Date: 2019-10-20T18:00:00+00:00
Description: Tremendous world building! - H. Bala, Amazon Top 100 Reviewer For Mark Caldwell, an unsatisfying life was about to take a turn both terrifying and exhilarating as his fate took an unimaginable turn. When Mark took his aisle seat aboard United flight 4382, he was ignorant of three facts. The fellow passenger in the window seat was named Joseph Colsco. Neither of them would ever set foot on Earth again. They both would be cast naked on an alien planet. Adapt or die. Those were the choices. Determined to grasp the chance at a second life, Mark plunges into an adventure he could not anticipate and

Destiny’s Crucible

Book 6

PASSAGES

OLAN THORENSEN

Copyright 2019

All rights reserved

This is an original work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people and places is coincidental.

Color maps of Anyar with more detail than the cover image are at olanthorensen.com. The author can be reached at olanthorensen@gmail.com.

CONTENTS

Chapter

PROLOGUE

1AN END AND A BEGINNING

2A SECOND LIFE

3REFUGE

4ADJUSTING

5NEXT STAGE

6BEWARE THE STIRKIN

7FIRST INTRODUCTION

8TWO INNOVATIONS

9KALEDON

10RETURN TO KALEDON

11WEAVING

12BRAWSEA

13A VEILED WARNING

14ELATION’S DARK SHADOW

15HUNTED

16ASHES

17A COLD DARK FIRE

18A DEBT PAID

19WANDER SOUTH

20STAY AHILE

21DISPLAY

22SETTLING IN

23COMMITMENT

24THEN THERE WERE THREE

25DESTREX SOLO

26AN UNFORESEEN DANGER

27STAND AND FIGHT

28KEEP MOVING

29TEKLEUM

30SHIP WEST

31INTERCEPTED

32RIFLE AND MACE

33WHAT NEXT?

34IN THE SADDLE AGAIN

35CLOSER

36THE SONG

37A PASSAGE AND A RISK

38RECOGNITION

39SO MUCH FOR CAREFUL PLANNING

40LEAVE NOW!

41MUSTAFA

42AT SEA AGAIN

43“WHAT THE—”

“Finding our true selves can be a longer journey than one to the far side of the world.” —Saint Sidyrn of Nogolas

“We don’t receive wisdom; we must discover it for ourselves after a journey that no one can take for us or spare us.” —Marcel Proust

“We find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.” —John Steinbeck

“In the middle of the journey of our life I came to myself within a dark wood where the straight way was lost.” —Dante Alighieri

“The longest journey is the journey inwards.” —Dag Hammarskjold

“Even the most successful traveler can stumble and lose their way. The trick is to stand straight and get back on course.” —Rhaedri Brison, Caedellium

PROLOGUE

Mark Caldwell tried to console himself that the seas were relatively calm. It didn’t help that he knew the sway of his position atop the main mast ranged more than twenty-five feet. He tried to avoid looking down and seeing either ocean or the ship’s deck a dizzying distance below. He failed in the effort when necessity required or when he couldn’t help himself.

THUNK!

The reverberations from the cannonball blow traveled outward from his spine to the tips of all four extremities and the top of his skull. He held his breath for a moment before being reasonably convinced the mast remained upright. If it broke, he didn’t expect to escape the harness holding him to the lookout platform. Then he would crash onto the deck or be dragged underwater by ropes and sails.

His relief was momentary before canister rounds impacted the inch-thick wood of the shield facing the Narthani sloop. Captain Partinel had assured him the creolin wood was impervious to mere canister or musket balls, most of the time. However, most of the time wasn’t always.

The irony would have been amusing under other circumstances. After graduating from the U.S. Naval Academy, he had served the required minimum years before resigning to go back to civilian life. One of several reasons for his decision was to avoid sea duty. And yet here he was. If the Fates, God, or Gods existed, they must be laughing.

CHAPTER 1

AN END AND A BEGINNING

Beach Near Tregallon, Dominion of Frangel, Planet Anyar

He woke up staring at the sky. Scattered white clouds moved across a blue background—not the azure of Earth but a lighter tone, a muted cerulean blue. A V-formation of flyers crossed in front of a cloud. They were not birds. Sounds diverted his attention. Waves. Water touched his feet. His fingers flexed and dug into . . . warm, dry sand? He raised his head and saw surf breaking fifty yards away. Water from another spent wave washed over his feet. He looked to his right and saw an empty beach bordered by plant growth that was not quite trees. To the left, a hundred yards away, more beach ended in a rocky spine that extended into the water.

He shivered, but not from cold. A forlorn plea flashed over his consciousness: Was this the beach in Hawaii where he’d spent his and Jocelyn’s honeymoon? That had been perfect—or so he’d thought at the time.

Reality vanquished fantasy. Twenty feet away, another flyer darted through his vision—a blue body and white wings, whistling like no bird ever did. Strange-looking insect-like creatures buzzed past him. Creatures that were not insects.

Memories washed over him. Panic gripped his chest, and his fingers dug into the copper-colored sand. The artificial intelligence he’d named Hal had been truthful. This wasn’t Earth. The sun whose warmth he suddenly noticed wasn’t Sol. He knew this sunlight shone not on Colorado where he grew up, Palo Alto where he lived, or, for that matter, Finland, Madagascar, or Japan. This sun shone on an entire planet he knew little about.

The knowing made him dizzy. He closed his eyes and willed his breathing to slow and deepen. He rose to one elbow, rolled to that side, braced his other hand on the sand, and slowly pushed himself into a sitting position. He was naked. He hadn’t thought to ask in what condition he would be abandoned.

A larger wave broke fifty yards away, and he tried to stand until his spinning head precluded the thought to move higher on the beach. The final push of the wave encircled him before receding, and he crawled twenty yards into warmer, drier sand. There he sat and let the conflicting thoughts intertwine before they settled into acceptance.

Emotion swirled through his mind. Fear at facing an unknown future and elation at the chance to start life over—as if he’d fallen off a cliff, only half confident a cushion awaited his landing. He would never see Earth again. Never speak English to another person. Never see again any of the people he’d known over his lifetime. Have no physical ties to his previous life. Never watch TV, drink Coca-Cola, eat chocolate or tacos, or do any of the thousands of things that had made up his existence.

However, for reasons he didn’t fully understand, he didn’t despair the losses as much as might have been expected had he been content with his life. He knew his view might change with time, but he had a sense of being reborn. Whatever had gone wrong with his life had been wiped clean. Exhilaration at the possibilities warred with trepidation—both causing his pulse to quicken.

His vision whirled and he almost fainted when he tried to stand, so he crawled another twenty yards over the sand into the shade of vegetation and leaned against a trunk of a “tree.”

It’s real, he thought. I thought I finally believed it aboard the spacecraft, but maybe part of me held out hope it was somehow a dream, delusion, or illusion—anything but true. Now I know. I have to put aside anything except how to survive here. But not now. Now I need to wait until the dizziness passes. Just a few minutes, and I’ll try again to stand.

He let himself feel the onshore wind waft over his nakedness, hear the waves that sounded like those of Earth, and reflect.

***

It was odd what he remembered—the pinstriped suit he’d worn onto the plane because the meeting in Chicago was at the airport. He wouldn’t have time to check into a hotel and change.

The plane filling, passengers jostling to find seats and storing carry-ons.

The nerdy-looking young man in the window seat when he found 28C, his own aisle seat.

The teenage Hispanic girl who sat between them. He’d had to step into the plane’s aisle to let her in, moments after seating himself.

The movie he’d watched on the flight to distract himself from the latest disappointment at home—this time his wife grumbling about needing a larger house because she’d decided their current neighbors needed upgrading.

Their fourteen-year-old daughter whining about her limited wardrobe that cost thousands of dollars, some items having been worn only a few times.

The embarrassed young mother walking her baby up and down the plane’s aisle in an attempt to soothe the infant into silence.

The teenage girl with the pink hair and the nose ring.

The sturdy man in cowboy hat and boots.

The distinguished-looking woman with gray hair.

A tall African American man helping a diminutive young Asian woman put her carry-on in the overhead compartment.

The man in first class with tattoos covering both arms and his neck.

Of the collision he had no memory. One instant he was focusing on the movie, and the next moment he was falling outside the aircraft, battered by turbulence in the freezing air, as he slowed from five hundred miles per hour.

Then . . . nothing, until he awoke in a white room. He looked around. He was alone.

“Hello,” he called out, his voice cracking.

After clearing his throat, he tried again.

“Hello. Is anyone there? Where am I?”

“You were in an accident and sustained minor injuries. Everything should be fully functional,” came a disembodied voice.

Accident? Functional?

He frowned. Then he remembered: the plane, falling. His mouth gaped, eyes widened, and heart pounded.

“What—?”

“Do not be alarmed. Everything is fine. We believe you are functioning within normal parameters.”

“Where am I, and where are you?”

The voice ignored his query and repeated a series of questions, only moving on once Mark answered.

“Thank you, Mark, your mental functioning seems to be satisfactory. Rest now, and we will talk more later.”

“Hey! I answered your questions, so how about . . . ”

His awareness ended, as if a door had slammed shut.

In his next conscious moment he was once again staring at the white ceiling. This time he tensed muscles and sat up on a white slab. Rotating his body, he sat on the edge. The entire room was the same featureless white.

“Hello. Anybody there? How about telling me what the hell is going on?”

Silence. He glanced down at a naked body. That fact did not shock him as much as the missing roll of stomach fat that for the last several years he had promised himself to do something about . . . and never did.

“What!”

His torso and limbs were pale and the skin flaccid. Had he been in a coma long enough for the change in his physique?

“Mark, there is something you need to be made aware of. It is theorized that since you said you are an engineer, a practical demonstration might make acceptance easier.”

“Huh?”

Suddenly, movement came out of the corner of his vision. He jerked his head to the right. A two-inch-diameter blue ball bounced off the floor at a forty-five-degree angle. It was the first color he’d seen in the room, but what mesmerized him was that the ball moved far too slowly. He watched as it hit a wall, then the ceiling, the opposite wall, and the floor . . . repeating the cycle twice more before Mark staggered to his feet and walked two steps to catch the ball.

He squeezed it—some kind of rubber or another material with similar elastic properties. He held it at eye level and released it. It fell too slowly.

“What?”

He repeated the act twice more with the same result.

“This isn’t right,” he said aloud. “Hey, whoever you are. Is this ball made of some odd material, is it hollow, or somehow has helium encased—something to make it fall slow?”

“Try the iron ball, Mark.”

“What iron ball?”

He turned to look around and stubbed a toe.

“Aw! Damn! What—”

Next to his foot sat a metallic ball the same size as the blue one. He picked it up. It was heavy, ten times or more the weight of the blue ball.

“How do you do that?” he questioned. The voice didn’t answer.

He held both balls at eye level and dropped them together. If there was something about the blue ball counteracting gravity, the iron ball should hit the floor first. He was repeating the classic experiment of Galileo. Absent air resistance or buoyancy effects, two objects, no matter the size or composition, should fall at the same rate.

They hit at the same instant . . . the metal ball not moving off the floor and the blue ball bouncing up.

A chill started at Mark’s neck and traveled down to his feet. He repeated the test twice more. He knew one answer to the puzzle, but it couldn’t be true . . . could it?

“It is assumed you are aware the gravity you are experiencing is less than on the surface of Earth.”

Mark didn’t respond, his mind searching for other options.

“It is understandable this may be difficult to accept. To aid your understanding, the gravity in the room will be altered slowly. Try not to make sudden movements or push off from surfaces too strongly.”

He suddenly felt lighter.

Although he could only estimate time, it must have been several hours later when he began to accept the voice’s assertions. He was on an alien spacecraft that had accidentally collided with his airliner. The aliens had rescued him after the plane had disintegrated, and they had healed—or repaired, as the voice told him—his injuries.

With no references to judge time intervals, he could only estimate the number of days that followed. This period was hard, as he cycled among disbelief, confusion, fear, anger, despair, hope, and, finally, so he thought, acceptance when the artificial intelligence (AI) he’d named Hal told him he would never return to Earth. His only options were to be terminated or placed on a planet inhabited by humans.

