If it was a prank, my money was on Kaiden, because of his age, and yet it didn’t seem like something he would do. But who would break in to our house just to slap a fish on me?
I peeled off my nightshirt, washed up in the bathroom, and got dressed. The offending fish waited on the floor. I got a piece of paper from my desk, picked the fish up by the tail, slid it on the paper, and wrapped it up. Then I put my shoes on, took my fish, and went downstairs.
The house was quiet. Nobody in the hallways, nobody in the courtyard . . . A faint noise came from the kitchen. Ah!
I walked into the kitchen. Shana was sweeping the floor. Behind her the oven was going, and the warm air, seasoned with the scent of freshly baked bread, washed over me. The kitchen window stood wide open. A large shallow bucket rested on the windowsill, and a sandy-gold horse head was halfway into it, munching.
“Morning,” Shana told me. “Greet the lady of the house, Honey.”
Honey raised her head, looked at me with big amber eyes, and went back to eating.
Shana had arrived yesterday in an old cart pulled by Honey, a woodland mare. Honey was large and broadly built, with a golden dun coat dappled with dark chestnut spots and narrow brown stripes on her legs. Her coat pattern made me think of a spotted antelope mixed with an okapi. Her profile was convex, her muzzle broad, and her ears were oddly shaped.
“What is she eating?” I asked.
“Vegetable peels. No sense letting them go to waste.”
At home, horses were powerful but delicate creatures. Any sudden change in diet could result in colic, which, if severe enough, would kill the horse. Rellasian woodland horses didn’t have that problem. They’d evolved from a different equine ancestor than the warhorses, which was why mercenaries and caravan guards loved them. They weren’t fast or particularly obedient, but they didn’t scare easily, they stayed near the camp even when not tethered, and they foraged for their own feed, eating just about everything like goats did.
Looking at Honey was confusing. When I’d met Villain, Everard’s huge stallion, he felt like a horse. Honey felt like a horse’s distant cousin. Probably a couple of times removed. There was nothing like that back home.
Shana was confusing, too. She was a couple of inches shorter than me, stocky, broad, and obviously very strong. Yesterday her graying blond hair had been put away into a braid. She’d worn chainmail and carried a mace, and the way she handled herself made you think that real-life whack-a-mole was her favorite game.
The chainmail was gone, traded for a simple dress. The mace had vanished, too. Her hair was pulled into a low croissant-shaped bun secured with a simple wooden hair brooch. I had seen several women with this style. It seemed to go hand in hand with being a little older and running errands.
Yesterday she’d looked like a human tank. Today she was a plump, nice middle-aged lady who had never held a weapon in her life. Just cleaning up the kitchen with a broom. Perfectly harmless. Sweep-sweep.
“What do you have there?” Shana asked me.
I put the paper bundle on the table and unwrapped it. “What kind of a fish is this?”
Shana squinted at my catch-of-the-bed. “That’s a young purple pike. They’re delicious. Hard to catch, too. Where did you get this?”
“I found it.”
“Where?”
“Around.”
She looked at me. I fought the urge to fidget.
“Did you go fishing?” Shana asked.
“Not exactly.”
She squinted at me.
“Where is everybody?” I asked.
“The boys got back from delivering the kids a couple of hours ago. I sent them to bed. They’re no good as guards if they are tired.”
Made sense.
“Our cart won’t fit through your entrance,” Shana said. “There’s no point in keeping it. Leaving it outside the wall is asking for it to be stolen, so Gort and Reynald left to sell it.”
Our house did have a small stable with two enclosures, but the front tunnel was too narrow for any kind of horse-drawn cart. It was too low for a rider as well. Anyone trying to come through would have to dismount. Derog had been paranoid about being raided.
“Where is Clover?”
