I saw the covered pans and smelled the rising bread. A large pot of stew was be­ing kept warm at the edge of one hearth. When I peeked un­der the lid, I saw it would not miss a bowl or two. I rum­maged about and helped my­self. Wrapped loaves on a shelf sup­plied me with an end crust and in an­other corner was a tub of but­ter kept cool in­side a large keg of wa­ter. Not fancy, thank all, but the plain, simple food I had been crav­ing all day.

  I was halfway through my second bowl when I heard the light scuff of foot­steps. I looked up with my most dis­arm­ing smile, hop­ing that this cook would prove as soft-hearted as Buck­keep’s. But it was a serving-girl, a blanket thrown about her shoulders over her nightrobe and her baby in her arms. She was weep­ing. I turned my eyes away in dis­com­fort.

  She scarcely gave me a glance any­way. She set her bundled baby down on top of the table, fetched a bowl and dipped it full of cool wa­ter, mut­ter­ing all the time. She bent over the babe. ‘Here, my sweet, my lamb. Here, my darling. This will help. Take a little. Oh, sweetie, can’t you even lap? Open your mouth, then. Come now, open your mouth.’

  I couldn’t help but watch. She held the bowl awk­wardly and tried to man­oeuvre it to the baby’s mouth. She was us­ing her other hand to force the child’s mouth open, and us­ing a deal more force than I’d ever seen any other mother use on a child. She tipped the bowl, and the wa­ter slopped. I heard a strangled gurgle, and then a gag­ging sound. As I leapt up to protest, the head of a small dog emerged from the bundle.

  ‘Oh, he’s chok­ing again! He’s dy­ing! My little Feisty is dy­ing and no one but me cares. He just goes on snor­ing, and I don’t know what to do and my darling is dy­ing!’

  She clutched the lap-dog to her as it gagged and strangled. It shook its little head wildly and then seemed to grow calmer. If I hadn’t been able to hear its la­boured breath­ing, I’d have sworn it had died in her arms. Its dark and bulgy eyes met mine, and I felt the force of the panic and pain in the little beast.

  Easy. ‘Here, now,’ I heard my­self say­ing. ‘You’re not help­ing him by hold­ing him that tight. He can scarce breathe. Set him down. Un­wrap him. Let him de­cide how he is most com­fort­able. All wrapped up like that, he’s too hot, so he’s try­ing to pant and choke all at once. Set him down.’

  She was a head taller than I and for a mo­ment I thought I was go­ing to have to struggle with her. But she let me take the bundled dog from her arms, and un­wrap him from sev­eral lay­ers of cloth. I set him on the table.

  The little beast was in total misery. He stood with his head droop­ing between his front legs. His muzzle and chest were slick with saliva, his belly dis­ten­ded and hard. He began to retch and gag again. His small jaws opened wide, his lips writhed back from his tiny, poin­ted teeth. The red­ness of his tongue at­tested to the vi­ol­ence of his ef­forts. The girl squeaked and sprang for­ward, try­ing to snatch him up again, but I pushed her roughly back. ‘Don’t grab him,’ I told her im­pa­tiently. ‘He’s try­ing to get some­thing up, and he can’t do it with you squeez­ing his guts.’

  She stopped. ‘Get some­thing up?’

  ‘He looks and acts as if he’s got some­thing lodged in his gul­let, Could he have got into bones or feath­ers?’

  She looked stricken. ‘There were bones in the fish. But only tiny ones.’

  ‘Fish? What idiot let him get into fish? Was it fresh or rot­ten?’ I’d seen how sick a dog could get when it got into rot­ten, spawned-out sal­mon on a river bank. If that was what this little beast had gobbled, he didn’t have a chance.

  ‘It was fresh, and well-cooked. The same trout I had at din­ner.’

  ‘Well, at least it’s not likely to be pois­on­ous to him. Right now, it’s just the bone. But if he gets it down, it’s still likely to kill him.’

  She gasped. ‘No, it can’t! He mustn’t die. He’ll be fine. He just has an up­set stom­ach. I just fed him too much. He’ll be fine! What do you know about it any­way, kit­chen-boy?’

  I watched the feist go through an­other round of con­vuls­ive retch­ing. Noth­ing came up but yel­low bile. ‘I’m not a kit­chen-boy. I’m a dog-boy. Ver­ity’s own dog-boy, if you must know. And if we don’t help this little pup, he’s go­ing to die. Very soon.’

