The Kennels
Isolde didn’t know whether it was unusual for the kennels to be so vacant at a week’s end, or if the staff had cleared it of its usual visitors because of her arrival. Either was possible. It was customary for nobility to give twenty-four hours' of notice of their intention to visit any kennel, and her seneschal had done his due diligence early yesterday morning. But it was also true that kennels such as these: a strange middle ground designed to cater to the successful business owners, artisans, and merchants, did not see much footfall. After all, there were laws preventing even the wealthiest of individuals within that class from owning too many of the kennel’s inhabitants, and there were far more dogs in need of a home than families who could afford to take them on.
“We usually don’t like to adopt our dogs out on the same day as visitations, Lady.” The Kennel Master at her elbow was a man who could not decide what kind of shapes governed his silhouette. Pointed and knobbly joints fitted together spindly limbs, and his crisp waistcoat did not hide the pooch of a pot-belly. He dragged a foot when he walked. Not enough to hinder his gait, but enough that it blurred the crisp sounds of Isolde’s own steps as they reached the end of the hall and the grey and imposing fire-door. “We prefer to give our adopters a cool-down period so they can think about their options.”
“I don’t need a cool-down period.” Isolde clasped her hands politely in front of her as she waited for the man to unlock the heavy door. “As my seneschal informed you, I am in need of a guard dog, and I am keen to acquire one as soon as possible.”
The attendant’s expression was too tight to be a smile. “I understand, Lady, and we are, of course, elated to help you find a good dog for the job.”
Eyes almost as green as her own pinned her with curiosity so evident it was almost painful. To his credit, however, he didn’t voice the question that practically dripped from his lips. The question the members of her own household had asked her repeatedly between making her appointment with the kennel and this very moment:
Why go to a kennel for a dog when it was her right to inquire at an academy?
It was a question Isolde owed no answer, not even to her seneschal (though she had answered him readily enough as a courtesy), so she did not deign to sate the Kennel Master’s curiosity now.
The large door did not creak on its hinges, and the long white hallway smelled of cleaning supplies and antiseptic. But the smell was faint and accumulative, something that Isolde felt a sharp sense of relief in. Middling as it might be, this kennel was not one of the places where dogs would waste and fester in the far-reaching spans between noble visits.
And because of that, Isolde smiled at the Kennel Master as she said, “I’ll let you know when I’m ready for assistance.”
If he wanted to argue, he curbed the desire as her current acting guard stepped around him and followed Isolde down the hall.
“Remember, Lady, there’s no pressure to select any of them.” Her guard’s voice was low, and his sea-green eyes drifted over the windows to each of the kennels beyond. “I’d rather you have a dog capable of the position than adopt one just because you want to get me and the seneschal off your back.”
“Give me at least a little credit, Marc.” Each window had a sheet of information stuck to it, and Isolde had already busied herself with the first of them. “I promised you and Ilyas that I would take these threats seriously, and I will.”
She didn’t have to look at the man to know he was making his protest-face. “With respect, if you were taking them as seriously as you should be, we would be at one of the academies.”
“Where I could spend three times as much money on a dog trained to be all bark and no bite. A dog that someone else will gladly take home and give a good life to while others, equally and more capable, sit in these horrid little boxes waiting for homes.”
She stepped away from the first window and moved down the hall to the next. Then the next, and the next.
There were nine rooms on each side of the hallway, and it was the tenth that she finally stopped at long enough to read the full length of the report pinned to the glass.
“Lady, no,” Marc’s voice hovered somewhere over her shoulder and carried a special note of pleading pain. “This is the last dog in here you’d want as a guard dog. Just look at the poor bastard.”
“Lady,” The Kennel owner was hovering next to her, “That one isn’t fit for purpose, he’s only good for field labour, we’re only housing him as a courtesy, he’s off to one of our satellite Kennels near Red Reeds in the next few days where they might find a use for him.”
The dog in question sat at the back of his cell, leashed heavily to the wall with his head down and breathing deep slow breaths. He hadn’t looked up when they stopped to view him and even now showed no interest in the group.
Marc was flipping through the report. “Lady,” His tone was the perfect diffidence to pleading for one such as him to his Master. “He’s a survivor of Tor Maine. He’ll be traumatised beyond use if you need him to do anything more than sit in the sun.”
The dog in question raised his head at the mention of the Tor and cracked open an eye. Green and brown and grey, unusual for a war dog.
“There is no more Tor Maine.” He croaked and shuffled around so his back was facing them.“Now fuck off and leave me alone.”
The scream that ripped from his lips was more of a crackle than anything else as the Kennel Master activated the control scarring that marked the left side of his face. Part identifier, part leash, the horrid mark darkened briefly before flickering off and leaving the dog panting and whimpering on the floor.
“My apologies, Lady Isolde. He’s just feral. I’m sure we can find you something more suitable.”
