CHAPTER 6

CAMP NATALON,
AL 493.10–494.1

Master Zist was surprised when Cristov stayed behind after the end of the morning class. He was even more surprised by the boy’s request to be taught the pipes.

“I don’t know if I have any spare pipes,” Zist said, not sure why he’d want to do Tarik’s son any favors.

“Someone gave me one,” Cristov replied, his face a mix of sorrow and surprise.

“May I see it?” Zist asked, holding out a hand. The pipe that Cristov reluctantly gave him was immediately familiar to the Master. He had made it himself not too many Turns before. In fact, Pellar had been just about Cristov’s age when Zist had presented him with this very pipe.

“Did Pellar give this to you?”

Cristov looked surprised but nodded. “He said he’d see me again but it would probably be Turns,” he explained.

“Well,” Zist replied, “if he said it, then it will be so.”

Zist twirled the pipe in his hand. The Ancients would have called it a recorder. The mouthpiece was at the top of the pipe, not at the side as with the more common flute. A recorder was much easier to learn than a flute, but at the expense of the dynamic range it could produce.

Zist nodded to himself in sudden decision. He looked at Cristov. “I’ll teach you.”

“Thank you,” Cristov said, smiling. Then his smile faded as another thought crossed his mind. “Can we not tell my parents?”

Zist considered the question carefully. “I see no reason why we can’t wait until the appropriate time to surprise them,” he allowed, his eyes twinkling with a sense of mischief that Cristov had never seen before.

“Thank you,” Cristov said.

“Let’s see if you thank me after your first lesson,” Zist replied. He handed the pipe back to Cristov. “And your first lesson will be on breathing.”

Breathing? Cristov thought to himself in dismay. He’d heard how Kindan and Zenor had both been as limp as rags after an hour of Zist’s “breathing” lessons! Well, he had asked.

“Egg?” Tarik repeated to Tenim in disbelief. “What would you want with an egg?”

“Not me,” Tenim said. “Others. They’d pay full marks, too.”

“The egg hatched two days ago,” Tarik replied. “It’s bonded with the brat now.”

“Bonded?”

“Yes, the thing bit the boy and now it follows him everywhere.”

Tenim’s features soured as he scowled. They were in the kitchen of Tarik’s new cothold and it was dark. Tenim’s journey had taken two more days than he had planned: profitable days, to be sure, considering the increased bulk of his well-hidden purse, but perhaps not profitable enough to make up for missing a chance at the egg.

“Hmmph,” Tenim snorted in disgust. “It’s no good to me now.”

“It’s a green,” Tarik said thoughtfully. “That means it’ll mate someday.” He smirked at the thought of how young Kindan would deal with that.

“Greens aren’t as good as golds,” Tenim snapped, having absorbed that much lore from Moran’s teachings. “Not green fire-lizards, nor green dragons. I’m sure it’s the same for those uglies, too.”

“Then the best price would be paid for a gold egg, wouldn’t it?” Tarik suggested, carefully keeping his tone neutral. Tarik would breathe easier if Tenim took up the wild watch-wher chase.

Tenim cocked his head quizzically at the suggestion. It was a good idea, so good it surprised him. He pursed his lips and furrowed his brow while he examined Tarik, wondering what thoughts were going on in the older man’s head. Still…it was a good idea.

“No one knows where the queen watch-wher is,” Tenim said.

“No one?” Tarik asked. “From what I’ve heard, there were several buyers vying for watch-wher eggs.”

“No one’s told me anything,” Tenim said, gazing intently at the miner.

Tarik returned Tenim’s intent look with a bland one of his own, waiting with growing anxiety that he worked desperately to hide. As the silence grew uncomfortable, he suggested, “Perhaps your harper friend might learn more?”

“Him!” Tenim snorted at the suggestion.

“What’s he doing now, I wonder,” Tarik said, sounding as though he were talking to himself.

Tenim nodded thoughtfully and rose from his seat, heading for the door.

At the door, he stopped and said, “I’ll find out.” He waved a finger at Tarik. “When I come back, I’ll expect you to have more coal set aside.”

Tarik nodded, knowing that there was nothing else he could do—except hope that perhaps Tenim wouldn’t come back.

Halla said nothing as she watched Moran scan the landscape in front of them, just as she’d said nothing when Moran announced their sudden departure from the environs of Hold Balan, even though some of the older boys had grumbled about missing Tenim.

“He’ll find us, no worries,” Moran had replied lightly. Halla had been the only one close enough to see his face in the dark night, and she’d seen the deep lines and worry written on it. To her it had looked like Moran was more worried about Tenim finding them than not, but perhaps she was just assigning her own feelings to the harper.

Little Tucker bumped into her. He did that often to get attention. Halla ignored him this time, knowing that the child was still half-asleep.

“We’ll need food soon,” she said to Moran. Moran gave her a surprised look; usually children told him that they were hungry. It was a sign of Halla’s forced maturity that she thought the way she did.

“It looks pretty barren,” he replied, but he eyed the girl hopefully. After Tenim, Halla was the best hunter. Astride his shoulders, little Nalli stirred.

“I’ll take her for a while,” Halla said, holding up her arms to grab the toddler.

Although he still wore a backpack, Moran’s step grew more energetic after Halla had taken Nalli from him. After a few more steps carrying Nalli, Halla could see why—there was so little in their packs that the weight of an undernourished toddler more than doubled the load. Little Nalli, who had roused slightly during the transfer, soon fell back to sleep, resting her small head on Halla’s and providing warmth for the back of her neck and shoulders.

At a sound from behind them, Moran stopped and turned.

“Perri,” Moran said in a tone that was equal parts exhaustion and worry.

Halla half turned and warned, “There’s no more feverroot.”

