Centauriad 1 - Daughter of the Centaurs (37 page)

Bent double and helpless, Malora sends Neal out to the bush to find the plant Thora recommended for binding the bowels. She is too overcome by suffering to remember the name of it, but between spasms she describes the plant as best she can. Neal returns with three different plants—roots and all. She points to the one she needs and instructs West to boil the roots and leaves and mix them with charcoal and water. She serves the healing tea to the horses first, and then herself. By nightfall, they are much improved.

Malora stays up all that night, crouched in the bushes near the feed, and early in the morning, she sees one of the wranglers sprinkling something into the bin. She pounces on him and threatens to make him eat the tainted feed himself. He confesses that he has been bribed by the manager of one of the Flatlander stables to do anything in his power to interfere with the training. She sends him back to the manager with a warning that if they interfere again, she will retaliate with the “terrible ancient power of the People.”

“What is the terrible ancient power of the People?” West asks eagerly.

“I will kick their Longmane asses all the way to Kahiro,” Malora says, biting back a smile.

“Terrible, indeed, boss,” West agrees.

During a trial race in the mock Hippodrome that day, Butte begins to buck in the harness. West panics and starts
sawing the reins. Malora calmly climbs down from the seat of Max’s rig and approaches Butte’s head. After some gentling, Malora finds stinging nettles under the fleece covering of the harness. Malora never finds out who the culprit is, but from then on, she puts an armed Twani on guard to watch the tack, the horses, and the feed, night and day.

From the long, low tent where the wranglers prepare their horses for the race, Malora has an excellent view of the track. The Hippodrome is a banked, oval-shaped track that is set into a natural bowl in the countryside in the southeast shadow of the mountain. Spectators are gathered on the hillsides overlooking the track’s two longer stretches. The northern hillside, slightly higher than the southern, is fittingly where the Highlanders are camped out. For many of them, Malora is told, this is the one time of year when they venture down off the mountain. The Flatlanders occupy the lower hillside. They are feasting and dancing and playing catch with small disks that sail through the air like flat, spinning birds.

The Highlanders’ side is more sedate and less jolly. She can see the familiar blue and white of the Apex’s big tent halfway up the hill, and she can just make out Medon, resplendent in bright blue, and Herself in white with a blue cap streaming with ribbons. They are reclining in front of their tent on a great, blue-cushioned bench. Nearby, Zephele, Theon, and Honus stand side by side. Honus is scanning the scene through the antique mother-of-pearl opera glasses he purchased in Kahiro. Where is Orion?

The shorter hillside opposite the horse tent is given over to a fairground, with brightly draped stands for food vendors and hawkers of wares. Race day is Founders’ Day, an annual fest in commemoration of the settlement of the centaurs on Mount Kheiron—or Mount Kamaria, as the People called it before the centaurs slaughtered them. As Malora looks out on the brightly festooned hillsides and the reveling centaurs, she tries not to think about what happened to the Grandparents on this day so long ago. Ever since she set eyes on the memorial, she has carried a picture in her mind of the man stuck all over with spears. Instead, she tries to think about the race, and about how Max is as ready as he will ever be.

And where is West? It has been some time since she sent him off to the fairgrounds to get something to eat. He was too nervous to eat anything this morning, and Malora scolded him. He can no more race on an empty stomach than Max can. She herself has eaten two bowls of mush with three kinds of berries and extra honey. Breakfast is still the best meal in Mount Kheiron.

The Grand Provost, an officious centaur with tightly curled henna locks and a braided beard, jogs along the row of stalls, five Flatlander and five Highlander, stopping to check on each team.

“Are you sure he is up to it?” he asks when he comes to the Silvermane stall. He stares dubiously at Max.

“Just you wait and see,” Malora tells him.

In the next stall over, Malora hears Anders Thunderheart as he tries to keep his high-strung Athabanshee from leaping
out onto the track in advance of the starting horn. Every time the mare shrieks, Max swivels his head toward Malora as if to ask, “Is this really necessary?”

