Toby Bishop - Horse Mistress 03

by Airs of Night

  Hester murmured slyly, “You always say the Uplands are your home, Black.”

  Lark turned on her side and gazed at Hester. “Aye, so they are. But the Academy is my home, too, and lovely fine it looked as we flew in!” She rolled onto her back. “But if you could have a blink at Klee!

  Such grand mountains, and fields of lavender and mustard . . .”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  There was a little silence, then Lark said softly, “Have you heard from your mamá?”

  “No. I worry about them, with the fighting going on.”

  “Surely Lord Beeth would not be on the patrol ships.”

  “No, but there’s other fighting. Everyone who comes from Osham is talking about it.”

  “ ’Tis a bad time for Oc.”

  Hester said gravely, “So it is, Black. A very bad time indeed.”

  “I hope Amelia is all right.”

  “So do I. For her own sake, and for ours. Because if she’s not, years of peace with the Klee will be ruined.”

  AMELIAand Mahogany stood side by side, Mahogany’s hindquarters hard against the shuttered window of a tiny shop. Amelia pressed her own body tight against Mahogany’s left shoulder. They were both trembling, but Mahogany felt warm and solid, and Amelia willed him to steadiness. She thought of calling for help, but decided it would be useless. The buildings around her were silent, and the only light came from the gas lamp on the corner.

  Besides, such a display would be beneath her dignity. She was a Rys. She could handle these ruffians on her own.

  “Sirs,” she said. “You’re making a grave error in detaining me.”

  The leader of the band of ruffians growled, “You think so?”

  The laughing one said, “Hoo, Jake, better watch out f’ yer grave error!”

  The leader chuckled. He took a step forward, and Mahogany flinched. He brandished his bludgeon in Amelia’s direction. “Lass, you and yon horse are money on the hoof, and no mistake. No one around to stop us, neither. Now, just you hand over that lead rope, and we’ll see what we can do about you.”

  He stepped forward. Mahogany squealed and lashed out with a forefoot.

  The man cursed, and jumped back. “Tom, grab the girl. Them horses go wherever their girls do, I hear.”

  His companion circled around behind him, staying out of the reach of Mahogany’s hooves. He gingerly approached Amelia, reaching for her with one dirty hand. Mahogany snorted, and tossed his head. He tried to back farther, but he had no room to move. The leader waved his bludgeon. The light was beginning to rise, and Amelia saw that the weapon was a long, heavy bit of wood carved in one piece, and studded with nails.

  The one named Tom spread his fingers to seize Amelia’s arm.

  Amelia murmured, “Mahogany, my love. Stay calm,” and she reached into her pocket.

  In her shock at Jinson’s death, she hadn’t noticed the weight of the long pistol. Now, as she drew it from the pocket of her borrowed skirt, it nearly slipped from her fingers. She hissed a breath and gripped it more tightly as the fear of dropping it sent sparks of alarm along her nerves. She pulled it out into the dim light of early dawn, and pointed it at the man called Jake. The yellow flicker of the gas lamp shone on its oiled barrel.

  Deliberately, as if she had done it a thousand times, Amelia pulled back the cock with her thumbs, then held the heavy pistol in both hands.

  Tom gasped, and stepped back. “Jake! She has a—”

  Jake froze where he was. The hobnailed bludgeon wavered, then lowered. “I see it,” he said.

  The third man, whose name Amelia had not heard, was not laughing now. “Zito’s ass, Jake, them things can kill a man.”

  “I believe,” Amelia said icily, “that’s what they’re for.”

  “Now,” Jake said uncertainly. “What would a lass like you know about such things?”

  “I know this,” Amelia said. “This pistol is no good for shooting rabbits. It makes far too big a hole. It spoils the meat.”

  She felt Mahogany’s warmth radiating through her. He had steadied when she had, and was standing very still, supporting her with the strength of his muscled shoulder almost as if he had an arm to put around her. His near wing flexed slightly against the wingclip, but his feet were planted firmly on the cobblestones.

