Airs and Graces

by Toby Bishop

  “Not a good idea, Francis,” came a dry voice.

  Francis whirled and found that Rys had come out of his quarters. He, too, was still dressed, and he had a pipe between his teeth. A silvery plume of smoke drifted before his face.

  Francis managed a light laugh. “Are you reading my mind, Rys?”

  “I know it’s hard,” the Baron said. He joined Francis at the railing and stared down at the dark water. He drew on his pipe, making the bowl glow in the darkness. “Waiting.”

  “I wouldn’t mind it,” Francis said, “if I could believe some action was imminent.”

  Rys’s eyes narrowed against the pipe smoke. “Conflict between us will not help.”

  “Coming all this way without trying won’t help, either.”

  Rys regarded him for a long moment. Francis met Rys’s gaze directly and let his silence speak for him.

  In the end, the Baron smiled, the cool, controlled smile Francis remembered from the Palace. “You’re right, of course, my lord,” Rys said easily. “And I promise you, we will try.”

  “When?”

  “We’re watching for an opportunity.”

  Francis pressed his lips together and turned his eyes back toward the water. This was pointless, he thought. This sparring between Rys and himself could not help Philippa or the missing children. At last he said, “I’m willing to go in on my own.”

  “Then I will list you among the half dozen other volunteers I already have.”

  Francis said, startled, “You do?”

  “Of course I do, Lord Francis. These are brave men.”

  Abashed, Francis turned to face Rys and bowed slightly. “I apologize. I just—it’s all very strange to me. And Philippa is more valuable to us than I can tell you.”

  Rys nodded. “I can see that for myself, Francis. Now, come. Rest. It may well be that our chance will come tomorrow.”

  Francis agreed and followed Rys back across the deck. He went down the stair to his cabin, stripped off his clothes, and rolled himself into the narrow cot that served as a shipboard bed. He closed his eyes, but sleep was still a long time coming. When he woke, it was to snow falling again, thick, swirling flakes that obscured the land and seemed to silence even the rush of the sea.

  He stood in his cramped quarters, looking out at the white weather. Philippa could not fly in these conditions. They would have to wait another day, leave Philippa in barbarian hands even longer.

  He was shocked to realize, as he tried to pull on his clothes, that the ship was moving. He hurried back to the porthole. The ship was moving away from the shore, rather than toward the bay.

  With an exclamation, his shirt still unbuttoned and flapping about him, he charged out of his quarters and up onto the deck.

  TWENTY

  WILLIAM glared at Jinson, who stood beside the stall gate, his head hanging.

  “Why the devil did you bring her here?” William roared. “Why didn’t you just dispatch her out there in the woods?”

  In the stall behind Jinson, the oc-hound whimpered. William glanced over the gate, where the dog lay limp and exhausted in the straw. “You half strangled her anyway, you damned fool,” he snapped. “Why not finish it?”

  Jinson’s shoulders appeared to contract, as if he were shrinking. “M’lord,” he whispered. “I couldn’t do it. Such a great dog, she is.”

  “Erd’s teeth,” William grated. “I should have left you in the stables where you belonged, you misbegotten fool! What do I care about her? She’s vicious.”

  “Oh, no, m’lord,” Jinson said, lifting his head a little. He glanced at William’s face, then shifted his gaze hastily, down to his chest, then away to the blank wall behind him. “Oh, no,” he repeated, weakly. “Not a bit vicious. She—she—”

  “Stop whining, man,” William said. He felt his temper fray like a broken rope, and it gave him a murderous energy. He shoved Jinson aside, and the smaller man stumbled. “Give me your knife. I’ll do it now if you haven’t the nerve.”

  Jinson fumbled at his belt and drew a short blade from a leather sheath. William snatched at it, catching the side of his forefinger on the blade and bringing a drop of blood to his skin. He cursed, and sucked at the finger.

  The oc-hound bitch struggled to her feet, and she stood glaring at him, her hackles up, her silvery fur marked with dirt and straw. She growled and lifted her lip to show her teeth.

  The sound gave William a thrill of pleasure. “Growl at me, will you?” he murmured. “We’ll see about that.”

