Airs of Night and Sea

by Toby Bishop

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Amelia said. “My father would—”

  “Your father,” the Duke said, “is not here.”

  “He will be,” she said with confidence, “as soon as he knows.”

  “I think I can bring my Council to heel before that happens.”

  “And I think, my lord Duke, that the conclusion of this affair is by no means assured.”

  He laughed aloud, and they started up the far slope of the meadow toward the stable. “You’re wrong,” he said, “but I’m impressed by your good breeding, nonetheless. Unlike that country brat I had intended to borrow from the Academy.”

  “Borrow,” she said.

  “Of course. My original intention was to use the brat to entice Philippa Winter back to Oc. Perhaps you know something about that?”

  Amelia looked away, past the little stable to the grove beyond it. “I know you drove her away,” she said, as noncommittally as possible. She knew well how to lie, smoothly and without hesitation. But her father had taught her it was better, when possible, to skirt the issue at hand rather than to dissemble.

  “She is,” the Duke snapped, “a traitor to her Duchy.”

  Amelia said, “She’s a horsemistress of Oc.”

  “Not for long,” he answered. “Not for long.”

  AMELIA had seen Jinson before, when he came to the Academy to meet with Mistress Star to consult the genealogy and determine Mahogany’s name. She was startled to see that it was he, shamefaced and slump-shouldered, who came to meet her outside the stable.

  Duke William said, “Ye gods, man, stand up! You look like a pouting child.”

  Jinson opened the door to the stable wide, and stood back, his eyes avoiding Amelia’s. She stepped forward, one hand on Mahogany’s cheek strap.

  The colt snorted with fear as he came near the Duke, and pulled back sharply so that she lost her grip on his halter. “Mahogany!” she said.

  The Duke stepped forward, between her and the colt. He lifted his quirt. “Mahogany,” he said. “Are you stupid, or merely stubborn?”

  “Your Grace,” Amelia said hastily, as the Duke advanced on her colt. “Please—he won’t tolerate you . . .”

  “Oh, but he will,” Duke William said through a tight jaw. “Diamond does. Why shouldn’t your little idiot be as amenable?” He strode forward. Mahogany reared, and backed away as fast as he could. His hocks bent nearly to the ground, and his tail dragged in the dirt.

  Amelia ran forward, and the Duke caught sight of her from the corner of his eye. He whirled. Amelia’s eyes were on Mahogany, and she didn’t understand his intent until it was too late. This time he simply slashed at her, with as little restraint as he had used on the oc-hound, catching her shoulder a sharp, stinging blow. She cried out, cringing, and Bramble bounded forward with a fierce bark. Mahogany whinnied and galloped around them in a ragged circle.

  Amelia straightened, ashamed of losing her composure. She faced the Duke. His features were distorted with rage, and he raised the quirt again, but this time she gave no ground. She lifted her head, glaring at him. His arm flexed, and she braced herself.

  The second blow didn’t come. An odd smile crept across the Duke’s face, an expression that somehow made him look less sane than the rictus of fury had a moment ago. Bramble stood with her tail straight out behind her, her hackles stiff. Mahogany pranced at a safe distance, whickering, his ears flattening and lifting and flattening again.

  “Now, now, Klee,” William said easily. “There’s no need for any of this. You’ll serve me better if you’re in one piece. Get into the stables, and Jinson will see to your needs and give your colt a stall. It’s a pity he isn’t more intelligent, but I’ll deal with him. A lesson or two will put him in a better frame of mind.”

  Amelia’s heart pounded beneath her tabard, and her own fury began to rise. “You won’t touch him,” she said in a tight voice. “Unless you go through me.”

  At this, the Duke laughed aloud. “Happily,” he said. “But later.” He spun around, turning his back on her. “Jinson, did you fetch the mare?”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “Good. Good. Watch her now, Jinson,” he said. “Keep them both out of sight.” As he strode away, he switched at his thigh with his quirt.

  Mahogany trotted to Amelia the moment the Duke was gone. She stood with one hand on his halter, the other wound in Bramble’s long fur. Her legs trembled with shock and anger. “Are you my jailer, then?” she demanded of Jinson.

