The Night Ride

by J. Anderson Coats

  Deirdre said something about a cadre when I arrived. That I couldn’t have come about it because I don’t often come to the track.

  If there’s a group of kids actively training to be jockeys, it would explain how Deirdre came to be standing where she is now. When she watched us, she barely knew which end of a horse the food went in.

  Maybe this is what she meant. She did say that the track stables work differently than the royal stables. Maybe she thought I’d come to learn to ride racehorses for the king.

  “We want you to ride with us.” Marcel glances around the group. “Like I said, it works so much better when everyone’s in.”

  “Aren’t we stablehands?” I ask, but the idea of riding racehorses for the king is whispering through my head now. All of Mael Dunn cheering as I wave from the back of a dancing thoroughbred with a wreath of winners’ roses around his neck. The king himself grinning like a month of paydays from his viewing box and his daughters clapping wildly, begging to meet me.

  Ivar is sitting in a slant of shadow. When he shifts on his crate, there’s a faint clink of coppers in his pockets. “No reason we can’t do both.”

  He’s gonna make a pay table for everything. He doesn’t like to lose.

  They might be wagering on me again right now. How long the lane kid will believe there’s such a thing as the junior racing cadre, and how long she’ll believe she’s a part of it.

  A part of them.

  “Let me think about it.” I nod politely to Marcel, sweep a bland smile around the circle of stablehands, then head toward the horseway without looking back.

  5

  FATHER AND MOTHER are quiet for a long time when I tell them.

  Mother is worried I’ll be hungry and have nowhere to sleep. I tell her how all the stablehands are around my age and there’s a bunkhouse just for us, how there’s a cookhouse right across from it where everyone at the track gets three meals a day.

  Father is unhappy that I’ll have to quit school, but I remind him that I can read and write okay, that he and Mother have more than gotten their money’s worth.

  Mother says yes first, after I tell her it was Deirdre who offered me the job. She sighs and says, “I’ve always felt terrible about letting the poor girl go like I did. I knew she needed the money, but…”

  But so did we is what Mother means but doesn’t want to say.

  “Didn’t Deirdre once let me eat an entire stick of butter?” Greta asks without looking up from her book.

  I frown at her, trying to send a sister mind message that now is not the best time to bring that up, but she just tips the pages toward the fire to get more light.

  Father says yes only after I tell him how much money I’ll be able to send home each month. The coppers from pony rides are the difference between having enough and having to sacrifice, but half of three hundred will make up for my share.

  “Half of three hundred is a hundred and fifty.” Greta turns a page. “It’s not your reading or writing you should be worried about.”

  “That’s what I keep you around for,” I reply in a teasing singsong, but she doesn’t smirk or stick out her tongue. She just keeps reading.

  I blink rapidly, stung. I wait for any kind of response, but after a few long moments, I quietly climb into the loft to pack.

  I was only half-joking. I spent the whole walk home trying to do the figuring, but I kept tripping up on half of three hundred. Thanks to Greta, I know that every month I can send a hundred and fifty coppers home and save that many for Ricochet.

  Which means that by the end of the summer racing season, I can count dinars into Master Harold’s hand, then put a red bridle on Ricochet to tell the world he’s mine.

  Once I’ve bundled my clothing, I tuck the little bag that holds my Ricochet money into the inside pocket of my barn jacket, where it rests against my heart like a promise. Buying him is within reach now, and my sister is right. Knowing what I have makes him seem so much closer.

  Greta is quiet all through supper. She’s quiet as she piles the dishes into the washtub. Without a word, I take one handle and help her carry them out back to the pump.

  “Are you mad?” I ask quietly.

  “No.” She flutters half a sidelong smile as she scrapes the plates. “Of course not.”

  “I mean, if Mistress Crumb offered you a job as an apprentice teacher, I’d be thrilled.”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t turn down a chance to spend my life with horses,” I whisper. “It’s not going to happen any other way.”

