by Toby Bishop
Hester put her hands on her hips. She made an imposing figure, tall, broad-shouldered, stiff-necked. “Prince should have done it,” she snapped. “It wasn’t Rosellen’s duty.”
“She’s not Prince any longer,” someone said. Lark poked her head out of her nightshift to find the speaker. It was another first-level, Anabel Chance, a fine-featured girl with a voice as soft as the straight blond hair that fell past her shoulders. “But I don’t remember her surname.” No one answered Anabel.
Hester kept her hard gaze on Petra. “If you ask me, one of you second-levels should have stepped into the breach instead of mooning around like a bunch of weepy maidens.”
Petra stalked to the end of her cot to face Hester. “You listen to me, Morning, and you, too, Hamley. There are proper ways to do things here, and you’d best learn them.”
Lark yanked her nightshift down over her shoulders and jumped up. She could fight her own battle. She, too, stepped out from between the cots, and faced Petra. All the girls were watching, the first-levels agape, the second-levels grinning, a few of the third-levels frowning.
“Yon horse was suffering!” she said loudly.
“Yon horse?” Petra Sweet repeated, imitating Lark’s Uplands accent. Someone laughed, and someone else shushed her.
Hester said, in her perfectly cultured voice, “It’s pronounced ‘horse,’ Sweet.” She pinched her rather long nose and said, in perfect mimicry of Petra’s forced accent, “Not ‘hoss.’ ”
Petra’s face darkened, and her hands clenched. She took a step forward, and someone seized her arm. Hester’s hands, too, had curled into fists.
Hastily, Lark said, “No matter how you say it, Prince was in agony, and there was nothing to do for him. My accent isn’t the only thing I brought from the Uplands.”
“No,” Petra snapped. “You brought the stink of goat!”
Lark responded tartly. “I may stink of goat—and cow, too, for that matter—but I know better than to stand idly by while an animal suffers!”
“Are you telling us our business? A goat-girl?”
Hester sniffed loudly. “I believe you carry your own stink, Sweet,” she said. “What is that fragrance that follows you . . . cured leather? Bootblack? You make shoes, I believe.”
Petra’s face went scarlet, and she sputtered, “I’ve never even been in the manufactory . . . Don’t be an idiot, Morning!”
Hester shrugged. “In any case, Sweet, we all smell of horses. All the time.”
“Don’t be vulgar,” Petra spat. She pointed to Lark. “I’m warning you, Goat-girl. In the future, you wait for orders.”
One of the third-levels—Elizabeth Chaser, Lark thought—said, “Sweet! That’s enough! It’s been a terrible day for everyone, and you’re making it worse.”
Petra swung around and stalked back to her own bed. Lark sank onto her cot, and Hester stood beside her, arms folded, as if daring anyone else to say anything. One by one, the curious faces turned away, and the girls began to slip into their cots.
“Why does she hate me?” Lark whispered. “I know I don’t fit in . . . but I haven’t done anything to hurt her.”
“She was just waiting for someone to pick on,” came a soft voice.
Lark and Hester both turned, and found Anabel standing before them, a hairbrush in her hand. She flushed under their regard. “She would have picked on me, I expect, as I’m so slow in my classes, and I have such a bad seat. But my father is an earl, and hers is only a boot merchant.” Her voice grew smaller. “I thought what you did was wonderful, Larkyn,” she said. “I wish I had your courage.”
“Good common sense,” Hester said. “Made everyone else look foolish.”
“Oh!” Lark said. “But that wasn’t why I—”
“Oh, no, of course not,” Anabel breathed in a rush. “You didn’t do it on purpose. But that poor horse!” Her eyes filled with easy tears, and they spilled over to shine on her porcelain cheeks. “I’ll never forget it! I’ve never, ever seen anything so terrible.”
“Nor have I,” Hester said. She sank down next to Lark. “I’ve never seen anything die.”