Moran rushed back to the fallen youngster. Perri had been bitten by a tunnel snake when he was playing at the outskirts of Hold Balan—or that’s what Halla guessed, for the toddler had never been much of a talker and refused to say anything about his injury. The wound had festered in the past several days, and he’d walked through the night in a half-fever.

Some noise or sigh caused Halla to stop and turn all the way back to the others. Instead of trudging after her, they were grouped in a semicircle. Moran was kneeling in the center.

As soon as Moran lifted his head up and looked at Halla, she knew. She sighed, too tired for anything else, wordlessly passed Nalli back to Moran, and grabbed at the handle of the shovel that hung down from her backpack. She was getting too good at digging graves.

A half hour later they trudged on, Halla more grimy than she liked, and only a few withered yellow flowers for the mound she left behind. She’d liked Perri, he’d just started to smile.

They look to you, Moran thought to himself as he led the group of children away from yet another grave, and you let them down.

How many graves did that make? He wondered idly and realized with dull relief that he couldn’t remember. This isn’t how things were supposed to be, Moran told himself. I was to find the Shunned, to set up meetings, to help them, Moran recalled. He had always wanted to make a difference, have ballads composed about him, make up for his unknown origins. Instead, somehow, he’d found himself only surviving one crisis to fall into another, never seeming to find the right place, the right answers, and always coming up with more complications. Every time he’d sworn that he’d locate the next harper, report in to the Harper Hall, something had happened to change his mind. He wanted to report his success; he could not bring himself to report failure. And so the Turns had passed. Turns, and Moran’s dreams had gone from saving the Shunned to simply finding food enough for those waifs he’d found along the way. Worse still, at times he’d squandered their spare marks for drink, or an evening’s comfort. Always, at the time, Moran had told himself that he deserved it—the drink or the warm company—and after, seeing the mute looks of the hungry children, had sworn never again. But again and again, he would give in to his base desires. With such dismal failures, how could he face Murenny or Zist?

He shifted Nalli on his back, looking hopefully back at Halla in hope of a trade. Her face was streaked with tears.

Moran swore at himself for his selfishness and trudged on.

“Egg hatched—green,” were the words written on Pellar’s slate as he met with Aleesa and the rest of the wherhandlers when he arrived at the wherhold that evening.

“So did ours,” Arella replied. “She was a green, too.”

A small form butted its head up from under her skirt. Chitter flittered down to the young watch-wher and gave it a polite chirp. The watch-wher sniffed back at the fire-lizard, then ducked behind Arella’s skirt once more.

“You’ll be first watch come morning,” Jaythen told him. “There’s a bit left in the pot, so get some food and get some rest. Aleesk will wake you.”

Pellar nodded once more, stifled a yawn, and wandered over to the cooking fire. Polla smiled at him as he found a clean dish and served himself.

“I’ll bet you’re glad to be home, aren’t you?” she asked, her grin more gap than teeth.

Again Pellar nodded but his heart wasn’t in it, any more than his stomach was enticed by the smell of his dinner. He ate quickly, spread out his bedroll in his old place, and quickly fell asleep. Tomorrow he would see about looking for reeds or wood for a new pipe.

When Arella came to bed later, she set her roll apart from his.

The next day was no different; neither the next sevenday, nor the next month. Pellar found himself overcoming the difficulty of teaching others to read when he could not speak, Aleesa grew proudly proficient in her abilities and took to writing a journal, the watch-whers grew older, and the camp slowly found its supplies dwindling once again to their old meager levels.

Pellar grew and thickened up. The last of his childish looks sloughed away; his chest grew wiry from his work with trap, drum, and knife. He improved his tracking, always remembering his encounter with Tenim, now several months past.

Polla had flirted with him, but he’d ignored the older woman, just as he and Arella found themselves ignoring each other—although with increasing difficulty. Some of the older girls Pellar had been teaching had started flirting with him, too. Pellar politely redirected their attention, while he worried about what might occur the next time Aleesk rose to mate. His best hope was to be far away before then.

Halla didn’t like Conni or her daughter, Milera, but Moran had decided to accept them into their band when they passed through the meeting of the three rivers between Telgar and Crom Holds.

Halla didn’t need for Conni to part her hair to guess at the big blue “S” that had been painted there with bluebush ink. Young as she was, Halla had a good idea of what had caused Conni to be Shunned by her Lord Holder, and she liked neither the way that Conni looked at Moran—like a tunnel snake ready to pounce on its prey—nor, worse, the way Milera slavishly emulated her mother. And while Conni might be a few Turns past her prime, Milera had just gone from child to woman.

Halla had been around Moran too long not to guess that there was more to the harper’s acceptance of the two than just the kindness of his heart. Even with the death of Perri behind them by a sevenday there were still too many mouths to fill and nothing with which to feed them, despite Halla’s best efforts with her traps.

And Conni’s offer to share her food did not warm Halla to the pinch-faced, sharp-eyed woman with her long straggly hair, nor to her simpering doe-eyed daughter.

Conni’s food lasted no more than a meal. A meal, Halla had noted, which fed Conni and Milera more than the rest of the troop put together. That meal had been three days since, and still Conni and Milera always seemed to get the best or the most of what meager pickings Moran’s band acquired.

Conni, Halla decided, would be better matched with Tenim than with Moran. Although, Halla conceded, perhaps Conni would find herself losing out to the younger Milera in winning Tenim’s affections.

Whichever way it was to be, Halla was certain that neither Conni nor Milera would have tolerated Halla or anyone of the littler ones were it not for their ability to gather food, either by trapping it or stealing it from local cotholders.

Although she preferred hunting and trapping, it never bothered Halla much to steal from a wealthy holder or crafter, but none of the holdings they’d seen in the last sevenday were wealthy; Halla was certain that their thefts had meant empty bellies for the rightful owners. It bothered her to steal from those who worked as hard for their food as she did.