  He shot the bolt of the gate and threw it back. Jinson groaned, “M’lord—just consider—”

  William shot him a furious glance. “You damned coward! Either be quiet, or get out of my sight!”

  Jinson fell back a step. The oc-hound’s growl grew, a loud sound that echoed through the stables, causing the horses to whicker uneasily and stamp their feet. William, brandishing the knife, stepped into the stall.

  The dog barked, once, and leaped past him, aiming for the open gate.

  William swore, and slashed at her with the knife.

  He felt the blade catch in the long coat, dig into flesh, grate against bone. She yelped, and fell her full body length in the sawdust of the aisle. He raised the knife high above his head to slash at her again.

  And Jinson—Jinson, choosing this odd moment to show some backbone—seized his arm and jerked at it.

  A heartbeat later the dog was up and running, silent now, disappearing out of the stable and into the night like a gray ghost.

  William spun about and pointed the bloody knife straight at his Master Breeder. “How dare you?” he roared.

  For once, the man stood his ground, though he trembled so William thought he might fall right over. “I—I’m sorry, m’lord, I—I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Give me one reason I shouldn’t run you through with your own knife, man!”

  Jinson took a step back, and his face went white as a sheet. “You’ve killed her, anyway, m’lord, for sure. Look at the blood.” He pointed to the sawdust.

  William looked down. A thick stream of blood stained the clean sawdust, trailed down the aisle and out into the darkness beyond. Slowly, he lowered the knife. He fixed Jinson with a hard gaze as he reversed the knife, and held it out, hilt first. “Never again,” he grated. “Never, ever, interfere with me again. I promise you, I will put an end to you with no more qualms than I felt over that oc-hound bitch.”

  “Yes, m’lord,” Jinson quavered. He kept a wary eye on the blade as it approached him, and seized the hilt with shaking fingers. The dog’s blood was already turning dark on the steel.

  “Go after her,” William ordered. “Find her body and bury it. I don’t want any complaints from those damned horsemistresses.”

  “Yes, m’lord.” Jinson bowed, looking like a badly strung puppet as he jerked his body upright and staggered away.

  William wiped his fingers on his trouser leg and tugged down his vest. He felt a sense of satisfaction, of satiety. It was almost, he thought, as good as having a girl.

  But not quite.

  He spun about, and strode out of the stable and toward the Palace. He would call for Slater. The night was yet young.

  TWENTY-ONE

  PHILIPPA was nearly collapsing from exhaustion by the time she had worked three sod bricks from the back wall of her jail. Her back ached, her skin itched, and her flying gloves were in tatters, but she thought she could just wriggle through the opening. She gazed at it with tired eyes. It took her a moment to understand that she could actually see it for the first time.

  With a shock, she realized that morning had caught her at her clandestine task. She had scraped and pulled at the ancient blocks of turf right through the night. The snow had returned, falling in impenetrable sheets. Even if she could get Winter Sunset free, even if she were willing to abandon Lissie and Peter, she could not fly.

  With a strangled cry of pure frustration, she crouched on the dirt floor, and pounded it with on
e fist. A whole night! Poor Sunny must have worn her tack, gone without water or food, for the whole night!

  It took Philippa several moments to collect herself. She stood, gathering the dirty blanket around her, and tried to think what to do.

  The sounds of voices outside the hut forced her to action. Hurriedly, she restacked the empty barrels to hide the opening she had made. She used the corner of the hut again, wrinkling her nose at the smell already beginning to build there, and went to huddle beside the door, to pretend to have been asleep, to await her chance.

  Jonka came not long after, tying back the leather panel, leering at Philippa as if she knew just how miserable her night must have been. Behind her, Lissie trailed, head down, feet scuffing in the new snow. A rabble of children hung about behind the guard, trying to peer past him at the curiosity of a strange woman. The guard snapped at them and cuffed the nearest one, making Philippa clench her teeth. She had yet to find anything about these people to excite her sympathy.

  Even Jonka’s ghastly scar could not move her this morning. Jonka pushed Lissie forward, and Philippa saw that the girl held another bowl. The contents looked about the same as those of the night before. “Lissie,” Philippa said, trying to speak mildly. “Have you seen my mare? My winged horse? Is anyone taking care of her?”

