Toby Bishop - Horse Mistress 01

by Airs Beneath the Moon

  Nicolas eyed the horse. “A pity he throws no winged foals.” “I wasn’t aware,” Francis said, “that you aspired to breeding winged horses.” He kept his tone deliberately light, but a prickle crept over his shoulders. The winged horses were Oc’s province. His father had devoted his life to ensuring that they

  remained that way.

  Nicolas gave a brief, noncommittal laugh. “I am no breeder,” he said. “I barely ride.”

  Nicolas was a fat man, and only a horse the size of the stallion in the paddock would be able to carry his weight. Francis was not a diplomat, but to state such a fact would be an obvious political error. And Francis, though he preferred books and numbers to statecraft, had no wish to offend the Prince.

  Nicolas waved a beringed hand at his stable-boy. “We won’t ride today. Too tired.”

  The stable-boy bowed and led the horse away. It was a chilly morning. The cold saddle leather creaked against its fittings as the stallion pranced and pulled at his lead. The stable-boy set his heels to keep from being tossed off his feet. Francis suspected the Prince was simply too lazy to deal with such energy.

  “Come, Francis. Coffee and breakfast.” Prince Nicolas strolled past the open stable doors without pausing, and Francis was forced to follow him. He would have preferred to walk through them again, to smell the familiar odors of horseflesh and sawdust, saddle soap and grain. Those powerful scents reminded him of his father. They had never been close—indeed, Frederick had been close to only two people Francis knew of, and both were women—but Francis had admired and respected him. It was, he thought, a poorer world since the loss of the old Duke.

  He glanced into the stables as they passed. At the far end, in the largest stalls, were the six winged horses of Oc, assigned here for ceremonial purposes, at great expense to Isamar. Francis often stood in the window of the library and watched the horsemistresses drilling in the air above the Palace. That, too, reminded him of home.

  But there were no horsemistresses about now, on this cold morning. A few stable-boys came and went, and the one stable-girl who cared for the winged horses. There had been an elaborate party in the Palace last night, and the Prince’s reddened eyes and general scent of old wine and tobacco attested to that.

  Francis had been forced to attend, for appearances’ sake, but he had made his excuses early, and gone to bed. He had risen early this morning, as he usually did, to enjoy an hour’s ride on his own dun gelding.

  The last of the leaves had fallen from the birches and vine maples. Snow covered the distant mountaintops, and bare tree limbs stretched into the sky like some dark script written across silver parchment.

  Francis, with other second and third sons of the duchies of Isamar, had served in the Prince’s Palace for three years. For some, it was preferable to being ruled at home by elder brothers, but Francis chafed under the artificiality and the excesses of the Prince’s court. His love of books did not extend to account books, although he did his best to fulfill his duties. He often thought, had he been simply a Lord of the Council, he would have founded a great library in Oc, one to rival Isamar’s. Unlike many of the other young lords, he had never coveted William’s position. He had no wish at all to live in the Ducal Palace, or to rule. He wished, in truth, that he had been born a commoner, free to choose his own path.

  He thrust such thoughts aside now. He could not change the circumstances of his birth. His father could perhaps have arranged something different for him, had he requested it, but Frederick had died all too early. And now Francis, like every other citizen of Oc, was subject to his brother’s orders. William had made it clear he expected his brother to stay in Isamar, to be his liaison with the Prince.

  The cooks had seen the Prince’s approach through the windows of the Palace’s great kitchens, and by the time Francis followed Nicolas into the morning room, a table had been set with a silver coffee service and covered dishes that emitted fragrant steam from beneath their lids. The Prince settled himself, with a groan, into a sturdy chair and waved Francis into one opposite. “Eat, Francis!” he said jovially. “You need meat on those bones of yours.”

  Francis sat down and took a cup of coffee, but he gave a rueful laugh. “Your Highness, I would think you had given up fattening me by now,” he said. “My lord brother and I both have these long bones that resist all our efforts to cushion them.”

  “Lucky,” Nicolas said, his mouth already full of a great rasher of bacon. “But you would make me look better if you were not so skinny.”