Lark stared at them, mystified. How could they have grown to such an age—Hester was at least eighteen, and Anabel must be almost that old—having never seen death? Of course she knew they would not have herded goats, or milked cows, or delivered a foal. But death was so much a part of life. How sheltered their lives must have been! How different the life of an Uplands farm girl from the lives of these highly bred daughters of Oc. She despaired of their finding any common ground.
Except, of course, for their winged horses.
THE next morning, Philippa was leaving the Hall with Margareth and the other horsemistresses when she saw the tall, slender figure of Lord William just entering the stables. His brown gelding had been turned loose in the dry paddock. Bramble, the oc-hound, stood in the center of the courtyard, watching William with her hackles raised high.
“Do you see, Philippa?” Margareth murmured.
“I do. I suppose I had better—”
“Yes. I’m afraid so.”
Philippa sighed. It always fell to her to deal with the Duke, and by default, the Duke’s son. Her history dictated it. She pulled her cap from her belt, and as she fitted it on her head, she called to one of her riders. “Elizabeth!”
Elizabeth left the little group of girls, and came to Philippa. “Yes, Mistress Winter.”
“Will you see that everyone tacks up and assembles in the flight paddock? I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Philippa saw the girl’s eyes flicker to the stables, and back to her, and she knew that the third-level girls were all aware of Lord William’s visit. Philippa spoke sharply. “And Elizabeth—no gossip. If you girls need to know something, we’ll tell you.”
“Yes, Mistress. The flight will be ready.”
“Thank you.” Philippa watched Elizabeth stride back to the group waiting for her on the cobblestones. Her step was long and lithe, her back straight, her cap tilted gaily over one eyebrow. She looked every inch the horsemistress she would become. With another sigh, Philippa turned to cross the courtyard to the stables. She wished her girls would not have to deal with politics, with undercurrents of power and poison and danger. But Elizabeth, like Philippa herself, rode a Noble mare. She would work for and with the nobility, whether or not they deserved her talents and her discipline. She would be manipulated, paraded, exploited. Her idealism and energy would mature into acceptance and pragmatism. Indeed, they must. If they didn’t, her life would become unbearable.
Philippa walked into the stables, and turned left without hesitation. There was no doubt in her mind about why William was here. He had come to see Larkyn Hamley’s little black. She supposed it was too much to hope that he might explain why. An ache began to spread up her neck and into the base of her skull.
She rounded the corner that led to Tup’s stall, and stopped.
William was leaning over the gate, staring at the colt. Tup stared back. His ears drooped oddly, one on each side, and he whimpered uneasily. But he hadn’t backed away. His nostrils flared, but he stood in the very center of the box stall, looking utterly confused.
Philippa froze where she was for a long moment, as mystified as the colt.
“My lord!”
It was Herbert, hurrying toward the stall from the opposite direction. William leaped back from the gate as if it had burned him. Philippa took one quiet step, and then another. William had not yet noticed her approach.
His back was to her as he greeted the stable-man. “Herbert,” he said smoothly, as if nothing unusual had happened. “Will you find Eduard, and send him to me?”
Herbert’s mouth opened, and his gaze shifted from William’s face to the colt’s puzzled eyes and drooping ears. He took a noisy breath. Philippa strode swiftly forward, and Herbert caught sight of her with obvious relief. “Y-yes, my lord,” he stammered. “Of course. Of course. I’m off now, and—and here’s Mistress Winter.�
�� He backed up a couple of steps, and then turned to hurry away, still muttering. “Yes, yes. Master Crisp, yes. Right away.”
William turned to greet Philippa with icy composure. If he suspected she had seen him leaning into the colt’s stall, closer than any man should be able to get to a winged horse, his demeanor betrayed nothing. He said lightly, “Philippa. How kind of you to take time out of your busy day.”
“Not at all,” she said. She hoped she hid her puzzlement better than Herbert had. She resorted to small talk. “What news of Duke Frederick?”
“My father is no better than when you saw him last,” William said.
“And your lady mother? She must be grieving, too.”
William gave her his humorless, slanting smile. “My mother is . . . more resilient,” he said. “She busies herself with society and friends.”
