Medieval Mars: The Anthology (Terraformed Interplanetary Book 1)

by Travis Perry

  “What’s so bad about dragons?” Kahoon asked.

  She lowered the binoculars and made an exaggerated frown. “They’re not birds.”

  That drew out one of his lovely rich laughs.

  The flyers’ approach seemed to take an age. Astrid kept the binoculars to her eyes, watching for any bird—even one from Candor—to take the lead from the dragon. Soon she saw a familiar tawny bird. “Yes, Durga! Come on, you can do it!” The viewers below couldn’t see her yet, or they’d have raised a cry, too. Astrid lowered the binoculars just long enough to smirk at Kahoon. “She is one of ours.”

  He lifted his mug. “Very good then. I’ll root for her as well.”

  Gaspar snorted. “Since Govnor Stuart doesn’t have any animals in the race, why does she come every year?”

  Kahoon tweaked one side of his mouth upward. “Because the king and all the other govnors in Marineris do.”

  “Ah. Politics.” Gaspar drank his tea.

  “No,” Astrid said, “she brings the clock.”

  “What?” Kahoon’s eyebrows shot up. “What sort of clock?”

  “An ancient one. A small thing. The size of her hand. No doubt your Madam Isidora had a part in it.” Astrid cherished the memory of each time she had seen Lady Eleanor hold out that gleaming black and silver wonder with Ragnar’s name and the time of his flight on it. “I met her, back in my flying days. Each time Ragnar and I won a race, she came out to congratulate us.”

  “Huh. I have seen such a thing in Madam Isidora’s workshop, but she didn’t call it a clock.”

  “What, then?” Astrid asked.

  “She called it a computer. Because it computes things.”

  “Like flight times?”

  “Apparently so.”

  The laggards from the middle-distance event crossed the finish line one by one and were taken to their nests by grooms. The first-, second-, and third-place finishers remained on the field to meet their owners and Govnors Dubois and Stuart. Then they carried away their prizes of gold, silver, and bronze medallions. Soon the field lay empty.

  “Why isn’t anything happening?” Olivera asked.

  “There’s a spotter in the stands with a scope. He will have seen the long-distance flyers on approach, so they’re keeping the field clear for them.” Astrid looked downrange again. “There’s Ragnar. He’s maybe—eighth back. Come on, old man. You can do better.” Astrid babbled, trying to take her mind off having to depart this beautiful ship and its gracious, handsome captain. She’d have to run. Master Breiner would beat her if she were late. She kept her eyes on the flyers, unwilling to risk further eye contact with Ian.

  The crowd atop the aerie finally saw Durga coming up on the dragon. They burst into raucous shouts of encouragement.

  The gray, leathery flyer beat his tired wings like a swimmer who’d just paddled from Capri to Melas. Durga, however, flew with all the strength of a raptor homing in on her prey. Soon, with a great battle cry, she tucked her wings and dove toward the turf. The crowd screamed.

  “Yes, Durga! Go!” Astrid bellowed, and Kahoon echoed her.

  Durga swooped down in front of the stands, ruffling the hair of the dignitaries with the backstroke of her wings as she landed. The roar of the crowd rose to a peak, then descended into catcalls as the dragon came in behind her.

  “Hah! That”—Astrid jabbed a finger at Kahoon—“is what we mean when we say ‘the early bird gets the worm.’”

  He laughed. “I’ve always wondered about that expression.”

  Astrid looked downfield. She no longer needed binoculars to make out Ragnar. He had pulled into sixth, maybe fifth place. “Come on, Ragnar. You can do it.” Another dragon was between him and the birds in front of him. “At least come in before that worm.”

  “You really hate dragons, don’t you?”

  She shrugged. “No more than they hate us.”

  “So it’s a friendly rivalry.”

  “It’s a rivalry.”

  He laughed again. It was almost worth hanging about just for the chance to make him laugh. But it wasn’t worth another beating. As soon as Ragnar landed, she’d have to leave. She should be on her way now. But then she’d miss the end of the race.

