by Bell, Hilari
“It sounds tedious,” I said. “Is there any way I could get to this race?” The orphan’s price had been paid when I delivered my plan, but I was terrified to leave its execution solely in their hands. ’Twas my scheme, and any disaster that befell the children would be my fault. If anything went wrong, I needed to be there in order to fix it.
“The estate where they’re holding it is twelve miles away,” said Liana. “I heard some of the gardeners lamenting that they couldn’t walk there and get back in time for work, even if they set out well before dawn.”
“Then I shall have to accompany Master Roseman.” Despite all the dangers, I felt more cheerful at the prospect of action, and my expression must have revealed this, for alarm flickered over Lianna’s face.
“He’d never agree. Even if you begged him to take you.”
“Oh, I won’t beg,” I said. “With a man as paranoid as Roseman, that would be fatal. But suspicious people are easy to manipulate. More than those who aren’t so suspicious, though they’d never believe it.”
“I suppose you learned that from your criminal squire?”
I had told her about Fisk.
“In a sense,” I said. “I learned it, because sometimes I have to manipulate Fisk. He’s as paranoid as Roseman—though in a nicer way.”
* * *
For all her nervousness Lianna was willing to assist, and that night at dinner she expressed a timid interest in going to see the race.
“I know your guests and Master Markham will be going in your carriages, but some of the upper servants plan to drive out in the wagon. I was wondering if I might go with them.”
Jack, who had taken Wiederman’s place at the table, raised a skeptical brow.
Roseman’s gaze turned to me. “What about you, Sevenson? Do you also want to go to the race? Fisk is still back in the city, you know.”
“I have no desire to go,” I said calmly, and went on eating a rather nice pheasant.
It took a bit more prodding on Roseman’s part, but by the meal’s end it had been agreed that I’d go with him to the race—dressed as one of his guards, so they could keep an eye on me—and thus prevent whatever I was planning to get up to here, in Roseman’s absence.
Honestly, he was easier to handle than Fisk.
But before I could profit from that small victory, I still had to fulfill Fisk’s request. ’Twas time to try for the key.
* * *
I frequently find that efforts intended to accomplish one thing end up accomplishing something else entirely. Roseman had ordered Lianna and me to stay out of sight while his guests were present…which meant no one would consider my absence for much of the day remarkable. And even in the country, a gentleman must dress for dinner.
Most of the company arrived in the early afternoon, and since the horse Roseman was running had already been sent to the estate where the race was to be held, he took them out to show off the rest of his stable. I had only to wait till his valet went down to share a cup of tea with the other servants before I sneaked into his room and secreted myself under the bed.
I had already ascertained that I had a clear view of the dials from there, as well as considering other possible hiding places in the room. The view from the wardrobe was better, but the odds of my being found in it were ridiculously high. In fact, beneath the bed was the only place I thought I might go undiscovered and still see the numbers on the dials—or at least the direction of their pointers—when the compartment that held the key was opened.
There were also were several boxes pushed beneath the bed, which held lightweight summer coats, some hats for which there was no more room in the wardrobe, and a set of matched dueling swords, all of which would further serve to hide me. Finding the space not only cramped, but somewhat dusty, I’d taken the time to clean it long before Roseman’s return.
Now, sliding into the narrow space between the boxes, making sure that none of them pushed from beneath the bed skirts to attract attention, I was glad I had. This was, mayhap, the one moment in my life when a sneeze might mean my death.
I was also glad I’d taken the precaution of hiding myself early in the afternoon, for Roseman’s valet kept popping in and out. He was a small man, with an irritating habit of whistling under his breath when he thought himself alone. Why he hadn’t mended his master’s coat and polished his boots earlier I didn’t know, but when he was present I didn’t dare even to turn my head.
In his occasional absence I could turn onto my back, or stomach, or side, and ease my cramping neck. After the first half-hour, lying on a hard wooden floor becomes increasingly uncomfortable. On the other hand, listening to the valet bustle about his work my pounding heartbeat gradually slowed, for he came and went without ever suspecting my presence.
When dinnertime drew near, I seized on one of his errands to position myself in the way it was most comfortable for me to see the dials. I’d had plenty of time to arrange the boxes and the bed skirt so I had a clear view of that section of the wall.
But the sound of the Rose’s footsteps set my heart pounding.
“The maroon velvet, I think,” he told his man.
“With the gold lace collar, sir?”
“No, that’s too fancy for a country dinner. The shirt with pointelle lace, collar and cuffs.”
Did that mean he wasn’t going to wear jewelry? My every aching muscle screamed in protest.
They went on to discuss britches and stockings at most tedious length, while the valet brushed his master’s hair and assisted him into his clothing. Finally, Roseman said, “Looks good. A ring do you think?”
“The emerald, sir? A bit of color, to brighten up dark brown and gold?”
“Won’t that be a bit much, for the country?”
No it won’t! I thought at him, as hard as I could. You need to show off for the neighbors, intimidate your guests, display how rich you are…
“Well, sir, you are a great man,” the valet said.
I could have kissed him.
Roseman laughed. “All right. The emerald ring.”
