Airs and Graces Page 10

  There was no doubt in Lark’s mind. Duke William was watching her.

  She whirled, dropping her assignment book in her haste. She dashed out of the library and down the stairs, racing across the courtyard to the stables, heedless of the slippery snow on the cobblestones, of the cold on her neck and hands. Bramble, the oc-hound, bounded to meet her, and followed close on her heels as she hurried into the warmth of the stables.

  Not till she reached Tup’s stall did she think that William might have followed her. She opened the gate and went in, Bramble with her. She glanced behind her to see that the door of the stables remained closed, that there was no sound of boots on the sawdust. Molly and Tup crowded against her. Bramble whirled, facing the gate, her hackles up, her ears laid back. Tup whickered a question and nosed Lark’s shoulder.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered to him, circling his neck with her arm. “I don’t know if he would try to take you again, or if it’s me he wants. But we have to stay together!”

  ELEVEN

  FRANCIS was glad to see Philippa and Winter Sunset circling above the tumbled huts of Onmarin. He had watched for her all day, and darkness was already creeping across the bay. She gave him and Rys a brief greeting and went straight to the village to meet with the bereft mothers and visit the graves of the dead.

  The village prefect had turned over his modest house to Francis and Rys, and one of the village women had come to cook for them. The hour had grown very late when Philippa joined them at last, bringing the scent of horse with her and a slight tang of fish. She sat at the table, where they were finishing a simple meal of chowder and some sort of sour black bread.

  Philippa pulled off her hat and her gloves and laid them on the table. “It’s too cold to leave Sunny outside,” she said. “I’ve had to stable her in the hut next door.”

  Rys pushed the bread platter toward her. “What did the family have to say about that?”

  “They’re afraid of her,” Philippa said. “They gathered their things and vanished the moment the prefect told them what we needed. Sunny’s none too easy in that fish-smelling house, either. I’ll have to sleep there with her.”

  “We hope to make an early start,” Rys said. “Before the snow comes back.”

  “You know, then, that snow is a problem for me.”

  He nodded. “All we need is for you to find them,” he said. His voice held an edge, and his lips set. All vestiges of the urbane diplomat Francis had known in Arlton had vanished. “My captains have fought the Aesks before. We have thirty-five men, and a half dozen matchlock guns. The challenge is to get a clear shot for our marksmen.” He waved one slender hand. “Archers are more accurate, but the barbarians’ spears are no defense against bullets. Just the sounds of the matchlocks terrify them, though I doubt we’ve actually hit one of their people. We have to ascertain if the children are alive—”

  At Philippa’s wince, he made an apologetic sound. “I know, Mistress Winter. But these are the facts of the case. And, in fact, we must tread carefully. The Aesks are not above slaughtering hostages in order to deter us.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  “Then Philippa can return to Onmarin once we’ve found them,” Francis said. He was gratified to hear that his own voice was steady. Rys had even suggested that he need not accompany the war party, but Francis knew he could never live with the idea that he was not brave enough, or strong enough, to face the barbarians. He knew well enough that most of Oc—and especially his brother—considered him soft and bookish. He did not relish the idea of the conflict ahead, but he could not imagine standing by while others did what needed doing.

  “It would be best if she did,” Rys said.

  Philippa inclined her head. “We never risk the winged horses unless we must,” she said. “If you believe in any gods, pray the weather holds.”

  Rys smiled. “Do you, Horsemistress? Do you believe in the gods?”

  Philippa’s answering smile was wry. “I’m afraid not, my lord.”

  Before they retired, an old woman appeared at the door of the house, wrapped in a shawl, her gray hair falling in tired strands around a careworn face.

  “Mistress Brown,” Philippa said, when she saw her. She stood up and crossed to the door, holding out her hand to the woman, escorting her to the table, and urging her into a chair. Francis watched, bemused, as Philippa pressed tea on the woman, asked her if she was hungry, if she was warm enough.

  Apparently satisfied that their visitor was comfortable, Philippa turned to Francis and Rys. “This,” she said gravely, “is Evalee Brown. Our stable-girl, Rosellen, was her daughter. Lissie, whom we hope to rescue, is her youngest.”

