Airs and Graces Read online

  She climbed the steps, stripping off her gloves as she went. Tension gripped the back of her neck. In some strange way, she thought, she still served Frederick, though he had been gone more than a year. She knew what his dreams and ambitions had been, all for Oc, and for the winged horses. By tradition, she owed loyalty to William, because he was now the Duke. She had been taught that principle since childhood, and her training at the Academy had reinforced it. But, she reflected, she was incapable of blind loyalty.

  “Kalla’s teeth,” she muttered under her breath. “If the Duke doesn’t serve the Duchy, who will?”

  There was no answer, of course. The heavy doors before her opened, and Parkson, William’s steward, was bowing to her. She took off her cap as she followed him inside, and moments later, found herself in a comfortable study, warm with heat from a sturdy fire. She tucked her cap into her belt and paced back and forth before the study’s wide window, pleating her gloves between her fingers.

  William did not keep her waiting long. He stood just inside the room, one hand on a lean hip, the fingers of the other tucked into the pocket of his elaborate vest. Keeping his distance, Philippa thought. As if that would make a difference.

  “I have a letter for you from Arlton,” she said without preamble.

  William’s expression didn’t change or his eyelids flicker. He said icily, “Why, Philippa. When did you become a courier for the Prince?”

  “I have not done so,” Philippa said. “This message is from your brother. The courier brought it to the Academy, at Lord Francis’ express wish.” She untied the messenger pouch from her belt and crossed the room, holding it out.

  William did not move his feet, but Philippa could have sworn he leaned back, away from her. He stretched out his long arm and took the pouch. She eyed him a moment, one brow raised, then went to the hearth to stand near the warmth of the flames.

  William started to undo the leather thongs, but stopped with the ties dangling from his fingers. His narrowed eyes lifted to Philippa’s face. “Why you, Philippa? Surely Francis understands there is no love lost between us.”

  “I have not read the letter,” she said. “Perhaps when you do, you will understand.”

  “I can guess.”

  “Yes,” she said with deliberation. “I suppose you can.”

  William pulled the letter from its carrier. He moved to a velvet sofa and smoothed the pages on the small table beside it. Philippa watched as he read it, then read it again. There was a long silence as he rerolled the letter and tucked it inside his vest. He stood and walked to the fireplace to stand opposite her, staring into the flames.

  She waited. After perhaps a minute, he drew a slow breath and lifted his head. His eyes glittered. Like a snake’s, she thought. Like one of the Old Ones.

  “I dislike having my private affairs discussed,” he said at last. His tone was tight, his face like stone. “Especially because you have used them to manipulate me.”

  “I told Francis you have shirked your responsibility.”

  “You mean to those yokels of Onmarin?” he spat at her. “Don’t be ridiculous, Philippa! I have greater things to worry about than that.”

  “You are the Duke,” Philippa said. “Your duty to your people should come first.”

  His face flooded with dark color. “How dare you presume to tell me my duty?”

  Philippa folded her arms and tapped her fingers irritably on her elbows. “Your father would be appalled to know that you care nothing for your citizens, however low their station.”

  “I care for Oc,” he snapped. “Everything I do is for the Duchy.”

  “Indeed?” She unfolded her arms and raised one hand, the palm out as if to touch his breast. “Does that include changing your body, William?” Her omission of the title was deliberate, and she saw by the flicker of his eyelids that he knew it. “Are you violating the bloodlines for the people’s sake, or because you wish to shatter the traditions of the winged horses? I hardly think that’s the act of an altruist.”

  “Why not expose me, then? You have friends in the Council, I believe.”

  Philippa dropped her hand. “I’m concerned about our Duchy, of course. What will become of Oc if the rest of Isamar learns of your depravity?”

  He sucked in a breath. She saw that his hand went to his belt, but it came away empty. The quirt, the one Larkyn was convinced was magicked, was not there.

