Toby Bishop - Horse Mistress 03

by Airs of Night

  “No one’s invited her to dinner,” Mistress Smoke said sourly.

  Mistress Rose turned her head to her. “Please, Marielle,” she said. Lark heard the steel in her tone. “Let the child eat. You remember what it was like to be hungry all the time.”

  The cheerful Madelyn laughed. “I’m still hungry all the time!” Her companion joined in her laughter, but no one else did.

  Lark nodded, deciding food should definitely come first. Her stomach gurgled in anticipation, and she pressed a hand to it, embarrassed. Madelyn Storm winked at her. Mistress Rose put two sandwiches on a small china plate, then, with a sidelong glance at Lark’s slender middle, added two little cakes, elaborately iced with sugar flowers. She tucked a sprig of grapes alongside this feast and handed the plate to Lark.

  Lark smiled her thanks and started with the fruit. They had not seen grapes at the Academy in months.

  When she had eaten enough to calm her stomach, and drunk the tea, Mistress Rose refilled the cup, then poured a cup for herself. She settled back in her chair and looked expectantly at Lark. “And now,” she said. “Larkyn, is it? Perhaps you could begin at the beginning. I suspect you have a great deal to tell us.”

  Lark took a deep breath. Now that Baron Rys had begun to take steps, she felt she should make a clean breast of it all. “First,” she said, twisting her fingers together in her lap, “I have to tell you that I am here without permission. Headmistress Star doesn’t know.”

  Mistress Smoke drew a sharp breath and began to speak, but Mistress Rose put up a stern hand, interrupting her. Lark kept her eyes on Mistress Rose as she told the whole tale, going back more than a year, when Duke William had very nearly killed her in his stable at Fleckham House. She told them of Philippa Winter’s disappearance, of the privations and pressures at the Academy, of the difficulties of having militia everywhere they went. She tried to describe how changed Duke William was. Finally she came to Amelia’s disappearance, and the fruitless search for her, and she ended with her own conviction that Amelia had been abducted by Duke William in her stead.

  “And so,” Mistress Rose said, “you took matters into your own hands.”

  Lark lifted her chin. “Aye, Mistress, I did. No one would believe me, but I know what I know. Amelia

  Rys is in danger, as is Master Mahogany. Baron Rys agrees.”

  “Rys!” Mistress Rose exclaimed. “You’ve already spoken with him?”

  “ ’Tis why I came,” Lark said.

  “You little fool!” Marielle erupted, and this time Mistress Rose didn’t stop her. “We’ll be at war before you know it!”

  “No doubt,” Mistress Rose said dryly, “we already are. And I suspect,” she added, with a tilt of her head toward Lark, “that you knew that would happen.”

  Madelyn Storm leaned forward. “Surely she’s too young to have figured that out,” she said in a conciliatory tone. “She’s just a student flyer, after all, worried about her friend—”

  Lark interrupted. “Excuse me, Mistress Storm. Mistress Rose has the right of it. I knew Baron Rys would act immediately, which is why I went to him first. The only ones who would believe me were Lord Francis and Mistress Winter. Lord Francis was at the Rotunda, and I could never get there without Mistress Star or one of the others stopping me.”

  “You shall never be allowed to receive your wings!” This pronouncement came from Mistress Smoke, with a shaken finger and a black look.

  “None of us will if this goes on,” Lark shot back. She was famous in the Uplands for her snappy tongue, and she couldn’t restrain it now. The words sprang from her fear and her frustration. She leaped to her feet and put her fists on her hips. “The Duke is building a new school, the Fleckham School, to teach men to fly winged horses! And the cost is breaking the Duchy, so everyone has to pay his extraordinary tax; all the while, the Academy is going without hay and meat and fruit, and—”

  “Men?” Mistress Rose said, her brows rising.

  “Men can’t fly!” Mistress Smoke sneered.

  “ ’Tis hard to explain, because who has ever seen such a thing?” Lark said desperately. Her voice rose and thinned. “The Duke—he takes some potion or medicament, and he has bonded with a winged filly, and named her Diamond, and he believes he will fly her—”

  “Bonded! Impossible!” someone exclaimed.

  “You must be mistaken!” was Marielle’s pronouncement.

  Mistress Storm left her chair, and came to put a protective arm around Lark’s shoulders. Lark found herself trembling again, with fury and frustration this time. Mistress Storm’s arm was thin and hard, and steady against her own shaking form.

  Mistress Rose stood up, her eyes never leaving Lark’s face. “Whatever the truth is,” she said slowly, “it’s clear our young flyer here has acted out of conviction. One of us must escort her back to the Academy first thing tomorrow, with His Highness’s leave, and get to the bottom of all this.”

