Maddock looked at Grifford.
"We have to collect all the dung into our buckets and put it in this here cart," he said. "When the cart is full, we take it to the gardens. To the compost pits."
"I am not doing it."
"What?"
The squire didn't move from his position on the fence.
"I said that I am not shovelling dung. You will do it. When that bad tempered fool comes back, you can tell him that we both did it. You can do my share."
"Right," said Maddock.
He took up his shovel and bucket, and crossed to the far fence of the pen. When he turned to look back at the squire, he was still leaning on the fence, a smile of victory on his face.
Maddock stuck his shovel in the muddy earth and then dragged it, walking backwards along the pen's centre, scraping a rough line in the grass.
"What are you doing, boy?" growled the boy from behind him.
Maddock finished drawing the line and straightened up.
"I'm going to clear this side," he said, pointing with his shovel. "That side's yours. When Master Sprak comes back, you can tell him why the job's half done."
The squire came quickly off the fence, his fists in two tight balls.
"You will do as I tell you, Field-hand!"
"Or else what?"
Grifford advanced on him, across the muddy pen.
"Or I will put you in the Infirmary, you idiot whelp!"
Maddock remembered the advice Cirric had given him regarding the temperament of squires, and the best way to avoid their aggressive attention.
He chose to ignore it.
"Ah, now that would be just stupid," he said, unflinching before the squire's anger. "Already in trouble with Master Sprak aren't you? He'll punish you good for beating one of his Field-hands."
Grifford stopped in front of him, one fist half raised, a frown on his face.
"That man has no authority to punish me!" he said.
Maddock simply shrugged, turned, and went towards a group of large boulders where dung littered the ground.
"Suit yourself."
Maddock set to shovelling dung into his bucket.
"What!" demanded Grifford.
Maddock ignored him.
The boy stepped over the line that Maddock had drawn, and marched towards him.
Maddock straightened up as he drew close. He took in the dire look in the squire's eyes, and the white knuckles of his clenched fists.
"Aye," he said. "Your sister told me you weren't so clever."
"What?" Grifford demanded. "When have you been speaking to my sister?"
"Few times. Last was on the day the rains came. Ain't she told you what happened?"
"No."
Maddock shrugged.
"Well, it's not for me to say if she ain't told you herself."
He bent back to his work.
"I could beat it out of you."
"Aye. That you could."
Grifford took a step towards him, but Maddock ignored the squire and carried on shovelling dung.
"Tell me what happened!"
"If she ain't told you herself, maybe she don't want you to know."
"Oh, I am not interested in my sister's idiotic secrets! She is always in places where she should not be, and my parents let her do whatever she likes."
Maddock could still sense the anger in the other boy, but now it seemed that his rage had been diverted.
"So she didn't tell your father anything about the rains?"
He asked the question nonchalantly, still shovelling.
"No. I know she had been missing and that she eventually turned up soaking wet and dressed in rags. She didn't say anything about you!"
Maddock was disappointed in that revelation, but hardly surprised.
He straightened up and looked at the grim faced squire.
"Tell you what," he said. "I'll tell you what happened if you help shovel dung."
Grifford looked around at the pen, scowling.
"I do not make deals with Field-hands."
"Fine, if you don't want to know, but if you want, I can give you another reason for shovelling."
"What do you mean?"
Maddock shovelled up a pile of dung and dropped it into his bucket.
"Well, I reckon that one thing Master Sprak likes more than anything else is to see people suffer. Leastwise, to see those who he don't like suffer."
"So?"
"So if he sees that you ain't bothered by shovelling dung, that'll really get his nose up."
Grifford glared over at the shovel that he had dropped in the mud, but then went over and picked it up.
"All right," he said. "Tell me about my sister and I will collect dung."
"Your word," said Maddock. "I know how your Order works. If you give your word, you have to stick fast to it."
Grifford's scowl deepened.
"On my word," he said. "So tell me."
"Shovel first."
Grifford, a look of deep revulsion on his face, set to shovelling dung, attacking each pile as though it were master Sprak's face.
Maddock watched him with amusement.
"So talk, Field-hand. I do not want to waste my time here for nothing."
So Maddock told him about the day the rains had come. It was not the whole truth, of course. He made no mention of the old temple, telling Grifford only that they had taken shelter on the island until Dak's father had come to take them home.
"That is typical of her," said Grifford when Maddock had finished. "I knew she would get into trouble one day; poking around where she was not supposed to be."
"She could have been killed. Aren't you bothered?"
"Of course I am bothered. She is my sister, after all. I should tell father, but he would not care. She can do no wrong in his eyes."
Maddock felt a little disappointed at the news.
"What bothers me more is the fact that she put herself into a position where she had to be rescued by someone like you."
Maddock leant his shovel against a rock and stretched his back.
"What do you mean, someone like me?"
"A commoner, of course. It was not your place to rescue her, Field-hand."
"What!"
"A commoner like you does not have the right to such bravery."
Maddock's mouth dropped open as he tried to frame a suitable reply.
He couldn't find one.
"Whatever," he said instead, picking up his shovel and going to the far side of the pen, hoping to escape the other boy's stupidity.
