The next few days were delightful. The road wound through forested hills, dipping down to cross the many small rivers on old stone bridges, climbing to offer long views over the tree-tops. There was shade, endless bird-song and the chatter of the little tree-dwellers. The villages were small, often no more than half a dozen houses clustered around a clattering mill or bordering a few small fields. The folk were friendly without being effusive, the food forest fare: mushrooms, game stews, berries and fruits. There was no work going for travellers, but Jenryn did not mind. She felt something would turn up

Something did turn up after a week. Or, rather, fell down. Jenryn had left a village that morning after a good breakfast, digested her pork porridge over a leisurely walk down the hill, lingered on a bridge to watch the dragonflies dancing over the water, the stone cool under her arms as she lent on the parapet. Then came a slow climb up out of the valley, winding under overhanging boughs laden with small blossoms. As she rounded a corner near the top of the rise there was a scrabbling crash and a figure half-fell, half-jumped from a branch into the road. They landed awkwardly and went sprawling.

“Oh Joki, you moron! Get up and get her!” shouted a voice from the bushes to the right. Jenryn heard the scrape of steel on leather, turned and bolted uphill into the woods. Behind, Joki levered himself to his feet and limped after her. Jenryn hurdled a fallen log, crashed through a clump of ferns, slipped on loose earth under leaves and slid on her behind into a hollow. She scrambled to her feet, and headed for a clump of small trees up the next slope. Her legs pumped, she grabbed a branch, hauled herself around the trunk, reached for the next sapling and cried out in surprise as the fork closed over her hand, trapping it. She wrenched at the hold, hurting her wrist, and looked back over her shoulder. Four figures were descending into the hollow, the last several steps behind and leaning on a bow-stave.

The leader had a weapon in her hand, a short heavy blade equally suited to chopping the limbs of trees and people. She took in Jenryn’s plight and slowed, grinning.

“Looks like our deer has trapped itself. How obliging of it, eh?”

Jenryn braced her knee on the trunk and pulled hard. The fork tightened painfully and she gave up, panting. The bandit leader laughed, and her fellows followed dutifully, even the awkward Joki. She sheathed the blade and pulled out a stout knife.

“Easy, darling. You’ll be free in no time,” she said and stepped forward. Only to sink to her knees in the earth. The others suffered likewise, and a bevy of startled oaths rang through the hollow. The leader twisted wildly, dropped the knife to pull at one leg, then the other. Joki had grasped a bough overhead and was straining mightily. The bough dipped and his legs remained stuck.

“Joki, you dimwit! Where have you led us?” demanded the leader.

“It wasn’t me, boss,” puffed Joki. The leader looked around, noticed the moss making smirking faces on the trees, the badger watching calmly from under a bush, a python as long as she was tall crawling out from under a rotted log.

“It’s an earth-spirit, fools! Who has the repellent?”

“Not me.”

“Not me neither.”

“You drank the last three days back,” offered Joki. The leader snatched up her knife and threw it at him, missing. The snake reared up and laughed. Even in her plight, Jenryn thought this odd. Snakes should hiss, not cackle. The badger lurched to its feet and ambled over. The boss snatched out her cutlass and took a low guard position.

“Now, now,” said the badger, and circled deftly behind her to rise and bite through her belt. The boss made a grab at her falling trousers while slashing at random behind her back. The cutlass was caught in powerful jaws, pulled from her hand and tossed away with a flick of the head. The jaws gripped cloth and pulled, exposing bright red underwear.

“Hey, nice knickers, boss,” called one follower, and Joki whistled.

“Shut up!” snarled the leader, clutching the shredded cloth. The badger dragged its tongue up her bared leg. She tried to bat it away.

“Mmm. A fight adds a bit of spice, no?” commented the badger. The snake cackled again.

“I think he likes you, boss,” called Joki and was told where to go, vigorously.

The badger gave the boss a few more licks, added some intimate pokes of the nose and then left her red-faced and swearing to cross to the nearest follower. It sniffed at the man, approved, and went on to the third and then to Joki.

“My, My. All ready to play. We are going to have such a fun afternoon.” It raked a paw across the ground and the earth flowed, pulling the group closer together while removing all their weapons and many of their garments. Jenryn hoped to be left out but the badger left the bandits to approach her. It came close, sniffed, wrinkled its nose.

