by Alma Boykin
Elizabeth helped herself to more chokofee as a servant refilled Emperor Thomas’ cup. She held the pot up and looked at Jan Kossuth, sitting on her right. “Yes, please.” She emptied the pot into his cup and had barely set it down when a servant whisked the empty away and replaced it.
“A good point, Duke Starland,” the emperor agreed. Clellan sank into his chair and Jones adjusted his jacket cuffs as Thomas continued, “Even I have heard of Count Turandott’s reputation for deliberate speed. It was three years ago, I believe, that he reached the starting point for his spring offensive just as harvest concluded?”
Everyone but Jones and Clellan chuckled in agreement. “Your majesty, that does not eliminate the southern routes from consideration,” Jones protested, wringing his hands again.
“Sarmas?”
She bowed her head in acknowledgment. “Count Jones is correct, your majesty, and we have plans under development, should Laurence, the Turkowi, or both move against us this from the south this year.” And shahma will grow wings and sweet tempers before that happens.
That satisfied his majesty, or at least he chose not to discuss the matter any further. Elizabeth listened with half an ear to the rest of the discussion as she made a mental list of changes her staff needed to consider for the spring campaign season. Once she excused herself to visit the garderobe, and she was not the only one to seek “relief” before the emperor pronounced himself satisfied. He concluded, “Allow me to offer congratulations, Duke Grantholm, on your daughter’s pending confirmation. Has she selected a patron?”
Grantholm nodded, or at least his head moved up and down. Elizabeth still couldn’t tell if he had a neck or not. Even more than his father, Grantholm deserved the nickname “The Bear.” “Yes, your majesty. Saint Albert.”
Thomas leaned forward, planting one elbow on the table. “Interesting, Grantholm. Who is her sponsor?”
“I’d hoped Archduke Arpad, your majesty, but he declined the request. He says he’s too old.”
Thomas snorted. “Pity, given his familiarity with all sorts of sins. He could provide excellent guidance on how to avoid them.”
Grantholm pursed his lips, as if not sure how to reply to the emperor’s remark. He decided to be tactful, or so Elizabeth guessed. “Duchess Kiri will be asking a second sponsor today, your majesty.”
“Good. You have my best wishes and prayers for your daughter’s success.” With that Thomas stood and the others mirrored him. He strolled out of the room. As soon as the door shut behind him, Paul Clellan escaped by another door, Jones hot on his heels.
“Clellan’s not on his majesty’s saint’s day gift list,” Theobald Peilov observed, a smug smile on his full lips. The emperor’s second cousin, the young count was not known for discretion and Elizabeth wondered if she should say anything. He’d only spoken aloud what everyone knew, or would know by the supper hour, so she pretended not to hear.
She returned to Donatello House to find a very ornate cart in the courtyard, pulled by two of the stoutest fancy horses she’d ever seen. Bright blue and green designs stretched along the sides of the crimson cart, and plaid blankets covered the horses. Only one noble used that sort of design on his tack, and Elizabeth realized who waited in her reception room. Surely not. Kiri Grantholm should know better than to ask me to be a sponsor.
“Has Duchess Grantholm been served refreshments?” She demanded of David and the maids who met her at the door.
“Not yet. She arrived not five minutes ago, but savories and tea are being prepared,” he assured his mistress. “She’s in the library, where it’s warmer.”
That’s a relief. “Good.” She undid the straps on the top of her boots and pried them off with the bootjack. Instead of slippers, the maid presented her with house shoes. “Yes, very good.” Elizabeth left her coat and swordbelt with the maid and went into the library.
Duchess Kiri Grantholm stood, back to the fire, staring at the walls of the library. She always reminded Elizabeth of a lovely bird, fluttering and twittering, a delight to the eye and ear. “Duchess Grantholm?” Elizabeth inquired as she stepped into the warm room.
“By St. Sabrina, I had no idea any woman needed so many books!” The delicate, blond woman made a graceful sweep with her arm, taking in the entire collection.
“Many of them are my husband’s.” Elizabeth decided to be tactful. “And some belong to the royal estate at Donatello Bend, and were Archduke Lewis’s before he died.” But those are not out for public view. If Clellan thought I was heretical, Lewis would have curled what’s left of his hair.