  Francis opened his mouth, but he could think of nothing to say. “I—I am so sorry for your loss,” he finally stammered. “Oc—Oc grieves with you.”

  The look she turned on him, bitter and wise, told her she knew that Oc had done nothing to help her. Shame burned in his heart, and he dropped his gaze.

  Rys seemed more confident. “We will do everything we can to bring your daughter home,” he said, leaning forward. “You have my solemn promise, Mistress Brown.”

  The bereaved mother said softly, “I came only to thank you, me lords. For trying.”

  Rys said, “We will do more than try.”

  She nodded, but Francis saw that there was no hope in her dull eyes.

  She didn’t stay long. Philippa rose to see her to the door, but Francis shook his head. He got up himself and went out the door with Evalee Brown. “I will escort you home, Mistress,” he said gently.

  She sighed. “Safe enough here in Onmarin, me lord. That is, until—until it happened.”

  Francis put his hand under the old woman’s arm. Her elbow felt light as pigeon bones beneath his fingers. He walked with her through the cramped and crooked streets until she stopped before a tumbledown hut.

  “Mistress Brown,” he said impulsively. “I want to apologize for my brother. For the Duke.”

  She gave a shrug that was almost imperceptible in the darkness. “Fisher-folk are of no account in the White City, I suppose.”

  “I pledge to you that will not be the case,” Francis said formally. As he said the words, he felt purpose form in his breast, a need to make them true. “Every citizen of Oc matters.”

  She squinted up at him. “I’ll be holding you all in my prayers,” she said.

  He bowed. “I thank you for that,” he said gravely. “It may make all the difference.”

  EARLY the next morning, Francis stood on the dock of Onmarin. The drying racks lay in ruins, smashed by the barbarians, and bloodstains still marked the boards beneath his feet. He looked out to the bay, where Rys’s ship bobbed at anchor. A cold salt wind riffled his hair, and he pulled his cloak closer around him. For the first time in a week, he had slept soundly. Meeting the villagers of Onmarin, seeing the ruined huts and freshly dug graves, had strengthened his determination.

  It seemed that Rys, too, felt called to their purpose. Francis had reconciled himself to the thought that the Baron had made a political decision in trading this enterprise for his daughter’s future. But now, as Francis watched him give orders, confer with his captains, plan their foray against the Aesks, he believed Rys was as committed as he himself was. Whatever happened, whatever fate awaited all of them, there was nothing else they could have done.

  And now, in the cold light of morning, with the glacier gleaming dully from across the sea, it was time.

  The weather was steady. The clouds were high and flat above the icy water of the Strait. The glacier was a smear of dull white in the distance. The Klee ship, a narrow-prowed craft built for speed and maneuverability, was turned toward the distant shore, aimed like an arrow at their goal. The Klee soldiers, in blue wool uniforms, stood in orderly ranks on its deck, awaiting their captains, who were even now rowing out from the beach in a flat-bottomed dinghy.

  “Ready, Francis?” Rys said.

  “Yes.” Francis pulled on his g
loves. “Philippa, good luck.”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly. The ground beyond the dock was slick with moisture, and Francis noted that she did not use the standing mount she was known for, but stood on a wooden block to fit her foot into her stirrup. Mounted in the flying saddle, she saluted him with her quirt and turned Winter Sunset toward the dunes. She would launch from there, where the ground was dry. The mare’s folded wings began to open as she trotted away. Her tail arched, and fluttering in the wind, a proud plume of red against the gray sand.

  Francis and Rys boarded the second dinghy and set out for the ship. As they climbed the rope ladder, Francis glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Philippa and Winter Sunset launch. He paused, one foot still on the ladder, to watch their ascent. What must it be like to shake off the bonds of earth as the two did now, to rise into the air with the freedom of a great bird, to look down from aloft on those who were tied forever to the land? It was perhaps no wonder that his brother William, always intense in whatever took his interest, had become obsessed with the winged horses.

