I'm dedicating this chapter to VMarybury in gratitude for her continued support and her innate ability to pick up on my ridiculous spelling mistakes.

She has produced some very thought provoking Steampunk, set on an alternative, new ice-age beset earth, although, sad to say,they are no longer posted on Wattpad. Still, I am extremely pleased about the fact that I own a printed version of 'The Two Eagles', one of her Steampunk novellas, and though she is not around Wattpad so much these days, its always nice to run into her from time to time on Twitter and whatever. Her favourite quote may be 'Oh dear', but I will always remember her as the person that introduced me to the word 'W*nkbadger'

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Only once Tahlia had climbed to the gardens' battlements, and was standing on the bridge that arched across to the hexagon tower and the chain-carriage station, could she see the vastness of the plains far below. The low morning sunlight glinted from the dozens of water holes that specked the grassland of the great-bailey, where the dark specks of madriel lounged beneath the scattered, sprawling cherossa trees. The plains had faded under the heat of first summer, turned to pale yellow and parched brown by the sun. Morning mist still clung to the earth, but if she strained her eyes and concentrated, she could just about make out the distant towers that marked the great-bailey's western limits at the marshes, where the mist thickened and blurred the horizon. To the north lay the hazy grey and white shimmer of the mountains of Monmellier, and to the south the plains rolled on over the skyline, beyond the edge of the world.

She gave another happy sigh and crossed the bridge, passing beneath the vast metal wheel that circled the chain-carriage's gear house. Lying at an angle, it was as wide as a jousting ring, and the rounded teeth that held its encircling chain were each as long as her arm. She hopped down the hexagon tower's curving stair, and when she was half a turn above the station, she peered around its edge. There was a carriage, swaying in the slight breeze, waiting beside the wide platform that arched from the tower and out into the empty air. The doors to its upper deck still stood open, and Tahlia looked cautiously through its large windows and saw that all the seats inside were empty. She smiled, then skipped down the rest of the stairs and across the cold metal plates of the platform, happy that she would not have to hide away inside the carriage's gloomy lower deck.

A Junior Engineer stood waiting on the platform, and he raised a hand in recognition as Tahlia hurried past him, through the carriage's open door and onto the coldness of its hide covered front seat. The combined scents of cured tragasaur skin and hive wax, which had been used to polish the wood of the carriage's panelling, gave the place a comforting scent, despite the cold seat and the chilliness of the air inside the carriage.

Outside, the Junior Engineer looked up at the clock high on the hexagon tower, and then passed down the side of the carriage, closing the doors and the platform gates. Tahlia breathed a slight sigh of relief when the last door was closed. Her escape from the fortress and the monotony of her lessons was almost complete. The Junior Engineer signalled to the control cabin above the gear house, a loud note sounded from the steam whistle on its roof, and Tahlia gripped the polished rail in front of her in anticipation of the first lurch that would mark the beginning of her descent.

As always, when the movement came, Tahlia's stomach leapt as the carriage swayed forward and back, before slowly settling into a gentle rocking. The huge wheel above turned as the thick chain carried it towards the ground, over the steep wedge of grass and sharp rock that was the hillside far below, bordered on each side by two of the fortress' towering shield-bastions. Tahlia watched the dark stones of the distant bastions pass by as the carriage rocked slowly downward, and wondered idly if anyone would be out looking for her yet. Probably not. Mistress Oleander would doubtless send some servants scurrying about in search of her in a while, once Mistress D'almeria noted her absence, but they were never anything to worry about.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a clanking rattle as the carriage passed the chain's first support pier and was set to rocking again. As they approached the next pier, Tahlia spotted the second carriage coming along on the upward chain. She looked across as they passed, but it was empty.

She shivered.

What she would do when she reached the ground, she decided, was run north until she was out of the fortress' shadow and then walk in the sun until she was too hot. Then she would find somewhere to sit and eat the breakfast she had stolen. The final support-pier was ahead of her, and after that her journey would end at the lower station on the edge of the battle-grounds. In their centre stood the stone tiered observation tower, commanding a view over its six jousting rings. She was fairly certain the battle-grounds would be deserted at that time of the morning. The cursors on the tower's nearest clock face displayed the time as being halfway passed the seventh hour, and very few knights of Klinberg saw the need to raise themselves from their beds much before the tenth hour had passed. It would be some time yet before the place saw any activity.

