by Stuart Daly
‘Don’t even joke about that,’ Roland replied. ‘I don’t want to see another map as long as I live. Like I said, what’s the point in any of us studying them when we’ve got you with us?’
Sara sighed. ‘Well, I won’t be going to Caledon at this rate.’
‘Forget Caledon,’ Kilt remarked. ‘You’ll be lucky if you even make it out of the stable.’
‘What about you?’ Lachlan asked her. ‘Are you going to join us?’
Kilt was so focused on fixing Sara’s harness that she didn’t look up. ‘It’s not much fun watching you lot soar through the sky while I’m left chasing after you on the ground.’ She smiled at Whisper, who nuzzled up against her. ‘No offence intended, my friend. Besides,’ she added, pushing aside her guardian and looking at the boys, ‘Sara’s never going to do this unless I help her.’
Roland shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’
Kilt puffed out her cheeks and frowned as she worked on the leather straps. ‘Don’t rush back. Pigs will fly before I untangle this mess.’
Caspan smiled sympathetically at Sara, then flicked his reins and dug his heels into Frostbite’s flanks, sending his drake several feet in the air with a single beat of his wings. He was quickly joined by Lachlan and Roland, and they flew over the House of Whispers and headed south to the training field.
Caspan was impressed with the new saddle. He experimented with some sharp turns, testing how securely the blanket held in place, before sending Frostbite into a steep dive, then pulling up sharply to complete a revolution. Fortunately, the drake didn’t resist the manoeuvre. Frostbite must be content to be taken on a ride, having been neglected all morning, Caspan thought. His friends performed similar exercises, then, satisfied with the blankets, headed back across the field.
They were surprised to find a very small man had arrived at the stable and was chatting to Gramidge, Sara and Kilt.
‘Oh, hello,’ he said, greeting the boys with an outstretched hand. ‘I’m Shanty.’ The boys took it in turns shaking his hand and introducing themselves.
Shanty was of a slender build and stood only about four feet tall. He wore fine silk clothing and the fur-lined collar of his black Brotherhood cloak was pulled up high so that it brushed against his cleanly shaven cheeks. His blond hair was neatly parted to the side and had a pronounced fringe. He had sharp, alert eyes, and there was a hint of mischief in the slight curl of his lips. By his side, in a scabbard of polished red leather, hung a slender sword, rather like a rapier, but with a much shorter blade.
‘Shanty’s one of the oldest members of the Brotherhood,’ Gramidge explained to the trio. ‘You won’t find a finer treasure hunter. We’re yet to find a space he hasn’t been able to crawl through or a trap he hasn’t been able to disarm or circumvent.’
Shanty raised a hand to his cheek in feigned modesty. ‘Oh, please stop. You’ll make me blush,’ he replied, winking. ‘Besides, being a dwarf has its obvious advantages.’
‘And who’s that?’ Roland asked, staring at the stable.
Caspan followed his gaze towards a dark corner behind the saddle rack and blinked in marvel at what he saw.
‘Oh, that’s my Warden, Ferris,’ Shanty announced proudly before whistling for his magical guardian to come out.
Ferris was about six feet tall and walked upright on hooves, which clopped loudly on the flagstones at the entrance to the stable. From the waist down he had the body of a goat, with a small, wispy tail and legs that bent back at the knees and were covered in long, black fur. His torso and arms resembled that of a man, only they were covered in sooty-grey fur and he had hooves instead of hands.
Ferris’s head reminded Caspan of a highland goat he had once seen in Floran’s market square. Yard-long, curving horns rose from the top of his head, and tufts of white fur stuck out from the sides of his snout, giving the appearance of an enormous, overgrown moustache. He had the most impressive markings on the bridge of his snout, where the black fur was crossed by a white stripe that stood out like a bolt of lightning across a night sky. His ruby-red eyes were surrounded by white patches that looked like spectacles.
‘He’s a faun,’ Roland said, amazed.
Shanty grinned wryly. ‘I hope so, otherwise I’ve given him a rather silly name. Ferris the Faun might be a little inappropriate for any other creature other than, well, a faun.’
‘He looks almost human,’ Roland remarked. ‘Can he talk?’
‘No, but he sure can eat.’
‘Now, he sounds like my type of Warden,’ Roland said, impressed.
