by Toby Bishop
When all was in order, he stood back and surveyed her. She switched her tail and blew through her nostrils, making them flare pink.
He laughed. “Impatient, are you, my little darling?” He looped her reins over his arm and opened the stall gate. “Come, then. Let’s see how we do.”
William was accustomed to leaping into the saddle without thought for the horse’s back, and they often grunted at the sudden weight, the roughness of his mount. But with Diamond, William meant to be as gentle and steady as he could. Despite his dismissal of Felicity Baron’s recommendations, and though he would never admit that she had been right about his heavy hands, he had taken her warning to heart. He led Diamond to a mounting block and stepped up on it before lowering himself carefully into the saddle. He found the stirrups with his boots and settled against the cantle of the saddle.
She threw up her head, and that shiver that so distressed him ran through her body from head to tail.
William sat still, giving no direction, letting the reins swing loose below her chin.
She breathed deeply, and he felt the expansion and contraction of her ribs beneath his calves. Her folded wings trembled over his ankles. He felt a shiver of his own, one of pure delight, and of the exquisite joy of possession. She was his. No one else could touch her. No one else would ever sit in this saddle.
He reached down and stroked the point of her right wing with his palm.
Then he lifted the reins cautiously and tightened his calves around her barrel. She shivered again, but she began to walk.
William disdained the dry paddock, though that, too, had been one of Mistress Baron’s suggestions. He tugged the right rein, ever so carefully, and laid the left against Diamond’s neck. When she turned to the right, toward the park, he immediately loosened the rein, letting her choose her path. Her gait was smooth and steady as she headed down the grassy slope toward the orchard. Relief and elation made William giddy.
Diamond’s ears flicked forward, and back, and she broke into a trot.
William let her go, posting easily in the stirrups, and together they rode toward the far end of the park. As they passed beyond the hedgerow, Diamond broke into a fluid, rocking canter, a smoother, lighter gait than William had ever experienced. He thought his heart might burst from the sheer joy of the moment.
When womanish tears stung his eyes, he reined her in. It would never do, after all, to lose sight of who and what he was.
He turned her about and gave her his heels to make her gallop back up the park. She bucked once, her heels flying high behind him so that the high pommel jammed into his belly. “Damn you, Diamond,” he cried, laughing. “I’ll let that go for now—but you remember who is the rider and who the ridden!”
For answer, she shook her head, rattling her bridle, and danced a little sideways. He would have punished another horse, yanked at the bit, turned him in a tight circle to show his control. But he was beguiled by the glitter of Diamond’s mane frothing in the sunlight and the saucy tilt of her pointed ears.
He chuckled and let it go. He let her choose her own pace to go back toward the stable. When they reached it, he climbed down and stood for a moment, stroking her neck, feeding her a little more barley from his palm.
“You’ll fly with your monitor this afternoon,” he murmured to her. “And I’ll watch. But tomorrow—” He glanced over his shoulder and found that his secretaries were both standing on the steps of the Palace, awaiting him. A militiaman in the black-and-silver uniform was with them, a smallsword slung from his belt. A cart waited in the courtyard with an ox in its traces, and something in the bed, covered with canvas.
William turned his back on them and rubbed Diamond’s withers. “Tomorrow, or the next day, you fly with me, my little Diamond.” He circled her neck with his arm and tried to pull her lovely head close to his chest.
She suddenly backed away from him, tossing her head and laying back her ears. He stepped back away from her, hoping no one had noticed. He dropped the reins to the ground and called for Mistress Baron to come and untack the filly.
When Felicity Baron had taken charge of Diamond, William turned to face the secretaries and the militiaman waiting for him on the steps. He sighed, irritated, his joy in the morning evaporating. He stalked across the courtyard, switching at his thigh with his quirt, and wished he could think of something that would stop Diamond pulling away from him like that.
Perhaps the horsemistress was wrong. Maybe a heavier hand would be better. He must show her, after all, that he was master.