  Francis took a modest plate of bacon, with a boiled egg, and a helping of steamed and buttered bloodbeets. “These could be from our own fields of Oc,” he said, spearing a slice of bloodbeet and holding it up for Nicolas to see. “From the Uplands.”

  Nicolas wrinkled his fleshy nose, and waved a dismissive hand. “Can’t stand the things,” he said. “Give me bacon and bread, thanks.”

  Francis was saved from further conversation by the arrival of two other young lords, each with a question for the Prince. Francis ate his breakfast and left the men talking. He carried his coffee to one of the tall, many-paned windows that faced out over the city of Arlton.

  Unlike Osham, Arlton was a city of colors. Its builders had borrowed from the blackstone of Oc’s Uplands, from the gray granite that came from Eastreach, and the pink marble from Crossmount. It sprawled along the Arl River, circling the Palace with broad avenues, spilling out in twisting lanes and terraced gardens. The party the evening before had begun with a demonstration by the winged horses of Oc, flying above the parks and plazas, circling the pink and gray towers of the Palace. Nicolas had preened with pride, as if the horsemistresses belonged to him. They did not. Francis didn’t bother mentioning it, because everyone knew the winged horses were Oc’s pride, not Isamar’s, and Prince Nicolas paid for their services with taxes wrung from the banking and shipping that made Isamar famous.

  Francis had excused himself early from the banquet of imported wines and exotic meats, the platters of elaborate pastries. He was thoroughly tired of princely affectation. He longed, in truth, to go home.

  He was about to turn away from the window, to turn back to his fat prince and the company of young lords gathered around him, when he saw a flash of red against the cold blue of the sky. He leaned closer to the glass, and peered into the distance. Yes, there it was . . . the unmistakable outline of a winged horse, with its slender black-habited horsemistress astride. As he watched, the pair came closer, growing larger and more distinct with each wingbeat. They banked around a tall spire and soared above the wide stone bridge that arched over the river.

  Francis drained his coffee. This was not one of the horsemistresses residing here at the Palace. In fact, Francis recognized both horse and horsemistress. He set his cup on the nearest table and turned to bow to the Prince.

  “If Your Highness will excuse me,” he said.

  Nicolas, his mouth full, waved a negligent hand. Francis hurried from the room.

  He went down the stairs at twice the speed he and Nicolas had come up. When he came out into the fresh air, he took a deep draught of it, tasting the tang of rain in the wind. By afternoon the clouds that hovered on the northern horizon would blow south, and by evening the autumn rains would begin falling on the city. The horsemistress must have been watching the sky with some anxiety, fearful of being caught by the storm. But then, this particular horsemistress no doubt knew exactly when the rain would come, precisely how much time she had to make her journey from Osham.

  Francis buttoned his greatcoat up to his chin, and thrust his cold hands deep in his pockets. In moments the magnificent sorrel Noble came up from the park at a posting trot, wings rippling in scarlet folds, drops of white lather flying from the jointure of wing and chest. Her rider was slender and tall, her riding cap pulled low over her rather long face. Francis stepped out into the return paddock and waited for them to reach him. When they were close enough, he called, “Mistress Winter! What a pleasure!”

  S
he lifted a gloved hand, and a moment later, leaped as lightly to the ground as any girl, though he knew she was thirty-eight years old. She was the same age as William, ten years older than he himself. Only the weathered lines around her cool blue eyes hinted at her age. She had one of those bony, strong faces that retained its firmness and shape for a long time.

  “Francis,” she said. She put out her hand, and he took it in his own.

  “Philippa,” he answered, squeezing her hand. “I do mean it. It’s wonderful to see a face from home, and especially yours.”

  “That’s kind,” she answered.

  “Have you come from my lord brother? Do you wish to see the Prince?”

  “No,” she said. She gave him a level look. “I carry a letter from Margareth to His Highness, but it’s meaningless. It’s a cover.” At his lifted eyebrows, she nodded. “It’s you I’ve come to see, Francis. And William must know nothing about it.”

