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Authors: Caroline Stevermer

BOOK: A College of Magics
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The diligence gave a violent lurch, followed by a crash. After a stunned moment, Faris untangled herself from Jane. The coach had stopped. As Faris put her hand on the door, it opened with an edge of chill air.
Just visible in the starlight, Tyrian, hatless and holding his elegant pistol, asked, “Are you hurt?”
“Not I,” said Faris. “Jane?”
“Cognac would be far better.” Jane sounded very cross. “I'm fine.” She picked herself up carefully off the floor. Indignantly, she added, “I'm covered in
straw
.”
“What happened?” asked Faris.
“There's a tree down across our track. The coachman was thrown off the box. I think we've broken a trace. Reed is holding the horses. Stay where you are.”
Faris started to clamber out the door. “We'll help. I can hold the horses.”
Tyrian didn't move. “It isn't necessary.”
Slowly, eyes straining to read Tyrian's expression in the dimness, Faris took her seat.
“Thank you, your grace.” The door closed and Tyrian was gone.
Surprised, Jane stopped brushing at her skirts. “What's the matter with you two? Of course we ought to help. We may be here all night as it is.”
“Haydock can be rather uncivilized.” Faris frowned.
“These forests are renowned for the cutthroats who live here.”
“Oh.”
It was a still evening. Overhead, the stars seemed huge, burning ice-cold and blue-white in the faultless sky. There was no wind to trouble the pines. The coachman, calling loudly for plum brandy, was helped to his feet. The horses were quieted. The carriage lamps were lit. They hardly flickered as Tyrian set to work mending the broken harness by their light.
“That's a very large pine tree,” Jane observed, her voice touched with gloom. “They haven't even tried to move it.”
“I doubt they can. How is your headache now? Could you transform the tree, do you think?
Jane sounded dubious. “Perhaps I can.”
“If you can't, we'll have to turn the coach and go back.”
“Oh, dear. Back
where?
”
“Wherever we changed horses last.”
“That was a cow byre with six horses in it. We can't possibly sleep there.”
“I don't recommend sleeping anywhere but the coach, to tell you the truth. Insects.”
Jane clutched Faris's sleeve. “Hush. Look!”
Faris looked. Tyrian and Reed and the coachman were already looking. From the darkness near the fallen pine, a light shone, small and golden as a firefly.
“Hello,” a man's voice called out of the darkness. “Having a little trouble?” The light moved in a quick arc and returned to its place. The speaker came closer. He was a slender man with a pair of ammunition belts slung across
his chest. The brim of his slouch hat concealed his face. The light was his cigarette. He exhaled slowly as he regarded the driver, Reed, and Tyrian. “Looks as if you could use some help.”
“We'll manage, thanks all the same,” said Reed cheerfully.
“Oh?” The man studied the fallen pine. “It appears to me you need to move that tree.” His voice sounded young and thoughtful. “If you give me five hundred dinaras, I'll clear the road for you.”
“All alone?” Tyrian asked.
The man dropped his cigarette and ground out the little light. In the next few seconds, thirty matches flared as thirty men lit cigarettes in the darkness around the coach. “Not at all. Better make that one thousand dinaras.”
Reed and Tyrian made no answer. The driver groaned.
In the coach, Jane put back her veil. “I've still got the headache, but it shouldn't take much to frighten off a few bandits.”
“No, wait a moment—” In Faris's memories, the recollection of summers long past was stirring.
“Fifteen hundred dinaras,” the man said.
Faris listened intently. “I know that voice.”
“While we wait, the price is going up. Who knows what Reed and Tyrian will decide to do?”
“Two thousand dinaras is less than a hundred pounds sterling. And Reed and Tyrian are just what I'm worried about. I know that young man.” Faris climbed out of the coach.
Jane rolled her eyes, put her veil back, and followed.
“Two thousand dinaras.”
“Done,” called Faris.
Reed and Tyrian turned identically aggrieved faces to her as she joined them in the circle of light. “That's torn it,” snarled Reed. Tyrian said nothing but his disgusted expression was eloquent.
“Who is that?” asked the young man, after a startled pause.
“I'll pay you two thousand dinaras to help us on our way,” Faris continued, “but first tell me what brings Warin Woodrowel down from Shieling and over the border to rob honest travelers.”
“Who dares to call me a robber?” The young man took a step forward and stared at her. “Speak.”
“I do,” said Faris, just as Reed muttered, “I can think of a few other things I'd like to call you.”
Tyrian glanced at Reed, who subsided.
“Have you given up your father's cigars, then?” added Faris.
The young man squinted at her in disbelief. “That's never
Faris?
”
“Well met, Warin.”
Warin Woodrowel advanced three steps to meet her before Tyrian barred his way. Woodrowel stopped and held up his hand to steady his watchful men. “Your pardon, Faris. I never dreamed we would trouble you.”
Faris came to Tyrian's side. “Granted, if you explain these amateur theatricals.”
Woodrowel regarded her with wonder. “How long has it been? You're decked out in such finery, it's a miracle I
even recognized that long nose of yours. Have you come home to stay?”
“First tell me about your charade here.”
He cleared his throat. “Yes. Well.” He fidgeted for a moment, then met Faris's gaze squarely. “It's the taxes. We haven't much hope of paying them, the way things are nowadays, and since your uncle levied the penalty for late payment, well.” He lit another cigarette in thoughtful silence and added, “Well, here we are.”
Faris frowned. “You seem well practiced. Am I to take it that these are not amateur theatricals after all? You do this often?”
“Not at all. The coach only runs three times a week. And we don't stop it every time. Then it might not run at all. But this quarter we've been a bit behind, with bringing in the harvest and such. And the tree still looks fairly fresh, so we thought we'd press our luck.”
“This quarter? Shieling pays taxes when the lambing's done, not at midwinter.”
Woodrowel scowled. “This past year, Shieling pays every quarter—and so does all of Galazon.”
Faris stiffened. “On whose authority?”
Just behind her, Jane's murmur was quick and calm. “Steady on.”
“Lord Brinker's orders,” Woodrowel replied. At her expression, he grinned broadly. “You've not changed as much as I thought.”
Faris drew a deep breath. “Reed. Give Warin his money. If you don't have enough dinaras, give him marks or francs or florins, what you will. I have urgent business with my
uncle. Warin, shift that pine and let my coach be on its way.”
“Hold up, boys. Don't move it just yet.” Woodrowel shook his head. “I can't recommend that, Faris.” As she bristled, he held up his hand. “Now, don't blaze away at me. We aren't the first people in Haydock to raise a little capital, remember.”
“So? Has all Galazon turned to thievery?”
“Not at all. But this has always been good bandit country. In that coach on this road, if you go another ten miles, you may well encounter professional thieves. You won't like them. They aren't as well brought up as we are.” With great care and infinite smugness, Woodrowel made three perfect smoke rings.
“Is there a better road?” Faris demanded.
Woodrowel admired the last smoke ring. When it was gone, he said thoughtfully, “Not for a coach. But for riders in a hurry—”
“I'm in a hurry.”
“But can you ride?” Woodrowel eyed her companions. “Can the—older lady?”
“We can ride,” Jane replied.
Surprised by the youthful timbre of her voice, Woodrowel gave her a searching look. “In such a costume?” he asked politely.
“We need four horses,” said Faris. “My chaperone and I require riding clothes—nothing elaborate. Can you provide these things? And a guide?”
Woodrowel looked pleased. “I think I can supply you with what you ask. Of course, the use of the horses, the
clothing, the guide, and the armed escort—for I could not in honor allow you to risk meeting any of the local hedge-robbers—I think these things may command a small fee.”
Faris smiled. “Then shall we say two thousand dinaras, Warin?”
“Done.” Woodrowel spat into his palm and held out his hand.
Faris stripped off her glove, spat into her palm, and grasped his hand firmly. They remained hand-clasped for a long moment, regarding each other with great satisfaction.
“For two thousand dinaras,” Tyrian said dryly, “will it be too much for you and your merry men to see that the coach and driver come safely to Ruger?”
Woodrowel gestured with his cigarette and his men set to work clearing the road. “Not at all.” He smiled and made another smoke ring.
 