WILLIAM stood beside the fireplace, glad of the warmth of the flames behind him. Since he had grown so thin, he hardly ever felt warm enough, and the chill of winter seeped in through the tall, mullioned windows despite the heavy curtains. The marble floors felt icy through the thin leather of his boots. Behind his back, he spread his fingers to the heat of the fire.
Across the room, his secretaries and one militiaman, dark-haired and blue-eyed, stood waiting for his response. The militiaman stood before the plush divan, his hands on his hips. The secretaries looked from him to William with worried eyes.
“I only have your word for this,” William said. He smoothed his hair with his hand and thought that it was almost long enough for a rider’s knot. His mind strayed immediately to Diamond, and her flinching away from him. A thread of nausea ran through his gut, and he gritted his teeth. He had to force himself to focus on the matter at hand.
“Shot your Master Breeder, sir,” the militiaman said. He had a handsome face, and his teeth, when he spoke, showed white in his suntanned face. He looked as if he often smiled, but now his features were grim. “Shot him dead. Master Jinson never had a chance.”
“Slater is my personal assistant. He must have had a reason,” William said. Anger at this situation, at the embarrassment of it, at the need to make some decision, drove away his uneasiness over Diamond. He would deal with the filly later. “Where is he?”
The militiaman spoke again, apparently unimpressed by being in the presence of his Duke. “In the tack room at the small stable beyond the spinney,” he said. “Locked him in there where he couldn’t hurt anybody else.”
“You locked him in the tack room?” William said. He turned on the militiaman, glad to have a focus for his fury.
“Oh, aye, Your Grace. Shot the bolt tight.” The ghost of a smile tugged at the man’s mouth. “That one won’t be having a blink at the sun till someone lets him out.”
William scowled. “How dare you make such a decision without my authority?”
The man gave an insouciant shrug. “Begging your pardon, sir, but you weren’t there, and a man’s dead by this Slater’s hand. I’m supposed to be militia, though I never wanted it. I’m told I’m supposed to guard people from danger.”
William glared at him. “You were set to guard someone else at that stable.”
“Oh, aye,” the militiaman said. The secretaries were watching him with a sort of stunned bemusement at his lack of proper deference to the Duke of Oc. “Slater might have killed the lass, too, sir, if I hadn’t been there.”
“You’re a liar,” William said flatly.
“Your Grace, he took her away on that pinto pony of his. Said he was going to ‘show her to the Klee.’ ”
At this William drew a breath and turned his back to stare into the flames. Damn Slater! The man had gotten above himself and put William in a bad spot. He needed Slater, needed him to supply him with his potion, to keep his mouth shut about that—and a few other things—and to come up with enough potion to start the process with the four young men at Fleckham House. Only Slater knew which apothecaries could be persuaded to do what needed doing.
And now he would have to find a way to excuse this. Jinson dead, ye gods! What was Slater thinking?
Slowly, deliberately, William turned to face the secretaries. He ignored the militiaman, hoping to put him in his place. “Clarence, get down to Fleckham House, to the stable beyond the beech grove, and get Slater
out of there. Bring him here to answer to me.”
Clarence bowed and turned swiftly to leave the room.
“And you, Harold.” The junior secretary straightened, eyebrows lifted. “See that Jinson’s body is prepared for burial. Find out if he has family that needs to be notified.”
Harold nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.” He, too, left, leaving the militiaman directing his unabashed gaze at William. There was something familiar in that level blue gaze, but William couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.
“What happened to our hostage?” William asked.
The man shrugged again. “She was there when I left.”
“Did you make provisions for her to be—to be guarded?”
Now the easy grin broke out on the militiaman’s handsome face. “I made provisions for her to be safe, sir. There’s a guard, but I doubt me he’s worried about a slip of a lass. He’s there to see that a murderer stays to receive his judgment.”
“You have a ready tongue, do you not?” William said with feigned casualness. He was sifting through his memory, trying to think why those blue eyes, that dark, curling hair, were familiar. “Where are you from, man?”