“Unopened, unbuttered, dry and dreary. How sad. Never mind. You can watch and learn. I’m sure one of the toys will invite you to play later.”

Jenryn was so glad she was not to be given an immediate part in the afternoon’s show, and resolved to resist any invitations. She did not want to ‘watch and learn’ either, if it came to that. She eased her neck around until the happenings in the hollow were only in her peripheral vision. From what she heard and glimpsed, one bandit and then another was possessed by the spirit, and forced into amorous activities. She gathered that at first only Joki showed any enthusiasm; the others went along for fear of worse, and if they later became caught up in the game, well, what could you expect of bandits? Jenryn tried to block out the gasps, moans and cries, and the spirit’s suggestions of new and interesting combinations and wilder variations.

The touch on her shoulder came as a shock. Her head whipped around to see the glistening face of a bandit, damp facial hair surrounding a broad grin.

“Come and play. We’ll give you the time of your life,” he offered. His hand ran down her side to her hip. Jenryn twisted away, looked for some way to fend him off one-handed. Her bag was still at her waist. She groped, felt the case and in a moment of panic, sprang the latch. The man sniffed, his eyes widened, he plucked out a box and flicked the contents into his open mouth. It was one of the purple cubes.

The eyes on hers turned up, the man swallowed convulsively, spasmed, spun around several times to end facing the hollow. He charged down, seized the nearest of his band by the neck and screamed ‘Now let’s really do it.” A minute later Jenryn felt the grip on her hand loosen. She tore herself away from the tree and legged it away from the hollow, ignoring the frantic noises coming from behind.

It was more by luck than good navigation that Jenryn found the road again. She ran until her breath came in heaving gasps, picked a direction to walk and kept going. Her way tended downhill, she found a creek and splashed her face, risked a drink, followed downstream, came to a path that followed the bank. After an hour the path joined a road, she again picked a direction and walked some more. After another hour a village came into view, and she staggered on until she she was safe among the small gaggle of houses. There she collapsed on to a bench outside the village’s one modest hostel.

Her condition must have been noticed, for a young woman came out of the hostel to ask if she needed anything. Jenryn roused herself to ask for tea. The tea came, hot and strong, and she was restored enough to cautiously inquire about local dangers, such as outlaws. There were none such around there, the owner declared. A stick-thin old man raised his voice from his seat by a sunny window.

“Now then, Zanneke. What about that mob from up the hill? Ansiefe and her friends? There’s not much mischief that lot won’t get up to. They robbed that pedlar last month, or so he claimed.”

The owner did not welcome the correction. She put her hands on her hips and glared at the oldster.

“He was probably making it up. If they did anything it was just a game. Do we want those fools from Terlwen poking into our affairs? Or, worse, the Companions turning over every rock? I think not.” She turned to Jenryn. “If anyone offers to play a prank on you, you tell them Zanneke knows where they live.”

Jenryn did not know whether to tell the woman that Ansiefe and her band had fallen into the clutches of an earth-spirit. What could she do, other than wait for the spirit to tire of its play? In the end she simply asked after a meal and a bed. When she left the next morning the woman counselled her to keep to the road. “The spirits round here can get a bit frisky, but the road is safe from them,” she was told. Jenryn thanked her for the warning and set out.

* * * *

Jenryn came to Terlwen four days later, having stuck religiously to the road the whole way. The town nestled comfortably in the fertile valley of the Terl, a long-settled land where the local influences were amiable and the spirits few. Or so she had been told along the way. She had also been advised that the authorities of Terlwen were a gang of larcenous rascals, but took this with a grain of salt. Her village had the same opinion of Uoka. She paused on the last hill to admire the view of the Terl winding across the easy fields, circling around the town and continuing on towards the distant gulf. Then it was pick up the bag and set out. Perhaps there would be a job in Terlwen.

