A brightness long ago, p.17
A Brightness Long Ago, page 17
Notwithstanding the indifference to his horse, Antenami couldn’t complain about how he was being treated. Fear was the best explanation, of course. Everyone was afraid of Firenta and the Sardis now, and he was the family representative, accompanied by one of the most famed mercenary leaders.
Antenami wasn’t used to being an object of apprehension. He wasn’t sure he liked it, but it really wasn’t in his hands, was it? He’d smiled often since arriving, and made conversation about horses and hunting and wine.
“That one!” shouted the commune member beside him (he’d forgotten the man’s name, though his much younger wife, on the man’s other side, was called Lina). The merchant was pointing. “See there? The grey? The rider is a woman!”
Antenami was startled. He looked more closely and realized that it was true. The rider was slim, undeniably female. Much too tall. The received wisdom on female beauty was that a woman’s height should be eight times that of her head. This one would be easily more than that.
“Who is she?”
“Best I can gather, she’s from Mylasia, daughter of a captain in Uberto’s company.”
Uberto of Mylasia had been called the Beast, and had done shocking things, by report. He’d been murdered in his palace last year. The world was a precarious place, even for those in power.
“Is that so,” he said. He found it useful to say that when he had nothing better to offer.
“So they say. The man had no sons, taught her to ride as if she were a boy, that’s the tale.” They had to speak very loudly.
“She sits well,” Antenami said. Horses and riders he was good at judging. “But why is she here?”
On the opposite side of the track, beyond the inner wall, the crowd was as densely packed as it was here, and as wild. It was really very noisy. He found it exciting.
“Came to compete for a place. Her father left Mylasia when the count . . . was called to Jad. Then he died, I think. It will have become difficult for Uberto’s captains, I imagine. In all the circumstances.”
“Is that so,” said Antenami.
His host looked at him. The merchant’s expression was difficult to read, but Antenami was used to that, reading people wasn’t one of his own skills.
“Have you wagered, Signore Sardi?” the pretty wife asked prettily, from her husband’s other side.
She was at least a quarter century younger than her heavy-jowled husband. She was probably restless and bored, Antenami Sardi thought. Had he had a few drinks, his mind might have . . .
He was lamentably sober, had been since arriving. His brother had made it clear (Versano was always clear) that at least one of those accompanying him would be reporting back on this subject. Antenami’s allowance and future travels both turned on his staying sober enough to embarrass the family “as little as possible.” That was how his brother put it.
He did think this woman was toothsome, though. Prostitutes knew more and demanded less, but there was something about riding a well-bred woman. And Antenami was young and strong. He could stroke himself into a girl a good dozen times before finishing, if he hadn’t drunk too much.
“Not yet,” he said, answering her question. “Tell me where I should wager!”
“Oh!” She smiled. “On us, of course! Bet on the Tower. We are the best. Bring us good fortune!”
Good fortune, he thought, was unlikely to be what his family brought to Bischio. It occurred to him: if his father and brother and their mercenaries did capture it next year, perhaps he could change the rules of this absurd race! Then everyone here could see how glorious Fillaro was!
A pleasing thought.
The merchant called over a stout, heavily perspiring man taking late wagers, and without paying any attention to the odds (betting odds were for those who needed to carefully judge their wagers), Antenami laid twenty serales on the Tower to win. It wouldn’t do to make a large bet, it might make him appear too . . . malleable.
Malleable. A choice word, he thought. He believed he’d learned it from his brother. The woman smiled at him again, then turned her attention back to the track.
Down there, a rope was now being pulled taut by two men dressed in green and yellow. He and his hosts were—of course—situated splendidly on benches (most people stood) right at the start and finish line.
Antenami entertained a brief, arousing fantasy of Fillaro on the track, springing forth—to circle the course three times before any of these horses had even done it twice!
He looked around. Colours dazzled in the morning sunlight, banners were everywhere, for each of the districts. The noise was even more extreme. Shouts and roars, even screaming now. Two of the horses were disturbed by it, rearing and stamping. One rider was almost unseated before the start! There was nothing like this in Firenta, he thought. Well, give them their silly race, there was no denying it was exciting. He wished the pretty wife had chosen to sit between her husband and their guest. Shouldn’t she have done so?
He noticed Folco d’Acorsi, not far away, standing, not sitting. The man had an intent expression as he regarded the track, but he almost always had that sort of look. Then, to his considerable surprise, Antenami Sardi saw their mercenary captain make the sign of the sun disk, as ten horses and riders came up to the starting rope.
* * *
It might be a youthful thought, but this morning feels as if it may hold the most important moments of her life. More than killing a man? Adria chides herself; the comparison is irresponsible and she knows it.
But . . . she’d killed Uberto in secret, and here she’s on a horse parading with nine other riders in front of the whole of Bischio, and men and women are screaming as if they want the world and the god and all the dead to hear them.
There are people from all over Batiara here, and she is being seen as a woman doing this, even if they don’t know—must not know—who she is.