  Philippa stepped back, and she, too, drew a deep breath. “Your Grace,” she said, in as moderate a tone as she could manage in the tense atmosphere. “It’s not too late. Give up this madness, let your body return to its natural state. Restore the Master Breeder.” His silence encouraged her, and she said swiftly, “You could make peace with your sister as well.”

  He threw up his head and fixed her with a furious gaze. “You go too far,” he said, his voice so tight it was barely audible. “What has passed between Pamella and me is none of your business.”

  “It is my business, I’m sorry to say,” she said heavily. “In the ordinary way of things, I wouldn’t care. But of course you fear what she can tell us, and that gives me power over you.” His mouth twisted, and she shrugged. “I wouldn’t care about that, either, if it were not for your interference with the winged horses.”

  He folded his arms, outlining the slight but unmistakable swell of his bosom beneath the extravagant vest. The sight made Philippa feel faintly queasy. It seemed to her that his lips were fuller, his jaw narrower, than when she had last seen him. He made an odd picture, as if painted by someone of perverse talent.

  He said stiffly, “I will allow my brother to accept the offer of Baron Rys. And I will inform Jinson—Master Jinson, that is—that the Baron’s daughter is to be bonded to a winged foal. However,” he added, “you are forbidden to mention these other matters ever again.”

  “Or what, William?” Philippa said wearily. “There’s nothing you can do to me.”

  “Oh,” he said, “but there is.” He leaned forward a little, his thin lips curving. “There is that farm in the Uplands—Deeping Farm, I believe. The little Hamley girl is from there.”

  The familiar pain began to radiate up Philippa’s neck. She grimaced and rubbed at it.

  He gave a hollow chuckle. “Yes, I see that you understand. A single word from me, and the Hamleys lose Deeping Farm.”

  “The Hamleys are caring for your sister,” Philippa said. “And for her child. Does that mean nothing to you?”

  “Ah, Philippa, I’ve shocked you. Did you think, because they took Pamella in, that they would be spared?”

  “Of course I did,” Philippa said.

  He gave an elegant shrug. “Then you were wrong. These are the things that give a leader power, and I will use them if I must.”

  Philippa pulled her cap from her belt and smoothed it over her head. She moved toward the door and opened it, then stopped, the latch still in her hand. She looked at him over her shoulder. “Your father would be ashamed.”

  “My father was a weakling.”

  “He was a man of honor,” Philippa said.

  “Why? Because he wouldn’t lift a finger without the approval of that lot of old men on the Council?”

  “I warn you, William. I will not see Duke Frederick’s legacy destroyed.”

  “And I,” William said, “will see every bitch of a horsemistress curtsy to me before I am done.”

  EIGHT

  THE girls of the Academy were atwitter about the forthcoming visit of the Duke’s younger brother, but Lark felt nervy and anxious.

  “What are you worried about, Black?” Hester asked her quietly. All three flights were gathered in the Hall, awaiting the arrival of Duke William’s younger brother. An elaborate reception had been arranged, and the girls, hungry as always, hovered near the tables, awaiting the signal that meant they could start on the tiny sandwiches, buttery biscuits, and iced cakes laid out in readiness. Lark and Hester stood before the windows in the foyer, watching the courtyard for Lord Fra
ncis’s entourage. Unseasonable snow had begun to fall in small, dry flakes that made swirling patterns on the cobblestones.

  “I just have a bad feeling.” Lark twisted the icon of Kalla that hung around her neck. It felt hot all the time. It made her skin burn, and she had taken to wearing it outside her tabard. She wished she knew a witchwoman she could trust, here in Osham, who could explain it to her.

  “Well,” Hester said darkly. “I can’t tell you not to have a bad feeling. These are dark times, as Mamá says. The Council is divided, the Duke is negligent, and the Prince is lazy.”

  She broke off when they caught sight of two riders, coming at a posting trot from the road. They wore the Prince’s crown and lily on their fluttering cloaks, and behind them came a well-sprung carriage, drawn by two draught horses. The royal insignia was gilded onto its doors, and embroidered on the heavy jackets of the footmen who clung to its rear posts. Two more liveried riders followed the carriage, but it was the pair behind them that caught Lark’s attention.