The riverside walls of Terlwen had long been levelled to terraces. The town had outgrown the land-side walls over the centuries, but the gate towers had been left standing, reminders of a more turbulent age. Jenryn walked through the dim gate-tunnel, under the old murder-holes and the slots from which spiked iron grilles could once have dropped to bar the way. The main street sloped up from a small square on the far side, wide enough for two rows of push-stones down the centre as well as walk-ways on either hand. Jenryn decided that the area looked to pricey for her budget, and was wondering which part of town to explore first, when one of the local loungers came over.

“Just in on the hill road?” Jenryn gave a wary assent.

“You was at Two Springs four days ago?” Jenryn had to think for a moment. Yes, that was the village she had run to after the incident with the earth-spirit. Again she said yes.

“You must be Jen. Town Hall wants to talk to you. I’ll take you there.” The local constables probably wanted her to give evidence against those bandits. Jenryn thought they had been punished enough, but maybe someone had reported their activities to the authorities here. She shrugged and followed her questioner up the main street, across a square and along to the town hall. She was led through a side entrance, up a stair and into a small waiting area. A dour functionary flipped the man a coin and directed her to a chair. A muted drone of voices came through the double doors next to his desk. Jenryn wondered how long this interview would take. There was still plenty of daylight, but she was hungry.

Half an hour later the dour man jerked his thumb at the doors. “You’re up next.” Jenryn picked up her bag and stood, uncertain. The man jerked his thumb again. “Just go through.”

Jenryn pushed at the door. It gave easily, swinging back to show another plain room. Jenryn stepped through and the door swung silently closed behind her. A tall woman in a plain blue uniform, face as closed as the door, stood next to a rack of shelves. At her feet was a canvas bag.

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“Your bag, please.”

Jenryn was confused. Was she not here for an interview? The woman repeated the command, with more emphasis, adding that she didn’t have all day. Jenryn handed over her bag, the woman looked through it, prodded the case.

“What’s this?”

“Sensations. I made them in Uoka.”

“You made them?”

“I worked at an alchemist’s.”

The woman grunted, set them aside, dropped Jenryn’s bag into the canvas bag, added a wooden tag and put it on a shelf. A battered stuffed bandicoot was hauled from a desk drawer; it sniffed the case, squeaked, made marks on a sheet of paper and fell asleep. The woman studied the scribbles, raised a quizzical eyebrow at Jenryn, added notes. A bell rang in the next room.

“We can go in now.” The woman pushed Jenryn through yet another door, into what Jenryn took to be the interview room. It had two people in grey robes behind high desks, a young man sitting to one side, a stylus poised over a sheet of paper, the seal of the West Rivers Domain on one wall. She looked around for a chair.

“You stand there,” her guide pointed to a railed area. A pedestal within supported a blue stone. Jenryn took her place, the guide passed the case and note to the bench, the recorder tapped his stylus and it began to skate across the paper.

“First hearing in the matter of an alleged deception and assault within the bounds of West Rivers, to wit the fold and count of Two Springs. Statements received and lodged the 18th day of the 3rd month of the Dry, 10th year of the Northern Cycle,” stated the recorder.

One of the robe-wearers, a woman of mature years, beak-nosed and straight-mouthed under a crimson hat of three tiers, looked across at Jenryn.

“Place your hand on the stone and affirm that you will speak all the truth you know.” Jenryn did so. The stone glowed a brighter blue.

“Now, in this matter of your alleged deception and assault, do you acknowledge fault?” Jenryn was bewildered. How was she at fault? She was here to give evidence, no?

“Err, I thought I am here to make a statement about the attack on me!” The stone glowed bright blue again. The woman raised a finger at the recorder, who took up a sheet and read aloud in a flat drone.

“Notice of complaint received from Ansiefe of Two Springs in the Domain of West Rivers, alleging that one Jenryn of Uoka on the 15th day of the 3rd month of the Dry, 10th Year of the Northern Cycle, did deceive four persons of Two Springs, leading to their assault by an earth-spirit to their bodily distress and mental anguish.”

“They tried to rob me!” protested Jenryn.

The woman – Jenryn supposed she was a judge – gave Jenryn a severe look. “Did you lodge a notice of complaint at Two Springs?” Jenryn admitted she had not. Her attempt to explain was waved away.

“We must deal with complaints as they are lodged. Now, did you lead these people to an earth-spirit domain, where they were compelled to …” she looked at a paper, searched for a suitable euphemism, “… toy with one another?”

