by Alma Boykin
“Oh, he’s very possible.” Lewis assured her from over her shoulder. “Go look him over.” She did as ordered. The black stud snorted, fox ears twitching back and forth. He sidled a little as she walked closer but did not pull away from the groom holding the rope attached to his halter.
“Easy,” she soothed, puffing into his nostrils. She gave him a thorough inspection; feeling his legs, tapping his hooves, and noting his large, clear, calm eyes. He had a tiny snip of white on his nose and one small white sock on the left rear.
“Pity about the white or he’d be the perfect parade mount,” Lewis drawled.
Lazlo tipped his head to the side, considering possible options. “Your grace could use blacking like Countess Montoya does.”
Lewis laughed. “You noticed that too, did you?”
“It was hard to miss in the rain, your grace.”
Elizabeth rejoined the men and smiled at Lazlo’s sally. “Or your grace could put feathers on his headstall and no one would notice anything else.”
“Or you could. After all, he’s yours.”
“Your grace?” He’d knocked her off balance again.
Lewis grinned at her confusion. “Five years ago I gave you two of Ricardo’s get as your coming-of-age gift, Countess Elizabeth, and you refused them,” he reminded her, green eyes snapping with humor. “Told me to keep them for breeding after Ricardo’s death.” He looked back at the horse, nodding at it. “So I did. This is Ricardo’s son, out of Nighthawk. He’s yours. You need a parade mount, or will. He’s six. He’s sired two good fillies and a colt already.”
Completely surprised, she stared from Lewis to the horse and back. “Your grace, I, thank you, but, I, that is…”
She caught Lazlo smiling at her discomfort. She glared at him and he looked away, most interested in something on the far side of the remuda. Lewis sighed hard enough to shake the new leaves on the trees outside the fence, half a kilometer away. “Ricardo the Second is your horse. The grey beast is your mule. Take them. And don’t forget you have a meeting this afternoon.”
By the end of the day, only Lewis’s gift of the two equines kept Elizabeth from wishing a case of the fig on him. She’d changed clothes, exchanging her uniform for a modest, brown version of court dress, and went into the palace district to meet with the foreign policy and defense councils. Although at age twenty-five no longer the youngest, she remained the only woman. She shrugged as she finished checking the security of her red-blond wig before going into the meeting room—she was as Godown made her. One of the servants saw her coming and whisked open the door for her. “My lady,” he murmured, bowing as she passed.
“Thank you,” she nodded.
“Another early arrival,” a too-hearty voice called as she entered the room. Count James Thomas Andrew “Jaz” Hoffman looked up from his papers, blue eyes over-bright, as if he’d been drinking. His jacket hung loosely from thin shoulders and a scut of mousy brown hair, half-hidden by the bright red ribbon tying it, draped over his collar.
“My lord,” she nodded. Behind his back the men called him “UTA,” standing for “unlikely to arrive.” Count Hoffman seemed to pride himself on being late for anything requiring physical activity, be it a dance or a battle. Elizabeth found his forced cheer annoying but ignored it as best she could. He returned to reading his papers and she took her seat and followed suit. Today’s meeting promised to be long and painful, something the agenda only confirmed. Once again she thanked Godown for the extra padding her skirts provided. Otherwise she’d have a numb rump to match her numb ears before the afternoon ended.
A few minutes later servants came in with a small cart and began setting out water flasks, cups, and baskets of biscuits and bread. She turned her papers over, hiding the contents, and used the time to study the paintings in the room. Elizabeth liked the décor of the council chamber. Pale wood paneling with a light whitewash, along with the light blue upper walls, made the chamber seem larger than it was. Landscape paintings and a few portraits of notable foreign ministers and of Emperor Rudolph and Empress Margaretha hung here and there. The wall behind the emperor’s seat bore the Babenburg crest in white on darker blue. The artist had been one of Godown’s gifted, Elizabeth always thought, to have been able to make the fountain look as if water really flowed out of the wall. The colors and image also helped soothe tempers, something that was going to be especially necessary that day, or so she guessed.
