Toby Bishop - Horse Mistress 01

by Airs Beneath the Moon

  Lark gave him a grateful smile and led Bramble back inside. She leaned on the stall gate a moment, watching the beasts settle themselves for the night. Tup stood hipshot, nose tucked, eyes gazing peacefully at nothing. Molly curled at his feet, nestled deep into the straw. Bramble lay down, too, but she faced the aisle, her head on her paws, her eyes alert.

  “Lovely smart dog you are, Bramble,” Lark murmured. “I’ll see you all in the morning.” She hurried off to change. As she crossed the courtyard, her eyes strayed again to the northern horizon, but there was nothing to see.

  Halfway through dinner, the icon around Lark’s neck started to burn. She shifted it, startled by its heat, and glanced around. Hester was busy talking to her mamá, who had stayed for dinner, and Amelia was gazing around the room as if memorizing faces.

  Lark forced herself to pick up her fork and take a sliver of steamed trout. What did this mean? What was Kalla trying to tell her? She wanted to get up, leave the table, but she had no good excuse. She wasn’t ill, and her chores were done. She chafed and fidgeted, waiting through what seemed interminable courses. She barely tasted the braised rabbit or the tiny cup of pudding she was served, though she ate everything, out of habit. The moment the Headmistress rose, she made her escape and dashed across the courtyard to the stables.

  She met Herbert just coming out, his eyes wide, his step hurried. “Herbert! What is it? What’s happened?”

  He stopped, muttering, “Don’t know just what to do! Gate open, beast gone—”

  “Beast gone!” Lark seized Herbert’s arm, feeling the trembling muscles beneath his shirtsleeve. “What beast? What gate?”

  His eyes focused on her face, all at once, as if he had only just realized she was there. “Black Seraph’s gate! And it’s Bramble . . . I can’t find her nowhere!”

  He tore his arm free and hurried across the courtyard toward the Hall. Lark left him to it, and dashed inside the stable, her heart pounding. She raced to Tup’s stall and almost collapsed with relief at seeing that he and Molly were still inside. Herbert had closed the stall gate again, evidently, but Lark could see that the sawdust of the aisle had been disturbed. There was a large furrow down the middle, as if something had been dragged along it.

  With a cry, she followed the track, around the corner, past Goldie’s stall, and Sweet Reason’s, on to the rear entrance that led to the dry paddock. There the track continued, marked in the snow now, and it broadened and roughened as if there had been a struggle.

  “Oh, Bramble!” Lark cried aloud. “Bramble, where are you?” A stab of guilt rent her breast, and she seized the icon of the horse goddess in her hand. “Kalla, please, watch over Bramble! This is all my fault!”

  NINETEEN

  THEAesk woman grunted something at Lissie. Her language sounded tortured to Philippa, as if it must

  hurt to pronounce it. Vowels were hard to distinguish, and consonants seem to come as much from the teeth as the tongue. Both Lissie and the scarred woman were dirty-faced, wearing the long cloth dresses and draped in ancient furs. Lissie carried a wooden bowl and spoon, and the scarred woman had an armload of ragged blankets.

  “Lissie,” Philippa said. “Do you understand what this woman is saying?”

  The girl from Onmarin kept her eyes down but came forward with the bowl and held it out to Philippa.

  The Aesk woman said something else. Lissie, still with her eyes on her boots, held the bowl a little higher, until Philippa took it from her. It smelled of fish and some odd spice, but at least it was warm. Philippa was surprised to find that, despite her anxiety for Sunny, she was hungry. And she would need strength for whatever was to come.

  “Thank you,” she said, nodding to the woman.

  The woman peered at her from those nearly invisible eyes, then pointed to herself. She said, “Jonka,” or something like it.

  “Jonka?” Philippa ventured. She won a nod, and a little burst of words from Jonka. When Philippa shook her head, understanding none of it, Jonka gave Lissie a clout on the back of her head and snapped something at her.

  “Don’t!” Philippa said, taking a step forward. “There’s no need to—”

  Jonka seized Lissie’s hair and pulled on it until Philippa stopped where she was. She grunted something, and Lissie drew a shuddering breath. She spoke at last, almost inaudibly. “Jonka says don’t move.”