  Ragnar put on one of his famous race-ending sprints and overtook the dragon. “Come on, Ragnar,” she whispered. Chaya, form perfect, lay along the length of Ragnar’s body, her head pressed close to reduce drag. Good girl. She wasn’t handling the reins at all. Giving him his head.

  He passed another bird and landed in fourth place.

  • • •

  Ian tucked the scope under his arm and applauded Astrid’s bird. “A great finish.”

  “Yes.” She handed him the binoculars. “I have to go.” She headed for the hatch.

  Ian followed her. “I can’t lower the ship for you. You’ll have to climb.”

  “Fine.” Astrid started down the ladder.

  He had feared she would say that. “You understand it’s over ten meters.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I can’t be late.”

  He put the viewing instruments on the table and followed, catching up with Astrid on the lower deck. She was on her way down the corridor. The yeasty smell of baking bread filled the deck.

  “No, back here.” He opened a small hatch in the floor of the mess and lifted the lid of a bench. Inside sat the rope ladder, anchored to the floor joist. He dropped the ladder out the opening. “The ladder is twelve meters. More than long enough.”

  “Thank you, Captain. For every—” she choked. A whisper pushed out. “For everything.”

  He stifled the urge to touch her again. To hold her hand or clasp her shoulder or…something. “You’re welcome, Miss Laakkonen. My pleasure.”

  “And mine. Good-bye.” She scampered down like an old sea hand.

  He leaned through the hatch. “Come back tomorrow. For the finals.”

  A smile briefly crossed her lips. “I will if I can.” She returned her attention to the footholds. He watched until she was safely on the ground. She sprinted toward the aerie without a glance back.

  He hauled the ladder back up, folding it into its box.

  Cook appeared in the doorway. “You should be in town, finding me some help, not flirting with stable hands.”

  “And you should mind your kitchen and not tell me my business.” He kept his eyes on his work.

  “Heh. So you don’t deny the flirting.”

  No point denying the irrefutable. He piled one length of rope and slats after another into the bin.

  “What was Her Ladyship thinking, putting a randy young buck in command of—”

  “Cook. Shut up.”

  She snorted and returned to her place.

  Once the ladder was stowed, Ian closed the bin and returned to the bridge. That was it. The witch had to go.

  • • •

  Astrid ran through the aerie to the field. Her heart still pounded, though whether from the exhilarating climb down from the Phoenix, or from fear of Master Breiner’s reprisal, or from the vision of Captain Kahoon’s deep-set green eyes, she couldn’t say.

  She ran out the back door and across the grass. Master Breiner and Chaya were walking back to the aerie with Ragnar. “Well done, Chaya.”

  The girl looked about to weep. “We came in fourth.”

  “Yes, but this was just the first heat.” Astrid clapped Chaya’s thin shoulder. “I bet you’ll make the cut for the final. It was a great finish.”

  Breiner caught Astrid across the face with a backhanded slap. “How would you know? You weren’t here.”

  Astrid staggered, her cheek blistering. “I was watching.”

  “On the roof? It wouldn’t take you so long to return. You should have come down as soon as you saw his approach. You should have been on the field the moment he landed, not leaving Chaya to bring him in!” He pointed to the reins. “Hand him over.”

  Chaya passed the reins to Astrid, who patted Ragnar’s neck more to calm herself than him.
“I am sorry.”

  “Chaya, you’re dismissed.”

  “Yes, sir.” Chaya ran off toward the jockeys’ barracks.

  New jockey, old bird. Fourth place. Nothing to be ashamed of. The girl needed consoling, and instead, Breiner was barking, as usual.

  “This is not like you, Astrid,” he growled. “Neglecting your bird. What got into you?”

  What indeed. A dragonhide balloon, and a floating carrack, and a dashing captain with deep green eyes. “I was…visiting Govnor Stuart’s airship.”

  “What…That thing?” He jabbed a finger in its direction.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “I was dismissed.”

  He smacked her again. “Only until Ragnar’s race was over. When he landed, you should have been here. As you know!”

  “I came as soon as I saw him land.”

  “You should have been here before he landed. Not”—he eyed the airship—“gallivanting about with seamen. Or airmen. Whatever they call themselves. You neglected your duty.”

