The merchant Corentin was not a Droma-man, and had bridled at the thought of remaining in the camp once night had fallen. “My father, he wanted me to learn of your people, your ways, your trade goods. How do I do this if I am in the camp all the time?”

      So Adarc, with a scout for the Company of the Shield named Tommalt, had accompanied Corentin and his Foreigner Jôkull into the lanes of trade wagons and stalls. Adarc translated where necessary, smoothed over differences when they grew awkward.

      And most of all, he waited.

      Corentin picked through the wares of the impromptu market at the nexus of the three merchant caravans camped on the horse-fair. The smell of meats roasting and breads baking wafted through the camp from spontaneous brick ovens that had sprung up. Dogs barked and ran between the stalls. Pigs grunted and lumbered across the thoroughfares. Thither was an oil merchant, there a man with bolts of cloth and silk.

      Jôkull and Tommalt eyed the pilgrims, mercenaries, drovers, and tradesmen that shouldered through the lanes, alert to any trouble.

      And Adarc, sure and he kicked at pebbles, rocked on his heels, fidgeted with his hands.

      Corentin fingered a glassware from the southern coast, brilliant with blues, reds, and greens. “Zhe glass work, it is good, no?”

      Will he never learn? Adarc pinched at the bridge of his nose. “Th-, th-. The glass work is good.”

      “Yes, yes.” Corentin frowned at him. “But it is good, is it not?” He turned to the merchant in the stall. “Hwan filu? How much?”

      The trader, a good Gallavach man from one of the southern tribes, eyed him with suspicion. “For you, Master, I could part with a crate of these for a mere nine-hundred-seventy gold trimmids.”

      “Daylight robbery!” announced Corentin. “I would not give you much for two boxes!”

      “So,” added Adarc.

      “So hwas?”

      “So much. You wouldn’t give so much for two boxes.”

      “Yes, what zhe acolyte says. I would not give so much for two boxes!” Corentin puffed out his chest and waved the back of his hand at the glass-trader.

      Sure and that’s probably a rude gesture in his own land.

      “Come, Adarc, we will seek their fortune elsewhere.”

      “Our.”

      “Hwas?”

      “Our fortune. We’ll seek our—Oh, never mind.” He shook his head and muttered, “Sure and you’re the thickest foreigner I’ve ever met.”

      Corentin rubbed his palms together at the sight of a game of dice in an alley. “Krebs-áug!” He smiled at Adarc. “Now some áiz—some coin we will see!”

      The dice, carved from bone, bounced and rolled across the blanket, knocked against the wooden box, and came to rest.

      Four black enameled pips stood upright on the first, six on the second. “Ten!” shouted the stickman, who swept the dice back toward Corentin with a long-handled stick. “Shooter comes out ten!”

      Coins and knick-knacks changed hands among the crowd of men who squatted and stood around the blanket.

      Adarc shook his head. “Can we go now?”

      “I have only just started. I have the fifty glynnids on this chance.” Corentin swept up the dice into his fist and blew on them. “At-gaggan Atta!” He threw them across the blanket again, and they thumped against the box at the far end.

      “Eight the hard way!” announced the stickman. More coins and baubles changed hands.

      Adarc looked at the men around the blanket. They were a mixed lot, mostly mercenaries, drovers, and traders from the rolling hills and plains of the south. An unsavory crew in rough spun and jacks of leather, with knives at their belts and horns of drink in their hands. They rattled ready coin and small trinkets of value in tight-closed fists, laughed and shouted, and watched the dice and each other with equal suspicion.

      Another roll and a thump.

      “Box six!” crowed the stickman and swept the dice back to Corentin.

      More coins and geegaws changed hands.

      “Damned kald bones tonight!” Corentin swept up the dice again, offered them to Adarc. “A blessing, Acolyte?”

      Adarc frowned at him, but made the sign of fearn, the Alder tree, three fingers straight and sidewise, over the dice. Corentin grinned at him and winked, then threw.

      The bones clattered against the wood and tumbled to a stop. Three pips on one die, four on the other.

      “Wargjath!” Corentin cursed.

      “Chaff!” cried the stickman.

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

      Mingled cheers and moans went up from the crowd.

      Corentin sulked and paid out his fifty silver glynnids. “What good is having a drymyn if on the blessing of the Gods I can not count?”

      “I’m only an acolyte,” protested Adarc. “And the Gods, they are forgetful.” Adarc didn’t like the look of the less respectable players. “Come, let’s away from here.”

      Corentin shrugged and sighed. “Well enough. The bones, they are kald anyway.”

      They wandered together through the more well-lit lanes. Teamsters and journeymen in roughspuns, mercenaries in leather jacks, and whores in little or nothing at all mingled, argued, laughed, traded, and cajoled with one another.

      Five pilgrims in heavy robes of dark blue, cinched around their waists with bronze scourges, wore candied smiles and stopped passersby in the market. “Good evening, friend. We're here to tell you about His Reverence Inloth's Strict Observance Drive. We're building a better tomorrow today, a wave of reform. We need help. No, brother, don't give money. Give of yourself.”

      Corentin pointed to a knot of pilgrims moving among the tents. “Those, they are Belenaíwisks.”

      “Aye, Belenosians. Reformers.” Adarc wrinkled his nose.

      “Hwê do you not of them approve?” Corentin put a thumb to his chest. “I am the Belenaíwisks, you know.” He raised his hand up over his head. “We practice the ways Súthrhaman. The ways of the Ard-Dára in Shynnath. Highest of Drymyn, ja?”

      “We’ve practiced the ways of Kârn since the Settlement. Why should we change them now?”

