Centauriad 1 - Daughter of the Centaurs (27 page)

Back in Honus’s big room, she kneels by the hearth and
stirs up the fire, then seasons the meat with salt and herbs and a little olive oil and roasts it over the open flame.

“I’ve never had it myself, but I’m told that it tastes a good deal like chicken.”

Malora turns so quickly, she nearly dumps her meal into the fire. Standing behind her, arms folded across his chest, is a strapping, long-legged centaur with curly, ginger-colored hair whose flanks and hooves are feathered with tufts of pale golden hair. He wears a wrap of ragged impala skin that covers only his hindmost quarters, and an equally ragged buckskin vest. His arms and chest are striated with muscle and scars. From the rawhide thong around his neck dangles the claw of a lion.

Malora knows immediately whom she is looking at: Neal Featherhoof.

Neal Featherhoof bursts out laughing, his incisors long and unfiled, like Malora’s. “The look on your face!”

Malora scowls. “The look on my face is one of fury with the Apex for not letting me choose my Hand, and hunger at being fed a daily diet of Barley Surprise.”

Neal breaks off laughing and turns suddenly serious. His eyes are the coppery color of a leopard’s. “If you don’t like it here, you can go back to the bush.”

“I might just do that. And take my horses with me.”

“Along with a trunk containing your fine new wardrobe?” he asks. “If you do, you’ll have to carry it away with you on your back, because I’m afraid the Apex will be hanging on to his Furies. And if you do take your leave, poor Zephele would never recover from her disappointment. I’m told you’re her pet now as much as you are Orrie’s.”

Malora grouses. “I don’t like being called pet.”

“Apologies, Pet,” he says, smiling. “You have far too much dignity to be called Pet by anyone—except me.”

Neal Featherhoof has a dazzling but dangerous smile. It isn’t the incisors, Malora thinks, as much as the mind at work behind the smile. “And you have far too much impertinence,” she replies.

Neal raises a gingery eyebrow. “Already you sound like a haughty Highlander maiden. Don’t look now, but you’re missing the requisite number of legs.”

“And the horse’s ass,” Malora gripes, and then instantly regrets it. She likes horses’ asses, and if she only had one, she would be allowed to pursue the Hand of her choice.

Neal cocks a hind hoof on the hearth shelf and lounges against the stone, arms folded across his chest. “I knew the moment I first saw you that I’d like you.”

Malora asks, “And when was that?”

“On the road into the city. I was but one of many Flatlanders that day in the awestruck crowd. You were quite a sight, astride that big black mare. Flatlanders and Highlanders alike spoke of little else for days. I think it takes our minds off more important matters, like the thoughtless cruelty of the ruling classes, and wild marauding centaurs. And speaking of wild, don’t let me interrupt. Your roasted squirrel meat must be falling off the bone by now. But take my advice, Pet, and bury the bones before sweet Zephie returns. She’s rather fond of these bushy-tailed rats, you know. She sets out bowls of milk and bread for them, and even names them things like Johnnyboy and Whiskers, the way you name your horses.”

Malora squats on the hearth and carves off a slice of meat. She conveys it to her mouth on the point of her knife, then
chews, enjoying the solid, salty texture she has been craving. Swallowing, she opens her eyes. “Who told you I name my horses?” she asks.

“You call them your boys and girls. I know everything that goes on. I make it my business.” Neal watches her chewing. “If it’s meat you crave, I can take you hunting for something much more savory than Johnnyboy and Whiskers there.”

Raising an eyebrow, she chews thoughtfully.

He continues, “Hunting is one of the prerogatives of the Peacekeepers. Better to practice the killing arts than to be caught short in the event of a real battle or siege.”

“But the Apex thinks I must be kept far from weapons,” Malora says. “I think he fears that I will rise up and avenge the Massacre of Kamaria. Single-handedly.”

“With a butter knife?” Neal says with a smirk.

“You sound just like Honus,” Malora says.

His smile fades. “Honus and I are not at all alike. He lives in his head, while I live in the world. Honus has exerted an unfortunate influence on Orion, for my good friend spends most of his time nowadays in his head.”

“In his distillery, I think,” she says.

“It amounts to the same thing. He is convinced he can change the world through olfactory means.”

Malora questions Neal with a look. He taps his nose.

She swallows another mouthful of squirrel. “Scents set the tone of a society,” she says in defense of her friend.

