Stranded: Heart of Black Ice Bay - 6. Tavern

Once most of the older Sjin-Shatir had departed—the entertainment over—Brathay and Fleming spent another half hour in the springs. Dnan invited them both to sample an ice-cold plunge pool before returning swiftly to the hot. Since he had arrived at the keep, Brathay's mind and body had never felt so awake and alive. Only as he relaxed back in the hot pool did he notice other etchings around the chamber, one in particular on a far wall, of what appeared to be the coastal village with a reasonably good representation of the keep perched on a cliff. White lines from the keep's heart shot out into the night sky as though a fountain of light was bursting out from the interior.

"What do the beams represent?" Brathay asked Fleming, pointing to the wall.

"I overheard an elder saying they signify the lit beacon. Over the centuries, they have ignited the wood often—although never for its true purpose—so the locals are familiar with the sight."

Light snow fell on their way back to Fleming's home. Almost midday and the air temperature had dropped again. Even so, the sea air smelt fresh and invigorating, filling Brathay's lungs. With his clothes warmed, dried, and newly cleaned, they fit him like a thick new skin. As they walked in companionable silence, Brathay noticed again how the soles of his boots stayed warm and how flakes of snow melted on the path before them.

"They redirected the spring waters to run beneath the village track," he said, a statement not a question.

Fleming laughed aloud. "Well spotted. You truly have the eyes of an engineer. Hence the reason why the pathways are not only clear of snow but are rarely cold underfoot. Locals found a way to manipulate this natural phenomenon to their bidding as the water drains off into the sea. Higher dwellings have underfloor heating."

Brathay smiled to himself. "Cordatogan engineering. Even the keep is supplied by freshwater from an underground stream. Hot water would be very welcome, though."

Fleming looked up at the keep perched on the headland, then shook his head in sympathy.

"That would not be achievable, I am afraid, not even by Cordatogan standards. Hot springs only collect on the far side of this valley. But any time you need to come back and bathe, I know you will be welcome."

Surprising them both, Marietta met them outside the door of their cottage dressed in her winter clothes. Brathay wondered what had transpired, had been ready to reacquaint himself with the warmth of their home, but in cheerful spirits, she moved past them and onto the path.

"Where are we headed?" asked Fleming. "I thought we would have luncheon at home?"

"We have, and we will. But we have more than an hour before we eat. Food is simmering, but I need to pick up a few things from the market, and I thought we could show Brathay the village before he is lulled to sleep by the cottage warmth and a full belly. And I thought maybe we should let him sample the tavern's finest ale that seems to have the Watchman's soldiers so entranced. On the way, you can tell me about your hot spring experience."

Brathay happily filled her in as they strolled down, enthusing about the phenomena and explaining how he had probably never in his life felt so refreshed. Fleming chipped in, recounting how Brathay had inadvertently managed to stimulate the local merchant, Dnan—who Marietta knew well from their journey—a story that had her eyeing Brathay curiously. Before long, they reached the lower levels of the fishing settlement.

As they reached the seafront, market stalls had their backs against the sea wall with the ocean and the fleet of fishing boats as their backdrop. Villagers milling around chatted quietly and politely, their epicene features evident to him now, a couple of them nodding approval at Brathay's clothing. Brathay noted stalls of cloth, local herbs, colourful fruit and vegetables with piles of lush looking green apples and small oranges probably imported. Everyone dressed in the same local style, clothes of thick materials in earthen greys, mauves and blacks, all with tough winter boots, the people blending seamlessly into the village's character. Brathay noticed how their homes exemplified order, tidiness, and functionality. Nothing stood out of place, nothing showy beyond the occasional simple rock garden, not a single errant weed on the path, no shoes or toys or other items discarded outside dwellings.

More worrying, especially at the coast, he found his eyes being drawn to the darkly broiling sea, the brutal and unforgiving expanse, not out of anything mesmerising or seductive—a sensation his people associated with the calm cerulean seas around the southern coast of Thiradonia—but out of an innate, primordial fear.