  “You’ll be well cared for,” he said, with a note of apology. “You and your colt.”

  “Without a stable-girl?”

  “I meant—I mean, you’ll have food, and a place to sleep, and—”

  “Ah. And is that all you need to be content, Master Jinson?” Amelia spoke in her most aristocratic accent. “Food and a bed?”

  He had the grace to flush and shuffle his feet. He had not met her eyes since she arrived. “It’s—it’s awkward, Miss. I know.”

  “It’s criminal,” she said.

  “Nay,” he said hastily. He turned away, and opened a stall gate, then stood back for her to lead Mahogany in. “Nay, never criminal, Miss. Because he’s the Duke, after all.”

  As she led her colt past him, with Bramble close behind her, she spat, “Your master is a madman. You must see that.”

  He lifted his eyes to hers at last, and the bleak look in them gave her a spasm of sympathy, despite her anger. “I don’t dare see that,” he said. “ ’Twould be the end of me.”

  JINSON had set up a pallet in the tack room of the stable. Amelia pursed her lips, looking at it. “He means to keep me some time,” she said.

  “It seems so, Miss.”

  “For what purpose?”

  Jinson shuffled his feet. “I—I thought it was about Mistress Winter. He wants her to come back.”

  “Why does he care so much about that?”

  Jinson sighed, and went to the door. “His Grace doesn’t confide in me,” he said. “But his man—Slater, that is—says Mistress Winter defied him. He can’t forgive that.”

  “And he thinks if he has a hostage, that will bring her back?”

  “Aye. But—’twasn’t meant to be you, Miss.”

  “That’s no help, is it?”

  “No, Miss.”

  Amelia touched the pallet, finding it well cushioned, the blankets soft and clean. She drew herself up and turned, her hands on her hips. “Very well, Jinson,” she said. “Some breakfast, if you please. I haven’t eaten since yesterday noon, nor have these animals.”

  He bowed, and backed away. Amelia walked to the tiny window at one end of the tack room and looked out into the pale blue sky. She caught a glimpse of something, silver wings, and a pair of black ones, too. She leaned closer to the wall, trying to see.

  “Diamond and her monitor,” Jinson said, from the doorway. She looked back at him. “The Duke’s filly,” he added. “From the Palace stables. She flies every day now.”

  He carried a tray with an apple and a saucer of bread, and a bowl of something that steamed. He set it down on the ledge beside the saddle rack and gestured to it. “I hope this is all right, Miss. There’s only Paulina in the kitchen up there. She’s not much of a cook.”

  She took the tray and carried it to the bench beneath the window. “Where am I, Jinson?”

  “Fleckham House, Miss. That His Grace is turning into the Fleckham School.”

  “Wouldn’t the Duke think someone will guess where he might have brought me?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, Miss. But ’twouldn’t matter much. Must be two dozen militia here. No one’s allowed on the grounds but the boys.”

  “Boys?”

  His eyes skittered away from hers again. “Aye, Miss. The boys who—who want to fly.”

  She grimaced, but she picked up a spoon from the tray and poised it over the bowl of thin porridge. “Jinson—he hurt Larkyn Hamley, you know.”

  “I’m sorry about that, Miss.”r />
  “They say he’s killed two other girls. Can you protect me from that?”

  “He—I think, Miss, that he doesn’t seem to—that lately girls don’t—”

  Before he could finish, a dark, great-coated figure appeared in the doorway behind him. It was one of the ugliest men Amelia had ever seen, with greasy hair and uneven teeth that he showed in an unpleasant grin. He thrust his hands into the capacious pockets of the caped greatcoat, and contemplated Amelia with small, dark eyes. “Why, Jinson,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Who’s this we have here?”

  TEN

  LARK stopped before the tall doors of the Palace to pull off her cap. She folded it neatly and tucked it into her belt next to her gloves. She combed through her short curls with her fingers and stamped her feet to clear any dirt from her boots before she put her hand on the door.

  It swung open before she could touch the latch.

