“Leiss considers this a job not a calling. He does not love the animals the way I do and he is not as slow with a whip as I think a mountmaster should be.” I started checking over Xus, running my hands down his legs and checking his flesh for whip marks. “Xus is fine, Girton,” said Drusl. “Leiss is too scared of him to come in here.”
“Rufra’s mounts?”
“There is nothing you can see.” She stood closer to me again and held up a rounded wooden implement. “This is a paddle. It’s meant to hold the mounts’ feet when we put the razor spurs on, but if you hit a mount right with it then it won’t leave a mark on the skin the way a whip will. It still hurts them though, and Leiss often beats the animals.” She stared into my eyes. Seeing the condemnation of the man she worked with there she put a hand on my arm. “Leiss isn’t a bad person, Girton; he’s cruel sometimes because he’s scared of the mounts. If I told the other squires what he did they would kill him.”
“You don’t think Rufra will?”
“He’s your friend, Girton. I thought if you could persuade him to scare Leiss a little then it may stop Leiss hurting the mounts. I dislike the way Leiss treats the animals, but I don’t want him dead because of me.” She closed her eyes as if suddenly overwhelmed by emotion. “I don’t want anyone dead because of me.”
“I’ll do my best, Drusl, but you must do something for me.”
“Yes?” She looked up into my face. The moisture in her eyes gave them an unreal shine and her voice was husky.
“I need rope.”
“Rope?” She stepped back.
“Yes, a lot of it. As strong and thin as possible, but I don’t want anyone to know I have it.” She furrowed her brow. “And nails, if you have them?” I added.
“What for?”
“I can’t say.”
“Oh.” She seemed disappointed. I ran my fingers through Xus’s thick fur and felt a sudden need to fill the silence.
“Last night, a few squires jumped me at First of Festival.”
“I thought you had new bruises but didn’t want to say anything.” She reached up and gently touched my cheek. “They hurt you?”
“Bruises only.” A point of sparkling metal descending toward my eye. My fists clenched and I swallowed, coughing to clear my throat. “More my pride that was wounded. I would like to teach them a lesson.”
She laughed. “Boys! There is rope in the back of the stables with the presses. And nails. Leiss takes poor care of the stores so it will not be missed.” There was a crash of wood on stone as the main door was thrown open. “He is back. Go. I will distract him while you sneak in the back. And remember to tell Rufra about the paddles.”
“I will.”
“And Girton?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.” She pulled herself up using the collar of my armour and kissed me on the lips, her tongue darted, quicksilver-quick, into my mouth. Then she was gone. I was so surprised that although my heart leaped I did not have time to enjoy the sensation of the kiss.
“What were you doing in there?” I heard Leiss grumble at her.
“Readying Xus for exercise. Unless you would rather do it?”
“Have you cleaned them all out?”
“Yes, Leiss.”
“Good. Then help me take Tomas’s mounts to the pasture. You can take Gliyo—dead gods but that beast’s vicious.”
I waited until they had taken Tomas’s mounts from the stable and then, before I slipped into the back room, quickly checked the empty stalls for anything that could be linked to Kyril’s death, but found nothing. I considered checking the other stalls but decided against it. Most mounts were gentle enough but these would be war trained, like Xus, and there was no telling how they may react to a stranger.
I heard Drusl and Leiss return and slipped into the back to find a room almost as big that was dominated by the astringent smell of mount urine and the earthier smell of dung. Two huge wooden presses filled the far end, giant devices used to crush dirty bedding and dung to remove urine for use by the tanners—the compressed dry dung and hay was used for fires and fertilising gardens. One press was open at the top and a movable ramp led up to it, a barrow half full of hay and dung perched precariously at the end. The second press was screwed about halfway down and a steady dribble of brown liquid ran from the spout at the bottom into a wooden cask.
This part of the stables was new, and it could be seen in the poor quality of the stonework around the open window holes above the presses. Patches of dead grass marred the floor and for a moment I felt the paralysing hand of fear—sourings from sorcery?—before realising my own foolishness. Mount urine was acidic and killed grass, that was all.
An untidy stack of badly wound bundles of rope lay in a corner, and by them was a bucket full of rusting nails that looked strong enough. I found a feed bag to carry the rope and nails in and added a small hammer to my haul for good measure. Drusl and Leiss were bickering about something, and when I heard a stall door open and Xus snort I touched my lips where she had kissed me. With a smile I climbed the ramp and clambered out through a window hole, making my way down some convenient steps of hay bales on the other side
At the keepyard gate the guards waved me and my heavy bag through. They were meant to be on high alert, but either I have a trustworthy face or they were still out of sorts about being on duty during First of Festival. The rope and nails I hid under my bed and, as it was still daylight and my master was out protecting unworthy royals, I made my way up to the battlements.
The only use for ropes and nails I could think of was for climbing. My master must have decided that listening to conversations, subtle questioning and hoping something may happen was not working quickly enough. As breaking into Heamus’s room seemed to have reaped rewards, a more direct method was to be used on the others—burglary. With that in mind it was a good idea for me to inspect the lie of the land, and the walls.
The castle keep was a rough oblong—the keep a square joined by walls and towers to its gatehouse. Between the gatehouse and the keep was a killing ground; arrow loops looked down from the two round towers of the gatehouse and the two towers and angled front of the keep. Around the edges of the killing ground were stalls, and in the middle stood the water clock, an ornate mechanism powered by water brought up by a clever system of wells and pipes from the river the keep backed on to. The stairs I used brought me out above the gatehouse, from where I watched people below move backwards and forwards, some purposefully and some aimlessly. I could have sat all day learning their habits; I enjoyed watching people and seeing into their secret lives.