  She watched, her face a mix­ture of awe and hor­ror, as I gripped her little pet firmly. I’m try­ing to help. He didn’t be­lieve me. I prised his jaws open and forced my two fin­gers down his gul­let. The feist gagged even more fiercely, and pawed at me frantic­ally. His claws needed cut­ting, too. With the tips of my fin­gers I could feel the bone. I twiddled my fin­gers against it, and felt it move, but it was wedged side­ways in the little beast’s throat. The dog gave a strangled howl and struggled frantic­ally in my arms. I let him go. ‘Well. He’s not go­ing to get rid of that without some help,’ I ob­served.

  I left her wail­ing and sniv­el­ling over him. At least she didn’t snatch him up and squeeze him. I got my­self a hand­ful of but­ter from the keg and plopped it into my stew bowl. Now, I needed some­thing hooked, or sharply curved, but not too large … I rattled through bins, and fi­nally came up with a curved hook of metal with a handle on it. Pos­sibly it was used to lift hot pots off the fire.

  ‘Sit down,’ I told the maid.

  She gaped at me, and then sat obed­i­ently on the bench I’d poin­ted to.

  ‘Now hold him firmly, between your knees. And don’t let him go, no mat­ter how he claws and wiggles or yelps. And hold onto his front feet, so he doesn’t claw me to rib­bons while I’m do­ing this. Un­der­stand?’

  She took a deep breath, then gulped and nod­ded. Tears were stream­ing down her face. I set the dog on her lap and put her hands on him.

  ‘Hold tight,’ I told her. I scooped up a gob­bet of but­ter. ‘I’m go­ing to use the fat to grease things up. Then I’ve got to force his jaws open, and hook the bone and jerk it out. Are you ready?’

  She nod­ded. The tears had stopped flow­ing and her lips were set. I was glad to see she had some strength to her. I nod­ded back.

  Get­ting the but­ter down was the easy part. It blocked his throat, though, and his panic in­creased, pound­ing at my self-con­trol with his waves of ter­ror. I had no time to be gentle as I forced his jaws open, and then put the hook down his throat. I hoped I wouldn’t snag his flesh. But if I did, well, he would die any­way. I turned the tool in his throat as he wiggled and yelped and pissed all over his mis­tress. The hook caught on the bone and I pulled, evenly and firmly.

  It came up in a wel­ter of froth and bile and blood. A nasty little bone, not a fish bone at all, but the par­tial breast­bone of a small bird. I flipped it onto the table. ‘And he shouldn’t have poultry bones either,’ I told her severely.

  I don’t think she even heard me. Dog­gie was wheez­ing grate­fully on her lap. I picked up the dish of wa­ter and held it out to him. He sniffed it, lapped a bit, and then curled up, ex­hausted. She picked him up and cradled him in her arms, her head bent over his.

  ‘There’s some­thing I want from you,’ I began.

  ‘Any­thing.’ She spoke into his fur. ‘Ask, and it’s yours.’

  ‘First, stop giv­ing him your food. Give him only red meat and boiled grain for a while. And for a dog that size, no more than you can cup in your hand. And don’t carry him every­where. Make him run about, to give him some muscle and wear down his nails. And wash him. He smells foul, coat and breath, from too-rich food, or he won’t live but an­other year or two.’

  She looked up, stricken. Her hand went up to her mouth. And some­thing in her mo­tion, so like her self-con­scious touch­ing of her jew­ellery at din­ner, sud­denly made me real­ize who I was scold­ing. Lady Grace. And I had made her dog piss on her nightrobe.

  Some­thing in my face must have given me away. She smiled de­lightedly and held her feist closer. ‘I’ll do as you sug­gest, dog-boy. But for your­self? Is there noth­ing you’d ask as re­ward?’

  She thought I’d ask for a coin or ring or even a po­s­i­tion with her house­hold. In­stead, as stead­ily as I could, I looked at her and said, ‘Please, Lady Grace. I ask that you ask your lord to man Watch Is­land’s tower with the best of his men, to put an end to the strife between Rip­pon and Shoaks Duch­ies.’

  ‘What?’

  That single word ques­tion told me volumes about her. The ac­cent and in­flec­tion hadn’t been learned as Lady Grace.

  ‘Ask your lord to man his towers well. Please.’

  ‘Why does a dog-boy care about such things?’

  Her ques­tion was too blunt. Wherever Kelvar had found her, she hadn’t been high-born, or wealthy be­fore this. Her de­light when I re­cog­nized her, the way she had brought her dog down to the fa­mil­iar com­fort of a kit­chen, by her­self, wrapped in her blanket, told of a com­mon girl el­ev­ated too quickly and too far above her pre­vi­ous sta­tion. She was lonely, and un­cer­tain, and un­educated as to what was ex­pec­ted of her. Worse, she knew that she was ig­nor­ant, and that know­ledge ate at her and soured her pleas­ures with fear. If she did not learn how to be a duch­ess be­fore her youth and beauty faded, only years of loneli­ness and ri­dicule could await her. She needed a mentor, someone secret, like Chade. She needed the ad­vice I could give her, right now. But I had to go care­fully, for she would not ac­cept ad­vice from a dog-boy. Only a com­mon girl might do that, and the only thing she knew about her­self right now was that she was no longer a com­mon girl, but a duch­ess.

