The Night Ride

by J. Anderson Coats

  It can mean only one thing. The track stablemaster is behind the Night Ride. He’s the one putting the horses at risk so he can fill his pockets without lifting a finger. He’s putting us at risk, too.

  Right now I have forty-two dinars. Two more wins and Ricochet will have that red bridle. The track stablemaster won’t have to make his keep expensive just to keep me on the pay table, because if the Night Ride is what it takes to make Ricochet my own and keep him safe, I’ll do it.

  Then maybe the junior racing cadre will finally accept me as someone who belongs here.

  12

  “SONNIA.” PAOLO TAPS on my bunkhouse door again. “It’s almost time. I know you don’t love post parade, but Deirdre’s pretty sure you’re dragging your feet on purpose.”

  “I’m braiding my hair.” I’m not, though. I’m sitting on my bed in my fancy riding clothes, trying to swallow down the swarmy feeling that comes over me every race day. “My helmet doesn’t fit right otherwise.”

  The door isn’t closed all the way, and Paolo pushes it open and steps inside.

  Lucan would sigh impatiently from the doorway without looking at me. Astrid would glare. But Paolo makes a show of glancing around my little room. “I can understand how you don’t want to leave all this luxury! Too bad I’m not allowed to be a stablehand. I could get used to a space that’s big enough to turn around in and doesn’t smell like horse wind.”

  I smile even though I don’t feel like it because he’s trying to cheer me up. I don’t love post parade, and I love it less every time I have to do it. If I didn’t need to win races for the purses, I’d finish last every time just to spite the lot of them.

  “I mean, look at all this stuff. A window. With shutters!” Paolo waves his hand toward it like he’s never seen one before, then kneels and makes a big show of noticing my apple crate. “And here’s a versatile piece of furniture. It can hold all your many possessions. Your barn clothes that belong on the scrap heap. A dress I’ve never seen you wear. And a leather—wait, I’ve been looking for that.”

  I look up at the same moment Paolo hefts my message bag. The flabby drawstrings have never worked well, and the top gapes open to reveal all my coppers and dinars practically bursting into his hands.

  Paolo’s mouth falls open, and at length he murmurs, “Sure wasn’t this way when I last had it.”

  “Give me that.” I grapple the bag out of his hands, trying to cinch the strings closed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know this was yours. I found it in a stable. I’ll give it back once I get a different one.”

  “Keep it. I’ll get another. How…” Paolo waves a hand like he’ll catch the words he wants. “Where did you get all that money?”

  I’m sitting on the bed again, holding the bulging bag tight against my stomach. It’s not that I think he’ll take it. It’s that I worked so hard for every dinar. Ricochet, too. Each one is a twisted hoof we avoided. A sharp branch to the eye neither of us got.

  “Because the only people I know who have that many dinars at once are bandits,” Paolo goes on, in a voice that’s sharp enough to bring my head up.

  “I’m not a bandit,” I snap, and the word tastes bad in my mouth.

  Paolo folds his arms. He leans against the wall like we have all afternoon and he’s willing to wait.

  “Come now, you know very well why,” I mutter. “Everyone knows. They’re perfectly fine with lane kids and outrider horses risking their lives so they can jingle those coppers.”

  “Sonnia.” Calm. Steady. His horse voice. “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I’m not in the mood for teasing, but when you have both an older brother and a younger sister, you know teasing when you hear it, and this is definitely not teasing.

  So I tell him what happens every week when the moon is up. By the time I get to the pay table, Paolo’s mouth is hanging open once again.

  “Wait. Wait.” He rocks away from the wall like it just stung him. “Do you mean every one of Deirdre’s stablehands rides in this race?”

  I open my mouth to correct him, that we’re stablehands for the racetrack and not Deirdre’s personal hiring fair help.

  But when it’s time for monthly wages, Deirdre is the one with the cash box.

  Instead I nod. “But how do you not know? Perihelion’s grooms are always at the pay table. Hesperides’ as well. Their exercise riders. Horseboys. I thought everyone knew.”

  Paolo is pacing. One hand pressed to his mouth like he just got punched.