  Amelia smiled. “And now,” she said. “You ruffians will back away, all of you.”

  “Ruffians!” Jake started to lift his bludgeon again. Amelia set her feet wide, lifted her arms with the elbows bent, and pointed Slater’s pistol right at his midriff.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” he said, but she heard the note of doubt in his gruff voice.

  “Well, sir,” she said. “It will be your privilege to find out.”

  “Jake,” Tom began, but Jake growled some inarticulate warning and fell silent.

  The third man had slipped away, around the corner and into the darkness. Tom looked longingly after him and took a step in that direction. Jake said, “Tom. Grab her arm.”

  Tom answered, “Not me, Jake. You wants her arm grabbed, you do it yourself!” and he, too, was gone,

  with a clatter of boots on stone.

  Amelia hardly dared to breathe. She and the man named Jake stared at each other in the growing light, each of them breathing curls of mist that rose and dissipated in the icy air. Amelia thought, irrelevantly, that the air smelled like that at Marinan before a snowstorm.

  Jake finally gave up. He clanked his bludgeon against the stones and half turned. Over his shoulder, he said, “You wouldn’t shoot a poor man in the back, lass?”

  She said, “I make no promises. Would you have struck me with your nasty club?”

  He gave her a narrow-eyed look, then walked slowly away, the bludgeon dangling by his leg. Not until he reached the corner did he break into an awkward run, and disappear.

  Amelia held herself straight for several seconds, and then let herself slump against Mahogany. Her wrists bent, and pointed the gun at the cobblestones. “Mahogany!” she breathed. “I was so frightened!” And in a mere whisper, she added, “Next time, my love, I must be certain there is a bullet in the gun before I threaten to use it!”

  Mahogany blew lightly against her shoulder as if he agreed. She laughed softly, straightened, and tucked the long pistol back into her pocket. She took Mahogany’s lead, and they started off once more in the direction of the bay.

  With every step the smell of salt and fish grew stronger, and she could see, through the close-set buildings of the poor neighborhood, flashes of light from the North Tower.

  “Soon,” she said to Mahogany, as they wended their way through the tangled lanes, “soon we will put an end to all this and go back to the Academy where we belong.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  PHILIPPAscanned the sky as she crossed the courtyard to the stables in the early morning. It looked and smelled like snow. By the time she reached the hay-scented warmth of the tack room, her hands and nose stung with cold.

  She stopped just past the tack-room door, on her way to Sunny’s stall. Something was different, and it was not the weather. She shook her head, wondering what it was that had struck her. She couldn’t think of it, and she went on down the aisle.

  It wasn’t until the girls came in, twittering excitedly, that she realized the militiamen posted beside the Hall had vanished in the night.

  When she heard Larkyn’s voice in the aisle, and Hester’s deeper one, she left Sunny and went across to where they were both raking old straw from their horses’ stalls.

  Larkyn looked up. “Mistress Winter! Did you see, the militia have gone?”

  “I did. Does anyone know what it means?”

  Hester came out of Golden Morning’s stall, and set her pitchfork carefully in the aisle, its tines turned toward the wall. “I’m afraid they went to tell the Duke you’re back.”

  “But,” Larkyn protested, “that wouldn’t take all of them! They’re all gone, every one, and none have come to replace them!”
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br />   Philippa looked around at the other stalls, where girls were cleaning, carrying water, measuring grain. “It seems there is peace among you girls this morning,” she said.

  “Nay,” Larkyn said bluntly. “No more than yesterday. Everyone thinks this means something different.”

  Philippa arched an eyebrow. “Indeed? What do they think?”

  Hester said, “On our side, we think the militia deserted the Duke’s service. On the opposite side, Beryl and Lillian and the others, they think they went to fight the Klee.”

  “That’s foolish,” Philippa said with asperity. “Beryl should know better. They could only do that under orders. Did any orders come?”

  Hester shrugged. “Not that we know of. Perhaps Mistress Star knows something.”

  “Perhaps.” Philippa turned to go back to Sunny, but one of the first-level girls came running, skidding to a

  stop in the sawdust, and hastily inclining her head to her.