“Your husband?” Kiri frowned. “Oh, Colonel Destefani, the diplomat.” She shook out her skirts and smoothed her upswept golden hair. “Did my husband speak to you?”
“I gave him the confirmation dress and cap, yes, Duchess Kiri,” Elizabeth said, guessing the reason for the younger woman’s visit.
“But he didn’t ask you about the ceremony.” She shook out her mossy-green skirts again and sat. “So typical. Duchess Elizabeth, will you be our daughter’s sponsor?”
“Ah, I beg your pardon, but I’d not given it any thought.” She blinked, trying to remember anything about the eight year old. David tapped on the door, saving her. “Come in.”
Kiri waited until the footman had poured hot tea and served toasts and small plates of flat cake before pursing her lips and giving a little shake of her head. “Her name is Kiara, and she’s selected St. Albert as her patron. She’s bookish and seems to be pious, which is good, because she shares her father’s features and build.” Kiri drank some tea. “In many ways she looks much like you, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes and hid behind her teacup. St. Kiara give me clarity, St. Gimple, she’s truly one of yours, isn’t she? There’s no filter between her mind and her mouth, bless her soul. Kiri didn’t mean to insult Elizabeth, it just came out too honestly. Elizabeth replied, “And you think I’d be a good sponsor for the young lady.”
“Oh yes. You’re not Karl’s first choice, but you managed to find a position and a husband, plus you are close to the church should Kiara have a true vocation. I hope she does, because she’s so strange otherwise.”
The poor child is doomed. Elizabeth started to refuse, but to her surprise she heard her voice saying, “I’d be delighted to sponsor Kiara. When and where will the service be, and when can I meet your daughter?”
“Oh, at our town palace on the next holy day afternoon, two hours by sun after noon, and would dinner that day be too soon? She’s not very outgoing, more’s the pity. A good personality can balance poor features in a woman, sometimes.” Kiri drank more tea and helped herself to a flat cake, spreading cream and jam on top.
Elizabeth felt a surge of envy. You’re lovely, charming, and you can eat that without a second thought? Godown, your world is not fair. “No, that won’t be too soon at all, Duchess Kiri. I look forward to meeting her. Has she selected a confirmation gift?”
“Some books, I fear. Fr. François at St. Gerald’s is her director and he has a list. Thank you very much, Elizabeth.” She ate a few bites of the cake. “What do you think of the fashions from the Sea Republics? Those sleeveless jackets look so strange.”
Now on safer ground, Elizabeth got her own flat cake, adding a thin layer of honey cream. She had missed dinner, after all, she told herself. “I think, if you wear them with a blouse with full sleeves, they will be quite fetching. Col. Destefani says they can be cut in several styles, depending on the wearer’s features and figure.” He’d sent three in the latest parcel, along with some dried smoked fish that turned beetroots into a delicacy.
“Oh, that makes sense.” Kiri chattered about clothes and court gossip for almost half an hour before excusing herself.
Elizabeth saw her out, then leaned against the wall in a most unladylike manner, her forehead on her arm. St. Gerald but my ears are full. She straightened up. And there are two cakes left, hiding under the fruit spread, if I recall correctly. They’ll just go stale i
f I don’t eat them.
She narrated the letter as she wrote to Lazlo the morning after the confirmation. “And yes, her mother was right, she looks very much like her father. I suspect she will be a neck and knee rider when she’s old enough. She has the size and the fire. Kiara Alberta Grantholm reminds me of the old duke: a fast mind behind the dumb façade. She’s going to be a handful when she gets older, love. And yes, I suspect she will want to be a cadet with her brothers. Karl and I will have to talk. I’m not going to be young enough to be a good mentor if she’s truly serious and meets the physical standards.” Elizabeth snorted, adding, “I suspect boys will prove more interesting than a military career, but stranger things have happened. A young woman once rode a white mule across the continent and reached her destination with her virtue intact.
“Thank you for the lovely waistcoats. The green one was perfect, and went very well with the brown dress I’d ordered for Winter Fair. Just to warn you, the younger set are foregoing stays and boning in favor of tailored jackets and snug bodices. Yes, they’re foolish and spend most of the day shivering. Yes, gravity is not their friend, although a few have very talented seamstresses indeed. No, the younger men are not the only ones who are rather distracted by this new look.
