Grifford swore and shook his hand vigorously in the air. The sun had finally risen, and though it had not been above the horizon for long enough to take the night chill from the air, he still stopped at the first drinking trough he found and plunged his hands into its icy water. Looking through the surface's disfiguring ripples, he could see that the palms of both his hands were red. He could feel the cold water stab and then numb the places where he knew the skin had opened in blisters, where he had been holding the polishing mattock. When he removed his hands from the water and examined them, he could still smell the sweetness of the hive wax from the cloth that he had been made to use to apply the loathsome stuff. Sure enough, along the base of his smaller finger on his right hand, and in the centre of his palm on his left, the skin was loose and split. It was white and dead where it had been doused in the cold water; raw and new red beneath.

At least there had been no one else in the tack-yard that morning to witness his shame as he had been made to polish madriel saddles. His humiliation had been added to when the Master in charge of the yard had come to relieve him from his duties and had given him some breakfast. When Grifford had left the yard and opened the bag the Master had given him, he had found some rough bread and a baked larakkos. He had left the food uneaten at the yard gate, but as he waited for the sun to rise high enough in the sky for his training to begin, the thought of the food was becoming appealing. So he grew angry once again at the Master for giving him food that he knew he would not eat.

Then someone entered the margins of the training-grounds that he could take his anger out on. The squire Gefry was walking casually down the central avenue between the training arenas, completely unaware of Grifford, where he still crouched in the shade of the water troughs.

When Gefry was close enough, Grifford got to his feet.

"You!" he shouted across the grassland, and the tall boy jumped at the sudden noise.

Grifford stalked over to him, pointing at him in case Gefry thought he might be addressing someone else.

"What do you want?" Gefry said, his voice false with confidence.

"I heard you and Marcin whispering to yourselves in Master Hepskil's lesson yesterday."

"So? It was nothing that concerns you," said Gefry haughtily.

"Oh, I think it did concern me."

Grifford pushed Gefry in the chest, and the taller boy stumbled back a few paces.

"Do not push me!"

"Okay," said Grifford, and raised his fist.

"If Master Sprak catches you, you will be in trouble," said Gefry, but the feigned confidence had drained completely from his voice.

"Sprak is not here."

Grifford grabbed the front of Gefry's tunic and Gefry stood rooted, staring at his raised fist.

* * *

Tahlia rounded the last of the training-arenas, enjoying the morning's cool air. Then she saw the two figures locked together in the centre of the avenue, instantly recognising her brother and his familiar aggressive posture.

"Oh dear," she sighed, and started to run.

* * *

Gefry attempted to push Grifford away, but despite his height, he could not equal his strength. Grifford simply pushed with the hand that still held tight onto Gefry's tunic and stepped forward, causing the other squire to step quickly back to keep his footing.

"I am tired of hearing Tasker's lies. Especially from the lips of excrement like you!"

"I do not know what you mean."

"I mean his lies about my father."

Grifford raised his fist again.

"Hello, brother," said Tahlia sweetly from behind him.

Grifford lowered his fist and looked around.

His sister gave him a well-practiced curtsey.

"Hello, Squire Gefry."

Tahlia performed a second equally flawless curtsy, seemingly oblivious to their fight.

"You are supposed to bow now," she said.

"What!" snarled Grifford.

"You should both bow now. It is one of the rules of etiquette, and now I have chosen my steed I am officially a lady of the Order, which means that if I curtsy..." She gave another curtsy to demonstrate. "Then you, as squires, have to bow."

"Oh do not talk rubbish, sister!"

"Do you not pay attention in any of your lessons? It is true, is it not, Squire Gefry?"

Tahlia looked at Gefry, Grifford's hand still tightly wrapped in his tunic.

"I think it is," he stammered. "And I would hate to show your sister disrespect."

Grifford scowled, his anger drained, and he pushed Gefry away. The taller squire stumbled back a pace, before catching himself and straightening up. He pulled an ingratiating smile as he smoothed his tunic back into place, before giving a low bow.

"My lady," he said, in a mocking tone.

"My brother and I have training to attend," Tahlia said to him graciously.

"Tahlia!" said Grifford in exasperation.

"I am sure Gefry has things to do, and I would hate to keep him from them."

"That is right," said Gefry. "Important things."

He gave Grifford a triumphant smile.

"So he had better be on his way, I suppose."

Gefry gave Tahlia another bow, and without looking at Grifford, strode away, the arrogance settling back into his stride.

Grifford glared at his sister.

"Why must you always interfere?"

"Because I enjoy saving you from your own stupidity."

"Well next time leave me alone."

"As you wish, brother."

"And do not expect me to bow to you!"

Grifford looked after Gefry as he disappeared around the side of the farthest arena.

"What was that about, anyway?" his sister asked.

"Nothing."

"Well you seem to be very good at getting angry over nothing. Ah look; here comes Master Chen."

And, sure enough, down the centre avenue rode the small Master on his equally small and lithe steed. Beside him rode Mistress Battista.

"Come on. We had better hurry," said Tahlia.