Jenryn’s stuttering explanation was heard in silence. The other judge, a pale man with the deep grooves of habitual disapproval beside his mouth, leaned forward.

“You were carrying a case of Sensations, of an erotic nature.” The grooves deepened. “Do you say these had no part in this affair?”

“A man who was about to molest me took one from me,” said Jenryn. She added “He swallowed it and went away.”

After a few more questions the judges conferred. Jenryn waited anxiously. This felt wrong. Wasn’t she supposed to be able to put her case? Have some help from the court? Have her accusers present to be questioned?

The woman judge finally looked up and signalled to the recorder. “Jenryn of Uoka, this court finds that the complaint warrants further investigation. A review will determine the need for a full hearing in not more than eighty days. You are bound on the usual terms to remain in Terlwen for ninety-one days, at the end of which your are free to leave or stay, unless a full hearing is ordered.” That didn’t sound so bad to Jenryn. She had been planning to stay some time here anyway, and surely she could find a job.

The tall woman conducted her to yet another room, where yet another functionary sat behind a desk. Jenryn’s stomach rumbled. When was this rigmarole going to end? The desk-jockey opened a ledger to a new page, entered her name and age, added a portrait swiftly sketched by an Animate Hand and then went on:

“Bond is ninety-one archers. You can pay in cash or by bank transfer.” Jenryn confessed that she did not have such as sum, or anywhere near it. Did she know three residents of Terlwen of good standing, willing to be her sureties? No, she did not. Then she would have to do town service. Would she please step into the next room, where she would be issued work clothes and a Vigilant Beetle, and given directions.

This was not what Jenryn was expecting. More, it was an outrage. This was tantamount to slavery, outlawed everywhere in Reghen this last two centuries. Had Terlwen fallen to the Rai, that it would adopt so barbaric a practice? The two officials bridled at the word ‘slavery’. No; in lieu of a bond she would work for the town at an archer a day, paid at release or, if convicted, put towards any fines. The alternative was to be kept in confinement, but they could arrange that if she preferred. As the town had no facilities, her meals and lodging would be at her own expense, but town workers were fed and housed at no charge. Jenryn was about to agree when she remembered her belongings, and demanded a list of everything taken from her. This was grudgingly produced, added to by her and signed. She donned a red canvas smock with poor grace, accepted the Vigilant Beetle clutching her hair and was told to report to Einke on Glassmaker Street.

Einke was a stumpy man, thick-set, white hair cut to a short bristle, skin tanned and seamed from sun and wind. He stood four-square, hands behind back, as a small crew shovelled muck out of the deep gutters. The true wet season was still many months away, but summer storms still blew in from the gulf. He looked Jenryn up and down, then indicated a shovel with a flick of a finger. A tilt of the chin pointed to a section of gutter. Jenryn took up the tool and set to work.

* * * *

Jenryn had plenty of practice in shovelling muck. It was a staple of village life. She had entered the Pilgrims of Virtue to get away from muck, and had no desire to go back. Yet here she was, scooping mud and leaves into a tub. She worked her way long until she met the fellow working the other way. He threw the last shovelful in and straightened up, a tall thin man with a face that was all bumps and angles – jutting nose, knobby cheeks and a sharp chin. Kind brown eyes and a wide mouth offset the effect.

“Welcome to Einke’s gang. You could have done worse – he’s honest and fair, if strict about seeing the work done properly. My name’s Turnes, by the way.” Jenryn introduced herself, Einke whistled and pointed to the other side of the street and the pair crossed to shovel more muck. Lunch was coarse bread, white cheese and a handful of dried fruit. After that it was off to a small square, where the six members of the gang levered up a stretch of cobbles and stacked them neatly, so that work could be done on some drains. Einke then dismissed them with a single word and strode off.

The other members of the gang were happy to share their knowledge, and Jenryn now knew that they worked five days and had the sixth day to themselves, started work early and finished mid-afternoon and were housed at municipal expense in a building near the West Gate. The Vigilant Beetle would emit an unpleasant screech if she went beyond the town bounds and cover her with a vile-smelling fluid if she tried to remove it. The work was not too hard, the food adequate, so the gang members were mostly resigned to serving their time. The exception was Deaghe Heshel, a travelling dream-taker. Over tea and a biscuit she complained of injustice and of the effect of this forced sojourn on her business.