  “I know it sounds bad,” I say into the silence, “and yeah, it is bad, but you should know that—”

  “I want to ride.” He stops by the door, all good cheer gone. He looks like he’s about to face a company of bandits by himself. “What do I need to do?”

  “Ah.” I was ready to convince him to keep his mouth shut, and I scramble for words. “Why? I have no idea how to get you on the pay table, so even if you win, you probably won’t get the purse. You might not even get fair finish coppers.”

  “I don’t want to be on the pay table. In fact, don’t tell anyone. Just tell me when and where.”

  The message bag in my lap is heavy. I pull the strings together, forcing them into a bow that still wants to slide open.

  Who am I going to tell? Lucan, who’s upset because I suggested he deserves something big and impossible? Astrid, who has made a place in the cadre for herself alone? Marcel, who thinks I’m going to sabotage the one thing that’ll let me keep Ricochet? The jockeys, who put horses in danger every week for their own gain?

  I set my message bag back in the apple crate and arrange my old school dress on top of it. Then I put on my helmet and look Paolo in the eye. “Tomorrow when the moon is up. Come to the outrider stable after supper and wait for me.”

  * * *

  The moon rises slow and big. There’s no sign of Paolo anywhere in the outrider stable, or beside it, or behind it. He must have changed his mind.

  It’s not like I’m going to hold that against him, though.

  Ricochet comes at the whistle. One by one, the stablehands catch horses, ready them, and disappear toward the field. None of them look my way.

  The moment the last kid is gone, a shadow emerges from the three-sided shelter at the far end of the pasture. Banner comes toward me at a confident canter, Paolo on his back. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or dismayed.

  I lead Ricochet through the pasture gate, hold it for Paolo, then close it behind me before mounting up.

  “Are you sure about this?” I ask as we ride toward the field.

  Paolo nods. He looks fierce, like he’s moments from a fistfight, but gutsick, too. I tug the white kerchief out of my barn jacket as we take a position at the end of the shadowy line of stablehands. Julian is on my left, atop Hollyhock. His face is almost as pale as the gelding’s coat.

  I don’t give the kids a chance to notice there’s an extra rider. I drop the white cloth and we watch it flutter down.

  The kerchief has barely touched the grass when Paolo sends Banner off the line from standstill to gallop in a blink.

  It’s a long, cluttery, bewildered moment before I realize it’s a fair start. The kerchief was down, no question, and Paolo is at least two lengths in front of everyone and gaining by the second.

  As if he’s done the Night Ride a thousand times.

  Cursing, I shift my weight up and forward, which Ricochet knows is a signal to take off fast, like a racehorse off the chalk. We hurtle toward the entrance to the greenwood, but Banner’s rump disappears through it well ahead of us.

  This can’t be happening. I need to win.

  The trail is familiar by now, even at night. Especially at night. I know where to trot and where to gallop, and so does Ricochet. We’re on a straightaway that I know is well trodden and safe, and I urge him faster and faster.

  “We’ll catch them at the tight turn,” I whisper to Ricochet. “Don’t worry. Banner can never stand still.”

  But whe
n we arrive, there’s a gap in the flags where one’s been taken from the middle, and Paolo and Banner are already a clack of hooves moving away on the next straight stretch.

  None of this makes sense. Paolo’s been on the trail a handful of times, but he’s riding as if he’s led the pay table for years.

  Well. I like Paolo and I love Banner, but they are not going to win the Night Ride. Paolo said he didn’t even care about the purse.

  I do, and I’m not giving it up easily.

  Ricochet and I climb the rocky hill and reach the meadow. Paolo and Banner must still be ahead of us because they’re nowhere in sight. Julian is two lengths behind me, and we’re neck and neck as we move cautiously through the meadow toward the flag bush.

  Julian must really want to go on post parade. He’s surely not riding timid tonight, though Hollyhock is definitely helping. That horse has heart to spare.

  Ricochet and I reach the bush and I grab a flag, but I pull too hard and the bow turns into a knot. While I’m picking it apart, cursing, Julian wheels Hollyhock and they head for the trail.

  I curse louder and rip the whole branch off, shoving the thorny thing into my barn jacket where it bites into my side.