  A silver-haired man in the purple and white of the prince’s livery stood in the doorway, his eyes scanning her riding habit, her boots, her cropped hair, then alighting, as the stable-girl’s had, on her unadorned collar. He lifted one narrow white eyebrow, and said, “The service entrance is around the corner and through the back garden.”

  Lark’s cheeks burned with her ready blush, but she lifted her head and thrust out her chin. “I’ve come in search of Baron Rys of Klee,” she said firmly. “I’ve flown all the way from Osham today, and I would appreciate being announced.”

  The old servant’s other eyebrow rose at that, and his lips curled, then straightened. He made an exaggerated bow. “Very good, Miss,” he drawled. “In that case. Allow me to show you into one of the parlors.”

  She followed him, careful not to slip on the polished wooden floor of the great foyer. Not until he had ushered her into a side room, where uncomfortable-looking chairs dotted a thick carpet, did she begin to look around her. He withdrew and left her alone. She wandered about, looking at the giant paintings on the walls, pulling aside the draperies to peer out into a back courtyard. She tried one of the hard chairs but immediately sprang to her feet and paced again.

  “Like Mistress Winter,” she muttered to herself, “I can’t be still.” It would have amused her if her situation had not been so pressing.

  When the door opened again, it was not Baron Rys she saw but another servant. This was a younger man, wearing Klee blue. “Miss?” he said. He, too, looked her up and down. She was beginning to feel like an ox for sale, everyone examining her as if guessing her weight and her age. “I’m told you’ve asked to see his lordship?”

  “I’m Larkyn Black,” she said, with some impatience. “I’ve come all the way from Osham today, and I must—I really must, please—speak to Baron Rys.”

  “The baron is occupied with business, naturally. You can tell me your concern, and I will inform his lordship.”

  The fatigue and uncertainty of the day, the long hours in the air, and her very real fear for Amelia brought Lark’s temper to the boiling point. She stamped her foot, and snapped at the man, “I’m a third-level girl from the Academy of the Air, and I have news of the baron’s daughter, Amelia. ’Tis bad news, frightening news, and he’ll want to hear it right away!”

  He hesitated, and indecision furrowed his brow. She realized, belatedly, that he was not a great deal older than she. More gently, she said, “Sir, you may trust me in this. The baron knows me. I’d go to him myself if I could find my way through this great pile!”

  He nodded, and said, “Come with me, then, Miss. He’s in one of the meeting rooms.”

  He turned sharply about and went out of the parlor at a brisk pace. She followed him up a flight of broad stairs with an elegantly carved banister, down a long corridor with a runner of woven carpet that was thick but somehow hard under her booted feet, up another flight of stairs, narrower this time. They passed an enormous library, with shelves full of books stretching from floor to ceiling, and the longest table Lark had ever seen running down the middle, white oak with matching armchairs, and lamps at intervals down its length.

  They walked on, past turnings and landings and doors in abundance. Lark tried to keep track of how many she passed, what floor she might be on. At last, the man stopped in front of a door. He said, “Wait here, please,” before he knocked briefly and went into the room, closing the door behind him.

  She had barely time to breathe before the door opened again, and Baron Esmond Rys, his face as calm and composed as if he had been expecting her, stood in the doorway.

  “Miss Black, is it not?” he said courteously.

  She nodded, her mouth suddenly gone dry, her eyes threatening tears. She swallowed hard. “My lord,” she blurted. “He’s taken Amelia!”

  THINGS moved with astonishing swiftness after that. Lark managed to hold back her tears, even when Baron Rys took her hand, pressed her into a chair, and ordered refreshments to be brought to her while he gave other instructions to his secretary.

  It was such a relief to be free of the weight of responsibility, at least for a time, that Lark found herself trembling with the aftermath of tension and worry. A tray came up from the Palace kitchens bearing a cup of bracing tea. She felt better when she had drunk it, and she answered a dozen questions from the secretary, from the baron, then from a representative of the Prince himself, who scribbled notes and conferred in hushed tones with Rys and his people.