“They said my license was not in order and they must make inquiries! All nonsense. They pull this trick on strangers so that they can have their streets repaired on the cheap.”

Jenryn outlined the circumstances that had brought her before the judges of Terlwen. Deaghe twisted her lips. “They got a complaint from Two Springs and saw a chance to add to their captive workforce. They are always looking, for the turnover is quite high. They can’t risk appeals, so most everyone is let go without a full hearing.”

“Could be worse,” chimed in Turnes. “Over in Anneboinne Domain they declared the brat-lizards essential to the land and fine anyone who molests them. All the locals treat their boots with sad-oil, so only visitors get bitten and then fined.”

The conversation circled back to Terlwen after a few stories of sharp practice elsewhere. Turnes mentioned that another victim had a hard time recovering her property, and Jenryn worried that she might lose her meagre remaining funds. Deaghe also frowned.

“I made a rare collection on the way here – among them three Lost Loves, a full quartet of Total Triumphs and a Complete Surrender. I’ll be back with a guild lawyer if they are not returned to me. I know four alchemists who would fight to get them.”

“I may need a lawyer too if they do not give me back my Sensations,” Jenryn told her. Deaghe asked about these and was intrigued by Jenryn’s description of the results of her last day at the Precious Flower. She thought her alchemical friends would be interested in buying the unusual cubes. Jenryn tucked the thought away.

* * * *

Uoka had a steady mercantile and seafaring life. Terlwen alternated between rustic calm, the bustle of monthly market days and the excitement of the quarterly domainal sessions. Einke’s gang set posts, strung ropes, marked off stall places and hauled bins before market days, then tidied up afterwards. There was little to do on the days themselves, and Einke set them free to wander through the crowds, watch the puppet shows and look at the produce on sale. Jenryn saw a hat she rather fancied, but of course she had no money.

The sessions brought the gentry to town to argue with each other over land-care and land-right, display their finery and find new followers. There were competitions in craft, of cooking and iron-singing, of wood-craft and stone-craft and more and an influx of sellers of fine cloth, personal adornments and household Items. As with market days, Jenryn and the crew were busy beforehand and free on the day. Einke had them set up five rows each of five wooden posts in a small square, the first in each row no thicker than Jenryn’s arm and the last as thick as a strong man’s thigh. Turnes told her that this was for a trial of sword-craft, which sounded interesting enough that Jenryn and Deaghe found places on the roof of a shed to watch.

She sat there on the sun-warm tiles, arms wrapped around her knees, looking down into the roped-off space and the throng of onlookers crowding the edge of the square. The sponsors of the exhibition sat or stood on a stand opposite, a fine and colourful display. Jenryn admired a long dress panelled in gold and crimson standing next to a blue cloak embroidered with fantastic flowers. Two long blasts on a horn signalled the entrance of the competitors, who paraded around the square before lining up below the stand. Some were as gaudy as the gentry above them, others in plain clothes. A towering red-head shouldered a huge axe; a sturdy woman leaned on a great-sword; a lithe young woman twisted a braid of dark hair around her fingers, a plain sword by her side; two copper-skinned men in green tunics chatted quietly, each with a long-handled axe; a stumpy figure with a forked beard, neatly plaited, carried a short-sword; a sabre hung from the side of a Rai nomad in leather. Three hill-men with heavy chopping blades completed the tally.

“I would bet on the dwarf, but the odds are too low,” Deaghe remarked from beside her. Jenryn looked again at the fork-bearded contestant. Dwarves were not common in Reghen; indeed, this was the first she had seen. The little she knew of them was that they excelled in working metal and stone, were exact in all their dealings and were fearsome litigants. ‘Better a dragon than a dwarf at law’ was one saying.

Deaghe explained the rules of the contest. The entrants drew lots, then the first five chose a post, which they must cut through with no more than two swings. Posts were replaced and the second five took their turn. Those who failed dropped out; those who succeeded must progress to a thicker post. The winner was the one remaining when the other nine had failed.

