by Paula Volsky
Incongruous, she thought.
Her goal was easy to spot. New brick mansion the color of raw meat in Old Knightly Crescent, her picketer informant had told her, and there it was, a turreted architectural offense, ridiculously equipped with crenellations and machicolations worthy of a medieval stronghold. Any lingering doubts vanished when she spied the signpost topped with the three-dimensional model railway car, cast in bronze and monogrammed with an ornate capital T.
T for Tastriune, chief stockholder and president of the Feyenne-Aeshno Railroad.
Luzelle rapped the roof and the cab halted. She hopped out, paid the driver, and he departed, leaving her alone on an alien night-mantled street. It did not occur to her to worry.
Horses. How to get them?
No point in trying to buy them, her picketer had explained, and he had seemed knowledgeable. If Madame Moneybags wouldn’t sell at any price, then she wasn’t likely to rent either. What remained? A plea to her sisterly sympathies? The sympathies of a woman fond of setting her dogs on the overly importunate? An appeal to her sporting instincts, then? Probably Tastriune’s wife had never even heard of the Grand Ellipse. And if by chance she had heard of it, wouldn’t she, as an Aennorvi, naturally favor the sole Aennorvi contender, Mesq’r Zavune? Of course she would. No good. What else? Chicanery of some sort? Find a way of convincing the owner that the horses were about to be appropriated by the local authorities, and that a quick sale would forestall major loss? Too elaborate, too improbable, and she couldn’t even speak the language. She would never pull it off. What else? What else?
And the thought surfaced effortlessly: Oh, leave off the silly fluttering. If you want a horse, just get in there and grab one.
The idea amazed her. Steal a horse? Not only morally wrong, but a serious criminal offense, carrying a jail sentence or worse. She did not know the local laws, but in some places they hanged horse thieves. One hand rose unconsciously to her throat. Anyway, the point was academic; she was Luzelle Devaire, and she didn’t steal.
You won’t be stealing if you leave a fair price behind.
Madame Tastriune had at least two horses, maybe more. She could easily afford to let one go.
Luzelle could imagine what the Judge would have to say. She could hear his voice too clearly in her mind. Your blood is good, and you have been properly reared. Thus I can scarcely account for your mental and moral deficiencies. Should she lose the Grand Ellipse, of course, she would not need to imagine or remember—his perfectly real voice would reverberate in her ears, perhaps for decades to come.
But she would not lose the Grand Ellipse. She had promised vo Rouvignac and herself a victory at any cost, any cost at all.
She realized that her feet were carrying her along the tradesmen’s alley that led to the back of the mansion, where she might reasonably expect to discover a stable. They’ll have the place well protected. I can’t be the first one to think of snatching one of Madame’s precious horses.
The carriage house rose before her, a miniature castle in its own right, connected to the main house by a long colonnade. Faint light shone yellow at the windows. The great front door, tall and broad enough to accommodate the largest coach, was shut. No servants visible roaming the grounds. No watchdogs in evidence. Approaching with caution, she peeped in a window to behold a cavernous space, its gloom relieved by the glow of two or three ordinary lanterns. No ultramodern gaslight here.
A couple of sturdy, plainly clad young men sat playing cards at a small deal table beside the window. Grooms, stableboys, coachmen, groundskeepers—she did not know which, but certainly servants of some sort, stationed there to guard the premises. She ducked back quickly. Her luck held; neither of the men had noticed her. And if they did? Her hand strayed to the pistol in her pocket and she paused momentarily, once again astonished at herself.
Horses. Focus.
She circled the building in the dark, passing a couple of small side doors and a larger back door, none of which she dared to touch. Along the southern wall a row of big, heavily shuttered square windows almost certainly marked the location of the stalls. She tried one at random, very quietly. Locked, as she had expected. Pressing her ear to the shutter, she listened intently and caught the ghost of a muted equine snort.
A horse, inches away. She wanted to tear straight through the wall.