J
ane was fairly happy with Faris's bargain until she saw the riding clothes spread out across the seat of the coach. She choked. “What's this?” she asked, when she could speak.
Faris eyed her with concern. “It is a shirt and vest and trousers. I wish Warin could let us have caps, too, but they haven't any to spare.”
“Baggy trousers,” Jane said indistinctly. “Shouldn't they be Lincoln green, at least?”
“Very baggy trousers, I admit. Are you laughing at our national costume?”
“No, certainly not.” Jane steadied her voice. “I knew I should have packed my riding habit.”
“It would be no use tonight. No sidesaddles.”
“But I can't wear these things.”
“They're nearly clean.”
“Faris, these clothes are for a man. I can't wear them. Neither can you.”
“Jane, these clothes are for working. Riding across the border at night with Warin and his crew is
working.”
“I can't.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, dear—well, for one thing, I'm English.”
“Rosalind was English, she dressed like a man. Viola was English,
she
dressed like a man—”
“Viola was
not
English, and dressing like a man is
not
proper and these clothes are ridiculous.”
“Then get out of this coach and let me change in peace.”
A short time later, Faris and Jane, both wearing the voluminous national costume of Galazon, rejoined the others. Woodrowel had detailed four men to escort the diligence driver on his way. Their horses had been appropriated for Faris and her companions. The horses were sturdy animals, gone very shaggy for the winter, unshod and only roughly groomed. The saddles were small and flat, each with a fleece strapped over it as padding, and the make-shift bridles were hackamores, little more than a few loops of rope.
At first sight of their steeds, Jane stopped in her tracks and shook her head. She was wearing her own cloak over the borrowed clothes and its hood concealed her expression.
“Do you think you can manage?” Faris asked.
“When I was four, I learned to ride on something very similar. Just show me which end is the front.”
 
F
aris woke in the best guest chamber at Shieling. It took no time to remember where she was and why she was there, because every muscle in her body conspired to remind her. Scholastic life, she reflected, was as harmful to the body as it was beneficial to the mind. She felt, after only a night and a morning in the saddle, as though she had been beaten with sticks for a thousand years. Well, five hundred, perhaps. Plainly, she had been away from Galazon too long. She stretched, groaned softly, and, with some foreboding, remembered Jane.
Jane had been cross about wearing the poor clothing that was all Warin and his men could provide. Jane had been testy before she was cross, before the pine tree, indeed, ever since they had left the train. After a long slow ride at night, a long fast ride in the morning, and an afternoon and a night spent in Shieling's drafty halls, surely Jane would be beyond cross, beyond testy, beyond reason. Faris winced. This was not the hospitality she had meant to offer Jane in Galazon.

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