I’d expected the valet to get the jewelry, but ’twas Roseman himself who went to the wall, pulled off the concealing rosettes…and stood right in front of the dials, blocking my view as he turned them.
The section of paneling that swung open was below the dials, and I had only a moment, as he bent to sort though the jewel boxes in the hidden compartment, to note the places all three pointers rested. Then he closed the door, turned the dials again, and even replaced the rosettes before returning to let his valet put the final touches on his attire. I closed my eyes, ignoring the valet’s fawning flattery, fixing the location of all three dials in my mind—which might have been harder, if it hadn’t struck me to think of them as times on a clock face.
Not long after that Roseman departed, and I lay on my back listing to his man putter about, putting away brushes and the stockings that hadn’t been chosen.
Finally, finally he left.
Mayhap I should have waited. He could have returned at any moment. But the thought of Roseman returning to this room, of creeping out as he slept atop me—which I had once considered an acceptable possibility—was now too much to be borne.
I squirmed from beneath the bed, replaced the boxes I’d shoved aside, and dragged myself to my feet, my joints creaking like an old grandfather’s.
My fingers shook as I pulled the rosettes off their dials. I’d have little chance to conceal myself if anyone came in, and I dared not open the door to try to hear footsteps. My best hope now was speed.
The first dial had rested at 12:04 or mayhap 12:05—’twas hard to be precise, but I turned the pointer to that position, ignoring the number it settled on.
The second dial had been set at 12:45 precisely. I was sure of that one. Almost.
The third dial I turned to 12:36…and nothing happened.
I reached down and pressed my hand against the panel that had opened trying to shake it—it felt like trying to shake
part of the wall.
I tried the third pointer at 12:37, and then 12:35, to no avail.
My nerves screaming for haste, I turned it back to 12:36, and turned the first dial to 12:05, then changed the last dial back and forth, clicking though all the positions I thought it might have occupied. Nothing. Straining my memory, trying to figure out how my position on the floor might have affected my view, I turned the first dial to 12:06 and tried the last dial in several positions again… and on the third try, my straining ears heard a faint click from the wall below.
I had to press on the narrow edge of the panel to one side of the pivot hinge to swing it open. Inside lay a nice collection of gentleman’s jewelry, though not as much as I’d have expected from someone as rich as Roseman—mayhap he kept the bulk of his finery in town. I got to see most of the collection, because the glowing key lay at the very back, with no more concealment than the clutter of cases that filled the compartment.
It slipped into my pocket like the lethal secret it was, and my pulse hammered as I closed the door and spun the dials. I had no memory of where they’d pointed before I turned them, and I could only hope Roseman wouldn’t remember either.
I strode quietly over to the door and pressed my ear to it. I heard nothing, but through a plank this thick that meant little. I eased the door open a crack and peered out—the space I could see was empty, but the hallway on the other side wasn’t visible.
Boldness would serve best now.
I swung open the door and stepped out, casually, as if I’d every right to be in that room. As I closed it behind myself, I glanced down the other half of the corridor…and my knees weakened when I found it empty.
With all the guests at dinner, that was the most likely outcome. And despite the fact that no one could know where I’d been, I scuttled down the corridor to the servant’s stair. By the time I reached my own room I was drenched in sweat, and breathing as if I’d run a mile…but I had the key in my possession.
If Roseman had no need for it, if he didn’t notice its absence, if he didn’t notice that those dials weren’t in the position he’d left them…then the dangerous part began.
* * *
The local lord who owned the estate where the race was to be held was no friend to Roseman, or so I gathered from the servants’ commentary. I wondered at that, till I realized that such an arrangement would divert suspicions of foul play. The agreement of the owners was that the horses would be housed here, fed the same food and given the same treatment, for a week before the race—mostly so that, if one of the horses was magica, the other grooms would have time to notice. The estate also had a long race course around their broad pastures, and stabling to house the horses that were to compete.
All the local gentry, and most of the country folk who lived nearby, had gathered to watch the event. Stands had been erected, as if for a tourney, and the rest of the crowd spread out on each side of the line that would both start and finish the course. Beyond the rope that held the crowd back, the inner part of the course was lined with blue flags, and the outer with red. If a horse passed outside one of those flags, it had to go back and pass inside it or be disqualified—and sober-looking judges stood by each flag, particularly in areas where the course passed out of sight.
Not being part of the gentry, or even a real guard, I went with the rest of Roseman’s guardsmen to stand beside the part of the course the horses would race past on their way to the finish. We’d have a poor view of the start, and almost as poor a view of the end, but we’d be able to watch them jockey for position in this final stretch.
To my surprise, Jack came up and stood beside me.
“The Rose doesn’t think a dozen guards are sufficient to keep an eye on me?”
“After you were angling to get here so obviously? No, he doesn’t. I’m here to remind you that if you make too much trouble Fisk will be the one who pays the price. Well, he’ll be the second person to pay.”
The indifference in his voice nettled me. “And how is Fisk? He’s not dead.” I touched the collar, concealed beneath the collars of my shirt and coat. “But ‘twould be nice to know he’s not chained to some dungeon wall.”