“Humans? On another planet? How is that possible?”

“The answer to your question is unknown at this time, only that humans, along with a selection of plants and other animals, were transplanted from Earth to other planets. All of these planets are being remotely observed.”

“What kind of selection? How many? What kind?”

The voice was silent for several seconds . . . which was unusual. Then . . .

“Details of the selection process are unknown. From orbit, only larger life forms are discernible. For example, there are horses but not elephants, redwood trees but not baobab trees.”

A thought rose in Mark’s mind. “Earth insects and . . . uh . . . spiders?”

“Unknown. They are too small.”

Well, there’s hope, he thought. Spiders rated as his least favorite creatures—to his embarrassment.

He had also experienced many moments that combined degrees of frustration, wonder, and revelation, such as the interchange that began when he inquired of other passengers.

“Are there other survivors?”

“I cannot give you that information.”

“Huh? Why not? Am I the only one?”

“I cannot give you that information.”

“Whether or not there were others, how did I survive? I should be dead.”

“We retrieved you in good condition, considering the circumstances. That your injuries were relatively minor is best attributed to serendipity, allowing straightforward repairs.”

“I wish you wouldn’t refer to me as a machine.”

“As you prefer, although, strictly speaking, you are a biological machine.”

“So, I was injured. Exactly how?”

“It is not necessary for you to have this information. All you need to know is you will find yourself in good condition, plus additions to your functioning will help you better adapt to your new home.”

Mark didn’t like the word additions.

“Uh . . . what additions are you talking about?”

“The gravity of the planet you will be taken to is 1.18 times that of Earth. Although the difference is not insurmountable for you to adapt to, as part of our obligation to you we have modified your energy-producing genes for more efficiency. You should find the added weight of no concern. In fact, you may experience enhanced energy over your previous condition, although our familiarity with human physiology makes this uncertain.

“In addition, in studying your condition, we discovered a mass of cells that apparently had escaped replication control and was invading several sections of your brain. Your current level of medical technology would likely have been unable to provide a positive prognosis, and you would have died within a year of your time.”

Mark’s hand tightened on the bar at the end of the platform he’d slept on.

“You mean . . . I have cancer?”

“You had cancer. While we made minor repairs caused by the collision and made slight modifications to improve your physiology, we also introduced elements into your system that destroy uncontrolled cells—the cancer. The elements are a permanent addition to your body, and be assured you will never again develop cancer.”

Mark assumed the “elements” referred to a type of nano-machine, as had been theorized might be developed to remove plaque from arteries, suppress neuron-associated amyloid bodies related to Alzheimer’s, and attack cancerous cells. From what he’d read, humans were a generation or more from such developments, but he wasn’t surprised that anyone, or anything, that could fly between stars would have developed amazing medical science. What did surprise him was the ability to apply such knowledge to alien physiologies. He had to ask.

“How is it you could do this since your physiology and biochemistry must be quite different from mine?”

“By ‘you,’ I assume you mean my creators. While there are biological differences, there are only a few basic paths to develop life. In addition, human biology is relatively simple.”

Mark wondered whether Hal had intentionally dropped tidbits of information it had previously avoided, or was the AI fallible and didn’t realize it had revealed its creators were biological? In addition, if Hal thought humans were relatively simple biologically, it must mean there were more complex organisms. He wanted to probe for more information but was reticent, in case Hal had slipped up and querying would alert the AI to be more careful.

“Okay,” Mark said. “Are there any other effects of these elements?”

“They will also prevent you from developing illnesses caused by any type of micro-organism or virus. However, the general protective action will not allow you to receive transplants of any kind from other humans or animals.”

“Well, all this sounds like a good deal. If I understand correctly, I won’t ever get cancer or become ill. Do I have it right?”

“That is correct. However, you are still subject to accidental damage to your body. Once you leave this ship, there will be no further access to our medical technologies.”

Mark quit speaking, as he mulled over the revelations. If Hal was truthful, the accident had saved his life. He might already have been dead because he didn’t know how long it had been since the collision. Instead, he was alive and would never again contract cancer or any disease.

The problem was the tradeoff for saving his life—losing Earth forever and being dumped into an alien society with no guarantees of survival or prospects. His gut longed to return to Earth and the life he knew, but as time passed in the white room, and in his calmer, more introspective moments, he acknowledged that he’d lucked out. Even if given a choice between the accident never having happened or his present situation, he knew he would have no choice but to go with the second option. Not that he liked it. Not that he wasn’t angry to be at the mercy of powers beyond his control. But he accepted, as much as he could, that all things considered, he had stumbled into better fortune than he could ever have imagined. Justified or not, he felt he deserved a spell of good luck.

After the required four years of service following graduation from the Naval Academy, he’d left the U.S. Navy, due to a combination of his wife wanting a different lifestyle, Mark’s finding he didn’t like sea duty, and his not being enthused about a career of shore assignments. Instead, he opted for industry and a more opulent lifestyle than the navy could offer.

Only on his fortieth birthday did he realize he hated his life, including a wife he hadn’t loved for most of the marriage, a daughter turning into a copy of her mother, and a management position with no strong connection to building anything—the reason he’d studied engineering. And that was without counting the cancer fated to kill him within a year.

In the end, despite fear of an unknown future, he tried to see the opportunity in starting again, although not in a manner he’d expected. For several years he had fantasized about divorcing his wife, forswearing the executive life, and searching for something he looked forward to each day. However, he’d never worked up the courage or overcome whatever inertia had stopped him from changing his life. He didn’t dwell on assigning fault for his unhappiness; he only knew that he’d taken too many wrong forks. Now that the decision was forced on him, one regret was not forming a bond with his only child.

Still, that was the past, and Mark persisted in probing for more information on where he would spend the rest of his life, however long or short it would be. Hal deflected most of Mark’s queries, but occasionally tidbits of information seeped through, such as when the AI showed Mark images of the destination planet as seen from space.

“You say you’re merely a passive observer of the humans on this planet,” said Mark, “but that seems contradictory to putting me among them because I might change things.”

“So unlikely as to be discounted,” droned Hal in its emotionless voice. “One human will be irrelevant and insignificant among hundreds of millions.”

Mark flushed and bit off words on the tip of his tongue, though they were prominent in his mind.

Irrelevant? Insignificant? Maybe you’re right, you cold piece of machinery, but we’ll see. I don’t know what’s in store, but I’ll do everything I can to make you eat those words.

CHAPTER 2

A SECOND LIFE

For the second time in his life, Mark Caldwell came naked into a world. However, this time he was aware of what was happening, had a lifetime of memories, and had no caregiver to protect him as he attempted to fit into his second world, his second life.

He lay naked on a beach, knowing no one, having no possessions, not speaking the local language, and having no information on the society and what mores, laws, and customs he might infringe on. His losses were formidable and the future uncertain, but it depended on him to forge the next chapters of his life.

A hint of thirst prompted him to move, to take the first steps into his new life, whatever it was to be. Another wave washed over him. A tide was coming in. He raised a wet hand to his mouth. Saltwater. It was an ocean.

For the second time, he tried to stand. Rolling to his right, he braced both hands on the sand, raised his left knee to plant the foot, and pushed. He paused, his hands and one foot supporting his weight, and slowly arched his back to plant the other foot before releasing his hands. He was upright for the first time. Dizziness almost made him sink back to the sand, but he closed his eyes and focused on breathing.

After several minutes, his head cleared, and he looked around. The beach appeared the same as it had from the ground. He turned away from the water. A solid wall of vegetation seven to ten feet high began where the sand ended. In his naked condition, he didn’t relish pushing through the growth. He cautiously took a step, then another and another. Once confident he could move, he walked toward the rock spine, looking for a way off the beach. Unable to find a path or less vegetation, he reversed and walked almost two hundred yards past where he’d first awakened, then stopped when the beach ended at a cliff.

He reversed again to where the vegetation seemed lowest and slowly worked his way into the growth, probing with his feet to avoid rocks and dried thorny twigs. It was slow going, and scratches accumulated. The land rose gradually, and when he looked back, he glimpsed aqua-blue waters. From his prone position on the beach, he hadn’t seen over the breaking waves to an opposite shore rising into hills and distant mountains.

He winced as something sharp scraped across his right side, leaving a four-inch furrow that oozed blood. The dizziness threatened to return, but there was no place to sit, so he forged on. He knew he hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards, but it felt like a mile. Just as he was about to concede he had to lie down, he pushed through a stand of reed-like plants and stumbled onto a dirt road with low, grassy plant stubble down the middle.

“Wagons,” he said to the air. “There must be regular wagon traffic to keep the wheel tracks worn.”

His gratefulness was short-lived, as he wobbled toward a bare shoulder off the road. He didn’t make it and felt his back hit the ground before he passed out.

Ulwyn Hovey sang softly, enjoying the mild weather as he made his way from the village of Hoxney to his hometown of Tregallon. He had only six miles left. Soon he would come upon the first farms once he cleared the brush-covered section of road running along the shores of Derwun Bay. Hoxney had proved more profitable than he’d anticipated. The villagers were close enough to Tregallon that many people did their trading and buying in the larger town. However, a series of storms had temporarily closed the road while he was farther out on his semicircular trading route. The road had only reopened the previous day, and enough Hoxney inhabitants were eager for his wares that it was a gratifying final stop in an already profitable trip.

Robberies were not common in this part of Frangel, but neither were they unknown, and his jovial mood didn’t prevent him from staying alert. He had been robbed three times in his forty-six years of trading on the roads between Kaledon and Brawsea, the two largest cities in the realm of Frangel. He had gone armed after the first time. On one occasion, Ulwyn brandished his musket, which changed a scruffy attacker’s enthusiasm for robbery. On a second occasion, Ulwyn had killed the man who was about to fire on him. A third holdup attempt had occurred when he was accosted by three armed men. He wisely didn’t dispute their wanting everything but the clothes he wore. Later, he followed them forty miles to the town of Kolwyn, where he recruited men who knew him as an honest trader. Ten armed men captured the three robbers. Ulwyn recovered all but some coin they’d already spent. He stayed in Kolwyn a sixday until the end of the robbers’ trial, where they were sentenced to three years on the Frangel penal island near Brawsea, the capital.

On this fine day near home, he was in the sixteenth verse of “The Ladies of Kaledon,” with four more to go. It was one of his favorite songs, but he dared not sing it within his wife’s hearing. He began the song’s refrain just as the wagon turned a corner, then he pulled hard on the reins of his horse team. A naked man lay on the right side of the road.

Ulwyn laid a hand on his musket while he looked and listened. The man looked paler than most people, had short hair and no beard, and was covered in scratches. He was alive, as evidenced by the rising and falling of his chest.

“Hello there!” Ulwyn shouted. “Hello!”

The man didn’t move.

“All right, I’m coming down to check on you,” Ulwyn called out loud, so both the man on the ground and anyone hiding would hear. “I’ve got a musket and have killed robbers many times, so think twice before doing anything stupid.”

He climbed off the wagon, his arthritic knees creaking, hefted the musket, and edged his way toward the naked man. His distance eyesight wasn’t what it used to be, but he could see clearly within thirty yards, and his hearing was as sharp as ever. If anyone was hiding in the brush, they were staying frozen. His hearing picked up nothing but the distant surf, the rustling of branches and leaves in the wind, and an occasional murvor or bird call.

Ulwyn stood alert while he pondered what he should do. The man wasn’t his business. There was a chance it was still a ruse of some kind, and if it wasn’t, why would anyone be naked out here for whatever reason? Maybe the man was crazy.

Ulwyn’s preferred option would have been to move on and let someone else worry about what to do. He wasn’t a pious man, but, if asked, he said he was of the Sholster faith. Of the religious practices in Frangel, it was the least demanding—which appealed to him. Not that many probed into others’ personal beliefs. Centuries had passed since the religious wars and persecutions that had blighted the Drilmar continent, but the period had so stained history that it was considered poor form to even inquire into a stranger’s religion.