  “Move?” Philippa said, frowning. “Not move, Lissie?”

  One thin shoulder rose beneath her swath of furs. “I think so, Missus.”

  “How much can you understand, Lissie?”

  The shrug again.

  There was a pause, during which Lissie seemed to droop even more, her too-thin body sagging under the heavy fur coat someone had hung over her shoulders. She turned halfway, so that she faced neither Philippa nor Jonka, and spoke a couple of words in the Aesk language.

  Jonka lifted one thick finger and pointed at the bowl Philippa held, then made a scooping motion with her hand toward her own mouth.

  Philipa took a spoonful of the fishy soup, repressing a grimace at its raw saltiness. She took another as she looked Lissie over.

  The child was freckled, as Rosellen had been, but she was bone-thin, and she wore bruises on both cheeks. Her eyes were shadowed, and flicked anxiously from left to right. She looked as if any sudden movement might send her flying from the tent.

  “Lissie,” Philippa said. “I’m glad to find you well.”

  The girl’s eyes dropped again.

  “And Peter?” Philippa asked gently. “Is Peter—is he here?”

  Jonka interrupted with a spurt of words, and Lissie whispered, “She says, ‘hurry.’”

  Philippa took another spoonful of soup and swallowed. “Lissie, my mare needs water. Grain or grass if there is any, but she needs her tack removed, a rubdown, but above all, water.”

  Lissie’s eyes lifted to hers and away again.

  “You can’t say that? Even part of it?”

  The girl turned her body in that odd way again, halfway toward Jonka, half-away from Philippa. One pale hand appeared from the furs, fingers opening as she tried to translate.

  Jonka grinned up at Philippa, a hideous expression showing as many missing teeth as whole ones. She said something, and Philippa turned hopefully back to Lissie.

  Lissie would not lift her eyes this time.

  Not knowing what else to do, Philippa finished the last of the soup. She held the bowl out, and Lissie took it. “At least tell me about Peter, Lissie.”

  Lissie dropped her head to one side, as if that could stop Jonka hearing her as she whispered, “Peter’s always in trouble. Them barbarians hit children, and they hit Peter a lot.”

  Jonka growled something, and Lissie immediately turned about and carried the bowl and spoon out of

  the tent. Jonka started to follow her.

  “Jonka!” Philippa pleaded. “Please—my horse needs water.” She tried to mime the drinking of water, and pointed to the opposite end of the compound, where she had been tricked into leaving Sunny.

  “Water!” she said, cupping her hands, pretending to sip from them.

  The woman mimicked her gesture, then opened her hands, spilling the pretend water uselessly on the dirt floor, and barked with laughter. She dropped the armload of blankets she was carrying right where she was standing. She pointed at the far end of the hut, where the barrels were stacked. She pretended to squat as if to relieve herself, then pointed at Philippa. Philippa stared at her, shocked and offended, and the Aesk woman laughed again.

  She was still chuckling as she went out of the hut. She dropped the flap over the door and tied it, leaving Philippa alone in the dark. The wardog outside snarled as Jonka walked away.

  THEoily fish soup roiled in Philippa’s stomach as she waited for the compound to grow quiet. As the cold deepened, her shivering became unbearable, and she knew that Sunny, too, would be cold. She plucked one of the blankets from Jonka’s pile and pulled it around her shoulders. It reeked of fis
h and smoke and age, but it helped to shut out the chill a bit. She huddled near the door, listening to sounds diminish as people went to their beds. Even the wardogs quieted. The wind snapped through the thatch of the hut, but after what seemed an eternity of cold and dark, there was no other sound.

  Philippa was forced to use one corner of the hut, just as Jonka had so crudely suggested, since there was no chamber pot. This indignity fired her with angry energy.

  She rose, pulling the stinking blanket tightly around her shoulders, and peered with one eye through a narrow space between the leather and the wood frame of the door. The guard was still standing outside her hut, or it might have been a new guard, she couldn’t tell. In their leather helmets and thick fur vests, they looked alike to her. He leaned on his spear, his eyes half-closed. The wardog drowsed at his feet, eyes closed, its head resting on a pair of the most enormous paws Philippa had ever seen.

