Free The Death of Dulgath by Michael J. Sullivan Page A

inclination to indulge in serious equestrian endeavors. I realize you meant it as a jest, Hadrian, but in Maranon, this is hardly impressive.”
    Lord Fawkes strolled along the long row of gates and stopped outside the stall where a horse stood cloaked in a beige warming coat. Large, black eyes spotted Fawkes, and a white head poked out through the opening in the bars designed specifically for that purpose. The lord cooed, made kissing sounds, and scrubbed the horse’s neck. “This is Immaculate—she’s mine.” Fawkes opened a small pouch on his belt and palmed out a sugar cube. The horse snatched up the treat, smacking her lips with a loud, hollow thumping clap of appreciation.
    “Why are we here?” Royce asked.
    Annoyance flashed across Fawkes’s face but was instantly stripped and replaced by a warm smile. “Not a fan of horses?”
    “I like riding more than walking, but I prefer women for the friendlier stuff.”
    “Ha! Well said. Still, a good horse can be a blessing from Novron.” He patted Immaculate’s neck fondly. “No one understands our love, do they?” he whispered loud enough for them to hear, then turned away with a grin.
    Fawkes moved to the next stall, which housed an entirely black horse, this one with a snow-white velvet blanket. The horses were so perfect, so uniform in color; Royce wouldn’t have put it past these pretentious people to dye the animals. Even the horse’s hooves were pitch black. Fawkes reached down and flung open the chest. Inside, a saddle rested on a stand beside a folded blanket, a bridle, and a lead. The saddle was two-toned, tooled leather with an embroidered suede seat and shiny brass fittings. It had the fixed head and lower leaping head of a sidesaddle, which accounted for its plush luxury, although Royce imagined Lord Fawkes’s saddle to be just as ostentatious.
    “This is Derby, Lady Dulgath’s mare. And this”—he lifted the sidesaddle—“is Her Ladyship’s as well.” He held it up to them.
    “It’s very nice,” Hadrian said.
    Fawkes chuckled. “Look at the cinch.”
    Royce tilted his head to peer at the fabric band that dangled down. Unlike the dual D-rings he and Hadrian tied leather straps to, this one had a set of buckles hidden under the saddle flap. Made of wool, this girth band was bright white.
    “Again, very pretty,” Hadrian said.
    “It’s new,” Royce noted.
    The lord grinned. “Good eye.”
    Fawkes dropped the saddle, closed the chest, then walked to the far wall, where an open barrel stood. Reaching inside, he withdrew a near-identical girth strap. This one was sweat-stained and lacked the fluff of the other.
    Royce took it from Fawkes and examined the edges—crisp and clean up to a point and then ragged where the wool banding had torn. Hadrian looked at him expectantly. “Someone cut it a little more than halfway through. The rest tore while riding.”
    Fawkes nodded. “Lady Dulgath was shifting from a three-beat canter to a four-beat gallop when it happened. She took a nasty spill. Thankfully, she wasn’t jumping at the time, although she was setting up to do so. The strap broke during her practice ride for the Dulgath Steeplechase of Roses.”
    Fawkes retrieved the strap from Royce and dropped it back in the barrel.
    “So that’s two,” Hadrian said. “How did they try to kill her the third time?”
    “Poison,” Royce replied.
    Hadrian and Fawkes looked at him in surprise.
    “How did you know?” Fawkes asked.
    “I didn’t, until just now, but it seemed likely, given the azaleas in the courtyard.”
    “Those pink flowers are poisonous?” Fawkes said as if Royce had shattered a childhood trust. “They’re so beautiful.”
    “And toxic. When I was with the Diamond, a common practice was to send a bouquet of azaleas in a black vase as a warning to other guilds that might be encroaching.”
    “We should have those torn out immediately!”
    “Don’t bother. They don’t pose any real danger to anyone but dogs or