Chapter 8. Hey everyone, next chapter's here (obviously!). To wild-wizard-women, I did say a Nond failed knight training didn't I? Well, I contradicted myself and you caught me, thanks for showing me that little mistake. For now, I'll just say that Francis didn't considered his brother leaving to be a failure at training, since he wasn't forced to leave, just a disgrace :) . Thank you all for your reviews, they encourage me to update! On to the chapter!

Disclaimer: The people and places in this story belong to Tamora Pierce. Some of the events come from the first book of her Lioness series, Alanna: The First Adventure.


"Take this up to the pages wing, room 16, and don't dawdle on your way up." A heavy cloth bag of laundry sailed through the air to thud into him. Francis was able to catch it, but just barely; as it was it sent him backpedaling a few feet to crash into the wall. He peeked over the mass of sheets he clutched and nodded.

"Y-yes ma'am." He stammered. The head laundress was a force to be reckoned with. The woman was a grandmother and she had bigger muscles than the blacksmith back at Nond! Francis had made the mistake of thinking her old and frail from her frizzy white hair, faded head scarf and wrinkles, but he was quickly educated. Madame Terrace was stronger than a bull and just as temperamental. The other laundresses, no frail maidens themselves, held her in awe and fear.

"Don't look at me like a doe peering down the shaft of an arrow! Go! What are they teaching you boys these days? And don't hold that bag like it's an half drowned cat! You drop it and I'll dunk you in yonder vat, then we'll all see a half drowned cat! Skedaddle!"

"Yes ma'am." Francis blushed and retreated to the stair that would lead him out of the palace launders. He couldn't help but hear the snickers of the laundresses as he almost tripped over his own feet.

When he reached the main floor of the castle, he sighed in relief. Cool air pulled his hair in every direction and persuaded his sweaty shirt to come away from its position glued to his back. He breathed an audible sigh of relief, not caring who heard.

"Just one more week, and it will all be over," he told himself. Duke Gareth was more than just a master of sword play; he was a master of torture. For his mishap when serving Duke Gareth and his wife, the training master had sentenced him to a month of working at the palace launder every night and extra lessons on the art of grace with the Master of Deportment every Sunday. Worst of all, Francis still had to serve at their grace's table.

Francis quickly made his way up to the page's wing and headed to Alan's room, where he had been ordered to deliver the freshly cleaned sheets. Juggling the bundled into one arm, he reached out hesitantly to knock on his friend's door.

He waited for quite some time and there was no answer. When he put his ear to the solid wood of the door, the room sounded abandoned. Francis had at least hoped that if Alan wasn't there, her manservant Coram would be, but the gruff man had signed on as a palace guard and was on watch. He was just turning around to head to his own room when he crashed into none other than Alan herself. Clean linens rained down upon the notoriously dirty stone floor of the page's wing.

"Sorry," Francis muttered, getting down on his knees to pick up the mess. He kept his face down, never meeting Alan's eyes. Ever since he had learned the truth about her, Francis found that whenever he looked into her amethyst eyes, he tended to do something horribly clumsy. It was best to avoid them all together.

"No, my fault," Alan said lightly, "I wasn't really paying attention." She held up a belt knife which she skillfully balanced on her index finger. "I was practicing a new trick I learned." She flipped it lightly into the air and caught it by the hilt, sliding smoothly it into its sheaf on her belt. Then she knelt down to help him pick up the laundry.

"What do you and Gary do when you go into the city, share drinks with thieves?" He asked, trying to joke. Ever since her eleventh birthday, Duke Gareth had allowed her to go into the city on Sundays with the other pages of good standing.

"Very funny, laundress," she stammered, turning bright red, "Someday when you weary of your new hobby, you can come with us and find out."

Together, they dragged the tangled mess of cloth into her room and tossed it haphazardly on the bed.

"I hope I never vex the duke enough to get sent to the launders." Alan said with a laugh.

"Tis' a very scary place," Francis agreed quietly.

"Oh look, isn't this just precious. Two lovely country maidens folding laundry! I always knew there was something odd about you two." Ralon of Malven leaned casually against the threshold of the open door.

Alan's fist curled into tight balls. "Really?" she asked, voice casual, "I only see one, and she's quite a brute if you ask me."

Ralon stalked into the room pale with furry. "Take it back, boy, or I will rip your arms from your body."

"Really," Alan asked, her face as bright as her red hair, "Because I'm not sure you could figure out which ones are arms and which are legs."

"Enough!" Francis said, not wanting any more trouble than he already had. Nothing good would come of Ralon and Alan fighting, especially for Alan. He shoved Ralon back towards the door with all his might. The bigger boy went much farther than he had expected: working his arms weary at the launders was coming in handy now. Ralon stumbled back a few feet into the waiting arms of Raoul who had appeared in the doorway.

"Leaving so soon Ralon?" Raoul asked, his voice void of its normally friendly ring. He wrapped his big arms around the bully and squeezed. He lifted Ralon heavily off the ground and tossed him out into the hall.

When Raoul came back into the room, he acted as if nothing had happened. "Francis," he exclaimed, "just the fellow I was looking for! You simply must assist me with my philosophy paper. If you will excuse us Alan?"

Francis bid farewell to a still heavily breathing Alan, and followed Raoul back to his room. Once the door was firmly closed behind them, his friend turned to him.

"He's getting worse, you know."

Francis nodded, "And he's taken a liking to Alan, s-he's the littlest, the easiest target."

Raoul rubbed the stubble that had begun to grow on his chin. "See, I'm not so sure he is the easiest target. Someday Alan will get back at him, mark my words."

When Raoul went to fetch his philosophy papers from his bed, Francis whispered softly, "I don't doubt it; she's done more fantastic things before."


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