"Do you notice how dwellings near the seafront are constructed of stone and wood in a design more befitting other sea towns of the empire?" said Fleming as they reached the seafront and headed towards the tavern. "When the last mountain wave hit and destroyed many of the lower level abodes, the locals were persuaded by the sitting Watchman from Thiradon to replace them with stone and timber. He argued they were not only more adaptable but could more easily be rebuilt. Hence, the construction of the tavern which, I am reliably informed, bears a striking resemblance to a sister on the seafront at Sea Spy Harbour back in your home country."

Brathay only knew the port tavern by reputation, a colossal building frequented mainly by Thiradonia's sailors and lowlife. Up until leaving for Aulderly, he had only ever known the inns of Thiradon.

Their route led them past the open door of the fishing warehouse, where the overpowering stench became almost suffocating. Although not partial to the smell, the wonderfully colourful array of the fresh daily catch drew his attention, the haul laid out attractively in orderly rows of wooden crates on top of crushed ice and freshly fallen snow. Brathay stopped to absorb the visual feast, and Marietta pointed out and named less recognisable species of local fish before buying some.

"You know," she said, hooking her arm in Brathay's and smiling. "I think I may have an idea for your feast."

Brathay turned his head waiting for her to continue, but instead, she shook her head.

"Not now. Let me ponder the idea. We shall talk later, back at the cottage."

Not that he minded. Simply being in the pleasant company of Marietta and Fleming was as comforting as wallowing in hot spring water.

Passing the mill and bakery, where the smell of fish was dulled by the aroma of freshly baked bread, they eventually came to the tavern. Unlike those Brathay had seen in Thiradon, this one had no name above the door or a plaque hanging outside, only the unmistakable odour of sour ale. Back home, Brathay had often been called upon to help soldiers back to their barracks, providing a stable shoulder to lean on for a merry drunk. Without stopping, Fleming pushed on into the interior.

"I did not ask," said Brathay to Marietta as he held the door open for her. "Do you speak the local tongue?"

"Sadly, no. Only a few words. Fleming has a natural talent for languages. And as he spends all his time here, I tend to rely heavily on him to communicate."

Taverns in Thiradon tended to be intentionally poorly lit places with dark corners. Inside this tavern, Brathay immediately noticed a difference. Built on foundations of stone, the upper floor of Black Ice Bay tavern had been constructed entirely of thick dark wood. Accessed by a low rise staircase just inside the door, an interior balcony overlooked the entire barroom below, with doors leading off into private rooms. Although the balcony did indeed sit in shadow, a large part of the roof was constructed from long sections of what appeared to be thin translucent tiles, like giant razor clam shells, acting as a skylight, bathing the tavern interior in watery daylight.

They had scarcely walked to the bar when Dnan appeared before them, bowed in their usual formal way, and actually smiled at Brathay. After sharing a few words with Fleming, they indicated a long table at one end of the room, where a large party congregated. Fleming and Dnan had private words together before Dnan bowed again and left them.

"My fault," said Marietta. "I did not mention earlier, but Mjaj dropped by an hour ago while you were returning from the springs and invited us to eat here with their family. I respectfully declined, explaining that I was already preparing lunch, but they insisted we come and meet their family. And Mjaj, as one of the more influential village elders, is not somebody to be turned down easily. Theirs is the large party at the end of the room."

"Dnan wants you to meet them, Brathay," said Fleming. "You appear to have caused a bit of a stir today. Once we have collected our drinks, and out of respect, I said we would come over and say hello. Dnan is in excellent humour. They said if they had known Marietta would be cooking today, they might have brought the whole family to our house instead. I feel sure they were joking because I am not sure Mari would have been amused trying to feed so many mouths."

