Airs and Graces

by Toby Bishop

  Mistress Star had refused to excuse her to join Herbert in his search for Bramble.

  “It’s pointless, Larkyn,” she had said. “Herbert has no idea where the dog might be. Don’t miss your drill.”

  Lark knew it would do no good to state her suspicions. Only Hester understood, but Hester agreed with Mistress Star. “Wait for Mistress Winter, Black,” she had said. “There’s nothing you can do by yourself.”

  As the flyers moved into a Half Reverse, Lark glanced to the north and east, where the tall facade of the Ducal Palace gleamed against the brown landscape. Someone there knew what had happened to Bramble, she had no doubt. Duke William. Her enemy.

  But no one would believe her. She had not dared even to tell Herbert what she suspected.

  Mistress Star signaled with her quirt, and the flyers executed their turn, most of them smoothly, although Anabel, as she often did, had trouble maintaining her altitude. Lark and Tup, even though the flying saddle bothered them both, had no difficulty with it.

  She and Tup made their turn and swept away from the formation for a dozen wingbeats, then wheeled back, holding at Quarters while they watched Anabel and Chance repeat the maneuver, once, then again. When Mistress Star gave the return signal, Lark urged Tup back to the formation, to fall in behind Hester and Goldie for Open Columns, flying two by two in a looping circle that led them west, then north. They flew low, just skimming the tops of the spruces and the bare branches of oak and cottonwood.

  Lark lifted her face, letting the cold sunshine gild her cheeks. Tup’s gleaming black wings, like ribbons of ebony silk, beat joyously against the dense winter air, and his mane rippled in the wind. Lark wished she could banish her anxiety and give herself up to the pleasure of the flight, of being far above the land and its troubles.

  But she kept seeing the marks in the snow, the disturbance in the sawdust where Bramble must have struggled, must have scrabbled with her feet, trying to get away…

  A spasm of grief made her throat ache. She dropped her chin, trying to swallow it away, and it was then that she saw it.

  Her eyes, practiced at spotting a missing goat or a lost calf, caught the splash of silvery gray against the sparse green of a hedgerow. She leaned forward to look more closely, and Tup, misunderstanding, began to bank out of the formation. Lark started to correct him, but even as she lifted the rein she saw the silver-gray form, just a huddle of fur at first, move a little. The icon of Kalla blazed against her chest, and she urged Tup lower to circle back the way they had come. She felt Hester’s questioning eyes on her, and knew that Mistress Star would scold her for breaking formation, but she thought she knew what was resting there against the hedgerow, and the heat of her icon confirmed her suspicion.

  The hedgerow ran along an empty field where a crop had been plowed under, ready for planting in the spring. It was a long, narrow space, and Lark knew the dirt would be full of clods and stiff with cold, but Tup could manage those. She hoped there were no worse obstacles. She flew to the end of it, so that she could turn Tup back, into the wind. It was always easier to land, or to launch, into the wind. Tup stretched his neck eagerly.

  She had almost forgotten about the stiff saddle, but when Tup’s forefeet reached for the ground, she remembered. She had to do everything consciously, instead of instinctively. She settled deep in the saddle, tried to stay centered, to feel Tup’s balance. If she made a mistake now, if anything went wrong, she would be cleaning stables for weeks!

  But she didn’t fall, and Tup came to ground smoothly, forefeet reaching, hindquarters gathering, and Lark, though she jounced a little at the landing, stayed securely in her seat. Tup cantered, then trotted directly to the mound of silver-gray. He, too, had seen it, Lark realized. He stopped beside the hedgerow and gave his wings a shake, then lowered his nose to sniff. Lark threw her right leg over the pommel and jumped down. They had found the missing oc-hound.

  Her heart leaped to her throat at the blood on Bramble’s fur. She knelt in the dirt beside the dog, murmuring her name. There was no response.

  Steeling herself, Lark put her hands under Bramble’s neck, searching with her fingers for the beat of Bramble’s heart.

