by Toby Bishop
Isobel’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you,” she said miserably. “I’ve been round and round it all, whether loyalty to the Duke is our duty or if we should follow Lord Francis and protect the bloodlines—I just don’t know what’s right.”
Hester nodded. “It’s difficult. There’s no precedent to follow, so we have to thrash it out ourselves. Lark, don’t you think—”
Lark heard these last words, but she didn’t answer. She was already in the doorway, dashing headlong down the stairs, her heart pounding with fear. She thought she knew where Mistress Winter and Winter Sunset were headed, and she couldn’t let them go alone.
TWENTY-EIGHT
WILLIAM had kept his father’s room unchanged since his succession. The wing chair still sat beside the tall windows, angled for a good view of the stables and the paddocks. Frederick had liked sitting there, watching his winged horses drill over the park. Many and many a time, the young William had stood in the doorway to this room, waiting for his father to notice him. It had invariably been a good, long wait. Many years had passed, but those memories still carried a faint heat.
The old Duke had been irritatingly single-minded. His devotion to the traditions of the Duchy, as well as the bloodlines of the winged horses, had been maddening, but he had been a popular ruler. William knew he himself enjoyed no such affection from his people.
He leaned his hip against the curving back of the wing chair as he looked out into the courtyard. He had been forced, in the end, to call back the flyers. Not because they had lost a horse, although he knew that was the case, but because the snow had returned, drifts of it falling across the cold waters of the bay to dissolve into the waves. Winged horses, he had learned from Mistress Baron, dared not fly in a heavy snowstorm. The snow melted from the heat of their wings, she said, and pooled between the ribs so the wings were no longer efficient. Flyers caught in sudden storms had been known to fall.
The snow had not looked all that heavy to him. But those twelve—well, eleven—flyers were all he had. He hadn’t dared risk them.
And, of course, he had no Master Breeder to advise him.
The Marinan had dropped anchor, and William recalled the patrol boats, too. It had been a gesture only, like brandishing a smallsword in an enemy’s face but having no real intention of using it. He had never meant to lose a winged horse, and he supposed he should be grateful the patrol boat had recovered the horsemistress.
Damn Slater! This was really all his fault. The Rys girl would not have gotten away if Slater hadn’t lost his head. And he couldn’t face Baron Rys until he found the cursed girl. The people were whining about the port being closed, but they would just have to wait. He had ordered the militia out in force to find Amelia Rys. That should take no more than a few hours.
And now he didn’t even have Slater to turn to. He had ordered him to disappear for a while. He had laid in a stock of the potion first, a row of dark glass bottles nestled in a bottom drawer. Slater had protested that he would be needed, but William wasn’t sure he could protect him. There had been witnesses to Jinson’s killing, and though he had no idea where they were now—the Klee girl and the Uplander—with the troubles brewing, and Francis doing gods-knew-what at Beeth House, he couldn’t be sure. With rebellion fomenting not only in the Duchy but among the lords, he had his hands full.
He switched at his leg with his quirt. Ye gods, was loyalty so hard to come by? Even Constance, with her sideways glances and coy silences! He cursed the weather, silently and thoroughly. It could all be settled by now, Diamond and he winging over the park for all to see!
Clarence knocked and came in, saying, “Your Grace, there are some letters we should—”
William made a gesture, and said, “Not again, man! Leave us in peace.” The secretary was wise enough this time to withdraw instantly, and without demur.
William pushed the heavy curtain farther back and leaned into the window. The snow had begun to fall in earnest. Any flyers caught in that would have to come to ground quickly.
Diamond was snug in her stall, of course. He thought of the letters, and of the brewing trouble in Osham, and ran his hands over his hair. Troubles hemmed him in on every side, when all he wanted, in truth, was to go across to the stables and spend an hour with his filly.
Damn it, he thought. I’m the Duke. If that’s the way I want to spend my afternoon, I will. He straightened, dropping the curtain, then thrust it aside again.