She hears Anders muttering under his breath, “I have a good mind to lend her one of my own horses. She mocks us running such a forsaken creature. But does the Provost listen? I’m surprised the Apex is standing for this. He has been shamed by defeat in the past. But this old nag will drag the House of Silvermane through the dust of a more bitter defeat than ever he imagined in his worst nightmares.”

Malora whispers in Max’s ear, “Don’t listen to him. He’s just envious.”

Max might get the general drift, but he doesn’t look as if he cares. All around them, horses are snorting and stomping and screaming and straining against their leads, raring to race, while Max stands with his nose brushing the ground, looking as if he wants to fold up his spindly legs and have a little lie-down rather than run a nine-lap race at the speed of wind.

“Malora!”

She looks up to find Orion standing before her with West’s body draped over his arms. West’s head hangs down, and his tongue protrudes. “What happened?” she asks.

“He must have eaten something tainted,” Orion says. “I gave him a physic. He’ll be all right, but he’s in no shape for driving a rig.”

“What will we do now?” Malora says. Max lifts his head and twitches an ear, looking vaguely concerned.

Orion, who seems suspiciously unperturbed by the situation, says, “I’ve spoken to the Provost and to the other stable
owners. They say they will approve your driving the rig. I think the general feeling is that there is so little likelihood of Max even placing that it is a matter of no consequence.”

West stirs in Orion’s arms. “I must race for the Golden Horse!” he says in a voice that quavers.

“There, there, old fellow. Rest yourself and take it easy,” Orion says.

“But the race! Everyone’s counting on me.”

“Don’t worry,” Malora tells him. “I’ll run it for you.”

Orion lays West on a bale of hay. Malora wets a cloth in a water bucket and places it over West’s forehead. She kneels beside him.

“I’m sorry, boss,” he says. “Your pussemboo has let you down. It was the fruit cup. Honus always says, ‘Stay away from the fruit cup,’ and it’s my own fault for ignoring his advice.”

“Don’t fret,” she says soothingly. “It’s only a race.”

“Oh, but it’s not,” West protests weakly. “It’s so much more than that.”

“What is it, then?” Malora asks.

But West seems to have passed out.

“I have something for you,” Orion says.

Malora looks up.

Orion is holding a small red crystal vial.

“What is it?” she asks.

“I call it Victory! It’s a little something I have been working on in my distillery since the night we spoke.”

She eyes it warily. “I don’t need a scent to run a race.”

Orion presses it into her hand. “Tuck it into the top of your wrap, just in case. Please,” he adds, his blue eyes so
intense, she has no choice. She tucks the red vial of scent into her wrap.

“Well, good luck to you both,” Orion says, backing out of the stall.

“Thanks.” Malora smiles. Her heart, she realizes, has already begun to race.

Max lifts his tail and lets off a huge gust of wind, followed by an avalanche of runny droppings.

Tradition calls for all ten of the drivers and rigs to make a full circuit of the track at a trot to greet the fans and spectators on both hillsides. They are to enter the track from the tent when the Grand Provost, speaking through a big silver trumpet, announces the name of the stable and the horse. The Apex’s stable and horse are, according to tradition, called last.

Malora watches as Flatlander and Highlander horses and drivers are called out in alternating order. Each time the rope is dropped, the horses spring forward as if a slingshot has released them. The overpowering roar of the crowds greeting the Flatlander teams completely drowns out the thin, reedy cheers sent up by the Highlanders.

Sitting on her rig, Malora waits for the nervous wrangler to unhitch the rope. She watches Max’s ears twitch this way and that, following the crowd’s roar. Her heart is pounding with excitement. Above all else, she feels a sense of wonder that there can be all this fuss and excitement about a race
that will be over in less time than it takes to visit the marble convenience.

“Silvermane Stable!” The Grand Provost sends forth the call. The Twan waits to hear Max’s name being called. When seconds have elapsed, Malora calls to the confused Twan, “Never mind! Who cares? Let us out of here!” The Twan releases the rope. On his hay bale, West sits up. “Run for your life!” he says, then collapses again.

Malora takes up the reins and says, “Get up!” Max rouses himself with a startled snort and trots out into the Hippodrome.