Her line twitched and she tugged at it. Another bite. She gently played the line with her free hand, gauging the size of the fish by its heft on her line.

It had been Conni or Milera who had secured their passage on the small riverboat. Halla was not sure which and didn’t want to think long on it—both because she hated being beholden to either in any fashion, and because of the satisfied smirk both had displayed the morning after they’d spent the night in the little cabin below deck with Moran and Geffer, the grizzled old man who owned the boat.

Halla finished her battle with the hapless fish at about the same time as she finished her thoughts about the night before. She deposited the fish in the bucket where two more vainly circled. There, that was enough for a good meal. She looked forward to gutting the fish, a smellier task than dressing land animals, but all the better to wash the stench that the presence of Conni and Milera lent their party.

“That one’s too thin,” Milera’s whiny voice piped up just behind Halla. “You ought to throw it back—it’s as skinny as you are.”

Halla did not betray her surprise that she had been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard Milera’s approach. She merely threw her line back over the side of the boat and trawled it out carefully.

“The sun’s just barely past nooning; I didn’t think you’d be up,” she said carelessly, keeping her attention on the line.

“I get up when I’m hungry or bored,” Milera answered. “I’m both now. Moran says that you’re to feed me.”

“I’ll share my catch,” Halla replied, “when the time comes.”

“The time’s for Moran to say,” Milera snapped.

“Yes,” Halla agreed, with a slight incline of her head. “Until he does, I’ll go on fishing.”

“And I told you that Moran said to feed me,” Milera returned venomously. “The two big ones ought to do. You can fish for more when you’ve finished cooking mine.”

Halla’s eyes flashed and she set her jaw, prepared to give Milera a piece of her mind when she heard footsteps climbing up from the cabin.

“Are you getting fed, Milera?” Geffer called as he approached. He cackled. “Wouldn’t want you to lose your strength, would we?”

Halla felt her whole face turn red with anger, embarrassment, betrayal, and a sense of shame.

“Halla’s just about to gut the fish,” Milera purred back. “She’s only caught three, but I suppose that’s as good as she can, being still a child.”

Halla turned back to her fishing to hide her anger.

“She’s a good fisher to get three in such a short time,” Geffer allowed.

“It’s good that she’s got so many talents,” Milera agreed. “A plain girl’s got to have some craft to trade on.”

Geffer laughed agreeably. “Will you come back down when you’re finished eating?”

“Whatever you want,” Milera replied.

Geffer laughed again and Halla heard him pat the girl, mutter something that caused Milera to giggle, and then turn back to go below.

Milera was silent only until Geffer was out of earshot, when, in icy tones, she declared, “I’ll take my fish now.”

Halla bit her tongue and nodded sullenly. Times had changed; they would change again.

It took another fortnight for Halla’s predictions to come true, though not in the way she’d imagined. When the boatman, Geffer, pulled in to the wharf at the highest part of the River Crom, Milera remained behind, much to Conni’s evident disgust. “You can do better than that.”

At least that’s how it seemed—until Milera met up with them on the far outskirts of the small river hold, her cheeks red with exertion and face bright with mischief.

“I got his money,” she crowed to her mother when she found the group. “Just waited until he fell asleep, is all.”

“That’s my girl,” Conni said, patting Milera on the back and holding out her hand. “How much did you get?”

“All of it, of course,” Milera said, pulling out her purse and gleefully emptying it into Conni’s hands. “You know I can’t count.”

“Thief!” a voice—Geffer’s—shouted.

Other voices took up the cry. “Thief!” “Thief!”

Milera’s gloating look dissolved into one of worry, then outright fear as Conni clenched her hands and scarpered off, calling over her shoulder, “Fool! He wasn’t supposed to wake up!”

“Scatter!” Halla told the other youngsters. She took her own advice, dissolving into the crowd and then circling far around to come up behind their pursuers.

But someone grabbed Halla before she could slip away, a tall man with bad breath and a strong grasp. “There’s one!”

“She was with them,” Geffer said, as the crowd gathered around. “She didn’t steal nothing—’twas the prettier one.”

Halla flushed.

“Put an ‘S’ on her just so others know, then,” someone in the crowd shouted.

“Yes, Shun her!”

“Shun the thief!”

Halla struggled against her captor, kicking and squirming futilely until she collapsed into a pathetic heap, sobbing silently with uncontrollable terror and despair.

“She didn’t steal nothin’,” Geffer shouted over the crowd. “It was the other one, the tart, that did it.”

“Let her go, then,” a deep voice chimed in.

“Should mark her just to know,” someone muttered in the crowd.

“I see them!” the deep voice called. “They’re over there!”

The crowd surged forward, around Halla, and charged off.

“Here, let me take her,” the deep voice spoke to Halla’s captor. “She’s scared and needs a rest.”

“Needs a good thrashing,” Halla’s captor objected and then looked carefully at the owner of the deep voice. “Oh, Harper, I didn’t know.”

Halla’s arm was thrust into the harper’s grasp.

“That’s all right,” the harper replied. “I’ll take her now.”

“I’ll leave her to you, then.”

Halla waited until the stranger disappeared and then looked up into Tenim’s eyes. She didn’t even wonder where he’d found harper garb.

Tenim stayed silent, looking around the clearing until he was certain that they wouldn’t be overheard. When he spoke again, it wasn’t in the deep voice he’d used before but in his natural baritone. His tone was deadly. “Where’s Moran?”

At the far east edge of the river hold, Moran gathered the remains of his band and set off hastily across the path that led east toward Keogh. He could only find six of his original dozen orphans, but he dared not wait longer because Conni had never left his side. Her resemblance to Milera was too close, and only Moran’s quick thinking in throwing a spare cloak over her had kept them both from being caught.