  A trembling started in her heart and radiated through her limbs, the muscular memory of past beatings. “I am sorry, sir.”

  “You weren’t thinking, Astrid. I won’t have it! Now see to your bird.” He turned and stalked away. “Then come to my office.”

  Breathing deeply to forestall threatening tears, Astrid took Ragnar into his box. How could Breiner not be moved by the sight of that magnificent vessel? The Phoenix was the most remarkable thing…ever. How could a former flyer not be drawn to it?

  Astrid unbuckled the saddle and lifted it from Ragnar’s back.

  He ruffled his feathers and shook all over, like a duck shedding water.

  “Yes, free of that thing till tomorrow, old man.” She pulled the grooming cloth from the bin and wrapped its silky length around her hand. “You did well today.” She swept him down. “Fourth place. Beat that dragon.”

  He burred.

  “Yes, you did. I saw.” The image of him in Kahoon’s binoculars was as vivid in her memory as the sight of him standing there. “I saw you kims out, flying in from on high…” the tears dropped onto his windblown feathers.

  • • •

  By the time Ian returned to the deck, he could see neither Ragnar nor Astrid on the field. A few minutes later, the cook clanged her bell, alerting them that luncheon was ready. He wanted to tell her to bring it up, but she never would. “Olivera, Triston, bring the food up.”

  “Yes, sir,” they answered nearly in unison and ran off to do it.

  Why could Cook not be that compliant?

  They returned shortly with baskets of sandwiches and fruit and a pitcher of hard cider diluted with water. They sat in the shade of the envelope and ate, while the nobles below filed out of the stands and into the red brick building in front of the airship. Cook’s food was excellent. Fresh brown rolls and slabs of cold beef and cheese with some sort of savory sauce.

  Triston, a young, thin fellow with hair the color of sand, peered inside his bun. “I don’t know what this is she puts on the bread, but it’s good. I’ll miss it when she’s gone.”

  Gaspar straightened his back. “She’s leaving?” He smiled.

  Ian laughed. “Apparently so. Captain Triston has spoken.”

  Though Triston had the dark tan of a seaman, he nevertheless flushed, and looked to Olivera, who laughed.

  “Well, she has to,” Olivera said. “How could she stay, the way she talks back to you?”

  Ian nodded. “When we get home I can start looking for someone to replace her. But let’s not speak of it until then.”

  They finished their lunch in silence. The nobles took their time indoors, so Ian returned to the bridge. Presumably some sort of bugle call would indicate the resumption of competition. Meanwhile, he pulled paper and ink from a drawer of the navigation table and used his penknife to sharpen his reed. He opened his notebook to the diagram of the control mechanism.

  • • •

  Astrid finished her crying and Ragnar’s grooming and went to Master Breiner’s office. He wasn’t there, so she walked down the hall to the flight masters’ library. A small room, three meters square, it held four carrels in the middle, side-by-side and back-to-back. Armchairs sat on one side, flanking the window. Opposite stood two bookcases, each nearly filled with books hand-copied from ones in the govnor’s collection. Some of her own scribal work rested on those shelves. More was in the jockey’s notebook she’d been allowed to keep for her own study. She picked out a book she had only read once before and went back to Breiner’s office to wait.

  She was sitting on the hard chair inside the door of his office when he walked in and snatched the book from her hands.

  “I used to admire your curiosity, Astrid.” He slammed the book on his desk. “But today you went too far.”

  “I am sorry, Master Breiner. I thought I was at liberty.”

  “You know full well that you should have been on the flight line before your bird touched down, not after.” He reached under his desk and pulled out a pine rod as long as his forearm.

  He smacked her in the face with it, sending a jolt through her cheekbone to her eye and jaw. “Neglecting your duty that way could get you a demotion. You’ll be scrubbing chamber pots in the jockey’s barracks instead of working with the birds. Is that what you want?”

  “No, sir.” She wanted to fly.

  “Hands on the desk.”