Marietta laughed lightly at Fleming's words and shrugged as though she had faced far worse challenges. When the bar person put down their drinks and Fleming paid, Brathay noted the array of clay pots behind the bar counter as well as four giant barrels of Braggadach brewed ale. Most likely, they had been brought there by the merchants for the consumption of the soldiers. He had not spied them on the wagons, but then all of their wares had been covered in canvass to protect them from the weather.

"I would have been happy to save you the trouble of cooking and to eat here—" began Brathay, until Marietta pressed her hand firmly into the forearm he rested on the bar counter.

"Although I agree the tavern serves up excellent ale," she whispered to Brathay, so that only he could hear, "to say the food here is not particularly flavoursome is being wildly polite. The Sjin-Shatir tend to favour plain food but even so. Fleming uses the word inedible. The tavern owner has been trying to entice me to work for him two or three days a week. But Fleming needs my assistance, and, if I am going to be wholly honest, I can only stand to be surrounded by the smell of sour ale for short periods."

Fleming led them over to the family table, where Dnan's family sat around talking amiably. Dnan's parent, Mjaj—an older version of Dnan—stood as they approached and greeted Fleming with the same formal bow Brathay had seen Dnan use in the hot springs. Mjaj spoke haltingly but competently in the common tongue and introduced everyone at the table. Out of respect, they began from the oldest down to the youngest, pointing out their own grandparents and ending with Dnan's three young children. Including Brathay, Fleming and Marietta, almost thirty sat at the table, all generations mixing together. Brathay took the seat offered to him and looked on in awe. He could count on one hand the number of times his father had shared a table with him.

"We have tradition among our people," said Mjaj. "One day each week, we gather all family for meal together."

When Brathay saw the food they had been served, Marietta's remark became evident. On a chill day like the one they enjoyed, cold fish—cured and pickled—with chunks of what looked like stale bread would have done nothing to appease his appetite. Fortunately, the tepid golden ale went straight to his bloodstream and warmed him from the inside out.

"We give thanks to Mudjadah and Njadullo," said Mjaj, who found seats for them at the end of the table and appeared happy to practice his common tongue on them. "Mountain bear for our youngest have two children. Dnan have three, and partner is again with child. Give thanks to sea serpent for providing good fortune for Mjaj family business."

Mjaj, Fleming explained, owned the main fishing boats in the village and the fish warehouse. Brathay also learnt from Marietta that a two or three child family was considered good fortune and any more considered unusual but even more blessed. With few exceptions, Sjin-Shatir fertility lasted for fifteen cycles and, naturally, both partners needed to be within the fertile cycle. At the other end of the table, Dnan's pregnant partner sat with their head in the lap of another Sjin-Shatir around the same age. Like the pregnant partner, this other person had more feminine features and form. They stared down smiling and spoke quietly to the partner while gently stroking their hair.

"The usual chill will be harsh this winter," continued Mjaj, concern in the eyes as he took in Dnan's partner. "Let us hope our fortune lasts and the baby comes after the worst has departed."

"I heard winter might be tough. How bad can things get?"

"At worst," said Mjaj, frowning and shaking their head. "The sea has been known to freeze. Our homes are exposed. Ice storms from the north can weld doors and windows shut, can freeze people to death in their own homes. Even the hot springs have been known to dry up, the waters frozen at the source. In the past, if our people were forewarned, they would evacuate to the caves beneath the mountain to the west of here. But the journey is long and arduous and not easy for the very young and old. Many would perish. This season we have sent extra offerings to our gods to ask them to protect us."

"If things get bad here, there is plenty of room in the keep. I am not sure how much better the shelter would be, but I feel sure the fortress would be less exposed."

"Lord Leonmarkh would allow the villagers to take refuge there," said Fleming. Brathay took the statement to be a question.

"You said yourself he is well respected among the locals. If I can gain an audience with him, I promise I will ask on behalf of the people, in the hope he listens to reason and has an ounce of mercy in him."

"We would be most grateful. If only for peace of mind," said Mjaj.

While Fleming continued talking in earnest to Mjaj, Brathay turned his attention to Marietta.

