The Ruse

The paddock was half a mile from the city gates, the closest steeds would come to the noise and stinks of Mora, Joslyrn explained. “You can coax a steed into a forest, even an abattoir, but not a city.” Ahead on the chalk road, a merchant train trundled west. In its wake, leatherwings squawked and dove after spilled grain, an undulating tail to a very long worm.

Ashel breathed in the scents of dust and grass, felt the sun warm upon his head, the breeze brush cool across his skin. He shared an eager smile with Melba as they approached the twelve-foot paddock wall.

“You look like a boy on Winterfest morning,” she said.

“I really have wanted to see one all my life.”

She grimaced. “They’re just ugly giant bugs if you ask me, although I’ll admit they’re fast, and I’m grateful to Joslyrn and his crew.”

“Oh, Minstrel Melba, beauty’s in the eye of the beholder. There’s nothing prettier than a steed, except your crooning.”

She laughed. “You haven’t heard Ashel yet.”

Joslyrn stopped at the gate. “They like a tune, Highness. It makes them sweet on the singer.” His eyes slid to Melba, who grinned and knocked elbows with Ashel. He bounced on his heels, a thrill in his blood like he hadn’t felt in ages.

“Better open that gate before the prince ruins his pants.”

Ignoring the ribbing, Ashel followed Joslyrn into the paddock. Necks entwined, tentacled manes wound together, a pair of steeds wheeled to face him. Breath gushed from his lungs. Chest burning, he had to remember to suck the air back in. Multifaceted eyes glittered like jewels. Chitin segments gleamed a rich brown, like an alloy of iron and copper. He stepped closer, and narrow bodies glided back, feet drumming like piano hammers on muted strings. He’d read each steed had seven pairs of hooves, though the animals moved too fast to be sure.

“It’s a smoother ride than a horse, if you don’t slide off,” said Joslyrn. “Saddle or no, if a steed doesn’t want you on its back, you won’t stay there.

“They’re so lithe.”

“Yep. Those are mares. Don’t like to bring the stallions into town—they could bust out of this paddock, and we need them to protect the herd from lupears, especially now in foaling season. These ladies are too old for foaling, but they’re still strong enough to bear two. You want to go for a ride?”

“I do.” Melba was right; he was as giddy as a boy at Winterfest.

Joslyrn disappeared into a stable and emerged carrying a saddle with dangling hooks instead of a girth. The seat looked long enough to sit two comfortably. Kelmair followed with a second saddle.

Ashel gulped and averted his eyes from puckered brown aureoles crowning her small breasts.

“Shrine, that woman’s a strange bird,” Melba muttered. “And she’s sulkier than a Weaver’s apprentice. What are you so embarrassed about? You’ve been to Traine.”

Drawing in a breath, he wiped the shock off his face. He’d spent a summer in Betheljin’s capital and had become accustomed to seeing nude slaves paraded around like prize horses. That most mistresses appeared proud of their thralldom only made it more abhorrent. Yet he’d been callow enough to approach one young, red-haired mistress, standing alone during a festival, and ask her to dance. Thank Elesendar Vic had had the good sense to refuse him. He was still ashamed of himself for succumbing to selfish curiosity, when his temerity could so easily have gotten her killed.

Joslyrn had fastened saddle hooks to the carapace on one steed, but the other creature danced away from Kelmair’s saddle. Clucking, she hoisted it toward the steed, but the mare slipped away, her eyes fixed on Ashel and Melba.

“They’re making her nervous,” Kelmair grumbled.

Joslyrn studied the steed, then tilted his head toward Ashel. “Try a bit of song, Highness.”

He glanced at Melba. “Is that true, singing calms them?”

She shrugged. “Coming out here, we sang a lot, but I thought it was just to pass the time.”

As if he were stepping onto a stage, he embraced the tickle in his belly and began a herder’s ballad.

The lupear’s howl fills the night,

But not my heart.

Its mournful cry echoes through

This plain so empty without you.

The mare snorted and stepped toward him. He paced closer, singing a herder’s lament for his lost love, drawn into the steed’s glittering gaze. She glided forward and pressed a chitinous snout to his forehead. A purr rumbled a rough echo of his song. Love poured through Ashel, a sensation as deep as it was sudden. Tears running, he caressed her thorax.

Pain jabbed, and he jumped back, sucking breath into cramped lungs while a vicious sting shot up his arm. Trilling, the steed lowered her head and butted his shoulder. Iron gray tentacles writhed, each bearing a knuckle-length lancet.

Shrine, that hurts, said Geram. Ringed with tavern noises and scents, he shook the phantom pain from his hand.

Ashel winced, recognizing the sounds and aromas—Geram was at the Cobblestone. The other man hugged Vic in greeting, and Ashel stroked the mare’s snout. “It’s all right, girl.” His hand throbbed, but the fire had already faded from his arm. The steed purred again. He swiped at damp cheeks as love swamped him again.

Joslyrn gripped his shoulder. “I felt the same—both the gush and the sting—the first time I touched a steed. This one’s name is Meager, and you’ll want to wear these when astride her.” The old herder handed him a pair of leather gloves. The fit was snug and the fingers too short, but the hide was supple. A tug of the laces stretched them so they almost reached his wrists.

“If we’re going, we should go. You’re with me, Highness,” Kelmair said.