Isolde barely heard the Kennel Master. “I like him.”
“But Lady,” protested the Kennel Master, his panic rising at the same time as Marc reached for her elbow, muttering, “I don’t think—”
But Isolde brushed off Marc’s grasp and turned her attention to the Kennel Master. “Open the door, please. I’d like to speak to him.”
The Master sputtered another protest, and Marc shook his head and uttered something almost as foul as the dog had. He was irritated, and the way he looked at her told Isolde she was in for an earful as soon as they were out of the kennels. It didn’t matter that Isolde was nobility and he was simply a member of her staff. He had been a servant of her house since before it had been her house, and while he would never presume to have the final word in any argument, he wouldn’t hesitate to speak his piece in the proper time and place.
Right now, the dark-haired woman and the russet haired man pinned each other down in a silent battle of wills.
The Kennel Master swallowed audibly behind her. “We have four other corridors for you to view... Lady?”
A last-ditch attempt to dissuade her from the kennel and the dog within.
“And perhaps I will visit them. After I speak to this one.” She looked at the papers again and amended, “Theon.”
The Kennel Master did not look happy. “Lady, at least let us muzzle him.”
“And how will I speak to him if he’s wearing one of those?” She put her hand on her hip. “He doesn’t even have enough spare lead to stand. He’s not going to launch across the kennel and sink his teeth into me.”
The Kennel Master’s face disagreed, but he curbed his protests as he took the key from his pocket. Instead, he looked at Marc as though the man could help him. But her guard knew a losing battle when he saw one, and all Marc did was gesture helplessly.
“If you insist on going in there to speak to him, at least let me stand at the door,” he muttered.
“As you like, Marc.” And then to the Kennel Master, “But you stand at the end of the hall. I don’t want him second guessing whether speaking to me will have you ripping into him again.” The words were cold, if not accusing, and Isolde decided it was only by virtue of her nobility that the man did not utter his own ripe statement before turning the key and sliding back the glass door.
Isolde hesitated only a moment before crossing the threshold. She told herself it was to ensure the Kennel Master followed her instructions, but the truth was, even staring at the dog’s back, there was something unnerving about him. All Hexen were, of course. As much man or woman as any other human, but even without the scars that marked them as wielders of hex, anyone with survival instincts could pick a Hexen out of a crowd. Be it a byproduct of the hex they wielded or something even deeper that made them truly different from humanity, their presence and attention remained hair-raising at the best of times.
But this one…
He was jagged, as if something in him had shattered and the pieces had been only clumsily put together again. A byproduct of Tor Maine? The trauma his papers had suggested he suffered?
Those were questions for another day.
Right now, she approached the dog where he curled by the back wall, her hands still clasped as she crouched only a few feet from him.
“My name is Lady Isolde Irelynn-Morgause. I see yours is Theon. I would like to ask you a few questions.”
The dog in question lay on the ground where he fell, locks of damp black hair splayed about him, sweat slicking his skin. A thick croaking sound came from his mouth as he shivered on the tile floor.
He was laughing, his voice cracked and broken, and he lay there laughing.
“Get me a fucking drink of water.” He swallowed. His throat was working, but there was nothing to wet it. “And I’ll lick your fucking boot heels for all I care.”
“Water,” she repeated the word to hide her surprise at the venom in his voice. Dogs in facilities like these had a habit of grovelling. Sycophancy was often a desirable trait in a house dog, and even those who were not naturally inclined to grovel learned how to fawn and sigh over their masters. It was not a trait Isolde enjoyed, but she’d never actually had someone swear at her as often as he spoke.
There was no water in the kennel. Whatever shock she felt at the dog’s manner of address dissipated as ire pricked her. It was early summer, and while the days were not yet hot and the Kennel remained cool, something about his lack of access to fresh water seemed especially cruel.
“Is there no water in any of these kennels?” she spat the question at Marc, who did her the courtesy of pretending she had asked politely when he relayed it to the Kennel Master.
A squawk and the sounds of some sort of kerfuffle from the far end of the hall followed. Something about water being administered only with meals to keep the mess down or some other form of horse shit.
Despite the noise and the protests, the water was fetched, and Isolde offered it to the dog. “You can skip licking my boots,” she murmured. “I’d rather you put your energy into speaking with me. Can you sit up? You sound like you’re having some trouble breathing.”
He laughed again, that same dry creaking sound. “They don’t turn the leash down on me.” Coughing, he pushed himself up painfully. “So, yeah… excuse me while I get my wind back.”
He took a deep breath, hacked and then took another before gathering the glass in shaking hands and gulped it down.
The water was nearly gone before she could even begin to utter the advice to drink slowly. She doubted he would have listened, anyway.
So she let the Hexen make his own decisions and busied herself looking around the kennel he occupied while he recovered.