  It was there! Bramble’s throat pulsed lightly. Her breathing was shallow, almost imperceptible. “Oh, Bramble,” Lark whispered. “Poor Bramble!” She quickly unbuttoned her flying coat and wrapped it around the dog. She found the wound with her fingers, a deep slash that had cut through the oc-hound’s long coat and into the flesh of her neck. The bleeding had stopped, but the edges of the wound still seeped stickily. Lark searched in her pockets for a handkerchief, for anything she could bind the cut with. Finding nothing, she ripped a section from the hem of her divided skirt. She would have to mend it later, but she couldn’t worry about that now.

  Just as she finished tying the piece of black cloth around Bramble’s neck, the dog stirred. Her eyes opened, rolling to one side, showing the whites. She whimpered when she saw Lark, and tried to lick her hand.

  “Nay, Bramble,” Lark said. Her voice broke. “Lie still, Bramble. Don’t move.”

  Bramble gave a great sigh, and she lay still. Lark kept one hand on her belly, the other on her narrow head. Tup dropped his nose down over Lark’s shoulder, giving his little whimper. The sound was not much different from the dog’s.

  “I know, Tup,” Lark said sadly. “She’s hurt. And I don’t know what to do now. I need to get her home, but it’s such a long walk.”

  Tup blew air through his nostrils, and rustled his wings.

  “No, we can’t fly with her,” Lark said. “She’s much too heavy, and the balance would be wrong.” She lifted her head, and looked past the hedgerow and plowed field to the formation of winged horses, now far in the distance. “Mistress Star will be furious with me,” she said. “She must think I simply abandoned the flight, and now they’re on their way back to the Academy without us!”

  Bramble moaned, and Lark patted her flank gingerly. “Nay, we won’t leave you, Bramble. We would never leave you. The flight doesn’t matter.”

  Long moments passed, and Bramble’s breath, now that the bleeding had been staunched and she was warmer, seemed a bit deeper. Lark had seen hurt animals before, and she knew the cut on Bramble’s neck had cost her a lot of blood. She was afraid to try to carry the dog, lest the injury to begin to bleed again. She looked behind her, where the plowed pasture stretched to a small farmhouse, nestled beneath the bare branches of an ancient oak tree. “What we need, Tup,” she said, half to herself, “is a farmer. Or a farmwife. Someone who can help us.”

  Tup lifted his head, following her gaze as if he understood her meaning. His wings flexed, and he whickered softly.

  “Do you see someone?” Lark asked. “They couldn’t have seen us, or surely they would have come out…”

  Tup lowered his muzzle and blew his breath on her cheek. She reached up to pat his neck, but before her hand touched him, he backed away from her, and went cantering down the field, wingtips fluttering, empty stirrups flying, the irons banging on his ribs. “Tup!” Lark cried. What was he doing? Surely he would not fly off and abandon her!

  Tup, head high, wings half-extended, galloped straight to the farmhouse. He whinnied, and spun in a circle, then stopped, head up, ears pricked forward. When no one appeared right away, he made a larger circle, cantering, his neck arched and his tail flying. He whinnied again, and again, the commanding bell of a young stallion, and pounded his front feet on the cold ground. Lark watched him, marveling. She touched the icon of Kalla at her neck, and was startled to find that the heat which had bothered her for days had cooled.

  At last a window blind lifted, and a moment later, the door of the farmhouse opened just a crack.

  Tup neighed, and whirled on his hindquarters. He dashed a few steps back down the pasture and then stopped, turning back to stare at whoever was in that doorway. When the figure didn’t move, he repeated his invitation, running a few steps, turning, waiting. Lark held Bramble in her lap
, caressing the silky head and watching Tup, while the cold began to pierce her tabard and her torn skirt.

  Three times Tup repeated his invitation before the figure in the farmhouse door stepped outside. It moved slowly, and Lark now saw that whoever it was used a walking stick. Tup whinnied one more time, and dashed back down the pasture, skidding to a stop near Lark and Bramble, tossing his head triumphantly.

  “Well done, Tup!” Lark said. “Well done! Now someone will come and take a blink at poor Bramble, and maybe loan us a cart to bring her home.”

  It took some time for the woman, as it turned out to be, to walk up the long pasture from the farmhouse. She was elderly, with wispy white hair and sunken cheeks, and she peered at Lark through thick glasses much in need of cleaning.