      “Because yours, they are not the ways Súthrhaman. If all other Súthrhamans practice faith the same way, hwê not you—?”

      “There’s nothing wrong with the way we practice—”

      “Hwan can you say that? You do not celebrate the Feast Damara on the right day. Your people, they take as many wives as they please, they divorce as they like. And look at your hair!”

      Adarc put his hand to the shaved front and temples of his scalp. “Sure and there’s nothing wrong with my hair!”

      A small, caped figure with a long, dangling hood stepped from among the maze of tents. She extended her hands to five men in leather aprons with small tools on their belts—shoemakers by the look of them. The men stopped abruptly and blocked the narrow way.

      Corentin and Adarc pulled up short, and Tommalt and Jôkull bumped into their backs.

      A pitiable voice arose from the hood. “Bronze drychid, syrrys?”

      “Get outta here, ya tinker scum,” growled one of the shoemakers as they tromped to a halt.

      “Jes a drychid, good syrra. ‘Tis for me poor ol’ damawynn.”

      “I that voice know.” Corentin frowned. “Hwê do I that voice know?”

      “I said get.” The shoemaker took a swipe at the hooded figure, but the liripipe hood bobbed under his arm.

      “Awww, syrra, why you wanna be mean ta me poor li’l self? Jes a drychid, syrra, for me poor ol’ damawynn.”

      “Out of the way, ye miserable li’l sprite.”

      “Ain’t no sprite.” The little figure put balled fists to her hips. “I’m a Cockam, I am!”

      Corentin put his face in his hand. “Och, nê.”

      Three large, brightly-clothed men came from an alley. “Oy! What’re ya doin’? Pickin’ on a li’l flogh. Dat’s me nith y’re molestin’.” One of them held a deep-chested, broad-shouldered dog on a tight leash. The hound sported a black brindle mask around its eyes, and its drooling jaws were formidable. Sure and it stood nigh on seven hands at the withers, and looked to weigh at least seven stone of thick, heavy muscle under a long, silky, chestnut-colored coat.

      The shoemaker bridled. “What in Annwn is a ‘neeth’?”

      “Me niece, ye talsoghyon.” The largest of the men gestured to the fellow that held the growling dog. “The mergh o’ me hanter-kosin.”

      From the tents and booths nearby, traders and craftsmen poked their heads. An unsympathetic crowd began to gather. Adarc and Corentin, with their escort, were hemmed in, unwilling witnesses.

      The shoemakers tried to bully their way past. “Then take yer niece and yer mangy cur and bugger off, mate!”

      “Brengi ain’t mangy!” The little caped figure kicked at a shin.

      “Oy!” The shoemaker swiped at her, but the liripipe bobbed out of reach. The dog lunged, snapped at his hand, then barked and strained at the rope.

      Frowns and angry mutters circulated through the onlookers.

      The shoemaker stepped back, arms in the air. “Whoa! Easy there! Look, we don’t want no trouble.”

      “If ye don’ wan’ no trouble, ye ought not mess wit’ a poor li’l mos like me nith.”

      “Mate, I don’t even know half what you’re sayin’.” The cobblers tried to sidle past.

      The three large men moved into the muddy street and blocked the way with their dog. “Ye think ye can jes mess wit’ me nith an’ walk away?”

      The shoemakers, unnerved by the gathering attention, settled with the tinkers to the tune of ten bronze drychids.

      Adarc shook his head. Sure and it’s all just a shake-down.

      The tinkers thanked the shoemakers cheerfully as they jogged away down the lane, and the small crowd melted away.

      The big tinker shared out the drychids, three to each man, and one to the little girl.

      “Wha’cha mean I only get one? ’At ain’t fair, Dibenn!”

      “Take it up wit’ yer sira, Talwyn.”

      “Tasik!”

      The man with the dog tossed the leash to her. “That’s lowr, Talwyn. Take Brengi an’ go play. We’re gonna find a few pints. Tell yer dama I’ll be back diwettha.”

      The men moved off between the tents. The little girl stomped an indignant foot in the mud. The dog sniffed at the air, swung its large head toward Adarc, sniffed again, posture attentive. Then its face broke into a wide, slobbery grin.

      The girl caught sight of them as well, smiled and waved.

      “Oy! Adarc!” The little tinker ran at them, launched herself into a flying tackle, and wrapped Adarc in an aggressive hug.

      Her head struck him square in the stones. “Och!” Adarc moaned and bent over.

      “Flok!” cursed Corentin. “The enemy, she has found us.”

      Adarc firmly removed the girl and sucked air through his teeth. “Och… Hello, Talwyn.” He patted the dog on the head as an excuse to kneel and get his breath back. “Hello, Brengi.” He scratched the friendly mutt behind the ear. “You’re a long way from Droma.”

      The dog licked his face with enthusiasm.

      The girl shrugged. “Travellers go where Travellers go.” She looked at Corentin and Jôkull. “I members you! Yer the funny-talkin’ men.” She stepped back and took them all in with a wide gesture. “Well, wha’choo all doin’ here?”

      “We came with the King of Droma. He’s to be married tomorrow.”

      “A demedhyans? I love a demedhyans! Me hanter-kosin, she been maryan four times!” She held up as many fingers, then bounced on the balls of her feet. “Can I come? Can I come?”

      Adarc stood at last. “I’ll put a word in for you, sure and I will.”

      “Oh, yer the gwella, ye are!” Then she grabbed Adarc by the wrist. “Come’n meet me teylu!” With surprising strength for a girl so small, she dragged Adarc away down the lane.

      Corentin rubbed at his temples. “Nothing but trouble, that girl is. Come on then. The acolyte, he needs the rescuing.”