Before long her guess proved accurate. As Count Thomas Albinez droned on about the threat from Frankonia and how it posed a more immediate danger than did the Turkowi, Elizabeth caught Count Jeronimo Montoya’s eye. He winced a little and mouthed, “windbag.” She’d served under him at Kidron Valley, and later with him at the fights for Clear Creek Pass and the Western Broads. Neither of them thought much of Albinez, Midland, and the Western Faction. She nodded just enough that he could see, before making herself concentrate on Albinez’s arguments.
She’d heard them, and all their themes and variations, before: that Frankonia’s actions endangered the Imperial contacts with the Bergenlands and the supplies of coal and iron ore, that Frankonian encouragement was the only reason the Turkowi harassed the Empire, that Frankonian trade pressures against the Sea Republic city-states caused problems for the Poloki, and so on. Crown Prince Thomas, sitting in for his father, had an expression of polite interest, Archduke Gerald Kazmer looked bored, and Duke Clark Midland, the new Foreign Minister, seemed more intent on playing with his penknife than on Albinez’s recitation.
“And the recent involvement in the succession question in Tivolia is notably disturbing,” Albinez concluded. Count Montoya, Col. Alan Marcy, Duke Jan Kossuth and Elizabeth all startled a little at those words. What? What succession question, she wondered. Only one heir exists and there are no bastards to stake a claim to the duchy, and no in-laws that have expressed interest.
Duke Midland and Archduke Gerald Kazmer exchanged smug smiles. “For those who were unaware of the situation, your highness, your grace,” Duke Midland began. “Duke Michael Tillson of Tivolia disinherited his nephew, Thomas, in favor of Jan Peilov, his distant cousin. The grounds, or so Duke Michael informed his imperial majesty’s foreign ministry, were moral corruption and general incompetence in defending Tivolia from Frankonian threats.”
Elizabeth and Count Arnold Eulenberg exchanged incredulous looks. She raised her hand and asked, “Your grace, just to confirm, we are speaking of Jan Peilov, son of Count Theobald Peilov and brother of Lady Marie Starland?”
“Yes.” Midland sniffed. “You know of another?”
Eulenberg replied for her. “No, your grace, we merely wished to confirm that your grace did not refer to a Peilov of a cadet branch.”
Elizabeth struggled to hide her dismay and pure shock at the news. Jan Peilov being a better defender of Tivolia than Thomas Tillson? What is Duke Michael drinking? Or what did Jan put in his wine might be the better question. Unless Godown smote Jan and filled his brain with sense and his heart with courage, something is terribly wrong in Tivolia. Which raised another question in her mind: what had Jan been doing for the past three years? He’d been disinherited from the Peilovna succession in favor of his newborn half brother following the retreat to Platesford five years before. He’d drifted to Vindobona and had taken up with some of the younger rakes before Count Theobald cut off all financial support and threatened to have Jan pronounced a bastard. Elizabeth had gloated a little at the time, and Godown had struck her with the worst cramps and bleeding she’d had yet as punishment for her lack of forgiveness and charity. Elizabeth scolded herself again half-heartedly, remembering that, Miracles do happen and perhaps he’s reformed.
“What is his majesty’s response, your grace?” Count Eulenberg wanted to know.
Crown Prince Thomas, a blend of his mother’s dark complexion and light eyes and his father’s lean height, waved Midland off, replying, “His majesty sees no conflict, as Jan Peilov no longer has claim to property within the Empire
. Having closer relations between Tivolia and the Starland lands can only benefit both economies.”
Eulenberg raised one pale eyebrow. Elizabeth replied with a thumbs-down gesture as she reached for her water glass, her mouth dry and pasty feeling. Jan hates Quill Starland, even if they are brothers-in-law. Especially since they are brothers-in-law. Marie sided with Quill, at least in public, which is what matters. They respected each other, but Marie and Quill’s marriage was a duty match, not a love match. Marie sided with Quill on official matters, as best Elizabeth understood, but she did not always agree with her husband in private.
Duke Clark Midland rose to his feet. “In light of that development, and of the muster of the Frankonian Army on their northern borders, this year we will focus on the western borders, in case Prince Rohan-Roi decides to feint north and swing east, attacking the Bergenlands again or coming through the Poloki lands.” Prince Thomas and Gerald Kazmer both nodded their agreement as Duke Midland made his pronouncement. If his head swells any more, Clark’s hair will explode, Elizabeth snarled inside her mind. Clark had tightly curled black hair, barely lighter than his skin, marking him as a direct descendent of the Lander founders of lost Benin, and he seemed to be trying to grow his hair long enough to pull back in the fashionable ponytail. Until then Clark kept his hair slicked flat with something shiny, producing unflattering results (in Elizabeth’s opinion).