"Is the other person related?" he asked, intrigued, peering over at Dnan's partner being petted fairly intimately by another with softer features and long, unbound hair.

"No, they are the caregiver. Someone who provides for pre and post-development needs. During the maturation period and a few months after childbirth, those blessed are often repelled by their partner. Both retain distinct inseminator and receptor forms until at least six months after the child is born. Without exception, an impregnated partner prefers a softer companion with them, both in their beds and daily lives. If you notice, Dnan has also chosen a different bonder at this time to provide for them. The bonder works at the tavern and speaks the common tongue."

Astonished, Brathay looked down the table to see Dnan sitting next to a slightly younger person who rested a protective hand on Dnan's shoulder as they spoke.

"Do they bed together?"

"They do. But you must not misunderstand. Dnan loves their partner above all else and chooses a similar masculine formed bonder, as much to placate the partner as to please themself. Another of their customs I first thought strange. Of late, though, I have come to feel that as a people, they are surprisingly advanced and in touch with their emotions."

Dnan caught Brathay's eye and smiled, something Marietta did not miss.

"Had we arrived a month earlier, I wonder if you might have been invited to be the bonder."

"Would they ever choose a non-native?"

"It has been known. Some consider the arrangement safer because there is no possibility of—uh—accidents.""

Brathay thought about the remark. Had Dnan asked him, he might have considered the arrangement. Physical connection without fear of emotional attachment or unplanned offspring sat well with his hall studies. And he felt sure Dnan's hospitality would be far warmer than that of Prince Leonmarkh.

Beckoned by one of the locals, Marietta left Brathay alone. Sitting back, he scanned the table and noticed the younger Sjin-Shatir next to Dnan peering furtively over at him a couple of times. When Dnan moved away from the table to attend to the children, one of them playing near the open fire, Brathay stood and went over to greet the younger person, hoping to allay any fears. Standing in front, Brathay bowed in the manner he had learnt, and the person indicated a seat.

"I am Koju, caregiver to Dnan," they said immediately. Like all the Sjin-Shatir, the face betrayed no expressions, no emotion. "Also work here." They pointed to a door on the balcony above.

Brathay nodded and introduced himself.

"I know who you are," said Koju. "Dnan speak highly of you. Dnan give eyes to you many times."

Brathay nodded. Dnan had clearly mentioned him. Did Koju feel threatened?

"Me," the youngster patted hard in the middle of their chest. "Dnan."

The caregiver prodded his forefinger and middle finger down hard in the middle of the table, their face serious. Brathay nodded, anxious that the simple display had been meant to warn Brathay off.

"You want also Dnan?" asked Koju.

After lifting the hand, he added a third finger. Brathay took a moment to comprehend his intent.

"No," he said, covering Koju's fingers with his hand and shaking his head. "No, I cannot."

Koju appeared confused. Brathay needed to explain better. Instead, he patted his chest.

"I have a duty. Duty to Lord Leonmarkh."

The caregiver's eyes widened slightly.

"You. Leonmarkh."

Once again, he placed two fingers on the table.

"No, no. Not like that," said Brathay, shocked and laughing and covering the fingers again. When he saw the confusion in Koju's face, he realised he needed to explain better. Searching for inspiration, he spotted Dnan at the fireplace, talking sternly to the young sibling who had been playing too close to the flames. Brathay pointed across the barroom and directed Koju's attention to the scene.

"Uh, yes. Dnan child," said Koju. "Very—uh—naughty."

Brathay leant in to get Koju's attention. He waved a finger between them both and then placed his forefinger over his own lips—the universal gesture for a secret. Koju nodded their understanding. Signalling back to the scene, Brathay pointed to Dnan.

"Dnan. Me." Brathay pointed to himself. "Child. Leonmarkh. Very naughty."

Koju's face swung back to Brathay with surprise, placing the fingers of one hand over the mouth to restrain laughter, although unable to prevent their shoulders from shaking and moisture from gathering in their eyes. Mirth suited Koju. Noticing them, Dnan peered over curiously, a quizzical amusement on their face.