If her father or one of her brothers came down from Macera, which Folco had said was wildly unlikely, they might not even know her, though she’s not disguised. It would never cross their thoughts that she’d be on a horse here! It is too wildly strange, the idea of a Ripoli daughter in this race. It would be inconceivable to them, make it impossible to see her. Folco had said that, as well. There were, he’d added, more substantial things for her to be concerned about. He had been uneasy, because this was not his idea.
She’s been here since the end of winter. Her leg has healed. The healer was skillful and ultimately correct: a scar on her thigh, which hurts when pressed, but Adria doesn’t limp, and there is no pain when she rides. She has been lucky, and knows it.
And she proposed to Folco, even before she’d fully healed, that she go to Bischio and race and—if he believed in her—he could wager on her horse and make money he badly needed. It was her plan. Hers.
She said she’d present herself as from Mylasia, a cavalry leader’s only child—which would explain why she had been taught to ride. And be the reason she was in Bischio, to honour her father in the year he died.
When you proposed something to Folco you needed to have thought it through and be ready for questions. But there had been women who’d ridden in this race. She’d known that, so had he.
She said she would tell them in Bischio that she was headed to a retreat after, whatever happened. The rest of her life would belong to the god. This race would be the last dream she’d pursue in a tumultuous world before seeking peace among the Daughters of Jad—praying for the souls of her parents.
Her father had been an officer of the Beast of Mylasia. Uberto’s officers had not been well treated in that part of the world since he died, not with the changes there.
Joining a retreat, abandoning the idea of a good marriage, that would appear an obvious—even a necessary—course of action to anyone she told about it. A good daughter, a pious, sweet, sad story. Many might even hope her name would be drawn to ride, she’d said, back in Acorsi.
Folco had agreed.
He is hard and precise and decisive with the world. With her—and with her aunt, whom he loves—he is easier, amused, attentive. If you considered attentive to include helping her live the way she does—as a weapon for him.
She has promised her aunt this will stop soon. She doesn’t want to think about that. Promises are broken all the time, of course: you seek forgiveness from Jad and those you’ve lied to. But Caterina has written of that assurance to Adria’s mother, who will have told her father. They don’t know (of course they don’t!) all she’s done for Folco, but it might not be easy to avoid a return home to a life and expectations she does not want, or accept. There is, she has often thought, only so much forcing of the world a woman can do.
She’ll deal with that when it comes.
She knows she’s been given gifts by fortune and the god. Her lineage, and being the youngest. Had she been other than the youngest child there’d have been no possibility of being allowed to live in Acorsi for so long without going to a shrewdly chosen husband (as one sister had), or else taking a position in an important retreat.
To live as she is living now, Adria thinks, on the track in Bischio on a grey horse. To have found a way to be fully and intensely alive in a world that doesn’t like that for a woman.
It will have taken a very substantial bribe to ensure her name was drawn as one of the twelve riders—ten to race, and two as alternates if something unfortunate should happen to one of those picked.
It is not infrequent that something does happen. The riders are guarded from the moment they are drawn and assigned a district, but your guards can be paid to injure you, or to permit an assault. For a rider in Bischio, refusing to be bought off can be as risky as taking a bribe.
She doesn’t know how much Folco spent. Sixty-five people, including one other woman, had shown up on the first day of testing.
It had happened, though: her name was drawn from the drum two weeks ago. She was named to the Falcon district.
They never win this race, lacking the money and the stature to smooth the way for whoever rides their horse. This is good because her hopes, and Folco’s, lie in the betting odds on her being long.
They treat their rider extremely well, however. They seem grateful that someone would ride for them, that they are even in the race. They’ll parade and drink and scream happily, and they never win. Three or four districts take turns doing that, it seems.
She’d not had any communication from Folco until yesterday, when she was given a folded-over message by the woman attending her in the house where she had been sequestered. Adria’s using the name Coppina here, for her own reasons, having to do with someone dead too young.
She knows Folco will be somewhere in this crowd now, and that his men will have been placing wagers on her for days. She also knows—from his note, which she burned—the rider she’s to try to be beside at the start, and what signal he’ll give the starters, to have them drop the rope only when he’s ready.
The starters need money as much as anyone else, don’t they?
Bischio’s is a corrupt race, everyone knows it. Part of the unpredictability is seeing, as the horses start and run, which district has bribed best in a given year. But even with that . . . a favoured rider can misjudge the slope and grip of the track at a hard turn, or another might upset all plans and gallop his horse past all the money spent, with unexpected speed or by attacking the others with the club all the riders carry. It isn’t for the horses, that weapon.
Some of the men on the track with her are very big, which might be harder on their mounts in a different sort of race. She doubts they’ll be inclined to be kind to her if she isn’t safely towards the back—where she and the Falcon belong. No, if she gets between any of them and winning this morning she’ll be dealt with, or they’ll try. You can do anything to another rider in this race; people have died. You’ll be disqualified, though—and attacked by a mob, after—if you strike another’s horse. There are rules.