Gerald Kazmer nodded again. “My sources say that Frankonia’s threats against the Sea Republics are not bluffs this time. Laurence V needs a victory to assure his magnates of his grip on power and to distract them from the food shortages.”
“Losing his fishing fleet won’t help,” Elizabeth muttered under her breath.
The archduke gave her a sharp look. “Countess Sarmas, you have a comment?”
She sat forward. “Your grace, if Laurence is so foolish as to wage war against the Sea Republics, he will find that his fishing fleets are under attack before he can do more than blink. And the stocks of dried fish for emergency consumption have yet to be fully replenished after the glitterwing plague three years ago,” she reminded the men.
“No, he won’t.” Col. Marcy sniffed, looking down his nose at her. “You are out of line and out of date, Sarmas. Frankonia signed a treaty with the city-states of the northern sea. Frankonian ships are allowed as far north as the Black Islands and will not be harassed unless all trade with the Sea Republics is barred. Which is not Laurence’s goal, as you would know if you spent less time tempting Godown’s wrath by playing with that which is anathema to Godown.”
Archduke Gerald Kazmer interrupted Marcy before he could invoke St. Mou and start a fight. “That is enough, Colonel. Countess Elizabeth, it seems that Frankonia has found other suppliers for foodstuffs and luxuries, should either be needed or their trade to the north be interrupted.”
“Your grace,” she dipped her head, acknowledging the correction even as she balled her hands into fists under the table, out of sight.
After more discussion of Frankonia’s estimated military strength, their likelihood of hiring mercenaries, (“I’d say one hundred percent,” Hoffman opined), and the prospects for the fishing catch, Duke Midland repeated, “For these reasons, the Crown will focus most of its attention on the western borders. In part for this reason, Prince Imre Sobieski-Corbin will be attending the Imperial court and Prince Alois will be travelling to Lvarna later this spring, once conditions improve.” He looked around before pointing at Elizabeth. “I understand that you have especially good relations with the Poloki?”
“No more than anyone does, your grace.” She sighed silently, Oh, St. Sabrina give me patience, not this again.
Duke Kossuth tipped his head to the side, curious. “It is said that you and Prince Ryszard were quite close during your attendance on Lady Miranda Starland. Exceedingly close,” and he all but leered at her.
“If I might correct your grace,” she countered, “it was Archduke Lewis I was accused of seducing, as unlikely as that may sound.” She no longer felt anything besides mild irritation at the accusations.
“Oh?”
“Oh, your grace.” I suppose assumptions of sexual profligacy are better than assumptions of treason, she mused for the thousandth time.
Duke Midland, annoyed at losing control of the discussion, rapped the polished wood and copper tabletop. “His highness is coming on a military and diplomatic mission, not a personal visit, no matter how close relations between the empire and the Poloki may be.” He glanced around, making certain he had the nobles’ and Col. Marcy’s full attention. “For the reasons described, Frankonia is and will be the primary concern this coming campaign season. Sarmas, Archduke Lewis assumes that you will be mustering from Donatello Bend and Peilovna this season, going west. So plan. You as well, Eulenberg, Montoya.”
Duke Kossuth sagged in his seat, probably with relief, Elizabeth guessed. His family’s secondary holdings lay closest to the Bergenlands. He’d devolved most of his defense duties to his younger cousin, Count Irwin Kossuth, but Jan would be responsible for a muster from Kossuthna Secondair. Arnold Eulenberg exhaled loudly but made no other comment. Count Montoya started to protest but bit his words off mid-sound, his jaws closing so hard that everyone could hear his teeth click. He glared daggers at UTA Hoffman for some reason. Maybe they had a wager? No, I suppose he thinks he’ll have to provide the men Hoffman won’t. That would make me angry too. Another victory for the Grantholm faction, she sighed.
