Grifford closed the door to his parent's chamber with an aggrieved sigh and shake of his head. His mother had kept him for far too long, with constant questions that he could find no answers for. He knew he should not have visited her that morning, but he had wanted to see his new brother again. Kralmir had changed so much in the days since his birth. His eyes seemed much brighter as they had looked up at him, while he continually waved his arms and legs around as though trying to catch the summer breeze that played through the window. Grifford's heart had lifted at the sight of him, but the moment was marred by the sensation of his mother's eyes upon his back. Sometimes he felt like he would suffocate under the constant look of concern that she wore these days. She was still not herself, though she had seemed in a lighter mood that morning than she had on previous days.

He shook his head again and hurried away from his mother's door. It was the final day before the Tourney recess, and all morning he had watched the fourth Echelon knights displaying their skills. It was that afternoon's contests, though, which promised to be the highlight of the day, when Sir Xanrath would stake half of his territorial assets on a chance to rise to the third Echelon. The fight would be a good one.

He was in such a hurry, he almost didn't see his sister among the crowd that exited the lift in the upper embarkation chamber, although it was not only his haste that nearly made him miss her.

"What is wrong with you?" he asked her.

"What do you mean?" she replied as the other passengers filed around them.

"Your dress is clean and your hair is..." Grifford studied her hair, searching for the right words. "Not a mess."

"I am going to see mother. She is watching the contests this afternoon and she wants me with her."

"Ah, yes," replied Grifford, remembering their mother mentioning something about visiting the arenas.

"I thought it would cheer her if I made myself presentable."

Grifford frowned at his sister's uncharacteristic selflessness.

"Good," he said, struggling to find any other reply. The lift's passengers had dispersed, and those waiting to descend were filing through its open door. "I have to go."

He went to go around his sister, but she put a small hand on his arm.

"Wait!" she said. "I have to talk to you."

"I do not have the time."

He pulled his arm free and moved towards the lift door.

"It is about Tasker."

Grifford stopped abruptly and turned about.

"What about him?"

"I saw him the other day."

"So?"

"He was walking around the Encampment, where he is not allowed to be."

Grifford shrugged and looked over his shoulder into the lift, where the passengers were taking their seats.

"Well, you are not supposed to be there either," he said.

"That is totally different. I am at least being openly disobedient. Tasker is creeping around disguised as a commoner. He is up to something."

"So?"

"Does it not bother you?"

"Of course, but I do not see what we can do about it."

"Oh, you idiot boy! If we find out what he is doing, we can tell Lance-master Tzarren and get him in trouble. You could watch him, and follow him if he goes off somewhere,"

Grifford shook his head.

"I am not about to become like you, sister, and start sneaking around the place."

He looked over his shoulder again to see the lift passengers all seated, and the Junior Engineer waiting to close its door.

"I will deal with Tasker in my own time, and when I do it will be face to face across the jousting ring, not with some childish tale telling."

Tahlia threw up her arms in exasperation.

"Typical!" she said. "Well I am going to keep an eye on him!"

"You do that," said Grifford, and without further comment, stamped across the chamber and into the lift.

"Fine!" shouted his sister as the Junior Engineer closed the gate behind him.

Grifford found an empty seat and sat down, as the Junior Engineer took up her position and worked the levers to begin the lift's descent.

He shook his head.

He could be doing without his sister's nonsense that morning.

* * * * *

As the sun climbed towards noon, Dak found herself sitting within a shaded balcony halfway up the edifice of the Hammer and Flame. Her father sat opposite her, nursing a huge cup of sweet eroni-water, and grinning at the prospect of his meal to come, the smells of which wafted from somewhere deep within the building.

"Roasted borak," he enthused for the third time since they had taken their seats. "There is nothing finer in the whole of the Provinces."

Dak was pleased to see her father in such high spirits, and she was further gladdened by the knowledge of what had caused them.