A carriage was coming into the boulevard from the main road. He peered through the flutter of snowflakes, trying to see who it was. It was large, with some insignia on the door. Two footmen clung to the back, indistinct snow-dusted figures.
He pressed himself closer to the glass, waiting for the carriage to emerge from the shelter of the trees at the turning. If this was one of the Council Lords, he would not see him. He had had enough talk of war for one day.
The glass had grown cold with the falling snow, and his breath fogged it. He used his sleeve to wipe away the condensation, then he swore.
It was not someone from the Council. Indeed, he would have preferred one of the Council Lords—any one of them—to this visitor.
It was Philippa Winter descending from the carriage, walking across the snowy courtyard with that unfeminine stride. What a fool she was! Did she think, just because she arrived at the Palace of her own volition, that he would not take her prisoner?
Well, by the gods, she had walked right into his hands. He would see now that she took her punishment. Her mare could go to Fleckham, and Philippa could go to Islington House, where that fool Meredith would take charge of her.
And she could stay there, as far as William was concerned, until her bones shivered to dust!
TWENTY-NINE
IT was far too early for a real snowstorm, still more than two months till the Erdlin festival. But as Philippa and Sunny flew above the outskirts of the city, hard, dry flakes stung Philippa’s face. The streets of the city appeared to be deserted, as if the city were closed, retired into itself until such time as it was safe to emerge. Philippa peered through a thickening veil of snow at the harbor, empty except for the Klee ship, rocking quietly at anchor. The winged horses were no longer in the air. The patrol boats must have retreated when the flight did. An eerie silence blanketed the White City, and not only because of the unseasonable snowfall. The populace of Osham had hidden itself away, to wait out the crisis in the safety of their homes. It would be months before the shopkeepers and laborers could make up their lost income.
The snow fell faster and faster. Just as Philippa saw that flakes were beginning to pool between the ribs of Sunny’s wings, the broad roofs of Beeth House appeared beneath her. She pressed Sunny’s shoulder with her right knee and touched her neck with the quirt to tell her to descend. Sunny banked neatly to the left, angling down through the quick glitter of crystalline snowflakes. Philippa used rein and foot to align her carefully with the road leading up to the mansion. It was frosted with snow and would be treacherous.
Sunny reached for the surface of the road with her forefeet, keeping her wings open for balance on the icy surface. Her hind feet settled gingerly onto the cobblestones, and she beat her wings to rise slightly from the surface, then settle again. She repeated this maneuver three times before she trusted her footing. When at last she had found her balance, she trotted toward the house, snorting and switching her tail.
“Good girl,” Philippa told her, patting her neck with a gloved hand. She glanced ahead. The windows of Beeth House glowed a welcome through the fluttering snow. Sunny slowed to a walk as they reached its narrow courtyard. Someone within heard her hoofbeats, and the front door opened. The foyer beyond it shone with lamplight, and she heard voices through the waning afternoon light.
She was taking a risk, a measured one. She had to force William’s hand before open warfare broke out. Sunny, at least, would be safe at Beeth House, no matter what happened.
Lord Beeth’s letter had told of an ultimatum fr
om the Klee, from Baron Rys himself. Either William produced Amelia, or her father would summon the full force of Viscount Richard’s army to retrieve her. He threatened invasion, and he had his royal brother’s support.
Philippa could hardly blame Esmond Rys. But if something wasn’t done, innocent citizens would die, citizens who knew nothing of their Duke’s machinations.
She slipped down from Sunny’s back and looked up the steps at the open doorway of Beeth House. Some of her tension drained away when she saw the staunch Amanda Beeth awaiting her there. A stable-girl hurried around the side of the house and curtsied to Philippa.
“I’ll be taking your mare, shall I, Mistress?” she said. “I’ll rub her down and give her a blanket and a feed.”
“Excellent,” Philippa said. She handed the stable-girl Sunny’s reins without hesitation. Anyone the Beeths hired was certain to be dependable. She ran lightly up the steps to Amanda Beeth, who nodded gravely and held the door wide for her.