The militiaman bent his head, and said, “I’m an Uplander. Nick Hamley, of Deeping Farm, at your service.”
William stiffened, and for a moment he could think of not a single word to say. Hamley! The brat’s name was Hamley, and she came from Deeping Farm . . . This militiaman was her brother; he had to be.
William’s eyes narrowed. There must be a way to turn this to good use, but his mind was clouded and sluggish. “Hamley,” he said cautiously.
“The same, sir.”
“If our hostage is gone, we will hold you responsible.”
Hamley seemed unconcerned with this threat. He raised his glossy black eyebrows, and tilted his head to one side. “Begging your pardon, sir. The murder of yon Master Breeder seemed the most pressing matter.”
“You’re not paid to think, man,” William snapped. “You’re paid to follow orders.” He turned his back and stared into the fire, thinking furiously. It was too bad about Jinson—damn the man, he should have known enough to stay out of Slater’s way!—but he couldn’t let Slater stay imprisoned. He needed him, or someone like him.
Over his shoulder, he eyed the handsome Uplander. No, he’d never do. He was too much like the Hamley brat. He would never fetch and carry the way Slater would. And he wouldn’t know the apothecaries on the outskirts of the White City, wouldn’t know which were willing to perform special services for their Duke, or how to force them to do their Duke’s will if they resisted. Without the potion, his dreams would crumble to nothing.
He turned to face the militiaman. “Go back to Fleckham House and guard the prisoner.”
Hamley raised one eyebrow. “Which prisoner, sir?”
William suppressed the flicker of rage at his insubordinate tone. “The girl, of course,” he spat. “Clarence will bring Slater to me.”
With outrageous casualness, Hamley said, “Your secretary? Do you think that’s wise? There’s no question of his guilt. None at all.”
“Do as you’re told, man. Leave such decisions to your betters.”
He didn’t watch Hamley leave, but he could have sworn he heard the man give a sardonic chuckle before the door closed behind him. He would tell Islington to put this Nick Hamley front and center when it came to a battle. He would not have militiamen telling him what to do.
When Harold returned, William told him, “Write an order for the Academy. We want every horsemistress within an hour’s flight of Osham mustered at the Rotunda in the morning. The patrol boats can drive away that Klee ship, but they’ll need cover.” Harold’s eyes widened, but he, at least, knew better than to argue with his Duke. He bowed and sat down at the desk, drawing a piece of parchment and a quill pen toward him.
As he dipped the pen into the ink, William said, “Oh, and tell them we want the third-level girls in the air, as well. They might as well earn their very expensive keep, for once.”
When the door clicked shut behind his secretary, William went to stand beside the tall windows, absently tugging at his vest. It was a good thing after all, he mused, that that bitch Philippa Winter had not shown her face in Oc. Philippa would have simply refused the order he had just given. Suzanne Star wouldn’t have the courage.
TWENTY-ONE
PHILIPPA and Sunny led the younger flyers north, staying inland where the winds were steady. Their flight path took them over fields emptied of their harvest, where farmers were plowing under the stalks and vines to prepare the fields for winter. They stopped their work to gawk at the flyers passing overhead. Philippa touched Sunny’s shoulder so the mare would dip her broad red wings in salute to them, and the farmers below waved their hats in response.
They passed several hamlets of flat-roofed houses with kitchen gardens stretching behind them. The gardens reminded Philippa of Deeping Farm, and she wondered if Larkyn, too, yearned for that homely place, the friendly silences of the Hamley brothers around their scarred kitchen table, and the atmosphere of honest work and animal husbandry, the concern for food and health and family overriding any political issues. It was there that she had come to realize how artificial the rule of the Duchy had become.