  Greta wrings out the dishcloth, not disagreeing. She’s still a few years away from the hiring fairs, but she’s not a fool. Both of us know Mistress Crumb has no need of an apprentice, and even if she did, it would be someone from the academy for townhouse girls. Someone highborn but with a streak of charity in her, someone who considers working with kids like us a calling.

  Mother and Father both try to convince me to spend the night—just one more night with us all together; there are all sorts of shifty types in the lanes after dark—but it’ll definitely make Deirdre look bad if the new stablehand isn’t there for evening chores and morning chores.

  “Someone gave me a toll road token,” I tell them, which is technically true. They don’t have to know I already spent it getting here. “Those streets are well lit and patrolled.”

  I hug them both twice, and pull Greta into the embrace as well. Then I shoulder my bundle and head toward the track.

  I’ve rarely been out after dark, and never by myself. The sky above is black but thick with stars. I pull my cloak tight around me, blank my gaze, and break into a trot, threading through the warren of little streets toward the racetrack.

  Getting anywhere through the lanes takes forever in daylight, but at night it’s even harder. The moon rises slow and lazy over the city wall, as big as a dinner plate. When it’s up like this, silver light pours everywhere, and I’m glad for the way it brightens up the scarier corners and dead ends where I have to backtrack.

  Finally—finally—I emerge near the city wall, and I have to wake up the gatemen to let me through. The track is still and silent in a glorious pour of silver light, snug and tidy, almost tucked in, and that’s when I realize I have nowhere to sleep. There’s a bunkhouse for stablehands, but no one showed me where it was. Not any of the kids. Not Deirdre.

  I know someone with big, comfortable quarters, though. Ricochet. It’s not the safest thing in the world, sleeping in a stall near a horse, but I don’t have much choice. Besides, Paolo is in charge of Ricochet, and he won’t tell anyone if I sleep there one night. He’ll probably think it’s funny.

  As I’m walking up the horseway, there’s a shift in the shadows near the outrider stable, and Ivar steps into the silvery light leading Tempest. He puts one foot in the stirrup, swings into the saddle, and hurries the horse away.

  Something terrible must have happened. A disaster of some kind. A fire, or a bandit raid. There’s no other reason anyone might bring out one of the king’s horses in the middle of the night.

  But if something terrible happened, the track would never be this quiet. Neither would the city. The big bell tower on the common would be ringing an alarm, and the streets would be filled with people and constables and rangers.

  If a rider was needed, someone at the royal stables would be saddling a fleet horse.

  And it wouldn’t be a kid.

  Whatever Ivar’s doing, there’s no way he has permission. No one so much as trims the hoof of one of the king’s horses without his say-so.

  Another horse clatters from the outrider stable into the horseway. A bay gelding with a white star, Ravik on his back. Then Astrid on Jubilee. Dressed in black, all of them. They disappear one at a time into the night.

  None of them pay me any attention. They move like they’ve done this a thousand times. Peter and Roland, each with horses I don’t recognize, with flashy piebald markings. When Lucan appears with a little brown mare, I glide through the d
arkness and put myself at her head just as he’s bringing the bit to her mouth.

  “Sonnia! You’re in!” He grins like he just learned there’s meat for supper. “They weren’t going to put you on the pay table, but Ivar talked them into it. That guy can read a room, and he can read people, too. I’m kind of jealous, truth be told.”

  “In?” I grind my voice down to a fierce whisper. “In what? What’s going on?”

  “In the junior racing cadre.” Lucan pats the mare’s neck.

  I’m floundering. “But what… what is…?”

  “Sonnia’s here?” Marcel steps out of the stable leading Gladiola. “Good thing I didn’t lay coppers down on it. Ivar’s going to have a field day.” To me he says, “Grab a horse and saddle up. You’re lucky I’m dropping the kerchief or you’d have missed the whole Ride. No one’s going to make allowances for you just because you’re new.”

  “Hold on.” I’m fighting for calm. “First off, no one’s saying I’m joining the junior racing cadre. I’m still not convinced the whole thing’s not a giant prank, but if it is, it’s just gotten a whole lot less funny.”

