Poor World by Sherwood Smith Page A

three of the practice tutors, her bare feet soundless on the wooden floor.
    She assumed the head-down, blank-faced pose she’d seen the other runners use, and began to listen to the conversation, which was about some girl’s performance at a tryout just moments ago.
    It was the third mention of ‘the girl’ — like everyone knew who she was — and knife throwing that sent a weird pang through Seshe. ‘The girl’ had to be CJ.
    â€œReally?” Alsaes said. “Hit the target every time?”
    â€œNot dead center,” a tutor said. “Reasonably good aim, but bad throwing habits. Poor training.”
    â€œShouldn’t think she’d had any,” Alsaes drawled. “Anything else of note?”
    â€œFast enough,” another tutor said, a young man. “Good runner, good climber, agile.”
    â€œBrilliant with a sword, no doubt, as well?” Alsaes sounded s-o-o-o amused.
    â€œRudimentary at best,” an older man said. “About the strength you’d expect — none — no concept of defense. Have-at-’em offense with no strategy. No real training.”
    â€œCharacteristic,” Alsaes said. “Well, do what you can to better her skills, because Kessler wills it so. We’ll arrange another evaluation by and by.”
    The tutors rose, standing in a row, and Alsaes noticed Seshe then. “Yes?”
    â€œReports,” Seshe said blankly.
    Alsaes held out his hand. His eyes narrowed. Seshe felt his assessing stare, but she let her own gaze go diffuse, knowing he’d see her as a dullard and a fool. “Sit,” he commanded. “Let’s see if we need to arrange any demonstrations in the effectiveness of discipline ...” He looked up at the waiting tutors. “You may go.”
    Without a word they filed out. Seshe’s heart squeezed with pity for the intolerable life Prince Kessler Sonscarna had to have suffered before his final escape from Shnit: she had listened to Puddlenose’s careless and rare (but harrowing) references to what being Shnit’s heir was like, during the times Shnit had tried to wrest him by enchantment to turn against Clair’s mother, and then against Clair, and betray them. It made perfect sense that Kessler would hate titles, because in Chwahirsland the heirs had all the appearance of prerogatives but actually they had been in more danger even than enemies. An honest person would loathe the falsity; a sneaky, amoral one would try to grab all those trappings for himself if he managed to get into a position of power.
    Seshe watched Alsaes from the edge of her vision, and knew with visceral certainty that if Alsaes had his way, there would indeed be titles, or military ranks, and bowing and saluting and all the rest of the outer prerogatives of power. Instead, he had to make do with the threats of punishment and discipline.
    A dangerous enemy in his pettiness.
    â€œHere, girl.”
    She looked up blankly into another sharp gaze. Then Alsaes smirked. “You’re one of the Mearsieans, aren’t you?”
    She ducked her head in a nod.
    â€œSettled in? Like your assignment?”
    â€œIt’s all very interesting, but I have a lot to learn,” she said in a dull voice.
    She could see his boredom.
    â€œWell.” He threw down the last of the reports. “No discipline problems to speak of. Everyone settled in — or almost everyone. Perhaps we’ll have to have a royal demonstration, eh?” He said that word ‘royal’ with a really nasty inflection.
    Warning flared in Seshe, bright and painful. If only she could get to CJ! But she just ducked her head again.
    â€œRun along,” Alsaes said, waggling his fingers in dismissal.
    She left.
    o0o
    Irene glanced out the window — and there was Seshe plodding by. Her head was down, her long, thick locks of knee-length pale hair half-veiling her face, but Irene knew that posture. Seshe was