Lady Sophia had been a famous beauty in her youth, and admirers still trailed after her in her rounds of card parties and musicales and country weekends. It was said she was openly unfaithful to Frederick, but the Duke had never complained of her to Philippa. He had, however, been unashamedly adoring of his pretty and reckless daughter Pamella, boasting to Philippa of her frequent escapes from her governess and her chaperones. Her loss had broken him.
Philippa leaned her elbows on the wall of Tup’s stall. The colt extended his nose to her, and she stroked his satiny muzzle with her fingers. His head now came to her chin, and the membranes of his wings were beginning to thicken. His back was still short, but his tail plumed nicely behind his croup, very like Sunny’s. “If I didn’t know how unlikely it is,” Philippa mused, “I would say the little one had a Noble sire.”
“As you say.”
Philippa turned to see the Master Breeder approaching the stall. As Eduard stepped up beside William, Tup gave a sudden toss of his head, and backed sharply away, his head high, his ears laid back. He gave his wings a hard shake, and then clasped them tightly to his ribs, the pinions flaring with distaste. Eduard, too, gave William a curious look, and stepped back from the stall to give Tup his distance. The colt’s behavior bemused Philippa so that she hardly heard William and Eduard greet each other. When she brought her attention back to them, they were already in a heated discussion.
The heat was all on Eduard’s side. William revealed his anger only in the droop of his eyelids over his dark eyes, the silken quality to his voice.
“My lord,” Eduard said, a little too loudly. “Oc takes pride in the purity of the three bloodlines—none of these by-blows that have cropped up in the past! Your great-grandfather went to great expense, as your lordship knows, to acquire every winged horse throughout the principality. If we allow even one of the lines to be corrupted, we endanger our reputation—your reputation, my lord, as you’ll inherit! You must see that—”
“Eduard,” William said with deadly lightness, “we would not like to have to replace you. But authority over the winged horses rests with us. The final decision is ours.”
Philippa frowned, noting the plural pronoun. When had “we” replaced “my lord father” in William’s vocabulary?
Poor Eduard paled under the threat, but he stood his ground. “Lord William,” he said more quietly. “Please consider. It has been a terrible week here at the Academy—”
“Yes. We heard the news.” William rounded on Philippa so quickly she took an involuntary step back, bumping her elbow on the wall of Tup’s stall. His hooded eyes reminded her of something, some image she could not quite place.
But she would not be intimidated by William. They had far too much history for that. And she was almost his equal, by birth and by profession. She lifted her head to look down her nose at him. “I can assure you, William,” she said, deliberately omitting his title. “That it did not happen here. The girls go home to their families for holidays, funerals, weddings. You know that. Duke Frederick knows it.” She angled her body away from him, and leaned over the low wall to gaze at the black colt.
Despite her unease at William’s behavior, and his threat to Eduard, she thought a case could be made for waiting to see how the colt grew before gelding him. She understood Eduard’s concerns, and as an instructor, she didn’t want one of her students having to deal with an uncut stallion if it weren’t necessary. But Tup, if one put aside the expected conformation and coloring of the bloodlines, was a lovely creature. His short back and flat croup gave him a graceful line through the hindquarters, and his neck, though also rather short, curved above a well-muscled chest. His wings were narrow, but long. She looked forward to seeing him fly.
“Eduard,” she said abruptly, still watching the colt. “What is the latest date the colt can safely be gelded?”
“We always geld Foundations by eight months,” Eduard said. She heard the tension in his voice, and felt a brief spasm of sympathy for him. He was, after all, doing his job, though he irritated her often in the process.
“The little black was a winter foal. He will be eight months next week,” she said.
“He’s not a Foundation colt,” William said.
“Testes descended,” Eduard snapped. “That’s a Foundation trait.”
“What other traits do you see, Eduard?” Philippa asked.
“Been watching him,” the Master Breeder answered. “I’d guess his dam was an Ocmarin, and with that back and tail, the stud was probably a Noble. How an Ocmarin mare came to be bred to a Noble, I can’t imagine, but that’s the look of it.”