  “A prank?” Lucan sounds hurt. “No, of course not. You’re a really good rider and we want you in the junior racing cadre. You’ll be great at the Night Ride.”

  “Are you joking?” I splutter. “We can’t go riding now!”

  “Horses have good night vision. They can see the trail way better than we can, especially when the moon is up.”

  I go cold all over. “Trail? You mean you’re riding horses on the same trail we rode earlier?”

  The one with the tight turns and the steep hills. The hidden hollows and creeks with rocks that can turn a horse’s ankle. With boulders that can crack a hoof. With low branches and thorns that can carve scratches into legs or a chest or put out an eye.

  “There’s no way you’re allowed to do this,” I say through my teeth.

  “It’s not a race day, is it? Chores are done?” Gladiola is dancing in place, and Marcel turns her in a gentle circle to keep her contained. “You coming?”

  “No. Never. This is wrong.” I hug myself, shaking my head again and again like it will stop them.

  “Pity.” Marcel lets Gladiola loose and she leaps forward. Soon they’re gone, across the horseway and toward the dark field.

  “Sonnia?” Lucan says softly. “Are you sure? The Night Ride isn’t as bad as you think. It’s actually kind of fun. You’ve got good instincts. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. Not everyone gets a chance like this.”

  The junior racing cadre is not a prank. That means there really is a group of kids who are learning to ride racehorses for the king, and Deirdre was probably one of them once upon a time.

  Lucan must realize I’m not moving, because he swings onto Calpurnia. “I’m sorry. I can’t fall off the pay table. Not even for a week. I’ve got to go.”

  They hurtle away, and in moments, all is still again. The outrider stable. The horseway. All edged in the kind of bright silver light that makes everything easy to see.

  Except why these kids are doing something so dangerous.

  Not just because a horse could snap an ankle or take a sharp branch to the eye and have to be put down and mourned. Not just because a kid could be thrown and break a leg. Or their neck.

  Because if the king had even the smallest suspicion that one of his horses was in danger, he’d have a fire kindled on the town common. The bell would be rung to bring out everyone in Mael Dunn, and every last one of the stablehands—the junior racing cadre—would be marched there in chains. There’d be a long metal rod in the fire, and at the end, heating till it’s red-hot, would be a brand the size of an apple: HH.

  HH for horse harm.

  If the kids were lucky, they’d be made to put out their right hands, and the glowing metal would be pressed there while they screamed and screamed till the flesh seared.

  If they weren’t, if the harm was bad enough, the brand would go on their faces. Cheek or forehead, depending on the harm and the horse and how deeply the king loved it.

  At the end of the branding, each harmer of horses would be dragged to the city gates and put out for good, never allowed to return.

  It wouldn’t matter that they were kids. Anyone who mistreats the king’s horses gets the brand and exile.

  * * *

  I’m waiting in the outrider stable when the stablehands get back. Perched on a bale of straw, stiff and rigid like a bridle that’s been left to dry sweat-soaked. From up the horseway they come, hooves clopping, and a low, excited murmur of voices.

  “… know better than to rush her across the creek…”

  “… placed second, for the first time in at least three Rides…”

  “… not limping, is he? Because they keep saying how the animal hospital won’t…”

  Lucan is the first through the door, and I stand up. It’s too dark to see his face, but his voice is cautiously cheerful. “Sonnia, hey. You should have come. You missed Astrid smoking past Marcel in the meadow and beating him to the drop going down the path.”

  I turn the safety lamps up a click, then fold my arms. “Please tell me this isn’t what it looks like. Because I’ve been sitting here for the last several hours trying to think through what it is, and nothing I come up with is good.”

  “It’s five dinars, baby. Winner’s purse.” Ivar ambles into a span of lamplight and jingles a handful of palm-sized coins. I can’t take my eyes off them.

  Five dinars. Two months’ wages, right in his hand.

