by Toby Bishop
“What is it?” she asked him, as they paced toward the center of the Palace. “What’s happened?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, Miss,” he said, his tone just as bland as it had been with Mistress Rose. “His lordship will tell you all you need to know.”
It was odd, Lark thought, to see the way Baron Rys worked. She had become accustomed to seeing Duke William on his own a great deal, riding his brown gelding, but the Baron seemed to be accompanied by a flock of assistants at every moment. Even now, as she was ushered into his sitting room, an undersecretary lifted a sheaf of papers from beneath his pen and carried them off. The man who had brought her pulled a chair into a corner beneath a standing lamp and opened another sheaf of closely written papers.
Baron Rys sighed and stood up, taking off his round spectacles to rub at his eyes with his fingers. Lark crossed to him, and inclined her head. “My lord,” she said, hoping it was the proper way to address him. “What did the Prince say?”
Rys blinked a little, as if his eyes were dry. “You were correct, Larkyn,” he said wearily. “His Highness has seen fit to ally himself with William, to support his goal of a new academy.”
“And Amelia?” Lark said.
“Prince Nicolas asked for proof.”
“But of course we have none.”
“None. If the Duke had made a demand . . . a ransom letter, for example . . .”
“Baron Rys,” Lark said urgently, “I know. You must believe me. He has taken her.”
Rys straightened, as if his back hurt him. “I wish I did not believe you, Larkyn, but I do. And if you are right—if we are right—” He blew out a breath, and Lark thought he looked ten years older than he had when she arrived that afternoon. “I’ve devoted my adult life to the ideal of peace between our peoples,” he said, half to himself. “The war between Klee and Isamar, when I was a boy . . . I saw what it did to the soldiers, to our lands. My father would not listen to anyone. He was determined to reunite the two principalities under one crown, and he would not give in until the battle of the South Tower went so badly. By then it was too late.”
“Mistress Winter,” Lark said.
“Yes. She fought at the South Tower,” he answered. “There were hostages there, held by Prince Nicolas’s father, and they died, all of them. They died of thirst and hunger, because neither my father nor Nicolas’s would call a halt.”
“We’ll get Amelia back,” Lark said softly. “I promise you, sir.”
“We’ll need Philippa for that,” he said, and he gave her a level gaze. There was no emotion in his face, just as she was sure Amelia was showing none on hers, wherever she was. They were as well schooled in diplomacy as the winged horses were in the Airs.
“I’ll fetch her,” Lark said simply. “Just tell me where.”
TWELVE
WILLIAM stroked Diamond’s smooth neck, his thin fingers tracing the faint dapples that spangled her silvery coat. “You’re like satin, little one,” he said. “Though you’re not so little now, are you? I think you’re ready to carry me.”
She had reached her full height of sixteen hands, a good height for a tall man. Her arched neck was sleek with muscle, her back short and straight, her croup angled smartly. Her fetlocks were as dainty as a girl’s, but her legs and hocks were sturdy.
William breathed in her sweet smell. The longing to rise with her into the air, to look down on the parks and fields, was almost too much to bear. Still, he must not rush it. Nothing must go wrong when he flew Diamond the first time. It had to be perfect.
And there had to be an audience.
“You’re asking for a tragedy, Your Grace.”
William froze, his hand on Diamond’s withers, then he stroked her deliberately, from mane to tail, forcing Felicity Baron to watch him do it. Diamond began to shift impatiently beneath his hand, her hide shivering as if to rid herself of a fly. She turned her head and flicked her ears toward Mistress Baron with a little welcoming whicker. William frowned and lifted his hand. “You should really try to open your mind, Mistress Baron. You’re too set in your ways.”
He turned. She inclined her head to him, and he gritted his teeth with impatience. She said, “Your bonding with Diamond is far from perfect, Your Grace. In flight, horse and rider must be in absolute accord, or—”
His lip curled. “You know nothing about our bonding.”
“I have eyes,” she answered. She stood, lean and worn as an old fence post, glaring at him as if he were no more than a recalcitrant Academy student.