"Wait!" said Grifford, grabbing her arm and stopping her.

"Yes, brother?"

"Do you remember Grandfather?"

"Grandfather Kralken?"

"Yes, Grandfather Kralken."

"I cannot remember that much about him. Apart from the fact that you killed him."

Grifford let go of her arm.

"Oh just go! You probably do not know anything useful anyway."

"The only other thing I remember about Grandfather," said Tahlia. "Was that he was big and always angry. Why do you ask?"

"Do you remember him talking about father?"

"He did not talk to me at all. Apart from to tell me to get out of his way. You're the one who used to follow him around all the time as I recall. Why?"

"It is nothing important."

"Is this about Tasker?"

"It might be," said Grifford.

Tahlia rolled her eyes.

"How has Tasker bothered you now? He is in the north with Commander Galder. He is not even here!"

"His lies are still here."

"Oh Tasker's lies are just air! He would not dare voice them to anyone but his half brained friends. Now come on." Tahlia looked over her shoulder. "Mistress Battista is waiting, and I want to get on with my training. I want to see if I can wipe that dreamy look off her face."

Grifford looked over to the arenas, where Master Chen and Mistress Battista had dismounted. Without a further word to his sister, he strode towards them.

* * *

Tahlia sighed, rolled her eyes again, and followed her brother.

She caught up to him as he reached the waiting Madriel-master and Mistress.

"This is no time to stand around making idle chit chat, Squire Grifford," she was in time to hear Master Chen say. "I would have thought you would have been more eager to resume your lessons and prove yourself fit after yesterday's transgression."

"My hands are blistered from all the work you had me doing this morning," growled Grifford. "I doubt I will be able to hold a training stick properly today."

"Then today we can work on your voice. It is perhaps better to keep a stick out of temptation's way, in any case. Go and start getting your armour on. Quickly now."

Her brother turned to the dressing shed attached to the side of the arena without further comment.

"And speaking of working on voices," said Mistress Battista, smiling at Tahlia. "I hope you have been practising with yours, as I asked."

"Of course," replied Tahlia demurely, though there was no truth in her answer.

She had spent quite enough time in her last lesson, listening to the sound of her voice calling her steed's name. And anyway, it was not she who needed to practice speaking. It was her steed who had to learn to listen.

"Good," said Mistress Battista, smiling her brightly irritating smile as she motioned Tahlia towards the adjacent training-arena. "Then we can get started."

* * * * *

Maddock stood, stretched his shoulders, and looked with some satisfaction back along the section of madriel-run. The run wound through the entirety of the Enclosures, connecting the rear of the pens with the training-arenas, the Infirmary, and the open corralling pen at the very edge of the fortress hub. The section he had been given the duty to clean also included two of the covered bridges that arced over the training-ground's central avenue. They were a pain to clean because the dung of the young madriel got caught between the slats of its bed, and he had spent a good hour scraping the stuff out with his trowel. Master Dramut would find no cause for complaint with his morning's work.

"Hey, farm-grub!" came a voice from behind him.

Maddock turned to find Cirric leaning on one of the run's gates behind him, grinning broadly and chewing on a long blade of sweetgrass.

It had been Cirric who had shown him round the Enclosures on his first morning and introduced him to the other Field-hands. Most of them had been friendly enough, though they had been quick to give him his new nickname.

"The name's Maddock," he said, dropping his shovel into his handcart.

"Aye," said Cirric, still grinning. "Maddock the farm-grub."

Maddock grinned back. It was hard to dislike Cirric.

Even the business with the face-scarf hadn't bothered him.

On his first morning of work, Cirric had issued him with his gear, which had included a rough woven scarf.

"To cover your pretty face," the older Field-hand had explained. "And keep the flies and the smell of dung out your nose."

He had held out the scarf with a mischievous grin. The other Field-hands, nonchalantly gathered around outside the bunk-house, had seemed to be watching him intently. Maddock knew that all of them had such a scarf, but he had never seen any of them wearing them over their faces. Besides, working at the farm, he was used to unpleasant smells and flies, and knew that the best way to deal with them was to simply ignore them.

Maddock had taken the scarf, took pains to carefully fold it in half, into a neat triangle, held it up in front of his face, and then bundled it up and stuffed it into his tunic's bib pocket.

The Field-hands had grinned, and some had laughed. Cirric had grinned widest of all.

Maddock chuckled at the memory.

"Don't just stand there grinning, grub," said Cirric. "Dramut's got a special job for you."

Maddock bent to the handles of his handcart.

"Leave that. I'll send one of the lads to get it."

Maddock left the cart, but picked up his shovel and slung it over his shoulder.

Cirric opened the gate for him, then led him around the edge of the Enclosures.

"Where we going?"

"Abat-shed," replied Cirric, but gave no further explanation. Instead, he took the chewed blade of grass from his mouth and pointed with it at Maddock's cheek. "Heard someone gave you a thump."

Maddock's hand went involuntarily to his face.

"Aye," he said.

"Wasn't one of the lads was it?"

"No."

"One of the girls then?"

"No!"