As Philippa pulled off her cap and gloves and shook snow from the sleeves of her riding coat, Lady Beeth said, “I had no doubt you’d come. They’re waiting for us in the back parlor, because most of the other rooms are full at the moment. Tea, Philippa?”
BEETH House had become a billet. Following Amanda past the dining room, the ballroom, the east-facing morning room, and the drawing room, Philippa saw men in every one of them. They wore no uniforms, but they had the grim faces and hard eyes of men with a cause, men who knew there was danger ahead.
Francis came forward to meet her when she stepped inside the back parlor. He took both her hands. “So, Philippa,” he said. “Here we are again.”
“Indeed, Francis. Thank you and Lord Beeth for letting me know.”
“We’ll need you,” he said. “And you’ll strengthen my resolve. It gives me no joy to fight my brother this way.”
“Francis!” Philippa admonished. She squeezed his hands with her own. “You have no need even to speak the thought. All of us understand that.”
“There will be some who won’t believe it.”
“Well. I suppose that’s true. They will simply have to learn, in time.”
Lord Beeth came forward and bowed to Philippa. “Mistress Winter. Is everything all right at the Academy?”
She said abruptly, “We’ve lost a horse. He sent a flight against the Klee ship, and Caroline Rambler and her horse have gone into the water.”
Francis’s lips went white. “Ye gods,” he breathed.
Beeth said, “Appalling.”
“Precisely so,” Philippa said. She swallowed the hard lump that suddenly tightened her throat. She had been holding the awareness of the loss at arm’s length, she realized, and being in the company of sympathizers threatened to destroy her composure.
“You got our message,” Beeth said. He looked different, paler, harder than she had ever seen him.
“Yes, Lord Beeth. I came the moment I received it.”
“We’re grateful.”
“I would have come in any case. We have to stop this before we lose anyone else. How did you come by Esmond’s message?”
Beeth pointed toward the fireplace, and Philippa saw with some surprise that several Council Lords had gathered there. “Lakeland saw it in the Council and changed his allegiance,” Beeth said without embellishment. “He scribbled out a copy and carried it straight here.”
Philippa inclined her head to the men gathered around the hearth. A serving-maid came in, balancing a vast tray with a teapot and a dozen cups, and several plates of sandwiches. Amanda Beeth went to help her and began pouring out tea and handing round the cups.
Francis said, “We have enough troubles without the Klee attacking. Order has broken down in the city. The militia is in tatters. Lakeland tells us William won’t discuss his strategy—if there is one—with anyone.”
“Your force here is not inconsiderable,” she said.
“About a hundred. Not enough, really,” Francis said, “to stop William. If we could only find this girl, and let Esmond know his daughter’s safe . . .” His voice trailed off. His eyes were clouded and unhappy. He had not received any training for this role, she knew. Francis was to have been a scholar, a life he much preferred.
“I will go to the Palace, of course, Francis. You knew that I would.”
“My lord, can we assure Mistress Winter’s safety?”
Philippa drew a breath, and turned slowly to meet the familiar dark blue gaze. “Master Hamley,” she said, looking up into his face. “It’s kind of you to be concerned, but I can handle Duke William. We have a history that goes back to childhood. We understand one another.”
“Yon Duke is unpredictable,” he rumbled.
“Yes. He is.” Philippa took a cup of tea from Amanda Beeth, and sipped. “Tell me, have you found your brother yet? Nick?”
He shook his head. The teacup he held looked ridiculously fragile in his big hands. They were broad of palm, thick-fingered. Philippa found herself staring at them, remembering how gentle they had been with the injured Bramble. She tore her eyes away when Francis took her arm. Brye scowled as Francis led her off, and it gave her a feeling of warmth, a sense that what happened to her mattered.
As she bent her head to listen to Lord Chatham, she let her gaze slip back to the doorway where Brye Hamley stood, arms folded across his chest. She hoped Francis realized how fortunate he was to have this man on his side.
