Airs of Night and Sea Page 22

“My mother is your cousin,” Frederick said. “She named me for your father.”

  “Ah.” William straightened. “Well, Frederick, you’re very like my father. He had courage, and so do you. You’ll make a fine horsemaster.” He tried to hide his fury behind his crooked smile. The boy bowed and stepped back to join his fellows.

  William eyed them all once again, then turned sharply on the toe of his boot to leave the room. He felt their curious eyes on his back as he shut the door behind him. He stalked out through the gleaming foyer, down the broad steps, and across the courtyard to the stables. His breath came fast, puffing clouds of steam into the icy air.

  The stable-man came to meet him, with some story about the mare’s foreleg needing ice and rest, but William brushed him off. He wanted to get back to Diamond. He would send Slater to find out what was happening at Beeth House. And, he supposed, though he had no stomach for it, he would have to convene the Council. Constance, damn her, had been right. And if what young Frederick said was true, he needed to step in before things got out of hand.

  As he mounted the mare, and she limped out of the courtyard, a carronade fired in the bay. William pulled his quirt from his belt and whipped the horse, making her break into a painful, uneven trot.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE third-level class had divided itself in half. Lark and Hester and Anabel, and quiet Grace, were on one side of the issue. Beryl, Lillian, and Beatrice were on the other. Isobel was struggling to remain neutral.

  Bramble had shown up at the Academy sometime in the night. Herbert had found her waiting outside the stables when he came down that morning.

  “I think she was with Amelia,” Hester said, as they slipped out of their riding habits and into their nightdresses. “It worries me, but I’m worried about what’s happening here, too. We’ve had such terrible arguments. Beryl is the worst, because her father has convinced her that the Duchy will fall apart if the Duke’s authority is questioned.”

  Lark whispered back, “They’re willing to see the Academy closed in favor of the Fleckham School?”

  Hester grimaced. “One thinks the Duke won’t really do it, that it’s just talk; another thinks he must know better than anyone else does, just because he’s the Duke. And they talk about tradition.”

  “Tradition!” Lark shook her head, unable to grasp the idea. “But we’re part of the tradition, we and our bondmates!”

  “And they would say obedience to the Duke is tradition.”

  Lark folded her tabard and divided skirt, and stowed them in her bedside cabinet. As she slipped beneath the sheets, she sighed with pleasure. “ ’Tis so good to be home again,” she said.

  Hester murmured slyly, “You always say the Uplands are your home, Black.”

  Lark turned on her side and gazed at Hester. “Aye, so they are. But the Academy is my home, too, and lovely fine it looked as we flew in!” She rolled onto her back. “But if you could have a blink at Klee! Such grand mountains, and fields of lavender and mustard . . .”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  There was a little silence, then Lark said softly, “Have you heard from your mamá?”

  “No. I worry about them, with the fighting going on.”

  “Surely Lord Beeth would not be on the patrol ships.”

  “No, but there’s other fighting. Everyone who comes from Osham is talking about it.”

  “ ’Tis a bad time for Oc.”

  Hester said gravely, “So it is, Black. A very bad time indeed.”

  “I hope Amelia is all right.”

  “So do I. For her own sake, and for ours. Because if she’s not, years of peace with the Klee will be ruined.”

  AMELIA and Mahogany stood side by side, Mahogany’s hindquarters hard against the shuttered window of a tiny shop. Amelia pressed her own body tight against Mahogany’s left shoulder. They were both trembling, but Mahogany felt warm and solid, and Amelia willed him to steadiness. She thought of calling for help, but decided it would be useless. The buildings around her were silent, and the only light came from the gas lamp on the corner.

  Besides, such a display would be beneath her dignity. She was a Rys. She could handle these ruffians on her own.

  “Sirs,” she said. “You’re making a grave error in detaining me.”

  The leader of the band of ruffians growled, “You think so?”

  The laughing one said, “Hoo, Jake, better watch out f’ yer grave error!”