Have to find a way in, have to, have to, have to.…
Bribe the guards? Never. There was no amount she could offer large enough to tempt the two of them to risk losing their comfortable posts in the rich Tastriune household. Wait until they fall asleep? No, they probably slept in alternating shifts.
Resuming her circuit of the building, she soon found herself prowling a secluded back corner of the Tastriune property. Here the moonlight played on trees and ornamental shrubbery, and behind them something else, something solid. Brick or stone walls, she thought, and stole forward to investigate.
Behind the stand of greenery, discreetly veiled from casual view, she found a small brick structure with a peaked wooden roof and a door of painted planking. Surely not an outhouse, not for modern Madame Moneybags. Something utilitarian, though. Toolshed? Potting shed? Cautiously she opened the door, which swung on its well-oiled hinges without a squeak. Darkness smothered the interior.
Her valise contained a box of matches, an item that experience had taught her never to travel without. Now she extracted the box and struck a light, with which she jabbed the black space. The darkness flinched and she saw a closet-sized compartment, empty but for a big cylindrical metal tank standing solidly upright on its flat base. The tank’s domed summit sported something resembling a spigot connected by a short length of heavy hose to a metal pipe rising out of the clay floor. Alongside the spigot glinted a glass-faced round device with a needle and a calibrated dial. A gauge of some sort?
Luzelle stared. The flame nipped her fingers, she dropped the match, and the darkness jumped back into place. For a moment she stood wondering, and then comprehension dawned. Of course. She was looking at the Tastriunes’ gas tank, containing the fuel that fed those newfangled lamps of theirs. Someday, probably quite soon, the gas would be produced and piped commercially, in quantities sufficient to light entire streets, even entire cities. Or so the optimistic theory ran. She’d believe that when she saw it. In the meantime rich arrivistes ambitious of distinction, like the Tastriunes, were still obliged to install and maintain their own fuel tanks, safely removed from the house itself, for fear of fire or explosion.
Fire? Explosion?
What are you thinking? Her capacity to astonish herself was not yet exhausted. Have you gone mad?
But the cold, clear section of her mind, the part unreservedly dedicated to victory, seemed to have assumed control. And that part, deaf to remonstrance and awesomely efficient, was thrusting her hands into her valise to bring forth useless timetables and reservations furnished by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs; crumpling those documents and piling them in a corner; lighting a match, and setting the paper ablaze.
The small flames jumped, their flickery light suffusing the small space. Luzelle plucked her clasp knife from the side pocket of her valise and then, as if from a distance, watched her own hands unfolding the blade and driving the steel point into the hose connecting the tank and pipeline. A faint hiss of escaping gas rewarded her efforts, and a new odor added itself to the atmosphere. Grabbing up her valise, she jumped for the exit, slammed the door shut behind her, and ran for cover.
Rounding the corner of the carriage house, she pressed her back hard to the wall, let herself sink down behind the bushes masking the foundation, and there rested in shadow. She had no idea how long she waited, heart racing and palms sweating. The seconds or minutes or hours stretched into centuries, and presently she began to imagine herself trapped in a dream, for Luzelle Devaire was no arsonist, and surely the scene in the outbuilding could not have been quite real.
The deep, almost muffled boom of an explosion drove such fancies from
her mind. The brick walls of the outbuilding withstood the force of the blast, but the wooden door went flying, and the roof sundered with a shout. A great blossom of fire unfurled, lit the night for a spectacular moment, and wilted.
I did that? Half disbelievingly she studied the wreckage; brick walls singed but still standing, shattered remains of the wooden roof blazing fiercely.
A door opened nearby, and weak light spilled from the carriage house. The two guards emerged and made for the fire at a run. Seconds later the lights in the mansion windows dimmed out of existence. A distant gabble of excited Aennorvi arose. Another door banged open, and shadowy figures burst from the Tastriunes’ house.
She did not pause to observe their actions. The carriage house stood unguarded, but would not remain so for long. She stood. Hugging the shadows, she skulked her way to the open door, where she hesitated only an instant before slipping through.