After getting themself under control, Koju placed a hand on top of Brathay's arm, a physical intimacy that seemed out of place for a local. About to say something, they gasped and stared surprised at Brathay's arm.

"You not same loud music as other foreigner. Skin song quiet, calm and peaceful. Sjin-Shatir can feel inside, can hear vibration. You will come back here soon, yes?"

"I would like to return. Yes."

"Good. This is very—"

He would, too. Not only to use the hot springs but to enjoy the friendly contact. Koju looked behind Brathay and stood sharply. Brathay turned to find Fleming bringing a much older member of the village over to see them. With white hair tied back severely from a face weatherworn with lines, the eyes appeared bright and quick, and he found placing their age impossible.

"Brathay, this is the Dnan's great-grandparent. They have asked if they could meet you and maybe examine your hands. Your skilled exploits in the pools this morning have reached many ears."

Without asking, the elder pointed to Brathay's hand before rubbing their fingertips along their own forearm. He instinctively understood and demonstrated his touch on the proffered arm of loose skin, smoothing along the energy lines and rubbing around the boney wrist and hand. As he continued, the elder closed their eyes and nodded, turning to speak to Fleming.

"They say you have good hands and a skilled touch," said Fleming. "And you do indeed have features similar to their people. Few have they met in their—heavens—ninety-five years who have such perfect grey eyes, the colour of the soul of the village, and they include their own people in that. They feel certain you are not born of Sjin-Shatir but wonder whether you are a cousin. Should you be willing to share your seed with one of the fertile locals—Dnan, perhaps—they may be able to determine just how distantly descended you are from their tribe. I thanked them but said you have other challenges to contend with right now."

Not long afterwards, Fleming urged them to finish their drinks before excusing them and leaving the family members looking amused at his words. As they walked out the door, he explained how he announced their departure by telling them he did not want to risk his relationship with Marietta by getting them back late to a burnt midday meal.

By the open fire of their living space, Marietta first served them a spicy broth to warm their insides and then baked three of the fish she had purchased in a local waxy leaf. She served everything with rice and simple vegetables and a fruity and spicy relish. Everything tasted fresh, filling his mouth with flavour and his belly with warmth, the meal comparable to any of those produced in the Aulderly kitchens. Brathay asked Fleming how he possibly survived while his wife worked away.

"He fends well enough for himself—"

"I eat plainly because I know when Mari returns, she will spoil me."

"Do not listen to him. He cooks as well as I. We mostly share the cooking here, but I do like to try out any new recipes I have picked up in Ballyhooky."

After the meal, Marietta insisted on clearing bowls while Fleming took Brathay back to his cold workshop and explained the work he undertook. A good ploy, too, because had Brathay stayed in front of the fire, he would inevitably have fallen asleep. Fleming explained how he made medicinal potions out of plants, herbs and kelp, a few of them native, the ingredients kept in pots or jars and stored on the array of shelves. Many local properties he had learned from the elders, and—after more than a year—the villagers had come to rely on his skill to treat their sick.

"This is bubroot," said Fleming, handing over a hessian bag. "This local herb is used to aid sleep, in case you continue to have difficulty. Mix a palmful in hot or warm water, add lemon juice if you have any, and drink down. It is also a wonderful accompaniment when sprinkled into broths or stews. You might want to throw a couple of handfuls into your recipe tomorrow."

"And have soldiers falling asleep on duty?"

"Bubroot does not induce sleep nor dull the senses. You could consume this and stay awake the whole night. But if a person does give in to sleep, they get a peaceful night and wake fully refreshed."

"A night guard falling asleep on duty would get into a lot of trouble."

"Only if they were caught. And would that not be the case anyway?"

"Good point. And from what I have witnessed so far, Lord Leonmarkh works his soldiers hard but appears to be lenient with them. Although there is little about him I would endorse, he has that in his favour."

