Mending Horses (22 page)

Mr. Stocking slid down the bench to make room for them. “Where you fellas been?” He waved to the tavern-keeper, held up two fingers, and pointed first to the empty bowl in front of him, and then to his companions. Their host filled two bowls with some sort of stew and set them in front of Daniel and Billy, along with two lumps of grayish brown bread and two mugs of ale.

“Thought I'd have a closer look at them ponies,” Daniel said, sniffing at his dish. It had been stewing so long that the vegetables had dissolved into mush, and the meat had shredded into stringy bits. Still, it smelled good, the savory herbs promising to ease some of the bitter taste of his encounter with Professor Romanov. Billy tucked into her meal as if she'd not eaten for weeks, alternately slurping down her stew and gnawing ferociously at her bread.

“They step about pretty sharp, don't they?” the peddler said, though there was no admiration in his voice.

Daniel rubbed his hand on his trousers, as if that could erase the feel of the pony's scarred fetlock. “I'd prance pretty sharp, too, if me feet hurt.”

Mr. Stocking nodded. “I thought as much. That gait doesn't come natural to many horses, and it can be a devil of a time teaching it. That Perfesser didn't look like he had much patience for teaching.”

“What d'you mean?” Billy asked, a dribble of brown gravy slopping down her chin. Mr. Stocking winced as she wiped it with her shirt cuff.

Daniel set his fist knuckles-down on the table, pretending it was the pony's hoof. “Old scars right along here.” He ran a finger along his wrist. “I wager I'd'a found other marks on him, had I time to look for 'em. What d'you fancy done it?” He tore a bit from the center of his bread and worked it into a doughy lump between his fingers.

“Lots'a tricks I've seen fellas use,” Mr. Stocking said. “Mustard plasters so they pick up their feet to get away from the sting of it. Chains so the rattling gives 'em a start. It doesn't mean that the Perfesser done it. Could be the fella who owned 'em before he did.”

“They didn't look over fond of him when he come over to run us off.” Daniel shook his head. “None so pretty now, eh?” he said, with a pointed look at Billy.

She pushed her bowl away with a grimace. “You'll have to tell Mr. Chamberlain before they leave tomorrow,” she told Mr. Stocking. “He'll have to stop it.”

“And then what?” Daniel pressed. “What's to keep the Perfesser from leaving, ponies and all?”

Mr. Stocking's face brightened a little. “As a matter of fact, those ponies don't belong to Neezer.”

“Neezer?” Daniel and Billy repeated simultaneously.

“Perfesser Romanov. Those ponies are rightly Fred's.”

“That's settled, then, isn't it?” Billy said. “He'll dismiss that nasty old Perfesser, and then—”

Mr. Stocking took a long swallow of ale. “Yes, it's the
and then
that's the sticking point, isn't it, fellas? Who's to say the next perfesser won't be just as bad as this one? Most men aren't as soft about horses as the three of us.”

“Including your Mr. Chamberlain?” Daniel asked.

The peddler hesitated. “That I couldn't say. I never seen him misuse an animal, but I never seen him stop it being done, neither.”

“He'll do something if you tell him to,” Billy said. “You being such great friends and all.”

Mr. Stocking rasped a calloused finger across the stubble on his jaw. “Yes, well, there's friends and there's friends.” The peddler stirred uneasily on the bench, then took a decisive breath and continued. “See, it's like this. Fred, he's not the type of fella to let friendship stand in the way of profit.”

Daniel shuddered at the screams and grunts from the menagerie tent. He'd no idea whether the beasts were fixing to break loose or were merely impatient for their breakfast. The noises left Mr. Stocking unperturbed, which settled Daniel's nerves some as he and Billy followed the peddler among the cream-colored pavilions, mist swirling at their feet. Silhouetted figures moved about, tugging on ropes and adjusting stakes, securing the pavilions for another day's performance.

A roar of a different kind came from Mr. Chamberlain's tent. “Damn 'em both to hellfire and eternal perdition!” the conjurer bellowed. “And damn you, too, while you're at it.”