Moran might have been able to talk his way out of the ensuing unpleasantness, but he was certain that Conni, with the blue “S” of the Shunned so prominent on her forehead, would find herself in mortal peril. Judging by her biting grip on his forearm, Conni felt the same.

She had played him for a fool, Moran realized. A sideways glance at her features, haggard, hawklike, bitter, confirmed to Moran that it was full proper that Conni had been Shunned—she was a voracious taker, stalker, and menace to all. Worse, she had raised her daughter to copy her ways. Whether Milera would escape the holders today was of no importance; one day she wouldn’t, and then she, too, would wear the blue “S” of the Shunned until her nature finally betrayed her to her death. Just as it would be for Conni.

“If I’m caught, I’ll see that you get yours, too,” Conni hissed beside him, her hard features showing that she’d guessed at Moran’s thoughts. “I’ll let them know that you’re no harper.”

Moran nodded and gave her a worried look. Her not knowing that he truly was a harper might be his salvation; he didn’t want to lose that advantage just yet.

“Whatever you say,” he told her.

“I say we lose these brats,” Conni replied, scowling at the small children following them.

Moran’s heart sank as he realized his mistake. Quickly he temporized, “Not here. They won’t survive, and then we’d be wanted for murder, as well.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Conni replied with a bitter laugh.

“Not children,” Moran said. “Shunned or not, they’ll hunt you to your death if you abandon children.”

“You’re a fool,” Conni said, lips pursed remorselessly.

“The next cothold we find,” Moran said. “We can leave them there.”

“What about the others?” Conni asked. “My daughter?”

“She’s smart, she’ll survive,” Moran said with a shrug. “The others will manage, too.”

Conni gave him a sour look and said nothing. Moran accepted his small victory without any outward sign. It was, after all, only a small victory.

He had to find a way to lose this woman before she got them all Shunned.

“I’ve found them,” Halla announced proudly to Tenim when they met in the river hold’s main concourse late the next evening. The five missing youngsters crowded close by her, eyes shining with the light of the night’s moons.

“And I’ve found her,” Tenim said, flicking his head toward the shadow at his side.

Halla nodded, keeping her expression neutral. It was obvious that Tenim valued the pretty girl more highly than he did the missing youngsters—or herself.

During the day’s searching, Halla had found herself several times looking in a still pool of water or a shiny pot. Her reflection did not displease her.

She was still young and the features of her face were still not fully formed, but they were serviceable. Probing brown eyes looked out from behind dark brown hair that could do with a wash. Her nose was straight and thin, her teeth were mostly white and strong, her lips were thin—perhaps they were too thin and that was the trouble, but she liked her smile. She had to admit that her eyes danced mischievously when she smiled, but she didn’t think that was such a horrible thing.

No, Halla decided, where she was most lacking was in the curves that Milera and, more so, Conni so proudly displayed. Halla couldn’t quite remember if she had ten or eleven Turns—Moran had insisted on teaching her to read and count, while Tenim had insisted on teaching her to hunt and track—but she was certain that she would have to be older and better fed before she’d develop any curves of her own. Anyway, she wasn’t even sure that she wanted such curves; it seemed to her that they would make running more awkward.

“Did you find Moran?” Tenim asked.

“I want my marks,” Milera added darkly from beside him. Halla gave the older girl a careful look; it was obvious that she’d grown more like her mother through the terror of the day’s events.

“We’ll find them,” Tenim said reassuringly. Halla had never heard Tenim use that tone of voice before—the same soothing tone Moran had used with Conni.

“Just the marks’ll do,” Milera said.

For nearly a month, at least three sevendays and more, they trudged along the track that skirted the Crom hills until they finally came to the edge of the Crom River, which flowed westward toward Keogh and then southward past Nabol Hold and into the Bay of Nabol.

They were lucky to get a ride with some traders. No, Halla admitted, it had not been “luck”—for once again Milera’s simpering looks earned approving glances and sparked a hurried conversation amongst the unattached traders. Halla could not understand why any trader would believe Tenim’s story that he was Milera’s half brother, given the way he hovered near her.

The traders were a cautious lot; they insisted on checking every one of the children to ensure that none bore the mark of the Shunned. Halla suppressed a shudder at the memory of the holder’s arm-wrenching grasp of her and the crowd’s fierce desire to mark her with the blue “S.” She’d no doubt that if Tenim hadn’t intervened she’d be wearing that mark now; nor did she doubt that if she’d been marked, Tenim would have cast her aside rather than lose his ride with the traders.

If the traders were disappointed with Milera and her hovering “brother,” they were more than pleased to take advantage of Halla’s good eyes, strong legs, and productive traps.

The best part of meeting up with the traders was Tarri. Tarri was much older than Halla, outspoken, sharp-eyed, with a ready laugh and smile. What was more, Tarri shared Halla’s opinion of Milera.

“Looks don’t last,” Tarri told Halla one night as the male traders vied for Milera’s attention. Halla gave her a bland look and Tarri laughed. “You don’t have to worry, you know.”

“I’ve been told,” Halla replied glumly. Her response set Tarri off into more laughter, but the trader was all the while shaking her head.

“I’ve seen many people grow up in my time,” Tarri told her. Halla had her doubts and her expression showed it. Tarri nudged Halla playfully, saying, “I’m a trader, I travel; so I see more.”

She gave Halla a considering look before continuing, “You might even have trader blood. I’ve seen your features before. Or Boll blood—they get swarthy down there.”

Swarthy? Halla thought to herself. She’d never heard the word before.

“Your skin tans faster than others,” Tarri continued. “Some find your dark hair and eyes very attractive. When you get older, your features will sharpen and you’ll be glad you’ve got strong legs to run from all the men chasing you.”

Halla snorted.

Tarri shook her head and patted Halla consolingly. “And when you’re old, really old, you’ll still have that great skin, lithe figure, and flashing eyes, while Milera will be a sagging, toothless, lardy mess.”