  The leader chuckled. He took a step forward, and Mahogany flinched. He brandished his bludgeon in Amelia’s direction. “Lass, you and yon horse are money on the hoof, and no mistake. No one around to stop us, neither. Now, just you hand over that lead rope, and we’ll see what we can do about you.”

  He stepped forward. Mahogany squealed and lashed out with a forefoot.

  The man cursed, and jumped back. “Tom, grab the girl. Them horses go wherever their girls do, I hear.”

  His companion circled around behind him, staying out of the reach of Mahogany’s hooves. He gingerly approached Amelia, reaching for her with one dirty hand. Mahogany snorted, and tossed his head. He tried to back farther, but he had no room to move. The leader waved his bludgeon. The light was beginning to rise, and Amelia saw that the weapon was a long, heavy bit of wood carved in one piece, and studded with nails.

  The one named Tom spread his fingers to seize Amelia’s arm.

  Amelia murmured, “Mahogany, my love. Stay calm,” and she reached into her pocket.

  In her shock at Jinson’s death, she hadn’t noticed the weight of the long pistol. Now, as she drew it from the pocket of her borrowed skirt, it nearly slipped from her fingers. She hissed a breath and gripped it more tightly as the fear of dropping it sent sparks of alarm along her nerves. She pulled it out into the dim light of early dawn, and pointed it at the man called Jake. The yellow flicker of the gas lamp shone on its oiled barrel.

  Deliberately, as if she had done it a thousand times, Amelia pulled back the cock with her thumbs, then held the heavy pistol in both hands.

  Tom gasped, and stepped back. “Jake! She has a—”

  Jake froze where he was. The hobnailed bludgeon wavered, then lowered. “I see it,” he said.

  The third man, whose name Amelia had not heard, was not laughing now. “Zito’s ass, Jake, them things can kill a man.”

  “I believe,” Amelia said icily, “that’s what they’re for.”

  “Now,” Jake said uncertainly. “What would a lass like you know about such things?”

  “I know this,” Amelia said. “This pistol is no good for shooting rabbits. It makes far too big a hole. It spoils the meat.”

  She felt Mahogany’s warmth radiating through her. He had steadied when she had, and was standing very still, supporting her with the strength of his muscled shoulder almost as if he had an arm to put around her. His near wing flexed slightly against the wingclip, but his feet were planted firmly on the cobblestones.

  Amelia smiled. “And now,” she said. “You ruffians will back away, all of you.”

  “Ruffians!” Jake started to lift his bludgeon again. Amelia set her feet wide, lifted her arms with the elbows bent, and pointed Slater’s pistol right at his midriff.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” he said, but she heard the note of doubt in his gruff voice.

  “Well, sir,” she said. “It will be your privilege to find out.”

  “Jake,” Tom began, but Jake growled some inarticulate warning and fell silent.

  The third man had slipped away, around the corner and into the darkness. Tom looked longingly after him and took a step in that direction. Jake said, “Tom. Grab her arm.”

  Tom answered, “Not me, Jake. You wants her arm grabbed, you do it yourself!” and he, too, was gone, with a clatter of boots on stone.

  Amelia hardly dared to breathe. She and the man named Jake stared at each other in the growing light, each of them breathing curls of mist that rose and dissipated in the icy air. Amelia thought, irrelevantly, that the
air smelled like that at Marinan before a snowstorm.

  Jake finally gave up. He clanked his bludgeon against the stones and half turned. Over his shoulder, he said, “You wouldn’t shoot a poor man in the back, lass?”

  She said, “I make no promises. Would you have struck me with your nasty club?”

  He gave her a narrow-eyed look, then walked slowly away, the bludgeon dangling by his leg. Not until he reached the corner did he break into an awkward run, and disappear.

  Amelia held herself straight for several seconds, and then let herself slump against Mahogany. Her wrists bent, and pointed the gun at the cobblestones. “Mahogany!” she breathed. “I was so frightened!” And in a mere whisper, she added, “Next time, my love, I must be certain there is a bullet in the gun before I threaten to use it!”

