Rider of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  Imogen’s time in Ranstjad had not prepared her for her first sight of Aurilien. The city was enormous. It sprawled across the lowland plain like a lazy, sleeping cat, its golden wall failing to restrain the low-roofed buildings that spilled over into the green wooded landscape surrounding it. More people lived in this one city than made up the entire Kirkellan kinship. She was too overwhelmed even to gawk. The King, riding beside her, took in her silence and interpreted it correctly.

  “I so rarely leave the city I forget what it looks like from out here,” he said. “From inside, you only see pieces of it, and it’s not so…so…it’s had hundreds of years to become what it is, and it never fails to amaze me. I hope you’ll like it. I know it’s different from what you’re used to.”

  “It is beautiful. And powerful,” Imogen said. They entered another grove of trees and the city was lost to view. Forests were another thing Imogen had been unprepared for; the pines of Ruskald, the carpets of needles underfoot, were nothing like the great leafy variety of the southern forests, birch and maple and ash and oak giving way to one another as they descended out of the foothills of the Rockwild Range, as King Jeffrey called the Spine of the World, into the lowlands of Tremontane. Or perhaps it was simply that Imogen had lived in Ranstjad mostly in the winter, when all the creatures seemed to sleep. Here there were birds courting and challenging one another, and small animals darting between roots or up tree trunks, and occasionally a small deer would flit across the road. Imogen thought of the reindeer of the north, and remembered in a few months the hunts would begin, and felt a pang of homesickness so great she had to blink hard to keep from crying in front of the King, who would be embarrassed by her tears, which would make her cry harder.

  When they emerged from the trees, the city wall loomed beyond a small settlement of those low-roofed houses. It was less intimidating than the sight of the whole city had been. The road, which until then had been a nice packed earth, was now covered with broad stones that had been traveled so often they were pressed deep into the ground, their faintly curving tops all that was visible of them. This could not be good for the Kirkellan horses’ feet. She’d have to look into shoeing them, if they were going to live here for a year.

  Men and women and children came out of the houses to stare at them, then to cheer as they realized who was passing. The King waved at them, smiling, but even though Imogen knew she was supposed to represent her people, she felt so uncomfortable at how they looked at her she could only straighten her spine and nod in what she hoped was a friendly fashion. By the expressions on their faces, it wasn’t successful.

  The crowds grew as they neared the gate, drawn to the King’s banner that went before their extraordinary procession of marching soldiers and over one hundred giant horses. Imogen glanced at the King and realized with surprise his smile was strained and his eyes were glassy, as if he were looking at something far in the distance. “You are not well,” she said in a voice she hoped carried over the sound of the crowd without being audible beyond the two of them.

  “I’m fine,” he said, continuing to wave. “Three years and I haven’t gotten used to this. I feel—” He shook his head as if to negate his words. “I’m not good with crowds, is all. My father used to—that is, it was easier when there were two of us to be stared at.”He looked at her and his smile became more genuine, for a moment. Imogen felt the pressure of all those eyes on him and on her and understood how he felt. He’s still grieving, she realized, and felt a surge of compassion for him. Well, he wasn’t alone now.

  She put on her sunniest smile and waved at the people clamoring near her feet. To her amazement, they smiled back at her. She glanced at the King, whose fixed smile had disappeared into a look of astonishment. If he could manage it, so could she. She smiled at him even more broadly and went back to waving. “You are right,” she said over the noise, “it is easier when there are two.”

  To her surprise, he laughed. “You are very wise, madam ambassador.” He turned away to greet the crowds, but she knew he was still smiling.

  The gate guards in green and brown saluted them as they passed. Imogen leaned over to the King and said, “Why is it some wear those colors and some wear the other? The blue and the silver?”

  “Those are the colors of Tremontane,” the King explained. “Green and brown for the mountains. Blue and silver is for the house of North, my family. The ones who wear it are in service to my family, not to the kingdom.”

  “The blue and the silver is prettier,” Imogen said, and the King laughed.

