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Finarra, poor Spinnock Durav. The tale I have to tell you conjures a less than pretty scene …
* * *
The gate was pushed open, stuttering upon ridges of ice, until further movement was blocked by a heap of crusted snow. The opening it made was barely enough to emit the fur-wrapped figure that stumbled out to greet Kagamandra Tulas. Straightening, the figure squinted up at the lord, and then leaned back in through the gap. ‘Trout! Get that shovel – no, the one with the handle, fool. Be quick about it!’ Leaning back, the woman faced Kagamandra again. She dipped her head and said, ‘Milord, welcome home.’
‘Braphen, is that you?’
‘Yes, milord. ’Tis Braphen, acting castellan here at Howls. Milord, your arrival was unexpected. No advance rider reached us, alas, to announce your imminent return. I must confess to a laxity in the upkeep, within the main house, that is. Sealed against the winter, sir, and the like.’ She ducked her head a second time. ‘I submit my resignation, milord, for having failed you.’
‘Braphen,’ said Kagamandra, dismounting, ‘you’ve grown into a woman. You mentioned Trout? He remains, then. Good. I’m not interested in your resignation. There was no advance messenger. Castellan now? That will do.’
While he spoke, Trout appeared with a battered shovel in his cloth-wrapped hands. Seeing Kagamandra, the old veteran nodded, and then turned his head to one side, and spat into the snow. ‘Sir,’ he said, and then he bent to the task of clearing the snow that blocked the gate.
Castellan Braphen met her lord’s gaze, and shrugged. ‘He insisted I make him a captain, milord, or he’d leave. Same for Nassaras, and Igur Lout. Three captains, milord, to command the Houseblades.’
‘That many? Well. How many Houseblades do I have, then?’
Braphen blinked, and then wiped her dripping nose with one forearm. ‘Well, that’s it, milord. Just the captains. The rest left when the orphans arrived. Headed west, I think. Sought to join Lady Hish Tulla’s Houseblades, on account of her being related to you and all.’
‘Hish Tulla is related to me?’
‘She isn’t, milord? The family names being so similar, people thought … well. Oh.’
Trout had managed to work the gate open by now, following a frenzy of flinging wet snow, and Kagamandra led his horse into the compound beyond. The animal shied as it passed beneath the lintel stone and Kagamandra had to fight the beast to bring it in.
‘Abyss below,’ he hissed, startled by his mount’s sudden terror, ‘what ails you?’
Braphen joined him, seeking to calm the animal. ‘It’s the orphans, milord.’
‘What orphans?’
‘Them as were gifted into your care, milord, by Lord Silchas Ruin and Captain Scara Bandaris. Hostages, actually.’
Kagamandra said nothing. Trout arrived to take the reins, and led the frightened horse towards the stables.
‘I know, milord,’ said Braphen, now tugging the gate shut once more. ‘Trout’s gotten even uglier. We’re all agreed on that. Can’t say how, or what’s changed, but I wager your shock finds reason in his sorry visage. Alas, milord, it’s not a shock easily worn off.’
‘Silchas Ruin, you said. And Scara Bandaris? From whence come these hostages? More to the point, why give this estate a new name? And what manner of name is Howls?’
Braphen studied him for a moment, wiping her nose once more. ‘You’ve not returned to take the charge of them, milord?’
‘No. I know nothing about any hostages. Braphen, my patience is – no, lead me inside. I’ve need of a meal. Tell me there are winter stores to suffice.’
‘Oh yes, milord. Plenty. We built us a new cold cellar, back near the old cistern, and it’s stocked full of carcasses.’
‘Near the cistern?’
‘The old one, I said, milord. I mean, the one we found when we started digging. Well, when Trout started digging. So we decided to stop digging. Trout did, rather. The new cellar is beside it, milord, dug into clean dirt. For the carcasses. A big cellar, sir, obviously. It’s not easy fitting fifty carcasses in anywhere.’
‘Fifty carcasses?’
They had begun walking towards the main house. Kagamandra studied it with growing unease, as echoes of his father seemed to remain, ghostly, like stains upon the grey stones. The building looked smaller, ill fitting his memories.
‘For the hostages, mostly, milord.’
‘Excuse me, what is for the hostages, Braphen?’
‘The meat, milord. Goats and steers and mutton.’