“On a different note, thinking of things that droop, Duke Clellan and his wife are spending the month in retreat. Karl Grantholm is acting as foreign minister, as you no doubt know, and Dominic Montoya is first minister, at least for now. He’s a little young for my taste, but he seems steady, and the work has perked him up. You recall that he lost a leg and part of his right hand in the Sorla River battle down in Morloke. Infection from a musket wound that his horse bled into. Had to amputate his leg from mid-thigh down, but he survived. His younger brother, Tom, leads their troops, and Jan Kossuth says he’s steady, not imaginative, but his men trust him and he follows orders well.”
She tapped the end of the pen against her teeth. Have I forgotten anything? No, not this time. Oh, wait. “We have had requests for every single mule born this year, as well as the last two years’ excess stock. No, Lady Ann and I don’t plan on changing our sales policy, at least not as of the last time we discussed the matter. No other important news, love. I miss you keenly, and pray for your safety and for strength and discernment for you and your staff. Your loving wife, ES.”
7
The Storms of Spring
“Your grace, you cannot fight riding side saddle on a mule.” Captain Arlo Smith, Imperial riding instructor, folded his arms, sticking his already prominent lower jaw out even farther. “You may train your mule, your grace, but that is all.” Gray the mule shook a little and Smith took a step backwards as dark gray hair floated into the air.
Matt Starland, riding on her off-side, coughed into one hand. He’d been the one to invite her to practice with him and his oldest son, Rudolph Aquila, and had mentioned the new junior instructor at the Imperial riding hall. “He’s not bad but he needs more experience,” Matt had explained. He also needed a lesson in tact, and Elizabeth decided to give him one.
She put on her sweetest, most understanding expression. “But of course, Captain. I just want to warm Gray up a little while Duke Starland and his son work.”
Smith relaxed and nodded, stepping farther out of the way. “Certainly, your grace. Stay in the far end and you’ll be safe.”
She touched the edge of her hat-brim with her stick hand and nudged Gray into a slow walk. Matt and Rudolph followed at a distance, discussing what they wanted to do. Or rather, what Matt wanted Rudolph to work on. They were riding Donatello horses, larger than Elizabeth’s mule but equally tough and well trained. They stopped by the serpentine poles while she continued on. As per instructions, she and Gray warmed up at the far end of the riding arena, first walking, then switching into his bone-shaking trot. She resisted the temptation to urge him into his canter. He was eight, and both of them needed to warm up and relax.
O Snowy, I miss you, she thought for the ten-thousandth time. Gray III, and Square III, and Stubbs and Stripe were all good mules, but none held a candle to her late and much lamented killer mule. She’d ridden him for twenty years before letting him retire, and even then he kept the men and women of Donatello Bend on their toes with his antics. He’d been at least twenty-six when he’d died, and Elizabeth had cried for two days after finding his body in the pasture. He’d been the first fighting mule she’d had, and while the others tried, well, they weren’t Snowy. But you ride the mule you have, not the one you wish you had, she reminded herself. She stopped Gray and scratched his crest, waiting. At last Matt gave her the hand sign and she undid the strap on her practice saber. Matt left R.A. working serpentines and rode out into the center of the arena, facing her. She’d already set her reins, and he touched his hat in salute, then drew his own practice saber.
“Tsaa!” She hissed, drawing her own blade. That was Gray’s cue and he scrambled in the sand, lunging into a trot.
Matt’s buckskin jerked into motion as well, and the two rode at each other. “Starland and Starheart!” He called. She stayed quiet, riding against his horse. As she closed with him, he swung down, trying to catch her with an upper cut that would knock her back in the saddle or decapitate her. She ducked at the last moment, too late for him to adjust, and his blunt blade skimmed over her back. She swatted the buckskin on the rump as she rushed past, cueing Gray to turn away and circle for another charge.
“Stop that! Stop that at once,” someone called. Both nobles ignored the protest as they set up for another pass. This time Matt came from her off side and forced the buckskin into Gray, trying to push Elizabeth out of the saddle. It was one of the commonest mistakes her enemies made and she and Gray swung with the near-impact, pivoting around the other horse. She slapped the top of Matt’s thigh, pulling the blow even though he was wearing light armor.
