The White Spell (Nine Kingdoms #10)(7)
She shook her head. Perhaps she had spent too much time in the company of horses. She was starting to think like one.
“I sense something afoot,” Doghail added. “He’s sacked half the lads for imagined slights.” He paused. “I just wanted you to know what was blowing your way so you’d be prepared.”
She stepped outside her closet and pulled the door shut behind her. “Where is he now?”
“Entertaining up at the house, but one of the kitchen lads scampered down to tell me that they’re almost finished with their port.”
“But ’tis barely noon,” she said in surprise. “Into their cups so early?”
“Aye,” he said grimly, “and if that doesn’t give you pause, I don’t know what will.”
She shook her head less in surprise than resignation. Her uncle was very fond of his drink. If he’d already been in a temper that morning, she almost hesitated to think what he would be in by the time he and his luncheon companion stumbled through her doors. She looked at Doghail.
“Where’s Slaidear?”
“At Himself’s elbow,” Doghail said in disgust. “Where else?”
Where, indeed? Why Fuadain had ever made Slaidear his stable master—nay, there was no point in revisiting that piece of stupidity because she knew exactly why her uncle had done the like. Master Slaidear might have known next to nothing about horses, but the man knew how to flatter a lord with mercurial moods.
She had complained about Slaidear’s lack of knowledge to a stable hand when she’d first arrived in Sàraichte—once. That lad, who had long since laid himself down in a mouldering grave, had put her some deep knowledge, as he would have said, and told her to keep her bloody mouth shut and her eyes and ears open. And she, a poor shivering, sniveling child of eleven summers, had had the wit to listen.
That had been almost a score of years ago and she had never once regretted forming that habit.
As it happened, in time she had managed to gain Slaidear’s trust. If he used her taste in ponies to secure his own place, so much the better. She was free to train what she liked whilst someone else was paying for it. There was a certain beauty in that, which likely said something about her that she didn’t want to examine too closely.
She looked at Doghail. “Any ideas what he’ll want to see?”
“His companion is a genteel gentleman,” Doghail said knowingly.
She laughed a little in spite of herself. “No money but quite a title, is that what you’re getting at?”
“Exactly.” He squinted back down the way. “I imagine we’ll have word from Slaidear at any moment on which horses to prepare. Somehow, I suspect they might be the same ones you would think of.”
“Funny thing, that,” she said. “Very well, let’s settle on a simple beast who wouldn’t mind a life in modest surroundings. If we flank him with a less desirable pair of nags, he’ll shine well enough.”
“Tell me which ones and I’ll ready them.”
She considered, named a trio of horses she thought might suit, then watched Doghail walk off to do what he did best. Unfortunately that left her with nothing to do but linger in the passageway and wait.
She wandered down toward the entry to the barn, leaned back against a handy wall, and contented herself with yet another recalculating of her funds.
Would that it took more time than it did.
She straightened immediately at the sight of her uncle marching purposely toward the barn, his guest in tow. She waited without shifting until he arrived, then strove not to flinch as he stopped in front of her.
“What are you doing lazing about?” he demanded.
She made him a small bow. “I was simply waiting here to attend your pleasure, as always, and await Master Slaidear’s instructions.”
“I should think so,” Fuadain huffed. He looked at his companion. “Come, Lord Aidan, and we’ll endure a bit of dust to see what Slaidear has produced.”
Léirsinn held back as her uncle and his obviously inebriated companion walked rather unsteadily into the barn. Slaidear looked at her quickly as he hung back behind the pair. She nodded ever so slightly and he continued on, obviously reassured.
She suppressed the urge to sigh. Her uncle was at least a bit lordly looking, his unsavory self aside. He was tall, with silver hair and a noble brow. Slaidear, on the other hand, was a short, round little fellow who looked as if he belonged on the edges of a tale about hard-working dwarves, not up to his ears in the demanding labor of overseeing a large barn full of extremely valuable horses.
Then again, he knew what to say and when to say it. Perhaps that made up for his lack of wit.
She realized with a start that there were no stable hands rushing to go hold the horses Doghail had surely selected. There was only Doghail, standing at the gate to the arena, waiting for her with only one horse in tow. She cursed under her breath and walked swiftly down the aisle to meet him.
“No lads?” she asked, feeling a little breathless.
“Later,” he said, handing her the reins. “I’ll go tack up the other two. Save the best for last, aye?”
She nodded, put her questions aside, then led a perfectly serviceable but hardly spectacular gelding into the arena. A lad came skidding through the dirt to hand her the pair of gloves she’d apparently dropped in her haste, then backed away at a curse from Slaidear. If that one avoided a right proper sacking, she would be surprised. She consigned him to whatever fate awaited him without hesitation and turned her attentions to her own business.