12
After so late a night, Paks would have been glad to sleep later than usual, but anticipation of the black horse woke her at dawn. Could she ride it? She felt sure of the power of the ring, but once mounted she could not concentrate on her ring finger. She knew she should be thinking of the brigands, and less of the horse, but the black horse fit her old dream of adventure so perfectly . . . she could almost see herself riding through admiring crowds.
She had hoped to work with it in privacy first, but early as it was everyone in the inn seemed to have business in the stableyard. She began with grooming; the beast had nearly caught Sevri with a massive hoof, and after that his owner had done it. Paks kept her thumb firmly on the ring as she picked up a brush and eased into the stall by its head. The ears were alert but not flattened, and the great dark eye watched her calmly as the horse worked on its ration of grain.
“There now,” crooned Paks, setting the brush to that massive shoulder. “There, quiet, stay calm, black one.” She began to brush, more gently than would do for a thorough grooming, and with a wary eye on the ears. The horse stood taller and more heavily built than the Duke’s warhorses, as tall as Arcolin’s favorite. She worked her way along the ribs, the croup, the rump. Dust and scurf flew; the horse had not been well-groomed for some time. She brushed down the haunches, saw them tense, and concentrated on the ring for a moment. “Nothing’s wrong, horse. I won’t hurt you. Quiet, now, easy—” Bunched muscles relaxed; she saw the fetlock sink deeper in the straw. “You’d like to be out of here, wouldn’t you? Go for a ride? Out in the open air—along the roads—good horse—” Soon she had brushed both sides, the belly (another pause for the ring’s action there), brushed out the heavy tangled mane. She looked up and saw Sevri’s awed face over the stall wall.
“I didn’t think you could really do it,” said Sevri.
Paks grinned at her, thumb firm on the ring. “I wasn’t sure I could myself. Can you bring me a pick?”
“You’re going to touch his feet?”
Paks shrugged. “What if he has a stone? If he’s taken this much, he should take that.”
Sevri handed over a hoofpick. “I just finished Star. Here.”
Paks leaned down beside the near fore, impressed again by the size of those platter-like hooves. “Come on, black one—let’s have a hoof.” She could feel the tension above her, and glanced up to see the horse watching, ears stiffly turned back. “No—come on, now—” She pinched the tendons as she’d been taught, wondering briefly if she should have done this outside a stall, just in case. But the hoof came up, at last, and she cleaned around the frog with her pick. The other front hoof went as well, but as she bent to touch the near hind, the horse squealed and slammed a kick into the stall wall, narrowly missing her. Paks thought a loud NO through the ring, and the horse froze, trembling. She could see the cracked board where the hoof struck, and heard a murmur of voices at the stable door. Sevri urged the watchers away.
Slowly, concentrating on the ring, Paks slid her hand down the hind leg, over slick black hide to the white feather below the hock, and through that heavy hair felt along to the fetlock. The scar was hidden by the thick hair above it—a deep scar, and still sensitive, for the horse blew a rattling breath, despite the ring’s compulsion, as she touched it. Paks straightened. “Easy—I’d warrant you have another on the offside as well. No wonder you don’t like having your legs handled. I wonder what did that? Nothing good. Well, perhaps we can leave that a day, until you trust me more.” She came back to the horse’s head, and scratched under his jaw until the strained look left his eyes. “Surely the smith didn’t do that, holding you to shoe you?” The horse relaxed enough to stretch its neck. Paks slipped out of the stall, shaking a little with the strain of using the ring for so long.
“Will you ride today?” asked Sevri, who was waiting by the door.
“He needs exercise,” said Paks. “But he’s got some injury to his back legs—that’s why he’s so touchy, I think. I hate to ride him out until I can handle those legs, but he’s had as much as he can take, for now. Maybe later.”
Paks went in to breakfast, trying to ignore the curious looks of the others. If she was going to lead a group out against brigands, and train a horse, she needed several things from the shops. She made a list during breakfast, and asked Hebbinford where she could find some of the items. When she returned, everyone seemed to be out of the way but Sevri.
“If you want me to leave, as well—” she said shyly.
“No, but don’t get too close. I don’t know what he’ll do. Tir’s bones, I don’t even know how to rig that saddle.” She went into the stable. The black horse nosed over the stall wall; she had not yet touched the ring. Perhaps it was not a true outlaw. Sevri brought the bridle, red leather decorated with copper rings tarnished green. The reins were broad and heavy, and the bit—Paks shook her head.
“I can’t use that! Look at those spikes, Sevri.”
“The warhorses we see here all have bits like that,” said Sevri. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure of this—I won’t use that bit. The Duke didn’t use anything like that. Where can I buy another one?”
“You can use my father’s old one, if it’ll do. He had a hauling team once, before he sold it to a caravaner that was short. Try this—” Sevri brought out an old, rusty-linked bit like those Paks had seen on cart horses. While Sevri shook it in a sandbag to get the rust off, Paks worked at the stiff lacings of the bridle. At last she had the old bit off, and the smooth one in place.
“If he’s used to that mess in his mouth, he won’t take the bit easily,” said Paks. “Let’s see—” And as she walked up with the bridle, the black horse threw up its head, snorting. Again she thumbed the ring, which quieted the noise. Sevri darted off for an apple.
“Will this work?”
“It might.” Paks was glad of anything that would conceal the action of the ring. She offered it, concentrating on the ring, and in a moment slid the bit in place, and the crownpiece over the horse’s ears as its teeth crunched the apple. She waited to fasten the noseband and throatlatch until the apple was finished, and the last lumps passed down the black throat.
“I hope you can hold him with that,” said Sevri doubtfully.
“With what?” came a brisk voice from the door, and they all jumped. Paks clenched her left hand on the ring and turned. Marshal Cedfer stood there, with Ambros just behind him.
“She changed bits,” said Sevri, before Paks could think what to say. “She wouldn’t use that old one—” She nudged it with her toe, where it lay in the aisle.
“That’s a mouthful indeed,” said the Marshal, picking it up. “But what are you using instead, Paksenarrion? That ‘magic’ Doggal mentioned?”
“No,” said Sevri again. “It’s one of my father’s old bits, a smooth one that he used when he had a team. But I thought warhorses had to have spiked bits.”
The Marshal’s face relaxed. “Good, Paksenarrion, very good. No, Sevri, a horse can be trained to any bit, but the smooth ones are better. Hasty warriors try to use rough bits instead of training to get their horses’ attention. A good horseman uses as smooth a bit as he may.” He took a step forward to look at the horse more closely. “As I recall, Duke Phelan’s troops use horses for transport only. I’m sure you ride—perhaps well—but I thought I could help you with the commands peculiar to warhorses.”
“Thank you, Marshal,” said Paks. “I realized this morning that even the saddles we used are not like this one—” she gestured at the heavy saddle with its tangle of rigging, on a peg nearby.
“You haven’t cleaned it yet,” said the Marshal, frowning.
“No, sir.” Paks flushed as if Stammel had found her with dirty equipment.