The Night Ride

by J. Anderson Coats

  Beyond him in the pasture are the other outrider horses. Mandalay and his sweet tooth. Gladiola and her sense of fun. Banner and his endless willingness to please. Calpurnia, who loves the company of cats.

  It’s only a matter of time before one of them follows Hollyhock to the butchery pens, and Paolo won’t be there to save them.

  Or worse could happen. Then there’d be a single gunshot.

  Next time it could be one of us.

  In a week, the moon will be up. I’ll be expected to join the others. To make the pay table interesting. Like Hollyhock was never here.

  Like all of this is okay somehow, as long as you can make excuses. As long as there’s money to be made.

  As long as I can maintain Ricochet in comfort and safety, even though it means the other outriders are left to take the risk.

  As long as I can pretend I’m not the same as these outrider horses. That I won’t end up at the hiring fairs once I get hurt bad enough and can’t make a pay table interesting.

  One thing is certain. The king doesn’t know about the Night Ride because no one at the track wants him to find out. No one wants to be branded and exiled, and no one wants to lose out on a few extra coppers in their pockets or the excitement of how they get there.

  “What if someone tells the king?” I whisper to Ricochet. “What if I tell him?”

  Deirdre really wanted me to believe I’d be punished if that happened. That if the king found out, he’d be so angry that no one—not even kids—would escape hot metal and an armed escort outside the city walls.

  Deirdre wanted me to believe a lot of things, but horse harm is horse harm.

  Unless Master Harold was standing there with me. He’s all but Father’s big brother, and he’s always cared about me and Greta and Torsten like we were his own. He may have spent his one big ask, but maybe just him being next to me will soften the blow.

  I’ll go tomorrow. First light, before morning chores. Before I lose my nerve.

  Only Deirdre isn’t a fool. She’ll be watching the outrider stable closely now—watching me—and no matter what any stablehand tells her, if I’m gone, she’ll suspect what I’m doing.

  Before I even get to the royal stables, every jockey and groom and horseboy will be ready to deny all knowledge at a formal inquest.

  When I confess, Ricochet has to be somewhere safe.

  There’s no way I can just lead him away from here in broad daylight, though. Someone would notice and stop me. I’m not wearing the king’s badge, and Ricochet doesn’t have a red bridle or any kind of royal saddlecloth that says I have permission to ride him. It would look like I was stealing him.

  There aren’t many hanging crimes in Mael Dunn. Just murder, treason—and horse thievery.

  Ricochet flicks his tail. He’s relaxed and content, one ear swiveled at me, because he trusts me to take care of him and he likes us being together.

  It’s got to be tonight. Before Deirdre works out what I’m doing.

  Before I think too much on how breaking up the Night Ride and saving the outrider horses also means there’ll be no more junior racing cadre. Probably no more stablehands, either, if they’re paid out of Deirdre’s own purse. No more coppers to send home. No more post parades and hope for a future riding racehorses. It’ll be back to the lanes and the hiring fairs for all of them.

  Before I picture the king’s reaction as I tell him everything.

  Ricochet and I will head up to the meadow. From there we can travel through the greenwood under cover of darkness till we reach the northern city gate. I’ll ask the guards to get Master Harold and I’ll turn myself in. Ricochet’s old stall is probably waiting. Nice and clean. He can go back to being a fleet horse.

  I choke on a sob and press my forehead into Ricochet’s shoulder. He’ll be safe. Torsten will take good care of him.

  I wish I could be as sure about what’ll happen to me.

  * * *

  I’m supposedly sick, which gives me an excuse to skip evening chores and supper. I’m on my bed in the bunkhouse impatiently watching the sky darken when there’s a knock on my door. It’s Astrid, and she’s carrying a tray.

  “I brought you a mug of broth,” she says, “and some fizzy water that might help calm your stomach.”

  I take the tray and thank her.

  She shrugs. “The cookhouse ladies told me I had to.”

  So Astrid is still upset about what happened with post parade. Or rather, how I suggested perhaps we shouldn’t simply do whatever we’re told without thinking it through. I almost laugh—soon enough it won’t matter—but instead I walk back to my bed to put down the tray.