Halla could never imagine herself as old, but she could easily imagine Milera as toothless and lardy.

Tarri took in Halla’s expression and smiled, then rose from the fire.

“We’d best turn in,” she said. “We’ll be moving early, and they’ll want you to check your traps for breakfast.”

Halla nodded and stood, too.

“You can sleep in my wagon, tonight,” Tarri offered. “I’ve got spare sheets and a blanket.”

“But I’m dirty!” Halla protested, shocked that anyone would consider letting her near sheets.

“No more than I am,” Tarri said, grabbing Halla’s hand and dragging her along. “But we’ll solve that.

“Come on—up,” Tarri said, pointing to the stairs leading up into one of the nicer wagons. “Through the curtains.”

Halla obeyed and gave a startled gasp as she parted the curtains and entered the wagon proper. It was beautiful.

Tarri stepped up beside her and started rummaging. She carefully folded back the plush carpet that lined the floor and pulled down a large pan and a smaller bucket.

“There’s towels and clothes down there,” Tarri said, pointing to one of the many doors that lined the lower half of the wagon. “Pull out two, no, four of each while I see about this.”

Halla turned in time to see Tarri disappear back under the curtain with the bucket dangling from one hand. Mystified, Halla opened the indicated door and found herself staring at large fluffy towels. She hadn’t thought that anyone except maybe a Lord Holder knew such luxury!

She had just pulled out the towels and smaller clothes—shirts and pants—and was wondering what to do with them when Tarri returned, carefully moving the heavy bucket so as not to jostle it.

She eyed Halla appraisingly and said, “There should just about be enough.”

Enough for what? Halla thought.

“That is, if you’re willing to let me show you,” Tarri said, dimples appearing on her cheeks. Her voice sounded odd, shy. “Then we could sleep in the good sheets.”

“Show me what?” Halla asked.

“It’s not a proper bath,” Tarri continued quickly, “but it gets the job done all the same.”

“Bath?” Halla repeated blankly. The big pan was way too small for a bath, even for Halla but the thought of a bath, of getting properly clean, was appealing beyond all reason. “Can we start now?”

“Certainly!” Tarri replied, grinning at Halla’s fervor. “You first,” she said, pulling a curtain from one side to give Halla some privacy.

Halla splashed happily for several minutes and then stopped, pushing the bucket back out with a foot and poking her head out from around the curtain.

“I could do your hair, too, if you’d like,” Tarri offered, quickly dampening a washcloth in the bucket. Halla accepted the offer with a huge grin.

While Tarri worked the soapy water into Halla’s hair, Halla closed her eyes and reveled in the feeling of Tarri’s fingers running through her hair and across her scalp. A pleasured sigh escaped her lips and Tarri’s fingers stopped moving.

“When’s the last time someone did this for you?” Tarri asked her.

“Never.”

Tarri smiled and gently tweaked Halla’s nose. “Then I’ll be sure to do an extra special job.”

Halla smiled back, thrilled that the trader liked her so much. As she drifted off in the sensual luxury of having her hair washed, Halla’s last thought was of hanging upside down from a trap with a pair of bright blue eyes peering back up at her. Whatever had happened to that trapper? she wondered.

“If you decide to sleep in,” Tarri said, “I might be able to give your tunic a wash and have it dry by the time you wake up.”

“Sleep in?” Halla repeated. She was always up with the first light or sooner, either to deal with traps or a cratchety youngster.

“Yes, sleep in,” Tarri replied. She gave Halla an appraising look, adding, “I thought the concept was only foreign to traders.”

“But the traps—”

“—can wait until the sun’s properly up, I’m sure,” Tarri cut her protest short.

Before Halla could reply, Tarri pulled out a large multicolored blanket and some soft sheets, and produced a bed that was nearly the width and length of the wagon. She flicked back one corner, and with a flourish and smile, gestured for Halla to precede her. “Ladies first.”

Halla smiled back and crawled into the bed. Tarri crawled in next to her and Halla moved over to give her room, amazed to find herself with a whole half of a bed. She was asleep in an instant.

When she awoke, the wagon was moving. It took a few moments before Halla’s sense of time informed her that it was past noon. She’d never slept that late before.

She heard voices coming from the front of the wagon. One was Tarri’s, the other was a deeper voice—a man’s. Halla couldn’t make out the words they were saying because of the noise the wheels of the wagon and the rest of the caravan were making, but she could tell from the tone that the man was angry and Tarri was trying to soothe him.

The man’s voice reminded Halla of the holder who had wanted her Shunned. She got up as quietly as she could and searched in the dim light for her tunic. She found it and was surprised at how clean it smelled. She forced herself not to dwell on that for long; the man’s voice made her nervous.

When she tried the wagon’s back door she found it was locked. Were they keeping her prisoner? Was there no escape? Halla looked at the small windows gaily clad with curtains still closed to keep the light out—the windows were clearly too small.

There was no way out but through the curtains leading to the front of the wagon and the angry man.

Halla overcame her fearful shuddering with a deep, slow breath. If she came out on the far side of Tarri, she might be able to avoid the man and run away before anyone knew what had happened. None of the traders had any fleet-footed animals, and she was as good at hiding as she was at tracking. She stood a better chance at running than she did trying to deal with such anger.

She strained to distinguish the conversation over the noise of the wagon.

“For the last time, Veran, she didn’t have anything to do with it,” Halla heard Tarri say. “She was asleep here with me.”

“If you say so,” Veran replied. “But what’s to say that she wasn’t hoping to steal from you, too?”

“She wasn’t.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

“Because I asked if she’d like bangs,” Tarri replied.

“Bangs?”

“You know, hair cut across her forehead,” Tarri said with a hint of exacerbation.

“But she didn’t have the mark of the Shunned,” Veran replied. “Why would it worry her?”