Still, he did attend occasional Sholster services, and his wife was a fervent follower of the Twelve Tenets—one of which was to succor the stranger in need. Sighing, he knelt next to the man. The breathing was unfettered, and the pulse was strong. His decision made, he retrieved a flask of water from his wagon, propped the man up, and let water trickle into his mouth. This elicited first a sputter, then the man’s lips latched onto the flask’s tip, and he vigorously drank. His eyes fluttered before opening.

“What are you doing out here with no clothes?” Ulwyn asked. “You’re lucky it’s me that came along, not wanting to risk my wife finding out I left you alongside the road.” He laughed.

Water touching his lips brought Mark to awareness. He swallowed eagerly and sucked for more. An arm held him upright, and he struggled to open his eyes. At first, he saw only a head outlined against the sky. Then the head shifted and covered the sun. The man had a gray beard, a cap with a tip hanging to one side, and a dark brown shirt.

The man giving him water said something unintelligible that sounded like no language Mark recognized—one more confirmation.

He tried to speak, but the words didn’t come out. He took another swallow of water from the flask and tried again.

“Thank you, whoever you are.”

The gray-bearded man replied, probably saying he didn’t understand Mark’s words.

After several more fruitless exchanges, the man shrugged and tugged on Mark’s arm.

He wants me to stand, thought Mark. Maybe I’ve lucked out and chanced on a good Samaritan. I need to try to show appreciation.

He patted the man’s arm, smiled as best he could, and was helped to his feet. To his relief, the dizziness didn’t return, and he let himself be led to a large, multicolored, box-shaped wagon drawn by two horses. The man stood him against the wagon’s side and went to the rear, then returned with a pair of brown trousers and a buttonless gray shirt. After minimal miming, Mark understood the intention. The man supported him while he donned the trousers and pulled the shirt over his head and shoulders.

Mark sighed. “God. Who would have thought two pieces of plain clothing could feel so wonderful!”

The transition from nakedness to clothed felt like a shot of adrenaline. Mark would later ruminate on how such a tiny piece of civilization could make such a difference. But for now, the question was what came next? For all he knew, there was a custom or law against picking up hitchhikers. Would the man leave him as he was? If so, it was a hell of a lot better condition than a few minutes ago. He’d had water and was no longer naked so wouldn’t scare people—he hoped. Maybe he could follow the man to a town and see where that led.

The man spoke again, this time at length. Mark had the impression most of the words were the man talking to himself. When the monologue ended, the man motioned for Mark to sit on the ledge at the end of the wagon. With help, Mark sat with feet dangling, and the man indicated a strap hanging from one corner of the wagon’s body.

I think he means I should hang on, Mark thought. I guess hitchhiking isn’t illegal, but neither do I rate sitting with the driver, owner, or whatever he is. Maybe there is a good Samaritan custom, but how far does it reach?

The wagon moved at an easy pace. Mark hadn’t noticed details before, but from his view to the rear he could see a relatively smooth roadbed, with pebbles and only a few ruts. Nevertheless, he held on tight because jolts came unexpectedly. He lost the view of the water within a half mile, as they entered a forest—at least, that’s how Mark thought of plants the size of trees unlike anything he knew of on Earth. Rough-surfaced trunks divided twenty to thirty feet off the ground into a branching network whose smaller members sprouted feathery purple-green foliage. Flying creatures became more common, with most resembling a cross between birds and lizards. Then, to his surprise and pleasure, a blue jay landed on a rock and scolded them.

Well, it looks like a blue jay, he thought, and that’s good enough for me. Hal said there had been animals and plants transplanted here. I already know there are humans and horses. Maybe seeing a few familiar forms will help me feel less lost.

The forest thinned and turned into groves separating farmland with crops he recognized and those he didn’t. Thatched houses, barns, and sheds became more common, and he saw occasional people. The driver spoke several times to passersby; Mark assumed he was greeting familiar faces and possibly explaining the stray he’d picked up east of town.

Farms gave way to clusters of small houses, then larger houses and buildings, until the wagon passed through a wall opening into a courtyard. Ducks scattered, quacking protests, and a woman about the man’s age came out of the house and shouted something.

“Where did you find him?” asked Gwanel Hovey.

“Near where the road runs along Derwun Bay about three hours ago. Just lying semiconscious on the road, naked as can be. Naturally, I stopped to help, just as any good Sholster follower would do.”

The facial expression of Ulwyn’s wife conveyed the depth of her skepticism. “And when did you follow the tenets, except when it suits you, Ulwyn Hovey?”

“If I don’t always adhere to them, I am reassured that you’re around to remind me how devout you are.”

“Don’t you sass me, old man, not if you want to eat dinner tonight or sleep next to me.”

Ulwyn pretended to grumble and ignore her words, as part of the game they’d played for their forty-two years of marriage. Neither of them could imagine anything that could break their bond.

“Well, let’s get him in the house and take a look at those scratches. Looks like he got dragged through thorns.”

“He might as well have been. He had sand sticking to him, so he must have come from the beach and walked right through the shrubbery. He’s obviously not from around here, or he’d know of the beaten path leading to the western end of beach. It’s a favorite fishing spot, and if he’d waited there, someone would have come along and found him.”

“And I wonder what they would have thought of a strange, naked man?” asked Gwanel. She cackled. “Maybe whoever found him wouldn’t have been someone as devout as Saint Ulwyn.”

CHAPTER 3

REFUGE

Mark watched and listened to the couple’s unintelligible exchange. Their appearance and tone with each other reminded him of his Uncle Bill and Aunt Betty. Still gripping the strap he’d used to stay on the wagon’s back ledge, Mark hadn’t moved since the wagon had stopped. He was afraid if he let go, he’d fall to the ground. Only when the man and the woman took him by the arms and the woman said something softly did he release the leather. They supported him to stand and led him into a house constructed of what looked like bricks. Once inside, they put him to bed in a small room. As soon as they released him, he fell face forward and was instantly asleep.

“My, the poor man must have been at the end of his strength. You couldn’t have put him inside the wagon? It’s a wonder he didn’t fall off, and you wouldn’t even have known it until you got home.”

“All right, all right, Gwanel, I admit you’re right. I didn’t think about what shape he might be in. I should have known better after seeing him lying on the road. I must not have been thinking clearly, so eager was I to get home and see your face.”

“Hmmph,” Gwanel sniffed, but her smile erased any criticism.

“So, now what do we do with him?” asked Ulwyn.

“He doesn’t smell that bad,” said Gwanel, “so he’s been cleaned up fairly recently, which makes me wonder all the more what he was doing out on the beach at Derwun Bay. However, some of the scratches I can see need attention, so he must have more all over his body. Help me get the clothes off, and let’s see the rest of him.”

Ulwyn complied without comment, there being no strict nudity taboos, except in formal social situations. He rolled the man as he and his wife removed the trousers and the shirt.

“Tsk. Some of those scratches look nasty, especially a couple I imagine are from krafun thorns. I’ll clean them and put on some ointment, but I’m afraid one or more of those will get infected. If that happens, we’ll have to get him to a healer.”

Ulwyn groaned as softly as he could, so his wife wouldn’t hear. He hadn’t thought of what to do with the man after getting him home. What he hadn’t planned to do was spend coin to pay for medical treatments for someone he didn’t know and had no responsibilities for. Maybe bringing him to his wife’s attention was a mistake, but now there was nothing to do about it.

Gwanel first cleaned the man’s entire body with warm water.

“No beard?” she questioned. “So, he’s likely not from Frangel. And not even stubble, so he must have shaved within a day or two. Could he have fallen off some ship and washed up on the beach?”

“Why would a ship of foreigners be in Derwun Bay?” asked Ulwyn. “There’s no port, and foreigners don’t fish in these waters.”

Everyone on Drilmar adhered to fishing treaties as part of the peace accords of two centuries ago.

“I’ve heard tell that some men elsewhere on Anyar have shaved faces,” said Gwanel. “I’ve talked with other women about some advantages of a beardless husband—like not getting tickled or scratched when his mouth is in sensitive places. Plus, food wouldn’t catch in the beard the way it does with your brother Rhomun. God’s mercy! I sometimes swear I could tell what that man had eaten the last three or four days by glancing at his beard.”

“Rhomun never was one to pay attention to cleanliness,” said Ulwyn. “Our mother almost had to tie his hands and feet to get him into a bath. That, plus his nasty nature, always made me wonder how he’s lived this long without someone killing him. He’s two years older than me, and I certainly was relieved when he left home to go to Brawsea. When he came home three years later, scruffier and meaner than before, Father and Mother refused to let him live at home. I haven’t seen him in fifteen years since he moved back to Brawsea. I don’t even know if he’s alive.”

“Well, this one’s alive,” said Gwanel. “Beard or no, he’s a healthy piece of a man. I’d say, what . . . about thirty years old, maybe a little more? Hard to tell, but he’s got a strong frame and big bones, though his muscles are slack, as if they hadn’t been used much recently. I’ll bet he can fill out into an impressive size and heft.”

The cloth she was using had progressed below his abdomen. “He’s certainly endowed,” she said. “Better have a good-sized wife to handle this.” She moved on to his legs.

“Help me roll him over,” she ordered.

“I guess that confirms what he was doing,” she said, seeing only a few scratches on the back of his torso, buttocks, and legs. “He must have started off at the beach unmarred and got all the scratches as he pushed his way to the road. I’ll finish here, then go back to treat the worst of them. Then we’ll let him rest. When he wakes, he’ll be hungry, and maybe we can find out more about him.”

Cooking odors were the first thing Mark noticed. He couldn’t identify the ingredients, but his stomach rumbled before his eyes opened. He was on a mattress—at least, that’s what he assumed. He lay directly on cloth, but whatever was beneath the cloth felt lumpy, and he detected an occasional near prick when he shifted his weight.

At least, the ceiling isn’t white, was his next thought, like the all-white room where he first awoke after the collision.

He tensed muscles to sit up and succeeded, but only after considerable effort. The room was about fifteen feet square with plain wooden furniture. He saw what looked like a bookcase, although the shelves held folded cloth and clothing, several pair of shoes, and two boxes.

Their version of a chest of drawers? he wondered.

Then he noticed he wore trousers and a shirt different from the ones the man in the wagon had given him. He also felt cleaner, and several of the deeper scratches were covered with an ointment.

Voices came from elsewhere—a man and a woman. Then he remembered the woman he’d seen when they’d first arrived.

Must be his wife.

“Hello?” he called.

“Ah . . . he’s awake,” said Gwanel from the kitchen. “Go bring him here, and I’ll feed him.”

Ulwyn went to the spare bedroom/storage room and found the stranger sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Hmmph. You’re awake. You slept most of the afternoon, which means you must have needed it. Gwanel is committed to feeding you. I suggest you show proper appreciation, or her mood will change faster than a dolerter can run.” The wild grazing animal was famous for its speed and graceful lines.

Ulwyn tugged on one arm. The man got the message and slowly rose to his bare feet. Ulwyn led him to the kitchen table, where Gwanel was laying out bread, a thick stew, and water. The stranger sat and didn’t need prompting to pick up the spoon and dive into the stew bowl. After several bites, he dipped the bread into the juices and within minutes finished the stew and half a loaf of bread.

“Better not give him any more yet,” said Ulwyn. “Let what he’s eaten settle first. We don’t know how long it’s been since he ate. He might get sick if he overeats.”

“Any idea what his name is?” asked Gwanel.

Ulwyn sat opposite the man and rapped knuckles on the table to draw his attention.

“What . . . is . . . your . . . name?” he said.

Mark just stared.

“Name. Name. What’s your name?” Ulwyn reiterated firmly.

“God give me patience,” said Gwanel, rolling her eyes to the heavens. “For someone as clever a trader as you are, you can be incredibly dense at times. You already said he speaks some language you’ve never heard before. It stands to reason he might not understand you any better. He may be some foreigner who fell off a ship.”

She pushed her husband out of his seat and took his place. Smiling, she tapped her chest. “GWA . . . nel. GWA . . . nel. Gwanel. Gwanel.”

The man nodded and pointed to her. “GwaNUL. GwaNUL.”

She shook her head. “GWAnel.”

This time he came very close in pronouncing it correctly. She tapped herself again. “Gwanel Hovey. Gwanel Hovey.” She pointed at her husband. “Ulwyn Hovey. Ulwyn Hovey.”