Marietta appeared carrying mugs of steaming tea, explaining that the aromatic leaf had been brought with her from Ballyhooky. She placed them down on the bench and then joined their conversation.

"I notice you have pet birds," said Brathay.

"Not pets. Those are homing doves from Aulderly. Marietta brought more with her. I keep my old friends, who are still counsellors, updated with my research and studies. I have already sent word to Brokerman—"

"About my lack of progress—?"

"About your safe arrival. Do not diminish your efforts, Brathay. You are still only at the beginning of your attachment. Here, I messaged him the day before yesterday—to tell him you were coming over today—and received a reply this very morning."

Written on a long strip of parchment, Brathay would have recognised the penmanship anywhere, one that had marked his test papers and sent him messages of support.

Brathay. Let Fleming and Marietta be your counsel. Trust them as you would trust me. Anything you need, they will assist in any way they can. And most of all, believe in your abilities. I know you will succeed. CKB

CKB. Counsellor Khandall Brokerman. Few students knew his given name. Brathay read the message twice, hearing the sound of Brokerman's voice in his head as a twinge of emotion tightening his chest. Back in Aulderly, they would be finishing lunch break and chatting together outside if the weather still held, or a lucky few would be invited to have lunch around Brokerman's fireplace.

"Somebody placed a letter in my luggage," said Brathay, wondering why the words spilt out of him. "Telling me to open it only if I have a dire need."

"Someone from inside the keep?"

"No—" Brathay began and then stopped. "Actually, I do not know. I assumed somebody had slipped the envelope into my luggage back in Aulderly."

Now that he thought about it, he realised somebody in the keep could have slipped into his room while he had been touring the building. They could have opened his luggage, secreted the letter, and then closed up the bag. Why would somebody do so?

"What did the letter say," asked Marietta.

"I have not yet opened it."

Marietta tilted her head to one side, a world-weary, almost matronly smile on her face.

"Were I in your shoes, Brathay Stonearm, I would take any help I could get. That letter would have been ripped open and read several times by now. One does not walk away from freshly fallen apples."

Brathay found himself agreeing and vowed to open the letter as soon as he returned.

"No matter. Do whatever you think is fit. Now, as I mentioned earlier, I have a couple of suggestions for this meal of yours. In his book, Fullroy included a dish particular and much loved in Braggadach, and widely acknowledged to be a national favourite."

Brathay peered at the page Marietta held out to him. Apart from the block of numbers representing the spices Brathay would need to use, the list of ingredients appeared endless.

"How on earth am I going to find all those—"

"The more important question is that if we could muster them, would you be prepared to attempt this recipe? Or is this too ambitious? And do you think the keep cook, Mrs—?"

"Sturridge."

"Do you think she might allow me to come and assist?"

"Honestly, Marietta. I think I need to do this alone. Or perhaps with the help of Mrs Sturridge. But where on earth am I going to find Lokhradich clams?"

"You're not. But we can improvise many of these ingredients. Black Ice Bay has perfectly good clams and other produce, and besides, I doubt anyone would notice the difference. If I cannot come and cook with you, will you at least allow me to help put everything together?"

As they readied the horses to return that afternoon, Fleming loaded Brathay's horse up with Marietta's baked cakes and bread as well as tinctures for headaches and digestive problems. Marietta stood by in the cold, watching them finally climb onto their horses.

"And if this lord is truly stupid enough to throw you out tomorrow," said Marietta, her hands on her hips. "And if you are either unable or unwilling to travel, we have plenty of room here for you."

Brathay smiled and thanked the stars for the kindness of strangers.

As they joined the long road to the keep, Brathay told Fleming about the mysteries he had found in the keep, some he had solved, such as the spring water feeding every room, others he had not.

"I cannot say I am surprised. Old buildings like these hold many secrets. I would wager there might be hidden corridors and forbidden thaumaturgy at work at its heart. Sjin-Shatir elders say this structure is one of the oldest in the empire, built in the first age, and has been here almost as long as the village. But the dark crystals sound interesting. Tell me more."