She cast a quick look about her. The place was big, high ceilinged, and elaborately equipped. Dimly she noted the presence of two bloated carriages, several smaller but no less obviously costly vehicles, a commonplace wagon, an antique sedan chair, and someone’s rusty velocipede.
She hurried on toward the rear, passing a couple of anonymous closed doors, and then she spied the row of big box stalls, six of them, all occupied.
Nobody needs six horses, no one ought to have that many, she told herself, and made herself believe it.
The animals were awake, no doubt roused by unaccustomed sounds and sights. A well-shaped chestnut head poked inquiringly from the nearest stall, whose door bore a small brass plate engraved with a name: Ballerina.
She clucked, and the horse whickered softly.
You, she thought. I’ll just lead you right out of here, and then—
And then? She could ride, but not without a bridle and saddle. She did know how to saddle a horse, she had acquired that skill as a girl, without His Honor’s knowledge or consent. It had been a long time ago, but she would still remember—she must.
Tack room? Behind one of those two closed doors she had just passed. Dropping her valise, she hurried back to the first door, opened it, and looked into the feed room, then opened the second to discover an impressive collection of leather equipment. She went in and stepped to the wall, where a score of circular brackets supported an assortment of spotless bridles. Each bracket carried a nameplate, just barely legible in the low light pushing through the open door. Well-organized place. Her eyes hurried. She found the nameplate she sought: Ballerina. She plucked a bridle furnished with a simple snaffle from its bracket, and turned away from the wall. Her eyes jumped to the dustcloth shrouding the nearest stand. She yanked the cloth aside to uncover a scrupulously polished hacking saddle, its girth detached and lying across the seat, its stirrup irons pulled up. She lifted the saddle from its stand, and draped it over her arm. Saddle pads? Where were they?
No time!
The chestnut would have to do without. Sorry, Ballerina.
Exiting the tack room, she hurried back to the stall, murmured a few theoretically reassuring words to its occupant, and slipped in. The horse, an elegantly formed mare, displayed neither alarm nor hostility. An even-tempered animal, a prize. Luzelle set the saddle carefully aside, and took the bridle into her hand. No time to warm the bit in her palm, but the springtime temperatures were mild, and the metal tolerable to the touch. Approaching diagonally, she slipped the reins over the pretty red head, then unbuckled and removed the stable halter. Her left thumb pressed unnecessarily; the mare’s mouth opened at once, and the bit slipped effortlessly into place, while the crownpiece slid smoothly over the ears. Oh, you red darling. Her fingers flew; buckling, checking. Everything correctly in place.
The not-so-distant clamor of Aennorvi voices reached her ears. A sizable crowd must have gathered around that ruined outbuilding. For a while the fire there would anchor collective attention, but how long could that last? Hurry, hurry, hurry.
She ran a quick hand along the mare’s back, dislodging a stray wisp of straw. Not good enough, but no time for more brushing, no time. Lifting the saddle, she laid it a few inches before the withers, then slid it backward into place. The animal shifted restlessly, sensing strangeness.
“Easy,” Luzelle muttered, to the horse and to herself. “Easy.”
Her own deftness in attaching the girth almost surprised her. No time to fool with the stirrups, they would have to do for now. She turned the mare gently toward the stall door, and led her through without difficulty. The sight of her valise on the floor beside the door recalled her to certain unpleasant realities. Most of her money reposed within the bag, and she remembered that she had vowed to leave a fair price in exchange for the horse she was stealing—purchasing—not to mention the property she had destroyed. A pretty piece of futility, of course. She might leave cash enough to pay for twenty chestnut mares, but the Tastriunes would never see a single New-rekko of it. The entire sum would disappear into the pocket of the first stableboy lucky enough to find it.
Am I responsible for the dishonesty of the servants? inquired the wholly committed portion of her mind.
Then there was the matter of the valise itself—a roomy, hard-sided container, difficult to carry on horseback.
Impossible to carry. She would have to leave the valise.
My clothes! My sewing kit and nail file! My clean underwear!
All replaceable.
