The Night Ride

by J. Anderson Coats

  On the way to the receiving barn, I do the figuring. Lucan said I have three months before my family needs coppers from me again. If the Night Ride happens every week when the moon is bright enough to see by, that’s three Rides every month. If I win every time, I could have enough money saved for Ricochet before my family goes through the dinars I just sent.

  Ten weeks. Ten wins. Ten purses.

  The receiving barn is a long white building between the three-quarters turn and the big main grandstand. Horses are gathering already, all kinds and colors, racehorses and companions and outriders. The king’s thoroughbreds are there, as well as dozens from other cities and kingdoms and realms. Beyond, the grandstands are still mostly empty, but a few spectators have arrived early to claim good spots.

  When I was in the crowd, watching and cheering, I felt part of everything, but by myself out in the open, it’s hard not to feel like a limping pony made to walk for the farrier.

  Hollyhock and I have been assigned to the last race, which only makes my belly crawl with more worms. There’ll be so much waiting, and the last race is the most prestigious. Perihelion will be in it, along with top-shelf champions belonging to kings and empresses and princes.

  Paolo spots me and waves from where he’s holding a roly-poly mare barely bigger than a pony. She’s the color of dry grass, and she’s all forelock and bushy tail. Perihelion’s new companion looks like a version of him that grew up in the lanes—smaller, scruffier, and a little more knobby in the knees. The big gold stallion is crosstied nearby while four trainers argue over which blinkers he should wear.

  “You look like you’re about to pass out,” Paolo says with a grin as he walks over. “This is supposed to be fun.”

  “It is.” I smile back, and it’s true, mostly, but as the barn fills up with more strange people, I pull toward the horses. “You must be used to it by now. This is my first time.”

  Paolo pats the mare on the neck. “I knew before I came to the track that there’d be people everywhere, but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with.”

  Before I came to the track. That payday, Paolo told Deirdre that someone missed her, that she could go home whenever she wanted.

  But Deirdre’s home is in the lanes, and the lanes are crowded. Most people have big families, and the little houses usually overflow with aunts and grandparents and cousins and friends who have nowhere else to go.

  If Paolo came from the lanes, if he knew Deirdre growing up, he’d be used to people being everywhere. Neighbors, street sweepers, rubbish collectors, children of every age and height and color.

  “How is Ricochet?” Paolo asks, and the words aren’t out of his mouth before I’m back on the Night Ride, flying through the silvered greenwood. Handing the flags to Benno and collecting the winner’s purse.

  Benno, who’s standing outside the last stall of the receiving barn. Deirdre is with him, and their heads are tipped together like they’re deep in a serious conversation.

  “I’m too late,” I whisper.

  Paolo calls after me, but I’m off Hollyhock and leading him at a quick walk up the aisle. My new boots echo and thud alongside my galloping heart. I left everything to Deirdre, and she figured out who’s behind the Night Ride. She’s going to take care of everything, just like she promised.

  Only she doesn’t know the danger she’s putting herself in. There’s no way Benno and the others are going to let her ruin their payday.

  “… better than I thought,” Deirdre is saying. “You always worry for nothing.”

  Benno sees me coming. He murmurs something to her and steps away, moving past me up the aisle, toward Perihelion. As he passes me, he nods the smallest bit.

  Like she just confronted him and he knows everything and now there’ll be consequences.

  Or maybe like he’s being friendly. Saying hey to the girl who shattered the pay table and filled a lot of pockets, including his.

  “You didn’t tell Benno, did you?” I all but collide with Deirdre and drag her into a corner. “About the… the problem? With the outriders? Because you can’t. Please. Just trust me.”

  Deirdre’s smile freezes. “Sonnia, we talked about this. You said you’d leave it with me. You said you’d let me take care of everything.”

  “No!” I press close to Hollyhock for moral support. His breath is warm on my hand. “I mean, you don’t have to. I know what’s going on. I don’t think you can help. I don’t want you to help.”

