Devils And Unicorns

Chapter 3

Here he was: the hefty mass of horseflesh to accompany the name on the piece of paper in her hand. Montage was even more impressive than Florence had anticipated. He was walking the perimeter of his enclosure with enough composure to suggest an evenness of temperament, but sufficient purpose to indicate strength in spirit. He stopped momentarily, lifting his handsome head to check out some movement in the distance, gently bobbing it as his eyes focussed on his target. He was stunning, and Florence was not the only one watching him. The edge of his pen was lined with equally interested potential buyers, and her heart sank as she imagined the wads of cash spilling from their pockets.

She looked down at her worn copy of the sales catalogue, reading through Montage's details for what seemed like the hundredth time. His sire was Magnolius, a winner of the Perchborn Gold Cup and a close relative of her father's Bashimori, giving Montage a pedigree to match his illustrious appearance. Still only four years old, the colt had raced six times and lost only twice; he clearly had promise and would surely shape into a Gold Cup prospect himself if he landed in the right hands today. Florence's heart danced with a heady mixture of excitement and despair. She felt sure that the right hands were her own.

"Nice looking horse," someone next to her commented.

"He is," she replied, keeping her eyes fixed longingly on Montage.

"Got your eye on him?"

To answer this question, she would need to establish the identity of its asker. She turned to find next to her a short, weathered man with dark bushy eyebrows and a full head of grey hair. His eyes were small and cold, and it was easy to get the impression by looking into them that the man lurking behind was deficient in intelligence and decorum. Of those two qualities, he did indeed lack the latter; but the image of ineptitude was deceptive. This was Errol Carver, the man heading the directorate at Quartet. He was inflammatory, devious and pushy.

Quartet was a powerful syndicate of racehorse owners based in Perchborn Hill, a rich settlement a few miles northeast of the capital city Perchborn. With over thirty horses in training divided between two trainers, they were the second most successful ownership syndicate in the country after the all-dominating Oracle. Red Acreman had endured a polite rivalry with Carver throughout his career, which Florence was forced to maintain today because she was not sure if or how to behave any differently.

"Hello, Errol," she spoke through a forced smile.

"Thinking of making a bid?" Carver grinned. His teeth were yellow.

"I don't know," Florence replied, creating an illusion of equivocation when in reality she was merely speaking the truth.

"There's a lot got their eye on it."

"I know."

"I hope you win it. You need something to replace your last one."

"Are you buying today?" she asked defiantly. While she hardly cared about his answer, anything that drove the conversation away from her own business was welcome.

"Oh, you know me." Carver winked. "I'm always on the lookout for something or another."

"Well, I wish you the best of luck. Excuse me." Florence nodded politely and stepped out of Carver's shadow, taking advantage of the small crowd gathering around Montage's pen to slip away from him. She detested that man, and everything he stood for. Quartet turned out some excellent horses, but she was not a fan of their unsympathetic training methods. Her father had once received a couple of animals formerly in training with Quartet's handlers, and he had found them to be skittish and mentally disturbed creatures in need of rehabilitation rather than straightforward training. She looked back at Montage through the bobbing heads, just able to see the tips of his ears above the throng. She felt a powerful twinge of anxiety in her chest. Carver had his eye on the horse: that had been clear enough. If he won the auction, then that beautiful animal would end up on the conveyer belt of one of Quartet's yards, perhaps destined to be spoiled irrevocably on his pathway to greatness.