  “Don’t tell anyone, but I agree,” he said. He went back to waving at the crowd, and Imogen joined him. If anything, the throng of people lining the street was larger than the one outside the city, their cries deafening. It became impossible for her to speak to the King; even a shout would be unintelligible. She continued to wave and smile until her face hurt and her arm was sore. He was right; Aurilien was less grand once you were within her boundaries. It was nothing like Ranstjad, and not only because it was bigger. Everything seemed more cheerful here, possibly because of the warmer southern sun, but also because the buildings didn’t seem to huddle together waiting for something to attack them. The roofs were more gently sloped, the wooden walls whitewashed or painted neatly, the doors stained dark colors to contrast with the lighter walls. Signs painted with pictures declared what was available inside: a foaming mug for a tavern, a candle for an inn, a bar of soap for…well, what could that be for? A bathing house? Imogen, accustomed to bathing in a tin tub in the privacy of her family tent, could not imagine an entire house given over to bathing people.

  The crowds thinned somewhat as they passed into a district where the buildings were made of stone rather than wood, and now Imogen did gape at these tall, ornate houses like mountains with steps leading up to their wide doors and glass windows several feet across that lined their faces three or even four rows high. Plants grew in stone pots at the feet of the stairs, some of them flowering, some like tiny trees. Horses pulling wheeled, roofed carts pulled to one side as the procession passed, and men and women looked out of the carts and cheered and waved squares of white cloth. Carts for pulling people! The horses didn’t look very cheerful about it. Perhaps they thought there were better things they could do, like be ridden properly.

  They turned onto a road four times as wide as the rest, and it seemed this was where the rest of the city had come to wait for them, and cheer, and wave. More of the covered carts lined the road, people inside cheering, drivers sitting on top cheering, horses indifferent. Small children ran alongside the procession, though not too close to the Kirkellan horses, whose hooves were as large as some of the children’s heads. Imogen waved down at them, and they beamed at her. How much of this did they understand, she wondered, how many of them knew why everyone was cheering? Come to think on it, did she know why they were cheering? Were they happy about the successful defeat of the Ruskalder army, or did they just like King Jeffrey? It was impossible to tell.

  The road led to a high stone wall with an ironwork gate that stood open to receive them. The King reined in his horse, causing the procession to pile up behind him, and said, “Simon will take you to the embassy now. I’d like to invite you to dine with my family tonight. I know Elspeth is eager to see you.”

  “I am glad to come,” Imogen said. He nodded to her and continued through the iron gate, leaving Imogen feeling a little lost. She stiffened her spine and gestured to the tiermatha to follow her and Simon Rettick, Imogen’s diplomatic liaison and, she thought, nursemaid. He was a stout, red-bearded fellow with a pleasant smile who spoke Kirkellish with a strong accent.

  “It’s not far from the palace,” he told Imogen, coming to ride beside her. “I hope there will be room. Your tiermatha may have to double up.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine. We’re used to sleeping rough.”

  Simon glanced at her sidelong. “I don’t think any of you will think of the embassy as ‘sleeping rough.’ It’s quite comf
ortable, and fully staffed, though you may want to engage a lady’s maid while you’re here.”

  “Is that something you can help with?”

  “Yes. Don’t hesitate to ask for whatever you need, information or otherwise.”

  “And there’s sufficient stable room?”

  “I believe so. The North family purchased the estate from a wealthy family—I should say, formerly wealthy family—who were rather fond of horses. In fact, I believe the stables are more impressive than the house.” He laughed. “I suppose you’ll have to tell me if that’s true.”

  “But the Norths—they didn’t buy this estate just for our embassy, did they?”

  “No. It’s just one of a handful of properties the family owns in Aurilien. It was originally intended to house members of the extended royal family, a hundred years ago when the North family was much larger than it is now. It’s been rented out for the last fifteen or twenty years and has been empty for almost two. So it was a fortunate circumstance you were in need of an embassy building.”

  The houses they passed now, while made of stone and lined with glass windows, were much bigger than the beautiful houses they’d seen earlier, most of them easily the size of the King’s house back in Ranstjad. Some of them were set far back from the street, great stone walls topped with lacy ironwork spikes separating them from passersby. Through their gates Imogen could see gardens of well-trimmed shrubberies and beds of flowers she didn’t recognize. She was so caught up in staring at their beauties she didn’t at first realize Simon had stopped. “This is it,” he said.