  We emerge at the last checkpoint to see Hollyhock and Julian disappearing along the straightaway at a canter. I tell Ricochet to stand and untie a flag, carefully this time. When I shove the strip of cloth in my barn jacket, the thorns from the branch carve into my hand.

  No time for that. I urge Ricochet forward.

  Ricochet and I can catch them on this stretch. I know we can. We’ll pass them and Paolo, too, and that purse will be mine.

  I shift my weight and Ricochet’s strides get longer and it’s like his hooves hardly touch the ground and we are flying.

  But we’re not flying fast enough, and Hollyhock and Julian are two lengths ahead of us. As we come up the last part of the trail, the back pasture appears in bigger and bigger spans, but there’s no sign of Paolo walking Banner cool.

  Which means Julian is leading the Night Ride, and all it’ll take to win is getting in front of him.

  We’re approaching the track gate, which I now know is open because of the Ride and not because of some careless groom or horseboy.

  Julian doesn’t head for it, though. Instead he rides straight for the pasture fence.

  Like he means to jump.

  Hollyhock takes off, the moonlight glancing off his haunches, and for a moment there’s nothing more gorgeous, even if it means we’ll only place instead of win.

  Then his front hooves catch the top rail with a hard clatterthud. He pitches over the fence straight into the ground like a bag of wet sand and lies there flailing and screaming.

  Julian struggles clear and scrabbles backward as Hollyhock tries to get his legs under him, grinding out a neigh-scream that sends a cold chill down my back.

  I steer Ricochet toward the gate and wrestle him into a canter. There’s no way I’m going to let him jump now. I can barely keep my supper down.

  The finish line is ahead and Benno’s waiting at the chalk. We have a clear path and it’s five dinars closer, but already I’m reining in Ricochet as sharp as he can manage even as Ivar and Gowan thunder toward the gate almost as one.

  I slow Ricochet as we approach Hollyhock, then I slide down and edge near. The gray gelding is on his feet again, his saddle loose and hanging awkwardly over his flank, but he’s favoring his front foreleg.

  “Hollyhock missed the jump.” Julian appears at my side, one hand pressed to his mouth. “Ricochet never misses a jump.”

  “Hollyhock’s not Ricochet,” I reply in my horse voice, easy and mellow, but every part of me is ready to explode like a pot with a too-tight lid.

  Another set of hooves drum behind us, only these slow and stop and then Paolo is at my elbow, holding Banner’s reins. He keeps whispering I don’t believe this, like I hadn’t told him exactly what to expect.

  I’m close enough to Hollyhock to lay a hand on his neck. He startles and grunts, but he lets me take the reins. He lets me run unsteady hands down his shoulder and onto his back, loosening the tie strap and letting the whole saddle tumble to the ground.

  “This is my fault,” Julian whispers.

  “Not helpful now.” Horse voice. Calmly. “What would be helpful is you cooling down Ricochet so I can look Hollyhock over.”

  “Take Banner, too,” Paolo says, and Julian nods numbly and takes both sets of reins. He joins the others cooling their horses along the inside of the pasture fence.

  Hollyhock is holding one hoof off the ground. His nose is pointed that way too, and his ears are slack and listless. He’s calmer now, grunting that horrible noise faint and tired instead of neighing it.

  Paolo keeps muttering unbelievable, both hands pushed through his moon-edged hair, before breaking away and storming toward Benno.

  I let Hollyhock smell my hand, murmuring calming things, then run whisper-gentle hands down his injured leg. If a bone is sticking out, nothing can be done for him.

  “Didn’t you see them fall?” Paolo stands in front of Benno like a prizefighter. “That horse is hurt and someone needs to help him!”

  Benno sighs. “He’ll be fine or he won’t. They’re just outrider horses. There’s more where they came from. Just take your money and go to bed, all right?”

  They’re just outrider horses.

  Perihelion’s head trainer heaves himself over the fence and approaches Paolo, dropping a hand on his shoulder like an uncle would, or a big brother. There’s a murmur of conversation, far away like hooves in a distant pasture.

  There’s more where they came from.

  There’ll be a Night Ride with or without Hollyhock, too.