“Fisk is doubtless scheming away, even as we speak. It won’t get him anywhere, but it keeps him happy so I don’t try to stop him.”
“You must have been a very bad teacher, to be so sure his schemes will be fruitless.”
I had hoped to touch Jack on the raw, but he only smiled absently. A squad of stablemen where walking over the final yards of the track, tossing out any stones they found. The course master, who owned the estate, was arguing about something with the judges near the finish line.
If the Rose’s bought riders did their job, when the horses passed us ’twould be Red Thorn in the lead, while the others tried to hold back their mounts but still make it look like a race.
Chant is a destrier, not a racer, but I couldn’t help wishing myself in the saddle on so fine a day—even in a fixed race, and one I couldn’t win even if ’twas honest.
I wondered how Chant and Tipple were faring in our landlady’s care for so long. Had the orphans been able to keep True? Or had they taken the dog back to her, as well? Fisk would be paying for their keep, but the animals were so much a part of our roving life I couldn’t help but miss them.
Though not as much as I missed Fisk.
“How could you?” I asked Jack. “How could you betray him into such a deadly trap?”
That got his attention. “Like you’ve never taken Fisk into danger?”
“Nothing so perilous as…” Several inconvenient memories surfaced. “Well, I never involved him in anything against his will! If he went into danger with me he did so in full knowledge, by his own choice.”
“If he’d just let go of you, he wouldn’t be in danger.” Jack sounded more exasperated than repentant. “Or I should say, when he lets go of you he won’t be.”
I stared at him. “I thought you knew Fisk. His ethics may fall short, by some folk’s measure, but he’s utterly loyal to those he cares about. He won’t abandon me. Ever.”
“Then I still have something to teach him,” Jack said. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t…ah, it’s beginning.”
The horses were led out to the course. Grooms clad in household livery held their lead reins, and the riders wore ribbons in household colors around their arms.
I saw at once that the orphans had failed to get the laudanum into Red Thorn’s feed. The big chestnut pranced his way to the starting line, ears pricked, eager to run. I thought for a moment the whole scheme had failed…until I saw his rider sway in the saddle.
Others had seen it too. Roseman himself came onto the course. The crowd had gone so quiet we could hear him protesting that his rider was sick, clearly sick, and he should be allowed to replace him.
Jack cast a curious glance my way, but I ignored it. Having been under the eyes of Roseman’s guards from the time we left the house might have been uncomfortable, but it had its advantages.
We all heard the course master say that the owners had agreed that no rider could be substituted after the fifth day before the race. Master Roseman had insisted on that rule. Did Master Roseman wish to withdraw his horse?
The Rose cast a fearful scowl at his rider, sagging in the saddle, and declined to withdraw.
I had been hoping he’d accept, and let the man get to a healer. How much laudanum had the orphans dosed him with? Surely not the half-bottle I’d recommend for the horse, or he’d be dead by now!
Whatever his rider’s state, Red Thorn was ready to run. The horses gathered at the line, the flag went down, and they all burst forward in a mass of bouncing rumps and flying clods of grass and mud.
The rider seemed a bit steadier in the saddle, as the pack galloped into a dip and out of our sight. I hoped he’d be able to stay in the saddle—I didn’t want his death on my conscience, even if his survival meant the Rose might win.
The horses were out of sight for several
minutes and the crowd relaxed, moving around and speculating about who’d be in the lead when they returned. Scramble and Morning Thunder were held to be the fastest, but a few people murmured that Red Thorn might have “advantages.”
“I don’t know how you did it,” Jack murmured. “And that’s impressive.”
“How could I have done anything? I’ve been under constant watch since before we arrived here.”
“Which means you have a confederate.”
I snorted. “Or more likely, that Roseman has more enemies than just me.”
Jack shrugged, but he was still watching me when the horses galloped back into view, on the far side of the pastures, and a chorus of groans and cheers greeted them.
Red Thorn was in the lead, running at an easier gallop than you’d expect in a race. But the others were all many lengths behind, and despite his slack pace, that lead widened.
Stillness spread through the crowd, broken by angry muttering as it became clear that the other riders must be holding back deliberately.
I knew what was happening, for horses like to run together, not away from their fellows. They can be competitive, and try to outrun others, but they don’t like to leave them too far behind.
And Red Thorn’s rider was too befuddled by drugs to insist that his horse run full out.
The chestnut stallion was only loping in the final stretch, and the others were over twenty lengths behind him, when the reins fell from his rider’s hands, and the man toppled from the saddle.
Because I’d been half-expecting it, I was moving before anyone else, leaping over the rope and sprinting toward him. He squirmed feebly, so at least he wasn’t dead.
Red Thorn, confused, trotted back to sniff at the rider who was behaving so strangely.
Then, as I’d known they would, the other riders realized that with Roseman’s horse clearly out of the race, they were free to try to win.
I didn’t look up as the thunder of hoofbeats erupted. No time to carry the fallen man out of harm’s way, for the whole herd would be on us in seconds. Magic boiled up within me as I snatched Red Thorn’s reins, and pulled him between his rider and the pounding hooves that rushed toward us.