“Me?” a reedy voice squeaked. “I never saw 'em go!”

The tent flap flew back, and Mr. Chamberlain charged out in dressing gown and slippers. Humbert Lamb, the menagerie keeper, trailed behind. A tall, thin man with wispy yellow hair, Mr. Lamb looked more a scholar than an animal trainer. But yesterday Daniel had seen him waltz with a bear, wear a snake about his neck like a shawl, and wrestle two panthers as easily as a child playing with a litter of puppies. Now, though, Mr. Lamb looked more afraid of Mr. Chamberlain than of his wild beasts.

“What's the trouble?” Mr. Stocking asked.

“They're gone, damn 'em. Neezer and Heloise have run off.”

“Professor Romanov and Madame Staccato,” Mr. Stocking explained in response to Daniel's and Billy's blank stares.

“I'll bet Howes snapped 'em up,” Mr. Chamberlain continued. “I thought I saw one of his people skulking about last night. He's been waiting to snatch some of my talent.”

“It's not so bad as all that,” Mr. Lamb said timidly. “He did leave the ponies.”

“He damn well better have. They're mine. Though how I'm going to—” The conjurer peered narrowly at Daniel. “Jonny tells me you're good with a horse.” Daniel had no chance to respond before Mr. Chamberlain turned on Billy. “And I've heard you sing.”

“Umm—” Billy threw an anxious glance at Mr. Stocking, then at Daniel.

“Fine. It's settled then.” Mr. Chamberlain spun on his heel and stalked away, his dressing gown flapping like wings in his wake.

“What's settled?” Daniel asked as soon as he'd recovered his breath.

“I think it means you're hired,” Mr. Stocking said.

“I do believe so,” Mr. Lamb agreed. He looked toward his menagerie tent, then in the direction that Mr. Chamberlain had gone. A roar from the menagerie decided him. “Excuse me,” he said. “Griselda wants feeding.” Looking almost relieved, he dashed away toward his charges.

Daniel shook his head. “What is it exactly that we're hired to do?”

Mr. Stocking chuckled as he dug in his pocket for his tobacco pouch. “That's up to you . . . Perfesser.” He cut off a chew and popped it into his mouth.

“Per—” Daniel backed away. “Oh, no. I can't.”

“You wanted to see them ponies taken care of, didn't you?”

“Aye, but not—I mean—I can't—I don't know naught about horses.”

Mr. Stocking nearly choked on his chew. He spluttered and recovered. “Son, if you don't know horses, I'm the queen of England.” He turned toward Billy. “As for you—”

Billy pressed her lips into a tight line. “I told you he knew. It was that look he gave me yesterday, like he could see right through me.” She shuddered.

“When you been playacting as long as Fred, you seen enough
boys playing Juliet and girls playing pages and squires that it's second nature to spot 'em out.”

“At least now you don't got to pretend to be someone you're not,” said Daniel.

“No!” Billy shoved Daniel away and ran.

Daniel felt thrown off balance more by the horror in Billy's face than the push she'd given him. He cast a perplexed glance at Mr. Stocking.

The peddler shrugged. “Better go after her. You'll catch her quicker'n I will.”

Daniel found her in the paddock behind the tavern, where she stood nose to nose with Phizzy, grumbling a string of Gaelic curses into his floppy gray ears. Phizzy nodded sympathetically, his sleepy eyes deep and sad, as if he were pondering how to advise her. Billy cast a withering scowl at Daniel and ducked behind Phizzy's neck. “Go away.”

“You can't be always running away from who you are,” Daniel said.

Billy stepped out from behind Phizzy, her fists doubled. “This is who I am.”

“No. No it ain't, lass.”

“Don't call me that!” She flung herself at Daniel, hammering the wind out of him. He sat down hard in the dirt, the shock going from his tailbone to his skull. Billy leaped on him with punches and kicks as hard as he'd ever gotten from a lad, confounding him with how to evade her blows without hitting back. Then she was gone.

Mr. Stocking held Billy around the waist, pinning her arms to her sides. His feet did a little jig as he tried to avoid her kicks. “Damned if she don't fight like a boy,” he said.