  Julian edges near, Banner and Ricochet trailing behind. I can barely look at this boy. He hands me Ricochet’s reins, then stands awkwardly a length away like I’m bigger than I am.

  “Is it bad?” Julian whispers.

  I shrug, short and stabby. “Nothing’s obviously broken. No deep cuts. But what do I know, right?”

  “I shouldn’t have tried to jump him,” Julian murmurs. “I just… all those guys cheer when Ricochet jumps. Trainers cheer. Real trainers of real racehorses. Guys who’ll be judging the jockey tryouts. No one but you gets to ride Ricochet. And I’m a terrible person.”

  I try to glare at him, but I can’t. Julian and me, Astrid, Lucan, every kid in the cadre—all of us have white on our foreheads and feet. We’ve always been meant to be ground up for someone else’s benefit.

  “You’re not the terrible person,” Paolo growls as he appears on the other side of Hollyhock’s sweaty neck. “Foolish, maybe, but you’ve got an excuse. Deirdre doesn’t.”

  I try to catch Paolo’s eye. The last thing I need is for Julian to run to Deirdre and drag her back into the middle of this.

  But Paolo is murmuring to a groom standing a pace behind him, a wiry graybeard who’s hunched like a beetle, wringing and folding his hands. The old man reaches for Hollyhock’s reins and makes soft cooing sounds as he coaxes the gelding away, step after shambling step.

  Soon there’ll be a nice comfortable bed of straw for that poor horse, and leg wraps, salt soaks, treats. The doctors will rush over and figure out how to help him.

  “Sonnia?” Julian shuffles uncomfortably. “Is it true? Do you really not want to be a jockey?”

  “No.” It comes out swift and honest. “I don’t care about racing. I don’t care about winning. I just want to ride.”

  Julian is quiet for a moment. “Then can I tell you a secret? I don’t really want to be a jockey, either.”

  I look up, startled, and he goes on, “But I love the junior racing cadre. I’m never lonely here. Never scared. I know what tomorrow’s going to look like, and the day after that, and I get paid in the bargain. Would a terrible person help you get all that?”

  “Deirdre,” I whisper, and he nods.

  “None of this is her fault,” Julian goes on. “Deirdre’s the best
one of them.”

  The crowd around the pay table is gone, along with the table itself and Benno and the strongbox and a single hint that anyone was here only an hour ago. The other kids in the cadre have led their horses back to the outrider stable, and Julian hurries down the horseway after them. The pasture is empty and the moon fills the sky, and I shiver.

  I turn to ask Paolo how he seemed to know exactly what to do on the Night Ride, but he’s gone.

  He’s gone before I can ask why he’d been so determined to do it at all.

  He’s gone before I can find out what he meant about Deirdre.

  13

  I BARELY SLEEP, and when the sky lightens enough to see, I get dressed and hurry toward the racehorse barn. I have to get to Paolo before he confronts Deirdre.

  But his stuffy closet-sized room is empty. It’s not just that Paolo isn’t here. His room has nothing in it—no clothing or boots or blankets on the bed.

  It’s like he packed everything and left.

  Deirdre isn’t in her room either, but there’s a pile of slept-in bedclothes on the floor and a hairbrush on the crate. A groom tells me she went to the track for morning exercise runs.

  I’m not too late. She’s still a jockey.

  There’s a new horse in Hollyhock’s stall. A sassy bay mare with a forelock that needs trimming who takes delight in trying to eat buttons off your jacket like they’re treats, but who definitely isn’t Hollyhock.

  The other kids get to work with shovels and buckets like nothing is out of the ordinary.

  They’re just outrider horses. There’s more where they came from.

  After breakfast, I head to the animal hospital. Paolo might have gone there to check on Hollyhock. It’s in a part of the track complex I’ve never been to, on the eastern side beyond the first turn where there are beautiful barns and living quarters for the foreign racehorses and their keepers who come from other kingdoms to compete for purses and prizes.

  The animal hospital is a sprawling whitewashed building that smells like bleachy water and antiseptic rub. Inside, there are eight stalls, four on each side of a wide concrete aisle. Three are empty, and racehorses stand or lie in the others. I know they’re racehorses because there’s no mistaking one for an outrider, even when they’re sick or hurt.