‘He’ll go through a bucket of vegetables like it’s thin air,’ Shanty continued. ‘But his favourite food is books. He devours them by the chapter. For some strange reason he only eats historical fiction.’
Sara cocked an eyebrow at the treasure hunter. ‘Really?’
Shanty smirked. ‘No, just kidding. But he does love eating books, along with parchments and scrolls. In fact, anything that’s made of paper. I think it’s the goat in him.’
Kilt grinned at Sara. ‘You’d better be careful. You spend so much time reading you often smell like a book.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ Sara said, offended, readjusting her cloak indignantly.
‘He’s not a bad fighter, either,’ Shanty explained. ‘I know he’s a bit on the short side as far as Wardens go, but you don’t want to be on the receiving end of his horns.’ He raised his chin high with pride. ‘Besides, there’s nothing wrong at all with being short.’ He patted Ferris on the shoulder. ‘And boy, can he ride. He’s not quite as fast as a horse, but he can go for days without rest, provided, of course, that there’s a library at the end of the journey.’ Kilt frowned, not quite understanding the relevance of this, and Shanty added, ‘So he can have a feast, my dear.’
‘Oh.’
Caspan rubbed his chin in thought. ‘So how does that work?’
‘Well, it’s quite simple, really,’ Shanty replied. ‘He finds a book and chews on the pages.’
‘No, I mean the riding part,’ Caspan said. ‘Does he give you a piggyback?’
Shanty roared with laughter. ‘Now that would be a sight to see. No, my goodness. He drops down on all fours and off he goes, just like a normal goat.’
Roland grinned. ‘Isn’t his name a little … well, plain?’
‘Roland!’ Kilt chastised. ‘Mind your manners.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that … well, you have to admit, it’s an unusual name for a Warden. Why didn’t you go for something like Outlaw or Executioner?’
‘Executioner! Are you serious?’ Kilt folded her arms across her chest and glowered at him. ‘Do yourself a favour and keep your mouth shut before anything else stupid pops out.’
‘What? I’m only asking.’
Kilt snorted. ‘Yeah, and making yourself look like a right puddenhead in the process.’
‘It’s quite all right, young lass,’ Shanty said. ‘Roland isn’t the first person to laugh at the name I chose, and I’m sure he won’t be the last. Yes, I could have gone for something grand, but Ferris takes pleasure in the simple things in life, so a simple name suits him just fine. Besides, Ferris the Faun has a certain ring to it. Well, that’s what we think, don’t we?’ He hugged his Warden around the neck, and stood on tippy toes to tousle the fur on his head. ‘So what’s all this about?’ he asked, looking at Gramidge. ‘I was supposed to be in Briston for another week. I take it this has something to do with the fall of Darrowmere? Either that, or Duke Connal’s missing my beguiling looks and charming personality.’
Gramidge smirked. ‘I hate to disappoint, but I think it’s the former. So word of Darrowmere has reached the capital?’
Shanty nodded grimly. ‘I’m sure the King would have preferred to keep news like this hidden from his people. The capital’s been sheltered from the war so far, and it was probably his intention to keep it that way. But word leaked out somehow. Already there’s a steady flow of people heading south.’
‘And where do they thi
nk they’re going?’ the steward asked. ‘It’s not as if it’ll be any safer down in Floran or the southern city ports. If Briston falls to the Roon, there will be little stopping them from taking all of Andalon.’ He exhaled tiredly and forced a smile. ‘You must be tired and would like to freshen up and have something to eat, but the Duke insisted he see you the second you arrived. He’s waiting for you in his office.’
Shanty took off his leather riding gloves and tucked them under his belt. ‘There’s never any rest for the weary. But if his lordship insists on a meeting, then who am I to argue.’ He rested a hand on Gramidge’s forearm. ‘Can I trouble you to take care of Ferris? He’s looking forward to a good old combing and a bucketful of your special mix of freshly picked raspberries, crusty bread and chicken-flavoured gravy. Oh, and you wouldn’t happen to have a bottle of your splendid October Berry Cider hidden away? You know, the one with the roasted chestnut aftertaste?’