“Gwanel Hovey. Ulwyn Hovey.”

“Hah! Trust a woman to get through to a man,” boasted Gwanel, who then pointed at the man. He got the message immediately.

“Mark. Mark Caldwell.”

“Mark Kaldwel,” Gwanel repeated, turning to Ulwyn. “His name is Mark Kaldwel.”

“Never heard of him,” said Ulwyn before he could catch himself.

“That’s because he’s a stranger, you dotty old man.”

“All right. All right. But what do we do with him? I could take him to one of the temples tomorrow and let them figure out what to do.”

“What you will do, Ulwyn Hovey, is take him by wagon to all the temples and anywhere else you can think of tomorrow to see if anyone recognizes him or has any idea who he is or where he’s from. If that doesn’t work, then bring him back here, and we can decide what’s next.”

“No luck?” asked Gwanel the next day when Ulwyn returned. After three hours of driving around Tregallon with Mark, he’d failed to come any closer to identifying the stranger.

“Nothing. No one has any idea who he is.” Ulwyn looked like he’d bitten into something sour or spoiled. “I made the mistake of asking Prelate Belenus when I passed the Sholster temple. He had no idea who Mark Kaldwel is but said it was obvious to him that God had placed the man in our care until he could go on his own or we find out who he is.”

“I knew it!” exclaimed Gwanel. “Something told me that was the case almost as soon as I saw him. It was like a message from God.”

“I seem to recall past messages about stray animals and inspired recipes that didn’t turn out,” Ulwyn replied churlishly.

Despite his comment, Ulwyn didn’t tell his wife that he and Belenus had spoken at some length. The prelate had the infuriating habit of drawing out what Ulwyn didn’t want exposed. It had happened before and occurred again today. Though not pious and often voicing skepticism about all religions, Ulwyn had a lingering worry that he had not done enough in his life to please God—if the deity existed. Belenus pointed out that the stranger might be an opportunity given by God. Ulwyn didn’t tell the prelate he wasn’t convinced God was directly involved in the encounter, but Belenus was already aware of the trader’s skepticism and pointed out it wouldn’t hurt to store up some credit for good deeds—just in case God did exist and kept accounts.

“He seems genuinely curious about everything,” Ulwyn said before his wife could launch a rejoinder. “Just as a person would act on seeing it for the first time.”

For the next two days, Ulwyn replenished his dwindling stock of trade goods from the shops and craftspeople of Tregallon. On the second day, the sun was touching the horizon when he returned home, gave his wife a peck on the cheek, and asked about their mysterious guest.

“Well, he slept until almost mid-day. Since I fed him, he’s been sitting there in front of the house where you saw him when you came home. He’s been like that for the last three hours, just watching people pass by. At times, it’s almost like he’s never seen other people before. A couple of the neighbors came to ask who he was, including that irritating Wyla Murtot. I swear, he hadn’t sat outside more than a few minutes before she was nagging me about who he was and what he was doing here.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her he’s someone you met during your trade route and might take him on as an assistant.”

“What! Why did you tell her that?”

“I had to tell her something to shut her up, and that just popped into my head. Anyway, after I said it, I got to thinking that maybe he’s an answer to my prayers. You aren’t getting any younger, and having a man working with you would help. Plus, you might expand your trade route. Don’t think I haven’t realized your route has been gradually getting smaller the last couple of years.”

He sighed. “I suspected you’d noticed, but I didn’t want to talk about it. I just worry about what happens if the day comes when I can’t do the routes. And yes, I’ve been thinking about hiring a bright youngster, but this man . . . Mark . . . I need to get used to his name . . . Mark doesn’t fit that role. Besides being a mature man, he doesn’t look like a trader. I make the effort to appear innocuous, which is best if you’re selling things. Mark’s too big, and I suspect he might fill out as he recovers and be a little intimidating, especially to women customers.”

“Then that doesn’t answer what we should do with him,” said Gwanel. “Now that he’s here, we can’t just push him out on his own. We have to do enough for him so he can find a place or go where he can reconnect to his own people, whomever they are. Language is an obvious problem. We won’t know if we can help him find out where he’s from until we can talk to him. You’re sure he doesn’t speak any language you recognize?”

“Well, certainly not any Frangel dialect,” said Ulwyn, “which means he’s a foreigner. Neither is his speech like any of the nearby languages, including North and South Madyrnanese. I had hopes for Novarynese since it’s so similar to Frangelese, but no luck there or with what little Tekleumese I’ve heard. Neither does it sound like Suvalu.”

The farthest west on the Drilmar continent was Rumpas, but Ulwyn had never, to his knowledge, heard the Rumpas language spoken. Suvalu was the trade language spoken throughout eastern Anyar, particularly in the ports of Fuomon, the Harrasedic League, and all of Drilmar. Ulwyn didn’t know how far west Suvalu was known in ports on the Ganolar continent, western Melosia, and Landolin.

“Same with Narthani, Fuomonese, or any of the Harrasedic languages and dialects I’ve heard. Of course, these last ones I don’t have that much experience hearing, so I thought on my next trade trip I might go a little farther to Kaledon or Brawsea and see if I can find people at a port learning center who know more languages. In the meantime, I’ll try to get him interested in learning enough Frangelese to carry on basic conversations. Maybe then we can find out something about him and get a better idea what to do with him.”

Mark had waved to Ulwyn when the trader returned from wherever he had been. He had occupied the hours sitting in front of the house not just by taking in the surroundings and people, but by running over his situation in his mind. He was alive. He’d lucked out and connected with people who seemed willing to take him in, though he didn’t know for how long. Whatever the local customs were, he had to find a way to care for himself before their charity ran out. In his engineering work and when he’d transitioned more to management, he had relied on prioritizing action items.

His thinking kept coming back to two things he needed to do. One was language. He had to learn as much as he could as fast as possible. His future depended on communication, first, and then understanding the local culture, second. To accomplish this, his best chances lay in making himself useful to the older couple, so they would let him stay with them until he was ready to strike out on his own. He knew he was still weak from what he’d been through, but after food and two night’s sleep, he already felt far better than when he’d woke up on the beach.

He would try to convey appreciation, which was real, but he was unsure how to communicate. There must be things he could do around the couple’s property. He would strive to make it clear that he wanted to help by doing whatever was useful. At the same time, he would take every moment to learn the language. He sensed the wife would be a willing teacher, but he wasn’t sure about the trader—time would tell. Maybe neighbors would help once they were accustomed to his presence and he knew a few words and phrases. Of course, adults in a culture like this were likely busy all day with work and family, but he might be able to practice speaking with children and increase his vocabulary, if their parents allowed.

His mother’s parents spoke Basque to each other—the grandmother had been from the western Pyrenees Mountains between Spain and France. She’d married a Colorado farm boy, and he’d loved her enough to learn her language—not an easy task because Basque was an isolated language not related to the Indo-European language family. Mark’s mother spoke a little Basque, though not much to her children, but she visited her parents regularly since they lived only thirty miles away. Mark adored his grandparents and learned enough words and phrases to claim he was at least familiar with Basque.

In addition, he’d taken two years of Spanish in high school, which he used only when reading menus in Mexican restaurants. He also had a rough idea what was said in untranslated Spanish dialogue in movies and TV and impressed a few Hispanic girls he’d dated. While he wasn’t inherently interested in foreign languages, both Basque and Spanish had seemed to come to him without excessive effort. He felt optimistic that he’d pick up the local language quickly, especially since he was highly motivated, and it would be total immersion. Despite what he told himself, he knew it hadn’t completely sunk in yet that he would never hear English again, except for talking to himself.

Two days later, Ulwyn and Gwanel were gratified that Mark Kaldwel was going to be less of problem than they’d feared.

“Obviously, there’s no problem getting him to try to learn Frangelese,” said Ulwyn. “He pesters me every second I’m near him to give the words for anything in sight. At first, I was wondering how to teach him, and now I just wish he’d shut up sometimes and go away.”

Gwanel laughed. “Oh, he’s not bothering you every second. Sometimes it’s me, and this afternoon I saw him getting pronunciation lessons from Tilman Kwynin next door. I couldn’t help but laugh, watching a seven-year-old get impatient with Mark for not saying horse properly. Tilman’s mother wasn’t too sure about Mark, but I assured her he was harmless. It wasn’t till later that I realized maybe I shouldn’t have said that because we really don’t know him. However, he’s also doing whatever he can to be useful.”

Ulwyn groaned. “Don’t I know it? Besides the language lessons, he follows me around and gets in the way as much as he helps. I console myself that he’ll learn enough to be told when he’s helping and when he’s not.”

He tugged at his beard. “In fact, I have an idea. I appreciate his trying to help, but there’s not enough to keep him busy all the time. Plus, we’re feeding, clothing, and give him a place to stay. He should be helping repay us. What if I talk to your brother, Haral? He’s always complaining he needs more part-time workers for building and repair jobs, and how he’s got to keep an eye on his men to make them work. Mark might be able to do some of the simple labor tasks if Haral shows him how. He seems hardworking enough. I think Haral would get his coin’s worth.”

“How do you expect him to work in his present condition, you silly old man?” scolded Gwanel.

“Not right away,” said Ulwyn, backtracking. “Only when he’s stronger.”

“He can’t speak Frangelese yet,” said Gwanel, “so how is he going to work for Haral?”

“I’ll work with him hard the next sixday and see if he can learn enough to be given simple directions.”

Gwanel wasn’t convinced. “I’ll work with him, too, and I’ll go with you when you talk to Haral. I don’t want you to try and get rid of Mark. I’ll also tell Haral to look after him.”

Four sixdays passed before Gwanel was satisfied Mark was strong enough and knew simple commands required for manual labor. It took both husband and wife to talk and pantomime that Mark would be taken to another place in the city, perform manual labor, and be paid coin at the end of each day.

Haral Godwyner met his sister and brother-in-law at a site a twenty-minute walk from the Hoyer house. Brother and sister had the same eyes and forehead. Mark couldn’t tell much else because of Haral’s beard. Haral led the three of them to a staked outline of where a building was planned. It took ten minutes for Mark to understand that he was to dig a two-foot-wide, three-foot-deep trench running approximately forty yards.

Ulwyn slapped Mark on the back and mimed that he’d return when the sun was at its zenith. Gwanel patted him on the hand and followed her husband back home.

Haral said something, with Mark catching a quarter of the words, then motioned for his new laborer to begin and walked off. The sun was already well above the eastern horizon. It was a cloudless day, and Mark began sweating almost immediately. The ground had not been worked before and was hard-pack. The shovel he’d been given made minimal progress, so he switched to the second tool Haral had given him—a double-pointed pick. It took all of Mark’s strength to break through the outer layer of compacted dirt and clay. After that, the work went faster, and Mark kept an eye on other workers performing different tasks.

Within what Mark estimated was twenty minutes, he felt like he couldn’t continue. His hands were blistering, he didn’t have a head covering, and the sun beating on him had raised a headache. His arms had started to tremble, and his breath became raspier by the minute.

He didn’t know what the customs were for work, rest periods, and water. He kept after the trench, though his speed had markedly declined. About an hour later, his questions were answered. A horn sounded, and the workers quit working, moved into the shade, and sat. A ten- to twelve-year-boy appeared from nowhere and carried around a jug of water in a hand-wagon.

Water had never tasted so good, with the possible exception of the drink Ulwyn had given Mark on the road to Tregallon. It seemed as if no more than one or two minutes had passed before the horn sounded again. The workers picked up whatever tools they had been using, and work recommenced.

To his consternation, Mark found that his muscles had tightened during the short break, and he was unable to control the pick without endangering himself.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Haral took the pick, said something, and pointed to the shade of a nearby building.

I can’t let it get to me, he thought. I wasn’t in good physical shape before the accident, and I know I was weak when I woke on the beach. I just need to be patient. I don’t think it’s the higher gravity. Hal said the modifications should take care of that, and I have to believe him. After all, what choice do I have?