William stroked his smooth chin with a long forefinger. “All the more reason, Eduard,” he said softly, “to postpone gelding the colt.”
“I disagree, my lord,” Eduard said stubbornly. “His dam was a wingless mare, and that’s just the tendency we’re trying to breed out of the line.”
“But she threw a winged colt. That’s what we’re trying to increase.”
Eduard glowered, but said no more. William was gone a moment later, calling for Herbert to fetch his horse. Philippa and Eduard stared after him.
“Bad business for Oc,” Eduard growled. “The Duke being so ill.”
“Yes,” Philippa said.
“One bad generation could ruin everything.”
Philippa nodded to Eduard in silence, and started out of the stables. It was better—safer—not to ask which generation Eduard meant. The power of the Ducal Palace was too great, and if Frederick died, they would all have to answer to William. Philippa could not persuade herself that William’s motives would be as selfless as Frederick’s had always been. Frederick himself had known that since William’s boyhood, and therein lay the great problem of the succession.
As she walked toward the flight paddock, pulling on her gloves, the image she had been trying to recall sprang to her mind. Frederick kept an old, old painting in his library at the Palace. No one remembered the artist anymore. The paint had gone dark and obscure with the passage of time. It was a huge canvas depicting a flight of the legendary Old Ones, nostrils flaring red, scaled wings stretched wide above a mountain glacier.
It had been the eyes that held Philippa, narrow, black eyes, their glitter still evident in the fading paint. William’s eyes.
FOURTEEN
LARK glared at Herbert. “Zito’s ears, I’m not riding that!”
He stared back at her, his weathered face impassive. “My orders, Miss. A pony for you, until you learn some skills.”
The creature in question was piebald, splashed with brown and white, with pale eyelashes and thick pinkish lips. He was nearly the fattest animal Lark had ever seen, his belly as round as one of the cows in calf, his hindquarters thick and his neck wide. “Pony?” she cried. “He looks like a hog ready for market! Our own cart-ox would be better to ride!”
She walked around him, noting his thick hooves, his splayed hocks. A flying saddle perched on his withers, high-cantled, with a tall, thin pommel. It looked miserably uncomfortable.
The pony laid his ears back, and he twisted his head, baring his teeth. Lark yelped, and jumped out of his
reach. Bramble, the oc-hound, came racing around the stables, dashing toward the back paddock with her ears up and her tail stiff.
Herbert nodded at the dog. “Bramble don’t like your tone, nor me neither,” he growled.
Lark glanced down at the dog. “Nay, it’s not me upsetting the dog!” Bramble proved she was right by stepping between her and the pony.
Herbert ignored this. “I’ve saddled P—I’ve saddled the pony, got him all ready, and I expect you to take a turn around the paddock on him, as ordered.”
“I don’t see what good it will do.” Lark stuck her chin out. “I want to ride a real horse.”
Herbert scowled at her. “Now, listen to me, Miss. If you want to catch up to your level, best do as you’re told. Come on, now. Mistress Strong wants you to ride. Might as well get the feel of the saddle.”
Lark took one more look around, relieved at least to see that no one was watching. She approached the pony again. It would be nothing like riding Char, with her sweet mare’s scent, her neat hooves clipping along the packed dirt of the lane, her dainty ears flicking back and forth, listening to Lark’s voice.
It had been, she realized, a year now since she had come upon the little mare in the shallows of the river. Even here, near the White City, the ripeness of autumn was upon the land. At home, the broomstraw would be coming in, the bloodbeets piled in carts to carry to market. She could smell the char in the air from the burning of straw and cornhusks. She felt the change in the slant of the sun on her face. Autumn. She had been at the Academy for three months. Tup would soon be nine months old.
Herbert bent to turn out the stirrup for Lark. The pony reached for the stable-man’s rear pockets with his teeth, and Herbert smacked his nose with the back of his hand.
Lark kept her distance from this display. “What is he called?”
Herbert twisted the stirrup, keeping an eye on the pony’s head. “Call ’im Pig, Miss. I don’t know why. Someone bought him at the Osham stock fair, and he was already called that.”