  “Mistress Winter?” she asked.

  “Yes. Who are you?” Philippa said.

  The girl barely stopped herself from curtsying, and Philippa’s lips twitched slightly. “Sorry, Mistress,” she said, coloring.

  Hester, always the diplomat, stepped up beside Philippa. “Mistress Winter, this is Edith Early, bonded to Early Spring.”

  Philippa nodded. “Hello, Edith. That’s a venerable name your bondmate carries.”

  “Yes, Mistress, I know.” The girl stared at Philippa with openmouthed curiosity, and seemed to have forgotten her mission.

  “What do you want, Edith?” Philippa prodded.

  “Oh! Oh, sorry, Mistress.” Edith blushed harder. “Mistress Star sent me to ask you to come to her office. There’s a visitor—” The girl seemed to forget her embarrassment all at once and bounced a little on her toes as if her body could hardly contain her energy. “Mistress, it’s Lord Francis. The Duke’s brother. And he has someone with him.” The girl’s eyes flickered over Larkyn, then swiftly away.

  PHILIPPAcrossed the foyer of the Hall with an eager step. She knocked on Suzanne’s door, then opened it to find Suzanne at her desk and Francis standing beside the window, the cool light gleaming on his white-blond hair. It struck her for the hundredth time how different the Fleckham features, the black eyes and narrow nose, could look on different men.

  “My lord Francis,” she said warmly, and held out her hands to him. “My friend.”

  He took them, pressing them in his own, and gave her a tired smile. “Philippa. I’m glad to see you home again.”

  His eyes went past her, and she turned to follow his gaze.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man stood leaning against the opposite wall, holding a boiled-wool hat in his hands. His black hair, shot through with gray, was cut much shorter than was fashionable for Osham. His sun-browned face was just as she remembered it, strong-featured and firm-lipped.

  Philippa’s cheeks warmed. She forced herself to incline her head, to meet his eyes with a composed smile. She hoped her cheeks weren’t flaming.

  “Master Hamley,” she said. “It’s good to see you. It’s been a long time.”

  He bowed. “Lord Francis is right,” he said. “You look very well, Mistress Winter.”

  He took her hand in his, and her own fingers felt like bird bones in the crush of his strong ones. On an impulse, she put out her other hand, to hold his hand between her two palms. The contact felt indescribably warm, and she began to feel better than she had in days. “Brye, have you heard from Nick? Is he well?”

  He shook his head. A lock of hair fell across his forehead. “Haven’t heard a word. Hard not to worry.”

  “It must be. I’m sorry.” She released his hand and turned back to Francis. “What news, Francis? And how did you know I was here?”

  Francis left the window and sprawled in a chair opposite Suzanne, extending his long legs across the carpet. “You’ll have noticed the militia posted here at the Academy have all gone,” he said.

  “Yes. The girls were all talking about it this morning.”

  “Those men came to me,” he said wearily. “All but two of them.”

  “Francis—that must be a good thing.”

  “It is,” he said. “But it means—almost without our planning it—that the lines have been drawn between the citizenry who support my brother and those who don’t.”

  “We’re seeing it here, too,” Suzanne said quietly.

  Philippa pulled her gloves out of her belt to pleat them between her fingers as she paced the office.

  “When you say they came to you, Francis, what does that mean?”

  “They came to Beeth House, because the word is out now. Beeth and I—and Daysmith and Chatham and a few others—saw this coming. When Rys’s ship showed up, we thought we’d better organize the resistance.”

  “You have a militia of your own?”

  “I never wanted to oppose my brother, Philippa; you know that. But he’s well over the line now, and I’m concerned for the future of the Duchy. Many of our people think he’s dragging them into a war over one abducted girl.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I assume Amelia Rys is why you came back at this particular moment, Philippa.”

  “She’s our responsibility, of course,” she said. “I have no doubt William took her to force me to return. I couldn’t ignore that. And since I’ve come back”—she glanced at Suzanne—“I find that the Academy itself, all of us who fly the winged horses, are at risk.”