  PHILIPPAhad spent many months in Arlton years before. Prince Nicolas had not yet taken his father’s

  throne at the time, but it was clear, even then, that he was a man inclined to indolence. Still, his corpulence surprised her when Francis escorted her into the salon where the Prince sat with two secretaries and an older man.

  Philippa inclined her head, and the Prince laughed. “Never curtsy, you horsemistresses!”

  “No, Your Highness,” Philippa said. “It is not our custom.”

  “I know.” He chuckled. “None of this lot here will curtsy, either.”

  “No offense is intended, my lord.”

  Nicolas waved a hand. “None taken, Mistress. Tell me, what brings you here? Word from Duke William, perhaps?”

  “No, Prince Nicolas.” Philippa took a step closer, and drew an ivory envelope from her pocket. “My headmistress, Margareth Morgan, greets you, and asks for advice on a small detail regarding the flight you have here at the Palace.”

  Some polite conversation followed, remembrances of Margareth’s days spent with Nicolas’s father, when she was still Margareth Highflyer, and Nicolas was a boy. Nicolas asked after William and expressed his regrets over the death of Duke Frederick. He barely glanced at Margareth’s letter before he passed it to a secretary. “Answer that,” he ordered. “Use your best judgment.” The secretary bowed and departed, and Philippa and Francis were soon able to take their leave as well.

  They strolled past the stables and paddocks and out into the rolling parks of the Palace grounds. A well-kept path wound between shrubs and groves, descending to a clear stream that burbled happily away toward the eastern sea. “Autumn comes so late here in Arlton,” Philippa mused, trailing her hand through the drooping, still-leafy branches of a vine maple. “The leaves have all fallen in Osham, and the nights are drawing in.”

  Francis smiled. “It is a gentler climate,” he said. “But I miss the air of Oc. It seems—cleaner, somehow.

  Sharper.”

  Philippa cast a glance at him from beneath the brim of her riding cap, thinking how appealing the Fleckham features were on this younger brother, when they were so hard on William. The Duke’s black eyes were cold and full of danger. Perhaps it was simply because she knew Francis so well, but in him, those same eyes spoke to her of his sympathetic nature, his intelligence and sensitivity. He was a little shorter, a little more slender than his brother. Even his hair seemed softer, framing his face with ice-blond wisps. She wondered how he managed, here in the Princely City, where politics ruled and every word had two meanings.

  “Francis,” she said abruptly. “I presume upon our old acquaintance.”

  “Feel free,” he said. “We’ve been friends since we were young.”

  She inclined her head, accepting the assurance. “Your brother’s accession has been fraught with problems.”

  Francis raised one pale eyebrow and waited for her to go on. They reached a carved stone bench, and he gestured for Philippa to sit. She did, but stood again almost immediately, feeling restless. She pulled her gloves from her belt and creased them between her fingers.

  “Duke William removed our Master Breeder and replaced him with a young man with no experience.

  Eduard Crisp accused him of violating the bloodlines, but the Council refused to prosecute the charge.”

  “Then that must not be why you’ve come.”

  Philippa lifted her face to meet his eyes. “No,” she said shortly. “At least, not that alone. There’s been a raid, Francis. On a tiny northern fishing village.”

  “Aeskland?” he asked, frowning. “But the barbarians have been quiet for years.”

  “They killed several villagers—including one very dear to us at the Academy, our stable-girl. They stole two children. We have all heard the terrible tales of how such kidnapped children are treated, Francis, but William—with the support of the majority of the Council—refuses to do anything.”

  Francis dropped his chin, thinking. “It surprises me.”

  “His attention is engaged elsewhere,” Philippa said. “And that is why I think the two events are connected.”

  “The Master Breeder?” Francis said. “Then this is about the winged horses.”

  Philippa breathed a sigh of relief at Francis’s quick grasp of the situation. “It is indeed, Francis,” she said.

  “It’s about the winged horses. And about treason.”