  My steps echo on the wooden floor. Astrid’s eyes go to my feet, and I belatedly realize that I’m still wearing my good riding boots and fancy clothes, which are not things people wear when they’re sick in bed.

  “I needed the privy,” I say, and it’s too sharp, too defensive.

  Astrid shrugs big and showy, complete with eye roll, and disappears out the bunkhouse door.

  I drink the broth. It’s chicken, hot and delicious. It does help calm my stomach, but not the way the cookhouse ladies intended.

  Astrid is mad at me. When Greta is mad at me, she makes a point of ignoring me. Not watching everything I do.

  This is going to work. It has to work.

  I take off my boots and get under my blankets, though. Just in case.

  When my window is finally dark and the bunkhouse has been quiet for some time, I get up and put on my barn jacket over my fancy clothes. It looks mismatched, but a white shirt is too easy to spot in the dark.

  Then I kneel next to my apple crate, push aside my old clothes, and pull out my message bag full of clanking, jangling coins. I cinch the drawstrings, but the ancient leather has been worn smooth and the knot slides apart. Growling curses, I strap the bag across my body extra tight. Hopefully that’ll keep it quiet as well as safe.

  At the very least, Master Harold can see that Father and Mother get this money and they won’t have to worry about the rent for a while.

  The horseway stands quiet in its wash of silver light, but without the other kids and the jittery excitement of the Night Ride, saddling Ricochet in the dim feels wrong somehow, like I’m a bandit bent on thievery and the moon and stars are here to catch me out.

  Once we’re in the greenwood, Ricochet wants to gallop the straightaway like he always does, but I make him trot. My leather bag jangles like a charm bracelet, but at least no one’s around to notice. Dapples and drips of starlight flash past, and the night air smells clean and vibrant.

  Past the stream. Up the hill. It’s strange to be out here without anyone to race against. Bandits have the right idea—it’s not the worst thing to ride in the dark if you’re not trying to win dinars and risking your neck. The night is peaceful, and I never thought I’d come to like it. I never thought I’d like being this far from Edge Lane, where the dark is welcoming instead of scary.

  By the time we get to the meadow, everything is still. No frantic hoofbeats behind us. No thrash of brush. No squeak of leather.

  I close my eyes and breathe in the rich, glorious night.

  Ricochet clunks the bit between his teeth. He’s not sure what to make of us stopping in the meadow. He wants to run, I can tell. He knows the trail and he wants to win.

  It’s enough to remind me what’s at stake.

  We circle the meadow, and as we do, I remember my first trail ride when I was here alone because the others wanted to see what kind of rider I was. They’d have reported back to Deirdre, certainly, and she’d have nodded and told Marcel to bring me in.

  It had been a test. Just not quite like I thought.

  That was the day Hollyhock and I found the beginnings of a path, one he hadn’t liked. One that just might be a bandit trail.

  Bandit life may be different than I think, but not every bandit is Paolo or his sisters.

  Once we head down this path, there’s no turning back. Everything I�
��d hoped to gain here, to build here—gone. And there’s still a good chance the king will punish me alongside everyone else.

  Ricochet tosses his head. Like he’s trying to look me in the eye and remind me that we’re doing the right thing.

  I knew from the first moment I saw him that we were meant to be together. He was the lane kid of the royal stables with his unlucky white forehead and feet.

  I nudge my knees into his sides, and together we step into the greenwood.

  15

  THE TREES ARE thick and dense, and we haven’t gone far before I realize just how helpful those trails are that we ride every day. A never-ending trample of hooves has removed most of the dangers there—loose stones, stray branches, trailing vines that look like snakes—and even though Ricochet is a fleet horse, I’m not a fleet rider. I’m scared he’s going to get hurt, so now he’s nervous too. He tosses his head and snorts, and reluctantly I let him walk.

  On we go, step on step, through the silver-dappled stillness.

  Soon I’m going to be standing before Master Harold. At first he’ll be worried, me hustled into his presence—with my wrists bound, perhaps?—and guardsmen frowning like falcons.