He watched the other workers digging the section he had been working on and others finishing a wooden frame on another section. Two more breaks were indicated by the same horn before Ulwyn reappeared, talked briefly with Haral, and motioned for Mark to get up. They walked back to the Hovey house. Ulwyn showed him a single copper coin, then put it in his own pocket after saying something.

Mark didn’t know the significance of the coin until the following day. Once again, Ulwyn led him to the construction site, and Mark started digging. This time he lasted almost until mid-day before giving out. He probably should have quit an hour earlier, but he was determined to show he could produce. As Ulwyn escorted him home, the trader showed Mark four copper coins this time, giving two to Mark and pocketing the other two.

He’s splitting the earnings with me. I can hardly complain because I’d be in deep shit if it weren’t for Ulwyn, so his taking half the earnings is fair. But is all their money copper coins? What about silver and gold? Considering the type of work and the short hours, I doubt two copper coins buy much.

When they got to the Hovey house, Mark went straight to his room and put the two copper coins under a loose floor plank. He would save what he earned there until he knew its value and found something worth purchasing.

Each day he felt stronger and worked a little longer. A day came when Ulwyn didn’t take him to work but to a stone structure that Mark knew was a house of worship, even before seeing people streaming in that direction. Though of plain materials, the stonework was precisely laid together, and three towers rose from the front façade. Inside, there were long benches filled with people, and many stood in the rear. He estimated four hundred attendees. An elderly man walked to a dais and launched into what Mark assumed was a sermon, interrupted several times by synchronous responses from the congregation to something the man had said.

Because he didn’t understand the words, Mark watched people as much as he could without appearing obvious or rude. There were more women than men, something he remembered from when his family attended church.

Only a few of the attendees looked bored or asleep, mostly men.

Probably here at a wife’s insistence, thought Mark.

The day without work was part of his learning the calendar system in Tregallon: six-day weeks with five workdays and one day of worship and rest. The Hoveys conveyed that their religion was called Sholsterism. Mark observed that there were other worship sites in the town, though he didn’t know whether they were for different religions and sects. In addition, not all citizens actively attended any worship sites because Mark saw people performing other activities on Godsday, which he learned was the name of the day.

Gwanel filled in the other details. Evidently, Ulwyn had found him during the third sixday (as they descriptively called the “week”) of the month of Rucklor, the last of nine months in a year. Each month had six sixdays. If Mark understood correctly, there was a tenth period of five days separate from the months. Those five days were special, and Mark suspected they were a year’s end and/or beginning festival time. The town was Tregallon, the country Frangel, and the world was Anyar, though Ulwyn said other people gave it different names.

CHAPTER 4

ADJUSTING

Days moved into sixdays, sixdays into another month, then a third full month since Mark’s arrival. The weather cooled, with an occasional snow slurry. Once, work stopped for two days until a four-inch snowfall melted. His physical condition improved daily. The inability to work a full day passed, and he felt in better health than he could remember; he could labor an entire day with no more than the usual tiredness from full exertion.

Hal had said that whatever they gave him would provide more energy efficiency. Mark assumed it simply meant it would compensate for the stronger gravity. Now, though he didn’t have a mirror, he could feel the energy as he worked, and what views he had of his own body were revelatory. He was lean—more so than he could ever remember. He didn’t need a mirror to see taut muscles under the skin of his abdomen, legs, and arms.

The last time he had gotten on a scale, the digital display had rudely displayed 283—with far too many pounds concentrated front to back, waist to ass. In addition, in his younger years he carried more of his weight in muscle and less in his midsection. The extra weight he’d carried seemed appropriate for his athletics in high school, where he’d participated in almost every sport offered. He gained special attention for football and wrestling. Never especially quick on his feet, he was strong and tenacious. In addition, his desire to leave ranch life had induced him to apply himself to academics, and his father’s casual connection to a Colorado senator had yielded an appointment to the U.S. Naval Academy. There, he became a third-string defensive lineman and the second-best heavyweight wrestler.

His time in the navy kept his excess weight under control, but he lost that restraint with his move to industry and with age. Compounding the problem, muscle loss hid his increased fat until it became too significant for him to fool himself.

When he arrived on Anyar, he was missing the excess fat he’d accumulated during previous years. As he recovered, the full days of manual labor had contributed to how he felt, but it was more than that. Besides missing extra pounds around his midriff, he knew he was stronger than he had ever been, even when using weight rooms while training for sports. If it was something Hal or the AI’s creators had done to him, it was one more salve to assuage his losing Earth forever.

Life with the Hoveys moved into a comfortable stage. Too comfortable, he began to think. Gwanel cooked generous portions of healthy food, though he considered it plain. She also washed his clothes and cleaned the room they’d transformed into a bedroom, complete with a more comfortable mattress.

Yet he needed to grab this new life with both hands. He did everything he could to communicate. Though he wasn’t fluent during complex exchanges, his total immersion and his own commitment led to a surprising rate of improvement. His vocabulary expanded daily; he seldom forgot a word once he focused on remembering—usually by repeating it several times in English and Frangelese. The grammar wasn’t exactly like English but not that different. He appreciated the few irregularities in the language. He’d never learned to read Basque, but from the few phrases he remembered and from testimonials by his grandparents of that language’s daunting complexity, he was glad he hadn’t had to learn more.

His steady improvement in Frangelese also led inevitably to the question for which he’d rehearsed a simple, unverifiable answer.

“So, Mark, exactly how did you end up on the beach in Derwun Bay, and where do you come from?” asked Ulwyn on a night when they sat alone in a pub with steins of ale.

“I come from a place called Amerika. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you where it is. I guess my people don’t interact much with the rest of the world. All I know is that it must be a long way from here, judging by how long the voyage lasted. All I remember is several men grabbing me. They must have hit me over the head because the next thing I knew, I found myself in a small compartment on a moving ship. I never learned who the people were that abducted me or why they did it. They never spoke to me. My treatment wasn’t bad. They fed me, allowed me time each day on the deck to get air and move around. How I got onto the beach near here is another mystery. Maybe they drugged me or hit me again because after many months of travel, I woke up on the beach. I suppose I’ll never get an answer to who they are or why they grabbed me. Neither will I know why they put me ashore in a strange place.”

Mark figured claiming ignorance as much as possible precluded his accidentally introducing inconsistencies in his story.

Ulwyn rhythmically tapped the knuckles of his right hand on the table. “I don’t know. It all sounds strange to me why someone would do this. There’s another thing I wonder about. You were clean-shaven. That’s not the custom in Frangel and nearby realms. Is that how it is with your people, and what about the men who took you?”

It was a question Mark hadn’t anticipated. “Well . . . uh . . . some of them had beards and some didn’t, so there didn’t seem to be a common custom. Even those with beards had different styles, including only a mustache, only chin whiskers, and . . . oh, I guess all possible variations. That’s similar to my people, but whoever took me spoke a different language. Anyway . . . they allowed me to use implements to shave a couple of times a sixday. I must have shaved just before they cast me ashore.”

Mark was to repeat the basic story many times, always concentrating on keeping it simple, with an emphasis on his ignorance of more details.

At work, Haral moved Mark from digging trenches alone to working within a team of five men clearing land, digging basements, and doing foundation work. The tasks weren’t complicated, and Mark quickly learned all the requirements necessary for the job. The weather passed through the colder season, and wildflowers began blooming. Two months later, Mark became supervisor of the team when the previous leader moved away from Tregallon. By then, his Frangelese let him converse in everyday speech and give directions to the other workers.

Besides work, another social activity began when Ulwyn took Mark to a pub several times. Mark started frequenting the same establishment once or twice a sixday for no more than two beers. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but sitting alone, sipping, and half-closing his eyes let him momentarily pretend he was still on Earth and in situations he missed, though never those related to his marriage or job.

The pub also provided a venue for him to handle an incipient problem at work. He understood enough Frangelese to sense resentment that a newcomer had been placed in charge of four workers, two of whom were older than Mark. At the end of the third day of his new job, he offered to take them to “his” pub—named, as far as he could tell, after an animal that looked like a frenzied rodent. Two of the men didn’t seem inclined to accept the offer, but, after an animated discussion Mark couldn’t follow, all four joined Mark at the Crazy Squirrel, as he had come to think of the establishment.

Mark ignored his two-beer limit, and by the fourth round he stated his conclusion about his attempt to assuage hard feelings.

“Well, I think this counts as a roaring success.”

Blank looks resulted from his English utterance.

He burped. “Okay, so none of you sterling examples of humanity can understand English, but I want you to know I appreciate the intellectual discourse we’ve been having.”

He thought he caught the drift of most of the men’s conversation at their table, with the help of associated hand gestures. Work. Women. Opinions of Haral, their boss. Women. Opinions of Mark—which he thought got more congenial with each successive round of beer. Women—those the men were married to, those they compared notes on, and those they wanted to do things to, identified by graphic gestures.

During one of the latter pantomimes, Mark formally met Ronalyn. The barmaid passed their table and swatted hard at the head of a Haral worker who was using both hands to simulate an act Mark had heard of but never experienced.

She laughed, as did the chastised worker. Mark waited until the other three workers joined in before he laughed, too. The next time she passed, he gave her a closer look. Blowsy was the best word he came up with. Age indeterminate, but he guessed thirty. On the heavier side but solid. Hair going in all directions, and occasionally he got glimpses of armpit and leg hair—which had been a jolt the first time Mark noticed those facts about Frangelese women. However, it made sense. He didn’t know when the custom of women shaving body hair had become common in the United States, but he suspected it was in the last century or more recently.

He’d had enough beer, and Ronalyn started looking better the more he drank. He wasn’t sure whether she had been eyeing him more as the evening wore on, although one of his drinking companions observed the eyeing interplay and stopped the woman as she passed. He introduced her to Mark. She laughed at something and sat on Mark’s lap. The proximity of an ample bosom and a bare arm around his shoulder elicited a reflex that made her laugh and that only subsided when she left for other customers.

It wasn’t that Mark had not noticed women since his arrival. At first, recovery occupied him. Later, his lack of social connections and ignorance of customs and mores restricted his interest to observations. Within a month of arriving on the beach, he had noticed more women than men. At first, it had been a suspicion, but he spent one Godsday afternoon walking around Tregallon for exercise and had counted genders. He ended with 396 men and 421 women. However, it wasn’t determinative because he didn’t account for differences in gender activities outside the home. With his growing but still limited Frangelese, he questioned Ulwyn and found out it was common knowledge that more girl babies were born than boys by a slim margin. The elderly trader explained it was generally thought the difference was due to females being frailer than males—a distinction evidently not backed up with data or anecdotes. Mark was skeptical of the rationale.

If his count was indicative, it meant about a 5 percent imbalance favoring women. He thought he remembered that on Earth, the ratio was the reverse. He remembered reading that males died sooner than females by disease, accidents, and wars, and the ratio might be nature’s way of balancing the sexes. What did it mean for that theory if the ratio on Anyar was different? Mark hadn’t seen evidence of major diseases, nor did he think accidents were more common, or that women, instead of men, would go to war. Was the disparity in ratios between planets simply a matter of random chance?

The evenings at the Crazy Squirrel had two outcomes. Mark became more accepted by the four men he supervised and by most of Haral’s other workers. Then, three sixdays later, he launched into his first experience in Frangelese sexual mores.

“Ulwyn, I need to ask you something. It’s . . . what’s the Frangelese word? Something you might rather not talk about? Ah . . . embarrassing. Yes, something embarrassing.”

The trader raised a left eyebrow, as they sat at a table in the Hovey house. Gwanel was at a neighbor’s helping with an ill child.

“Well, best just get it out. Won’t get better the longer you wait to say whatever it is.”

“At work, I understand more of the workers’ talk. As expected with men, much is about women. I don’t understand all of your people’s beliefs and customs, but I think I hear a different . . . . uh, concern, worry, thinking . . . I don’t know the exact word . . . on how they think of women. I think I understand a difference between married and unmarried women. They say what for my people would be disrespectful things about unmarried women but not married ones. Am I hearing correctly?”

Ulwyn grunted. “No offense to the men because most of them are hardworking, but I’ve been around enough of Haral’s workers to imagine what they say to one another. To answer your question, though, it’s assumed no one implies improper sexual activity by a married woman. You understand the word sexual?” The trader made hand gestures Mark had seen before.

