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‘Our greeting to you beneath this morning sky, generous Madrigal,’ said Aradeus, before executing a deep and convoluted bow. The rat mage took to courtesy like a drunk to an open keg of rum.

‘Are you the master of this place?’ Galass asked, gazing in wonder at the goat man.

Madrigal looked conspicuously down at the two trays in his hands as if to suggest that someone having to stand out here handing out scones and shit to a bunch of dishevelled bums like us was unlikely to be the boss.

The business with the two trays wasn’t that unusual, as it happens. When an enemy arrives at your gates, it’s not uncommon for the garrison commander to offer his would-be conquerors a choice of two gifts. One is typically a bag of coins or a silver cloak or possibly even a gold circlet, a promise that in exchange for persuading the enemy general to change sides, the traitor will be elevated to the defender’s noble ranks. The second choice was usually a bloody dagger, to symbolise the prospect of war, or possibly the head of one of the general’s scouts, to convey his opponent’s estimation of how said war would turn out in the end.

Piles of shit were nothing more than a smelly new innovation on an old theme.

‘Might I have one of those delicious scones?’ I asked.

‘Of course,’ Madrigal said, looking mildly disappointed by my choice. ‘Will you and your company join my masters for more lavish refreshments within the keep? The brothers are very busy with their great endeavour, but when they learned of your approach, they insisted that such impressive beings as yourselves must be offered the hospitality of their home.’

In other words, the Seven Brothers wanted to know what the fuck we were doing on their turf.

‘We’d be delighted to join you,’ I said.

The goat man gazed past us back towards the road. ‘Should we await your other two companions?’

Only Corrigan, Aradeus, Galass and I had come to the fortress. We’d left Shame and Alice behind, because we weren’t sure how these Seven Brothers– who, if my theory was correct, came from a different plane of reality– would respond to an Infernal and an Auroral. We’d tried to leave Mister Bones behind, too, but the jackal chased after us anyway. Now he was chewing on the hem of Madrigal’s robe and growling. The mutt had no sense of diplomacy.

‘What other companions?’ I asked innocently.

So they knew there were six of us, which either meant they had some mystical means alerting them to our presence here or– and I had to admit this was far more likely– they had a spy in town.

The goat man opted not to point out my obvious deception, merely bowed his head for a moment– his horns making the gesture more of an implicit threat than an act of obsequiousness– and unlocked the gate.

He led us across the massive open courtyard and beneath a wide arch whose iron-banded doors hung awkwardly from their hinges, looking like they might collapse on anyone who took too long walking through.

‘Might I ask you a question, Master Wonderist?’ Madrigal said once we were inside the decaying fortress.

‘Call me Cade,’ I said.

He looked unduly discomfited by that suggestion. ‘Well, that is, uh. . . Master. . . Cade.’ He said my name like it was a chunk of grass caught between his front teeth. Then he sniffed the air as if detecting something unpleasant, which was rich coming from a guy who was still holding a silver platter covered in shit. ‘You carry the scent of both an Infernalandan Auroral on you.’

I was impressed that he could smell such things, and said as much.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, nodding vigorously. ‘There is an. . .unnaturalnessto their kind. Quite pungent. Can you not detect it yourself?’

‘And what about your Seven Brothers?’ I asked. ‘What do they smell like?’

‘Hmm?’ He beckoned us to follow him up a wide staircase.

So clearly he wouldn’t be divulging any juicy details about his employers.

‘To answer your question,’ I said, taking hold of the banister because I wasn’t at all confident in the solidity of the crumbling stone steps, ‘extra-planar beings don’t smell unusual to humans. They don’t really smell like anything, since most of them can’t step onto the Mortal plane. When they manifest within spell circles or other bridging constructs between realities, their physical form within our realm isn’t so much flesh and blood as a sort of. . . clothing worn around their spirits.’

‘Clothing,’ Madrigal repeated. ‘Interesting.’

We continued our journey through halls decorated in a patchwork of worn tapestries, old shields and broken weapons, along with various family emblems from northern houses, all of which had been left where they fell and shattered on the dirty floors.

‘Can I askyoua personal question, Madrigal?’

‘Of course.’

‘Are you a goat who stands on two legs and speaks as a man, or a being from another plane with the attributes of what we on this demesne would think of as goat-like?’

Madrigal paused, balancing admirably on his hooves despite such appendages not generally being suited for standing on two legs. ‘I was a goat,’ he said, ‘and will be one again some day, I hope. For now, I am Madrigal.’