  If I want him to help me, I’ll have to tell him everything. Not just about Deirdre and what she’s done. Not just about the jockeys and the track stablemaster and the pay table.

  I’ll have to tell him I was one of the riders. That I’ve known about the Night Ride for months and I’m only now coming forward.

  I’ll have to tell him why.

  Master Harold is my father’s friend. When I was small, he gave me horsey rides on his shoulders up and down Edge Lane. Sometimes he lets me watch foals being born, and once in a while I get to name the baby.

  But Master Harold is the royal stablemaster, and he will not stand before the anointed sovereign of Mael Dunn and defend horse harm.

  I’ll have a royal audience all right, but I will be entirely on my own.

  Ricochet’s footfalls go from squishy to hollow, and branches abruptly stop dragging over my face. This must be a bandit trail. Ricochet would be a tempting prize for them. He’s a sturdy horse, strong and healthy, and fleet trained.

  “They wouldn’t be this close to the city,” I say to Ricochet. “Too many rangers. Too risky.”

  Something behind us goes cracklesnap.

  I go still, and it happens again. The shuffle of footsteps—human or horse, I can’t tell, but they’re approaching at a steady, determined pace.

  Astrid saw me in my riding boots. When Torsten is mad at me, he makes sure I know it.

  He makes sure everyone knows it.

  I curse aloud and urge Ricochet into a trot, then a canter. If I’m caught, there’s no reason I can give for being out here.

  A branch digs into my hair and jerks my braid loose, and hair whips into my eyes. My leather message bag loosens and bounces, shinkshink, shinkshink, and I try to hold it against my ribs with one forearm while steering Ricochet.

  Behind us, the footfalls grow louder. Clearer. Whoever it is, they’re gaining on us.

  The bandit trail ends abruptly, and we’re suddenly plunged into the greenwood and its rocky, cluttered ground. Ricochet neighs, startled and frustrated, but instead of slowing, he puts his head down and cuts through the trees.

  I’m sliding in the saddle, jolted by both his strange, side-hopping canter-trot, and the heavy motion of the message bag that’s coming looser with every step.

  I’m grappling for a handhold on the reins to slow him down, stop him, at least guide him out of this minefield of rocks and fallen branches and every other thing that might harm him.

  The strap on my message bag snaps. Heavy leather scrapes down my ribs toward the ground. I scrabble to catch the end of the strap, but the fat leather pouch at the other end swings wide and hits a tree.

  There’s a sound like a thousand chains being dropped at once, and coins spray in all directions. For a brief, heart-stopping moment I can see each one, lit with thumbnails of silver light from the glitter of stars, before they pass into darkness and disappear softly into the grass and the brush and the undergrowth.

  Ricochet is still hurtling down some path of his own making, the empty message bag pattering against his haunch. I can only hold on, but I’m numb.

  Every dinar from the winner’s purse. Every fair-finish copper. Everything I had to show for the Night Ride—gone.

  I haul on the reins, and Ricochet comes to a stumbling, shambling halt. Turning. Panting.

  I could scramble down and scratch around on the forest floor. My knees wet. Dirt beneath my nails. Maybe I’d find a coin or two. There’s no way I’d find them all.

  Especially not before the footsteps find me.

  “Go, friend,” I whisper into Ricochet’s mane, and I nudge him with my calves. He flings himself forward, tossing his head, and I lean low over his neck, shift my weight into racing position, and let the wind blast my tears away.

  * * *

  We ride. Step on step. Walk, trot, walk, canter, until the greenwood is quiet but for us alone. Whoever was following must have given up.

  Which means I have to assume Deirdre knows I ran with Ricochet. If it wasn’t Astrid chasing me, it was someone else from the cadre that Deirdre sent. I have to get to Master Harold first thing, right when the city gates open, before she can put a stop to what I’m doing.

  The horizon is just beginning to think about paling, but the stars still own the sky. My eyelids keep getting heavier. My feet, too. I hope we’re not lost. I’ve been trying to keep a steady path, but I’m a lane kid. I know how to haggle at the market and make broth out of turnip ends. The greenwood and I are new to each other.