“Hmmm. Yes, I think I know what it means.”

“Good. As I said, you must not make any comments about a married woman that are considered disrespectful. It also can cause a husband to act strongly if he hears you or someone tells him what you said. It’s similar with an unmarried woman of an appropriate age if she has yet to marry.”

“What’s the appropriate age?”

“Usually, the age when she could marry, around seventeen years old.”

Mark did the conversion from Anyar to Earth years. Christ! Just over fifteen. Jailbait in the U.S. They’re more like children, though I suppose life is so different and harder here that they mature faster in attitude. Still . . .

“Of course, things are different with widows or women over a certain age who have never married,” said Ulwyn. “They’re considered old enough and free enough of obligations to do whatever they want. If such a woman is involved with too many men, she is looked on with disfavor, but that’s her decision about how she wants to live.”

Another thought occurred to Mark. “Are there women who are paid to be ‘sexual’ with men?”

Ulwyn frowned. “Not in Tregallon. The priests won’t allow it. Of course, things are different in the largest cities, especially ports such as Kaledon and Brawsea. There, the priests have less influence, and many of the people come from other parts of Anyar and are involved in trading and shipping. There you have such women, sometimes gathered in . . . ”

He’d used a new word for Mark.

“Here in Tregallon, and I expect in most of Frangel, the fact that there are more women than men means that almost any man who wants to be married can find a willing woman. I’m surprised you haven’t already been approached by more than one woman because you’re a prime specimen of a man and unmarried. I can see how fathers and other male relatives may still be cautious about you since you’re a stranger, but there must especially be widows who’d be interested in you as a husband or sexual partner.”

“Sexual—” Mark stopped to consider the implications. “So . . . if I was interested in sexual activity with widows, people would approve?”

“Approve. Well, maybe, depending on who the man and the woman were and their reputations, but there’s nothing to stop it. Even the priests would be silent, as long as any children that resulted were taken care of.”

Ah, yes. Children, thought Mark. Something not to forget and let glands make decisions.

After the talk with Ulwyn, Mark gave friendly smiles and interested looks at Ronalyn every time he frequented the Crazy Squirrel. A month later he spoke with her for the first time. Eight Earth months had passed since his arrival on Anyar.

As she approached his table to check whether he wanted a beer, he said, “Hello, Ronalyn, you’re looking cheerful today.” In fact, she looked like she always did—friendly and busy, sweating slightly, with stains under her armpits.

She hesitated, surprised. “Just a normal day. You’re looking pretty good yourself.” Her last words accompanied a roving eye over his head and torso above the tabletop.

“I’ll have beer, but it occurred to me we’ve hardly ever talked. Do you ever sit and have a beer with a customer?”

A smile lit her face. “It’s been known to happen, but only when business is slow. The best time is late, before we close.”

“In that case, I’ll have one beer now and come back later. Maybe we can talk and get to know each other better.”

It was the lamest line Mark thought he’d ever used, but given his minimal understanding of what might pass for flirting in this society, it was the best he could come up with.

Five nights later and five near-closing sessions with Ronalyn at the pub, Mark lay listening to her breathing next to him. She had saved him the uncertainty of how such things advanced in Frangel when, after one beer the fifth night, she said, “Let’s go to my place. It’s only a short walk from here.

She lived on the second story of a stone residential building in one of the more prosperous-appearing sections of Tregallon. This surprised Mark because it didn’t fit his expectation of where a barmaid lived.

“I don’t just work at the pub. I’m a quarter owner. One day I will either finish buying the business or start my own pub. I’ve been working toward that goal for several years and hope to be ready in another two or three years.”

He followed her up the exterior stairs. She used a large metal key to unlock the door, and they entered neat, well-furnished quarters, confirming his re-estimation of her financial status.

Nine minutes later, her bed creaked, and she moaned as his rhythmic thrusts pushed the bed toward the wall, then back, as he withdrew to repeat. There had been no foreplay. As soon as she’d closed the door to her two-room abode, she’d begun shedding clothes. Mark had been only seconds behind her, more than willing to forgo preliminaries.

He hadn’t noticed much in those moments, as hormones and many months of abstinence ruled. Now, urges slacked, he rose on an elbow to reach the candle burning next to the bed. Holding it high, he illuminated his sleeping companion. She was different from his usual tastes, but he wasn’t there for a long-term relationship. He upped his estimate of her age to mid- to late-thirties. He thought he could make out a few gray hairs amid the brown ones on her head and a single such hair coming from a breast’s aureole.

Stretch marks evidenced her having given birth, and the odors he drew in were associated with working bodies and the muskiness of sex. In an earlier life, the odors and Ronalyn’s physique would have been off-turning, but not now. Had the months on Anyar already changed him that much? He didn’t know.

He lay back, pulled a blanket over them both, and blew out the candle. Before drifting off, he wondered whether they might go another round in the morning.

When he woke again, morning light shone through the two bedroom windows. Ronalyn still slept.

No repeat, I guess, he thought, disappointed. I need to get to work, but her work hours are later in the day, so maybe she’s a late riser.

He left the bed, dressed, and headed toward the entrance. Near the door was a small bowl on a table set against a wall. Ronalyn had pointedly indicated it when they first arrived. He hadn’t paid attention at the time, more focused on shedding his clothing. Now he saw that the bowl held two small silver coins. He stopped and stared. She had obviously made the bowl known to him. Was she a prostitute? The thought disturbed him, but he remembered her part ownership in the pub and the living quarters that were better than those of most Tregallonese.

There had been no question about her enthusiasm the previous night. Maybe they were using each other? Maybe this was the Frangelese version of a tip? He left without adding coins to the bowl that morning and the next two times he spent the night. Ronalyn didn’t seem bothered, so he decided he’d consider it a donation to her pub fund and put two small silvers in the bowl from then on.

His relationship with Ronalyn continued as an unspoken arrangement. Once or twice a week he patronized the Crazy Squirrel. If she was in the mood, she would tweak him on an ear as she delivered a beer. He would then return when the pub closed, and they went to her place. It was a treaty of parties filling a common need. They didn’t kiss during their trysts, there being no need to pretend it was anything other than rutting. Still, Mark was chagrined when one evening he saw her tweak the ear of a man she’d exchanged laughs with. Despite himself, he returned at closing, stood in a shadow, and watched her and the man go to her rooms.

The next day at work he tried to appear casual before querying whether there were sexually transmitted diseases on Anyar—he’d already noticed only a few cases of what appeared to be upper-respiratory illnesses. When he asked, he was told plagues were known that to him sounded like versions of influenza but nothing like bubonic plague, Ebola, or STDs.

He didn’t return to the pub for two sixdays and only when he’d accepted that he had no claim on her or she on him. By the light of this culture, they were both adults who could do whatever they wanted within the mores of the society. So, why not take the opportunity she willingly provided and avoid a relationship that might have complications? The alien AI had said he would never get a disease, so the fact that Ronalyn had multiple partners wouldn’t expose him to an STD if they existed on Anyar. It was one aspect of the planet that made Mark wonder whether it held a clue about when people, animals, and plants had been transported from Earth. If there were no STDs, did that mean humans were transplanted before populations were large enough to develop and spread diseases? As with other questions, he didn’t think he’d ever have answers.

He resumed evenings with Ronalyn—usually, once a sixday—and hoped he gracefully deflected overtures when he perceived she would be receptive to a more permanent relationship.

At work, the routine and exertion were calming. His coworkers accepted him, and his socializing increased to include more frequent visits to other pubs besides the Crazy Squirrel with coworkers, Ulwyn, or alone. He came to enjoy the Godsday Sholster services as relaxing and a reminder of Earth and accompanying his family to church.

His spoken Frangelese improved to the point he seldom stumbled or needed help. In addition, he began learning to write—first with lessons from Gwanel, then from eight-year-old Tilman Kwyinin whenever the boy was unoccupied and willing to drill his imposing student. When Mark had learned enough, Prelate Belenus arranged to loan him elementary grammar and language books that Mark dove into.

The day came when he decided it was time for a change. He’d been in Tregallon for almost exactly one Anyar year. His labor-oriented work for Haral had served its purpose: it helped keep his mind off being banished from his earlier life, got him moving, acclimated his body to the new gravity, allowed him to learn enough Frangelese to communicate, and gave him time to think. He decided he’d reached a juncture. It was time to begin introducing technology and knowledge from Earth.

CHAPTER 5

NEXT STAGE

Having a goal and knowing how to achieve it were two different animals. Mark’s aim to introduce novel technology to Anyar needed specific action to start the ball rolling. A problem was how to come up with the resources for major projects. He couldn’t just approach a government or wealthy individuals and ask for enough coin to build a steam engine. Any chance of success would depend on starting small, building a reputation as an innovator, and working up to more complex expensive projects, either supported by his own resources or by finding backers once his reputation was sufficient. Yet he still knew so little about his new world that he couldn’t be sure which introductions were feasible and would be accepted. In the meantime, there was the temptation to start with Haral’s projects.

Mark wasn’t a civil engineer, but the styles of construction were straightforward. When he learned enough Frangelese, he made several suggestions on changes to Haral. The first few times, Haral had patiently explained why Mark’s idea wouldn’t work, sometimes because of sound engineering reasons, but other times because it “just isn’t done that way.” Finally, Mark gave up when he perceived Haral becoming impatient with being told about better ways to work at his profession.

Undaunted, Mark was convinced there were places where his knowledge and experience as a mechanical engineer could be applied to a technology foundation of Earth circa 1700—the approximate equivalent level of Anyar technology, as estimated by Hal.

However, Mark didn’t know whether Hal’s estimate applied to only the Tregallon area, Frangel, the Drilmar continent, or the rest of the planet. Clearly, Tregallon was not the place for Mark to make a confident assessment. He needed to eventually move to a larger city that had more options, but he didn’t feel ready to make that change. Although the job with Haral had gotten him started, he needed to gather more experience in the local technology related to his knowledge of mechanical engineering and materials science.

He had surveyed the available employment options in Tregallon and picked the one more likely to be useful later. Then he waited another month until he felt satisfied with his Frangelese.

“Ulwyn, I’m thinking it’s time to change work. I appreciate Haral employing me when I couldn’t speak your language and when I wasn’t much of a worker at first, but I think I can find work better suited to my skills and knowledge elsewhere.”

“I wondered about that myself. You’re obviously smarter than needed for Haral’s work, even with him giving you more responsibility. Any specific ideas?”

“I’ve taken time to know Tregallon better and talk to craftsmen and other traders. I’m particularly interested in metalworking and cloth making. Although I have ideas about weaving, I think blacksmithing is where I’m best suited to start. I’ve looked at the three smithies in Tregallon and plan on talking with the owners to see if I can find work at one of them.”

Ulwyn shook his head. “I doubt that will work, Mark. New workers usually begin at twelve or thirteen years of age as helpers and work their way to apprentice, then journeyman. No one’s going to pay full wages to an adult man without smithy experience.”

“We’ll see. I’ll argue I’m strong and would work hard. If necessary, I’ll offer to work for lower wages until I’m more useful.”

“Even so,” said Ulwyn, “I wouldn’t expect they would hire you. But what do I know? You’re different from other men in Frangel, so maybe you can convince a smithy to take you on.”

Despite his doubts, Ulwyn gave Mark the names of the three blacksmiths and enough vocabulary from what he knew about blacksmithing so Mark could at least appear not to be totally ignorant.

Two days later, Haral’s current construction project ended by mid-day, and he decided not to move men and equipment across town to a new project until the next day. The free afternoon gave Mark his opportunity to visit the town’s blacksmith shops. He started with the largest operation—a smithy with three hearths and ten workers from their early teens into their forties. A man in the process of shoeing a horse directed Mark to the owner, a burly, middle-aged man who looked like he still worked full days.

“Ser Tungel, my name is Mark Kaldwel. I would like to speak with you to see if I could find work in your smithy.”

The smith set down the hammer he was using on what to Mark looked like a sword blade. “Where have you worked before? Not here in Tregallon. I know all the blacksmith workers here.”