It was not as clean in here as in the hall, she noted. There was no residual smell of cleaning product, and the air was dry and stale, as though keeping the temperature down replaced airflow. The grey tile within the kennels was just dark enough to be a design choice. A choice that hid some of the general dust and debris of time which marked the corners of the kennel.
Eventually, the dog’s breathing did slow, and she returned her attention to him. His long, dark hair looked lank as it hung beyond his shoulders, and the identification scar over his face was of a kind she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen in person. But he was handsome, and despite apparently only being fit for fieldwork, there was something cunning in his eyes.
She didn’t smile at him as she considered the hand that held the cup and listened to the sound of his breath. “Better? At least by a portion of better?”
“What do you want?” His voice was still rough, but it had smoothed some.
Tension eased from her shoulders as, for the first time, he addressed her without swearing in her direction. “A Hexen capable of acting as my personal guard.”
She continued to watch his face. “I’ve received more than a few anonymous threats to my life recently. I’m therefore in the market for someone capable of handling such threats should someone decide to act on them. Your papers imply this is well within your means. Would you agree with that implication?”
“Fuck off! You want a guard dog, Lady, go to one of the academies and leave me the fuck alone.”
The man at the door stiffened. “You heard him, Lady. Come, let’s leave this place.”
Isolde did not leave. She kept her hands folded in her lap and took a long breath in. “That doesn’t answer my question. Your papers say you were an excellent war dog. So, can you handle a few potential assassins, or can’t you?”
“Not according to my psych profile.” The war dog bared his teeth at her in a disconcerting display that kicked her heart out of rhythm. There was just something off-putting about Hexen.
“What do you really want, Lady? It isn’t a broken down war dog to guard you.”
She took another breath, hoping that doing so would settle her heartbeat again before she said, “Academy dogs are better looked after while they wait to be bought, and they are always bought by people who can afford to treat them well. If I add a guard dog to my house, which I have promised my seneschal I would, it will be someone who doesn’t have the certainty of those things.”
He had no rights. Hexen didn’t even count as “people.” They were bought and sold and traded as easily as cattle and while cattle were slaughtered to feed the masses and keep society going, Hexen were used for the magic in their bodies for nearly everything else. They broke them and used them and bled them dry all under the yoke of pain and property, and he was as broken as any of them.
“Lady, you give me three square meals a day and I’ll kill anyone you want.”
Now she smiled. “Done.”
Turning to Marc, she said, “Tell the Kennel Master to have the paperwork drawn up.”
Marc was busy eyeing the dog behind Isolde when he said, “What about the cool-off period?”
“I’ll pay the waiver fee. You can tell him to shove it up his ass when he complains about the extra paperwork.”
Now on her feet with her back pressed to the glass of the kennel, she had a clear view of the hall and the Kennel Master standing by the heavy door.
Marc walked like a man who stepped in something and was determined not to acknowledge it because the weight on his shoulders was more of a priority.
His voice was low as he spoke to the Kennel Master, and the longer Isolde watched them converse, the more she was glad distance spared her the conversation.
By the time he returned, his face was impassive.
Isolde crossed her arms and green eyes met green eyes before Marc let out a puff of air. “He’s not happy, but he’s agreed. Since it’s you.”
“It won’t be me for much longer if the money I donate to this place can’t at least ensure the occupants are supplied with water throughout the day.”
Marc made the executive decision to ignore the comment. “Do you want me to look him over while you fill out the forms, Lady?”
Isolde glanced back at the dog, now one pile of boring paperwork away from becoming her property.
“No, thank you. Have someone else come in to take him off the wall while the Kennel Master files the preliminary papers, and I’ll look at him myself.”
Time always slowed at this part of the process, but occupying herself with the inspection of the war dog would at least exempt her from most of the mindless observation of the Kennel Master shuffling papers.
Handlers were called in to replace the chain on the wall for a heavy stick leash and cuffs so they could haul the dog to his feet. He bared his teeth at them, and when they shoved a muzzle on his face, he used his height to try to keep his head out their reach. But a quick application of pain through his mark from one of the handlers, and the dog’s knees buckled, and he was quickly gagged.
He was docile then, as he walked bound and muzzled through the corridor.
“Do you want to skip the inspection too, Lady?” One of the handlers who watched the group carefully offered. “I would strongly suggest you don’t.”
“No, I need to make sure I know what condition he’s in for when I bring him home.” Isolde said, allowing a handlers to gesture which way down the hall she needed to go.
The room they led her to was lit even brighter than the kennels had been. The white light was almost uncomfortable, and like the kennel they had come from, it gave a good impression that the room itself was clean.
All for show, Isolde thought. Potential adopters rarely went into the kennels, so keep the hall clean, and the inspection room sterile, and you could pass any facility off as a tidy establishment.
