"Make a lot of noise" Bram could not recall who had given him that particular nugget of information, but it sounded good to him and he began to half shout, half sing the Dhoone boast while striking the handle of his sword against Guy Morloch's fine pewter tippler.
Not long after that Bram decided to head west. It was time. Castlemilk was owed Bram Cormac.
He had miscalculated and headed too far south, so now he had to cross the Milk. Poor Gabbie, three rivers and he had to cross every one of them. River crossings, bears and snagcats: it probably didn't get much worse for a horse.
Luckily the Milk was calm. Spring thaw did not affect it in the same way as other rivers. Its waters ran white, not high. Legend had it that the Milk ran through a gorge where the Sull had once mined milk-stone. No living clansmen knew if this were true or not as none had managed to penetrate the tangle of Ruinwoods through which the Milk flowed. "Why can't someone simply pole upstream?" Bram had asked Guy Morloch once. Guy had tutted in disgust at Bram's ignorance. "Have you ever tried poling up a river fell? You know what happens? You get wet."
Bram shook away the memory of Guy's unpleasant laughter. While he was standing and thinking by the rivershore a full moon had risen above the Milkhouse. It was a heartbreakingly beautiful sight; the pearl dome of the roundhouse beneath a red moon. Bram clicked his, tongue for the horse. "C'mon, Gabbie, let's see if we can wake some Milkmen and get you some hay."
It was strange to Bram that he could arrive at the door of the Milkhouse unchallenged by guards. Yet just as he was about to rap on the oyster-glazed wood, the door swung open, and he realized that unchallenged and unwatched were different things. A big hard-bitten Milkman with shorn gray hair and tattoos tacked along the muscle lines of his bare arms greeted Bram. "You Robbie's kin?"
Bram nodded, surprised that he was both known and expected. The Milk warrior held a fiercely burning kerosene torch and Bram was startled by how close the man let the flames get to his skin.
Looking over Bram's shoulder, he nodded, "I see you've brought one of our horses back. Leave him there. I'll send a groom."
Of course, Gabbie was Guy Morloch's horse and Guy was a Castleman. Or had been.
"Inside now," the warrior said, yanking his chin back to indicate the roundhouse's interior. "No one'll see you tonight. I'll get you sorted with food and cotting."
Bram followed the man inside. It did not take much light to illuminate the small horn-shaped entrance hall, just a few covered candles suspended on chains from the walls. Milkstone was a strange thing. In the day it seemed to store the light; in the night it gave it back. Bram had little time for wonder, for already the warrior had disappeared around a corner and Bram knew that if he didn't follow closely he'd be lost. The groundfloor of the Milkhouse had been built as maze to confuse enemies, and to the untrained eye every turn and corridor looked the same. He had been here before, on the night his brother had negotiated for manpower with Wrayan Castlemilk, the Milk chief, but it still looked new to him. Somewhere on this floor he knew there must be halls and chambers but all he saw was endless corridors and a single white door.
The warrior led him through the roundhouse and then out the other side to a kitchen block that had been built on to the exterior wall. A half-dozen long oak tables were laid side by side with plank benches running between them. About a third of them were occupied by Castlemen, women and children, eating supper, rolling dice, drinking beer, shining armor, honing blades and stitching cloth. Mothers were braiding their children's hair, talking with mouths full of pins to other mothers. Some were coaxing babies to eat spoons of lumpy oat mush. A handful of clan maids were sitting prettily, buffing their fingernails with raw felt and popping stars of sugared anise between discreetly stained lips. All stopped what they were doing to turn and look at Bram.
"For Ione's sake! It's Robbie's brother alright. You've had a good look now get back to … your," words failed the warrior accompanying Bram and he made an all-inclusive gesture with his big, muscled arm, "dooderlings."
Laugher erupted from the table containing the Castlemen warriors. "Dooderlings, Pol?" chipped up some large, grizzled hatchetman, "that'a new one to me." More laughter followed, and this time women and children joined in.
Pol glared back; he didn't seem especially annoyed. "C'mon, boy," he said to Bram. "Supper. Set yourself down over there and I'll see what cook can manage."
Bram did just that, walking past the table of clan maids to the place at the back indicated by Pol. His cheeks were hot and he felt a bit dazed by all the life spread out before him. It had been a long time since he'd been in an informal kitchen hall like this one, and the presence of women befuddled him. One of the maids, a round-faced girl with raven-dark hair, shot out a hand and poked his leg as he passed. High, pretty laugher followed. Bram reckoned she must have done it on a dare.
Bram found his place and sat. When he looked back at the clan maids he found them all staring at him. With little titters of delighted embarrassment they looked away.
"Here you go." Pol slid a wooden board in front of Bram. "It's fry night. We're in luck."
Fried radishes, fried bread and rabbit fried in breadcrumbs were piled high in two bowls. Pol took the largest for himself and began to eat. Bram, suddenly realizing how hungry he was and how little he had consumed these past seven days, did likewise. The food was good and hot and plain. Watered ale helped it down.
As Bram was sucking on the last of the rabbit bones, a Castleman detached himself from the group at the far table and walked over toward them. It was the head warrior, Wrayan Castlemilk's right hand; Bram recognized him from the night in the Brume Hall. Bram put down the bone and stood to greet him. Such a man was due respect. "Set down now," the warrior said evenly. He was of middle height and middle age, and he was powerful around the chest and beginning to loosen in the gut. A vial containing his measure of Milkstone suspended in water hung from a waxed string around his neck. "I'm Harald Mawl and on behalf of my chief I welcome you, Bram Cormac son of Mabb, to this clan."
Bram's throat tightened; he wasn't sure why. The head warrior of Castlemilk stood before him and he didn't want to make a mistake. With a small cough, he replied, "I thank you, Harald Mawl. Castlemilk is the clan that walks swords and I am glad to have come." Harald nodded once, gruff but satisfied, and then turned with some formality and walked away.
"C'mon," Pol said, standing. "Let's find you a cot for the night." Bram was led back into the dome of the roundhouse. The clan maids were quiet as he left. After climbing a narrow flight of stairs and walking along a circular gallery that was open to the hall below, Pol halted and nodded his head toward a plain white door. "Chief expects you at dawn," he said in parting.
For a moment Bram just stood and looked at the door. The wood was fine-grained birch stained with lime. A pull ring forged from powdered iron was fixed to the wood by a fox-head plate. The White Fox of Castlemilk. Pulling the ring back he discovered a tiny fan-shaped cell with a wooden sleeping box laid with a thin mattress and two goatskins. A single covered candle burned on the near wall, and the only other items in the room were a filled water pitcher and leather bucket. Bram entered and closed the door. As he sat on the bed he wondered if feeling glad to be alone was a character flaw.
After spitting on his fingers he reached toward the candle. And then killed the light. He thought he'd better try and sleep, but his words to Harald Mawl worried him and he hoped he hadn't spoken a lie. I am glad to have come. Yet Bram wasn't sure how he felt. Arriving he had expected … less. He had not anticipated this Irving, breathing clan. When he had spent time here during the winter it had been at the Tower on the Milk, a league to the east Outfitted as a makeshift barracks, the broken tower had been far removed from the warmth and vibrancy of the Milkhouse. And Wrayan Castlemilk had shrewdly lim-ited the Dhoonesmen's access to her hearth.