  Lark dropped her eyes, hoping her rebellion would not show on her face. She thought Mistress Rose seemed a nice woman, if a trifle stern. No doubt she meant well. But Lark had a mission to fulfill. She could let nothing get in her way.

  ELEVEN

  AMELIAcringed as the man in the caped greatcoat loomed above her. He smelled of unwashed flesh and uncleaned clothes. His teeth were a horror, and the leer on his face chilled her to the bone. It was not madness, as with Duke William, but cruelty that glittered in his eyes. “Klee,” he growled. “Now isn’t that handy.”

  She drew herself up. “I am Amelia Master,” she said stiffly. “And who might you be?”

  “Name’s Slater,” he said. His lips were red and wet. “The Duke’s personal man.”

  “Are you indeed?” she said, and took pride in the steadiness of her voice. “Then perhaps you could arrange for me to have suitable accommodations if I’m not to be allowed to return to the Academy at this moment.”

  “Suitable?” he said, with a hoarse laugh. “Seems fitting enough to me! You lot always live with your

  damned horses, don’t you?”

  “I am sure,” Amelia said, “that His Grace would not approve of your tone.”

  Jinson took a step to put himself between Amelia and Slater. His face was white, and his voice shook as he spoke. “Miss Rys could use a proper bed, Slater.”

  Slater scowled at Jinson. “Do tell! Then why don’t you get her one?”

  “His Grace ordered me to stay here with her,” Jinson said. His thin neck flushed, but he held his ground before Slater’s glare.

  “Afraid she’ll scarper, ain’t you?” Slater said. “Well, I’m not doing your work for you, Jinson. You want her to have a bed, you see to it.” He took a step to the side in order to look Amelia up and down again.

  “Don’t look like much, does she?”

  “Fortunately, I have no need to depend on your opinion,” Amelia said. “And if you don’t intend to make yourself useful, I will thank you to absent yourself from this stable.”

  He grinned, showing his horrid teeth. “Better you should watch your tongue with me, my fine lady,” he said, leaning toward her. “ ’Tis you could find yourself being— useful.”

  Jinson said, “Slater, leave Miss Rys alone. His Grace won’t want you bothering her.”

  “Oh, he won’t?” Slater said. He laughed. “We’ll see about that, Jinson! And don’t go playing high-and-mighty with me! I know all about you.”

  Jinson’s eyes dropped to his boots. Slater laughed again. He pulled his greatcoat around him and swirled out of the stable. Jinson stepped to the door to watch him go.

  “Why should the Duke have such a distasteful person to wait upon him?” Amelia asked.

  Jinson avoided her eyes. “I—I can’t explain it, Miss. But I don’t like him.”

  “Most unpleasant,” she agreed. She glanced at the pallet he had spread for her. “This will suffice for a bed,” she said. “Although I wish I could simply return to the Academy.”

  “I do, too, Miss.” J
inson crossed to the pallet, and twitched the blanket to smooth it. “I told His Grace—that is, I tried to say that—” His voice trailed off.

  Amelia watched him curiously. “Jinson, if you object to all of this—if you are not in agreement with holding hostages—then why do you not go to the Council Lords and tell them? Tell Lord Francis!

  There’s going to be terrible trouble when my father hears of this. Why be a part of it?”

  He hung his head and shoved his hands in his pockets. He looked, she thought, as if he were no more than ten years older than she. He was thin and plain, with wispy brown hair and slender features. “Duke William made me Master Breeder.”

  “Do you mean you owe him for that?”

  He shuffled his feet, and gazed out the open door. It faced east, and the morning sunshine poured through to glow on the sawdust-strewn floor. In the box stall, she heard Mahogany whicker, and Bramble, lying in the aisle, got to her feet. Amelia turned to go to her colt.

  “I never wanted to be Master Breeder,” Jinson said softly.

  Amelia paused, and turned back to gaze at him curiously. “Did you not?”

  “Nay,” he said, still staring past her to the flood of pale sunshine. “I was happy being stable-man at the Ducal Palace, working for the old Duke. And then he died, and Duke William wanted—well, he meant to change everything. Including the Master Breeder.”

  “You could have said no.”

  Now he looked at her, and his eyes had gone round with something like horror. “Oh, no, Miss,” he said hastily. “You don’t say no to Duke William.”

  She said in an even tone, “I do. And I will.”

  “Oh, no, Miss,” he repeated. “Best not. You just don’t know. Best do what you can to keep him happy; go along with him . . . Please, Miss.”