There was nothing Gramidge liked more than to hear one of his ciders praised, and he beamed. ‘I’ll check the cellar, but I think you might be in luck,’ he said before whistling a merry tune as he led Ferris into the stable. Caspan noticed the faun had now dropped to all fours and trotted happily behind the steward.
Roland licked his lips hungrily and frowned at Shanty. ‘I thought you said Ferris enjoyed the simple things in life?’
‘He does, but who doesn’t like being spoilt every now and then? Besides, the cider’s for me, not Ferris,’ Shanty replied. He crossed at the manor house and paused in the doorway. ‘It was nice meeting all of you. I’m sure we’ll get to know each other much better over the course of the next few days.’ He then entered the building and waved farewell.
‘Better than you expect,’ Caspan muttered under his breath, knowing that Shanty would soon learn the reason for his summons and lead the friends on their mission into Caledon.
‘So this is actually happening,’ Kilt said, looking to the north, no doubt picturing the snow-capped mountains of Caledon in her mind’s eye. ‘We’ll be heading off tomorrow morning.’
‘That doesn’t give us long,’ Lachlan remarked, stroking Talon absently on the flank. ‘We’d better start packing.’
Roland’s eyes glistened eagerly. ‘And I should pay a visit to the kitchen. Hey, Cas, how about I get us some of those mince tarts and pork pies we had the other day? There must be some stacked on the shelves.’
Caspan nodded vaguely, making a mental list of the equipment he’d need. In addition to a sword, longbow and quiver, he’d pack his stiletto and chalk pouch. He had these items already in his private quarters, but he’d also require a lantern, oil and rope from the storerooms. He imagined it would be cold in the highlands, so some extra blankets might be needed in addition to his new cloak.
Kilt’s comment played heavily on his thoughts. Tomorrow morning. It didn’t seem that long ago that he, Lachlan and Master Morgan defended the battlements of Darrowmere against the Roon. His stomach tightened at the thought of fighting Caledonish warriors. Hopefully Duke Connal was right and the highland clans had moved south, meaning the Brotherhood would be able to sneak in and out of Caledon without causing too much of a stir. Still, Caspan couldn’t shake the ominous feeling that they would run into trouble.
Frostbite nuzzled against him, as if sensing his anxiety. Caspan smiled at the drake and scratched him behind the ear.
‘At least I’ll have you with me,’ he whispered. ‘Just make sure you keep an eye out for axes this time.’
Frostbite stood dutifully by Caspan’s side, his head held high, and scraped his front claws across the earth, sharpening them, Caspan imagined, for what dangers they might soon face.
CHAPTER 9
GRAMIDGE’S SECRET
Later that evening Caspan went looking for Gramidge. Connal had said they’d be leaving before dawn, and he didn’t know if he’d get another opportunity to say farewell to the steward.
After some searching, Caspan found him heading out the rear door of the manor house. He wore a full-length, patched leather cloak and carried a lantern and a large sack. He appeared to be trying to open the door with great stealth, inching it open slowly so as to avoid making the hinges squeak.
Caspan snuck up behind and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Hi, Gramidge. Where are you off to?’
The steward jumped in fright. He peered past Caspan to check that there was nobody else in the corridor, then whispered, ‘What are you trying to do, lad? Give me a heart attack?’
Caspan tried hard not to smirk. ‘Sorry. I was only wondering what you’re up to.’
Gramidge raised a finger to his lips and beckoned Caspan close. ‘Why don’t you come along and see?’
‘Okay,’ Caspan said, his curiosity piqued. ‘But what’s with all the secrecy?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ Gramidge ushered Caspan through the doorway. ‘Now hurry up before somebody sees us.’
Wondering what on earth was going on, Caspan followed the steward across the courtyard and down the training field. Gramidge kept his lantern concealed beneath the folds of his cloak until they reached the forest. Guided by its orange glow, they followed a track deep into the woods, into a section Caspan had never been before.
Eventually the steward turned down a side track, pushed his way through a clump of bushes and emerged into a clearing. Conical baskets were arranged around its perimeter on makeshift shelves, and hanging on hooks on a nearby oak tree were pairs of thick leather gloves and hoods with woven inserts to protect the face and neck.
Gramidge put down his sack and lantern and motioned towards the baskets with a sweep of his hand. ‘Welcome to my bee farm.’
Caspan was fascinated. ‘How come I’ve never heard of this before?’