  “You know what’s going on.” It’s not a question, and Deirdre doesn’t sound shocked, or upset, or even ready to take my side. Just calm. Oddly calm. “What do you plan to do?”

  It stops me. I hadn’t planned to do anything beyond convince Deirdre to stay out of the jockeys’ way. “Well. Ride Ricochet. If I don’t, one of the other kids will.”

  “You’re going to… keep riding.” She’s still calm, but hopeful now, in a cautious, feeling-out sort of way.

  “For now.” But I’m stuck on what do you plan to do? The way she said it, as if I could choose to do something about the Night Ride and it could work.

  “For now,” Deirdre echoes, in a voice that sends a chill down my back before I remember that this is Deirdre, who once showed me how to sew tiny blankets for my wooden toy horses when I was convinced that they were too cold on their shelf in the loft.

  It’s quiet all of a sudden. I can hear Hollyhock breathing. I wait for her to go on, to tell me how brave I am, or ask how she can help, even though I just told her I didn’t want her to.

  When she doesn’t, the silence starts to press down and I scramble to fill it. “I mean, doing the… the thing is a fast way to get the dinars I need to buy Ricochet. And there are other good things. Being here on race day with the outriders, for one. This is probably when kids get their jockey training, right?”

  “Jockey training?” Deirdre frowns. “What are you talking about?”

  “The junior racing cadre,” I reply, and even now I stumble over cadre. “We’re supposed to be learning to ride racehorses for the king, right?”

  Her frown sours. “I don’t know who told you that, but it’s utter nonsense. Look around. Do you think any jockey here has time for such a thing? Do you think a single trainer will let kids anywhere near horses like these?”

  “But how…?”

  “Rider.” A trainer appears and taps Deirdre on the shoulder. “Time to weigh in.”

  She nods to him, then hugs me across the shoulders and says, “Hey, I’m glad you’re here, okay? You worked hard for this. You’re going to be great.”

  Once she’s gone, I lead Hollyhock back to Perihelion’s waiting area. Paolo and I chat about little things to fill the time. The trainers are tense but upbeat, and there’s nothing to do but wait.

  The racehorses go out one by one, race by race. The outriders follow. Of course today wouldn’t be when we’d get jockey training. There’s too much going on. Too much at stake.

  I’ve been at the track for weeks now. I’ve spoken to jockeys precisely twice, and neither time was to talk about my racing seat.

  Maybe it’s one more thing the Night Ride gains you. One more reason to risk something foolhardy and dangerous. Make a good showing—make the pay table interesting—and perhaps the jockeys will pay more attention to you.

  The last race is finally called. The crowd noise echoes all the way to the receiving barn. It’s a good thing Hollyhock is doing the walking for both of us because my legs feel like bran mash. Grooms get the racehorses lined up in post parade order, with an outrider between each one.

  Then it’s time.

  When we emerge from the long, dim tunnel onto the track, the cheering is one solid roar. The grandstands rise like walls on every side, crammed with excited spectators, and people crowd the rail.

  I do what Lucan said. I stare directly between Hollyhock’s ears at the stretch of raked dirt in front of me. I don’t look at the crowd. Lucan said no one was here for me, but it doesn’t feel that way. I can’t s
hake the feeling that every person at the racetrack is staring at me, from lane kids to the king.

  Each step around the track feels like ten thousand, but finally—finally—we’re back to the receiving barn walkway and I can take a full breath.

  Jockeys have to do this all the time, and people really are looking at them.

  Every moment in the saddle is a good moment, but right now I’m happier to be in the receiving barn with Hollyhock, loosening his girth and pumping him some water and telling him what a good boy he is.

  Being on the track in front of all those people was a lot less fun than I thought it would be.

  * * *

  Ricochet and I win the next Night Ride. This time, there’s no dash to the finish line. We’re out front easily, and Ricochet sails over the pasture fence again like a waterfall of shiny coat and flowing tail.

  Benno grins as he hands me the winner’s purse. Part of me wants to slap that smirk off his face, but mostly I’m grateful it’s there. It means Deirdre has kept well away from the Night Ride. If the first girl jockey for the king of Mael Dunn leaves in disgrace—or worse, disappears completely—there might never be another one.