Joslyrn leapt astride the other steed. “They’re strong, but we shouldn’t overburden them with two men when we don’t have to. Melba, up behind me, if you will.”

Ashel stared at the saddle. “There are no stirrups.”

Lip curled, Kelmair clucked, and Meager hunkered low enough for Ashel to swing a leg over her. “You can take the front,” she said. “I’ll let you guide her, so long as you follow Joslyrn.”

He settled into the saddle, Kelmair’s torso a hot pressure on his back, her arms locked around his waist as the mare rippled to her full height.

“We don’t use bridles; you let her know where you want to go with the pressure of your knees,” Joslyrn said. “You sit her pretty well, I’d say.”

Copying the Herder, he gripped Meager’s tentacles. Spines struck but did not penetrate the gloves. Joslyrn’s mount flowed out of the paddock, and Meager’s segments pulsed as she glided after.

It’s like riding surf, Geram said, delighted.

“Her gait truly is smoother than a horse’s.”

“Wait ’til you feel her run.” Joslyrn hallooed, and the steeds hurtled over the flat dry plain beside the road. The wind tore Ashel’s whoop away, and his laugh was left behind as the grass rolled beneath their feet. In moments the stable had shrunk to a speck. In minutes, the city was only a smudge on the horizon. They sped west, faster than a champion racehorse and far past the point where a horse would have collapsed. Ashel reveled in the way the mare wove smoothly round rocks and scrub, turning swiftly and easily according to the pressure of his knees. They rode on and on as the sun sank slowly behind them, and their shadows lengthened across the dry grass.

“How long can they keep this up?” he asked.

“A long time, and they’ll run faster if need be,” Kelmair said. “They’re anxious to reach the herd before the lupears catch our scent.”

“Then shouldn’t we head back to the paddock?”

He felt her chuckle. “We’re not going back, Shemen.”

“What?”

“We’re taking you to meet your father.”

Adrenaline surging, he hauled on the tentacles. Meager squealed, and she became a bucking, writhing, sinuous snake. The hooks shook free of their moorings, and the saddle slid off. Kelmair’s muffled cry thrummed through Ashel as he landed atop her on the dry grass. They tumbled apart, and the mare’s drumming hoofbeats faded.

Mouth and eyes fierce slits, Kelmair rolled to her feet. “You never, ever pull on tentacles like that!”

“My father is dead!”

Her sneer returned and she tilted her head at Joslyrn’s steed, hurtling after Meager. “Once they get back here, you’re going to Traine.”

Wrath seized him, firing nerves and muscles into a blow that knocked her sprawling.

Dust plumed as Kelmair sprang up, dagger in hand. “Easy, Shemen, or you’ll get hurt.”

He charged, eyes on the blade. She ducked inside his grip, threw her arms around his in a clinch. She was small but strong, her skin slick with sweat, stretched taut over muscles hard as iron. The dagger hilt dug into his back, and he knew she might hurt him but wouldn’t kill him. He was too valuable to her. To Lornk Korng. Hatred flared, and he broke free, grabbed her knife arm and wrenched her wrist. His ears twitched as the dagger thudded in the dirt and his elbow slammed into her jaw. She staggered back, and he pursued, grabbed the back of her neck, slammed her head into his knee. She hit the grass and lay still.

Chest heaving, he retrieved her blade and stood over her. He had never fought so fiercely in his life. That was you, wasn’t it? he asked Geram. The other man had grown up on the docks in Alna, where street scraps were as common as trees in Fembrosh.

My instincts, my skills, maybe, but it was you that used them. You should kill her.

No. Once before, Geram’s instincts and his own hatred had driven Ashel to fight and kill. What good would that do? Mora was gone from the horizon. A lupear howled, the cry pealing across the plain beneath rosy clouds. The two steeds ran toward him, their carapaces golden in the sunset. He’d have to kill Joslyrn too, without Melba getting harmed, and hope he could control the mounts well enough to reach the paddock before night fell. A lupear whistled, and another answered. Fear roiled in his belly. Only a fool traveled the Semena plains alone in the dark. Only a dead fool. We’re safer with the Herders than on our own. Is Lornk still in prison?

Yes—

A boom, wreathed in screams, cut off Geram’s reply. Through him, Ashel Heard Vic shouting orders into chaos.

“You try that again, and I’ll kill you.” Kelmair sat up, her head swaying in a woozy circle.

“You can try.” The howls came again, closer. Whatever was happening in Narath, he needed his attention here. “How far is it to your herd?”

She staggered to her feet. “Closer than Mora. Meager won’t take you to the paddock, no matter how sweetly you croon at her.” Her lips twisted into a bitter grin. “You’ll come with us if you want to live.”

Joslyrn’s steed skidded to a halt, Meager huffing beside it. “Don’t ever yank on a steed’s tentacles, Highness.”

Hooks clinked as Kelmair picked up the saddle. Lupears chorused, and the steeds whickered and danced. “Give her a song and calm her down, or they’ll be on us.”

“Ashel,” Melba asked aloud, voice quavering, “what is going on?”

“I’m sorry, Mel.” Humming, he stroked Meager’s thorax while Kelmair fastened the saddle. When she was done, he mounted, Kelmair’s dagger still tight in his fist. “Looks like we’re going to have to spend some time on the range.”