Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 48853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 244(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 163(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 244(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 163(@300wpm)
I head out to the stables and see that Cinnamon’s stall is deserted.
I swear under my breath and go and saddle Aster.
As I ride through Royal Park and then along the wide boulevard to the palace, I look around at the streets and how they’ve changed. The aggressive yellow and red People’s Republic flags, with their crossed hammer and Kalashnikov rifle, have been replaced by the pale blue Paravanian royal family banners with their demure gold crown. I know nothing about King Anson. Maybe he really is as inoffensive as the new national flag. The people around him, though, men like Rasmussen and the Archduke, are cold and arrogant. I don’t blame Levanter for wanting to protect his daughter from a strange man, but he doesn’t seem to know how to make his daughter happy. Rasmussen seems like a power-hungry maniac who’s hitched his wagons to those in power, and is in it for whatever he can get.
If these two are typical of Paravel’s new ruling class, then we’re all doomed. Why can’t the people in power do their job of looking after the people, instead of looking after themselves? It makes my blood boil.
I reach the palace grounds. They’re full of people, and there are horse boxes and riders everywhere, along with hundreds of spectators.
One of the palace officials tries to stop me as I pass through the gates, leading Aster. “Excuse me, sir. Are you a competitor? You can’t bring that animal through here if you’re not.”
“I can’t bring a horse to a horse competition?” I keep walking, my eyes on the line of horse boxes over by a high wall, like I belong there, too. Before the official can stop me, he’s cut off by a teenage girl leading a glossy black horse over to the arena. I grin as his protests are lost among the voices and snorts of the horses. When I’ve hitched Aster to a tree in the shade, I stick my hands in the back pockets of my jeans and saunter around, looking at the arena and the competitors hurrying to get ready. There must be fifty or sixty horses and riders, and I gaze at all the expensive warmblood horseflesh. Warmbloods are the preferred breeds for dressage, mid-weight horses with plenty of energy and a good temperament. Aster, my spirited Arabian, is a hot-blood and no good for this sort of intense, disciplined training. Big draught-horses are cold-bloods; too heavy and placid.
I spot Aubrey’s graceful palomino on the other side of the arena, and then the lady herself, dressed in black jodhpurs and a black jacket with her hair in a neat braid.
She’s alone. I thought her father or a friend would be with her. I lean against the railings and prop a boot up. From the other side of the expanse of sawdust, I watch her watching the performers. She waits to compete, her manner calm, but patting Cinnamon’s neck with a fluttering hand. I watch the other horse men and women as they compete, and the standard is middling. Competition dressage wasn’t popular under the People’s Republic. Far too bourgeoise. The ones who are decent were probably part of Varga’s parades.
Aubrey carries an aura of accomplishment with her in to the arena, and I feel everyone around me perk up before she’s even started. After pausing for a moment, she sets off in a trot. Her seat is easy, and she and Cinnamon flow well, executing perfect moves. I can’t take my eyes off her.
She finishes to applause. A few minutes later, the score is flashed up at the far end of the arena. Eights and nines across the board. An excellent score. I find myself grinning as I applaud along with the others.
To my left, two older women, who had children in the competition, clap indifferently, before one says to the other, “She only scored well because of who her father is.”
I push away from the fence and head around the arena, calling over my shoulder, “Her father had nothing to do with it, you bitter old hag.”
Their outraged voices follow me around the fence. I think I hear my name. I suppose that’s two fewer potential customers for me.
Aubrey’s horse box is on the far side of the grounds, and it takes me several minutes to weave my way over to it. When I get there, she’s busy taking off Cinnamon’s tack, and I lean against the horse box, watching her. Damn, she looks good. She always looks good, but seeing her polished for a competition makes me want to get her all messy.
Finally, Aubrey senses there’s someone watching her, and she looks up sharply. Her eyes race over me as if she can’t help herself.
Instead of saying hello, she accuses, “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I was going to say the same thing.”