“That’s not the point,” Tarri said. “If she were living with people who were Shunned she would have known immediately what I meant and would have reacted differently.”

“So you’ve reached your judgment on a hunch,” Veran declared.

“As have you,” Tarri responded, her tone gently chiding.

“Hmmph,” Veran muttered thoughtfully. There was a moment’s silence while the trader reflected on Tarri’s point. “So why do you want to let her go?”

“She could lead us to the others,” Tarri said.

Halla pushed her head through the gap in the thick curtains and said, “I can track them if they’ve stolen from you.”

Tarri glanced back at her and smiled. Before Tarri could utter a greeting, Halla’s face clouded and she asked anxiously, “My traps?”

“Checked, cleared, removed, or recovered before we set out,” Tarri told her, adding with a grin, “We’ve got breakfast and lunch thanks to you.”

Halla sighed deeply, and said with relief, “I’d hate the thought of leaving trapped animals to die.”

Veran, who was a good ten Turns older than Tarri, gave her a startled look, which settled into one of keen appraisal.

“Why would you track the others?” he asked in a deep rumble.

“Because I don’t like walking, I like running even less, and I hate the thought of spending all my time worrying that someone might brand me Shunned,” Halla told him honestly.

“How did you come to be with the others?”

“I don’t know who my parents were,” Halla said. In fact, she had only dim memories of a sad-faced but smiling mother, and none of her father. “Moran says he found my brother and me wandering around a Gather Turns ago—”

“Where’s your brother?” Tarri asked, her forehead creased in a frown.

“Dead,” Halla said. “He broke his leg and the wound festered.” She was surprised that she hadn’t thought of Jamal in so long, and ashamed that his memory had faded so much from her thoughts.

“But—” Veran started to protest and then cut himself off. “Was he Shunned, then, that he couldn’t get to a healer?”

“No,” Halla said. “But to see a healer you’ve got to be known to the holders or the crafters.

“If they don’t know you,” she continued, shrugging, “they don’t even ask if you’re Shunned.”

“A trader, then—”

“Traders want marks,” Halla said. “Or trade.” Her tone when she said “trade” made Tarri blush.

Veran blustered at her words. “We traders—”

“—were happy enough to see that girl yesterday,” Tarri interjected. “At least the men.”

Veran weighed her words; from his expression it was obvious that he couldn’t argue with them but he didn’t like the way they set on his mind either. He peered critically at Halla and demanded, “So tell me that you’ve never stolen, then.”

“I won’t lie,” Halla replied, torn between shame, anger, and a strong desire to tell the truth.

“I trap when I can, earn my food and keep like everyone else—” She met his eyes squarely. “—but when I’m starving or the little ones have gone without food so long they can’t even cry anymore, then I’m not above taking from those who’ve more and won’t share even with a starving baby.”

“I’d do the same,” Tarri admitted.

Veran frowned thoughtfully for a moment, glanced away from Halla’s intense eyes, and finally nodded in reluctant agreement.

“If there was another way, I’d do it,” Halla declared, her brown eyes flashing fiercely. “Whenever there is another way, I do it.”

Veran could only glance in her direction for a moment before the intensity of her gaze proved too much for him again.

“The little ones,” Halla asked after a moment, “where are they?”

“We’ve got them,” Veran said.

“So who left?”

“The girl and the lad,” Tarri said.

“What’d they take?”

“You don’t sound surprised,” Veran growled.

“She learned from her mother,” Halla said. “Her mother had bangs.”

Tarri gave Veran a meaningful look.

“I see you don’t name her,” Veran said pointedly.

“Her name’s Milera,” Halla replied. “Her mother’s name is Conni. We were looking for her and Moran—”

“Moran?” Veran interrupted. “That’s the second time you’ve said that name. That wouldn’t be Harper Moran, would it?”

“You mean he’s really a harper?” Halla asked in surprise. When Veran nodded, she explained, “He taught me to read but I was never sure.”

“Master Zist’s had the word out about him for Turns now,” Veran said. Tarri looked at him quizzically—obviously this was news to her, as well. Veran shrugged and sighed before continuing, “What I heard was that Zist had sent Moran to work with the Shunned—”

Halla snorted derisively and Veran nodded in agreement.

“They say,” he continued, “that the Harper Hall is worried about what will happen to the Shunned when Thread comes again.”

“Thread?” Halla peered up to the skies, wondering if the dreaded menace would fall at any moment.

“We’ve Turns before then,” Tarri reassured her. She looked to Veran. “Why would the harpers worry about the Shunned?”

“They didn’t say,” Veran replied. “But we’ve talked about it among ourselves, and it’s thought that perhaps the Shunned might cause problems when Thread falls.”

“They’ll all die,” Halla declared in a dead voice. “They’ve nowhere to go; the Thread will devour them in one Fall.” She looked up imploringly at Veran. “Would you take the little ones? They didn’t do anything wrong, you know.”

“Of course we would,” Veran declared stoutly. “We traders know what’s right and we do it, even if the holders and crafters don’t.

“Besides,” he added quietly, “there’s been dealings between traders and Shunned before.”

Halla nodded. She’d heard as much and expected as much. The Shunned were rootless and desperate, the traders were rootless by choice; it was obvious that the two groups would be in contact, sometimes to mutual advantage.

“We don’t like to admit it,” Tarri confessed. “If the holders or crafters found out we were helping…”

“Besides, some of the Shunned were traders who went bad,” Veran said. He raised his eyes to Halla’s and nodded emphatically. “Most of the Shunned were sent out for good cause.”

“I don’t know what my parents did,” Halla told him. “But my brother didn’t do anything more than he needed to survive, nor do I.”

“Then you’d make a good trader,” Veran declared.

“I’d like to settle someplace, I think.”

“That’s harder,” Veran replied, shaking his head. “Holders don’t like giving up their lands.”