"And I know it weren't one of the Masters. That's not their way, so I'm betting it were one of the squires."

"Might have been."

"Might have been, meaning yes. Isn't the first time. They're demons for their stuck up superiority."

Maddock poked at his bruised cheek.

"Should I tell someone?"

"I wouldn't. Sprak don't take kindly to squires beating on his Field-hands, but grassing on squires ain't advisable if you don't want to have more trouble."

Maddock let his hand drop.

"It ain't fair."

Cirric clapped him on the back.

"No it ain't, but remember this." He took the blade of grass from his mouth again and pointed with it up to the fortress. "All these fine knights are nothing without their madriel, and madriel are nothing but wild animals without the likes of you and me to train them. We're just as good as they are. Just remember that next time you see one of them squires strutting about the place."

They walked on in silence for a few metres.

"Best not say that to their face though," said Cirric. "Unless you want another thump. Best to just stay out of their way and don't do anything to rile them."

Cirric led him on through the Enclosures.

Maddock had seen the abattoir-shed before, lying low and grey at the very edge of the karabok-field. A single large cherossa tree stood some distance from the building's high door, the area around it cleared of saplings and thick with blood-grass. The dark red tendrils of the stuff twinned themselves about the tree's thick trunk, and up the two wooden posts supporting the heavy gantry that extended from the shed's door. A yellow skinned crennil was perched on the hook that hung from the gantry's hoist trolley, watching the slowly waving blood-grass below, following its movements with quick flicks of its head. When it heard their approach, its head snapped towards them and it drew its lips back in a needle grin, before darting away on its bright wings.

The abat-shed's double door was closed, so Cirric led Maddock around the back of the building to where a smaller door stood open. A man sat beside the door on an overturned hand-cart. An apron hung around his thick neck, and though it looked well-scrubbed it was still dark with dried in blood. The man was smoking a rough pipe, but even though its tobacco was pungent, it could not hide the smell of butchery escaping from the door beside him.

"Morning, Nespit," said Cirric.

The man's eyes rolled up to regard Cirric with a look of blankness.

"Aye," he said.

"Come to collect some bones," said Cirric.

"Aye," said the man again, and continued to stare at him for a few seconds before returning his attention to the smoke rising from his pipe. His brow furrowed, then he placed the pipe carefully on a flat stone beside him, before pulling himself to his feet. He looked back down at it again for a few more seconds, then turned and ducked through the doorway.

"Don't mind Nespit," whispered Cirric, close in Maddock's ear. "He got kicked in the head by a dead karabok when he was hauling it up the cherossa. Never been the same since."

He grinned and followed the lumbering Nespit inside.

Maddock followed him through the doorway and its metre thick frame, into the cool of the shed. In fact, the shed was not just cool. The place was infused by an almost icy chill that rose from grated metal plates in the floor. The room itself was small and starkly lit by rippling glow-lights, and was furnished with only a small table and chair. The rest of the space was filled by stone chutes, sloping down from open hatches in the wall, into two wide troughs. From beyond the hatches came the steady chopping of cleavers, and the thick smell of blood.

Nespit picked up a heavy two handed pestle from where it leant against the wall, ambled over to one of the troughs, and bent to inspect its contents critically.

"See," he said.

Maddock peered around his huge bulk and saw the trough filled with the leftovers of butchery. Karabok bones, fresh with new blood, filled it from end to end, the smaller ones chopped and separated, and the larger ones, thighbones and skulls in the main, had been smashed and splintered by some heavy implement. That implement, presumably, was the heavy pestle held in Nespit's thick fingers. It seemed as though the slow witted man was not fully happy with its previous work because he lifted it straight against his chest and began pounding the contents of the trough with it.

Maddock, along with Cirric, took a step away from the man while he worked.

"Very thorough is our Nespit," said Cirric, over the sounds of snapping bone.

After a few minutes of furious activity, Nespit seemed finally satisfied and leant the stone pestle down.

"Aye," he said then. "You."

He pointed a thick finger, first at Maddock, then at a row of hand carts in the corner of the room.

"I know how this bit works," said Maddock, raising a smile from Cirric.

He went to the carts and wheeled one back to the end of the trough where Nespit was pointing.

"See."

He put the cart down.

"Aye."

Nespit took a long tined rake down from the wall and began pulling the trough's contents up its pitched end, into the cart. When it was full, he put the rake carefully back in its place on the wall, picked up the pestle and leant it beside the rake, then silently left the room.

"Are we done?" asked Maddock.

"Aye," said Cirric, grinning.

Maddock picked up the handles of the cart, and wheeled it back out into the sunlight to find Nespit sitting once more beside the door, puffing his foul smelling pipe back into life.

"Take it up to the pits," said Cirric. "The mowmok 'll tell you where it goes. Then you come back for more."

"So why's this job special? Seems it's not much different than the usual."

"It ain't, but dead bones don't smell so bad as madriel dung and don't attract so many flies."

"Great!" said Maddock as he picked up the handles of his hand cart and set off.

"It is that," said Cirric.

"Aye," said Nespit.