THE snow was beginning to collect on the hedgerows and pastures by the time the Beeths’ carriage reached the park surrounding the Ducal Palace. Philippa rested her chin on her fist and gazed out the window at the old trees along the boulevard, their bare branches frosted now with white. It felt good to be carried along by the carriage horses, to sit on a cushioned seat under a lap robe. It was a sign of age, she feared, but she couldn’t deny it. Her bones were no longer so malleable as they once had been, and the flying saddle seemed to press every sensitive spot, especially in cold weather. She hoped Sunny was as warm and comfortable in the Beeths’ stables as she was in their carriage.
The facade of the Palace loomed out of the snowy dusk, its multifaceted white stone profile as familiar to Philippa as that of the Academy. Lights glowed beyond the curtains and shutters, and as she watched, two serving-maids scurried up the front steps, shielding their hair with the hems of their long aprons. Philippa’s gaze passed to the tall windows of the rooms that had once been Duke Frederick’s, and a spasm of longing for days past twisted her heart.
A stable-man came out of the stables at the sound of her approach and crossed the courtyard to wait before the steps. Philippa threw aside her lap robe and climbed down without waiting for the footman to open her door. The stable-man gaped at her, and she nodded to him. “Blackley, isn’t it?” she said.
He stammered, “Aye, Mistress, that’s it. Oh, aye, Blackley, I am, His Grace’s stable-man.” He bit his lip, and glanced up toward the lighted windows of the Palace across the great circular courtyard. “And—and a good evening to you,” he said.
An oc-hound appeared from somewhere, sensitive always to the presence of a flyer. It came to Philippa to sniff at her knees, then sat beside her, its narrow head close to her thigh. She stroked it. “Can you see to the carriage horses, Blackley?”
“Oh, aye, Mistress, I—I mean, of course. Are you—are you staying long?”
She laughed with real amusement. “I hope not! But who knows?”
He shrugged and shifted his feet uncomfortably. The two footmen were stamping in the cold and rubbing their arms. “You lot go in, for sure,” Blackley said. “Someone will fetch you something to drink. And you, sir,” to the driver, “bring them horses this way. We’ll find a spot.”
As Philippa turned to follow the footmen up the steps, the oc-hound rose and padded after her. She paused. “What’s the dog’s name, Blackley?”
“That’s Alice, Mistress.”
“Ah.” Philippa touched the oc-hound’s silky skull. “I suppose she’s coming wi
th me.”
“Oh, aye,” Blackley said. “She would do that.” His gaze slid past Philippa, and she turned to see what he was looking at.
Three black-uniformed militiamen were coming down the steps. Blackley coughed, and backed away, and a moment later the carriage wheeled on around the courtyard to the carriage house beyond the stables. Philippa stood where she was, Alice pressed close to her thigh.
One of the militiamen said, “Mistress Winter? His Grace sent us to bring you to him.”
“Ridiculous,” Philippa said. “I don’t need a military escort. Or did he think I would come here without meaning to see him?”
The guardsman, a middle-aged man with a captain’s bars on his shoulder, said blandly, “I couldn’t say, Horsemistress.”
“No.” Philippa marched past the man, Alice at her heels. “No, of course you couldn’t.” The other two militiamen were slow in parting for her, and she snapped, “Stand aside, you two. Let me pass.”
They both stumbled backward on the icy steps, one nearly losing his footing. Philippa snorted as she strode between them.
PARKSON opened the front door to the foyer, and bowed. “Mistress Winter,” he said solemnly, as if she did not have a uniformed guard on either side of her, their hands on the hilts of their smallswords. “Not a good day for flying, I should have thought.”
She pulled her cap from her head and smoothed a stray strand of hair back into its rider’s knot. “I came by carriage.” She shook snow from her cap before she tucked it into her belt. She shrugged out of her coat, and it had already started to drip before Parkson folded it over his arm.
“I must see His Grace immediately,” Philippa said.
“Yes, Horsemistress. In his office.” Parkson knew the edict she was under, but no surprise or curiosity showed in his face. “I believe he’s waiting for you.”
“I expect he is,” Philippa said. “Could you keep these men here with you, Parkson? I’m hardly going to flee into the night if they leave me alone for two moments.”