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blocks of the castle wall. As they emerged from the archway into the busy courtyard, Janos’s eyes took in a whirl of activity. Flocks of chickens pecked the cobblestones for grubs. Butchers stripped entrails from hanging pigs and handed the buckets of guts to the sausage maker who selected the choice bits for his grinder, hurling the slop in the drainage ditch for the dogs and ravens to devour. Knives flashed as farmers trimmed huge heads of cabbage, sharp blades hacking away the tough outer leaves and stalks. The dairyman pulled his wares from a wooden cart, offering them to a stout cook who stood with her hands on her wide hips as he boasted of the quality of his product, pulling back the linen cloth so she could inspect the crocks of butter and wheels of fresh cheese.
    Children chased flocks of geese about the cobblestones, only to run shrieking when a gander turned on them, hissing through his sharp yellow beak and flapping his powerful wings.
    A mutton carcass roasted on an enormous spit, the fat sizzling and sparking the coals into flames. The fire licked the meat, spreading the rich aroma through the air. A blacksmith pounded on his anvil, the sound ringing over the courtyard. Bits of molten iron flew, glowing yellow-orange, leaving scorch marks on the worn stones of the courtyard.
    Janos followed the guard to the stables. A team of ragged boys assembled in a line in front of the arched entry. Despite the cold, fat lazy flies buzzed from piles of warm manure and the stench of aged horse piss stung Janos’s nose.
    “Welcome to your domain, horsemaster,” announced the guard captain, sweeping his arm wide.
    Janos wrinkled his nose and his jaw clenched, muscles working taut under his skin.
    “What conditions are these for Bathory horses!” he said, his voice rising in anger. He whirled around. “Who is responsible for this?”
    One of the older boys came forward, his face smeared with dirt.
    “I am, sir. My uncle was in charge until he took ill with the plague. He died a fortnight ago,” said the boy. He ran his dirty sleeve under his runny nose.
    Janos trembled with fury, his hands clenched in tight fists at his side.
    “Bring out the horses. At once!”
    One after another, the horses of Č achtice Castle were brought out into the courtyard, which was paved in end-cut wooden blocks. There were twenty-seven horses in all, and every one showed evidence of neglect. There were boils on the backs of several, proud flesh festering over wounds, cracked hooves. Several were lame with blistered coronets from standing in old urine-soaked straw. Two bay mares were crippled with thrush. When Janos picked up their hooves, he saw the soggy flesh and smelled the stench of rot.
    The last horse, three boys brought out together.
    The white stallion reared, his front hooves flashing. His eyes were ringed in white and his piercing neigh was a threat that ricocheted around the castle walls. The boys held him by ropes trying to keep him on the ground.
    He, like all the others, was thin despite the band of muscle that still clung to his powerful neck.
    “These wretched horses are starving!” said Janos. From the corner of his eye, he saw a movement in one of the windows of the castle. But his attention returned quickly to the horses.
    “We feed them, but the horses have no appetite,” said the head boy. Janos looked closer at the boy’s eyes. They were shining with fever.
    “They nose aside the grass and choose to starve,” said the boy. Janos saw the beads of sweat on his face. His cheeks burned bright red, his eyes glassy.
    “What is your name?”
    “Aloyz, sir.”
    “Aloyz, you are ill.”
    “Yes, Master Janos,” he said, shuffling his rag-tied feet. “But do not send me away, I beg of you. I need to work for our family, else we will starve.”
    Janos nodded. “Where is the hay?”
    Aloyz beckoned him to a leaky wooden-shingled hayshed. The grass was wet and mottled with black, white cobwebs lacing the mildewed