Brathay explained them as best he could, the shiny black substance which appeared impervious to heat and how Khraxwall believed them to filter rainfall, cleansing the water for drinking. Fleming listened carefully and offered to message one of his contacts in Aulderly.

Even though temperatures remained cold, no more snow fell, and daylight held as they pulled up their horses inside the gatehouse of Black Ice Keep. Brathay still felt in good spirits, comfortably full from the lunch and emboldened by the fresh air. As they entered the shelter to the interior and as Brathay dismounted, Fleming remained mounted, laughing again at Brathay's effect on Dnan in the hot spring and at the offer of the elder in the tavern for him to share his seed.

As agreed, Myxel met them and had another stablehand by his side. Without really noticing the stablehand, Brathay handed the reins over and was about to wish Fleming farewell when he sensed that both boys appeared subdued, almost timid and frightened. At first, he wondered if Fleming's presence made them so.

"Is everything well, Myxel?" asked Brathay.

"Yes, sir," replied Myxel formally, unwilling to make eye contact, the cheeky humour Brathay had enjoyed that morning vanished.

"Tell me," said Brathay, "what has happened?"

Brathay noticed Fleming had not moved his horse, must also have seen the boy's distress.

"There was a public flogging, sir," said Myxel, without looking up. "One of his lordship's men caught stealing rations. Twenty lashes. We were made to watch."

When Myxel met his eyes, fear and horror stared back at him.

"How long ago?" asked Fleming, unperturbed.

"Just now. Never heard such a sound coming from a man. Guards came to tell Mr Sturridge you was coming just as the final lash landed. Told him I needed to tend to Tuskerman, so he let me and him leave because Morrent didn't feel so well."

"I didn't vomit, though," said Morrent indignantly.

As Myxel spoke, Brathay noticed Fleming getting down from his horse.

"Then I had best remain for a while," said Fleming. Brathay noticed Myxel brighten at the words. "Help tend to the man's wounds. Where have they taken him?"

"To a storeroom off the kitchens. Mr Khraxwall normally acts as physician here with the help of Mrs Sturridge and her staff. But I'm sure they'll welcome proper help, Mr Fleming, sir."

"Lead the way," said Fleming, his cloth bag over his shoulder. "I can make a drink that will reduce the pain and a balm that will help ease the suffering."

"Who ordered the flogging?" asked Brathay as they walked together.

"Who else?" said Myxel, his head still hanging. “Lord Leonmarkh hisself.”

"Myxel," said Brathay, placing a hand gently on the boy's shoulder. "This man would have been flogged because he did something wrong. You do understand that, don't you?"

"Course I do. But we liked him. Last week, he gave me and Morrent an apple each. And I'm scared we might be flogged next if it turns out they were stolen."

"Did you know they were stolen?"

"Course not."

"Then you have nothing to worry about. I promise."

"Do you store seawater in the keep?" asked Fleming.

"No, sir," said the boy called Morrent. "But I can easily get some if you want?"

"A couple of pails will do," said Fleming as they headed towards the kitchen. Brathay followed Myxel's frightened gaze to the middle of the courtyard, where soldiers stood around a sturdy wooden flogging post, now empty, with untied straps hanging from the top of poles and spills and splatters of blood tainting the remains of the snow.

Until that moment, Brathay had thought Lord Leonmarkh a spoiled, arrogant and rude noble, but essentially harmless and fair-minded with his people. Surveying the sight and knowing everyone had been called to witness the punishment, he revised his opinion. In Thiradon, they had a saying: Flog one, warn a hundred. He felt grateful Fleming and Marietta had fed him. Knowing he would be visiting the town, he had advised Khraxwall about not attending the keep's meal that evening.

Just as well, too. Not only because he would have had no appetite for food, but because if he had caught Leonmarkh’s eye that evening, he might not have been able to keep the disgust from his face.