by Toby Bishop
She looked away, out over the lavender fields dripping with dew. “Protect our girls, Francis. And our horses. Promise me.”
He patted her shoulder. “I’ll do my best, Philippa.”
She sighed. “That’s all you can do. All any of us can do.”
FIVE
WILLIAM rode toward the Academy on as direct a route as he could find. He knew what he had to do. He had tried it before, but a wise man learned from his mistakes. This time he would do it right. This time he would take them both. And when Philippa found out they were missing, she would hasten back to Oc from wherever she had gone to ground. She had foolishly allowed herself to become too attached to one of her students. He would hold her weakness up as an example, yet another reason that men should take charge of Oc’s most precious resource.
Before riding out, he had spent an hour with Diamond, working her in the dry paddock with a longue line, picking up her feet and brushing the saddle blanket over her back as the horsemistress had taught him. It was boring, stultifying. He couldn’t think what such dry exercises had to do with flying. But the horsemistress swore these were necessary steps to prepare for riding, then for flight.
The horsemistress, Felicity Baron, was boring, too, a plain, middle-aged woman. She did what she was told, but with ill grace. She didn’t even try to hide her objections to his bonding. He would have punished her for her bad humor, except he didn’t want to have to find another monitor for Diamond. Sometimes he eyed Mistress Baron’s bony back as she walked away from him and wished he could deal with her as she deserved. She didn’t know how lucky she was, for the moment. Once he had flown, he would put her and her old gelding, Sky Baron, out to pasture, as far from the Ducal Palace as he could manage.
After restoring Diamond to her stall, with a promise to be back before evening, he walked down the aisle to where his new saddle horse, a good-looking chestnut mare, waited in her stall. He missed his old brown gelding, but the horse had broken down, and Jinson had carted him off to some farmer’s field to rest. Had it been any other horse, William would have had him put down without a thought. The gelding, though, had served him well, and he knew he had been a demanding rider. He refused any feelings of guilt over it—everything he did was, after all, for the Duchy and for his people. The chestnut mare was not nearly as fast, nor as spirited, as the gelding had once been. Nicolas had promised to send a horse from his own stables, some tall, strong stallion who could tolerate William’s riding style. But William hoped, before such an animal arrived, that he would have no need of an earthbound horse. He hoped he would be flying.
William put a bridle on the mare and led her down the aisle to the tack room. “I expect you to hold up better than my last mount,” he told her as he threw the saddle on her back and began to tighten the cinches. “I ride fast and hard, and I’m not going to change.”
She didn’t respond, and he glanced longingly at the other side of the stables, where Diamond’s stall was. Wingless horses were infintely less interesting than winged ones.
William swung himself up into the saddle and rode out of the stables and around to the back, where a grassy ride, browning now beneath the clear autumn sun, led through the park that surrounded the Palace. His stable-man came hurrying out to ask, “My lord? Don’t you want a groomsman to go with you? Or your valet?”
“No, Perkins,” William said. “I’m going to have a few hours to myself.”
Perkins stood where he was, wiping his hands on a rag. “Aye, m’lord. As you wish.”
William looked down at him. “Tell Mistress Baron to look in on Diamond for me.”
“Aye, m’lord.” Perkins gave a small bow and turned back into the stables. Did he, too, have an odd look on his face?
It was infuriating to think that he could no longer trust even his stable-man. He didn’t trust his wife, but she hardly mattered. He had never known a woman he could trust, in any case. He felt uncertain about Jinson, with his lamentably soft heart and odd flashes of doubt about their purpose. And those clodheads in the Council! Only a fool would put faith in the wisdom of those doddering old men.
In fact, now that he came to think on it, it was only his old Slater, who made no bones about where his loyalties lay, whom he could trust. He would rather rely on honest greed than on simpering and fine words.