  This wardog, at least, she knew was different. It was black, like the first, but with white spots on its chest and head. When Philippa put one finger in the opening of the door flap, widening it just a bit, the dog’s eyes opened and fixed upon her. She froze, hardly daring to breathe. The dog lifted its head, but it made no sound. Its eyes gleamed, and after a moment it thumped its long tail, once, and put its head back on its paws.

  Philippa released the leather panel and drew back. As quietly as she possibly could, she went to the back of the hut and began to pick at the slanting wall with her hands.

  EVERYONEon the Klee ship retired immediately after dinner. Francis tried to do the same, but could not even bring himself to take off his clothes. He waited until he thought most of the Klee soldiers were asleep, and then he went silently up the stair to the deck. He nodded to the night watchman stationed above the Baron’s quarters, and walked to the prow to gaze out over the water. Around him the ship was dark, curtains drawn, all external lamps extinguished.

  The last of the clouds had cleared. There was no moon. Sky and water were evenly black, stars steady above, dancing in reflection on the choppy waves. The land glowed white with its blanket of snow, only the rocky shore left bare. Francis remembered something he had read years before, in his school days, lines by some poet of the Angles:

  Erd rules over the frozen land,

  crushing all beneath his hand.

  Of human want or human need

  the fist of winter takes no heed.

  Francis wished, at this moment, that he believed in the cold-hearted god of the north, so he could beg him for guidance. But he was no peasant, to take comfort in superstition. He felt utterly alone at this moment.

  He thought he could just make out the glimmer of firelight from the Aesk compound. He leaned forward into the dark, trying to see better. The ship had backed out of the bay and dropped anchor behind the sea stack that marked it, but should the Aesk climb up to the plateau for any reason, they would spot it.

  They could fortify their position, set up their spearmen and archers. Worse, they could use Philippa and Winter Sunset to force the Klee fighters to withdraw.

  Francis spun about, thinking to wake Rys, to try again to prod him to action, but the night watchman’s stolid face dissuaded him. They would not listen, not now. Several ideas had been bandied about at dinner, but none had been settled upon.

  Francis paced along the starboard deck. The dinghy bobbed below him upon the water, tugging at its thick rope tether. He bent over the polished railing, trying to see if the oars were shipped. The boat was small. Perhaps, he thought, a single man could handle it.

  “Not a good idea, Francis,” came a dry voice.

  Francis whirled and found that Rys had come out of his quarters. He, too, was still dressed, and he had a pipe between his teeth. A silvery plume of smoke drifted before his face.

  Francis managed a light laugh. “Are you reading my mind, Rys?”

  “I know it’s hard,” the Baron said. He joined Francis at the railing and stared down at the dark water.

  He drew on his pipe, making the bowl glow in the darkness. “Waiting.”

  “I wouldn’t mind it,” Francis said, “if I could believe some action was imminent.”

  Rys’s eyes narrowed against the pipe smoke. “Conflict between us will not help.”

  “Coming all this way without trying won’t help, either.”

  Rys regarded him for a long moment. Francis met Rys’s gaze directly and let his silence speak for him.

  In the end, the Baron smiled, the cool, controlled smile Francis remembered from the Palace. “You’re right, of course, my lord,” Rys said easily. “And I promise you, we will try.”

  “When?”

  “We’re watching for an opportunity.”

  Francis pressed his lips together and turned his eyes back toward the water. This was pointless, he thought. This sparring between Rys and himself could not help Philippa or the missing children. At last he said, “I’m willing to go in on my own.”

  “Then I will list you among the half dozen other volunteers I already have.”

  Francis said, startled, “You do?”

  “Of course I do, Lord Francis. These are brave men.”

  Abashed, Francis turned to face Rys and bowed slightly. “I apologize. I just—it’s all very strange to me.

  And Philippa is more valuable to us than I can tell you.”

  Rys nodded. “I can see that for myself, Francis. Now, come. Rest. It may well be that our chance will come tomorrow.”