She’s a good rider. Very good, in fact. But she’s a woman, and new here, without allies or friends on the track. Her horse is handling the noise well as they circle once around for everyone to see them, for the last bets to be made. She’s been with the grey horse every day since they were paired, learning how to gentle it, how its footwork is on curves, what makes it startle, the way it responds to a shout or a slap on the neck.
They hunted and raced all the time at home. She has these skills. It is why she’s here, why Folco has let her be here. If she falls badly, Adria thinks, or is hurt again in some other way, her aunt might kill the husband she loves.
Her heart is beating fast. Too fast. She needs to gentle herself as much as the horse. She’s trying to block out the crowd, the wall of noise on both sides, and so she almost doesn’t notice that someone is calling and waving to her as she passes a part of the inner stands.
She sees arms raised and moving urgently, and she does look over. It is an old woman, being held upright at the wooden wall by two men. The woman is gesturing for her to come nearer. This isn’t even the Falcon section. It is . . . the Goose, she sees, from their banner.
Adria hesitates, then twitches a rein and moves that way. She stops at a distance. She can’t be seen having a private exchange with people from a different district. Not right before the start! Riders have been torn apart by their district if it was felt they’d been suborned. If this woman has anything to say, she’ll have to shout it.
She does. “I am Mina Sacchetti. I raced before you!”
Long before me, Adria thinks, looking at her, then decides the woman isn’t so much ancient as worn down, withered by life. She can’t even stand unsupported—and that makes a coin slot into her mind.
“You were hurt here? Riding?”
“Yes!” shouts the other woman. “Don’t let them do it to you!”
Adria lifts a hand, salutes politely. No one, surely, will object to two woman riders speaking in public. “I’ll do my best,” she cries.
“No!” the other woman shouts, closer to a scream this time. “Don’t let them, I said. Watch the Fontena Curve, and watch the Tower. He’ll ride you into it! That’s what they do! They’ll think you can’t fight back!”
The Fontena was the deadliest corner every year, the track sloping towards the wall, the turn hard. The Tower was a favoured district, always.
They always think we can’t fight back, Adria Ripoli thinks.
She says nothing, however, just lifts a hand again in salute, then bows in her light saddle to a woman who has preceded her here, and had her life destroyed.
People are watching. They roar approval, sentimentally. A ruined old woman and a young one riding for a hapless district. You could surely hope she got safely around the track three times.
Then, having done that, let her go away and live a proper woman’s life.
Trumpets sound, drums have been pounding steadily. The rope, Adria sees, has been drawn taut across the track ahead of them. She moves towards the start line with the others.
It is upon them. You can plan something far ahead, think it through, have dreams, premonitions. You could come to Bischio weeks in advance, set things in motion, wait on the results of a bribe. You could be selected, assigned a district, a horse, work with your horse (named, for some reason, Sauradia, for the wild lands across the water), and . . .
And with all of this, it can still come as a sharp, wild blow that it is happening, it is here, now. Wild blows are not to be permitted, not from within. She has a weapon in her hand for blows, they all do, but what she needs is clarity.
She rubs a hand along the neck of her horse, whispers to him. A good horse, none of them is supposed to be more than that, but she likes hers, his colour, his calm. He is calm even now. Sauradia is supposed to be a savage land, towards Sarantium. She has no idea how this grey got that name.
The calmness is partly her, but only a part. They are a team, horse and rider; they each bring to this track, to the chaos about to come, what they have—and they will see where it takes them, if it is enough.
She’d raced so many times at home, with her brothers and sisters, cousins. She was the youngest, awkwardly lanky for so long. There were years and years when she never won, was never even close, then there came an autumn when she began to do so. Her eldest brother said it was her horse one time, she remembers—that she had the best one, an indulgent gift from their father to his youngest. She’d shamed him, offering to switch and race again.
He’d had to accept; the way their family was when they were together and others were watching, the competitiveness, cold ambition. She beat him, riding his horse, with him on hers. He hadn’t acknowledged her existence for half a year. It took a command from their father, who’d finally noticed, to change that.
That brother will be duke of Macera when their father dies, if events unfold as they are meant to. Plans, Adria thinks, sitting astride a horse in the centre of Bischio, don’t always unfold. Men—or women—cannot control the world.
Folco tries, she thinks. She is trying now.
Her first goal, here at the start line, is to be beside the rider for Tower, who is favoured to win, with the Fox district also seen as strong this year. The Tower is the district nearest the square, the best houses in Bischio lie within it, most of the members of the governing commune live there. It is a matter of pride that it wins as often as it does—and money will always be spent in defence of pride.
He’s not the biggest of the riders, the one for Tower, but he has a hard, seamed, southern face, and the look he gives her as she angles Sauradia closer is bleak, daunting. He looks angry. Adria knows he’s been here for years, is usually drawn to ride—and has won many times. Given that, and the district, he will be heavily wagered upon. People will expect him to win.