It took effort for Isolde to school her expression into something distant and impassive as the handlers cross-tied the dog between two pillars. Much though she would have preferred to simply look the Hexen over in his kennel, this was as much for keeping up appearances as it was for her safety.
She’d already pushed it enough by wanting to talk to the dog. She couldn’t afford to push it further.
By the time the handlers had stepped away, they had tethered the dog at the wrists and ankles, and the stick-leads they’d used to bring him through the corridor bolted in place so that he was effectively immobile.
Guilt twisted Isolde’s belly when she closed the distance between them. “Quick as I can,” she murmured, as much for the dog’s benefit as her own. “Let’s see what sort of state they’ve put you in.”
The handler who had been watching the group pulled out the report that had been stuck to the glass door and started reading off the dog’s name and statistics.
Isolde let the words drift over her as she moved towards the Hexen. Marc would review the records, and it’s not like they wouldn’t get their own copy. He was tall, even as hunched as he was within the restraints, he was obviously above average height, and underweight, but then he’d been in the system a while.
“Origin: Clear Water and unknown blood lines. All limbs intact, unneutered,” the handler droned on. “All his teeth with redone canines as allowed under section 38b of Wardog handling. We can have them removed and replaced if you wish, Lady, obviously.”
Shaking her head, Isolde moved closer, and tried to get a better look at him under the muzzle and the thick unkempt beard that covered his face as more numbers and places of deployment were read out.
It was his scar that stood out, pale against his pale skin. The main bulk of it was the same as any Hexen wore, a straight line across the cheek and another at a right angle across it. Simple, obvious and a nice safety net for everyone that the Hexen in question could be controlled, but his? His mark went all the way up his face, across one eye and disappeared into his hairline on one side, and then down to his throat on the other. It was crossed above and below the eye by a number of other marks.
Overall, she could not say that the Hexen was healthy, but he was in better condition than most would be under similar circumstances. Given a few meals and free rein to move around, she suspected he would build muscle and gain inches of breadth, and become a rather imposing figure.
Yes, she thought, taking in his long legs and the shadow of muscle that remained under his skin, even if he wasn’t academy trained, once he was cleaned up, Theon would be a guard dog who would cause anyone to stop and think before making an attempt on her life.
“Thank you, that will be all,” she said, stepping back from the cross-ties and gesturing to the handlers. “Upon arrival, my man left a spare set of clothing in my colours at the desk. I’d like him dressed in those, please.” She looked at the dog as she spoke, rather than the handlers, and as much as she offered the information to them, she was speaking for his benefit. “The trousers might be a little short in the leg, but they should fit around the waist and do well enough to get home. Let him clean up, but don’t bother with his hair or beard. I’ll have my groomer look after him on our arrival. And don’t put him back in that kennel. Regardless of how much paperwork remains, I’ll have him by my side the moment he’s made ready.”
Much as Isolde felt she could mask her emotions during the inspection, she knew she had reached her limit for the day, and if she had to watch the handlers trigger the dog’s mark again, she would lose her temper.
So she excused herself, only to be caught up by an attendant who led her to the Kennel Master’s office where she was faced with more than one thick pile of paperwork.
Bills of sales, licences and applications. The war dog was one of five purchases today, and each needed applications of registry as well as a separate bill of sale. But Theon’s paperwork was twice as thick as the other four combined because she was buying a war dog. More importantly, she was buying a war dog not to retire him, but to use him.
“You’ll need to take this form and get it to the registrar before you can take him out in public spaces, Lady,” the Kennel Master explained, pulling one of the thicker sections of the contract out for her to see. “Otherwise, he’ll have to remain muzzled. He’ll need a special tag, which you’ll have to keep up to date. Every three years, you’ll need to renew.”
“I’m aware of the muzzle restrictions, thank you.” She took the form and skimmed it. Unlike the others, it would need to be handed in by her, rather than the Kennel, so she folded the document over and tucked it into her purse before reading through the rest.
Besides the extra form required to remove the war dog’s muzzle, there was a Liability Contract, a Form of Diligence, and a Declaration of Ownership of a Deadly Weapon.
“Are these addendums usual for adopting a war dog?” she inquired idly as she flourished her signature across the bottom of the first page. “I didn't have to do this for my last war dog. But then, I rescued her from a kill shelter, so no one seemed to care what she could do.”
The Kennel Master hesitated. “Not exactly usual, Lady. I added the muzzle form since you specified you were looking for a guard dog. And uh, the declaration is only required for dogs with certain areas of training.”
She looked up. “Oh?”
But the Kennel Master shook his head. “I don’t know the particulars. When war dogs are delivered, each of them has a list of the forms that are required for adopting them on. That particular form is… rarer.”
Isolde sighed through her nose and wondered just how dangerous her newest acquisition was
Three square meals, and he’d kill anyone she wanted. She supposed that was answer enough.