  Mahogany blew lightly against her shoulder as if he agreed. She laughed softly, straightened, and tucked the long pistol back into her pocket. She took Mahogany’s lead, and they started off once more in the direction of the bay.

  With every step the smell of salt and fish grew stronger, and she could see, through the close-set buildings of the poor neighborhood, flashes of light from the North Tower.

  “Soon,” she said to Mahogany, as they wended their way through the tangled lanes, “soon we will put an end to all this and go back to the Academy where we belong.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  PHILIPPA scanned the sky as she crossed the courtyard to the stables in the early morning. It looked and smelled like snow. By the time she reached the hay-scented warmth of the tack room, her hands and nose stung with cold.

  She stopped just past the tack-room door, on her way to Sunny’s stall. Something was different, and it was not the weather. She shook her head, wondering what it was that had struck her. She couldn’t think of it, and she went on down the aisle.

  It wasn’t until the girls came in, twittering excitedly, that she realized the militiamen posted beside the Hall had vanished in the night.

  When she heard Larkyn’s voice in the aisle, and Hester’s deeper one, she left Sunny and went across to where they were both raking old straw from their horses’ stalls.

  Larkyn looked up. “Mistress Winter! Did you see, the militia have gone?”

  “I did. Does anyone know what it means?”

  Hester came out of Golden Morning’s stall, and set her pitchfork carefully in the aisle, its tines turned toward the wall. “I’m afraid they went to tell the Duke you’re back.”

  “But,” Larkyn protested, “that wouldn’t take all of them! They’re all gone, every one, and none have come to replace them!”

  Philippa looked around at the other stalls, where girls were cleaning, carrying water, measuring grain. “It seems there is peace among you girls this morning,” she said.

  “Nay,” Larkyn said bluntly. “No more than yesterday. Everyone thinks this means something different.”

  Philippa arched an eyebrow. “Indeed? What do they think?”

  Hester said, “On our side, we think the militia deserted the Duke’s service. On the opposite side, Beryl and Lillian and the others, they think they went to fight the Klee.”

  “That’s foolish,” Philippa said with asperity. “Beryl should know better. They could only do that under orders. Did any orders come?”

  Hester shrugged. “Not that we know of. Perhaps Mistress Star knows something.”

  “Perhaps.” Philippa turned to go back to Sunny, but one of the first-level girls came running, skidding to a stop in the sawdust, and hastily inclining her head to her.

  “Mistress Winter?” she asked.

  “Yes. Who are you?” Philippa said.

  The girl barely stopped herself from curtsying, and Philippa’s lips twitched slightly. “Sorry, Mistress,” she said, coloring.

  Hester, always the diplomat, stepped up beside Philippa. “Mistress Winter, this is Edith Early, bonded to Early Spring.”

  Philippa nodded. “Hello, Edith. That’s a venerable name your bondmate carries.”

  “Yes, Mistress, I know.” The girl stared at Philippa with openmouthed curiosity, and seemed to have forgotten her mission.

  “What do you want, Edith?” Philippa prodded.

  “Oh! Oh, sorry, Mistress.” Edith blushed harder. “Mistress Star sent me to ask you to come to her office. There’s a visitor—” The girl seemed to forget her embarrassment all at once and bounced a little on her toes as if her body could hardly contain her energy. “Mistress, it’s Lord Francis. The Duke’s brother. And he has someone with him.” The girl’s eyes flickered over Larkyn, then swiftly away.

  PHILIPPA crossed the foyer of the Hall with an eager step. She knocked on Suzanne’s door, then opened it to find Suzanne at her desk and Francis standing beside the window, the cool light gleaming on his white-blond hair. It struck her for the hundredth time how different the Fleckham features, the black eyes and narrow nose, could look on different men.

  “My lord Francis,” she said warmly, and held out her hands to him. “My friend.”

  He took them, pressing them in his own, and gave her a tired smile. “Philippa. I’m glad to see you home again.”