“Use them, then.” He wished he could send her back to Isamar. He was tired of her scowls and lectures. But Diamond needed a monitor, and he didn’t want her to have to start all over with someone new. A little more smoothly, he said, “I’m standing right beside her. What other man could do that with a winged horse?”
“She flinches away from you.” Her voice was as dull as the blade of a rusty knife.
“She’s hot,” he said, but his words sounded weak even in his own ears. He turned back to Diamond and deliberately looped his arm around her neck. “You see, Horsemistress,” he said. “She’s mine. And we’re going to fly, with your help or without it.”
“Devoted my life to the winged horses,” she said bitingly. “I won’t abandon this one.”
He looked back at her, his eyes narrowing. “Or abandon your Duke?”
She hesitated for a long moment, and he felt rage rise in his breast. They were all the same, these women, bitches and harridans, every one of them! They thought they were better than anyone else, just because they were bonded, because they flew, because they thought no one else could. They were going to get a lesson they would never forget. The moment the Fleckham School was full of young men eager to fly, he would get rid of the whole lot.
“Of course,” Felicity Baron said at last, “I serve the Duchy.”
“And the Duke,” he said, his voice sharp.
“I serve at the Duke’s pleasure,” she agreed, without warmth. “But the winged horses are my first concern.”
William released Diamond and crossed to the stall gate. Mistress Baron stepped aside, and followed him out into the wide aisle of the Palace stables. He said, “I want to fly three days from today. Try heavier sand weights tomorrow.”
“Diamond can manage more weight,” Mistress Baron said. “But if you try to fly her, I can’t take responsibility for what happens.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” William said, his throat tight with anger. His fist tightened around his quirt, and his arm itched to raise it against this maddening woman. “I take responsibility for myself.”
“And for the filly?” she said.
He rounded on her. “Damn you, woman,” he said. “I’m your Duke! You’ll address me with respect.”
Her lips thinned as she looked at him, making her look even older and craggier. A most infelicitous visage, he thought, all lines and bones and wrinkles. “I would think a lifetime of service demonstrates adequate respect, Your Grace.” It seemed to him she put a little extra weight in the final words, just a slight sarcastic emphasis.
“Just remember,” he said, his voice shaking with anger. “Three days. I want her ready.”
“At least,” she said in a dry voice, “ride the poor thing first. On the ground.”
“Of course,” William said. “I had always planned that.”
Felicity Baron inclined her head, spun about, and walked away. William watched her go, his jaw clenched, his fingers curling and uncurling on his quirt. He would show her. He would show them all. Of course he would ride Diamond first, give her a chance to get used to him.
He followed the horsemistress out of the stables and started across the courtyard toward the Palace. Two militiamen snapped to attention as he approached, and the tall door opened for him before he reached it. He went through into the foyer and snapped at Parkson, who stood bowing behind the door, “Send Slater to me.” He would double the potion again. He didn’t believe for a minute that the
bitch of a horsemistress was right, but he would take no chances.
HE sent Slater to the apothecary, then went into the grand study on the second floor of the Palace, with its view of the park to the south. He settled at the wide cherrywood desk that had been his father’s, and rang for his secretaries. They sat across from him, two of them, to deal with some correspondence from the Council Lords and a query from Prince Nicolas. There was a stack of accounts to examine, lists of figures detailing the expense of feeding and housing and clothing the militia.
William felt snappish and impatient. He had not eaten since dinner the night before, nor did he intend to eat until tonight, but although the emptiness of his belly encouraged him, his head ached and his guts growled with hunger.
He waved the accounts aside, and dictated responses to the letters. He had just scrawled his signature—William of Oc—across the last of them when Parkson appeared in the doorway.
“My lord Duke,” he said. “Lord Beeth of the Council.”
William leaned back in his chair, gusting a sigh of annoyance. He had little choice in this matter. Any Council Lord had the right to an audience with the Duke, and already Beeth could see he was here at his desk. Both secretaries were on their feet, bowing to him.