The hillside below began to level out and was not so rent with sharp bands of rock. As the six circular jousting rings drew closer, the sunken stones marking their perimeter lines slowly becoming clearer, Tahlia began to idly wonder what her idiot brother was doing that morning.

* * * * *

Grifford pulled Marcin to his feet and slammed him against the locker again, enjoying the sound the squire's head made as it thumped against the solid wood of its door. From his position on the floor behind them, Gefry gave a bubbling groan and continued to throw up his breakfast, his hands still clasped between his legs.

"I said, where is it?" Grifford growled.

Marcin looked dazed, but the sight of Grifford's raised fist returned him to awareness.

"Xantir's locker. It is in there."

The squire half slid back down to the floor when Grifford released him. He pressed the back of his hand to his bloody mouth and winced. Grifford sneered, turned away from him, went to the locker opposite and pulled open its door.

"It had better be here."

He reached inside and began pulling neatly folded clothes out, letting them pile about his feet. Something else fell out with them and landed with a metallic ringing on the stone floor. He bent to pick it up, lifting it to his eye to examine it for damage. It was a plated demon's tooth, set in salium and looped on a heavy linked chain. He hung it about his neck, tucking it safe inside his tunic.

"Do not touch my property again."

Grifford kicked aside the fallen clothes and went to the changing block door.

"I will tell Tasker about this, Layne!"

Gefry had somehow found his breath, and his voice, and was pulling himself up on one of the block's benches.

Grifford let his hand fall from the door handle, turned, went back across the room and kicked the other squire hard in his throat.

"That is what I think of Tasker!"

Then he left to the sound of Gefry's dry choking.

The heat and noise of the quad was intense after the cool quiet of the changing block.

"The tines, boy! Use the tines, like you have been taught!"

Squires faced each other across the dust choked training-rings, fighting with sword and rail-shield. The squire in the nearest fenced ring managed to angle his rail-shield to block his opponent's next blow, catching it on the half metre tine protruding from the metal triangle that he clasped in his clenched fist. The next strike came low, but he managed to catch it on the lower tine of his shield and turn it aside.

"Better!" shouted the Sword-master standing beside the ring.

The two squires had just their rail-shields for protection, only the older ones were given the benefit of training-armour, though its benefits in actuality were debatable, it being designed for the prime purpose of adding weight to its wearer rather than granting any substantial protection.

Grifford had already spent the early hours of the morning in the rings and could still feel the weight of his armour on his shoulders, along with the tight ache of exertion in the muscles of his arms.

On the far side of the quad, Squire Malik was still being tended to by Doctor Hebeca. He was conscious again, and the doctor had something pressed against the side of his head. Grifford scowled across at him, still livid at the injustice of his Sword-master's ruling.

"Are you ready, Squire Grifford?"

Grifford spun about at the sudden voice.

"High Lance-master Tzarren!" he said, only just remembering to bow to the tall figure who had been leaning, unseen, beside the door to the changing-block. "How long have you been here?"

"Long enough. I have come to escort you to the Enclosures."

Lance-master Tzarren did not move from his position, arms folded and one heel resting up on the wall. His once bright uniform of office was faded by the sun and his sturdy boots were scuffed.

"I thought father was taking me."

"Your father is otherwise engaged. He sent me in his stead."

Grifford glanced up at the open windows high above the old Lance-master's head, but it seemed the noise of the quad had masked the sounds of his altercation with Marcin and Gefry or, if it had not, Master Tzarren was choosing to ignore them.

"First we visit the commissary," he said as he unfolded himself from the wall and straightened up.

"The commissary?"

"That is what I said, Squire Grifford. Doubtless in your eagerness to train this morning you neglected to eat breakfast."

"I did not have time."

"Well now you do. Come with me."

And he led Grifford away between the dusty rings and their sweating, cursing occupants.