – well, not after the first time he'd tried it, anyway – and accepted the ribbing and teasing his companions doled out with good grace. The only time Alex had ever seen his friend truly white-faced with rage was earlier that week, with Lord Burchard at Beltane.

But then sometimes, something like this happened and Alex was forced to remember fully who his friend was. Prince Jonathan IV of the House of Conté, ruling house and the dynasty that had ruled Tortall for the past two hundred and fifty years. The Conté had lands, of course. Crown lands. But they didn't really have a fief, with definite borders and local villagers who knew them and with whom they'd grown up.

"I guess that's true," Alex said. "You could always come with me."

He regretted the words as soon as they fell out of his mouth. They made, as Gary's alarmed glance and a voice in his head that sounded very like Arram Sklaw, no sense whatsoever.

Of course the Prince – the Crown Prince, and sole heir, to the best of Alex's knowledge – couldn't come with him. For one thing, whilst Tirragen was an important house in Hill Country, it was still one noble family among many. The heir couldn't attend every wedding, or he'd never have any time to train. It would either make a dangerous precedent, or would be a huge amount of weight thrown behind Hill Country. And exactly the kind of political pressure that Alex didn't want to put on Jon. Not really. When all was said and done, he was Alex's friend.

That was leaving aside the enormous logistical problem of getting him there in the first place. Three retainers was plenty of protection for Alex, not to mention that he thought he was getting reasonably efficient with a sword himself. Jonathan, on the other hand, wouldn't start swordsmanship until next spring, due to being a year younger than them; even if he had, three retainers would be nowhere near enough the kind of required protection for the Crown Prince.

He opened his mouth to try and find some way to retract the invitation – Goddess' silver tears, he'd have to find a way to do it without hurting Jon's feelings, and for the life of him, he couldn't think of a single blessed thing to say.

With a sense of impending doom, he watched Jonathan's eyes brighten and brighten.

"I'll have to talk to Father about it," the Prince said. He glanced at Gary. "Not to mention your Father. I have an idea."

Gary groaned. "By Mithros and his spear, whatever it is, no."

"Oh, cousin, have a little faith," Jonathan said, cheerfully breaking off a bit of bread. Alex narrowed his eyes. That couldn't be a good sign.

It just couldn't.


"What exactly are we doing here?" Akela breathed in George's ear. She didn't whisper, or use any 's' sounds. The boy had taught her about how sibilance, even at the lowest possible volume, travelled further than almost any other consonant in Common Eastern or Tortallan.

The boy smirked back at her, and plucked something out of the inner pocket of his jerkin, inserting it into the lock.

Akela held her breath, as the door swung open.

It took several tries for her to get it right, but when she did, there was a quiet light of approval in George's eyes. "Well done," he murmured in her ear.

She grinned. Corus just had so many secrets to discover. Nooks, crannies, rooves that you could run across, washing lines that you could dance across, and millions of people. And she was going to be able to get to know all of them.

George glanced at the water clock in the room and cursed. "We're running late. I was supposed to have you home by now, for you to start your training with your cousins."

Akela glanced at it and winced, running for the door of the room and just barely remembering to lock it behind her. The guest staying in this in would be unhappy if he discovered it unlocked.

No harm, no foul, though, she reassured herself. Just because George wants to be a thief doesn't mean I'll be one. And even his ancestress knew how to pick locks.

Still, she felt a vague prickle of unease. George really was the first friend she'd made in the city. At least, if you didn't count her cousins. She'd hate to lose that because they held down different jobs.

No harm, no foul, she reminded herself, pursing her lips. And if worst did come to worst…

I've left my parents behind. Can I leave a friend, too?

As if reading her mind, George glanced over his shoulder at her and smiled. "C'mon, Puppy. We don't want you to be late. You have a city to look after, and all."

She smirked to hide the uncertainty, and jogged to catch up with him. "How do we get past the innkeeper?"

George grinned. "Time for me to show you a little secret about getting around the cities. But first, we need to go into that room there."

Akela frowned. "I thought we just left one of the rooms."

"Yes, but that room didn't have a balcony in it."


A/N: Holy crap, an update!

Sorry about that, everyone. I got obsessed with Marvel, Hamilton, Marvel again, and the past semester and learning how to drive has hit me like a bus. Plus I just got a massive case of writer's block for this one. We'll see how we go from this point on. I really wanna finish this story, but – well, you know which road is paved with good intentions.

Still, you never know! Drop me a line.