Chapter Nine
“We hoped you’d be here for the first day, Lady Cecelia,” said the gnarled little man at the entrance to the stable block. They had walked down from the Main House—which Heris had barely seen the night before, after the drive from the shuttle-port—to a set of buildings that looked as large as the house. Pale yellow stone, trimmed with gray stone around windows and doors; a wide, high arch with metal gates folded back . . .
“Things happen,” said Cecelia. “Here—I want you to know Heris Serrano, my guest this year. She’s a novice at hunting, but she’s developing a decent seat.”
“Pleased, mum,” the man said. Heris felt herself under inspection of some sort, though she wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Apparently she passed, for his thin mouth widened to a smile. “Go on in—he’ll be waitin’ for you.”
“Now you’ll see,” said Cecelia as they came out of the arched entrance into a wide bricked walk that lay between the rows of stalls and a low-fenced dirt enclosure. Beyond was another archway, across which Heris saw a horse and rider move at a trot in yet another enclosure.
“Lady Cecelia!” It was clear from the rearrangement of wrinkles that this man’s face seldom found such a smile. Lean, tanned, upright, brisk—this had to be the “Neil” who supervised all the training and the assignment of riders. “About time—I’ve held back two good prospects for you.” He glanced at Heris, and dismissed her, waving for someone to bring a horse forward. Cecelia interrupted him.
“First—meet Heris Serrano. She’s my guest this year, and I’ve been giving her preliminary instruction on the simulator—”
He looked at Heris again, this time with attention, and then back at Cecelia. “With full programming?”
“What I use myself. She’s a novice, but she’s solid as far as she goes. She’s taking meter jumps now, but it’s only sim; she needs practice before she goes out in the field. . . .”
“And you don’t want me to treat her like a boneheaded kid who thinks he can ride because he once stuck on a horse at a gallop, is that it? Did you think I couldn’t recognize maturity?”
“No—but I want her to have a good experience. And I want you to supervise, not one of your assistants, unless you’ve got better than last time.”
“No . . . they go away when they get too good.” His eyes measured Heris again. “Of course . . . size doesn’t matter, and all that, but I’d think to start her on something reasonable. Sixteen?”
“Fine.”
“She has to show me in the ring that she has the basics, but I’ll shift her to the outside course right away.”
“Thanks, Neil.”
“No problem.” He was still staring at Heris as if she had sprouted scales, then he nodded sharply and called, “Bring me the bay mare in seventeen; size sixteen saddle, and the eggbutt snaffle.” To Heris he said, “If Lady Cecelia says you’re a promising novice, I’ll believe it, and that mare will give you the chance to show it. Honest, can jump, but not fast enough for the field. If you suit, you can use her here until you qualify.” Then, to Cecelia, “Now watch this.”
A thin girl led up a horse that looked enormous to Heris; it was a brown so dark it looked black except in clear sun. Cecelia nodded. “Is that what you got with the Buccinator sperm?”
“Yep. Off the Cullross mares. Two of ’em; the other’s a liver chestnut. This one’s five, and before you say anything I know I didn’t show him to you last year. . . . Milord said not to, because it’s a surprise. Want to try him?”
Heris could see the flush on Cecelia’s cheek, the delight and eagerness that made her almost girlish.
“Of course. . . .” She was up in a flash, rising lightly to the hand that gave her a leg up. Heris had, by this time, seen her employer on many horses in the training cubes; she thought she knew how that long, lanky body, almost too stiff at times on the ground, would look astride. Cecelia looked better—as if she and the horse had fused into one.
“Here, sir.” That was someone else, with a smaller brown horse for Heris. The man nodded at her, and she mounted without waiting for assistance.
“Come on, the both of you,” he said. “You’ll need to warm up inside anyway.”
Heris, on her first live horse since her time in the Academy, found that coordinating the movement of legs and hands while the horse actually walked—walked toward something—was harder than she expected. She liked the higher viewpoint, but wanted to spend it looking around, not steering. Ahead of her, on the dark horse, Cecelia seemed to be having no problems. Heris lined up behind her and hoped her horse would follow calmly while she tried to remember all the lessons.
The inner training area, a walled oblong, offered fewer distractions. They walked to the right; Neil moved to the center, watching. Heris began to relax, letting her body discover the difference between the simulation and reality. It still felt strange. This was not a mechanical device, or an electronic image: this was an animal, a live thing, that smelled like an animal and felt (when she dared touch the neck) like an animal. The horse blew, a long slobbering breath, and Heris felt that in her legs.
Simulations work, she told herself. They’re effective training tools; you learned to pilot a ship off simulators; of course you can ride this animal. The animal was slowing down, she realized, because she wasn’t giving enough signal with her legs. The simulation tended to keep a pace more easily; Cecelia had mentioned that some horses required more leg pressure. Heris increased it, and the horse’s head came up (just like the VR image!) and it walked faster. Mare. The man had said mare, and mares were females . . . so she walked faster.
“Reverse,” Neil said. Almost before she thought, Heris had shortened one rein, shifted her legs slightly and the mare was turning smoothly to reverse directions. It worked. Of course it had worked in the simulator, but it worked on a real horse, too. She felt better. Maybe everything would work on the real horse. She looked over at Cecelia, across the circle. Her employer did not look anywhere near her actual age on that horse; she could have been Heris’s age or even younger.
“Pick up a nice trot, now,” Neil said.
Trotting felt completely different from the simulator. She was off balance at first, and she sensed Neil’s disapproval. It took her an entire circuit of the ring to figure out what was wrong; her ship-trained sense of balance had worked on the simulator because it wasn’t going anywhere relative to the ship—but the horse was going somewhere on the ground. If she leaned forward a bit more—she experimented—suddenly the movement felt right. Cecelia was right—it could feel like dancing.
With that experience to draw on, she was prepared for the difference in the feel of the canter, and compensated within a few bounds. The rush of cold air on her face was exhilarating; she didn’t want to stop.
“She’ll do,” Neil said to Cecelia. Then, to Heris, “All right, Captain—back to a walk now, and bring ’er in to the center. You can watch Lady Cecelia.” Heris slowed, remembering to brace her back, and guided the mare to near Neil. Cecelia’s horse was walking again. Heris tried to notice the things she’d been taught to notice, but what struck her most was the horse’s size. Even from up here, it looked big. When Heris had settled the mare in a halt, Cecelia nudged her mount to a trot. She hadn’t waited for Neil’s signal, Heris noticed. Watching the big horse trot, she wondered why Cecelia hadn’t overtaken her. It moved so much faster. . . . Cecelia slowed it again; its neck arched and its steps shortened. Then it stretched, then compressed again. Heris was fascinated.