It would be fine, wouldn’t it?
She affected a masculine swagger as she strode to the men, imagining she was the confident Kesley, approaching a group of his peers. All she had to do was pull this off for a few minutes, and then she would show all of these dragoneers how Lelantos flew.
Mr. Nethenabbi was the center of attention, his eyes bright, smiling as he joked with the riders. He wore a harness of leather, fancy in its clever buckles and pouches. This was the outfit of an experienced dragoneer. He saw her, and the smile slipped off his face, replaced with a quizzical wariness. “You there, sir, are you the rider for Longbourn?”
Valeraine nodded, not trusting her voice to pass as Kesley’s to someone who had met him.
Nethenabbi clasped his hands, regaining his confidence. “We are all gathered then. The derby can begin. I will mediate any disputes, though I trust we won’t have any. The course is simple: we will start where we are now, and finish here. The course extends to that hilltop,” he gestured to a far bump on the horizon, Oakham mount, “and back again.” He grinned as punctuation. “Any questions?”
There were no questions, but one of the riders did have an objection. “All of us starting in this cramped space? The liftoff will be madness,” said a tall man with blonde, neat hair. His skin was the color of pine wood, and his eyes were a piercing green. He was also dressed in well-tailored flying leathers, which emphasized his broad shoulders. He wore a shirt with delicate lace cuffs underneath.
Another man countered the blonde rider: “Pemberley, that is the entertainment of it.” The man gestured to the waiting crowd of people. “No-one comes to the derby to see neat columns of dragons, they want to see the fights! That is the soul of the derby. May the fiercest rider win.”
Nethenabbi reclaimed the conversation. “May the fiercest rider win, indeed. We will begin in a minute,” Nethenabbi looked apologetically at Mr. Pemberley, “as the dragons are currently situated, at the signalling of the horn.”
The riders dispersed.
As Valeraine walked to Lelantos, the objecting rider with lace cuffs followed her.
“What are you doing in this derby?” Mr. Pemberley said, and his tone was all accusation. It seemed that he had already made up his mind that she shouldn’t be doing anything at this derby.
“My dragon is fit to fly.” Valeraine said, barely remembering to pitch her voice lower in an approximation of a tenor.
“Your dragon is an old work-dragon — anyone looking at the claws could see. You are wholly unprepared, as your clothes indicate. Moreover, you cover your identity, a sure sign you are acting dishonestly.” Pemberley left from dogging her steps, reaching his dragon. It was a beauty, with gleaming red scales and bundles of horns decorating its noble head. “You may be here with the blessing of Longbourn, but you should not ride. This is not your place.”
She may not be sure if this was a good idea, but she was absolutely certain Longbourn deserved to have a rider at this derby, and that she was their best shot. She said, “I will ride,” and then she reached Lelantos and clambered on herself.
This was her place. After all, her dragon was comfortable here, feeling his nest nearby. These visiting dragons (like the horned red specimen next to her) were the interlopers. Their dragons had been dragged away from where they made their homes and their temperaments had degraded because of it. They were nest-tetchy: eager to attack, slow to follow commands, brutal in fights for dominance, and always straining against their masters. This would be her race, because this was her neighborhood, and no other dragon knew this course like Lelantos did, passing over fields he had worked and the land he claimed as his own.
A horn sounded, and the riders took to the sky.
Chapter ten
Lelantos knew the sound of the derby horn. He had raced hundreds — perhaps thousands — of derbies in his long lifetime, ridden by the dragoneers of Longbourn house, and he now reclaimed his competitive spirit. Valeraine didn’t have to give him a signal or spur him to action. At the horn, Lelantos came onto his haunches, pumped his wings, and took to the sky.
The seven other dragons followed behind them, rising quickly. Their riders knew the sound of the horn, even if their dragons were too nest-tetchy to heed it.
Almost immediately, the sleek white dragon snapped at the tail of a black dragon. The black bit back, and a brawl of claws and roars broke out between them. The rider of the black dragon was thrown from his saddle and dangled from his harness straps. The other dragons were eager to join, testing their mettle against the angry beasts. Even the argumentative Pemberley was unable to launch directly into the course.
Valeraine looked forward, feeling the wind whistling through the eye holes of her mask and snagging her braid. She focused on the goal before her: Oakham mount. She steered Lelantos, tugging on the reins and gently prodding him with her knees. The advantage was hers, with a dragon in his own nest territory, free from the dominance games that plagued their competitors.
They flew. Valeraine squeezed her knees to urge Lelantos to speed. The green countryside churned past them, dizzyingly blurred. This was faster than she had ever pushed her house’s dragon before, and she worried he might not be fit to work the fields tomorrow. What was that, though, compared to the acclaim it would bring to Longbourn to win a derby? She laughed at the rush of it all.
She heard the riders behind her before she saw them. A great turbulence whooshing in the air and growls as the dragons jockeyed for position. The dragons didn’tneedto fly the same path to the mount, and yet they stayed near each other. They wanted to knock their competitors out of the sky. What would be the sense in staying at their own elevation and giving each other plenty of room?
Valeraine turned in her saddle, feeling the rushing wind push at a new, disconcerting angle. There were three dragons immediately behind her, gaining fast. How did they fly so quickly? Were these dragons bred exclusively for speed? She knew those dragons existed, but had not expected to encounter them at this small derby in the countryside. The Nethenabbi clan was known for breeding for reduced tetchiness, so the dragons could deliver shipments far and wide. Perhaps they also bred some for racing. A pale blue ridden by Nethenabbi was right behind Valeraine, one with feathers on her tail tip and along her wings. Close behind her were the horned burgundy dragon of Pemberley, and the angry white one.
Valeraine crouched low in her saddle, trying to present less of a target to the wind, and urged Lelantos, “Faster! Fly!”
Lelantos pumped his wings. They might be going faster. A little.
Valeraine wanted to check if it had been enough to preserve their lead, but she might be blown off by the wind if she turned in the saddle to look.
Oakham mount was before them. It was a largeish hill, sparsely decorated by trees. There were plenty of places to land a dragon on it. She urged Lelantos to touch down at this checkpoint. As soon as she felt the jostle of Lelantos’ legs make contact, Valeraine twitched the reins back up.
Lelantos settled on the ground, and laid his head down to rest. His passion for the race was spent, it seemed.
“No! No,” Valeraine exclaimed. “Get up, you silly lizard. There’s half the race left.”