  Amelia folded her arms and dropped her chin slightly, looking at Jinson through narrowed eyes. “Why continue in his service if you think so poorly of him?”

  Misery dragged at the corners of Jinson’s lips. “No choice, Miss,” he said in a husky tone. “My choices went away some time ago.”

  ALTHOUGHthe breakfast had gone cold, Amelia ate it all, including the cold toast and dry cheese, and she drank the now-clammy tea. Jinson had laid a flake of hay and a measure of grain in the aisle near Mahogany’s stall, and she carried them in, seeing that Mahogany, at least, was comfortable. With Bramble nearby he was calm.

  She found a currycomb in the tack room, and carried it back to the box stall. She spent a half hour on Mahogany’s coat, soothing both of them in the process. “You don’t know how to react to him, do you, my love?” she murmured as she worked. “The Duke confuses you.”

  Mahogany shook his mane, and whuffed in response. Amelia laid the currycomb on top of the half-gate and checked his halter with her fingers. He was still growing, and she decided to loosen the buckle so it wouldn’t begin to chafe under his chin. He nibbled at her fingers as she worked the leather free, and she sighed and stroked him. “We may be here awhile, my love,” she said. She leaned against him, her cheek on the black silk of his mane for a moment. “The histories tell many stories of royal hostages,” she said, more to herself than to Mahogany, though his ears flickered, following the sound of her voice. “But I never thought, in this modern day, that I would become one.”

  She sighed and straightened. She poured the grain into his bucket and pulled the flake of hay open. The straw beneath Mahogany’s hooves was fresh and clean, and his water bucket was full. He munched oats, tossing his head with pleasure. “At least,” she told him, “I know how to conduct myself. And protocol also says I’m to be accorded the respect due my rank. Surely this Duke understands that.”

  Mahogany lifted his head and looked directly at her with a composed expression. She smiled at him.

  “You’re quite right, Mahogany. At the slightest sign that it’s not true, we will find some way to escape.

  But it’s dangerous. That man Slater . . . I think we must be concerned about him.”

  Mahogany whuffed again and dipped his nose into the grain.

  Amelia closed the gate, picked up the currycomb, and went back to the tack room.

  The tray had disappeared, and in its place was a little packet of things: a hairbrush, a toothbrush, a towel, and a mirror. Beneath these things were folded clothes, a skirt, two tabards, and a set of smallclothes that had obviously once belonged to someone larger than she. At least they were clean, even smelling faintly of bleach. Amelia stood with her arms folded, staring down at them, then went to the door of the stable.

  A grove of beeches stood between the little stable and the main house. Their leaves had fallen, making a carpet of gold and brown beneath the bare branches. She could just see the roof of the house above the trees. The noises of construction went on, almost shockingly ordinary. It hardly seemed possible that she couldn’t simply walk up through the grove, climb the rocky bank she saw beyond it, and ask for help.

  There must be dozens of workers there, by the sound.

  She stepped out of the stables.

  Two soldiers, dressed in the black-and-silver uniform of the Ducal Palace, stood just beyond the gravel drive in front of the stable, facing her. She made no greeting, nor did they. Two more soldiers were posted at the edge of the beech grove, with a full view of the dry paddock, the rear door of the stable, and the meadow that stretched away to the wood above. Amelia turned and went back into the tack room. She would not humiliate herself by testing their watchfulness. Soon, she told herself, soon the Academy would see to it that she was set free. They would not allow her to languish here for long. She was due to ride Mahogany very soon, and to fly not long after that, with the other first-levels. She had training to do.

  BARONRys’s secretary knocked on the door of the horsemistresses’ apartment late in the evening and asked Lark to accompany him to his master’s sitting room. “His lordship apologizes for not coming himself,” the man said, with a shallow bow. “He has been closeted with the Prince for some hours, and now has urgent letters to write.”

  Lark was already on her feet, ready to accompany him, but Mistress Rose spoke quickly. “If the baron needs a flyer,” she said, “he should ask for one of us. This young lady has not yet earned her wings.”

  “Please, Mistress Rose,” Lark began, but the secretary spoke over her.

  “Baron Rys wishes to speak to Miss Black about his daughter, Amelia.” Lark bit her lip, and waited.

  Smoothly, the secretary went on. “Lady Amelia is a first-level student at the Academy of the Air.”

  “Oh, aye,” Lark said. “Aye, she is. And I’m her sponsor.”

  The secretary held the door open for Lark, and she hurried through. Behind her, she heard him assure the other horsemistresses he would escort her back to them before long. Lark was already well down the corridor when he caught up with her.

  “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

  WILLIAMstroked 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.