She had woken that morning and descended the stairs down to the workshop's living space, expecting to start her usual chores of preparing breakfast for herself and her father. But she had found the table already laid, with a loaf of dark bread, jars of hive-butter and krakla preserve, jugs of ghat's milk and yhurt and jars of toasted row-oats, kernik seeds and dried fruits.

Her father had been nowhere in sight, though it looked as though he had eaten because there was a washed bowl and cup beside the kitchen's sink. She had heard a noise in the finishing shop below, and had gone downstairs to find her father sitting at his desk with his finest chamber pen in his hand, sheaves of paper spread out around him.

"What are you doing, father?"

"I am working, of course!" her father had said enthusiastically.

"Oh. Has someone commissioned your services? You have not said."

"Many knights have contacted me, hopeful that I will make some fine armour for them, but that is not the reason I am sitting here."

Dak had gone to stand by his shoulder to see what he was doing.

Covering his desk had been many rough designs and drawings, most half done and some scored out with angry lines, but on the square piece in front of him had been a perfect, near finished design. It was a section of vambrace and the attached gauntlet for a suit of armour.

"That is impressive, father."

"Thank you, daughter. It was a good thing that we were meeting Engineer Vlontell at the Encampment the other day. Our conversation reminded me of my duties."

"I am glad."

"And speaking of the Encampment and the Tourney and such," her father had said as he reached into the pouch at his belt. "I have secured attendance at this afternoon's bouts. Sir Xanrath will be competing!"

He had pulled out two tokens to show her, each of them newly stamped with a number.

"That is good, father."

"For the two of us, of course," her father had beamed. "So later on, after I have laboured some more on this work, we shall take a walk. I thought that we could satisfy our noon hunger at the Hammer and Flame before we take our seats."

And so they had, and her father's good humour had remained all morning.

"I am glad that you have begun working on something new, father," she said as they sat together in the balcony's shade.

"Yes. Vlontell was correct. Your mother would not be pleased if my time were occupied by idleness. I must revere her memory."

They were interrupted by the arrival of their food, the fat of it still sizzling.

"I will raise a cup to her," her father said, holding up the tankard of eroni-water. "And when we have eaten, we shall go and watch the fine knights of Klinberg knocking shades out of each other."

Dak picked up her own cup.

"To the memory of my mother," she said.

"To the memory of my wife," replied her father. "She did enjoy the Tourney."

His smile faltered.

"Today, we shall enjoy it in her place," said Dak.

Her father grinned again.

"Today, we will."

* * * * *

As Grifford descended the steps from the terrace's deck, the bell on the observation tower chimed to mark the beginning of the hour of Fortak. The arena-field was still filled with people, but there was not the usual bustle of activity; most were simply sitting in groups or lying in the grass, already enjoying Fortak's rest. Field-hands sat together, eating their mid-day meal, Engineers and Madriel-masters, who had been busy all morning, talked and passed around jugs of ale and hive wine. There were no knights or squires at the arena-field; they had all retired to the observation tower's terrace, or to their own pavilions, to spend the short hour in comfort. In the readying pens along the side of the terrace, madriel growled in their sleep, flicking their ears at the pestering flies.

Grifford had planned to make his way to the arenas and take his place with the other squires, but something changed his mind, and instead he hurried through the recumbent crowds towards the Enclosures. When he reached the pen where his madriel was housed, there was a Field-hand standing by the bars, watching the young animals within. He turned as Grifford approached.

"Hello," he said, in a voice somewhat lacking in friendliness.

"What are you doing here?" Grifford replied harshly, recognising the boy. It was the same one who had been so disrespectful to him that day by the water trough at the training-grounds. The boy he had been forced to shovel dung with. He could not recall his name.

"I'm here to see my madriel," replied the Field-hand, his voice toneless but still, at least, remaining polite.

"Well you will not find him here," Grifford grunted as he went to stand at the other end of the bars.

He saw his madriel, with its strange twisted horns and oddly patterned hide, lying in the centre of the pen, its head outstretched on the ground, watching the activity around it carefully with its opened orange eye.