  There was no mistaking the white-blond hair of the Fleckhams. On this member of the Duke’s family, it was softer than on William. Its strands lifted in the breeze like spider silk.

  “Lord Francis,” Hester murmured.

  “I thought it must be,” Lark said. She cupped her hands around her eyes to see better through the glass. Lord Francis Fleckham was a bit shorter than his brother the Duke, and younger. He had the same lean figure, and dressed in the black and silver colors of the Duchy. As he pulled up his horse before the Hall, threw one lean leg over the cantle and dismounted, she saw that he had the same narrow features as his brother, too. Lark’s arms prickled with unease. He brushed snow from his sleeves as he waited for the other rider, a shorter, darker man, to dismount and join him. His companion preceded him up the steps. Lark shrank back into the window, a familiar chill stealing through her chest and stomach.

  “Lord Francis is bookish, according to Papá,” Hester said. “More interested in libraries than in government.”

  Bookish or not, to Lark he looked like another William, another threat to Tup and to her family. The doors were thrown open, and the two men, with two of the liveried riders behind them, came into the foyer on a gust of cold wind and a dusting of snow that melted swiftly on the tiles. Lark stayed behind Hester, but she watched with held breath, hugging her elbows.

  Headmistress Morgan stood in the very center of the entryway, supporting herself with one hand on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. She looked elegant in her black riding habit, her white hair smoothed into the rider’s knot. Her back was very straight. She waited for the men to come to her, and bow, before she inclined her head to them. The girls in the Hall and in the foyer fell instantly silent, listening.

  “Mistress Morgan,” Lord Francis said. “How good to see you again.”

  “Welcome home, Lord Francis.”

  “I’ve looked forward to it.” He gestured to the man beside him. “May I present Baron Rys, of Klee? My lord, this is the Headmistress of the Academy of the Air, Margareth Morgan.”

  The Baron bowed again, and murmured greetings. Mistress Morgan answered him, then turned to Mistress Winter, who stepped forward from the corridor behind the staircase. Introductions were repeated, and the group moved into the Hall. Lark and Hester followed at a little distance. By the time they came into the crowded Hall, most of the other girls had filled their plates and were chattering among themselves. The dignitaries had taken seats at the high table, and two maids were bringing them cups of tea and platters of food.

  Hester said, “Hurry, Lark! All the cakes will be gone.”

  Lark followed her, but her eyes strayed again and again to Francis Fleckham. She was hungry, too. But she wished she could flee to the stables.

  FRANCIS followed Philippa and the Baron on a cursory circuit of the dining hall. The young flyers inclined their heads as they passed. He and Rys greeted the horsemistresses waiting at the head table and drank obligatory cups of tea. Francis had always liked visiting the Academy. The fresh faces of the students, the weathered and experienced faces of the instructors, refreshed him. It was a beautiful old place, elegant and utilitarian at the same time. He liked the scent of horseflesh that permeated everything, and he liked the sense that these women and girls were doing work that mattered. There was, as a rule, less talk and more action here than in any other place his duties took him.

  As they walked out through the doors of the Hall, Francis felt someone’s gaze on him, and he looked around.

  One girl had left her companions and stood watching him. She was small, and she wore her black hair differently from the others, cropped very short so that it curled over her forehead and behind her ears. Her eyes were violet, and they fixed on him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. He nodded to her, and she bent her head solemnly, as if the moment were important to her. Francis hurried on after Philippa and the Baron, frowning. He would have to ask Philippa who the girl was.

  There was no time at the moment. Philippa showed them into the Headmistress’s office, and Margareth waved them all to seats. She sat behind her desk, resting her head against the back of her carved chair. She had aged greatly since Francis had last seen her.

  Baron Rys said, “We’ve gone ahead with arrangements. My ship will arrive on your northern coast within the next two days, if all goes well. The winter tides are beginning, and there can be ice in the Strait.”

  “We’re grateful for your help,” Philippa said.