  His eyes went past her, and she turned to follow his gaze.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man stood leaning against the opposite wall, holding a boiled-wool hat in his hands. His black hair, shot through with gray, was cut much shorter than was fashionable for Osham. His sun-browned face was just as she remembered it, strong-featured and firm-lipped.

  Philippa’s cheeks warmed. She forced herself to incline her head, to meet his eyes with a composed smile. She hoped her cheeks weren’t flaming.

  “Master Hamley,” she said. “It’s good to see you. It’s been a long time.”

  He bowed. “Lord Francis is right,” he said. “You look very well, Mistress Winter.”

  He took her hand in his, and her own fingers felt like bird bones in the crush of his strong ones. On an impulse, she put out her other hand, to hold his hand between her two palms. The contact felt indescribably warm, and she began to feel better than she had in days. “Brye, have you heard from Nick? Is he well?”

  He shook his head. A lock of hair fell across his forehead. “Haven’t heard a word. Hard not to worry.”

  “It must be. I’m sorry.” She released his hand and turned back to Francis. “What news, Francis? And how did you know I was here?”

  Francis left the window and sprawled in a chair opposite Suzanne, extending his long legs across the carpet. “You’ll have noticed the militia posted here at the Academy have all gone,” he said.

  “Yes. The girls were all talking about it this morning.”

  “Those men came to me,” he said wearily. “All but two of them.”

  “Francis—that must be a good thing.”

  “It is,” he said. “But it means—almost without our planning it—that the lines have been drawn between the citizenry who support my brother and those who don’t.”

  “We’re seeing it here, too,” Suzanne said quietly.

  Philippa pulled her gloves out of her belt to pleat them between her fingers as she paced the office. “When you say they came to you, Francis, what does that mean?”

  “They came to Beeth House, because the word is out now. Beeth and I—and Daysmith and Chatham and a few others—saw this coming. When Rys’s ship showed up, we thought we’d better organize the resistance.”

  “You have a militia of your own?”

  “I never wanted to oppose my brother, Philippa; you know that. But he’s well over the line now, and I’m concerned for the future of the Duchy. Many of our people think he’s dragging them into a war over one abducted girl.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I assume Amelia Rys is why you came back at this particular moment, Philippa.”

  “She’s our responsibility, of course,” she said. “I have no doubt William took her to force me to return. I couldn’t ignore that. And since I’ve come back”—she glanced at Suzanne—“I find
that the Academy itself, all of us who fly the winged horses, are at risk.”

  “If William succeeds in flying this filly, I don’t know what will happen.”

  Philippa walked to the window and put her back to it. “And Master Hamley? Your reason for being here?”

  “Heard things,” he said. “The only way to find out was to come.”

  “And now,” Suzanne said, holding out a rolled parchment with the Ducal seal blazoned on the side, “we have this.”

  “What is it?” Philippa asked.

  “Orders from Duke William. He wants every horsemistress and third-level girl to report to the Rotunda stables. The order says they’re to be ready to fly against the Klee.”

  Philippa folded her gloves back into her belt and linked her hands before her. “He would send students into a battle.” It wasn’t a question, and no one tried to answer it.

  Francis stood up. “I have to get back to Beeth House,” he said. “There are skirmishes already in the city between the loyalists and the resistance. People are afraid to go out in the streets, to go to their shops or their jobs. If William means to attack Rys’s ship, we have to do something to stop that.”

  “It’s a civil war,” Brye Hamley said.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” Philippa said. “William has sparked a civil war.” She shook her head and sighed. “We should pray that his filly refuses to fly with him. That could put an end to this insanity.”

  FRANCIS led the way out of Suzanne’s office. As they all stepped out into the frosty morning, Philippa was exquisitely aware of Brye Hamley’s broad shoulder beside her own, of his greater height, the sheer strength of his presence. It was a relief when Larkyn dashed up the steps to embrace her brother and begin pestering him with questions.

  Philippa left them to their reunion and spoke to Francis. “What do you want us to do?”

  He said, “Refuse the Duke’s order. Stay where you are, out of danger.”

  “Of course I’ll refuse the order,” she said. “But I can’t speak for everyone.”