  It’s getting colder, and even though I’m wearing a jacket and boots, I’m starting to shiver.

  The northern city gate can’t be too much farther.

  When Ricochet is cool enough, I let him drink from a stream in small mouthfuls so he doesn’t get sick. His sides are glistening with sweat, and it occurs to me that I’m going to hand over an exhausted, bedraggled, famished horse to Master Harold in a few hours, just before I beg him to put in a good word for me with the king.

  Step on step. I’m leading Ricochet now, walking next to him. My beautiful boots squish above the ankles in unseen mud. Somehow I kept hold of the empty message bag, and it sags off my shoulder from its knotted-together strap.

  I’m stumbling and bleary when a sharp line of dark stone breaks through the round prickliness of the greenwood tops. A turret. The walls of Mael Dunn are just beyond the tree line, and I could cry with relief.

  I could cry for a lot of reasons.

  When I finally arrive at the northern city gate, it stands well barred and there are no guards at sentry. Too early to give myself up.

  I swear aloud and sink to the ground, bringing the reins with me. I’ve been giving things up one at a time for a while now.

  My stablehand job. The junior racing cadre.

  The warm, happy memories of those afternoons when Deirdre had us invent games in the backyard that kept us running and chasing and tumbling and laughing.

  The money I saved from the Night Ride, every coin of it, all the while convincing myself that what I was doing was okay as long as I had a good reason.

  Now Ricochet. Likely my freedom. Definitely any hope for a future that doesn’t involve the hiring fairs.

  I want this over with.

  Ricochet rubs his chin against me. He’s trying to cheer me up. He has no idea that soon we’ll never see each other again.

  I run my hand down his velvety nose. Just being together a little while longer.

  * * *

  Something tugs at my arm. I open my eyes and squint because a stream of sunlight is pouring through the trees and into my face. The tug happens again. It’s Ricochet, who’s cropped all the grass and stems within the lead rope’s reach and now he’s trying to get to a juicy patch just beyond.

  I’m wide awake now. It’s midmorning, a
nd I’ve been lying here long past the time I could sidle up to the guards at the city gate and turn myself in quietly.

  Cursing, I scramble to my feet and take stock. I don’t remember pulling the saddle off Ricochet last night, or fashioning his reins into a lead rope so I could take the bit out of his mouth. I check the leather message bag I must have used as a pillow—if the aching grooves in my face are any proof—but sure enough, it’s completely empty. Not even a copper caught in the seams.

  No reason to hurry now. It’s going to be very public.

  By daylight, the greenwood is transformed. It’s almost like being on a trail ride. Leaves and fronds sparkle with dew and there’s birdsong, lots of it, as if today isn’t the worst day of my life.

  Ricochet is scruffy, covered in mud and dried sweat, with thistles and leaves and burrs stuck in his mane and tail. Even his white stockings are gone, caked with grime well past his knees.

  “Torsten will give you a bath,” I tell him cheerfully, because I might have to say goodbye, but at least our last moments together can be happy. “You’re filthy, and you smell. Then again, so do I. Sorry I have to put this saddle on you. It’s too heavy for me to carry. I know you’re tired. But it won’t be long now.”

  It takes a lot to keep smiling. It’s easier if I don’t talk, so I pull all the burrs and thistles out of Ricochet’s mane and tail, finger-combing both slow and careful. Pulling apart knots instead of forcing them. Smiling. Hard.

  Finally there’s nothing left to do. I clickclick to Ricochet and lead him through the verge, out of the greenwood and onto the tidy carriageway. The city walls get broader and higher with every step. Beyond the cheerful market crowds, I can see the usual two guards in full livery. Their flintlock muskets. Their swords.

  “I love you, Ricochet,” I whisper, “even if you’ll never be mine.”

  I can do this. He’ll be safe. So will the others. They are not just outrider horses. They are horses.

  “Hey. Hey!” A narrow-faced string bean of a man grabs at the halter of a chestnut gelding with a white star and two white socks that a constable is leading away. “This horse is mine! I never stole him. He’s been in the sale pen for nearly a fortnight. Ask anyone here!”