Grifford raised his voice.
"By putting herself in such a position, she has shamed our family."
"Ha! Says the squire who's knee deep in shit!"
"Do not dare deride me!"
Grifford came fast towards him, the shovel once more held like a weapon.
Maddock stabbed his own shovel into the ground.
"It was a joke!" he said, turning to face the advancing squire. "Ain't you got a sense of humour?"
"No. I have not."
Grifford pointed the shovel at him.
"Do not attempt to make a mockery of me again!"
"I weren't mocking you. I was just making... You know, the whole thing is funny if you..."
Maddock looked into Grifford's humourless eyes.
"You know what; forget it. I won't try for any more jokes."
"Good."
Grifford went back to his own side of the pen.
"Get back to work, boy!"
Maddock pulled his shovel from the ground.
"For the sake of Terra!" he muttered as he bent to his work. "Who died and made him commander of the mardy arses?"
Fortunately, Grifford didn't hear him.
* * * * *
Tahlessa would have strode angrily across the open deck of the station terrace if her condition had not prevented it. Instead, she had to make do with a stately waddle, which somewhat spoilt the fury of her arrival at her husband's side, but she attempted to compensate for her lack of dignity with the sharpness of her tongue.
"Do you know what that man had our son doing this morning?"
Kralaford had been standing alone at the terrace's far end, where it joined the steep sloping side of the observation tower. The work taking place around the six jousting rings was loud enough to prevent the sound of her anger from carrying far, so she was not concerned at addressing her husband as boldly as she did. The Engineers were busy bolting together the foundations of the wooden arenas, which were being erected for the coming High-tourney. The air was filled with their shouts as thick joists of beam-tree were unloaded from waiting juddra wagons by a small wooden crane, two Junior-engineers labouring in its tread-wheel. Other cranes were hoisting the beams to their places in the growing construction. In the centre of the arenas stood two more cranes of an immense size, the strength of the yoked juddra in their driving pits raising whole pallets of heavy wood up to the completed levels, where Engineers clambered to unload them.
Kralaford turned from watching the work.
"Good morning, my lady."
"Do not 'good morning' me, husband! Do you know what Master Sprak had Grifford doing this morning?"
"I do not."
"As his latest punishment, he had him shovelling madriel dung like a common Field-hand!"
"It is not my place to criticize the punishments metred out by our High Madriel-master."
Her husband's voice was stern, but she ensured that her reply was equally severe.
"Do you not remember your standing in this Order? The Lady Yolanda took great pleasure at the noon meal in telling me of my son's labours, and the other ladies at table took few pains to hide their smiles."
A sudden twinge of discomfort speared through her, and her hand went to her swollen stomach.
Wordlessly, Kralaford pulled a chair from under a nearby table and placed it behind her.
She sat down and the pain faded to a low throbbing.
"It sounds like it is your own repute that concerns you more than your husband's."
He spoke lightly, but she was not about to be placated by the intended humour, and she kept her voice as hard as sky metal.
"The judgements of those painted herredna do not trouble me! And do not attempt to change the subject."
"I was not, but the spoiling of our mutual repute aside, discipline in the Enclosures is the sole charge of the High Madriel-master, and I will not..."
"It is not the manner of the punishment that has angered me, but the reason it was given. Our son has been fighting again! I thought you would talk to him!"
"And I did."
"Well it seems to have made little difference."
A chastened look crossed her husband's face, but she did not allow it to appease her.
"And it should not be a surprise for you to learn that Grifford's argument this morning was with the squires Gefry, Brefoir and Marcin."
Her husband raised an amused eyebrow.
"All three of them?"
"Yes! And before you begin to wonder how he acquitted himself, I do not know. I did not ask. The thing troubling me most is the reason behind the fight. You know the friendship those three boys share with Jesker's son!"
"Yes," said Kralaford, his brows lowered. "Before the rains, I did what you asked and talked to him about the benefits of friendship. I was not willing to follow it with further discourse on what transpires when friendship fails."
Tahlessa took her husband's hand, and she allowed her voice to soften.
"I understand that it is not an easy thing for you to talk about, and Fortak knows how hard our son is to talk to sometimes, but he must be made to understand."
"He knows the facts."
"For him simply to know the facts is not enough. You must talk to him again."
"I have been preoccupied with other matters."
"But not anymore; Lord Taine's armies have left the border, and Sir Galder is similarly withdrawing his troops, so the situation is defused."
Her husband looked down at her, his face remaining grave.
"Defused but not done. The Free-clans are still sniffing at our border, and the Tourney is likely to turn everything about again."
He gestured to the area beyond the six jousting rings, where heralds and other members of the clerical-service were laying out, with wooden pegs and rope, the avenues where the Tourney's participants would pitch their tents. The six bright pavilions of the Pride-commanders were already being erected in their centre.
"The Tourney is not yet begun," said Tahlessa. "You have the time to talk to your son before it does."
"And I will," said her husband.
"Before he gets into further fights."
"Of course."
"If he understands the reasons for the treachery of Tasker's father, it may help him to deal with the boy's hatred."
"It might," said her husband, before he returned his attention to the growing structure of the arenas. "But it will not stop the hate."