“I thought Pern belonged to everyone,” Tarri said.

“That’s what the traders say,” Veran replied with a smile.

“The little ones, would you take them now?”

“We’d have to talk it over,” Veran said. “But there are some who’ve lost children recently and—”

“Of course we’ll do it,” Tarri said, overriding Veran’s caution. “You can stay, too.”

Halla shook her head. “I’ve got to find Moran.”

“What about the others?” Veran asked.

“I’d prefer to avoid them,” Halla confessed.

Veran nodded understandingly. He pursed his lips thoughtfully and then declared, “Tell us about Moran and the others, and you can go with a pack full of food.”

“The truth?” Halla asked.

“Traders don’t trade in lies,” Tarri warned her. Halla looked at her quizzically while she absorbed her words then nodded in assent.

She spoke for a good twenty minutes, surprised by what she said and how well Tarri and Veran drew her out. She was relieved to unburden herself and glad not to have to worry about shading the truth or having to decide what to leave out of her tale.

“I’ve heard of Conni,” Veran said when she’d finished. “I hadn’t heard about her daughter.”

“She’s a woman now,” Tarri said. Veran gave her a funny look and it took Halla a moment before she realized that Tarri was several Turns older than Milera and so a woman herself.

“They say some men died near the mother,” Veran said, his voice cold. “Enough was proved that she was Shunned.”

“Where was the father?” Tarri asked.

“The father was the first to die,” Veran told her. Tarri and Halla shuddered. Veran gave Halla an admonishing look. “You stay clear of both of them.”

Halla nodded in agreement.

“You could stay with us,” Tarri offered once more.

Halla shook her head again, sadly.

“You can come back if you want,” Veran told her.

“Thank you,” Halla said, smiling. “I’d like to visit again, at the least.”

“I’ll spread the word,” Tarri told her. “You’ll be welcome at any trader fire across Pern by the end of the next sevenday.”

Veran disappeared behind the curtains into the back of the wagon and reappeared some time later with a pack, full, as promised, with provisions.

“Fair trade,” he said, offering the pack to her.

“Thanks.”

“‘Fair trade’ is what you say,” Tarri corrected her.

Halla smiled. “Fair trade.”

“Fair trade,” Tenim said as he left the body lying in the gully. Milera had been a pleasant diversion, but she’d been a fool to think she could stab him while he was sleeping. She’d gotten closer than he’d liked; his shoulder was sore and hot where the dagger had scored.

She’d forfeited her purse and her life when she’d tried to take his. Now Tenim traveled by himself with a pack provisioned for two.

He turned his attention to the trail ahead. Not only had his purse profited—twice—from his stay with the traders, but he’d gained considerably on Moran and Conni. Soon his purse would be even fuller. Tenim liked the idea. A full purse could buy a full belly, a good night’s rest, even a willing partner.

Conni’s purse had bought them a good berth on the barge that sailed down from Crom to Keogh. Her mouth had bought them an abrupt dislodgement on their arrival.

“He was rude,” Conni muttered again, her face buried in a mug full of cheap wine. She was drunk and getting nastier with every sip.

Moran eyed her distastefully. He had allowed his passion to cloud his thinking—again—and, again, he was paying far too much for his error. At least, he consoled himself, the bargeman’s wife had looked upon his charges kindly, so he had reason to hope that they’d be adopted, clearly a better fate for them than remaining close to Conni. Now all he had to do was achieve a similar distance and perhaps he could return, prodigally, to the Harper Hall.

For a moment Moran imagined the look on the faces of the harpers as he returned from his impossible mission. Why, he might even gain his Mastery straight out. He was old enough, nearing his thirtieth Turn even if he looked older.

His pleasant rumination was rudely interrupted by a clatter as Conni’s fingers let slip her mug, and her head fell to the table, insensate. Moran looked at her critically for a long while, reached carefully to remove her hidden purse—at least that’s what she believed it to be—and rose in one fluid motion to head for the door.

“What about her?” a voice growled.

Moran turned and a mark flew out of his hand directly into the innkeeper’s. “She’ll need a place for the night.”

The innkeeper nodded and smiled, the gaps in his teeth showing only slightly darker than the rest of his teeth. “She’ll have one.”

As he left, Moran found himself wondering less where Conni would be sleeping than how far he would be from wherever that was when she woke.

As he made his way out of Keogh, following the river southward, he made a decision and turned sharply right, to the west hills.

Three days later he began to regret his decision. The weather was cold in the foothills, and he could see only mountains ahead of him. His food ran out that night.

The next morning, Moran wished he hadn’t always left the chores of hunting and trapping to Tenim and Halla. He wasn’t a bad trapper—he had taught Tenim when he was little, and Tenim had passed his knowledge on to Halla—but his skills were long-unused.

He caught nothing in a nearby stream, and although he’d been smart enough to remove his pack and boots and roll up his trousers, a misjudged step had sent him into the cold, snow-fed stream so now he had warm feet and a cold backside. He pressed on, knowing that his exertions would soon warm him back up and his body heat would dry his clothes.

Snow started falling before nightfall. Moran found a sheltered cave with difficulty and huddled into it.

Moran woke, shivering. It was still dark. He thrust his head out of the cave opening and looked up into the night sky. It was clear of clouds. The stars shown brightly above him. It was late; both of Pern’s moons had set. Moran paused, listening intently for whatever it was that had disturbed him.

There! Something moved overhead in the night. He cocked his head sideways, trying to track. A meteor? A pair of meteors? The lights almost looked like dragon eyes, but Moran had never heard of dragons flying at this hour. A fire-lizard? No, they were even less willing to fly at night. The brilliant lights grew larger, were coming toward him, and then, just as suddenly, were gone, whizzing over the mountain.

Moran skidded back into the cave and hastily folded his sleep roll and donned his gear. As soon as he could, he set off after the creature, hopeful of finding food or game.