  Francis agreed and followed Rys back across the deck. He went down the stair to his cabin, stripped off his clothes, and rolled himself into the narrow cot that served as a shipboard bed. He closed his eyes, but sleep was still a long time coming. When he woke, it was to snow falling again, thick, swirling flakes that obscured the land and seemed to silence even the rush of the sea.

  He stood in his cramped quarters, looking out at the white weather. Philippa could not fly in these conditions. They would have to wait another day, leave Philippa in barbarian hands even longer.

  He was shocked to realize, as he tried to pull on his clothes, that the ship was moving. He hurried back to the porthole. The ship was moving away from the shore, rather than toward the bay.

  With an exclamation, his shirt still unbuttoned and flapping about him, he charged out of his quarters and up onto the deck.

  TWENTY

  WILLIAMglared at Jinson, who stood beside the stall gate, his head hanging.

  “Why the devil did you bring her here?” William roared. “Why didn’t you just dispatch her out there in the woods?”

  In the stall behind Jinson, the oc-hound whimpered. William glanced over the gate, where the dog lay limp and exhausted in the straw. “You half strangled her anyway, you damned fool,” he snapped. “Why not finish it?”

  Jinson’s shoulders appeared to contract, as if he were shrinking. “M’lord,” he whispered. “I couldn’t do it. Such a great dog, she is.”

  “Erd’s teeth,” William grated. “I should have left you in the stables where you belonged, you misbegotten fool! What do I care about her? She’s vicious.”

  “Oh, no, m’lord,” Jinson said, lifting his head a little. He glanced at William’s face, then shifted his gaze hastily, down to his chest, then away to the blank wall behind him. “Oh, no,” he repeated, weakly. “Not a bit vicious. She—she—”

  “Stop whining, man,” William said. He felt his temper fray like a broken rope, and it gave him a murderous energy. He shoved Jinson aside, and the smaller man stumbled. “Give me your knife. I’ll do it now if you haven’t the nerve.”

  Jinson fumbled at his belt and drew a short blade from a leather sheath. William snatched at it, catching the side of his forefinger on the blade and bringing a drop of blood to his skin. He cursed, and sucked at the finger.

  The oc-hound bitch struggled to her feet, and she stood glaring at him, her hackles up, her silvery fur marked with dirt and straw. She growled and lifted her lip to show her teeth.

  The
sound gave William a thrill of pleasure. “Growl at me, will you?” he murmured. “We’ll see about that.”

  He shot the bolt of the gate and threw it back. Jinson groaned, “M’lord—just consider—”

  William shot him a furious glance. “You damned coward! Either be quiet, or get out of my sight!”

  Jinson fell back a step. The oc-hound’s growl grew, a loud sound that echoed through the stables, causing the horses to whicker uneasily and stamp their feet. William, brandishing the knife, stepped into the stall.

  The dog barked, once, and leaped past him, aiming for the open gate.

  William swore, and slashed at her with the knife.

  He felt the blade catch in the long coat, dig into flesh, grate against bone. She yelped, and fell her full body length in the sawdust of the aisle. He raised the knife high above his head to slash at her again.

  And Jinson—Jinson, choosing this odd moment to show some backbone—seized his arm and jerked at it.

  A heartbeat later the dog was up and running, silent now, disappearing out of the stable and into the night like a gray ghost.

  William spun about and pointed the bloody knife straight at his Master Breeder. “How dare you?” he roared.

  For once, the man stood his ground, though he trembled so William thought he might fall right over.

  “I—I’m sorry, m’lord, I—I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Give me one reason I shouldn’t run you through with your own knife, man!”

  Jinson took a step back, and his face went white as a sheet. “You’ve killed her, anyway, m’lord, for sure. Look at the blood.” He pointed to the sawdust.

  William looked down. A thick stream of blood stained the clean sawdust, trailed down the aisle and out into the darkness beyond. Slowly, he lowered the knife. He fixed Jinson with a hard gaze as he reversed the knife, and held it out, hilt first. “Never again,” he grated. “Never, ever, interfere with me again. I promise you, I will put an end to you with no more qualms than I felt over that oc-hound bitch.”

  “Yes, m’lord,” Jinson quavered. He kept a wary eye on the blade as it approached him, and seized the hilt with shaking fingers. The dog’s blood was already turning dark on the steel.