  “If William succeeds in flying this filly, I don’t know what will happen.”

  Philippa walked to the window and put her back to it. “And Master Hamley? Your reason for being here?”

  “Heard things,” he said. “The only way to find out was to come.”

  “And now,” Suzanne said, holding out a rolled parchment with the Ducal seal blazoned on the side, “we have this.”

  “What is it?” Philippa asked.

  “Orders from Duke William. He wants every horsemistress and third-level girl to report to the Rotunda stables. The order says they’re to be ready to fly against the Klee.”

  Philippa folded her gloves back into her belt and linked her hands before her. “He would send students into a battle.” It wasn’t a question, and no one tried to answer it.

  Francis stood up. “I have to get back to Beeth House,” he said. “There are skirmishes already in the city between the loyalists and the resistance. People are afraid to go out in the streets, to go to their shops or their jobs. If William means to attack Rys’s ship, we have to do something to stop that.”

  “It’s a civil war,” Brye Hamley said.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” Philippa said. “William has sparked a civil war.” She shook her head and sighed. “We should pray that his filly refuses to fly with him. That could put an end to this insanity.”

  FRANCISled the way out of Suzanne’s office. As they all stepped out into the frosty morning, Philippa was exquisitely aware of Brye Hamley’s broad shoulder beside her own, of his greater height, the sheer strength of his presence. It was a relief when Larkyn dashed up the steps to embrace her brother and begin pestering him with questions.

  Philippa left them to their reunion and spoke to Francis. “What do you want us to do?”

  He said, “Refuse the Duke’s order. Stay where you are, out of danger.”

  “Of course I’ll refuse the order,” she said. “But I can’t speak for everyone.”

  “I understand. And I don’t have the authority to countermand it.”

  The women and girls of the Academy began to gather in the courtyard, coming out of the stables, of the Dormitory and Residence, standing together in the cold. The oc-hounds came, too, drawn by the intensity of feeling. They stood among the flyers like silver-gray sentinels, their tails waving slowly, their eyes, like everyone else’s, fixed on Philippa and Suzanne.

  No, on herself, Philippa thought. Though Suzanne was the Headmistress, somehow it was to her they were turning, seeking
guidance, though she had not stood on these steps in nearly a year and a half. Even Suzanne turned to her, holding out the missive from the Ducal Palace.

  “Talk to them, Philippa, please,” she said in a low voice. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Reluctantly, Philippa took the parchment. “I’ve never been popular, Suzanne,” she said. “I’m not quite certain why this falls to me.”

  “Because you should have been Head,” Suzanne said simply. “We all know that.”

  “But you are Headmistress, Suzanne,” Philippa began. “And a fine one—”

  Suzanne interrupted her, shaking her head. “Just read it to them, Philippa. There’s nothing I can say to change their minds.”

  Philippa hesitated. Bramble trotted up the steps to sit at her feet, facing the courtyard. Philippa touched her silky head. “Good girl,” she murmured. She fumbled briefly with the stiff parchment before she could unroll it.

  She scanned its text, then lifted her eyes to the faces below. Some of the girls were shivering in the chill.

  Philippa said, “Good morning, everyone.” No one answered. The oc-hounds stirred, moving a foot, waving a plumy tail. Bramble cocked one ear toward Philippa.

  She held out the parchment. “This order came this morning from the Ducal Palace. Lord Francis and the other lords who support the Academy—who have given of their property and risked their positions for us—have asked us to refuse it.” She let the silence stretch as she tried to meet every eye in the courtyard.

  Then she opened the parchment, and began to read it aloud.

  SHEsupposed, as she watched a half dozen horsemistresses and three third-level girls launch from the end of the flight paddock, that she should be grateful there weren’t more. The junior horsemistress Sarah Runner stood beside her. She held her shoulders straight and her head high, but her eyes were suspiciously red. She said shakily, “It feels like the end of the world.”

  Philippa nodded grimly. “Precisely so, Sarah. Imagine how our girls feel.”