“I’ve never worked as a blacksmith, but I want to learn as much as I can as fast as I can.”

A fierce scowl morphed onto the smith’s face. “Why in damnation would I hire you, then? It takes years of experience to learn blacksmithing properly, and you have to start young. Look around at the workers here. Winklom over there has been with me five years, and he’s not ready to move on to journeyman.”

“I realize I come with a disadvantage, but I’m strong, would work hard, and you wouldn’t have to pay me the full wages to start while I learn.”

“Get out of here!” shouted the smith, his voice raised enough that every worker turned to look. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I don’t have time for some idiot who thinks he can just walk in to become a blacksmith like it’s something easy to do.”

Mark shrugged, turned, and walked out of the shop. He hadn’t expected a reaction quite so emphatic. The next shop was not as large as the first, but the result was similar, although the owner wasn’t as pithy in his rejection.

Well, this is going well, thought Mark. I may have to reconsider my options. If he couldn’t find a local smithy willing to take him on, he’d either have to change plans or move to a larger population center sooner than anticipated.

He had one more shop to check, the smallest of the three in Tregallon. He walked to the opposite side of the town and a quarter mile from the last house. He almost wrote it off but decided that being rebuffed by two smithies didn’t mean the third couldn’t be successful.

Twenty minutes later, he stood at the open wide double door of the shop. An older man he assumed was the smith used large tongs to lift a piece of metal a foot and a half across from the hearth fire. A third of the metal piece glowed not quite white hot. He hurriedly carried it to a vise and clamped the non-glowing side firmly. Then he went back to the fire, pulled out a second piece of iron, and returned to the vise to set the two hot sections together. The angle at which the smith held the second piece was awkward, and the man kept up a steady stream of cursing.

He’s trying to weld the pieces together, thought Mark. Looks like a plow blade.

The man held the two pieces together for no more than twenty seconds before shouting the loudest curse yet and with a twist to the tongs separated the two pieces.

“No. This isn’t going to work,” he told the other two workers: a youth of about fourteen years old and a man in his late teens or early twenties. The older one had a forearm splinted and supported by a sling.

“It needs two of us to take both pieces out of the fire and immediately press them together,” said the smith. “I can’t let the break surface get any hotter or the metal will be too hot and be subject to cracking along the break point, even if fused. I wish I’d known Palon was going to leave. I wouldn’t have taken the job.”

“Sorry I can’t help, Master,” said the older worker. “It’ll be another month before I could steady something that heavy. Can the job wait until then?”

“No, Vermun, I told the owner I’d have it done by next Godsday. That’s only two more days. I hate to lose the coin, but worse is that he’ll go to one of the other smithies, and word will spread I didn’t do the job.”

“But everyone knows you’re the best blacksmith in Tregallon, even if your shop is the smallest.”

“Oh, we’ll still have plenty of jobs, but I hate to give Tungel and Asmyrin a chance to gloat.”

Tungel and Asmyrin, thought Mark. The other two smiths.

Mark saw his chance. “Maybe I can help,” he said in a loud enough voice to catch their attention.

The smith looked at Mark standing thirty feet away. “And who are you?”

“Name’s Mark Kaldwel, and I’m looking for blacksmith work.”

The smith’s face lit up. “You’ve experience? Where?”

Here we go, thought Mark.

“No. I’ve never worked at blacksmithing before.”

The man’s face fell. “Then you’re no good to me.”

“What I lack in experience I might be able to help with in strength and hard work. I heard you say you needed another man to help with this welding. If it’s just a matter of holding the metal still, I can do that.”

“Hrumph. You look solid enough, but the piece you’d hold weighs over a hundred pounds, and we’d have to hold them steady and press hard together long enough for the metal to merge.”

“Doesn’t seem like you’re having success as it is. Give me a try.”

The man sighed and waved a hand to the left. “See this anvil. Pick it up, and then we’ll talk.”

Mark eyed the solid metal object sitting on the ground. Jesus. Thing must weight three hundred pounds, he thought.

He shrugged and decided, I’ll give it a shot—short of getting a hernia or slipped disc.

He walked over and stood above the anvil, eyeing it. A snicker from the younger worker indicated his expectation of success.

Oh, well, here goes, Mark thought.

He crouched, conscious of keeping his back straight, put both arms around the two protruding ends of the anvil, and with a grunt . . . he didn’t think he’d moved the lump of metal an atom’s width.

The smith snorted, the young worker laughed, and it was the older worker’s time to snicker.

Damn! Mark thought. Maybe it’s more like four hundred pounds. Maybe more. Maybe I’m an idiot.

He either had to lift the anvil or change his plans. He also grated at being laughed at. As a pudgy high school freshman, he’d been ridiculed for insisting on trying out for the varsity football team, instead of the one for freshmen. The laughter stopped the first time he’d driven a senior starting lineman into the ground, helped by an adrenaline rush of anger.

He tried channeling that same feeling and remembering a weight-lifting technique for the standing press and snatch lift. His first try had been to check the possibility of lifting the weight. This time, he focused on assuming he could lift it.

Crouching again next to the anvil, arms in place, he took two deep breaths and ordered leg, arm, and shoulder muscles to make whatever effort it took. A fraction of a second before reality impinged, he felt the anvil move incrementally to one side. Encouraged, he exerted even more effort and, with a shout, straightened to a full upright position.

“God’s mercy,” yelled the youngster, accompanied by the other worker’s “I don’t believe it.” The smith was silent.

Mark set the anvil down sharply, missing his foot by only half an inch. Every muscle wanted him to collapse on the ground, but his brain overruled, and he suppressed the quivering muscles and stood straight to face the smith.

“Wasn’t so bad once I got the feel of the weight.”

The smith frowned, then laughed and slapped Mark on the shoulder. “Caught in my own trap, was I? I’ve used the test of lifting that anvil for twenty years as a way to get rid of men with experience blacksmithing but who I didn’t want to take on. I’ll also confess my vanity because I’m the only person who’s ever lifted it alone, although not for some years. What’s your name again?”

“Kaldwel. Mark Kaldwel.”

“Well, Kaldwel, I’m Sumik Hamston, and let’s see if we can weld this plow blade. I made it originally, but the farmer tried to use it on a rocky field that hadn’t been cleared or plowed before. I told him not to, but you know farmers. He tried to tell me the blade was faulty and I should fix it for no charge. Hah! No chance of that. I told him to go to Tungel or Asmyrin’s shop if he didn’t trust my work.

Two hours later, the smith made his decision.

“All right, Kaldwel. I think you’ll be able to help with enough tasks that I’ll hire you at half apprentice wages and only as long as you prove better than having no additional help. I’ll be honest with you. If I had other choices, I’d hire them over you, but Palon leaving has put me in a difficult position. That’s a problem with having a small shop and taking on more work than I should have. Not that I blame Palon. His father died. They hadn’t gotten along for many years, and he’d left Chumwell, that’s a town about a hundred miles toward Brawsea, to get away and finish blacksmith training elsewhere. However, the father’s blacksmith shop is without a proprietor, and Palon returned to his family to take up their shop and help support his mother and three younger siblings. It’s all good for him, but bad for me.

“Anyone else I hired from Tregallon wouldn’t have enough experience to make a difference between them and you for the kind of work we do, so we’ll see how it goes.”

Mark knew he was in the best shape of his life, even counting the years at the Naval Academy, with its required physical conditioning and being active on the football and wrestling teams. Whatever the aliens had done to him was a contributing factor, as were the months of labor working for Haral. Thus, he was unprepared for the aches and soreness of the first month of working for Hamston.

The smith used him as declared—as muscle and a gofer. When he wasn’t moving heavy objects, he was a power-extension of Felamer Kykes, the fourteen-year-old apprentice. Tasks that Felamer couldn’t do on his own were assigned to the pair with Mark doing the heavy lifting and the most intense hammer work. The first few days, Mark was embarrassed enough at being given orders by a boy less than half his size that he almost stalked off. By the end of the fourth day, he ruefully admitted to himself that Felamer knew most of the blacksmith trade and was only held back by having to wait to grow into physical maturity.

Mark used muscles in different ways than he ever had before, but by the end of that first month, he put in long days without difficulty. By the end of the second month, he thought he’d learned all the principles of blacksmithing. What he didn’t have were the years of experience that melded with principles to qualify even as a journeyman blacksmith.

“Nonsense!” said Hamston to a discouraged Mark after the smith’s evaluation of his attempt to make a trivet.

“Yes, it’s a disaster of a trivet, but considering how new you are at this, it’s surprisingly good. Just melt it down and try again. However, I think we’ll keep you doing more brute force work and the simplest projects when you’re working alone.”

One evening, Hamston invited his three workers for a beer after a long day of making nails—something Hamston’s shop didn’t normally do because the other two smithies had cheaper workers for such simple jobs. The town’s mayor, as Mark translated the title of the local political leader, was a long-time friend of Hamston’s. When the mayor decided to build a new house, he wanted every part to be the best available and had prevailed on Hamston to supply all the metal parts, which included nails, spikes, hooks, door latches, fireplace tools, andirons, and on and on. Hamston was not enthused but told his three workers the house construction wouldn’t start for several months. For efficiency, they concentrated on single items at a time for the mayor’s house, interspersed with other orders.

For two days they did nails. These were the first finished items Mark produced on his own, and he fully realized he was no more than a beginning apprentice. It was noon of the first day before more than half his nails were acceptable to Hamston. By the end of the second day, almost all his nails were approved, though he produced only a third as many as each of the other three workers. Even Vermun, with only one good arm and the hand of his broken arm, outproduced Mark.

A sixday later, after the end of a day working on railings for the mayor’s house, Hamston appeared in an effusive mood and invited all three workers to his favorite pub, the Blue Murvor. It was apparently named after an Anyarian flying creature that twice a year migrated south through Frangel in enormous flocks to breeding grounds when the weather warmed and north to escape winter. Mark assumed a similar explanation as for birds on Earth, except that the directions were the reverse in North America because the Drilmar continent lay in the planet’s southern hemisphere.

When they arrived, all the tables were filled, but Hamston elbowed space at a bar running along two sides of the main room. The smith ordered four steins of beer, three full and one half full for Felamer, the apprentice and occasional supervisor of Mark. There was no minimum age on alcohol consumption, but Hamston was the de facto guardian of Felamer during his apprenticeship.

Five minutes later, Mark picked up his half-full stein when a voice shouted behind them.

“So, Hamston, we hear you’ve got another apprentice. Or should we say an apprentice to an apprentice.”

Mark turned to see a cluster of five men facing them. From their clothing, robust builds, and evidence of the kind of work they did on clothing and skin, he could have deduced they were blacksmith workers. However, he didn’t need to deduce because he recognized the owner of the first and largest smithy operation where Mark had been rudely ushered away—Tungel. He thought he also recognized two of the other men.

“Are you getting so hard pressed to find men to work for you, or is the new man simple-minded and you’re taking pity on him?”

Mark’s arms ached from swinging a heavy hammer while Hamston had rotated red-hot rods. Yet he also had the beginnings of a buzz from quickly drinking half his beer, and he remembered the laughter that followed him as he left the first smithy. In sum, he didn’t feel like taking shit off anyone.

He turned back to the bar and spoke to Hamston. “Can’t a man have a beer in peace without a bunch of assholes bothering him?”

Hamston had just enough time to grin before one of Tungel’s men made the mistake of grabbing Mark’s shoulder and spinning him around. Mark had excelled in wrestling in high school and on the Naval Academy team in both folkstyle (U.S.) and freestyle (international). He had a passing acquaintance with karate from ages eight to thirteen before football and wrestling took up his time. In addition, he had dabbled with judo and boxing at the academy, though he knew he was hardly expert in any of them.

Thus, grabbing Mark and not expecting an immediate response should have been contraindicated, as the owner of the grabbing hand found out. Mark clutched the offending arm, rotated his body, rolled the man over his hip, and threw him on the pub floor. Mark jumped back upright to face the other four men still processing what they had seen.

“See what happens, Tungel, when rudeness overcomes normal courtesy to colleagues?” said Hamston, cackling.