  Imogen looked up. The house she faced was built of pinkish-grey granite blocks on a rougher granite foundation. Stairs led up to a polished oak door with brass fittings, beside which was a brass button set in a brass plaque decorated with scrollwork. There were no windows at street level, but the second and third stories were lined with glass panes that winked in the sunlight, all of them curtained off against prying eyes.

  “We’ll go around the back,” Simon said, and they went around a corner, down an alley between the embassy and its neighbor, and behind the house to a wooden gate Imogen could almost see over. Simon rang the bell hanging to the left of the gate, and said, “They keep it locked. Even in these neighborhoods, there’s crime. Wouldn’t want your horses to be stolen.”

  Revalan laughed. “I’d like to see the thief who’d try it. He’d be lucky to get away with all the body parts he went in with.”

  “Nevertheless, just ring the bell when you return from a ride and someone will let you in.”

  “Where can we go riding?” Saevonna asked, casting a doubtful eye on the stone walls and pavement surrounding them.

  “I’ll find that out for you.” He rang the bell again, more violently this time. “Certainly taking their time about this.”

  The gate cracked open. “What?” said a wiry woman dressed in old trousers and a sleeveless shirt that had originally been dark blue.

  “The Kirkellan ambassador and her party would like to stable their horses, if it’s not too much of an inconvenience,” Simon said in Tremontanese.

  The woman registered the presence of thirteen Kirkellan horses. Her mouth dropped open. “Sorry,” she said. “I’ve had kids ringing the bell all morning. Come on in.” She pulled the gate open wider and they filed in, two by two, through the relatively narrow space.

  The stable yard hummed with activity and was, as promised, spacious. Sheds lined one side of the space and a long, low-roofed building occupied the other. “There’s only ten stalls. Could you tell milady I’m sorry about that? We didn’t know there would be so many of them.”

  “I speak your language,” Imogen said.

  “That’s a relief. I was trying to figure out how to mime ‘oats’.” Imogen dismounted and took the woman’s proffered hand. “Kate Fanshaw, milady, and I’m the stable mistress here.”

  “I am not milady. I am just Imogen.”

  “Begging your pardon, milady, but you’re an ambassador and a diplomat and that makes you ‘milady’ as far as I’m concerned, and I’d better not hear of my people calling you otherwise.”

  Imogen shrugged. By the look of her, Kate Fanshaw was not a woman accustomed to losing arguments. “This is my tiermatha,” she said. “We will need three more stalls very soon.”

  “I’ll get my people building a second stable right away. We should be able to knock together some temporary stalls until then. What’s her name?”

  “This is Victory. You may touch her if you wish.”

  Fanshaw stroked Victory’s neck. “She’s beautiful. They’re all extraordinary. I never thought I’d see even one Kirkellan horse in my life, let alone thirteen. Good heaven, she’s unshod. May I look at her hoof?”

  Imogen nodded, and Fanshaw gently raised Victory’s leg to peer at the hoof. “She doesn’t go unshod all year, does she?”

  “In winter she has shoes. But mostly she wears none.”

  “You might want to consider shoeing all of them. The streets around here are hard on hooves. I know an excellent farrier, can come in whenever you like.”

  “Thank you. We will want to meet him first.”

  “Naturally. Can I—but no, I’ve heard you care for your animals yourselves.”

  “Yes, though I think I will be busy….” Imogen felt embarrassed. Until she’d gone to Hrovald’s house, no one had ever fed or groomed Victory but her. “I will need someone to help when I cannot be there.”

  “That someone will be me, milady, and I guarantee Victory will be well cared for.”

  The tiermatha chose stalls, Simon deferring to the diplomatic party, Imogen opting to wait for the new building, and Revalan and Lorcan losing the draw for the other two places. They removed tack out in the open, uncomfortable at the attention they got until a few of the younger stablehands hesitantly offered their services. Then it seemed everyone wanted to do something for the Kirkellan horses. Imogen saw her saddle and harness hauled off by a girl almost short enough to walk under Victory’s belly, and hoped they were all as competent as Fanshaw, with her air of unconcern, implied.