William reined the mare toward the ride and dug his spurs into her ribs, making her burst into a stiff trot. He spurred her again, and she began to gallop, a little raggedly. He knew he should give her a chance to warm up, but fury made him impatient. Just wait until he flew. Then they would all see, including that fat Nicolas, with his warning letters and contracts and constant queries. As if the Prince of Isamar couldn’t afford a thousand militiamen without the slightest strain! It was all preposterous. None of them had any vision at all, and worse, they couldn’t recognize the vision of someone else.
He wrenched the mare’s reins as he turned her into the woods. She tossed her head and sidestepped, but he persisted, making her push through a close stand of cottonwoods. William ducked to avoid the branches and urged the mare on. He intended to ride straight cross-country and cut two hours off his time. The days were growing short, and the light would have faded by the time he reached the Academy. The brat spent far too much time in the stables, all hours of the day and night. He had watched her, and he knew. He would simply go in and get her. If anyone objected—that fool stable-man, or anyone else—he had militia there to deal with them. Soldiers, regular or impressed, followed orders.
Thinking of the militia reminded him of the brat’s brother, the younger one. Nick, he was called, and now in the uniform of his Duke’s service. He would make certain Nick Hamley was posted someplace hard, not some cushy position like the Academy of the Air or the Rotunda. The port, perhaps—things could get rough down there even at the best of times. It had gotten worse since the levy of the extraordinary tax. Tension was growing between the nobility and the working classes.
William cursed softly to himself. It was yet another reason the damned Council Lords should be grateful to him. There had been more than one instance of the militia stepping in to stop angry laborers from interfering with their betters as they tried to move about the city, and yet still Beeth and Daysmith and those others whined on in the Council about unfair taxation and soldiers on every corner. Of course they were on every corner! How else could order be maintained?
William loosened the reins, now that they were on the right path, and let the mare find her own way through the wood. He took deep breaths of the pine-scented air, and tried to calm himself. One day soon it would all come right. The tensions would be forgotten, the confusion and the questions. Once he closed the Academy, he could lift the extraordinary tax. Even the slowest of the Council Lords, the most resistant, would recognize the new direction for the Duchy, one that would lead to more profit and a greater name in Isamar. Then they could all bend the knee to him and apologize, Daysmith, Beeth, Chatham, and the rest.
And, of course, every horsemistress. The thought made him want to whip up the mare, but he resisted. It would do no good to arrive in daylight, anyway. He had to be patient, take it one step at a time. It would all come right soon enough.
He adjusted the smallsword at his belt and tried to fill his mind with thoughts of Diamond and what it would be like when he flew her at last. When he spotted the gambrel roofs of the Academy stables beyond the wood, he dismounted and left the mare cropping sparse grass in a little clearing. He could send Jinson for her later. His quarry was at hand.
SIX
LARK bent over the hedgerow and pointed to the pile of chestnuts under the lowest branch. “Have a blink at that,” she said, straightening. “The squirrels know what we don’t.”
“And what would that be, Black?” Hester squatted down, gently moving the leaves aside with her fingers to look at the cache. “What do they know?”
“ ’Twill be an early winter,” Lark said. “Early and hard.”
Hester lau
ghed. “If you say so,” she said. “But I don’t see why squirrels should be better able to predict the weather than we are. It was such a hot summer.”
Lark grinned up at her tall friend. “Just you remember, Morning. The beasts understand all kinds of things. Mark you, snow will fly before the month has passed.”
Hester stood up again and shaded her eyes to look back across the rolling parkland of Beeth House. “There she is,” she said. She lifted her arm to wave. “Mamá will be here in a moment.”
“ ’Tis so different, being third-level girls,” Lark said, as they waited for Lady Beeth to reach them. “I thought I would love having more freedom, flying on my own, all of that. But now it just seems there are more things to worry about.”
“These are not normal times,” Hester said grimly. “With militia everywhere, it’s like having the Duke himself watching over our shoulders. Don’t dare wiggle a finger without fear of someone hying off to the Palace to tattle.”
Lady Beeth’s expression was as dark as her daughter’s as she approached, striding down the park with a purposeful step.