The Flatlanders, and most of the Highlanders, greet them with such a loud and rowdy booing that Malora very nearly turns the rig around and leaves the track. But then she catches sight of Zephele and Orion on the hillside. They are waving and jumping and jubilating in place. How can I let them down? Malora thinks. After that, it doesn’t bother her as much as it should when objects begin to rain down upon them from both sides, mostly rotten fruit and vegetables.

Perhaps there is something about having used their own meager nubs to place wagers on today’s race that drives the Flatlanders so wild. According to what Theon says, today is the only day of the year when centaurs are permitted to gamble. The odds are against Max even placing. Max will never be able to hear her over the din, so she sends a message to him through her steady hands on the reins as he trots proudly around the oval:
We will show them. We will show them all what a magnificent animal you really are
.

Someone on the Flatlander side of the track flings a large rock. It lands on the turf with an ugly thud, just missing
Max’s head. Max shies and pulls up short. Malora looks over to the hillside to see who has thrown the rock. She spies a commotion in the crowd and watches as Neal drags off a buck by the wrap and pounds him about the head and shoulders with his clenched fist.

Malora twitches the reins. Hesitantly, Max starts up again, this time at a more wary pace. A brigade of Twani swarms out onto the track to pick up the garbage that has been thrown. The horses assemble in a line behind the red starting ribbon. Max is in the very outside lane, which means he will run farther than the horses closer to the inside track. She has debated with herself about this and decided that they will let the other horses battle over the inside track while she and Max will dawdle on the outside. When the other contestants have exhausted each other, she and Max will move to the inside rail for the final laps.

Over the nearly deafening din, the Grand Provost’s voice booms out through his trumpet, explaining the rules to drivers who already know them and spectators who do not care. There are nine laps, and using the whips on the backs of competing horses or drivers is illegal. The Grand Provost lowers his trumpet and raises the starting horn. He puts the horn to his lips. The horn blasts, and the horses burst through the tape. They are off and running!

All except Max, who stands on the turf as still as a statue of a very old and world-weary horse.

“Get up!” Malora says, lifting the reins.

Max stands there switching his tail. The other horses are barreling down the long side and rounding the first bend.

“Get up!”
Malora snaps the reins smartly. Max yawns and
paws his hoof as if planting himself deeper in the turf, perhaps never to move again. The spectators start to snicker. She sees the Apex up on the hillside rise to his feet and hears him bellowing above the jeers, “You call yourself a champion? Get up and run, you useless old nag!”

Malora breaks out in a clammy sweat. It’s obvious to her that the rock has discouraged Max. Max wants no part of a race where rocks fly through the air. Then she gets an idea. She takes the vial of Victory that Orion gave her from her wrap and pulls out the stopper. It smells minty, like a splash of cold water on her face. She puts it to her nostril and inhales deeply. A picture forms clearly in her mind, so compelling that she hears herself scream at the top of her voice,
“Elephants!”

Malora looks behind her and sees a herd of elephants, their ears fanning, their tusks lowered, their feet thundering and churning up the dirt of the track. Max’s ears stand on end. He springs to life and bounds off. Before she has even resettled herself in the seat, they are overtaking the hindmost runner. She replugs the vial and takes a firm hold of the reins, pinching the outer rein to keep Max balanced and upright on the two steep curves they are rounding. They overtake two rigs on the curve, both of them banking dangerously toward the fence. Ahead of her on the straight, whips crack and Twani bawl at their horses to run faster, faster. But Max, feeling the breath of elephants on his back, is running for his life and overtaking the other rigs, one after another.

The crowds on both sides leap to their feet, roaring and cheering and waving their arms. Max rounds another bend. A whip cracks in Malora’s ear, and she sees the tail of the
whip skim Max’s back. Max doesn’t even seem to feel it. She moves even with the rig and waits for the Twan to lift the whip again. When he does, she reaches out with one hand and catches it, wraps it around her forearm, and yanks it away from the driver. The Twan pitches headfirst over the front of his rig. His legs are in the air, scrambling and kicking. The unmanned chariot swerves, barely missing a collision with the next rig over. The driver rights himself and regains his stance, but he is now hopelessly far behind. Meanwhile, Malora flings the whip aside and resumes the race, as more boos and even more cheers greet her.