  “I’m not your baby,” I growl, but a purse is something that comes to the winner of a race, and all at once I’m struggling to breathe because the Night Ride isn’t just a really, really bad idea of going on a trail ride in the middle of the night.

  They weren’t going to put you on the pay table.

  If there’s a pay table and a purse for the winner—

  “It’s a race,” I rasp. “You’re racing horses without permission on the trail at night. Not just tonight, either. You do this all the time.”

  “Of course the Night Ride is a race.” Roland is clearly trying to keep the well, duh out of his voice. “It’s the junior racing cadre, isn’t it? Winner’s purse is nice, but there’s fifty coppers for any rider who finishes fair.”

  “We don’t do this all the time either,” Lucan says reassuringly. “Once a week when the moon is up and it’s bright enough to see.”

  Astrid has crosstied Jubilee in her stall, and now she’s pulling off the mare’s bridle and stationing a bucket of water at her feet.

  “You can’t give her all that water if she’s just been racing!” I make a panicky rush toward the stall, but Astrid holds me off with a gentle but firm stiff-arm.

  “She’s been walked cool, all right? Dang.”

  I slump against the wall, my shoulders digging into a wooden rack of grooming tools, and I watch the stablehands untack and turn out the horses they’ve been riding. They move quick and deliberate, as if they’re used to doing this in the dark.

  They probably are.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask quietly. “Don’t you know what would happen if anyone found out?”

  “Nobody will find out,” Marcel replies as he hauls a saddle past me to the tack room, “because no one’s going to say anything.”

  I straighten. “What makes you think I won’t?”

  “Why would you?” He pauses in the doorway. “You’re here, aren’t you? I thought you wanted to join the junior racing cadre. That means going where the wind blows.”

  “It has to stop.” I lift my chin. “Someone could get hurt. Horses could get hurt.”

  “The Night Ride’s not going to stop,” Ravik says in a kind but matter-of-fact way. “The best thing to do is get something out of it along with the rest of us.”

  For a long moment I imagine having actual dinars. Feeling my pocket push out because I have money enough to make choices.

  How it would feel to proudly hand
my parents enough to pay their rent in advance, or better still, move to a safer neighborhood.

  How it would feel to stand before Master Harold and count dinars into his hand one at a time until Ricochet was my very own.

  “What if you get caught?” I ask, low and fierce. “Sooner or later, one of the trainers is going to find out. He’ll tell the track stablemaster, who’ll go right to the king!”

  “That’s unlikely.” Ivar leads Tempest to the gate and turns her loose into the pasture. “I’ll take your money if you want to put some down on it, though. Let’s say… ten thousand to one?”

  I don’t know a lot about wagering, but I do know that the higher the odds, the more likely that you’re just giving your coppers away.

  Ivar is so sure. But if the Night Ride happens all the time, someone’s bound to investigate a lantern bobbing in the dark or a clatter of movement when everything should be still, or notice sweaty horses in the morning.

  Still, I shake my head once, curtly.

  “Anyone show you the bunkhouse?” Lucan asks, and he gestures to my bundle of clothes from home still over my shoulder.

  If he didn’t sound so kind, I would have told him off, that I want nothing to do with him or any of these kids, but I can barely stay on my feet. I shake my head, and soon we’re walking up the moonlit horseway toward a loaf-shaped building with a tin roof.

  The door opens onto a long, dusty hallway that smells like hay, and at the far end there’s a big window with real glass. A panel of silver streams through that window, lighting up the hallway enough for me to see the outlines of doorways, six on each side.

  Lucan pushes open the door to the last room on the left, and there’s just enough moonlight to make out a narrow pallet set on a wooden bedframe, and an apple crate that looks like it could be a table, or a chair, or a footrest, or a storage trunk. A metal key is hanging from the lock, and Lucan hands it to me.

  I murmur thank you, and the moment he’s gone, I turn the key behind me and collapse onto the bed. The bag of Ricochet coppers in my barn jacket digs into my ribs, and I wriggle out of the coat and drape it over me like a blanket. The pallet smells musty, but my eyes are dragging closed.