  When race day comes around, I’m paired with Julian to bathe and braid, and when we’re almost done, I tell him he should ride in the post parade instead of me.

  “You don’t want to?” he breathes.

  “I got to last time,” I say with a shrug, but the crawly feeling of being in a fishbowl climbs up my neck and I shudder. “You don’t get a chance very often. Go ahead.”

  Julian practically skips up the horseway to change. I spend the afternoon with Ricochet in the outrider pasture, working on a new trick. Soon he’ll know how to lift a foot on command. The roar of the crowd almost shakes the ground, but I can enjoy it here. I love that people came all this way to watch beautiful horses run.

  But when I put down my bowl at supper, the whole table goes quiet. I reach for the milk pitcher and ask, “What? What’s wrong?”

  “You weren’t at the track today,” Marcel says. “The jockeys weren’t happy.”

  Julian at the end of the table hunches over his stew.

  “Oh. Well. I’m sorry about that, but what does it matter if they’re happy? We’re doing what they want, aren’t we? Every week when the moon is up?”

  “There are rules,” Astrid replies, “and we have to follow them. You earn a spot on post parade, you take it. You want a spot, you earn it.”

  Julian puts down his spoon as if it weighs a thousand pounds, and a dart of anger shoots through me.

  “Where’s the harm in what I did?” I sweep a glance around the table. “Maybe Julian would win a spot on his own if the jockeys actually taught us things about racing like you said they would.”

  Marcel frowns. “I never said the jockeys taught us things.”

  “You did! You said—”

  “I said we were training to be jockeys,” he cuts in. “You do enough Night Rides, you’ll learn instinct. Benno says you can’t teach that any other way.”

  I’m floundering. “Well. Maybe. But what about everything else a jockey has to know?” Greta’s questions come back in a rush. “How to sit a racing saddle? How to change leads on turns?”

  “Benno says any halfway decent rider can just pick up that sort of thing.” Lucan smiles at me from across the table. “That means you’ll be fine.”

  My mouth is flopping open. This makes no sense. Deirdre must have learned to ride racehorses because of the junior racing cadre. She surely wasn’t raised by bandits, and lane kids eat more horses than they ride.

  But if she came up through the cadre, she would have known about the Night Ride. She would never have endangered her position as a jockey by keeping such a thing to herself, and the track stablemaster listens to her.

  “Why should we have to just pick up any of it?” I ask. “The jockeys are the ones who need us, right? Without us, there’s no Night Ride. We could just not do the Ride until they agree to train us.”

  Lucan’s jaw trembles. “Don’t even joke about that.”

  “There’ll be a cadre with us or without us,” Astrid says. “There’ll be a Night Ride, too. What good would it do?”

  “If we all refused to ride—”

  “Sonnia. We can’t. No one at this table.” Her voice sharpens. “We go the way the wind blows. All of us.”

  All of us. The junior racing cadre. Lane kids, every one, flying through the darkest part of night past branches that slice and rocks that trip and rough, uneven ground that could very well snap a fetlock or break a neck.

  “Do you understand?” Astrid asks quietly.

  I wish I didn’t. But I do. I keep my eyes on my supper so I don’t glance at Gowan, who’s quietly starting his third helping of stew.

  At breakfast the next morning, I greet everyone as I put down my oatmeal and fruit. Astrid gives me a brief nod, but lowers her voice and turns toward Marcel so I can’t see her face. Lucan is across the table from me, but as I sit, he picks up his bowl and moves to the other end of the bench.

  It stings more than it should.

  When it’s time for lunch, I meet Paolo coming from the racehorse barn and ask if I can sit with him at the horseboy table. I’m dreading telling him why, but he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t seem to mind that I don’t want to talk much at all, simply sliding down on the bench so the friendly chatter surrounds me without needing anything from me.