Elizabeth had nothing against Duke Miles Grantholm. She respected him as a military commander and knew nothing about his personal life. But she disagreed strongly with pouring all the Empire’s resources into dealing with Frankonia. Laurence wants glory. Tayyip wants to kill us, especially the women. Tayyip has a knife at our throat. Laurence is a pain in the rear. No one dies from pain in their arse, otherwise we’d all be walking rather than riding. Elizabeth kept all trace of her thoughts from her expression, something that had become as automatic as breathing. Her years of training as a sworn postulant of Godown served her well.
The topic shifted to matters of less import, at least to her, and she began scratching notes on the back of a page. She needed to talk to her muster masters, send word to Grantholm to find out what he thought he’d need in terms of troop numbers, talk to Lewis about what supplies Donatello Bend would provide, and meet with the cavalry horse trainers about the new mounts and draft animals. She kept one ear tuned to the discussion in case anything of interest came up, but tariff talk bored her stiff. Assuming the weather stays decent, I can get a feel for the new horse tomorrow? No, the cavalry parade is tomorrow morning, and then…hmmm, next day if we go out early. And the grey mule? I’ll see how he does in the indoor riding arena. No, I’ll try both of them indoors. She scrawled a note for Major Wyler to see if she could get in early, before the royal offspring had their lessons.
Her stomach was growling before the meeting finished. “Are there any further matters or discussion?” Crown Prince Thomas inquired at long last. “No?”
Silence.
“You are dismissed.” He rose and the others followed. Elizabeth dropped into a curtsy, head bent, and held her position until the higher ranked men had left. Then she collected her papers, sorted them into a vague order, tucked them into a leather bag, and walked out, following Eulenberg.
Archduke Gerald Kazmer stopped her in the corridor. “Countess Sarmas.”
She curtsied. “Your grace?”
“I must admit, I am surprised at your unfamiliarity with the topics of today’s council meeting.”
Confused, she frowned, trying to remember if she’d missed any messages or memoranda. “Your pardon, your grace, but was I to have received information earlier?”
“I’d have thought my brother would keep his confidants better informed, even if his duties focus on domestic matters rather than foreign policy.” Gerald Kazmer spoke to the air above her head. “He always has been loose-lipped when in his cups or when otherwise distrac
ted.” Now the emperor’s brother deigned to look down at Elizabeth again. “Or so I have heard.”
“Your grace, I would not know.”
He studied her, eyes narrow, as if trying to see her thoughts. “Hmm. I was given to understand that you are one of my brother’s closest advisors and confidants.”
“Only on matters related to mules and horse breeding, your grace,” she assured him.
Gerald Kazmer raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.” With that he spun around and stalked off, reminding Elizabeth of a dardog walking back to its lair. She shivered. He had not threatened her, but…
As she rode back to Donatello House, anger at Lewis replaced her fear of Gerald Kazmer. If he did know about the events in Tivolia and the Frankonian treaties, why did he not warn me? The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed, and by the time she reached the gates of the town palace, she’d convinced herself that Lewis had indeed known. How dare he not tell me? Then she took a deep breath and forced her temper to settle back down. He dares because he is the archduke by birth and you are a countess by the grace of the emperor, she scolded herself. She brushed past the housekeeper and servants, shooing Mina away with an absent-minded wave of her hand. Elizabeth changed into a worn flannel shimmy and heavy skirt and blouse, put her wig on its stand, and sagged into the chair in her bedchamber. She leaned her head back against the cold wood and closed her eyes.
The council exchange explained the morning’s gift of the two animals, she realized. He’s not courting me—he was bribing me, paying me off so I wouldn’t complain later and annoy him. Or was he doing both? Ann Starland had warned Elizabeth about Lewis trying to court her, and the two ladies had done everything they could to ensure that questions about their conduct around Lewis never arose. And Lewis has a point about a parade mount. Snowy likes to sing along with trumpets and sackpipes, not exactly a dignified habit, and she smiled at the memory. Why can’t people be as easy to understand as mules? Because Godown made people with free will. Yes, well He made mules with free will, too, but mules do not have ambition, unlike people. For all she and Lazlo and the others joked about Snowy, the mule’s only desires consisted of attention, exercise, rest, food, and shelter. Would that people did the same, she sighed, opening her eyes. Her stomach growled long and loudly, reminding her that she needed supper. All else could wait.