Already she was down on her knees, rooting through the contents of her bag. The passport and well-lined wallet slid into the inner pocket of her broadcloth jacket. A generous fistful of New-rekko notes remained in the valise, but the surviving maps and documents furnished by the ministry, together with the little box of ammunition, dropped into the pockets already containing the Khrennisov, the clasp knife, and the matches. Nothing remained to reveal her identity. Another moment or two of searching, and she would probably lay hands on the miniature sewing kit—
No time!
Which way out? The exit farthest from the site of the explosion. Rising, she tightened the girth, then led the chestnut through the carriage house to the huge front door, where she shoved the bar aside and pushed. One of the great wooden halves swung wide, and she coaxed the mare on through.
Heavy smoke weighted the cool night breeze. Ballerina snorted and tossed her head.
“Quiet,” Luzelle begged in a whisper. Just another minute, and I’ll have us out of here, with nobody the wiser—
That minute was not to be hers. The light glowing through the open door caught her squarely, and she was spotted at once. Somebody nearby started yelling. No chance now of an inconspicuous exit.
As a young girl she had learned to ride decorously sidesaddle, in accordance with His Honor’s dictates. She might never have known any other way, had not the first matriarch of the Uiiviisian plainswomen taken pity and taught her to ride astride. Now she hiked her long skirts and petticoat high, indifferent to the indecent display of lace-trimmed muslin drawers. Tossing the mass of fabric over one arm, she grabbed the pommel, swung herself up into the saddle, clapped her heels to the mare’s flanks, and sped off at a gallop.
The yelling furor behind her intensified, and she heard the deep-throated baying of dogs, but these sounds were receding, and soon they were gone, lost in the steady rhythm of hoofbeats. Luzelle slowed her stolen mount to a walk. Her heart was pounding—with exhilaration, she realized. What would His Honor have said? A shameless laugh broke from her.
And what would Karsler say? For some reason the thought popped into her head, and the laughter died on her lips. She did not know why she should think of him at such a time, but she could see his face very clearly in her mind, and there was no condemnation there, but something in the steady clarity of his eyes reproached her.
A ridiculous fancy. As if a Grewzian overcommander, of all people, would presume to pose as some sort of moral arbiter. Comical, really. But she was not smiling.
She noticed then that she was tired. The rush of exc
itement sustaining her throughout the last half hour or so had ebbed, and now she wanted a clean feather bed and deep sleep. But she would have neither for some time to come.
She needed to leave Aeshno at once—both for the sake of the Grand Ellipse and her own safety. Madame Tastriune’s elegant chestnut mare was quite recognizable, its present rider not unnoticeable, and the authorities would be looking for her now.
East to Bizaqh, next designated stop along the Grand Ellipse. East, beyond the reach of the strevvio, the trains that did not run, the horses that could not be bought, the decent transportation that did not exist.
Her sense of direction, always solid, told her that the waterfront from which she had come lay to her left. Lifting her face to the night, she studied the skies. There above, to her right, to the east, shone the constellation known in Vonahr as the Princess; demoted during the revolution to the Laundress, but lately restored to her original rank.
Turning her mount toward the Princess, she rode east. Time passed, and Aeshno fell away behind her. She was out on the dusty highway under the stars and the moon, the road clear before her, and pursuit before morning unlikely. She was tired, but not to the point of exhaustion, and she knew she could ride on for hours if necessary. With any luck she would happen upon a roadside inn well before midnight.
The moon inched across the sky and her vision turned inward to focus upon assorted faces. Karsler’s with its unexpressed reproach. Madame Tastriune’s, with more of the same. Szett Urrazole, killed in an explosion, another explosion, nothing to do with gas tanks. Girays v’Alisante, and his questions. The Festinette twins, somewhere far ahead, giggling in triumph. Grandlandsman Torvid Stornzof, monocle flashing like sunlit ice. Others, many others, coming and going, but Girays and Karsler always hovered near, linked in her imagination despite their dissimilarities, and often she found herself thinking of them both at once, wondering where they were and how they fared.