  When things had quieted, and the secretaries and assistants had left them alone, Baron Rys sat down opposite Lark. He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, steepled his fingers, and gave her a level look. “What do you think Duke William wants?”

  She recognized his expression, having seen it often in Amelia. “He wanted me, sir,” she said bluntly. “But I wasn’t there, and so he took Amelia.”

  “And why would he want to take you?”

  “He hates me because my stallion was to be the first of his new breed of winged horses, but he came to be foaled on Deeping Farm. And he thinks—I can’t prove this, but I believe it—that if he captures me, he will lure Mistress Winter back to Osham.” She took a deep drink of her cooling tea. “And of course,” she said matter-of-factly, “Duke William has gone hinky.”

  Rys looked at her quizzically, and she gestured with her free hand. “Sorry, sir. I mean, mad. The Duke takes a potion, and it has altered his mind. He tried to kill me once last year.”

  Rys’s eyes narrowed at this, and his lips pressed into a hard line. “I have ordered my captains to ready our ship to Oc this very day.”

  “I thought you might, sir. ’Tisn’t any other choice. Duke William’s militia are everywhere, even at the Academy.”

  The baron hesitated for the barest moment. “Miss Black, I commend you for your initiative. Your headmistress should have sent word to me immediately.”

  “ ’Tis confusing for her,” Lark said. “She had no proof—nor do I, in truth. I just have—that is, I think—”

  “You have a conviction.”

  “Aye. That’s it.”

  The furrow that had drawn between his brows when he first saw her had not loosened, yet his voice remained as uninflected as if they were discussing the weather. “Lord Francis needs to know we’re coming,” he said. And then, half to himself, “I wish we had Philippa Winter.”

  Lark jumped to her feet, energized by the tea, and even more by the relief of having someone else making decisions. “Which first?” she demanded.

  He stood up more slowly and managed a small laugh. “You have done enough, I think. I’ll get word to Francis. And I must speak to Prince Nicolas.” He rubbed his eyes with his forefingers and sighed. It was the first time he had shown any emotion at all. “Well. You will rest the night here at the Palace, naturally. Your stallion is in excellent hands in the stables, and my secretary will find you a bed.”

  “Baron Rys—Prince Nicolas is in league with Duke William. He’s supplying him with both men and money.”

  The baron’s head came up, and he fixed her with a
level gaze. “How do you know that?”

  “ ’Tis something I heard yesterday, sir. That Lord Francis asked the Prince for help and discovered he was supporting the Duke.”

  Baron Rys reached for a bell and rang it. “I will go directly to His Highness to ask about this. If you need something further, ask my secretary.”

  “Can’t I do something more?”

  He paused with the bell in his hand. “I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully. “I think it depends on what His Highness tells me.”

  “I’m at your service, sir. For Amelia’s sake.”

  The door opened at that moment, and Rys’s secretary stood awaiting orders. Rys spoke to him briefly, then turned back to Lark. “You’re distressingly young,” he said. “I’m sorry you have to be involved in such affairs.”

  “I’ll be a horsemistress by this time next year, by Kalla’s grace.” Even speaking the words made her stand taller, lift her head higher.

  He bowed. “You sound a great deal like my daughter.”

  “I could do worse, Baron Rys.”

  He nodded, and she saw grim purpose mingle with pride in his expression. “Indeed. Well said, Miss Black.” He turned then, and was gone without another word.

  IT seemed to Lark that everything at the Palace was bigger by half than the same object would be in any other place. The chairs were carved oak, like the ones at the Academy, but the backs were taller. The elaborately dyed carpets were thicker, absorbing all sound from her riding boots, or from the polished shoes of the servant who came to lead her to the horsemistresses’ apartments. The windows were enormous, stretching from floor to ceiling, mullioned and draped and sparkling in the evening light. A long corridor threaded through the maze of the Palace and opened into a richly appointed drawing room, with a small fire burning in the grate and tea already set on a low table.

  The servant bowed Lark into the drawing room. He said to the women there, “Mistress Larkyn Hamley, of the Academy of the Air,” and withdrew swiftly, as if not wanting to observe the scene that was about to develop.