And there—ye gods, William thought, could the man so much as take a step without her?—there behind Beeth was his wife, tall, broad of shoulder and hip, her angular face unsmiling. Though Beeth came into the room first, sketching a bow to William, Lady Beeth somehow contrived to make it look as if she were in the lead. She stepped to her husband’s side, a head taller than he, and dipped a perfect, if shallow, curtsy.
“Your Grace,” Beeth said.
“My lord Duke,” Lady Beeth said. There was a glint in her eye and steel in her voice.
William folded his arms across his chest. He kept his seat, cocking his head to one side. “Lord and Lady Beeth,” he said. “How kind of you to call.”
The secretaries backed away, casting each other wary glances. William waved a hand at Parkson. “Tea, Parkson. And you two, get on about your business. I’ll have a word with his lordship, then I’ll call you.”
When the servant and the secretaries were gone, William pointed to the chairs opposite the desk. “What an unexpected pleasure,” he said, letting his impatience show in his voice, “to be called upon by a Lord of the Council.”
“Thank you for seeing me, Your Grace,” Beeth said mildly.
“We are always glad to see our Council Lords.”
Beeth sat, and crossed his plump legs. Lady Beeth settled into the chair as if it were she and not William who was royalty in this room. He eyed her with distaste.
“Duke William,” Beeth said. “There is an Academy student missing.”
“And you come to me with this?” William said. He yawned, and gazed up at the ceiling. “What do you expect me to do about it?”
“There are those,” Lady Beeth said, as if she had any right at all to speak to him, “who think you had a hand in her disappearance.”
William dropped his gaze to look the woman up and down, and his lip curled. “Indeed,” he said softly. “And what is this to do with you, my lady?”
She drew breath, but Beeth, for once, spoke for himself. “Our daughter Hester is a third-level girl,” he said hastily.
“She came to see us yesterday, after all the flyers had searched everywhere they could think of to find their classmate.”
“It is the Klee girl, Your Grace,” Lady Beeth snapped. “But I suspect you knew that.”
Hastily, Beeth said, “You know, Duke William, we’ve had to mortgage our summer estate to fund upkeep for the Academy for the winter, as Your Grace has seen fit to cut your financial support in half.”
“We have two schools to support now,” William said. He smiled at them. “And we’re quite certain our Council does not wish us to raise taxes again.”
“A number of Council Lords have daughters at the Academy,” Beeth said. “There would be a rebellion if—”
Amanda Beeth clicked her tongue, interrupting her husband. “Duke William! What about Amelia Rys?”
William let his smile fade, and he narrowed his eyes at her. “What about her?”
“Where is she?”
William straightened, suddenly, and Beeth flinched. Lady Beeth, however, only stiffened her neck. “How dare you,” William purred, “come here and accuse me?”
Beeth cleared his throat and ran a finger around the inside of his collar. It did look tight, William thought. Too bad he couldn’t put that collar on Amanda Beeth and draw it even tighter. “Your Grace,” Beeth said, “I’m sure my lady wife had no wish to offend you. But if we can’t find this girl, the Headmistress will have to notify her father. There will be trouble with Klee.”
“Klee,” William said. “Oh, yes. Klee saw fit to send one of their daughters here, to fly one of our horses. We never sanctioned such a step. And Viscount Richard could never be troubled to ask our permission.”
“But it’s done now,” Beeth said. “Your Grace knows well you can’t undo a bonding.” His eyes flickered away from William’s, but Amanda Beeth held his gaze, her own like steel.
“Did you take her?” she demanded rudely.
William stood up, kicking back his chair. Beeth jumped to his feet, but Lady Beeth sat where she was, regarding him steadily. William turned his back on her, deliberately, and walked to the huge stone fireplace that dominated one wall. There was no fire in it. He put a hand on the blackstone mantelpiece, liking the way his fingers looked against the dark stone, long and white and bone-thin. They reminded him that he was, by the grace of the entwined gods, Duke of Oc. His leadership was ordained, and he must trust his own instincts. This twist of events could be turned to advantage, for himself, and for Oc. He had only to use his head.
