deflated; his screech remained unhowled. Convinced his father meant what he said, Duren went off to look for amusement somewhere else.
'Good on you for training him to respect his elders, him still so small and all,' Diviciacus said. 'Now tell me straight how you fancy the notion of your men and those of Adiatunnus grinding Aragis between 'em like wheat in the quern.'
'It has possibilities.' Gerin didn't want to say no straight out, for fear of angering Adiatunnus and of giving him the idea of throwing in with Aragis instead. The Fox reckoned Aragis likely to be willing to combine with the Trokme against his own holdings; no ties of blood or culture would keep Aragis from doing what seemed advantageous to him.
'Possibilities, is it? And what might that mean?' Diviciacus demanded.
It was a good question. Since Gerin found himself without a good answer, he temporized: 'Let me take counsel with some of my vassals. Stay the night here if you care to; eat with us, drink more ale-by Dyaus I swear no harm will come to you in Fox Keep. Come the morning, I'll give you my answer.'
'I'm thinking you'd say aye straight out if aye was in your heart,' Diviciacus said dubiously. 'Still, let it be as you wish. I'll stay a bit, so I will, and learn what you'll reply. But I tell you straight out, you'll befool me with none o' the tricks that earned you your ekename.'
Since persuading the Trokme not to leave at once in high dudgeon was one of those tricks, the Fox maintained a prudent silence. He suspected Diviciacus and his comrades would use the day to empty as many jars of ale as they could. Better ale spilled than blood, he told himself philosophically.
Fand came in, wearing the silver-and-jet brooch just above her left breast. Diviciacus' eyes clung to her. 'My leman,' Gerin said pointedly.
That recalled to Diviciacus the reason he'd come. 'If you've allied with us so, why not on the field of war?' he said, hope for success in his mission suddenly restored.
'As I said, I'll talk it over with my men and tell you in the morning what I've decided.' Gerin went out to the courtyard, where Van was practicing thrusts and parries with a heavy spear taller than he was. The outlander, for all his size, moved so gracefully that he made the exercise seem more a dance than preparation for war.
When Gerin told him what Adiatunnus had proposed, he scowled and shook his head. 'Making common cause with the Trokme would but turn him into a grander threat than Aragis poses.'
'My thought was the same,' Gerin answered. 'I wanted to see if you saw anything on the other side to change my mind.' Van shook his head again and went back to his thrusts and parries.
Gerin put the same question to Drago. The Bear's response was simpler: 'No way in any of the five hells I want to fight on the same side with the Trokmoi. I've spent too much time tryin' to kill them buggers.' That made Gerin pluck thoughtfully at his beard. Even had he been inclined to strike the bargain with Adiatunnus, his vassals might not have let him.
He went looking for Rihwin to get one more view. Before he found him, the lookout called, 'Another man approaches in a wagon.'
'Great Dyaus, three sets of visitors in a day,' Gerin exclaimed. Sometimes no one from outside his holding came to Fox Keep for ten days, or twenty. Trade-indeed, traffic of any sort-had fallen off since the northlands went their own way. Not only did epidemic petty warfare keep traffic off the roads, but baronies more and more either made do with what they could produce themselves or did without.
'Who comes?' called a warrior up on the palisade.
'I am a minstrel, Tassilo by name,' came the reply-in, sure enough, a melodious tenor. 'I would sing for my supper, a bed for the night, and whatever other generosity your gracious lord might see fit to provide.'
Tassilo? Gerin stood stock-still, his hands balling into fists. The minstrel had sung down at the keep of Elise's father, Ricolf the Red, the night before she went off with Gerin rather than letting herself be wed to Wolfar of the Axe. Just hearing Tassilo's name, and his voice, brought those memories, sweet and bitter at the same time, welling up in the Fox. He was anything but anxious to listen to Tassilo again.