  He looked around them then and put a hand under her arm. “Come,” he said. “I doubt anyone is nearby, but let’s be certain. We can walk farther, and you can tell me all of it.”

  FIVE

  FRANCISleft Philippa at the stables after hearing her out and walked alone toward his rooms in the Palace. The bustle had begun, as it did every afternoon, cooks and servants and delivery people hurrying this way and that. No evening passed at the Palace without some sort of official entertainment, visitors from Marin or Crossmount or Oc, or simply a reception for one of the nobles of Isamar. Francis didn’t know who it might be this evening, but he knew he would be expected at dinner, to speak of import tariffs or the need for stronger diplomatic ties with Klee or with setting export prices. Everyone present would have an opinion on every issue. Such debates were the part of his duties he hated most. He didn’t mind being a sort of glorified accountant for the Prince—accounts had to be kept, after all, and might as well be kept properly—but the posing and pretensions of diplomats irritated him.

  Tonight, in particular, he doubted he was capable of pretending interest in such matters. His mind teemed with the images of nightmare, barbarians descending on a peaceful village, their painted warboats carving the cold green sea of the Strait, old men slaughtered in the streets, mothers wailing for dead children, two innocent ones carried off. The thought that his brother would allow such a thing to pass without retribution made his jaw ache with fury.

  “Philippa,” he had said finally, after she recited the whole story, “I don’t understand my brother. William was never altruistic, but this is Oc! These are our citizens!”

  “I’m sorry to speak ill of your brother. It’s his obsession with the winged horses.”

  “My father was obsessed with them, too,” Francis said. “But he put his people’s interests first.”

  “He did,” Philippa agreed. “I think ‘obsession’ is the wrong word for the way Duke Frederick felt about the bloodlines. I know you and William sometimes felt he cared more for the horses than he did for you—”

  At this Francis put up a hand. “Those were childish feelings, Philippa. It troubled William far more than it did me.”

  “I know.” She had nodded then, and let her eyes stray to the west, where the mountains rose like pale ghosts beyond the foothills. He watched her profile, appreciating its ascetic strength. She was not a beautiful woman, and she was ten years older than he, but he had always admired her. He would have been happy to have Philippa Islington as his sister.

  “It’s different for William,” she said finally, then bit her lip in uncharacteristic hesitation. He waited, wondering what m
ystery might unfold.

  Philippa dropped her eyes to her hands, where she had folded her gloves into a nearly flat square of black leather. “Francis, William has altered his body.”

  “Sorry?” Francis thought he must have misheard her.

  She looked up. “I believe he is taking some potion, some medicament. His—” She made a gesture over her own meager bosom. “He swells, here. Like a woman.”

  “But that can’t be!”

  “No, it can’t. Not without interference.”

  “Why would my brother do such a thing? Is he mad?”

  “Perhaps he is. But this is how much he wants to fly a winged horse.”

  “But men can’t fly—” Francis heard his voice rise, and he swallowed, trying to wrap his mind around this offense.

  “No,” Philippa said flatly. “Men can’t. But William, it seems, will stop at nothing to change the fact.”

  Quietly, there by the flowing water, Philippa had told Francis of William’s illegal breeding attempts, of his

  removal of the Master Breeder from his post, of his interest in a crossbred winter colt foaled in the cow barn of an Uplands farm. And now, at the end of the day, Francis was left to wonder what William hoped to gain. He had always known his brother to put his own interests before those of others—any others, including parents and siblings. He also knew how fiercely William had resented his father’s obsession with the winged horses, and with the girls and women who flew them. Francis could guess that if William intended to fly a winged horse, he expected to profit from it. He could also guess where that profit was meant to be found, and it was a truth he did not want to accept. Philippa had come to ask for his help, and as yet, he had no idea how to provide it.

  As he had expected, the dining room with its silk draperies and banks of candles was full of elaborately dressed emissaries and lordlings with their ladies. Prince Nicolas was already present, a glass of champagne in his hand, his cheeks red and perspiring, laughing. Francis slipped into the room unnoticed, and stood beside an arched doorway, eyeing the crowd.