  Having seen an impromptu corral installed and Victory penned safely inside, she kissed her horse on her broad nose and turned to look inquiringly at Simon. “There’s a back door,” he said, “over this way, so you’ll only use the gate when you go riding.” The back door was small and unobtrusive. Inside was a narrow hallway with a polished wooden floor leading to a steep flight of stairs, at the top of which was a short landing about five feet on a side and a door with no latch that swung freely on its hinges.

  Imogen pushed through the door and found herself staring in wonder at the room beyond. Its white walls stretched higher than any of the tiermatha could reach to a ceiling at least two stories tall. A lamp Device covered in crystals hung from the ceiling, casting glittering reflections on the walls. To the left and right were open archways through which they could see padded chairs, some very long, spindly-legged tables, and items of furniture none of them had ever seen, even in Hrovald’s house. Flowers in tall vases gave off delicate, sweet scents. There was color everywhere, bright reds and golds in the cushions, deep blues in the rugs spread over the glossy wooden floors, and every color of the rainbow in paintings hung on the walls. The door directly opposite them turned out to be (when Saevonna opened it) the front door of the house. Beside them to the right was a wide, curving staircase, carpeted in white; directly to their left was another narrow hallway, which led to the back of the house, and beyond the stairway was a much wider hallway that did the same.

  “This is….” Dorenna began, then trailed off.

  Revalan wandered into the room on the left and squeezed the cushion of one of the long-seated chairs. “You could almost sleep on this.”

  “Excuse me for a moment,” Simon said, and went down the narrow hallway. Imogen almost didn’t register he’d gone. She ran her finger along the arm of a marble statue of a nude woman about two feet tall who seemed poised to take flight off her
pedestal. The stone was cold and smooth to the touch. She couldn’t imagine lugging it around from camp to camp; that was one advantage to living pinned down in a city, but at the moment, surrounded by opulence she’d never imagined existed, she missed her family tent and the friendly bickering of Torin and Neve over who would get the last piece of reindeer meat.

  “This is Paula Schotton,” Simon said, returning with a tall, thin, elderly woman in tow. “She’s the housekeeper. Anything you need in the city, ask me; anything you need in the house, ask her.”

  Imogen didn’t like the look of her. She had a stern face, thin lips and wrinkled, bony hands. “I don’t speak your language,” she said, and Imogen realized the sternness and thinness were caused by nerves, not a sour disposition.

  “I speak yours, though, and we will all try to learn,” Imogen assured her, coming forward to shake the woman’s hand. It was every bit as bony as she’d imagined, but Schotton smiled, which made her look a lot more friendly.

  “You can call me Mistress Schotton, then, and I’ll be happy to help you with whatever you want. Sorry we didn’t have the staff here to greet you, but I’m afraid we didn’t have notice of your arrival.”

  “That is all right, Mistress Schotton, I will greet them when I go to supper at the palace tonight.”

  Mistress Schotton’s mouth fell open just a bit, but she said, “Then I will arrange that. Let me show you to your rooms…I apologize again, but we weren’t told how many of you there would be.”

  Imogen was starting to be annoyed with the King, who’d said all the arrangements had been made. He’d sent all those telecodes on the road; she’d thought at least some of them had to do with the Kirkellan delegation. Well, he was the King, maybe that was all beneath him and it was his underlings who’d failed.

  Mistress Schotton seemed determined to make up for being so behindhand in her preparations by showing the Kirkellan every room in the house. Aside from the ones with chairs and tables, most of them made no sense to Imogen, though there was a room filled with books, more books than she’d ever imagined existed. She wished she could show it to her father, who treasured his five books and wished he had room to carry more. After a while the rooms began to blur together, so when Mistress Schotton opened a door and said, “I think the master suite is appropriate for you, madam ambassador,” it took her a moment to understand the woman was addressing her.