But all the men who heard the minstrel name himself cried out with glee: 'Songs tonight, by Dyaus!' 'Maybe he'll have ones we've not heard.' 'A lute to listen to-that'll be sweet.'
Hearing that, Gerin knew he could not send the man away. For his retainers, entertainment they didn't have to make themselves was rare and precious. If that entertainment made him wince, well, he'd endured worse. Sighing, he said, 'The minstrel is welcome. Let him come in.'
When Tassilo got down from his light wagon, he bowed low to the Fox. 'Lord prince, we've met before, I think. At Ricolf's holding, was it not? The circumstances, as I recall, were irregular.' The minstrel stuck his tongue in the side of his cheek.
'Irregular, you say? Aye, there's a good word for it. That's the business of a minstrel, though, isn't it?-coming up with words, I mean.' Being moderately skilled in that line himself, Gerin respected those who had more skill at it than he. He eyed Tassilo. 'Curious you' ve not visited Fox Keep since.'
'I fled south when the Trokmoi swarmed over the Niffet, lord prince, and I've spent most of my time since then down by the High Kirs,' Tassilo answered. He had an open, friendly expression and looked as much like a fighting man as a singer, with broad shoulders and a slim waist. In the northlands, any traveling man had to be a warrior as well, if he wanted to live to travel far.
'What brought you north again, then?' Gerin asked.
'A baron's daughter claimed I got her with child. I don't think I did, but he believed her. I thought a new clime might prove healthier after that.'
Gerin shrugged. He had no daughter to worry about. He said, 'The men look forward to your performance tonight.' Lying a little, he added, 'Having heard you those years ago, so do I.' The minstrel could sing and play, no doubt about that. The Fox's memories were not Tassilo's fault.
After a few more pleasantries, Gerin strode out over the drawbridge and headed for the peasant village a few hundred yards away. Chickens and pigs and skinny dogs foraged among round huts of wattle and daub whose thatched conical roofs projected out far enough to hold the rain away from the walls. Children too young to work in the fields stared at Gerin as he tramped up the muddy lane that ran through the middle of the village.
He stuck his head into Besant Big-Belly's hut, which was little different from any of the others. The headman wasn't there, but his wife, a scrawny woman named Marsilia, sat on a wooden stool spinning wool into thread. She said, 'Lord, if you're after my man, he's out weeding the garden.'
The garden was on the outskirts of the village. Sure enough, Besant was there, plucking weeds from a patch of vetch. Not only did he have a big belly, he had a big backside, too, which at the moment stuck up in the air. Resisting the urge to kick it, Gerin barked, 'Why have you been blowing the horn with the sun only halfway down the sky?'
Besant jerked as if Gerin had kicked him after all. He whirled around, scrambling awkwardly to his feet. 'L-lord Gerin,' he stuttered. 'I didn't hear you come up.'
'If you don't want more unexpected visits, make sure you work the full day,' Gerin answered. 'We'll all be hungrier come winter for your slacking now.'
Besant gave Gerin a resentful stare. He was a tubby, sloppylooking man of about fifty in homespun colorless save for dirt and stains here and there. 'I shall do as you say, lord prince,' he mumbled. 'The ghosts have been bad of late, though.'
'Feed them more generously, then, or throw more wood on the nightfires,' Gerin said. 'You've no need to hide in your houses from an hour before sunset to an hour past dawn.'
Besant nodded but still looked unhappy. The trouble was, he and Gerin needed each other. Without the serfs, Gerin and his vassal barons would starve. That much Besant Big-Belly knew. But without the barons, the little villages of farmers would be at the mercy of Trokmoi and bandits: peasants with pitchforks and scythes could not stand against chariots and bronze armor and spears and swords. The headman did his best to ignore that half of the bargain.
Gerin said, 'Remember, I'll be listening to hear when you blow the horn come evening.' He waited for Besant to nod again, then walked off to see how the village fared.
The gods willing, he thought, the harvest would be good. Wheat for bread, oats for horses and oatmeal,