The lots were drawn, the horn sounded and the first five stepped up. The red-headed giant went to a second post and severed it in one great blow. The woman with the great-sword matched him in the next row. One of the copper-skinned men cut through the first post in one blow, as did one of the hill-men. The other hill-man took two goes.

“He’ll be out in the next round,” judged Deaghe. Jenryn watched, amused, as folk in the crowd settled the first bets and adjusted odds. The second five took their turn. The dark-haired young woman cut through a second post with some apparent effort; the other copper-skinned man (‘that pair are Saka, from the forests over the gulf’, Deaghe told Jenryn) tried for a second post and failed, as it still stood on his second blow; the dwarf cut through a post in the third row with one chop, to a murmur of approval from numerous backers; the Rai managed a second post on two tries and the last hill-man was eliminated. The next round saw the other hill-men and the remaining Saka out. In the pause that followed Jenryn chased down a niggling feeling. She turned to Deaghe.

“Do you still have those coppers you found the other day? Put them on the dark-haired woman. I’ve faked it enough to know when someone else is doing the same.”

Deaghe gave her a sideways look, then leaned over the edge and called out. “What odds will anyone give me on the dark-haired lass with the arming sword?” When she pulled back it was to murmur to Jenryn “You better be right. I got thirty to one. The dwarf is the favourite, with the red-head next.”

The red-head took a stance next to a fourth post, spat on his hands, lofted his axe and swung with a grunt. The axe bit deep, he wrenched it free and swung again. The post shuddered, sagged, then held. He stepped back, his shoulders dropped, and he walked to the sideline. The Rai nomad’s sabre, although wielded with skill and force, failed to cut the third post, and he joined the red-head at the side. The woman with the great-sword came forward, rolled her shoulders and made a level cut at a fourth post. Her blade bit nearly as deeply as the axe, and again she swung, but the post held. The dwarf was next. Two swings at a fourth post, the sword held two-handed, and the post toppled. Again there was a buzz of approval.

The dark-haired woman went straight to the fifth and thickest post and made a seemingly negligent pass at it with her sword. The post teetered a moment and then steadied. “Just cost me three coppers,” Deaghe said glumly. The woman stepped away and gave the post a severe look. It leaned, then toppled, the severed length landing with a thud on the paving. The dwarf looked at the clean cut, bowed to the woman and walked over to the side.

“Now that is sword-craft,” said Deaghe. “If I were at that level of craft the dreams would line up to jump into my bottles.”

Jenryn agreed, and wondered if she would ever get a chance to achieve so high a degree of excellence in, well, anything. She bought two palm-apples with some of her winnings and wandered through the streets and squares with Deaghe. One stall offered the usual household alchemies – Dust Bombs, Scouring Worms, Green Powder, Window Paste; a booth promised exotic Items and Jenryn wondered if any of the Sensations she had danced for in Uoka had ended here. Two squares along an elderly woman sat in state under an elaborate awning. She wore the grey of justice, edged with blue, and held a white staff in one hand. Two truth-stones stood to either hand, a recorder sat discreetly at the back and a few small groups of people were marshalled behind a line. As they watched, two men in labourer’s attire were admitted. They spoke to the woman, but no sound carried, and Jenryn realised the awning must be under a spell of discretion. The labourers laid hands on the truth stones and spoke, the recorder’s stylus scribbling away.

At Jenryn’s query Deaghe said she thought the woman was an arbiter on circuit. They heard complaints in matters of equity, and considered all aspects of character. They did not take many cases, and appeal to an arbiter was chancy, for they might find you merited the punishment even if you were not actually guilty of the specified offence. Jenryn walked on, musing, then came to an abrupt decision. If that young woman could reach so high in craft as to sever trees with a single blow, why was she herself wasting time here? She turned and marched back to the square, where she approached the usher.

“I wish to appeal to the arbiter, on unjust treatment by the authorities of Terlwen.” The usher took her name, noted the parties she complained of, gave her a tag and asked her to return mid-morning two days later. “Show your boss the tag,” she was advised. “If you are not here by noon we will find you.”

Jenryn did show Einke the tag. He merely grunted ‘foolish’ and pointed at the next bit of work to be done.