  The girl flicked a wary glance at Jonka, and held the bowl out as she had done before.

  “Lissie, please,” Philippa repeated. She took the bowl from the girl but only held it in her hands. “I can’t eat until I know Sunny is all right.”

  The girl’s eyes came up to hers, and her lips trembled, but didn’t part. Philippa sighed, and took up the spoon. “All right,” she said. “If I eat this, will you tell me?” She took a spoonful and swallowed. It was cold and oily, and threatened to come right back again. She put the spoon back in the bowl and tried to give it back to Lissie.

  Jonka snarled something, and swatted Lissie’s shoulder. The girl stammered, “Jonka says, ‘eat.’”

  Philippa gritted her teeth for a long moment, watching the scarred woman through narrowed eyes. Finally, she took the bowl in both hands, pretended to sip as Jonka had pretended to sip water the night before. Then, slowly deliberately, she spilled all of its contents onto the dirt floor.

  Lissie burst into tears, and Jonka’s response, as always, was to draw out her ugly knife and point it at Philippa.

  Philippa snapped, “Go ahead, wretch! Let’s see if you have the nerve!”

  For one awful moment, as Jonka pulled back her hand as if to strike, Philippa feared she might learn just how much courage the Aesk woman had. But a deep voice sounded from outside the hut, accompanied by the barking of one of the wardogs, and Hurg appeared in the open doorway.

  The chieftain took in the situation, snarled one short word, and backhanded the hapless Jonka directly across the face. She fell to one side, dropping her knife, clutching her nose. It began to bleed immediately, trickling down her ruined cheek and lip. Lissie seized her opportunity and ran from the tent, hands over her head as if expecting to be Hurg’s next victim.

  Philippa glared at Hurg, her hands on her hips. She was now as filthy as he was, but so filled with fury she didn’t care. “What do you want from me?” she demanded, knowing he couldn’t understand her words, but utterly out of patience. Pain shot through the back of her neck, a pain born of tension. She wanted to push past Hurg, to run down through the compound to Sunny. For a breathless moment, she was tempted to try.

  But her guard was still there, standing in the snow like a pillar, his spear in his hand. The spotted wardog stood beside him, ears up, tail straight out. And Hurg, who obviously had no hesitation in striking one of his own citizens, was no doubt as likely to stick his knife in her as stand out of her way.

  He said something over his shoulder and gave a tug on a rope that was in his hand. Philippa had not noticed the rope.

  The small creature who hobbled forward was swathed in ancient furs, like everyone else in this place, his light hair and freckles barely emerging above them. His hands were tied, and the rope was wrapped several times around his shoulders for good measure, but unlike Lissie, a rebellious spark glowed in his blue eyes.

  “Peter!” Philippa breathed. “You must be Peter!”

  The boy reached Hurg’s side, relieving the pressure on the rope. He looked up at Philippa. An enormous bruise spread across one of his cheekbones, and when he grinned at her, she saw that one of his teeth was gone. “Aye,” he said, with something very like cheer. “I’m Peter. And I’m that glad to see you, Missus! I’m awful tired of the smell of fish and barbarian!”

  The length of this speech evidently offended Hurg, who yanked on the rope, making Peter stumble.

  Philippa’s anger flared hotter. “Why does he tie you, Peter? Lissie’s not tied.”

  Peter, now pulled tight against Hurg’s massive thigh, grinned again. “’Cause I keep running away,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ll do it again, too, first chance.”

  Philippa nodded. “We’ll do that together, Peter,” she said evenly, keeping an eye on Hurg. “Just as soon as we can.”

  Hurg looked back at her, suspicion clouding his rough-skinned brow. He slapped Peter’s shoulder, but lightly, and said something.

  Peter pushed away from him a little, and this time Hurg didn’t tighten the rope. “Hurg says,” Peter began, “that you should help him.”

  “You can understand him?”

  “Sort of.” Behind Peter, Jonka struggled to her feet, keeping a wary eye on Hurg. Her knife lay where she had dropped it, and Philippa could feel her yearning toward it, her only defense. Philippa supposed that for a woman like Jonka, disfigured and unwanted, she had only her own strength to defend her. An unwelcome spurt of sympathy flickered in her breast.