Gramidge tapped the side of his nose. ‘Because it’s my little secret. Well, actually, it’s our little secret now.’ He crossed to the oak tree, pulled on a glove and handed a pair to Caspan. ‘I’ve always been interested in beekeeping, but Duke Connal won’t hear a word of it. He’s scared of bees, you see. Absolutely terrified of them. Even though I’ve hidden it this far away from the House of Whispers, I’m sure he’d order it pulled down if he ever found out.’
Caspan couldn’t mask his surprise. ‘The Duke? I didn’t think he was scared of anything. Well, don’t worry. My lips are sealed. But why create a bee farm?’
‘Where do you think the honey for my ciders comes from?’ Gramidge responded matter-of-factly. ‘Oh, and don’t get me started on my latest recipe. If you think Slap Across the Face packs a punch, just wait until you taste Braggart’s Reward. It’s a plum cordial, but with a few special secret ingredients. It’s not quite ready yet, but we should be drinking it by the tankard-full by the end of the month.’
Caspan chortled, recalling Roland’s impersonation of a squirrel the first time he drank Gramidge’s sickly sweet, non-alcoholic cider. ‘Can’t you just buy honey from the stores at Uckfield Heath?’
Uckfield Heath was the closest village to the House of Whispers. Gramidge made a monthly trip there to stock up on food and supplies.
Gramidge pulled a sour face. ‘Yes, but where’s the fun in that? Here I get to create my own. And as far as I’m concerned, there’s no sweeter honey in the Four Kingdoms.’ He smiled. ‘Do you want to see how it works?’
Caspan nodded eagerly, and Gramidge handed him a hood. ‘You’d better put this on. The insert will stop any bees from stinging your face and neck.’
Once they were both fitted with protective clothing, the boy and steward headed over to the closest basket.
‘These are called skeps,’ Gramidge explained. ‘And believe me, they weren’t easy to make. The straw is stitched together with blackberry briar. I’ve been picking berries since I was knee high to a grasshopper, but I’ve never been pricked so many times in my life. I had to wear gloves for a month for fear of the Duke learning that I was up to something.’
Caspan crouched and tried to peer into the closest skep. ‘How many bees do you
have?’
‘Six hundred and two,’ Gramidge replied sarcastically, then gave Caspan a baffled look. ‘How am I supposed to know that? Sometimes there’s so many bees flying around this place you can’t see a thing.’
‘So who taught you how to do this?’
‘I’m self-taught,’ Gramidge said proudly. ‘I think there’s a book on beekeeping in the archive, but I prefer to learn myself. If you ask me, nothing compares to hands-on experience. Mind you, I had a few mishaps earlier on, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got it all worked out now.’ He reached into his sack, pulled out a large iron dish and gave it to Caspan. He then produced a small cow-skin bag, untied its drawstring and emptied its contents onto the dish.
Caspan turned up his nose. ‘Please don’t tell me that’s what I think it is.’
Gramidge smirked. ‘It’s cow manure. But don’t worry, it’s dry.’
Caspan held the pile of dung as far away as possible. ‘That really doesn’t make it any better.’ He cocked a curious eyebrow at the steward. ‘Why do we need this?’
‘Why do you think, lad? To flush the bees out, that’s why.’
‘What? With the smell?’
Gramidge roared with laughter. ‘No, my goodness. Now stop with the silly questions and watch.’ He poured a small amount of oil onto the manure before igniting it with the lantern’s candle. Reaching into his sack again, he pulled out a small bellows. He positioned Caspan and his pile of smoking dung directly in front of a small opening at the base of the skep then used the bellows to blow the smoke inside the basket.
‘We need to flush the bees out in order to get to the honeycomb,’ he explained. ‘I think it’s ingenious. It’s much harder trying to do this by yourself, though. Normally I have to try to balance the dish on the shelf. I think I might recruit you as my special helper from now on.’
‘Here they come!’ Caspan announced joyously as three bees flew out of the skep. ‘Get ready!’
Gramidge grinned. ‘Hold onto your horses, lad. It’ll take a while yet. Still, I should get everything ready.’ After pulling out a large wooden ladle and a jar from his sack and placing these at the base of the basket, he continued puffing smoke with the bellows.
