Fiddler Fair (anthology)

two-barred. “Live and let be” was a Christer’s motto “a godly man converts by example, not words nor force”— which might well be why there were so few of them. Kevin and his family were one of only three Christer families in town, and Christer traders weren’t that common, either. “Nothing much,” he replied. “King Robert, he didn’t go in for religion last I heard. So, what’s your business here?”

“We live, what else?” Petro answered matter-of-factly. “We have livestock for trading. Horses, mules, donkeys—also metal-work.”

“Don’t know as I care for that last,” Kevin said dubiously, scratching his sweaty beard.

“Na, na, not iron-work,” the trader protested. “Light metals. Copper, brass—ornament, mostly. A few kettles, pans.”

“Now that sounds a bit more like! Tell you—you got conshos, harness-studs, that kinda thing? You willin’ to work a swap for shoein’?”

“The shoes, not the shoeing. Our beasts prefer the hands they know.”

“Done.” Kevin grinned. He was good enough at tools or weaponwork, but had no talent at ornament, and knew it. He could make good use of a stock of pretty bits for harnesses and the like. Only one frippery could he make, and that was more by accident than anything else. And since these people were fellow Christers and he was short a peace-offering— He usually had one in his apron pocket; he felt around among the horseshoe nails until his hand encountered a shape that wasn’t a nail, and pulled it out.

“Here, missy—” he said apologetically. “Little somethin’ fer scarin’ you.”

The girl took the cross made of flawed horseshoe nails into strong, supple fingers, with a flash of ­delight in her expressive eyes.

“Hah! A generous apology!” Petro grinned. “And you cannot know how well comes the fit.”

“How so?”

“It is said of my people, when the Christ was to be killed, His enemies meant to silence Him lest He rouse His followers against them. The evil ones made four nails—the fourth for His heart. But one of the Rom was there, and stole the fourth nail. So God blessed us in gratitude to awander wherever we would.”

“Well, hey.” Kevin returned the grin, and a thought occurred to him. Ehrik was getting about the right size to learn riding. “Say, you got any ponies, maybe a liddle horse gettin’ on an’ gentle? I’m lookin’ for somethin’ like that for m’boy.”

The jippo regarded him thoughtfully. “I think, perhaps yes.”

“Then you just may see me later on when I ­finish this.”

Chali skipped to keep up with the wiry man as they headed down the dusty street toward the tsera of their kumpania. The town, of gray wood-and-stone ­ buildings enclosed inside its shaggy log palisade depressed her and made her feel trapped—she was glad to be heading out to where the kumpania had made their camp. Her eyes were flashing at Petro with the only laughter she could show. You did not tell him the rest of the tale, Elder Brother, she mindspoke. The part that tells how the good God then granted us the right to steal whatever we needed to live.

“There is such a thing as telling more truth than a man wishes to hear,” Petro replied. “Especially to Gaje.”

Huh. But not all Gaje. I have heard a different tale from you every time we come to a new holding. You tell us to always tell the whole of the truth to the Horseclans folk, no matter how bitter.

“They are not Gaje. They are not o phral, either, but they are not Gaje. I do not know what they are, but one does not lie to them.”

 But why the rule? We have not seen Horseclans since before I can remember, she objected.

“They are like the Wind they call upon—they go where they will. But they have the dook. So it is wise to be prepared for meeting them at all times.”

I would like to see them, one day.

He regarded her out of the corner of his eye. “If I am still rom baro, you will be hidden if we meet them. If I am not, I hope you will be wise and hide yourself. They have dook, I tell you—and I am not certain that I wish them to know that we also have it.”

She nodded, thoughtfully. The Rom had not survived this long by giving away secrets. Do you think my dook is greater than theirs? Or that they would seek me out if they knew of it?

“It could be. I know they value such gifts greatly. I am not minded to have you stolen from us for the sake of the children you could bear to one of them.”

 She clasped her hands behind her, eyes looking downward at the dusty, trampled grass as they passed through the open town gate. This was the first time Petro had ever said anything indicating that he thought her a woman and not a child. Most of the kumpania, including Petro’s wife Sara and their boy Tibo, treated her as an odd mixture of child and phuri dai. Granted, she was tiny; perhaps the same injury that had taken her voice had kept her small. But she was nearly sixteen winters—and still they reacted to her body as to that of a child’s, and to her mind as to that of a drabarni of sixty. As she frowned a little, she pondered Petro’s words, and concluded they were wise. Very wise. That the Rom possessed draban was not a thing to be bandied about. That her own dook was as strong as it was should rightly be kept secret as well.

Yes, rom baro, I will do as you advise, she replied.

Although he did not mindspeak her in return, she knew he had heard everything she had told him perfectly