  But now was not the time to worry over William. Francis climbed aboard the ship and joined Rys in the bow as they turned their faces toward Aeskland and the mission at hand.

  TWELVE

  “YOUR Grace,” said Slater, bowing in his awkward way, his greatcoat flapping around him.

  “Ye gods, Slater,” William said snappishly, “can’t you find a better coat? You look like a giant crow.”

  Slater grinned, showing his yellow teeth. “Aye, me lord, if you like.” He held out a grimy palm.

  William gave a short, humorless bark of laughter. “I’ve paid you enough,” he said.

  “Could have had my company last night, me lord,” Slater said, retracting his hand and stuffing it into one of the capacious pockets of the offending coat.

  “What are you talking about?” William said offhandedly. He was in the midst of dressing, buttoning his embroidered vest over a full-sleeved white shirt. He had that damned Council to attend today, when he would rather have had a lie-in.

  “No need to go out alone,” Slater said, his eyelids drooping suggestively. “’Twas past midnight when you returned.”

  “I don’t need a nursemaid,” William said.

  “Protection, then, mayhap?”

  “No.” William shrugged into his coat and tugged at the vest. It was getting harder to disguise his changing body. He let his hand linger on his chest, beneath the lapel of his jacket. The swelling there had doubled with the doubling of his dose. It had never been his intention, nor his desire, but it would be worth it, he told himself. It would all be worth it.

  He turned to the mirror and surveyed himself. If he kept his jacket pulled close, no one would be able to tell. He eyed his smooth jaw and touched one eyebrow with a long, slender finger. His eyebrows, like his hair, were pale as snow. Not like Larkyn Hamley. She was raven-dark, like the wings of her little stallion.

  The thought of her made him tremble with renewed fury. The bloody brat stood in that window staring down at him, bold as brass. She thought he couldn’t touch her now, he supposed. Thought she and her horse—the horse that should have been his—she thought they were safe from him now. He would like to have Slater procure her, just once. Give him an hour alone with her, and he’d wipe that insolent look off her pretty face.

  He could have gotten to her last night, if it weren’t for that damned dog. Maybe, he thought now, as he smoothed his hair into its queue, and took his quirt from its hook, maybe he could have Slater take care of that bloody oc-hound. One slash of a good sharp knife…waste of a dog, he supposed. But it would be one less obstacle between him and the brat.

  He smiled to himself as he went down the stairs and out to where his brown gelding was saddled and waiting. There could be no better way to pay Philippa Winter back for her insolence than to get his hands on the Hamley brat, do her a little serious damage. If he took care of Larkyn Hamley, and thereby stalled Philippa’s interfering in his affairs, he wouldn’t have to worry anymore about what Pamella might say.

  The thought filled him with frantic energy. He snatched the reins from his stable-boy and swung himself up into the saddle, wrenching his gelding’s head around and applying his spurs. The gelding grunted and burst into a teeth-jarring gallop. William yanked him again to settle him down, then felt a moment’s remorse. It wasn’t the horse’s fault that the rest of the world caused him such irritation. He reined the gelding back, giving Slater a chance to catch up with him on his ugly pony.

  They set out for the Council Rotunda at a trot, Slater bouncing from side to side in his saddle. William passed the time imagining Pamella and Philippa, both weeping, Larkyn Hamley’s small body bruised and broken. A thrill surged through him, a spasm of delight that was purely physical. Oh, yes, he told himself. Oh, yes. Now that would satisfy.

  THIRTEEN

  FROM high above the Strait, Philippa could see the approach of winter from the north. It was as if giant boots stamped southward from the glaciers, leaving great snowy footprints. Beneath Sunny’s wings, the Klee ship arrowed toward Aeskland, its narrow black silhouette slicing the green water. Sunny’s wings beat effortlessly in the cold air as they left the ship behind, and the biting wind held steady. Philippa pulled the collar of her riding jacket higher. She let Sunny choose her own direction, while she kept an eye on the shore ahead, knowing that when they reached it, the winds would change.

