Fiddler Fair (anthology)

Finally he called off the futile hunt, wrenched at the head of his foolish gelding, and spurred it back down the road to town . . .

And the suppressed laughter died, as little Ami’s youngest brother toddled into the path of the lumbering monster—and Howard grinned and spurred the gelding at him—hard.

Kevin was nearly to the trader’s camp when he saw the baby wander into the path of Howard’s horse—and his heart nearly stopped when he saw the look on the Heir’s face as he dug his spurs savagely into his gelding’s flanks.

The smith didn’t even think—he just moved. He frequently fooled folk into thinking he was slow and clumsy because of his size; now he threw himself at the child with every bit of speed and agility he possessed.

He snatched the toddler, curled protectively around it, and turned his dive into a frantic roll. As if

everything had been slowed by a magic spell, he saw the horse charging at him and every move horse and rider made. Howard sawed savagely at the gelding’s mouth, trying to keep it on the path. But the gelding shied despite the bite of the bit; foam-flecks showered from its lips, and the foam was spotted with blood at the corners of its mouth. It half-reared, and managed to avoid the smith and his precious burden by a hair—one hoof barely scraped Kevin’s leg—then the beast was past, thundering wildly toward town.

Kevin didn’t get back home until after dark—and he was not entirely steady on his feet. The stuff the Rom drank was a bit more potent than the beer and wine from the tavern, or even his own home-brew. Pacing along beside him, lending a supporting shoulder and triumphantly groomed to within an inch of his life and adorned with red ribbons, was the pony, Pika.

Pika was a gift—Romano wouldn’t accept a single clipped coin for him. Kevin was on a first-name basis with all of the Rom now, even had a mastered a bit of their tongue. Not surprising, that—seeing as they’d sworn brotherhood with him.

He’d eaten and drunk with them, heard their tales, listened to their wild, blood-stirring music—felt as if he’d come home for the first time. Rom, that was what they called themselves, not “jippos,”—and

“o phral,” which meant “the people,” sort of. They danced for him—and he didn’t wonder that they wouldn’t sing or dance before outsiders. It would be far too easy for dullard gajo to get the wrong idea from some of those dances—the women and girls danced with the freedom of the wind and the

wildness of the storm—and to too many men, “wild” and “free” meant “loose.” Kevin had just been

entranced by a way of life he’d never dreamed existed.

Pika rolled a not-unsympathetic eye at him as he stumbled, and leaned in a little closer to him. Funny about the Rom and their horses—you’d swear they could read each other’s minds. They had an affinity that was bordering on witchcraft—

Like that poor little mute child, Chali. Kevin had seen with his own eyes how wild the maverick stallion had been—at least when Howard and his men had been chasing it. But he’d also seen Chali walk up to him, pull his forelock, and hop aboard his bare back as if he were no more than a gentle, middle-aged pony like Pika. And then watched the two of them pull some trick riding stunts that damn near pulled the eyes out of his sockets. It was riding he’d remember for a long time, and he was right glad he’d seen it. But he devoutly hoped Howard hadn’t. Howard hadn’t but one of his men had.

 Daiv and Dahnah rode up to the trader’s camp in the early morning, leaving Brighttooth and Stubtail behind them as eyes to the rear. The camp appeared little different from any other they’d seen—at first glance. Then you noticed that the wagons were small, shaped almost like little houses on wheels, and painted like rainbows. They were almost distracting enough to keep you from noticing that there wasn’t a beast around the encampment, not donkey nor horse, that was hobbled or picketed.

I almost didn’t believe you, Daivie, his sister said into his mind, wonderingly.

His mare snorted; so did he. Huh. Thanks a lot, sis. You catch any broad-beaming?

She shook her head, almost imperceptibly, as her mount shifted a little. Not so much as a stray thought— her own thought faded for a moment, and she bit her lip. Now that I think of it, that’s damned odd. These people are buttoned up as tight as a yurt in a windstorm.

Which means what? He signaled Windstorm to move up beside Snowdancer.

Either they’re naturally shielded as well as the best mindspeaker I ever met, yet they do have the gift. And the first is about as likely as Brighttooth sitting down to dinner with an Ehleenee priest.

Only if the priest was my dinner, sister, came the mischievous reply from the grassland behind them. With the reply came the mock disgust and nausea from Stubtail that his littermate would even contemplate such a notion as eating vile-tasting Ehleenee flesh.

So where does that leave us? Daiv asked.

We go in, do a little dickering, and see if we can eavesdrop. And I’ll see if I can get any more out of the horses that you did.

Fat chance! he replied scornfully, but followed in the wake of her mare as she urged her into the camp itself.

The fire on the hearth that was the only source of light in Howard’s room crackled. Howard lounged in his throne-like chair in the room’s center. His back was to the fire, which made him little more than a dark blot to a petitioner, and cast all the available light on a petitioner’s face.

Howard eyed the lanky tavern-keeper who was now kneeling before him with intense speculation. “You say the smith’s been consorting with the heathen traders?”

“More than traders, m’lord,” Willum replied humbly. “For the past two days there’s been a brace of horse barbarians with the traders as well. I fear this means no good for the town.”

“I knew about the barbarians,” Howard replied, leaning back in his padded chair and staring at the flickering