Fiddler Fair (anthology)

But his outwardly cool expression didn’t change as he replied, stolidly, “Your pardon, but His Highness gave me orders that I was to put it into no one’s hands but his. And he hasn’t sent me written word telling me any different.”

Howard’s face enpurpled as Kevin obliquely reminded him that the Heir couldn’t read or write. Kevin waited for the inevitable lightning to fall. Better he should get beaten to a pulp than that King Robert’s wrath fall on Ehrik and Keegan, which it would if he gave in to Howard. What with Keegan being pregnant—better a beating. He tensed himself and waited for the order.

Except that, just at the moment when Howard was actually beginning to splutter orders to his two merc- bodyguards to take the blacksmith apart, salvation, in the form of Petro and a half-dozen strapping jippos came strolling through the door to the smithy. They were technically unarmed, but the long knives at their waists were a reminder that this was only a technicality.

“Sarishan, gajo,” he said cheerfully. “We have brought you your pony—”

Only then did he seem to notice the Heir and his two bodyguards.

“Why, what is this?” he asked with obviously feigned surprise. “Do we interrupt some business?”

Howard growled something obscene—if he started something now he would be breaking trade-peace, and no trader would deal with him or his family again without an extortionate bond being posted. For one moment Kevin feared that his temper might get the better of him anyway, but then the young man pushed past the jippos at the door and stalked into the street, leaving his bodyguards to follow as they would.

Kevin sagged against his cold forge, only now breaking into a sweat. “By all that’s holy, man,” he told Petro earnestly, “your timing couldn’t have been better! You saved me from a beatin’, and that’s for damn sure!”

“Something more than a beating,” the jippo replied, slowly, “—or I misread that one. I do not think we will sell any of our beasts there, no. But—” he grinned suddenly “—we lied, I fear. We did not bring the pony—we brought our other wares.”

“You needed six men to carry a bit of copperwork?” Kevin asked incredulously, firmly telling himself that he would not begin laughing hysterically out of ­relief.

“Oh no—but I was not of a mind to carry back horseshoes for every beast in our herd by myself! I am rom baro, not a packmule!”

Kevin began laughing after all, laughing until his sides hurt.

Out of gratitude for their timely appearance, he let them drive a harder bargain with him than he normally would have allowed, trading shoes and nails for their whole equippage for about three pounds of brass and copper trinkets and a set of copper pots he knew Keegan would lust after the moment she saw them. And a very pretty little set of copper jewelry to brighten her spirit; she was beginning to show, and subject to bouts of depression in which she was certain her pregnancy made her ugly in his eyes. This bit of frippery might help remind her that she was anything but. He agreed to come by and look at the pony as soon as he finished a delivery of his own. He was going to take no chances on Howard’s return; he was going to deliver that sword himself, now, and straight into Robert’s palsied hands!

* * *

“So if that one comes, see that he gets no beast nor thing of ours,” Petro concluded. “Chali, you speak to the horses. Most like, he will want the king stallion, if any.”

Chali nodded. We could say Bakro is none of ours—that he’s a wild one that follows our mares.

Petro grinned approval. “Ha, a good idea! That way nothing of blame comes on us. For the rest—we wish to leave only Pika, is that not so?” The others gathered about him in the shade of his vurdon murmured agreement. They had done well enough with their copper and brass jewelry, ornaments and pots and with the odd hen or vegetable or sack of grain that had found a mysterious way into a Rom kettle or a vurdon.

“Well then, let us see what we can do to make them unattractive.”

Within the half hour the Rom horses, mules and donkeys little resembled the sleek beasts that had come to the call of their two-legged allies. Coats were dirty, with patches that looked suspiciously like mange; hocks were poulticed, and looked swollen; several of the wise old mares were ostentatiously practicing their limps, and there wasn’t a hide of an attractive color among them.

And anyone touching them would be kicked at, or nearly bitten—the horses were not minded to have their two-legged brothers punished for their actions. Narrowed eyes and laid-back ears gave the lie to the hilarity within. No one really knowledgeable about horses would want to come near this lot.

And just in time, for Howard Thomson rode into the camp on an oversized, dun-colored dullard of a gelding only a few moments after the tools of their deceptions had been cleaned up and put away. Chali briefly touched the beast’s mind to see if it was being mistreated, only to find it nearly as stupid as one of the mongrels that infested the village.

He surveyed the copper trinkets with scorn, and the sorry herd of horses with disdain. Then his eye lit upon the king stallion.

“You there—trader—” he waved his hand at the proud bay stallion, who looked back at this arrogant two- legs with the same disdain. “How much for that beast there?”

“The noble prince must forgive us,” Petro fawned, while Chali was glad, for once, of her muteness; she did not have to choke on her giggles as some of the others were doing. “But that one is none of ours. He is a wild one; he follows our mares, which we permit in hopes of foals like him.”

“Out of nags like those? You hope for a miracle, man!” Howard laughed, as close to being in good humor as Petro had yet seen him. “Well, since he’s none of yours, you won’t mind if my men take him—”

Hours later, their beasts were ready to founder, the king stallion was still frisking like a colt, and none of them had come any closer to roping him than they had been when they started. The Rom were nearly bursting, trying to contain their laughter, and Howard was purple again.