  “Good day to you, Mistress,” Lark said. “I thank you for coming out.”

  “What is it?” the woman quavered. “What is it there? A dog?”

  “Aye,” Lark said. “An oc-hound. From the Academy of the Air. She’s been hurt.”

  The old woman said, “When I saw yon winged horse dancing in my front yard, I thought you must be from the Academy. But a dog…I didn’t see the dog. I thought you was the one hurt, Miss.”

  “I’m not,” Lark said. “But we need help—a cart, or something, to take Bramble back to the Academy.”

  The farmwife nodded, leaning on her stick. “Oh, aye, Miss, that’s all right, then. We farm this portion for the Palace, you see. My husband went there to ask someone to come.”

  Lark pressed her hand to her heart, which felt as if it had stopped beating. “Not—oh, not the Palace!”

  The woman tipped her head to one side, frowning. “Not the Palace? Why not?”

  Lark dropped her eyes to Bramble’s limp form, and bit her lip. She dared not say anything more.

  It was a long, cold wait there in the empty field. The farmwife, who wore a full-length goat-hair coat, seemed not to notice Lark’s shivering as the morning wore on to noon. Bramble lay still, panting slightly, her eyes closed. She needed water, Lark knew, and she needed to be truly warm, not lying on the half-frozen ground. Tup stamped his feet restlessly, but he stayed close. Lark cast him a grateful look. The farmwife seemed unimpressed by a winged horse in her pasture, but then Lark supposed the Academy flights drilled above her house often. Perhaps she had grown used to them.

  Just when Lark thought her jaw would burst from trying to clench her chattering teeth, a cart drawn by a pony pulled in at the far end of the field, circled around the stone fence that divided it from the lane, and bumped over the plowed furrows toward them. Lark tucked her coat around Bramble again and stood slowly, stretching her cramped knees, rubbing her icy hands up and down the sleeves of her tabard. Her pulse beat in her ears, and the icon of Kalla grew warm against her chest again, the only thing about her that wasn’t cold.

  The cart rattled to a stop beside them, the pony tossing his head and blowing clouds of fog. The farmer climbed out, stiffly and slowly, and joined his wife. The driver of the cart jumped down, and Tup snorted and backed away.

  Lark knew this man. The icon began to burn, and she plucked it away from her tabard with her fingers.

  It was the Duke’s Master Breeder who had come to fetch Bramble. It was Jinson. He looked down at the oc-hound huddled on the cold dirt, and his face was as pale as mountain snow. When he raised his eyes to Lark’s, she caught her breath at the look in them.

  “Is she dead?” he asked.

  Lark hesitated. She had no doubt he had known before he arrived that it was Bramble in the farmer’s field. “She’s half-dead,” Lark finally said. “She needs help.”

  The look on his face made her stomach turn. It was the face of a tormented man, a man with no choices left. He sidled closer, as if reluctant. “I’ll take her,” he said.

  Lark gripped the icon of Kalla in her cold fingers, and prayed.

  The old farmwife exclaimed, “Who’s that, then?” and pointed back to the lane beyond the stone fence.

  Lark and Jinson both looked up, and Lark’s heart leaped with joy.

  It was the Beeth carriage, with its footmen and two swift draught horses, coming down the lane toward the farmhouse, pulling up beside the entrance to the pasture. The door with its painted crest flew open, and Hester—Hester, tall, rangy, and strong—jumped out, and dashed toward them over the rough ground.

  “Oh!” Lark breathed. “Oh, Kalla’s heels, was there ever a more beautiful sight!”

  WITH the help of Lady Beeth’s footmen, they bore Bramble tenderly home, still wrapped in Lark’s coat, laid on the cushions in the warmth of the carriage. Tup followed, his lead attached to a hitch ring on one side of the carriage, the footmen well to the opposite side so as not to upset him. Lark put his wingclips on before they set out, and spoke to him sternly about staying close to the draught horses, and to her. He tossed his head and snorted, as if to tell her he didn’t need any such warning.

  When everything was in order and they were on their way, having bid farewell to the farmer and his wife, and to a pale and anxious Jinson, Lark said, “Hester. He tried to kill her.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Duke William tried to kill Bramble.”