The girls had come at the request of Mistress Star. They delivered the Headmistress’s note to Lady Beeth, who fed them biscuits and tea and sent them out to walk for a bit. She didn’t read the letter to them, but they had already guessed its contents.
Times were indeed difficult, even at the Academy. Mistress Star had been forced to make little economies. There was a shortage of the coffee that had to be imported from the south, and of the fruit brought in by ship from Klee and from Isamar. Two maids had been let go. Even supplies for the winged horses suffered. There had been no hay deliveries in weeks. They could see, scanning the fields they overflew, that the second cutting was due soon, and the farmers would want to clear out their silos and stacks. Still, no hay wagon trundled down the lane, and the stack behind the stables would never last the winter.
Mistress Star and Mistress Dancer and the other horsemistresses walked about with tight faces, their conversations stopping abruptly when any girls drew near. Huddled conferences interrupted classes. Tension ran through every activity at the Academy, wearing tempers thin.
Lark had thought this day would be a respite, a few hours away from the eyes of the soldiers and the dour atmosphere of the Hall, but she understood now that their errand was part of the crisis. She and Hester were certain that Mistress Star’s letter asked the Beeths for money.
The girls hurried to meet Lady Beeth, their boots kicking up puffs of dirt from beneath the grass. The park around Beeth House was kept green by watering, but the hills to the west burned under the sun, grass and trees turning yellow and brown and red.
Lady Beeth wore a broad-brimmed hat and regarded them critically from its shade. “Those caps of yours do nothing to keep the sun from burning your noses,” she said, as their paths converged.
Hester linked her arm through her mother’s. “Mamá, no one cares if horsemistresses have freckled noses. We’ll look like old shoes before we’re thirty, anyway.”
Lady Beeth pressed Hester’s arm close. Lark smiled to see them together, both of them tall and angular, brown eyes bright with intelligence. Lady Beeth had a commanding manner, and plump little Lord Beeth was content to let her guide him. It was said in the White City that there was one woman in the Council of Lords, though she was not allowed to speak. Everyone knew that woman was Lady Amanda Beeth.
The three of them strolled slowly back toward Beeth House. Lady Beeth said, “How bad is it, dearest?”
“Bad enough, Mamá. We have had no meat at all this week, and Herbert himself caught the fish we had last night. Our haystack won’t last past Erdlin, and Black says a hard winter is coming.”
Lady Beeth turned her eyes to Lark, who nodded. “ ’Tis true,” she said.
Lady Beeth gave a short nod without questioning the country wisdom. “Beeth will carry this problem to the Council, but I have little hope of them. They are divided right down the middle, half supporting the Duke’s policy, half opposing.”
“The girls won’t mind economizing,” Hester said. “But we have to feed our horses, Mamá.”
“Of course you do, my heart.” Lady Beeth pursed her lips. “Beeth and I will see to that, at least.”
“Not all of it, surely, Lady Beeth? ’Tis a great expense, I fear!” Lark said.
“Indeed it is, Larkyn dear. We’ll mortgage the summer estate in the Angles. That will get the Academy through the winter.”
“Mamá! Is there no other way?” Hester cried. “Surely one of the other lords . . . You and Papá cannot carry this burden alone!”
Lady Beeth slowed her steps and turned aside to where a little stone bench rested beneath the drooping branches of a live oak. She sat down in the shade, and pulled off her hat to fan herself with it. “We are not alone in being burdened,” she said. She dug with the toe of her shoe into the loam of dirt and oak leaves beneath the bench. “We grieve, Beeth and I, at the state our Duchy has come to. Our people are doing without, seeing their sons impressed into service, losing their savings and their security. And one can hardly travel even into the White City! At every turn soldiers are peering into wagons and carriages, blocking traffic, slowing commerce.”
“What are they looking for?” Lark asked.
“They’re watching for boys being sent away to avoid impressment, for goods slipping by without being taxed, a dozen other things. And”—she leaned back against the tree, heedless of the rough bark catching at the silk of her tabard—“they’re looking for Philippa Winter. Daysmith learned there is a standing order to arrest her if she shows her face in Oc. I doubt she’d be able to slip away a second time.”
