Later that evening, as the sky was stained creamy orange by the sinking sun, Maddock was far from starved. Master Dramut had provided the Field-hands with plates of food as a reward for their day's efforts. Added to the slices of meat, fresh baked bread and grilled vegetables, were several bags of pastries that some of the senior Field-hands had acquired in the days leading up to the contests.
Maddock, being the undisputed hero of the day, had first pick of these, and found them to be delicious and only marginally stale. After telling the tale of his victory over the universally hated Tasker for the sixth time, to the eager Field-hands gathered around the table, he sat back in his chair and let out a deep sigh. His stomach felt so full, he seemed unable to take a complete lung-full of breath. He had never, in the entirety of his life, eaten so much all at once.
Cirric sat beside him, looking equally well stuffed and contented. Not long before, news had come from the Infirmary that the injured Macus was awake, though his wounds were not light. Cirric's face held one of his brooding scowls when the young Field-hand had first arrived, but it quickly vanished when he heard that the news was not dire.
He plucked one of the few remaining pastries from the table and threw it to the Field-hand.
"Go and give him that, so he don't miss out."
The Field-hand smiled, and turned to leave.
"Best tell him not to eat it too fast though, else he might bust another rib."
Laughter rippled around the refectory.
"I'm away to my bed soon," said a Field-hand, sitting on the other side of Maddock. "I'm well full."
"Aye, madriel won't muck themselves," said Cirric. "So an early start again tomorrow."
"Not for me," said Maddock. "Master Dramut says I can have the day off."
"Only fair," said Cirric. "Good old Dramut."
"I heard it was Sprak what suggested it," said one of the Field-hands further down the table.
"Well, well," said Cirric, turning to Maddock. "Looks like you've caught the attention of the High Madriel-master."
"Is that good?"
"Well some might say it is, but most would say not."
"Oh."
"Best not to worry on it. So what will you do with your day tomorrow?"
"Back home. Going tonight."
Maddock looked out of the refectory window, where the colour of the sky was deepening.
"Suppose I'd better get a move on, before the great-bailey gets dark."
"Maddock won't have anything to fear from the Pride tonight, will he lads?" said Cirric to the boys in the refectory, who all gave a raucous cheer.
Maddock smiled.
"Still, I'd best be gone."
He clambered down from his chair, his stomach feeling heavy and bloated with bread and pastries. He made his way through the crowd, who all smiled and called their farewells. Most, like Maddock, looked tired and half asleep. Cirric opened the door for him and gave him a final slap on the back to usher him into the cool evening beyond. There were a few final shouts of farewell, then the door closed behind him.
It might simply have been the contrast to the stuffy warmth of the refectory that made the air outside seem fresher and sweeter than usual, or it might have been the excitement of the day. Whichever it was, he made his way through the Enclosures and on towards the riding-grounds with a light step, despite his stomach's heaviness. The light on the western horizon was now a brilliant band of red, which bled upwards to purple and then arched above his head to clear blue, before fading to black on the far eastern horizon.
He passed through the long shadows of the Enclosures, hearing the occasional grunt and snort of sleeping madriel. He quickened his pace, relishing the thought of reaching home and regaling his brothers with his tales.
* * * * *
Like Maddock, Grifford's mood had been lifted by events, and he felt contented as he sat with the other squires on the open deck of the observation tower's terrace. The tables had been pushed together to form one long wooden surface, and it had been piled with the finest foods the kitchens of Klinberg could offer. That evening, the squires would be fed like knights as a reward for their day's performances. Even though Grifford and the other youngest squires had not competed, they were still accorded the same privileges as the rest.
The squires chatted merrily as they ate, and Grifford, for once, felt happy to be in their company, though he still found it hard to join in their conversations. At the far end of the terrace, at the highest table, he could see his father's squire sitting in the champion's seat. Even Zemrossa's normally implacable features seemed light and more animated than usual, as he talked with Henjin and Matzurra. They had all gained an equal position on the scoring board, but Zemrossa has shown superior control and so had been declared champion. Ince, Sir Zembulla's squire, whose loss of control had put a Field-hand in the Infirmary, was far down the tables. He sat and ate his food in silence, casting the occasional forlorn look towards those seated at the top most table. His eyes held a look of deepest regret, which Grifford thought quite pitiful.
To Grifford's greatest pleasure, Tasker sat in an equally low position, and he too ate in grim silence, though his eyes did not stray from the plate of food in front of him. For once, Grifford had been looking forward to sharing the company of Gefry and the other members of Tasker's band, so he could gain some contentment from their unhappiness, but he could not see them anywhere among the other squires at the lower tables. He wondered at their absence initially, but then gave them no further thought, assuming that they were too cowardly to listen to the ribbing their friend would be facing from his fellow squires.
"A good omen for your father, Grifford," said the squire sitting on his left.
"Yes," replied Grifford. "It is."
The squire took a bite from a strip of grilled karabok meat and watched him speculatively as he chewed.