  ‘I had a dream,’ I said, sud­denly in­spired. ‘So clear. Like a vis­ion. Or a warn­ing. It woke me and I felt I must come to the kit­chen.’ I let my eyes un­focus. Her eyes went wide. I had her. ‘I dreamed of a wo­man, who spoke wise words and turned three strong men into a united wall that the Red Ship Raid­ers could not breach. She stood be­fore them, and jew­els were in her hands, and she said, “Let the watchtowers shine brighter than the gems in these rings. Let the vi­gil­ant sol­diers who man them en­circle our coast as these pearls used to en­circle my neck. Let the keeps be strengthened anew against those who threaten our people. For I would be glad to walk plain in the sight of both king and com­moner, and let the de­fences that guard our people be­come the jew­els of our land”. And the King and his dukes were astoun­ded at her wise heart and noble ways. But her people loved her best of all, for they knew she loved them bet­ter than gold or sil­ver.’

  It was awk­ward, not near as clev­erly spoken as I had hoped to make it. But it caught her fancy. I could see her ima­gin­ing her­self stand­ing straight and noble be­fore the King and as­ton­ish­ing him with her sac­ri­fice. I sensed in her the burn­ing de­sire to dis­tin­guish her­self, to be spoken of ad­mir­ingly by the people she had come from. This would show them she was now a duch­ess in more than name. Lord Shem­shy and his en­tour­age would carry word of her deed back to Shoaks Duchy. Min­strels would cel­eb­rate her words in song. And her hus­band for once would be sur­prised by her. Let him see her as someone who cared for the land and folk, rather than the pretty little thing he had snared with his title. I could al­most see the thoughts parade through her mind. Her eyes had gone dis­tant and she wore an ab­strac­ted smile.

  ‘Good night, dog-boy,’ she said softly, and glided from the kit­chen, her dog cuddled against her breast. She wore the blanket around her shoulders as if it were a cloak of er­mine. She would play her role to­mor­row very well. I grinned sud­denly, won­der­ing if I had ac­com­plished my mis­sion without poison. Not that I had really in­vest­ig­ated whether or not Kelvar was guilty of treason; but I had a feel­ing that I had chopped the root of the prob­lem. I was will­ing to bet that Watch Is­land tower would be well-manned be­fore the week was out.

  I made my way back up to my bed. I had pilfered a loaf of fresh bread from the kit­chen and this I offered to the guards who re­ad­mit­ted me to Ver­ity’s bed­cham­ber. In some dis­tant part of Bay­keep someone brayed out the hour. I didn’t pay much at­ten­tion. I bur­rowed back into my bed­ding, my belly sat­is­fied and my spirit an­ti­cip­at­ing the spec­tacle that Lady Grace would present to­mor­row. As I dozed off, I was wager­ing with my­self that she would wear some­thing straight and simple and white, and that her hair would be un­bound.

  I never got to find out. It seemed but mo­ments later that I was shaken awake. I opened my eyes to find Charim crouched over me. A dim light from a lit candle made elong­ated shad­ows on the cham­ber walls. ‘Wake up, Fitz,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘A run­ner’s come to the keep, from Lady Thyme. She re­quires you im­me­di­ately. Your horse is be­ing made ready.’

  ‘Me?’ I asked stu­pidly.

  ‘Of course. I’ve laid out clothes for you. Dress quietly. Ver­ity is still asleep.’

  ‘What does she need me for?’

  ‘Why, I don’t know. The mes­sage wasn’t spe­cific. Per­haps she’s taken ill, Fitz. The run­ner said only that she re­quired you im­me­di­ately. I sup­pose you’ll find out when you get there.’

  That was slim com­fort. But it was enough to stir curi­os­ity in me, and in any case, I had to go. I didn’t know ex­actly what re­la­tion Lady Thyme was to the King, but she was far above me in im­port­ance. I didn’t dare ig­nore her com­mand. I dressed quickly by candle­light and left my room for the second time that night. Hands had Sooty saddled and ready, along with a rib­ald jest or two about my sum­mons. I sug­ges­ted how he might amuse him­self the rest of the night and then left. I was waved out of the keep and through the for­ti­fic­a­tions by guards who had been ad­vised of my com­ing.