THE girls took their leave very late, when the sky was already beginning to darken. The horses, untroubled by their bondmates’ worries, were rested and eager. Tup raced down the park to leap into the air ahead of Goldie. Even Goldie was energized, shedding some of her customary dignity as she sped to catch up with Tup, lifting above him with powerful strokes of her white wings. Lark looked up, marveling at how graceful Hester was in the flying saddle. Aloft, all her angles softened. Her long arms and legs suited Goldie’s strong conformation. They were beautiful to watch, haloed by the fading light as they banked to the west.
Tup stretched his neck, and beat his wings faster. Lark loosened the rein to let him ascend, swooping above and beyond Goldie, two of his wingbeats to every one of hers. He was smaller, and his slender body was as flexible as a swallow’s. Lark felt his strength through her hands and her thighs, the great muscles of his wings flexing across his chest and up through the leather and wood of the saddle.
When they reached the Academy, Lark lifted the rein and laid it against Tup’s neck. He shook his head from side to side in rebellion, and it was tempting to let him have his way, to fly on, to spend a few more minutes in the air. But it was nearly full dark. The lamps were burning in the Hall and the Residence, and Mistress Star would be waiting for Lady Beeth’s response.
Lark called, “No, Tup! We have to go in.” She laid the rein against his neck again and pressed with her left calf. His ears flattened, just for a moment, before he tilted sharply to the right, dropping toward the return paddock at a precipitous angle.
Lark grinned and tightened her calves around him. It was his way of scolding her, to make her hold on tight. If she had slipped, even a little, he would have leveled out immediately. He had done it before.
One day soon, she promised herself, as he spread his wings and reached for the ground with his forefeet, they would indulge themselves, and fly without the saddle. He could do anything he wanted then, and she never slipped. She sometimes thought that as long as he wore the breast strap she and her lost friend Rosellen had constructed, they could fly upside down if they wanted to. Without the encumbrance of the flying saddle, they felt like one being, Lark molded to Tup’s back, Tup sensing every shift of her weight, every pressure of her calves and thighs and hands.
But not tonight. He cante
red up the return paddock toward the stables, and she reined him back to the posting trot before they reached the fence. Hester and Goldie were already there. Tup trotted up to them, and Lark swung her leg over the pommel to dismount. Just as her feet struck the ground, she heard Anabel’s voice calling from the stable door. “Have either of you seen Amelia?”
Lark’s arms prickled with sudden alarm. “No,” she said. “Can’t you find her?”
“No! Mistress Dancer wanted to speak to her, but I can’t find her anywhere.”
“Have you looked in Mahogany’s stall?” Hester asked.
“I looked there first,” Anabel said.
Hester and Lark went through the gate and closed it behind them. They led their horses toward the stable, and Anabel stepped aside to let them pass. “The thing is,” she said in a fretful tone, “that Mahogany isn’t there, either.”
Lark stopped and looked back toward the courtyard. “The yearlings’ pasture?”
“It’s empty.”
“Maybe she took him out for a walk,” Hester offered, but she sounded doubtful.
“Without telling anyone? And where’s Bramble?”
Anabel shook her head. “I don’t know. It seems so strange.”
Lark and Hester hurried to untack their horses and rub them down, while Anabel searched the dry paddock and the flight paddock, and dashed across the courtyard to make another round of the classrooms and the library. She came running back just as Lark and Hester finished filling the horses’ water buckets and measuring out grain.
“No one’s seen her,” Anabel reported breathlessly. “And now Mistress Dancer is worried, too. She was up with her flight—” She stopped to catch her breath, one hand on her chest. “Everyone was out today, the first-levels doing ground drills at the end of the yearlings’ pasture, by the grove, and the second-levels up with Mistress Dancer. I was in the library all afternoon, and everyone else in our flight had something to do!”