“Starland,” a new voice called and she kicked Gray into a canter, rushing away from the new attack. Gray blew foam and snorted, dancing as she pulled him to a stop and turned around to face her foes. Matt and R.A. thundered down on her and she waited, then let Gray leap forward. As the men struck at her, she stretched out along Gray’s neck. R.A.’s blow cut where her off-side leg would have been, and Matt managed to graze her back. The blow slid off her backplate.
She stopped Gray so hard the mule sat down in the arena’s sand. Now as eager as she was, Gray got up and turned, lunging for R.A.’s mare as she swept past. “Easy,” Elizabeth checked him, but not before he got a mouthful of tail. The mare protested and kicked, almost catching Gray in the head.
“Break” Matt called and the three slowed, walking their mounts out and calming them before meeting in the middle of the arena. Captain Smith stormed up to them. “Did you plan that, Elizabeth?” Matt demanded.
“No,” she panted. Gray snapped and she checked him again. “Quit. No, and he’s never done that before. Maybe he’s spent too much time with the horses and thinks he is one.”
R.A. dismounted and looked at his mare’s rump. “She’s OK, just lost some hair,” he informed the others.
“Your grace, what do you think you are doing?” Smith demanded. “Women don’t fight on horseback.”
The Starlands burst into laughter. Elizabeth sheathed her saber and pulled her riding stick out of the holster on her saddle. “Captain, women fight on horseback whenever they have to,” she informed him. “This woman fights astride and sidesaddle, pistol, crossbow, and saber.”
“Not lance, my lady?” R.A. asked, remounting.
She shook her head. “Not anymore. I’m too old to lead a cavalry charge.”
Matt crossed one leg in front of him, mimicking her seat. “Captain, Imperial Duchess von Sarmas is one of the nastiest, most aggressive, least rational cavalry officers my father and old Duke Grantholm ever had to deal with in their careers. It’s just as well no one has ever bred a mule that will tolerate being in a cavalry charge, because she’d have conquered the entire Turkowi land if they had.”
Smith, all bluster gone, looked from Matt to Elizabeth and back. “Crossbow, your grace?”
Elizabeth smiled without humor. “Crossbow, because Snowy the Killer Mule hated firearms. If I tried to shoot from his back he’d dump me in the dirt or scrape me off on a tree, then stalk away until he reached the Tongue Sea at least.”
The plain-looking captain opened his mouth, closed it again, and stepped away from the three riders. “Carry on, then, your graces, my lord.”
“Thank you.” She waited until he was safely out of the way before nodding to Matt. “I’m done for the morning.” She slapped Gray’s neck. “We rode the jumps before coming here.”
He smiled, looking a bit like his gelding as he did. “Good. You go home, Duchess von Sarmas, and I won’t have to admit how out of practice I am in front of my son.”
She sniffed and looked down her nose at R.A., or tried to. His horse stood at least a hand taller than Gray. “Senior officers are never out of practice, your grace, we merely prefer to conserve our resources and strength for other tasks. Neither do we age.”
Matt’s guffaws startled the buckskin. Starland eased his hat back, revealing a receding hairline. “From your lips to Godown’s ear, Elizabeth.” R.A. hesitated, unsure if it was safe to laugh along or not.
She shook her stick at him. “R.A., you too will be mature, wise, and stiff, some day, Godown willing. Enjoy being young while you can.”
“Yes, your grace,” the young man agreed, bowing in the saddle as she turned Gray and rode out of the arena.
The staff heard her coming and opened the end gates, allowing her to ride straight from the arena into the warm, soft spring sunlight. She blinked as her eyes adapted, then turned Gray for Donatello House. The sun felt better than she cared to admit, and Gray tossed his head, still excited by the morning’s fun. She, on the other hand, felt sore. Matt’s blow, even through the armor, had left a bruise on her back, and she’d have more on her legs from being slammed against the horns when Gray stopped short. Gray snorted again and she made him behave, waiting until his ears tipped back toward her, showing that she had all of his attention. “Good mule,” she praised him. “Let’s go home.” Her guards formed up behind her at the cue. “Anything of interest go by?” She asked as they rode along the street.