The air was freezing and his breath came in wisps, but he ignored it as he scampered up the hillside. He quickly lost sight of the flying eyes, but he continued climbing, his breath coming in increasingly faster gasps, his lungs protesting the effort, his tired legs threatening to cramp with each upward step.

Finally, just as he felt he could breathe no more or take another step, Moran reached the summit of the hill. He paused, his breath coming in white clouds and searing his lungs, his legs trembling with exertion.

He scanned the new vistas before him. His breath returned to normal and his legs stopped trembling before he finally spotted it: some imperfection in the distance, something that didn’t look natural.

It was a camp, he was sure of it. Perhaps a camp for traders or some Shunned. He doubted that it was a regular hold or temporary quarters—it was too high in the cold mountain air for that. No, whoever was there hoped not to be found. But the wisp of smoke, just barely visible in the dark of night, gave the camp away. For better or worse Moran started toward the camp; he knew he did not have enough supplies to return to Keogh.

He stepped out briskly, eager for his journey’s end and a warm fire, too briskly, his eyes on his goal and not on his footing. Whether it was the snow or the rocks underneath didn’t matter; the slip caused his left calf to spasm into a tight, painful knot, and then he was sliding down the hillside on his right side. His painful slide was finally halted when his head struck a large rock and he remembered nothing more.

Pellar was out inspecting his traps when he spotted the tracks. He checked the back trail—the tracks were headed nearly on a straight line for the wherhandlers’ camp. Pellar quickly removed his traps and started obliterating the trail, replacing it with one that led northward, away from the camp.

Pellar paused, sent a thought to Chitter and smiled when the little fire-lizard appeared directly above him from between. The fire-lizard had brought a pocket of warm, campfire air with him, and that air mixed with the cold air to produce a fine mist that dissipated almost before Pellar noticed it.

Pellar wrote a quick note, tied it to Chitter’s harness, and carefully constructed a mental image of Aleesa for the fire-lizard. Chitter chirped once—happy at the thought of returning to the warm fire—and disappeared between.

Pellar was about to start once more on his work when a nearby noise startled him. He looked around quickly and saw the trail of a rock rolling not far from him. Another rock landed nearby. It came from behind him. Pellar twirled around—and spied a small figure in the distance behind him. The figure was vaguely familiar. It raised a hand to its mouth in a shushing gesture, then held up both hands in a gesture of peace and started walking toward Pellar.

The figure stopped when it was close enough for Pellar to recognize it as a girl.

“I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” the girl asked, still keeping her hands out. Pellar recognized her. She was Halla, the trapper who had been caught in one of his traps. The girl who had kept his existence a secret.

Pellar nodded in answer to her question.

She looked around and gestured to his handiwork, saying, “That’s good work you’ve done, disguising the trail.

“That’s Moran’s trail,” she continued. She looked at Pellar. “Have you seen him?”

Pellar shook his head.

Halla’s eyes narrowed as she considered his answer. Finally, she declared, “You’re changing his trail because of the direction he’s taking.”

Pellar gave the girl a long, frank look before, with a sigh, he nodded. She was too smart to fool, and he decided that trying to would only raise her suspicions further.

“That’s a good idea,” Halla said, moving cautiously closer. “I think Tenim’s after him. Moran’s got a purse full of marks, and Tenim wants it.

“What’s your name?” she asked as she drew closer.

Pellar shook his head and waved in front of his mouth to show that he couldn’t talk. Cautiously he pulled out his slate and wrote on it.

Halla noted his caution and cocked her head at him quizzically. “Do you trust me?”

Pellar gave her an appraising look. She was small, taller than when he’d met her last, but still not much more than skin and bones. He couldn’t imagine that she’d be all that tough if she chose to fight him. And she hadn’t betrayed him back at the camp. He nodded, yes, he trusted her.

He beckoned for her to come closer, lifting the strap of the slate over his head and placing it on the boulder, then moving warily away from her.

Halla raised an eyebrow in surprise. After a moment she shrugged, approached the boulder, and lifted the slate.

“Pellar,” she read aloud. She looked up from the slate to meet his eyes. “Is that your name?”

Pellar nodded.

Suddenly Chitter burst into the air. Halla ducked and stepped back, her eyes wide with fear until she identified the fire-lizard, then she cautiously stood back up, her eyes shining with excitement.

Chitter chirped when he found Pellar and quickly flew to him. The fire-lizard had a message. With one eye on Halla, Pellar carefully removed the message and read it: Come quick, need healer.

“I thought it was Grief,” Halla admitted as she stood up straight once more. Pellar looked questioningly at her. “Tenim has a falcon that spies for him.”

Pellar pursed his lips tight. If Tenim could use his bird to track, then perhaps the camp was already in danger.

“If there’s anything at your camp of value, Tenim will want that, too,” Halla told him.

Pellar nodded in agreement; he remembered too well his fight with the larger lad. He gave Halla one more frank appraisal and then passed the message over for her to read.

Halla read it quickly and glanced back up at him. “Do you want me to follow you and hide our tracks?”

Pellar nodded and grinned, glad that this little girl was so quick in her thinking.

Halla frowned. “If Tenim follows the false trail, it’ll end here and he’ll backtrack. He’ll probably find our trail no matter what we do.”

Pellar wiped his slate and quickly wrote, “Hurry, hope for snow.”

“That might work,” Halla agreed. While Pellar wrote a note and sent Chitter back, Halla worked on extending their false trail to a realistic dead end, a nearby stream that was not completely frozen over. She ended the trail opposite some wind-exposed rocks in the hope that Tenim might decide that Moran had climbed out the other side of the stream by the rocks.

When she turned back she was surprised to see Pellar watching her with great interest. He smiled oddly at her and waved a beckoning hand: “Let’s go.”