  “You don’t know that, Black.” Hester spoke in an even tone, but her eyes were dark with worry, too. “You couldn’t prove it.”

  “I couldn’t prove it, but I know it just the same. That’s why Jinson—” Lark’s voice broke. She bent to put her cheek on Bramble’s silky head, and the oc-hound sighed. “’Tis because of me. He blames me for—for everything! For Tup, and for Pamella, and for passing my Airs when he wanted so much for me to fail.”

  Hester didn’t speak for a long moment. She leaned forward to stroke Bramble, then settled back against the cushioned seat, frowning at the passing scenery. “Papá and two of the other Council Lords have had a meeting. Mamá arranged it. They believe the Duke to be unfit to rule.”

  “Then who?” Lark said.

  “Lord Francis,” Hester said with some regret. “Poor Lord Francis who prefers libraries to palaces. We like him, everyone does, but he has never wanted his brother’s position. He is too gentle to be Duke.”

  “What will the Council of Lords do about Duke William?” Lark asked cautiously.

  Hester turned away from watching the bare winter fields spin by. “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all. It requires a unanimous decision, and most of the Council, Mamá says, reveres the rule of succession. It would take something truly awful—and more than just rumor—for them to depose the Duke.”

  “So the paternity suit…”

  “Has come to nothing. Everyone believes the girl is telling the truth, but the court found she could not prove it.”

  “Which leaves only Pamella.”

  Hester nodded, her face grim. “And she will never speak of it, I suspect.”

  “I wish Mistress Winter were here,” Lark said, a little plaintively. She was tired of worrying, tired of watching over her shoulder day and night.

  “So do we all,” Hester said. “So do we all.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  PETER was sent ahead to pull back the leather panel covering the hut, and Philippa hurried past him, ducking under the sagging doorfame into the dark, noisome space. Sunny stood at one side, her head hanging, her wings drooping. She still wore her flying saddle. Her flanks were frighteningly gaunt, and there was no sign of water anywhere.

  “Sunny,” Philippa murmured. She hurried to her, saying over her shoulder, “Peter, water! Sunny needs water, and right away!”

  Sunny’s head came up at the sound of her voice, and the horse stumbled forward a couple of steps. She whickered, but it was a dry, weak sort of sound.

  “Damn them,” Philippa said, but she said it softly, even as she held Sunny’s head close in her arms. “Damn them! Oh, Sunny, Kalla’s teeth, what have they done?”

  Sunny pressed close against her, snorting faintly, breathing in her scent. Philippa stroked her a moment, and then stepped to her side
to undo the breast strap and cinches, to slide the flying saddle off, and the saddle blanket after that. She bit her lip at the cold, wet coat beneath it. It must have been a misery all night. She turned the saddle blanket, and began to scrub at Sunny’s back with it, cursing steadily and fervently under her breath.

  Peter came back and stood staring openmouthed at her.

  Sunny smelled the water in the bowl he held and stepped forward to plunge her muzzle into it. Peter held the bowl as she drank, his thin arms shaking.

  Philippa looked past him to where Hurg, feet planted wide as if to claim the place for his own, stood in the doorway, framed by the snowy background beyond. She gestured with her chin at him. “Even if she would let you fly, you’d fall and kill yourself,” she said.

  He stared back at her, his eyes flat and stubborn. She knew he didn’t understand her words, but she suspected the meaning was clear enough.

  Peter said, “Missus. He wants you to tie him on.”

  Philippa snorted. “Tie him on? He’ll never get near her. Does he know that?”

  “I tried to explain,” Peter said. “But I don’t know enough words. And now he thinks, because your horse lets me near…”

  “You’re only a boy,” Philippa said. “Two more years, and she wouldn’t have anything to do with you.”

  “I know that, Missus, he don’t. He don’t know nothing about winged horses.”

  Sunny finished the water and lipped around the bowl, searching for more. “Later, Sunny,” Philippa said, patting her. “Not too much yet.” She was relieved to see Sunny pick up her wings and fold them, rib to rib. Her eyes looked a bit brighter, and her breathing sounded better already.