He looked over his shoulder at the Beeths. “There is a long tradition,” he said smoothly, “of holding royal hostages. Philippa Winter fled the Duchy to escape the punishment legally meted out to her by our Council. The precedent this sets threatens the authority of the Council and of the Palace, and we mean to have her return and accept her sentence. The Klee girl was not our first choice of hostage, but she was the one who was—shall we say—” He smiled as Amanda Beeth bristled, looking rather like an oc-hound bitch with her hackles up. “She was available,” he finished. “And she’s perfectly safe where she is. I promise you.”
“My lord Duke,” Beeth sputtered.
Again, his damnable wife intervened. She stood up, and strode around the big desk to stand before William. Her gaze was nearly level with his. “You’re a disgrace to your office,” she said, her bony jaw jutting at him. “Two girls dead already—or is it more, Your Grace?”
He tried to answer her with his silky tone, but heat flared up his throat and cheeks. “You forget yourself, my lady,” he said, his voice shrill with anger.
“Be advised by your own words,” she said tightly. “Think of the damage you’re doing to your people! Klee will be upon us before Mistress Winter even knows what you’ve done.”
He dropped his hand from the mantel and reached for his quirt, realizing too late that he had left it on the floor beneath his desk. “I can’t think what you mean,” he said, striving to keep the upper hand.
“You took a daughter of Klee hostage!”
“She is a student at our own Academy!” he insisted. “We have every right to—”
But Amanda Beeth, outrageously, turned her back on him and walked away. “Come, Beeth,” she hissed at her husband. “The Council must know about this immediately.”
Beeth hesitated just long enough for William to gather his wits. “My lord Beeth,” he said, forcing his voice into steadiness. “We recommend you bridle your lady wife. She does you no credit.”
Little Lord Beeth loosened his tie again and straightened his jacket before he spoke. “With respect, Your Grace, you’re wrong. She is a woman beyond compare.” And then he, too, turned on his heel and marched
after his plain wife. They went out the door and were gone without a word of farewell.
William stared after them. The audacity of it, the sheer insolence, sent a shudder of anxiety through his body. For one horrible moment, he wondered if he had overstepped himself.
Then he shook himself, cursed under his breath, and went back to his desk. He retrieved his quirt, taking comfort from its smooth, braided leather. He walked to the window and stood, watching the mismatched couple climb into their carriage and drive away.
When Parkson put his head in through the door, William said, “Never mind the tea after all, Parkson. You drink it. I’m going out to see my filly.”
THIRTEEN
LARK spent her night in a room that was kept just for visitors. It was curtained in pristine white, with a plush chair and a small, skirted dressing table with a mirror above it. Lark marveled at the comfort of Palace life as she lay down in the soft, narrow bed beneath a thick comforter, resting her head on an improbably plump down pillow. Sleep tempted her after her long day, but she had to resist. She forced herself to stay awake by going over and over worrisome things. The thoughts made her heart race, but they succeeding in keeping her awake as the noises of the Palace began to die away. She thought about Duke William, and the Fleckham School, and Nick in the militia. She remembered how Mistress Star had wished for Philippa Winter. She worried about what her punishment would be for flying away from the Academy all on her own.
She kept listening for anything to warn her that people were still up and moving about. Only in the deepest part of the night, when she felt certain all the horsemistresses were sleeping, did she rise from the warmth of the bed and creep out into the long, cold corridor. She had to hold up the skirts of her borrowed nightdress, looping them over her arm. Her feet were bare on the thick, hard carpet, and she shivered. Beyond the tall, multipaned windows, she saw neither stars nor moon, only the blackness of a cloudy midnight. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom. She counted the doors, and struggled to remember the turns and landings as she had been instructed. She made several wrong turns, and once almost bumped into someone slipping furtively out of a door and down the dark corridor. A secret assignation, she supposed. She flattened herself into a wall niche and waited until the person disappeared down a staircase, then went on, her ears aching with the effort to hear anyone’s approach. It seemed an hour before she finally found the library, the same she had seen when she first walked through the Palace.