Fiddler Fair (anthology)

kumpania lived now. Hard years, though, and fear-filled—until the Rom learned again the weapons they had forgotten. The bow. The knife. And learned to use weapons they had never known like the sharp hooves of their four-legged brothers.

 “We lived that way until the old weapons were all exhausted. Then it was safe to travel openly, and to trade; we began traveling as we do now—and now life is easier. For true God made the Gaje to live so that we might borrow from them what we need. And that is the tale.”

Chali watched with her dook as Romano reached out with his mind to all the children seated about him; and found what he had been looking for. Chali felt his exultation; of all the children to whom Romano had given his memories and his stories, there was one in whose mind the memories were still as clear as they were when they had come from Romano’s. Tomy had the draban of the Storyteller; Romano had found his successor.

Chali decided that it was wiser not to disturb them for now, and slipped away so quietly that they never knew she had been there.

The scout for Clan Skaht slipped into the encampment with the evening breeze and went straight to the gathering about Chief’s fire. His prairiecat had long since reported their impending arrival, so the raidleaders had had ample time to gather to hear him.

“Well, I have good news and bad news,” Daiv Mahrtun of Skaht announced, sinking wearily to the bare earth across the fire from his Chief. “The good news is that these Dirtmen look lazy and ripe for the picking—the bad news is that they’ve got traders with ’em, so the peace-banners are up. And I mean to tell you, they’re the weirdest damn traders I ever saw. Darker than any Ehleenee—dress like no clan I know—and—” He stopped, not certain of how much more he wanted to say—and if he’d be believed.

Tohnee Skaht snorted in disgust, and spat into the fire. “Dammit anyway—if we break trade-peace—”

“Word spreads fast,” agreed his cousin Jahn. “We may have trouble getting other traders to deal with us if we mount a raid while this lot’s got the peace-banners up.”

There were nearly a dozen clustered about the firepit; men and a pair of women, old and young—but all of them were seasoned raiders, regardless of age. And all of them were profoundly disappointed by the results of Daiv’s scouting foray.

“Which ­traders?” Tohnee asked after a long ­moment of thought. “Anybody mention a name or a clan you recognized?”

Daiv shook his head emphatically. “I tell you, they’re not like any lot I’ve ever seen or heard tell of. They got painted wagons, and they ain’t the big tradewagons; more, they got whole families, not just the menfolk—and they’re horsetraders.”

Tohnee’s head snapped up. “Horse—”

“Before you ask, I mindspoke their horses.” This was a perfect opening for the most disturbing of Daiv’s discoveries. “This oughta curl your hair. The horses wouldn’t talk to me. It wasn’t ’cause they couldn’t, and it wasn’t ’cause they was afraid to. It was like I was maybe an enemy—was surely an outsider, and maybe not to be trusted. Whoever, whatever these folks are, they got the same kind of alliance with their horses as we have with ours. And that’s plainly strange.”

“Wind and Sun—dammit Daiv, if I didn’t know you, I’d be tempted to call you a liar!” That was Dik Krooguh, whose jaw was hanging loose with total astonishment.

“Do the traders mindspeak?” Tohnee asked at nearly the same instant.

“I dunno,” Daiv replied, shaking his head, “I didn’t catch any of ’em at it, but that don’t mean much. My guess would be they do, but I can’t swear to it.”

“I think maybe we need more facts—” interrupted Alis Skaht. “If they’ve got horse-brothers, I’d be inclined to say they’re not likely to be a danger to us—but we can’t count on that. Tohnee?”

“Mm,” he nodded. “Question is, how?”

“I took some thought to that,” Daiv replied. “How about just mosey in open-like? Dahnah and I could come in like you’d sent us to trade with ’em.” Dahnah was Daiv’s twin sister; an archer with no peer in the clan, and a strong mindspeaker. “We could hang around for a couple of days without making ’em too suspicious. And a pair of Horseclan kids doin’ a little dickerin ain’t gonna make the Dirtmen too nervous. Not while the peace-banners are up.”

Tohnee thought that over a while, as the fire cast weird shadows on his stony face. “You’ve got the sense to call for help if you end up needing it—and you’ve got Brighttooth and Stubtail backing you.”

The two young prairiecats lounging at Daiv’s side purred agreement.

“All right—it sounds a good enough plan to me,” Tohnee concluded, while the rest of the sobered clansfolk nodded, slowly. “You two go in at first morning light and see what you can find. And I know I don’t need to tell you to be careful, but I’m telling you anyway.

Howard Thomson, son of “King” Robert Thomson, was distinctly angered. His narrow face was flushed, always a bad sign, and he’d been drinking, which was worse. When Howard drank, he thought he owned the world. Trouble was, he was almost right, at least in this little corner of it. His two swarthy merc-­bodyguards were between Kevin and the doors.

Just what I didn’t need, Kevin thought bleakly, taking care that nothing but respect showed on his face, a damn-fool touchy idiot with a brat’s disposition tryin’ to put me between a rock and a hard place.

“I tell you, my father sent me expressly to fetch him that blade, boy.” Howard’s face was getting redder by the minute, matching his long, fiery hair. “You’d better hand it over now, before you find yourself lacking a hand.”

I’ll just bet he sent you, Kevin growled to himself, Sure he did. You just decided to help yourself, more like—and leave me to explain to your father where his piece went, while you deny you ever saw me before.