"Not so good for Sir Galder or Sir Zembulla, though," the squire said around his mouthful of food.
"No."
"I wonder if it will change the coming challenges."
Grifford turned and met the squire's eye, but could see no sign of ill humour.
"Do you think your father will stand?" asked the squire.
"That is no one's business but his," replied Grifford, leaning forward, his eyes burning darkly.
The squire held up a placatory hand.
"I do not wish to pry. It is just that my father believes Sir Kralaford should be next Grand-commander."
"And who is your father?" asked Grifford, sitting back once more in his seat.
"Sir Xanrath," said the squire, for some reason sounding a little hurt.
"Oh," said Grifford.
A sudden burst of laughter came from the far end of the table. It seemed that the squires were laughing at something Zemrossa had said. Grifford frowned.
"I saw your father compete," he said hesitantly. "He is very good."
"Thank you," replied the squire. "He thinks very highly of your father. He was saying to me the other day..."
Grifford had stopped listening. He was watching a figure who had just appeared at the head of one of the terrace's stairways. It was Marcin, one of Tasker's cohorts. The boy made his way behind the seated squires until he came to Tasker's chair, where he leant over and whispered something hurriedly into his ear. The older squire's features seemed lit momentarily by a mean grin, and he whispered something in the younger squire's ear. Then he turned back to the table, his face once more dour and brooding.
Marcin hurried off, back the way he had come, and Tasker sat once more unmoving.
"...as well on foot as in the saddle."
"What?" said Grifford to the squire beside him, who he realised had just stopped talking.
"Your father. He fights well on foot."
"Yes. Yes, he does."
Further up the terrace, Tasker had got to his feet and discreetly left the table. He made his way towards the stairs, down which his young friend had passed.
Grifford wondered what he was up to, remembering Tahlia's words about the squire's secretive conduct. He watched Tasker disappear down the stairs and wondered if he should follow. No; he would play no part in his sister's flights of fantasy. Whatever Tasker was up to, it was no business of his.
* * * * *
Maddock passed close behind the empty stands of the riding-grounds. The sun was low enough to light the cavernous space beneath, displaying a wasteland of discarded, half eaten food, paper wrappings and broken glass bottles. He did not envy the Field-hands whose job it would be to clear the place up.
He was happily considering the fact that the duty would not be his, when he caught a movement from the corner of his eye. He looked quickly to his right, where his shadow trailed away over the rubbish scattered beneath the stands, and saw that it was not alone in the empty space. Another elongated shadow seemed to follow close behind, flitting between the long patches of darkness being cast by the fences of the empty madriel pens.
He stopped quickly and turned.
The young boy who was following close behind him seemed startled by the sudden movement, but recovered quickly and yelled.
"Get him! Quickly!"
He sprang forward and Maddock turned to flee, only to find that another boy had somehow got in front of him unnoticed, blocking his escape. The boy, who Maddock now recognised quite clearly as one of those who were constantly in the company of the squire Tasker, leapt towards him, arms spread wide, ready to grab him. Maddock dodged aside nimbly and ran in the only direction left to him; into the cavern beneath the wooden stands.
He dodged between tall wooden stanchions and ducked to his left, to follow the lines of the stands, conscious of the breathing of the two boys behind him. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that he was raising a gap between them. The boy who had followed him was far behind, keeping to the same line of beams. The second was closer, following an adjacent line of pursuit.
Ahead of him, Maddock saw a square of open space beneath the stands, where the Engineers had stored their tools and carts and baulks of spare timber. He knew that, if he could draw open the gap between himself and the nearest boy, he could cut across the space and down the line of beams connecting it to the safety of the open field.
He reached the space and dodged quickly to his left. The pursuing squire was closer than he thought and stumbled after him, lunging as he passed, but Maddock was too quick. He ducked beneath the squire's flailing arms and ran on, swinging back his elbow as he passed and hearing it connect somewhere on the squire with a satisfying thud. He risked another glance over his shoulder and was rewarded with a hate filled look from the pursuing squire, who had been knocked off balance by his clumsy blow and stumbled into a stack of timber. Maddock grinned, but his joy was short lived. When he turned back, he saw a third squire ahead of him, entering from the passageway that would have been his escape route. His path was blocked.
He dodged to his right, leaping over a handcart and tipping its contents of woodchips and brushes over the floor. If he could reach the other side of the storage space, where a third passage continued along the length of the stands, he would still have a chance of escape. Though where he could escape to, he did not know. All he could do was run.
With the overturned handcart still clattering behind him, he vaulted over a small stack of timber. As he landed, pain sliced across the underside of his foot and he staggered, hopping twice before running on. As he placed his foot back to the floor, pain stung him again and he stumbled forward onto his knees, into the carpet of stinking rubbish.
Someone grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him upwards.
"Hit me would you, you little farm brat!"
The boy pulled him easily to his feet before spinning him around and pushing him backwards, forcing him against a thick wooden stanchion. Maddock felt his skull crack against the wood, and he collapsed, sliding down to sit in the rubbish on the floor, his head spinning and the pain in his foot quickly pulsing. He was dimly aware of the other two squires stopping by the first.