“So our boy says. One has only to look closely at this society,” he says with a wave of his hand, “to grasp my point.”

“Orion is smart,” Malora says, feeling a spark of resentment, “and kind. And he is my friend.”

Neal grunts. “He is my friend, too, but he will never become Apex being kind.”

“Is he expected to?” Malora asks.

“It usually runs in families, like crooked legs or cleft palates. Athen is no longer with us, and don’t tell me you think Theon is up to the task,” he says.

“What about Zephele?”

Neal curls his lip.

“Why can’t Zephele become Apex? Is there some Edict that forbids it? Orion says she’s very good at civics.” Malora, having eaten the last bite, sets aside her knife and looks around for something to wipe her hands and mouth on.

Neal says, “There was a female Apex once. I believe she died of snakebite after only two months in office.”

“I’m happy to give Zephie the remedy, just in case.”

“Zephele could no more be Apex than you could,” Neal says.

“And why not?” Malora wipes her mouth on her hand.

“Because she’s fundamentally frivolous,” Neal replies, pulling loose a cloth hanging from his snakeskin belt and tossing it to her. Malora catches it and wipes her mouth and hands, then the blade of the knife.

Neal retrieves the cloth and tucks it away. “Her flightiness must be obvious to you, who are yourself anything but.”

Knowing how Zephele feels about Neal, Malora is stung on Zephele’s behalf. “Zephie has a sweet and knowing nature. And for all you know,
I
might be very flighty.”

“Please, Pet. This Flatlander is no one’s fool.”

She frowns. “I have little to caper about at the moment.”

“Because the Apex has thwarted your petition? That’s the
way it is in Mount Kheiron! But, as I say, you are welcome to go if you are unhappy,” he says. “I’m sure—provided you leave the Furies behind—that the Apex would be the first to lead everyone in the good-bye salutation.”

Malora would never dream of leaving without taking the horses. But when she imagines herself leaving the centaurs, the thought causes a surprising ache in her heart. “I think I would miss Orion and Zephie and Honus. Theon and Mather and the others. And there are comforts here …,” she trails off wistfully.

“Say no more. There are those of us on the Flatlands who would give anything to live up here surrounded by beauty and enlightenment. I’m not one of them, mind you. Peacekeepers have better things to do.”

Malora hides a smile, hearing Zephele’s voice saying: “The Peacekeepers are a joke, when I really think about it, because no one ever attacks us and we attack no one. So the Peacekeepers all bash each other about in practice, and that’s just about that.”

She gathers the sticks and the pile of bones, and carries them out to the terrace. She buries the bones in the dirt of the large pot of a pomegranate tree, feeling a twinge of guilt for using the bower as a boneyard. The squirrel was tasty enough but far too much work considering how little meat there really was. “Are you disappointed that the Apex will not be sending you out to battle with the wild centaurs?” she asks.

Neal contemplates the tree. “I wonder if it will now sprout bright red squirrels on the ends of its branches,” he muses.

Malora hides a grin.

“There is no battle to speak of,” Neal says. “The Ka would like our help establishing an escort for trading parties. But apparently, this comes too close to being an act of aggression in the Apex’s mind. It violates Edicts aplenty.”

“The Third, the Fifth, and possibly the Fourteenth.”

“They’ve wasted no time indoctrinating you, I see. In any case, the Apex refuses to participate in the coalition,” he says. “He would rather sit on his precious mountaintop and fret like an ostrich with his head in a hole.”

“When ostriches fret, they don’t put their heads in holes. They lie down with their heads strung out upon the ground.” Now an
ostrich
, she thinks, would make a full meal. “When might we go hunting? I have lessons in the morning, but afternoons, I’m free.” She sends the sticks sailing over the rooftops.

“Good arm!” Neal says. “Afternoons, I’m told that you’re supposed to be busily shopping for your alternative Hand.”

Malora shrugs. “No one said I couldn’t shop for my alternative Hand in the bush,” she says with a smirk.

“Ah, sweet corruption!” he says, rubbing his hands together. “I am at your service any afternoon you name.”

“What if the Apex finds out? Would he turn me out?”

“Now, now, Pet, you’ll have to learn that part of being a rebel is tossing caution to the wind,” he says. “But not to worry. The Apex won’t find out. What sort of game would you like to hunt, so that I might provide the right weapons?”

