Kasarian passed me a silver bowl containing moistened cloths so that we might wipe our hands. “I shall leave you briefly now,” he announced, pushing back his chair, “to fetch the hound pup. Gennard may return to clear away our finished meal. If his presence perturbs you, you can survey the City from our windows until he leaves.”
As Kasarian had predicted, soon after he left the room, Gennard did come back. He bowed to me, then started stacking the dishes on his tray. I nodded to him in what I hoped was an acceptably dismissive baronial style, and walked to one of the slit windows to look out upon the city of my enemies.
Because of the winter cold, heavy wooden shutters padded with wool had been secured across the windows. I unlatched one panel and swung it back. The sunlight was impeded by a layer of high clouds, so that my first view of Alizon City was appropriately drained of color. I was dismayed to behold the extent of the sprawling settlement. Ranks of roofs crowded one against another as far as the eye could see. From its commanding perch on an elevated rocky ridge dominating all other buildings loomed a monstrous fortress that had to be Alizon Castle, seat of the infamous Lord Baron. High up as I was in the Krevonel Castle’s tower, I could see the glitter of metal flashing from the helmets of the sentries patrolling the fortress walls.
The frigid draft through the open window numbed my face, but I was already chilled from within. The realization that I, a lone Daleswoman, should be standing in clear sight of the very Kennels of the Hounds of Alizon pierced me like a knife thrust. I was aghast when tears I could not feel because of the cold suddenly splashed down on my sleeve. I contrived, while closing and fastening the shutter, to rub a fold of my cloak around my face. I did not turn around until I heard Gennard close the door as he left the room. I chided myself severely. Loneliness and weariness could not excuse so dangerous a lapse. I doubted that Alizonder barons often indulged in tears—unless they were writhing in poisoned agony.
The door opened abruptly, and Kasarian entered, carrying a squirming white bundle in his arms. I hastened to sit on a nearby bench so that he could place the horrid creature in my lap. It was an extremely young beast, but already long of leg and well-muscled for the chase. I tried not to disclose my repugnance, but settled the hound with my gloved hands.
I was surprised by the softness of its short white fur. Its head was very narrow, with keen yellow eyes deep-set above a pointed, questing nose. Its curiously flared ears folded back flat against its skull except when they pricked erect to listen. The needle-sharp claws, like those of a cat, could retract into the foot pads; I soon discovered that its teeth were even sharper when it nipped me even through Mistress Bethalie’s gloves. Kasarian’s hands, I saw, also exhibited fresh toothmarks and scratches.
He observed my gaze, and laughed—the first time that I had heard him laugh. I suppose I had expected Alizonders to bark like their wretched hounds, but Kasarian’s laugh was a natural sound of genuine pleasure.
“Exceptional spirit!” Kasarian exclaimed, wiping away a streak of blood from his wrist. “Both his sire and dam are fine beasts, as this one will be in time. Due to the silver in his coat, I call him ‘Moonbeam.’ ” He rubbed his fingers gently behind its ears, and the beast twisted its muzzle around to lick his hand.
I was astonished. Could these murderous hounds actually inspire affection? Was an Alizonder capable of such feelings?
Kasarian compounded my surprise by assuming an uncharacteristically defensive manner. “Few other barons name their hounds,” he conceded, “but I have found that some hounds respond to training more energetically when singled out. Volorian introduced me to the practice, for he always named his primary hounds, the better to maintain correct breeding records. While they are pups, of course, hounds are more amenable to handling. Moonbeam clearly welcomes your attentions.”
I realized that I had unconsciously begun to stroke the creature, and to my amazement, although the sound it made was rougher and more grating, it purred, almost like a cat.
Rising from his crouching position by my feet, Kasarian reverted to his more usual arrogant manner. “I rejoice that your scent does not infuriate Moonbeam,” he said. “Since you have handled him, his scent will cling to you, which should aid in your acceptance by the adult pack. Let us now restore Moonbeam to the Kennels.”
As we started toward the door, Gennard appeared. “I have placed a selection of Baron Oralian’s clothing in the chamber adjoining yours, Master,” he reported.
“Having examined Moonbeam, the Worthy Baron presently desires to inspect the balance of my pack,” Kasarian declared. “We shall assess your choices upon our return from the Kennels.”
Long before we reached the Kennel area, I could hear the dreadful clamor of the hounds. Moonbeam whined excitedly from his perch in Kasarian’s arms. We descended several steep ramps, stopping only when our way was blocked by a heavy iron grill anchored firmly in the stones on either side of the passageway.
Kasarian called out, “Wolkor!”
A burly Alizonder hurried out of the shadows to unlock a hinged gate panel fitted at one side of the grill. “Moonbeam’s dam be sore vexed, Master,” he complained. “ ’Twas needful to double leash her.”
Kasarian shifted Moonbeam into the other man’s eagerly extended arms. “They shall be parted soon enough when he joins the training pack,” Kasarian said.
I followed close behind the pair of them through a narrow passage that opened out into a spacious courtyard. The Alizonder carrying Moonbeam darted aside beneath an archway leading back into the Kennels.
“Wolkor has served me as Hound Master for many years,” Kasarian observed to me. “I had to bribe his former master to secure his release, but I have found none better at tending whelping bitches. You can judge his prowess by the excellent condition of my pack.”
I do not know how I endured the next hour. Like most nursling animals, Moonbeam had possessed—to some limited extent—the attraction of vulnerable helplessness. To be forced now to survey the grown hounds with every appearance of approval made my flesh crawl.
Having restored Moonbeam to his mother’s custody, Wolkor paraded before me individuals, braces, triples, and surging packs of hounds. My worst memories from the Dales war rushed back into my mind as the thin-flanked, ghostly white bodies strained against their leashes, weaving their snake-like heads from side to side, snapping and snarling. Whenever Kasarian bellowed some encomium above the din, I nodded appreciatively. I had to believe that the hounds accepted me as an authentic Alizonder, for their vicious exuberance was not directed in any corporate attacks on me.
Finally, as I was beginning to feel giddy from the dust, noise, and peculiar odor of the hounds, Kasarian called to Wolkor, “We shall distract you from your duties no further. I look forward to the whelping!”
Taking my arm, Kasarian led me back through the twisting passageways into the castle. “You did very well, lady,” he murmured, when we were safely alone in one of the castle’s endless corridors. “Volorian himself could have looked no wiser—except he would have forcefully evaluated every hound. I had to explain your lack of voice. Wolkor is convinced that you are a famed hound breeder.” That obviously ridiculous assumption made Kasarian smile. “You may yet deceive Gurborian, lady—I begin to think that you may!”
Gennard was waiting for us outside an intricately carved door in one of the upper halls. The bedchamber within was regally appointed. On a wide table beside the canopied bed, Gennard had laid out a profusion of elegant cloaks, tunics, breeches, and soft leather boots.
With a low cry of recognition, Kasarian picked up a tunic of vivid green velvet, closely embroidered with gold thread. “I remember this,” he said slowly.