Daniel staggered to his feet. He stood with his hands on his knees, waiting for his breath to settle. “You—you—” He waved a shaky hand at the peddler. “You're not helping any, leaving her call herself Billy and calling her
son
. You don't even know her real name.” He picked up his cap and slapped the dust off against his thigh.

“It doesn't seem to me like you got much call to be telling people what names they can use.” The peddler's turtle-like eyes pinned him hard. Mr. Stocking released Billy and cupped a hand under her chin. “As for you . . . You have a gift, and you ought'a be using it for something better than hawking tinware and patent elixirs.”

Billy slapped his hand away. “He'll be making a girl of me.”

“And why would that be such a terrible thing?” Daniel ran an exasperated hand through his hair.

“I couldn't be free—not ever again.”

Daniel rolled his eyes. “Whatever does being a lass or a lad have to do with being free?”

“If you was a lass, you'd know.”

Only a lass could be such a bloody puzzle of unreasonable reasons. He looked to Mr. Stocking for support, only to see the peddler nod sagely as if he understood every word.

“Billy, have I ever made you do anything you didn't want to?” Mr. Stocking asked.

“Besides reading, mathematics, geography, and history?” Billy snapped back.

“And washing up,” Daniel added.

Mr. Stocking rubbed his jaw. “Well, that was for your own good. Look, son—” He winced away from Daniel's glare. “What makes you think I'd make you sing for Fred?”

“You want to stay with him, don't you?” Billy asked accusingly.

“Can't say as I'm not tempted. I'd sell a prodigious pile of tinware,” Mr. Stocking said. “But it'd hardly be fair if you didn't get a say.” He crossed his arms and looked Daniel square in the eye. “Dan'l, d'you want to see those ponies taken care of proper?”

“Aye, but that don't—” he began, but Mr. Stocking had already turned to Billy.

“Billy, do you want to sing for all those people like you did yesterday?”

“I don't want to be a girl.”

“Seems to me there's more to be gained by you being a boy.
Everyone expects a girl to have a pretty voice. But a boy . . . well, that's something different.”

“Billy Fogarty, the Irish Songbird.” The conjurer puffed on his segar and sent a smoke ring into the air.

“Billy Fogarty, the Boy with the Voice of an Angel.” Mr. Stocking blew his own smoke ring, which floated over the ruins of their breakfast and merged with Mr. Chamberlain's.

It was all Daniel could do not to snicker. He took another slice of apple pie, still a bit amazed at the way the morning's events had turned. Once Mr. Stocking had chased down the conjurer and settled his temper, Mr. Chamberlain had summoned two lads who'd transformed his tent from bedchamber to dining room and laid out a breakfast of bacon and fried potatoes, bread and jam, and cold apple pie as magically as Mr. Chamberlain summoned up silk scarves and colored flames. If show folk all ate as grandly as Mr. Chamberlain, then perhaps it wasn't such a disreputable life after all.

“The Boy with the Voice of an Angel,” Mr. Chamberlain repeated. “Could be.” He swept Billy with a glance. “But that name's got to go. Fogarty.” He scowled. “Damn ugly. Needs to be something . . . I don't know. Maybe something with a bird in it. Bunting? Starling? Thrush?”

“Definitely not Thrush. Sounds like he's got a foot disease,” Mr. Stocking said.

“Billy Magpie,” Daniel suggested. “For isn't he forever getting into mischief?”

“Raven.” Billy pointed at Shiva and Kali, whose beady black eyes stared hungrily at the breakfast table. She took a crust of bread and poked it between the bars of their cage.

Mr. Chamberlain's brows knit solemnly. “Needs something with a
Mc
or an
O
in it, maybe. But I still like that bird idea . . . Billy O'Bird . . . Billy McBird. . . . No, that's not it, either.”

“Can't say I've ever met any Irishmen named McBird,” Mr. Stocking said. “But I've met a few McBrides in my travels.”

Mr. Chamberlain snapped his fingers. “That's it! Billy McBride, the Irish Songbird, the Boy with the Voice of an Angel.”