Worry still nags at her. “But won’t the Apex see us? When I stand here and look out, I feel like I can see everything that goes on down there on the Flatlands and even beyond.”

“That’s because your eyes are as sharp as your spirit of adventure is strong,” Neal says.

“The Apex’s eyes seem quite sharp to me,” Malora says.

“Only if he bothers to look beyond the Hall of Mirrors,” Neal says with a wicked gleam in his coppery eyes.

“In that case, let’s hunt ostriches. Ostrich steak is my favorite meat.”

“I’ve never tasted it. Ostriches are too fast for me.”

“They are not too fast for me,” Malora counters, “provided I have a fast horse beneath me. And as for weapons, all I need is my rope.”

“Game hunting with
rope
? I look forward to seeing this. I think I can get my hands on a fast horse. I am sorry to say it will not be one of your beloved Furies.
That
the Apex really would notice.” He pauses. “You must miss your horses.”

Malora looks away. How can she possibly explain to him—or to anyone—that her longing for the boys and girls is satisfied each night when she gallops across the plains on the back of her most beloved boy, the wayward stallion, Sky? “Let’s hunt tomorrow afternoon,” she says.

“I live to serve,” Neal says with a deep, mocking bow.

Before lessons begin the next morning, while Honus is in the Hall of Mirrors advising the Apex, Malora says to Zephele, “Neal Featherhoof is taking me hunting later today.”

Zephele’s eyes pop. “How did this come to pass?”

“He visited me here yesterday, when you were at the Salient,” Malora explains. Omitting the part about Johnnyboy and Whiskers, she says, “I am to meet him in the market square directly after the midday meal.”

“But how will you do that?” Zephele asks. “You cannot simply go down there, unmonitored and unsponsored. You will need my help.”

Malora, who was unaware this would be so complicated, says doubtfully, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Zephele says. “It may be the only way I’ll ever get to see that Flatlander. Orion and Honus conspire to prevent it. What poor unfortunate beast will you be stalking?” she asks, then covers her ears and says, “Never
mind. Forget I asked. I don’t want to know. It’s too vile. But I suppose that hunting is in your nature—just as it is in Featherhoof’s—and that you will fail to thrive if you do not indulge in this barbaric practice.”

In haste, Zephele and Malora hatch a plan. They will say that Zephele is taking Malora on a tour of the mosaic studio, which is near the market square where Malora has agreed to meet Neal after the midday meal.

When Honus returns to his rooms, they announce their plan. Honus is full of praise for it. “Brilliant! Your mathematical acumen may serve you well in this Hand,” he says to Malora. “The People have been practicing the mosaic art since ancient times.”

Malora and Zephele have their separate lessons, and then, before the midday meal, Honus invites them to read aloud a poem called “The Wasteland” by Thomas Stearns Eliot. Zephele rolls her eyes. She has read the poem before and finds it impenetrable. Honus stops reading after every stanza to explain its mysteries. Malora reads aloud, “Come in under the shadow of this red rock,” and then asks Honus, “Did this Thomas Stearns live in the Ironbound Mountains?”

Honus smiles with a hint of sadness. “No, he lived in a land far to the north and the west that is now completed engulfed by ice.”

“Is this where you came from, too?” Malora asks.

“I have no real way of knowing,” Honus says.

When they leave before the midday meal, saying they will get something to eat in the marketplace, Honus is sitting in his red-cushioned easy chair, still poring over the poem.

At the last moment, Malora dashes to her room to get
Jayke’s rope. When Honus sees her with it, he removes his gold wire-rimmed spectacles. “Your plan is to rope and hog-tie the mosaicists?” he asks, one brow raised.

Malora thinks quickly. “Zephele says, if we have time, we can take this to the rope shop. It is frayed on one end and needs reweaving.”

Honus, seemingly satisfied with this explanation, returns to the Eliot and wishes them both a productive afternoon.

Human and centaur are subdued as they walk swiftly down the hall and pass through the front portal of the Silvermane house. When they are on the Mane Way, Zephele explodes in astonishment. “Did you see that? He accepted your falsehood without blinking an eye! I must enlist you the next time I need to violate the Ninth Edict. You’re fearfully good at it. Your color isn’t even high. When I tell an untruth, my cheeks burn as if I were stricken with fever. However do you do it? You must teach me your technique.”