  I turned wrong twice in the town. It all ap­peared dif­fer­ent by night, and I had not paid much at­ten­tion to where I had been go­ing earlier. At last I found the inn-yard. A wor­ried innkeeper was awake and had a light in the win­dow. ‘She’s been groan­ing and call­ing for you for most of an hour now, sir­rah,’ she told me anxiously. ‘I fear it’s ser­i­ous, but she will let no one in but you.’

  I hur­ried down the hall to her door. I tapped cau­tiously, half-ex­pect­ing her shrill voice to tell me to go away and stop both­er­ing her. In­stead, a quaver­ing voice called out, ‘Oh, Fitz, is that fi­nally you? Hurry in, boy. I need you.’

  I took a deep breath and lif­ted the latch. I went into the semi-dark­ness of the stuffy room, hold­ing my breath against the vari­ous smells that as­saul­ted my nos­trils. Death-stench could hardly be worse than this, I thought to my­self.

  Heavy hangings draped the bed. The only light in the room came from a single candle gut­ter­ing in its holder. I picked it up and ven­tured closer to the bed. ‘Lady Thyme?’ I asked softly. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Boy.’ The voice came quietly from a dark corner of the room.

  ‘Chade,’ I said, and in­stantly felt more fool­ish than I care to re­mem­ber.

  ‘There’s no time to ex­plain all the reas­ons. Don’t feel bad, boy. Lady Thyme has fooled many folk in her time, and will con­tinue to. At least I hope so. Now. Trust me and don’t ask ques­tions. Just do what I tell you. First, go to the innkeeper. Tell her that Lady Thyme has had one of her at­tacks and must rest quietly for a few days. Tell her on no ac­count to dis­turb her. Her great-grand-daugh­ter will be com­ing in to care for her –’

  ‘Who –’

  ‘It’s been ar­ranged already. And her great-grand-daugh­ter will be bring­ing in food for her and everything else she needs. Just em­phas­ize that Lady Thyme needs quiet and to be left alone. Go and do that now.’

  And I did, and I ap­peared jol­ted enough that I was very con­vin­cing. The innkeeper prom­ised me that she would let no one so much as tap on a door, for she would be most re­luct­ant to lose Lady Thyme’s good opin­ion of her inn and her trade. By which I sur­mised that Lady Thyme paid her gen­er­ously in­deed.

  I re-entered the room quietly, shut­ting the door softly be­hind me. Chade shot the bolt and kindled a fresh candle from the glim­mer­ing stump. He spread a small map on the table be­side it. I no­ticed he was dressed for trav­el­ling – cloak, boots, jer­kin and trousers all of black. He looked a dif­fer­ent man, sud­denly, very fit and en­er­getic. I wondered if the old man in the worn robe was also a pose. He glanced up at me and for a mo­ment I would have sworn it was Ver­ity the sol­dier I was fa­cing. He gave me no time to muse.

  ‘Things will have to go here how­ever they will go between Ver­ity and Kelvar. You and I have busi­ness else­where. I re­ceived a mes­sage to­night. Red Ship Raid­ers have struck, here, at Forge. So close to Buck­keep that it’s more than just an in­sult; it’s a real threat. And done while Ver­ity is at Neat­bay. Don’t tell me they didn’t know he was here, away from Buck­keep. But that’s not all. They’ve taken host­ages, dragged them back to their ships. And they’ve sent words to Buck­keep, to King Shrewd him­self. They’re de­mand­ing gold, lots of it, or they’ll re­turn the host­ages to the vil­lage.’

  ‘Don’t you mean they’ll kill them if they don’t get the gold?’

  ‘No.’ Chade shook his head an­grily, a bear bothered by bees. ‘No, the mes­sage was quite clear. If the gold is paid, they’ll kill them. If not, they’ll re­lease them. The mes­sen­ger was from Forge, a man whose wife and son had been taken. He in­sisted he had the threat cor­rect.’

  ‘I don’t see that we have a prob­lem,’ I snorted.

  ‘On the sur­face, neither do I. But the man who car­ried the mes­sage to Shrewd was still shak­ing, des­pite his long ride. He couldn’t ex­plain it, not even say if he thought the gold should be paid or not. All he could do was re­peat, over and over again, how the ship’s cap­tain had smiled as he de­livered the ul­ti­matum, and how the other raid­ers had laughed and laughed at his words.

  ‘So, we go to see, you and I. Now. Be­fore the King makes any of­fi­cial re­sponse, be­fore Ver­ity even knows. Now at­tend. This is the road we came by. See how it fol­lows the curve of the coast? And this is the trail we go by. Straighter, but much steeper and boggy in places, so that it has never been used by wag­ons. But faster for men on horse­back. Here, a small boat awaits us; cross­ing the bay will cut a lot of miles and time from our jour­ney. We’ll beach here, and then on up to Forge.’