When they reached the shore, she found a long, level stretch of beach, and guided Sunny down. Larkyn and Seraph came close behind, trotting to a stop beside a dune covered in long, brown grass. A freshwater brook ran down from the fields to empty into the sea. They spent two pleasant hours resting, giving the horses a little grain and letting them drink from the brook. They ate Lyssett’s sandwiches of crusty bread and the sheep’s milk cheese Philippa had grown so fond of, with the last of the tomatoes from Marinan’s garden. They drank from the same stream as the horses, then strolled, stretching their legs and shoulders in the chilly sunshine.
All too soon it was time to take to the air again. Philippa and Sunny turned due west toward Osham, with Larkyn and Seraph close behind. Once they had crossed the point of no return, which Philippa judged by the position of the sun, the sea winds seemed to lift them, buoy them in their flight. Sunny rested her wings from time to time, gliding on the currents. Philippa glanced back often, noting with approval that Black Seraph followed her example, flying steadily, with none of his playful darting about. No doubt, having made this crossing once already, he had learned something about flying over the sea.
Philippa began to search the western horizon for her first glimpse of the spires and towers of Osham. She hoped her return would be of some help to Suzanne and not make things worse. Duke William could try to take her from the Academy by force, and if he did, she would have to give in. She couldn’t allow anything to endanger the girls or their instructors.
The snowfields on the flanks of the western peaks were turning pink and gold under the lowering sun when Philippa caught sight of the familiar crenellated top of the North Tower. It was white, as befit the White City. Its tall, slender silhouette marked the entrance to Osham’s harbor. Its great light flashed out over the sea at night, warning ships from the rocks when the thick fogs of winter roiled over the coast.
At the mouth of the harbor a five-masted schooner rocked gently, its sails furled, its blue pennants snapping in the breeze.
There was no fog today, but the air aloft was bitterly cold. Philippa could believe Larkyn’s prediction of an early winter.
She and Larkyn swooped around the Tower and past it, to skirt the spires of Osham and circle the copper dome of the Tower of the Seasons. They flew high above the New Bridge where it spanned the Grand River, connecting the northern neighborhoods of Osham with the city center and the Rotunda of the Council of Lords. They banked above the Old Bridge, with its ancient stone pilings crumbling away under the force of the river’s current, and descended directly in line with the return paddock of the Academy of the Air. When the gambrel roofs of its stables rose before her, Philippa’s heart ached at the poignancy of her lo
ng-awaited homecoming.
As Sunny and Black Seraph soared down over the grove and cantered up the familiar grassy ride, girls in their black riding habits came pouring out of the Hall. By the time Sunny folded her wings and Philippa stripped off her gloves, Suzanne Star and Kathryn Dancer were hurrying across the courtyard. When they came close, Philippa saw the strain around their eyes, the lines graven in their cheeks. They said little as they embraced her. Kathryn’s hug was perfunctory, but Suzanne held her a moment longer than necessary, as if loath to let her go, and Philippa, normally undemonstrative, returned her embrace with warmth. The students took Sunny’s reins, and Seraph’s, and Philippa and Larkyn followed the horsemistresses back to the Hall, up the wide steps, and into the shadowed foyer.
Two black-uniformed militiamen stared straight ahead as they passed. Their presence made Philippa’s skin prickle with anger.
She passed beneath the portrait of Redbird, Sunny’s Noble forebear, with the briefest of glances. Soon she and Larkyn were seated in the Headmistress’s office, and Suzanne had begun to speak.
She was interrupted briefly by Matron with a tray of tea and biscuits, which they gladly accepted. When Matron had withdrawn, after a word of welcome to Philippa, Suzanne went on. “They fired the guns all night. No one has seen the Duke, and word from the Rotunda is that the Lords of the Council can’t agree on what to do.”
“Larkyn told me you had soldiers at the Academy.”
“They’re watching for you, Philippa,” Suzanne said grimly. “Duke William will know you’re here by morning. But perhaps he will be too busy to do anything about it. Our patrol boats are in the bay, and the Klee ship is blocking the mouth.”
“We saw that as we flew past,” Philippa said. Larkyn nodded in wide-eyed silence.