  The Baron nodded. “It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.” He brought a miniature from an inner breast pocket and opened its chased-silver lid. “My daughter, Amelia.”

  Philippa leaned forward to take the miniature, then stood to cross to Margareth’s desk and lay it on the polished wood. Francis moved behind her. He had not yet seen the picture.

  A thin girl with brown hair looked out of the little silver frame. She looked very like her father, with a narrow chin and small, sharp nose. There was something direct in her gaze, even in the painted miniature. She was not smiling.

  Baron Rys said, with a deprecating gesture, “I know she’s not beautiful.”

  “She resembles you,” Philippa said.

  “She’s bright, and she’s brave. I think you’ll be glad to have her.”

  “You understand,” Margareth said, “that she will become a citizen of Oc upon her bonding. The winged horses live thirty years or more, and she will be ours for all that time.”

  Rys’s voice was steady. “I assure you, Headmistress, that I considered that.”

  “You must care a great deal,” Margareth said, her eyes still on the miniature, “to risk your soldiers on our behalf, and hers.”

  “I do, of course. I care for Amelia, and I care about the fisher-folk who live and work near the glacier. The Klee have long experience with Aeskland.” His voice hardened. “We share our northern border with them, and we know how brutal they are. It may already be too late for these children.”

  “Let us hope it is not,” Margareth said. “And we appreciate your haste.”

  Philippa asked, “How will you find them? I understand they’re nomadic, these tribes.”

  He said tonelessly, “In the ordinary way of things, Mistress Winter, we would petition Oc for one of your Foundation flyers to help us find them.”

  “Yes.” Philippa folded her arms. “But in this case…”

  “In this case,” Francis said, “we can hardly ask my brother for such a service.”

  “Then what—” Margareth began.

  Philippa interrupted her. “I will go,” she said flatly.

  Margareth hesitated, her faded eyes on Philippa’s face. “Are you certain, my dear?” she asked quietly.

  “Of course, Margareth.” Philippa gave a firm nod. “I must.”

  Francis drew breath to protest, but then released it. The set of Philippa’s jaw, the resigned sigh of Margareth Morgan, confirmed there was no other choice. Fresh anger at William burned i
n Francis’s chest. Philippa Winter had performed extraordinary service at the battle for the South Tower. It was unfair that she and her mare should be put at risk again, at a time when they were meant to be pursuing peaceful activities.

  A long moment of heavy silence passed, in which Esmond Rys shifted his weight. He pursed his lips but said nothing. Francis admired his patience. He was, wisely, giving everyone time to reflect and accept the necessity of this decision.

  Margareth said at last, “Baron Rys, I trust you will not allow Philippa to be in more danger than necessary.”

  Rys bowed to her from his chair. “That, at least, I can promise you, Mistress Morgan.”

  Philippa snorted. “I am no novice flyer,” she said in her sharpest tone. “Worry about me and Sunny if you like, but trust us to know what we’re about.”

  “Of course, Philippa,” Margareth said. Her tone was as mild as Philippa’s was harsh. “But remember,” she went on, one pale finger raised. “Winter comes much earlier in the north. The winds and snow will be unpredictable.”

  “You may count upon me,” Philippa said, “to take every care. But I promised Rosellen’s mother.”

  “When will you leave?”

  Rys stood, his slight figure full of purpose. “A week has already passed,” he said. “There is no time to lose. We will meet my ship at the dock of Onmarin, ready to set sail.”

  Margareth got to her feet, a little grunt of effort escaping her lips. Philippa stepped toward her, hand outstretched, but Margareth shook her head, forestalling her help. “My lord Rys,” she said. “We are already committed to bonding your daughter Amelia. Don’t take unnecessary chances for yourself, either. Do what you can, and no more.”

  Rys bowed again. “I am not a man given to wild gestures. I have my family to think of, and my men to consider. But these children—” His thin features darkened, and his mouth turned down. “I have three children of my own. I love each one differently, but deeply. These poor children of Onmarin must be saved if they still live. Life as an Aesk slave is not to be borne.”