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 limping and Harry knew that he couldn’t overtake Marcus. Nicholas strained and forced himself, but there was something wrong in the way he moved.
Harry jumped from the low wall, and Margaret asked, ‘What?’
Ignoring her, he raced toward the far end of the field as Nicholas fell to the ground, ignored by the other players as Marcus deftly scored the winning goal. The referee shouted time and the match was over. As the winners gathered around Marcus, Harry reached Nicholas’s side.
Kneeling next to his friend, he said, ‘Nicholas! What is it?’
The Prince’s face was contorted and drained of color, while tears ran down his face. He gripped his left leg and could barely speak as he gasped, ‘Help me up.’
‘No, damn it, you’re hurt.’
Nicholas grabbed Harry’s tunic and said, ‘Help me to my feet.’ His voice was an angry whisper, thick with pain. Harry gripped Nicholas’s arm and helped him to his feet.
Marcus and the other boys approached, with Nakor and Ghuda crossing from the other side of the field. The Duke’s son said, ‘Are you all right?’
Nicholas forced a smile and said, ‘I twisted my ankle that’s all.’ His voice was nearly unrecognizable to Harry, and the Squire looked at his friend to see his face was chalky. ‘Harry will help me back to my room. I’ll be all right.’
Before Marcus could say anything, Nakor fixed him with a narrow stare. ‘You broke something?’
Nicholas said, ‘No, I’m fine.’
Ghuda said, ‘I’ve seen finer-looking corpses, son. Better let me help you back to your room.’
Before the old mercenary could move, Anthony took Nicholas’s other arm, saying, ‘I’ll help him.’
The girls had come up beside Marcus, and Margaret regarded her cousin, all sarcasm forgotten. ‘Are you all right?’
Nicholas forced a smile. ‘Yes.’
Abigail stood silently beside the Duke’s daughter, but her eyes showed her concern as Nicholas was helped away, supported on Harry’s and Anthony’s shoulders.
He hobbled between them until they rounded the perimeter of the garden, when he promptly fainted.
Nicholas revived as they reached his room. Anthony and Harry eased him down upon his pallet and Harry said, ‘What happened to you?’