"Is that him, Gefry?" said one, panting heavily.
"Yes," said the squire who had reached him first. "Where is Tasker?"
"On his way."
Maddock sat staring at his feet, still stunned from his collision with the beam. He could see a long gash along the side of his right shoe. He could see no blood, though he could feel the warmth of it trickling down inside, pooling around his heel.
"On your feet, you," said the third squire, the one he had first seen following him.
He stood over Maddock and leant down to grab the front of his tunic. In a quick movement, Maddock swept his arm upwards, a piece of discarded, waxed paper grasped in his hand. The paper held the remains of some half eaten food, something with soft vegetables and dark congealed sauce, the remains of which slapped across the squire's face and over his eyes.
Maddock rolled and leapt away as the squire spat curses. The other two shouted and leapt after him, but Maddock was quick. Cutting out the pain in his foot, he ducked out of their way and scrambled deftly over a pile of stacked timber, before jumping recklessly from the top.
He staggered as he took his weight on his injured foot, but stumbled on. He was still fast, but not enough to avoid the squire who had circled around the baulks of timber and leapt on him from behind, bearing him down to the floor. He tried to pull himself free, but the squire was too strong, and soon the others came and pinned him by his arms.
"And don't let him go this time!" said one.
"I do not intend to," replied the other, and Maddock was suddenly thumped twice in the ribs. Then a hand grabbed his hair and pushed his face into the filthy ground.
"You'll pay today, Field-hand. Get him on his feet!"
Maddock felt the weight lift from his legs, but the grip on his arms tightened and he was pulled up onto his feet once more. Two of the squires stood on either side of him, holding his arms tightly. The third stood in front of him, eyes bright with anticipated malice.
"My name is Gefry De'tours, and I am going to teach you a lesson for striking your betters."
"You will teach him nothing, Gefry!" came a harsh voice from the darkness behind the boy.
Looking directly into Gefry's face, Maddock was pleased to see its expression turn from nasty haughtiness to childish fear. He stepped back, and Maddock was able to see who had interrupted his captor's merriment.
His day would not be improved quickly. Standing behind Gefry, his face holding its look of deepest anger, was Tasker.
"I will be the one who teaches this boy a lesson," he growled.
With no further word, Tasker stepped forward and punched Maddock squarely in the stomach. The breath gasped out of him and he staggered backwards, though the two squires kept a firm grip on his arms and pulled him forward again. He draw in a breath, and pain spiked through his insides.
"Do you recognise me, boy?" asked Tasker.
"Yes," gasped Maddock, and Tasker hit him again.
"You will address me as Squire Tasker," said Tasker as Maddock coughed and struggled for breath.
He raised his head to meet the boy's hateful glare, and Tasker hit him again. This time his fist struck his head, which rocked to the side with a flash of white light before falling forward onto his chest.
"Do you recognise me?" said Tasker again.
"Yes," said Maddock, his head still down. He managed to raise it upwards to meet Tasker's eyes. "You're the squire who lost the contests today."
Maddock expected the blows, but could do nothing to prevent them. They landed swiftly, one after another, the first striking his stomach before Tasker moved onto his face. He pummelled one eye closed with a flash of watery pain, then his final punch hit his mouth, breaking his lips open against his teeth. Maddock felt his hair seized and his head pulled back, so that he looked once more upon Tasker's vengeful face.
"You cost me the contests, you piece of borak shit!"
Tasker hit him again in the stomach, choosing a place he had not struck before. Maddock gasped again and sagged in the grip of his two captors. Pain pulsed over his body with every beat of his heart, and he could feel blood trickling down his chin. His lips felt swollen, and black dots spun through his vision.
Tasker took a step back and regarded him with narrowed eyes.
"You show no humility either," he said, his voice sounding suddenly calm. "And that is not right, is it, men?"
"Not right at all," said Gefry, who was now standing behind Tasker, a look of delight in his eyes.
"So I think that humility will be our first lesson."
Tasker stepped forward once more and gripped Maddock's chin, his fingers pressing into his cheeks.
"The first thing I want from you is an apology."
One of the boys holding Maddock's arms sniggered.
"I want you to repeat after me, 'I am sorry, Squire Tasker, for my actions today.'"
Maddock met Tasker's glare and thought of his broken lips forming the words. He was not sure if he could bear such a wound to his pride any easier than those that Tasker had inflicted on his body.
"Say it!" said Tasker. He released Maddock's chin and raised his arm, fist clenched.
Maddock looked at the fist, wondering where it would strike first. He opened his mouth to speak
"I..."
A triumphant grin began to form on Tasker's face.
"Go on, borak shit!"
Maddock coughed, then spat a wad of blood and spittle onto the ground.
"I..."
He raised his head, looking Tasker in the eye, as his mouth tried to form his next words.
Then his eyes wandered from Tasker's grinning face, focusing on something beyond the squire's raised fist.