  She leaned forward and put her hands in the customary place on the front of his desk. He ranted away as usual, each phrase punctuated by the pounding of wood against her back. “The bird. Is more valuable. Than you. By far. Pulls his own weight. And then some. You came cheap. From the orphanage. Dozens more. Where you. Came from. The bird. Is irreplaceable. He’s a champion. You’re a drudge. He doesn’t serve you. You serve him.”

  Astrid gripped the rough pine desk as if she could drive her fingers into it. After the first few sharp blows, the fog of pain obscured her mind, and all she could do was pray, as usual, with each strike, Jesu help me. Jesu help me. Jesu help me.

  Finally Briener stepped back. “You stay in the aerie or on the field until the races are over tomorrow.” He put the stick away. “I forbid you to return to that—airship.”

  He sneered the word, the same sarcastic way the cook said captain. Astrid’s own voice was flat. Dead. “Yes, sir.” She straightened, her back protesting every movement, every breath. “May I visit the jockey’s barracks?”

  “What for?”

  “I’d like to see if Chaya’s all right.”

  “Why wouldn’t she be?”

  “She seemed upset after her flight.”

  “Did she?” He frowned. “Maybe because her groom was missing. Fine. Go apologize. Only there and back again.”

  “Yes, sir.” Astrid walked the length of the aerie, her back on fire. Breiner usually didn’t break skin or bone, because he didn’t want to prevent a person from working. But the bruising slowed her down.

  The two-story building where the jockeys lived was too grand to be called a barracks—a two-story half-timbered building with a dormer for each second-floor room. The split-log bunkhouse where the grooms lived six to a room was a stable by comparison. In the foyer, the house matron directed her to Chaya’s second-floor room—just two doors down from the one Astrid had once used. She rapped on the door.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Astrid.”

  “Come in.”

  Astrid eased the door open and poked her head in.

  Chaya sat up on her bed, rubbing her eyes.

  Astrid walked in and closed the door behind her. The dormer window overlooked the little garden out back. A narrow bed sat next to the window, with a wardrobe opposite. Just like Astrid’s old room. Astrid crouched in front of Chaya, wincing at the pull of her back muscles. “Please tell me you haven’t been crying this entire time.”

  “What happened to you?”

  Astrid put her hand to her cheek. �
�Does it show already? Never mind. We don’t speak of such things.”

  Chaya ducked her head.

  “Listen, you had a great flight for a first-timer.”

  “Ragnar’s a champion. I thought he’d win. If he didn’t…It must be my fault!”

  “No, no.” Astrid put her hands on Chaya’s knees. “Look, I flew him when he was at his peak. “He’s older now. Hasn’t beaten Durga in two cycles.”

  Chaya nodded.

  “You’re a young rider, and he’s an old bird. Fourth place is a fine achievement. You’ve proved yourself as a flyer. Soon you’ll be given a better mount.”

  “So it’s like a test?”

  “Partly.” Astrid got up and sat next to Chaya. “Pairing a new rider with an experienced bird tests your mettle and form. His experience makes up for your lack. The best combination is an experienced jockey and an experienced bird.”

  “Like Rodrigo and Durga?”

  “Exactly. Rodrigo is one of the few adults small enough to remain a jockey.” Lucky chap. A freeman, he had a fancy house in town. “He’ll be flying champion birds until you and I are old shriveled grandmothers.”

  Chaya giggled.

  “You did splendidly. Your form was perfect.”

  “Really?”

  “I never lie to a flyer about racing.”

  Now Chaya gave a full laugh. “Oh, but you lie about other things?”

  “Of course not, you wicked girl.” Astrid tousled her hair. Then she stood, clasping Chaya’s hands. “Now come watch the races with me. There’s still a chance you and Ragnar could make the finals based on your flight time.”

  They walked back out to the field. Chaya’s company wouldn’t make up for the loss of Ian’s, but it would lighten Astrid’s mood anyway.

  • • •

  Without Astrid, and unable to hear the master of ceremonies below, Ian could only guess at what was going on during the afternoon’s races. Late in the day, he caught a glimpse of flyers in the west and trained the binoculars that way. The setting sun dazzled his eyes before he got the glasses in the right position.