  Hurg spoke again, at length, and Peter stuttered a few words in answer, then turned to Philippa. “Come out,” he said. “He wants you to come out.”

  “Have you seen my mare, Peter?” Philippa said, as she took a step forward.

  He shook his head. “No, Missus.” He looked fearful for the first time since he had come into the hut. “But Hurg wants you to come help him. He wants to fly.”

  A second time Philippa was herded through the compound, making her think, oddly, of Larkyn Hamley herding her goats. This time Peter walked beside her, Hurg having loosened his rope enough so that the boy could go ahead of him. Behind her, Hurg and the guard came, the guard with his spear at the ready, the spotted wardog padding beside him.

  When they had passed the dog on their way out of the hut, the beast had risen and gazed at Philippa, mouth open, long red tongue lolling. Peter looked at it curiously. “Dog likes you, Missus,” he said. “Why’s that? Them dogs hates everybody.”

  Philippa glanced back at the spotted wardog. “It could be like the oc-hounds,” she said. “The dogs that foster winged foals. They have a special bond with flyers.”

  Hurg had noticed, too, and he prodded the big dog with his spear. It obliged him by snapping at his hand, lunging forward, making the guard yank on his spiked collar.

  “They’re so cruel,” Philippa said in an undertone to Peter.

  “Mean as they are ugly,” he answered.

  Philippa looked ahead, to the hut at the end of the compound, hoping to see Sunny at last, and to think of some way to deal with a barbarian who thought he could fly a winged horse.

  FRANCIS knocked on Rys’s door. “Enter,” the Baron said, and he went in, closing the door behind him with a decisive bang.

  “Francis,” Rys said, rising from the table where he had spread a wide sheet of parchment.

  “Esmond. I want an explanation.” Francis stood just inside the door, his hands on his hips. “You made a promise to me. And to Philippa.”

  “Did you think I had forgotten it?” Rys said mildly.

  “This ship is going in the wrong direction.”

  “You sound angry, my lord.”

  “I am.” Francis took a deep, quiv
ering breath. “I’m angry at the Aesks, I’m angry at my brother…and now—” He laughed a little, bitterly, with a touch of self-deprecation. “Now I feel anger toward you and your captains, because while we cruise here in comfort, Philippa Winter is held prisoner.”

  Esmond Rys came around the table to Francis. He put a hand under his arm and led him to the table, gesturing to the parchment. “I’ll call my captains,” he said. “They will show you what we spent most of the night working on. We’ve agreed it’s time to move, but it’s dangerous for Philippa. We’ve seen what the Aesks can do to their prisoners when they’re cornered.”

  Francis breathed again and buried his fists in his pockets to hide the whiteness of his knuckles. “How long, Esmond?”

  “Just till dark.” Rys beckoned to him, and bent over the parchment, pointing with one manicured finger at a sketch of the bay, the Aesk compound, the plateau and the valley. “We have a plan, but it is by no means perfect. We are sailing away from the Aesk encampment, you’re right, but only for a short distance. We want to take no chance of being seen, to lose our advantage of surprise. We will turn back soon enough. But you must prepare yourself. Our venture has become much more complicated than we had hoped.”

  Francis nodded, staring at the map, his teeth clenched so hard his jaw hurt. He promised himself that if he made it back from this, William would pay.

  TWENTY-TWO

  THE sun rose over the Academy in a perfect blue sky, glittering on the distant spires of the White City, dissolving the remnants of the early snowfall. The pause in winter’s march meant that flights could drill in the air again. Mistress Star’s second-level students launched from the flight paddock, the horses exuberant in the cold, the girls wrapped in their winter flying coats and thickest gloves.

  Lark followed Hester in the formation, Tup’s wings sweeping chilly air over her thighs, the cold saddle leather warming gradually as they banked above the stables’ gambrel roofs and turned to the west, where open farmland stretched in patterns of beige and rust to the foothills. Lark tried to feel Tup’s muscles through the stiff leather of her stirrups, to sense his movement through the iron and wood of the saddle tree. Everything about the day was brilliant, the distant mountains gleaming with snow, the coats of the winged horses glistening in the sunshine, but her heart felt dark as night.