“Goddamn it, Arseneau!” Carter says.
In for a penny, in for a pound. If I’m gonna be crucified for stepping out of line, I might as well make it worth the pain.
“Got two plays here,” I say, forcing the words out as I run, full-bore in Trevor’s direction with Murdock hot on my heels. “Deal with me or chase her. What’s it gonna be, Murdock?”
Carter swears again. “Murdock, stay locked on Trevor. She’s the objective.” He pauses. “Arseneau, I swear, if you fuck this up, you’re done.”
“No shit,” is all I have time to say.
Trevor races through the palace grounds like an Olympic sprinter; she’s so much faster than I would ever give her credit for. I’m pretty fast, but I won’t be able to keep up if she’s able to sustains this pace.
She enters a stand of trees, crisscrossing through them like it’s a slalom course. We lose sight of her as she ducks behind a large oak on the far perimeter of the tree line. When we emerge from the trees, we’re greeted by an empty wide-open field.
“Where the hell did she go?” Murdock huffs.
“If she’s within transporter range, she might be back on her own ship by now.” Carter’s speculation is accompanied by a terse tone.
Something darts through the trees on our left. “Nope. She doubled back into the woods,” I say, then follow her into the dense copse of trees. I catch glimpses of Murdock to my right as he runs even with me on the meadow-side of the trees in case she reemerges from the woods.
Trevor veers to the right, clearing the grove of trees once more. As I swerve in that direction, there’s a flash of brilliant light.
“Their transporters got a lock on her,” Murdock says.
Nico’s voice breaks in, “I’ve pegged Trevor outside the stables.”
“Get a lock on our guys farther east and transport them to the stables,” Carter says.
I run as fast as I can. Trevor has a big head-start on me and reaches the stables just as a boy, leading two horses by their reins, rounds the corner of the building.
Trevor wrestles with a stable boy, who goes down screaming, and swings herself up onto the larger horse’s back in one smooth movement.
She points her mount North and they take off at a gallop. Minutes later, when I get to the stable, the attendant lies writhing on the ground, screaming as he grasps his thigh just above his disjointed knee. A second stable hand, having heard the screams, races outside and kneels beside his friend.
I scramble onto the second horse’s back; he snorts and paws at the ground, clearly not in the mood to be ridden by anyone who isn’t his master. The gray Barbary stallion isn’t huge, but still powerful. He shuffles sideways and tosses his head up and down, neighing in frustration.
“Whoa. Easy, boy, say, trying to calm him and settle myself in the saddle.
He doesn’t want to take it easy. He continues to shuffle and stamp his hooves and shake his head. I grip the reins and pull back, bringing the horse’s nose toward my knee. He settles, just a bit.
“Oi! That’s Governatore, the King’s favorite stallion!” The second man yells. “You can’t steal the king’s horse.”
“Watch me.” As soon as I nudge him, he bolts toward the open field where Trevor’s figure is shrinking in the distance. She disappears over the ridge of a small hill.
The Barb’s front quarters are filled with explosive power; he sprints through the meadow at a much faster clip than I expect; he may just be happy for the opportunity to run. We skirt the tree grove that clings to the Northward curve of the riverbank to our left and head toward the spot on the ridge where I last saw Trevor.
We crest the hill; nothing but open fields to the North and East for the next five miles, at least. There’s more trees and another ridge a little farther to my left. That’s the only direction she could have gone.
Pointing my mount toward the west, I follow the tree line again and come upon a gristmill, its massive waterwheel pirouetting in the currents of an offshoot of the Thames. I take in the surroundings as I catch my breath from the work of riding the king’s horse: A loose, riderless horse grazes on the tender marsh grass on the lee side of the mill. There’s no one else in sight.
I slip from the saddle and loop Governatore’s reins on a fence post at the edge of a well-traveled muddy path that leads to the lowest level of the mill. There are footprints in the mud, leading to a door which stands slightly ajar.
Why go into the mill just to transport to her ship when she could’ve made that jump once she was over the ridge and out of sight of any locals?
Because she’s probably inside waiting for you. To finish things on her terms.
I ease the door open a little further and slip inside.
Wheat chaff swirls down from the rafters. The sun, what there is of it, filters through one small west-facing window, and illuminates only the bottom step of a stone staircase at the far end of the cellar. Muted gray shadows drip down the wall and spill across the floor.
I pause to listen. Outside, the river churns against the water wheel. Above me, there’s the ka-thunk, ka-thunk rhythm of millstones turning on their grindstone. I feel my way across the room, moving inches at a time until I trip and land on a substantial, fleshy mass.
There are arms. And a torso. And a face covered with a slick, pungent substance. Shifting my weight off the body, my fingers fumble to find the carotid artery. I put my ear close to the mouth.
No soft, stirring tickles of breath on my cheek. No blood coursing through the veins beneath my touch. I leave my fingers in