  The Strait was not wide, and before the morning was half-over, the flyers were making their first high circle inland. The wind shifted as they left the water, but Sunny adjusted to it without difficulty. Philippa kept her thighs pressed tight under the knee rolls of her saddle, shifting as Sunny tilted with the updrafts, and scanned the ground below.

  It hardly seemed possible that the topography of one shore could differ so much from the other. The north coast of Oc was sandy, lined by dunes and long grasses, with abundant inlets and bays for the fisher-folk to use. Aeskland’s coastline was rocky and rough. Between the glacier’s edge and the coastline stretched a vast, treeless plateau, covered now with snow. Philippa understood that the nature of a people was shaped by its environment. From the indolence of Isamarians to the toughness of the Uplanders, she had seen how hardship or ease affected character. Those they called barbarians were the product of a barbaric land. She could find nothing in the country beneath her that offered warmth or comfort.

  She knew little about the Aesks except for the tales of their savage wardogs, of their barbed arrows and double-tipped spears, the viciousness with which they treated their slaves. Some said they killed horses when they could get them, ate the meat, and used their skins. Philippa scanned the horizon, looking for the smoke of cookfires, the outlines of tents against the snow. Soon, perhaps, Klee and Isamar would know what was fable and what was truth about Aeskland.

  Rys had said that though Klee had often been at war with Aeskland in the past decade, the Klee never followed them into their own lands. Klee’s lands abutted the Aesk territories, and their battles had been skirmishes, raids and counterraids, the barbarians biting at Klee’s borders like dogs nipping at a deer’s flanks. Not since Klee and Isamar had been one kingdom had any of the civilized lands invaded the north country. Aeskland had nothing they wanted.

  Philippa let Sunny make a lower circle. A bit of midday sun broke through the cloud cover and glimmered on the sails of the Klee ship as it hove to off the coast. Ice crystals flashed from the snowfield below. Philippa squinted against the brightness, but she could see nothing. She and Sunny made another circuit, still lower, then banked back toward the ship, dipping over the cliffs and down to the shore. They flew along the strand, looking for a place to come to ground.

  At the end of a long finger of water that thrust inland through the rocks, Philippa spied a more or less level space, just upslope from the beach, running between stands of the dwarf trees. Snow covered everything now, of course, so she had no way to tell how trustworthy the groun
d might be. But Sunny had been aloft for many hours, and it was time to rest her. Philippa lifted her rein and shifted her weight. Obediently, Sunny tilted her wings and began her descent.

  Philippa loosened the reins. Sunny knew how to choose her landing spot, and on uncertain ground it was best to let a winged horse follow her instinct. Sunny stretched out her neck, her ears flicking forward, and reached with her forefeet. Philippa kept her hands low, her weight a little back, her thighs flexed against the leathers of her stirrups.

  Sunny’s forefeet touched, and her back hooves reached, but she kept her extended wings tensed. Philippa felt her caution at landing on the snow, at not knowing what might be beneath it. Her left front hoof slipped, and she might have stumbled, but her wings flexed, catching the air, steadying her. Her canter was tentative, wings still fluttering. She bowed her neck, seeking balance. Philippa swayed with her and stood in her stirrups as Sunny slowed to a trot.

  When she stopped, panting, Philippa leaned forward over her lathered neck. She smoothed her ruffled mane, and murmured, “Sunny, I am barely worthy of you.” Sunny tossed her head and flicked her ears, making Philippa laugh. “All right, my girl,” she said, swinging her leg over the cantle. “I know what that means. And I’m as hungry as you are.”

  She turned to see that the two dinghies from the ship were moving in toward the shore. A man in the front of each bent over the bow, testing the depth of the water with a pole as the boats sought a safe path to the rock-strewn beach. By the time Philippa had cooled Sunny, removed her tack, and rubbed her down, the boats had grounded, and the soldiers were pulling them up onto the shore. Some of the Klee soldiers went straight to work putting up tents, economical affairs constructed with poles and sheets of jute canvas, arranged in circular fashion. Others set to with buckets to tote water from the stream that ran through the rocks to the beach, carving a sandy path to the sea.