  Ricochet and I place in the next Night Ride, coming in second by half a length to Bertram. The bag Benno hands me this time sags on its drawstrings, but not in a good way. Fifty coppers are half a month’s stablehand pay, but it feels like almost nothing after holding the winner’s purse.

  Placing doesn’t help me. I have to win.

  We win the next two, though, and soon I have so many coins that I can’t keep them in a soap flake bag anymore. Instead I go through stable cupboards till I find an old leather message satchel, the kind fleet riders carry. The money covers the bottom when I pour it in. Dinars make a deep, resonant clank when they hit one another. Nothing like the musical plinkyclink of coppers.

  I count my winnings every night before I go to sleep. I line them up in rows, dinars first and then coppers. This is figuring I absolutely cannot mess up.

  One evening I take my pony ride coppers out of their ratty bag and include them in the count, but they make the rows uneven. The two leftover coins at one end look pitiful, like something a toddler would hold in her grimy fist in line at the doughnut cart.

  I sweep the pony ride coppers back into their silly horseshoe bag and shove them deep into my barn jacket’s inner pocket, where they stay.

  The moon comes up, and Ricochet and I are ready. We take an early lead, but I follow a trail I’m sure is a shortcut and it’s long, moonlit moments before I realize we bypassed the craggy rock where the flags are. We have to retrace, and by the end I’m pushing Ricochet so hard that his breath comes uneven when we cross the chalk line. We finish fifth.

  “I’m so sorry, friend,” I whisper as we walk extra cooling laps around the outrider pasture. “Only a few more wins. I promise.”

  The best part of any day is still the trail ride, and I drop by the racehorse barn to beg Paolo to come so at least someone will talk to me.

  “Give me a moment and I’ll meet you there,” Paolo says, and nods to the privy behind the barn.

  I’m walking up the aisle of the outrider stable when I hear voices in the pasture.

  “… about her,” Marcel is saying. “It’s pretty obvious she doesn’t want to be a jockey.”

  “I’m not worried,” Astrid replies. “She’s not going to do anything to mess up the Ride. How can she? Once she buys that horse, she’s got to keep him somewhere. The track stablemaster’s going to make sure that’s expensive. There’s no way he’s going to let her fall off the pay table.”

  The track stablemaster… knows about the Night Ride?

  “She sends coppers home,” Lucan offers
. “She told me our regular pay isn’t enough. The Ride is what lets her keep working at the track.”

  “See? She’ll come around.”

  The figuring is catching up to me. Astrid’s right. Even if Ricochet is my own horse, I’ll have to pay to keep him somewhere. That’s on top of what I need to give to my family.

  But none of that is sending a slow churn of acid through my belly and up my throat. It’s one thing to be mad at someone. Another thing entirely to talk about them behind their back.

  I never told Lucan it was a secret that I’m sending coppers home, but him saying it outright makes it feel that way. As if he blabbed something I’d rather the others not know. That he cares more about the cadre than he does about being a good friend.

  “Hey, are we riding or what?” Paolo appears in the doorway of the stable, grinning like a sunny day, and the voices out back go quiet for a long moment before they call hello.

  Paolo gives me a puzzled look, but I put my head down and hurry into the outrider pasture.

  The stablehands don’t mind Paolo joining us. The more outriders on the trail, the better. Ricochet trots over when I whistle, and soon we’re moving into the greenwood.

  I hang back and ride last, well away from the others. Paolo joins me, chatting amiably about how delighted the trainers are that Perihelion won his last race and how the king sent a box of chocolates the size of a water trough for his keepers to share.

  I nod when I’m supposed to and mumble uh-huh every now and then, but the only thing my mind has room for is how the track stablemaster knows about the Night Ride.

  If he knows, it means he’s not scrambling to tell the king to keep from being branded and exiled like Deirdre said.

  If he’s not afraid the king will find out and punish him, it means he doesn’t care who else knows. The racetrack operates separately from the royal stables, and grooms and horseboys and trainers can lay wagers on the Night Ride and feel like they’re as good as the nobility who can afford to place gentlemanly wagers at the track betting window.