"Sure I will," said the Field-hand. "He's in there."

"You mean you were given a madriel from the same litters as mine!" said Grifford in indignation, "Which one?"

"That one," replied the Field-hand, pointing at a group of young animals fighting in a corner. "The one with the black stripe down its back."

"The runt!" Grifford laughed cruelly. "Well that's about right for someone like you."

Grifford watched the fighting madriel through the bars. It was an uneven fight because three of the males had ganged up on the Field-hand's runt. Despite that, the smaller animal was giving good account of himself. The males would crouch around him, backing him up against the pen wall, and then one of them would pounce forward, its ears back and its short horns lowered. The runt was fast, though. Each time he would leap away, avoiding his charging foe, before dashing between the two other waiting youngsters, often giving a raking blow with his horns as he passed.

"They do not like him much," said Grifford. "I am sure that bothers you."

"No."

Despite the runt's best efforts, his evasions could not last. The attacks by the other youngsters were relentless, and soon one was fast enough to penetrate his quick defences and grapple him to the ground. Another male, who had been watching the fighting from the top of a large boulder, then jumped down and charged in, biting at one of the smaller animal's flailing legs and dragging him through the dust.

"Hah, there you go!" cried Grifford gleefully. "Now he has had it."

The Field-hand did not reply. He just shrugged and continued to watch the fighting madriel.

Grifford looked back into the pen. His own beast had got to its feet. With a brief irritated growl, the large male charged at the group of fighting animals, thumping heavily into the side of the male that had the runt pinned to the ground. The blow sent it somersaulting into a dazed heap by the pen wall. The throwback then turned on the other males, with such ferocity, they all scattered across the pen in billows of dust.

"Now why would he do that?" said Grifford in disgust.

"Those two stick together," said the boy. "Don't know why."

Grifford shook his head irritably.

"The animal is dim-witted. Everyone is right. It was a stupid choice of beast."

Grifford's animal settled himself back down in the grass, and the runt lay down close by.

"My brother says you have to live with the choices you make, no matter how stupid."

"I do not need your farmer's wisdom!"

The Field-hand was still standing by the pen's bars, watching the two animals inside.

"I bet you ain't even given him a name," he said.

"I will give him a name when he deserves one."

"He needs a name."

"So everyone keeps telling me, Field-hand!"

"That's because it's true."

Grifford pulled himself from the fence and advanced on the smart mouthed boy.

"So what is your steed called?" The Field-hand turned to face him. He looked worried, then annoyed. "Well? What is he called?"

"Raskal."

"That is a stupid name."

"Least it's a name."

Grifford growled and leant menacingly towards the Field-hand.

The boy lifted his eyes to him, but seemed unperturbed by his threat.

"All right, Field-hand. Show me how good you are."

"Well, I ain't really had much chance to..."

"No, come on, you seem to think you are an expert on madriel; show me what you can do."

It looked like the Field-hand was about to take a step backwards in the face of his anger, but he held his ground.

"All right!" said the boy, and crouched down by the bars of the pen to look at his pathetic runt of a madriel.

He took a deep breath.

"Raskal!" he said, in what was probably supposed to be a commanding voice.

The runt raised its head and looked over at him.

"Raskal, here!"

The small beast looked at him some more.

"Raskal, here!" he said again.

The animal continued to stare at the boy, impassive and unmoving.

"Useless!" said Grifford.

The madriel then turned to Grifford and fixed him with his small eyes, so dark they seemed black as holes, then he stood and stalked over towards the Field-hand and rubbed one of his small horns against the fence. The Field-hand grinned, reached his arm through the bars of the pen and pushed his fingers deep into the thick hair above the creature's neck to give him a good scratch.

With lightning speed, the madriel drew its head back, snapping at the Field-hand's fingers with his needle teeth, and it was only the boy's fast reflexes that saved them from harm.

Grifford gave a scornful laugh.

The boy scowled.

"And that's why I call him Raskal."

The smile left Grifford's face.

"Still, at least he came when you called."

"I don't know why he did that," said the boy. "He's never done it before."

Grifford laughed again, this time with genuine mirth.

The Field-hand shrugged

"Maybe he's just starting to like me, is all."

"Well I wish I could say the same for mine. It seems as though he hates me."

"No, he don't hate you. He probably don't even know you enough to hate you."

Grifford looked into the pen at his madriel, and then down at the boy's runt, so oddly dissimilar in size to his own.

"Tell me something," he said to the Field-hand.

"What?" said the boy warily.

"How did you find a name for your madriel?"

The Field-hand stared back at him with a look of suspicion. After a few scant seconds of scrutiny, the look cleared from his face.

"You really want to know?"

"That is why I asked."

"Well, Terra's own truth is that I only gave him the name just now, when you asked, to stop me looking a right idiot."

Grifford frowned, and then he burst into laughter, again with genuine amusement.

"But why Raskal?" he asked, once his laughter had subsided.

"You've seen why. The beast's a vicious sod, but I suppose it were Master Dramut who put it in my head. It's what he called him after the animal tried to claw my guts out on my first day of training."

"How ridiculous!"

"Well that's how it was," replied the Field-hand, his brow creasing once more in anger. "Master Dramut says that a name sometimes comes when you're not really thinking of one."

"Well that is no help!"

"Suit yourself. It's just what Master Dramut said."

Raskal looked up at the two boys, yawned and then, giving a low growl of indignation at their lack of attention, he slunk back to his position beside Grifford's unnamed steed.

"I've heard some people say that when they had to name their madriel they took a good long look at them and the name just came into their heads."

"That sounds unlikely," said Grifford.

"Why don't you try it?"

"Because it is nonsense."

"Fine. Have it your way."

Grifford looked at the Field-hand and gave a snort of derision, but he did step to the centre of the pen's fence and crouch down, so he could see into his own steed's mismatched eyes. His steed, meanwhile, continued to stare over his head as though he were not there.

"You'd better not be trying to make me look a fool," said Grifford.

"Why would I need to?"

"Quite," said Grifford, and looked back through the bars.

"Empty your head of stuff," said The Field-hand.

Grifford tried, but his brain seemed unable to be calmed.

He continued to stare at the beast with its odd eyes, twisted horns and riotous hide, but nothing came to him

"By Fortak!" he said angrily, and he struck the bars of the pen with the palm of his hand.

At the noise, the beast turned its eyes on him. It was the first time the creature had ever given him any sign of acknowledgement, other than to charge at him in anger. There was something unreadable in those strange eyes, and Grifford was unable to put what they conveyed into any words, but the intellect they held was unmistakable.

The bell at the top of the observation tower suddenly started to chime a single clear note, and the strange spell between himself and the beast was broken. The madriel looked away to where the Field-hand's steed was on its feet, ears twitching at the sound of the bell, and nostrils slitted to try to get a scent of its meaning.

"The contests will be starting again!" the Field-hand said excitedly. "I have to get back to the arenas! Sir Xanrath is fighting this afternoon."

"It will be a good fight," Grifford said from where he still knelt by the fence, then he pulled himself up and turned to the boy.

"I still have unfinished business with you, Field-hand."

"How so?"

"I have a debt to pay to you for saving my sister's life."

The Field-hand just shrugged.

"If you say so."

"I do. My family cannot, and will not, be indebted to someone like you."

"Fine," said the boy. "I've got to go."

Then he turned and ran off towards the battle-grounds, leaving Grifford still looking curiously at his madriel.

"Uneducated oaf!"

At the sound of Grifford's voice, the Field-hand's steed turned its small head towards him and fixed him with its dark eyes. Its look held the same intellect as its larger brother's had.

After a few seconds, Grifford tore his own gaze away and stood up.

He looked back down at the small beast.

"Raskal!" he said derisively. "Stupid name!"

Then he turned and strode towards the battle-grounds, where the bell on the observation-tower was still chiming.