Tungel held out two arms, as men next to him stepped toward Mark. “Whoa. We can’t start anything serious, or Runmen will ban all of us from his pub. Hamston, your man seems to handle himself. What say we settle this disagreement with a match? Your man against one of ours. I’m sure Runmen would allow it, as long as no damage is done to the pub. Plus, the other customers will love it.”

“Grand idea, Tungel, and to make it even more interesting, how about a little wager? Say . . . I’ll put up a large gold that Mark here wins.”

Tungel flushed. “Fine,” he growled and called out, “Runmen! Over here.”

Within seconds, a middle-forties man with a splayed black beard appeared. “What’s happening? You know the rules. No fighting that damages anything.”

“Nothing like that, Runmen,” said Hamston. “We are proposing a friendly match between our two blacksmith shops. We’ll do it right here with your permission.”

“All right. Give us a minute to clear a space.”

The owner shouted and began ordering patrons around. As soon as he announced a match coming, patrons jumped to their feet and started moving tables and chairs toward the two walls without bars, as if it weren’t an unusual event.

Mark hadn’t followed all the rapid-fire talk but enough to suspect he had been set up. He turned to Hamston after Tungel’s group stomped off.

“You didn’t invite us here because we worked so hard these last two days, did you?”

“Partly. Oh, the three of you worked hard to finish those nails. I realize it’s a boring project like we don’t usually do, but I couldn’t say no to the mayor.” Hamston gave Mark what he categorized as a “shit-eating” grin. “Of course, it did occur to me that we might run into some of Tungel’s men. They’re often obnoxious to me and my people, so I wondered about your reaction if we ran into them. It’s an added pleasure that Tungel himself is here tonight. Of course, I didn’t plan on a bout of you against his man until I saw you throw down the one that grabbed you.”

“What if I don’t want to fight some yahoo?”

“I don’t know what ‘yahoo’ means, but I assume it’s Tungel’s men. If you don’t fight, the bet is off, although I’ll lose some face, and Tungel will brag for months. It’s up to you, Mark. Since I instigated this, it’s my problem, not yours.”

Mark’s blood was still up, but he didn’t feel a need to engage in whatever type of fight was being foisted on him.

“What are we talking about here? What kind of fight? What rules?”

“Goes until one man can’t continue or quits. No biting, gouging, or hitting the private parts of the opponent. Anything else is allowed. Of course, if this was a serious fight, it might involve knives, clubs, or whatever the two men agree on. Have to be careful with those cases, though, because the town magistrates would have to be present to sanction the fight. This won’t be like that.”

So, Mark thought, a general brawl combination of anything goes, except the three no-nos. But the rest? Knives or whatever else? Duels? Tells me I need to be even more careful than I thought and not rile the wrong person.

He had a sobering revelation that fights could lead to serious injury or death in this society. Only months later did Hamston admit he’d been joking that night.

“If I agree to this, I’m not going to keep fighting if I’m getting my ass kicked. As soon as I know I can’t win, I’ll give up.

Hamston grinned. “Oh, I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. Also, to be fair, I’ll prove my confidence in you by giving you half my winnings.”

“That’s if I win,” said Mark, “and I’m not putting up half the large gold to cover the bet.”

“Just to show you how confident I am,” said Hamston, “you don’t have to put up any coin to win half a large gold.”

“All right. As long as we understand the conditions. Now, where is this person I’m supposed to brawl with?”

Hamston didn’t have to answer. Tungel returned with the original four men, now joined by an ogre. Okay, not a real ogre, but that was Mark’s first impression. The man’s eyes and face didn’t exactly radiate intelligence, but out-thinking an opponent didn’t seem his likely forte.

“This is Little Bomlyn,” said Tungel, smiling. “He’ll represent my smithy.”

Mark eyed the man, which meant he had to look slightly up to meet the man’s eyes. Mark’s six foot three was a good four to five inches lower than Bomlyn—Mark did away with the “Little” part as too cute. Mark’s time in the Hamston smithy had put more muscle on him. He estimated he weighed around 240 pounds, very little of it fat. That meant Bomlyn probably outweighed him upward of 100 pounds, albeit perhaps 50 or more pounds appeared to be lard.

Mark figured that even if his opponent was as dim-witted as his expression indicated, he couldn’t risk the guy either getting in a lucky blow or putting Mark in a clench he couldn’t escape from.

The patrons finished clearing the center of the pub, and Bomlyn was getting instructions from Tungel.

Mark turned to Hamston. “Just checking again. Do I understand correctly what the rules are here?”

“No biting, gouging, or groin blows,” replied the smith. “As I told you before.”

“So, kicking and fist blows are allowed?”

“Yeah. Along with head butting, elbows, knees, or any other part of your body you care to use. Don’t let me down. I’ve got a large gold riding on you.”

The largest Frangelese coin was about the value of a prime cow, so Mark knew Hamston had put up several sixdays’ earnings. However, it sounded like crowing rights were more important to the two blacksmiths.

With space cleared, the two parties gathered on opposite sides.

“You can take him, Mark,” said Felamer. “I’ve bet two large silvers on you.”

Mark hadn’t noticed, but lively betting had ensued among the patrons. He looked down at the boy’s eager face. He wanted to chastise the boy for betting what must have been a large part of any savings he had, but why say anything if the bet was already laid on?

Well, if I lose, I won’t worry about Hamston, Mark thought, but now I’ll feel guilty about Felamer.

He looked across the cleared space. Bomlyn hadn’t gotten any smaller.

Geez! Look at the size of those hands, and he’s got plenty of muscle in those arms. I can’t let him get a good grip on me.

There didn’t seem to be a dress code, so Mark stripped off his shirt and would have oiled himself if there had been something appropriate handy. He wanted to minimize anything his opponent could grab onto.

When he glanced back across the space, he saw Tungel staring at him, eyes roving over Mark’s torso and arms, and frowning.

Mark grinned back. Maybe having some second thoughts, asshole?

Tungel said something to Bomlyn, who looked back confused. Tungel barked something louder—Mark couldn’t tell what—and Bomlyn followed Mark’s shirt shedding.

“All right,” called out Runmen. “You all know the rules. Let’s get to it.”

With that, the noncombatant members of each party melded into the crowd. Mark and Bomlyn were alone for all of two seconds before Tungel’s man charged, arms wide to grapple.

Mark ducked and dodged to his right, a big arm brushing across his head.

Damn! Mark thought. He’s faster than he looks. I can’t dick around with this guy.

Bomlyn whirled and pursued Mark around the space for the next minute—long enough for muttering to arise from the onlookers and long enough for Mark to judge the man was fast but not agile. He also saw that Bomlyn had taken to reaching out with his right arm to attempt to grab Mark before he got away.

The next time Mark evaded, in lieu of going to the opposite side of the space, he stopped in the middle. Bomlyn charged, reaching out with his right arm. Instead of dodging, Mark stepped inside the outstretched arm, grabbed the wrist and elbow, and pulled down and forward. He rotated his hip into the man’s body and threw him to the floor, similar to what he’d done when first accosted by the Tungel group.

Bomlyn rolled to one side and went to his hands and knees to prepare for rising.

Remember, this is not a Marquis of Queensbury fight, Mark thought.

He delivered a strong kick to the man’s lower ribs.

An Oof! expelled from Bomlyn, who clamped a hand to the offended ribs but kept rising. Mark waited until the man rose to one knee, with his torso vertical, before delivering another kick, this time to the solar plexus. Bomlyn’s face turned an interesting shade of purple, as he struggled to breathe.

Mark looked at Tungel, shrugged, and gave an open hand gesture toward Bomlyn. He could continue hurting the big man, but it was no longer a fight. To continue would be brutality.

Tungel glared back without looking at his man. Sighing, Mark grabbed one of Bomlyn’s big arms feebly waving around as he searched for air. He held the man’s wrist and elbow and slammed the wrist to his knee. Most of the closest spectators heard the snap of bones, even above the audience’s shouting.

A moan came from Bomlyn. Mark could have as easily broken the elbow, but he didn’t want to cripple the big man.

A shout came from Tungel, who strode into the combat space waving his arms. “Enough, enough. I declare Bomlyn defeated.”

Two of Tungel’s other men rushed to tend to their injured coworker. Tungel ignored Mark and addressed Hamston.

“All right, your man won, Hamston. Damn you. Where did you get him?”

“I believe Mark told me he came to you for work, and you laughed him out of your shop.”

“What—”

Then recognition washed over Tungel’s face.

Tungel slapped his thigh with one hand and looked closer at Mark. “Damn again, Hamston. You’re right. I’d forgotten about him. I can’t stand you, Hamston, but I like to think I’m an honest man. I made a mistake and lost this bet fairly. Here’s your large gold.” The loser’s employer reached into a tied pocket in his belt, withdrew one of the large gold coins, and flicked it to Hamston, who caught it with one hand and nodded.

Tungel turned to Mark. “Next time I’ll bet on you. Kaldwel’s your name if I remember right. If you ever get tired of working with Hamston, come see me, and I won’t make the same mistake twice. Oh, and I recognize you could have hurt Bomlyn worse, so thank you for that.”

After the Tungel party left to find healers to treat Bomlyn, Hamston came up to Mark as he was putting his shirt back on. “Don’t let that asshole’s offer of employment fool you. He’d change his mind when he fully realized you really don’t know shit about blacksmithing. However, if we were in one of the bigger towns or cities, we could make a fortune by you fighting. Not that I’d suggest you be tempted that way. Such fighters eventually either get beaten senseless from fights or killed by those who bet heavily on their opponent.”

“What, no congratulations on the win? No thanks for winning your bet for you and upholding the honor of your shop?”

Hamston laughed. “Good fight. Thanks for the win, and one beer for all of us before we go home. Tomorrow’s another workday. As for the honor of my shop, I don’t think anyone in Tregallon has any questions about that—no matter what Tungel’s opinion of me might be. And about your share of the winnings—I don’t have all the right coins with me. I’ll pay you tomorrow at work.”

Mark figured it out in this head. Frangelese money started with the smallest coin, composed mainly of copper with a small amount of silver. Ten copper/silvers equaled a small silver, five small silvers equaled a large silver, five large silvers equaled a small gold, and five small golds equaled a large gold.

Half a large gold coin winnings would be two small golds, two large silvers, two small silvers, and five copper/silvers.

He whistled and thought, That’s equal to six hundred and twenty-five copper/silver coins—my first income here was that single copper/silver on my first day working for Haral.

CHAPTER 6

BEWARE THE STIRKIN

The altercation at the Blue Murvor solidified Mark’s position in Hamston’s crew, more as an accepted coworker and less an out-of-place oddity. The shop continued fashioning ironwork for the mayor’s house, alternating with other orders, some of which were delayed.

Within another month, Hamston grudgingly admitted Mark learned faster than expected, though he was not likely to be trusted to produce finished products for a year or more—a time window Mark did not expect to reach. He was thinking of his next step for innovations. By now, Hamston was paying him equal apprentice wages to Felamer.

“You may not be able to produce as much as Felamer by yourself,” said Hamston, “but the two of you work well together and produce as much as two apprentices or better when you’re working as a team.”

“Hah,” said Felamer, laughing when he heard the news. “My brain and your muscle almost make us a journeyman blacksmith.”

Mark eased into a convivial work routine. His intention to begin introducing innovations never left his mind, but a sense of urgency lagged until a series of three events occurred. They were spread over a month’s time and provided a jolt that reminded him of his opportunity to reshape a new life and that time passed was never recovered.

Hamston finally surrendered to Mark’s entreaties to teach him how to shoe a horse—a skill Hamston didn’t consider a priority for his large “apprentice.” This task was usually done in Tregallon by the other two blacksmiths and several dedicated farriers in their own shops.

Mark watched Hamston change two shoes on one of the blacksmith’s own horses. As Mark was being talked through another shoe, he leaned to picked up a tool while holding the horse’s leg bent. The horse objected, jumped forward on the other three legs, and kicked Mark in his lower left thigh.

Mark hopped to a bench and rolled up the pant leg.

Hamston examined Mark’s leg. Redness and swelling were already apparent.

“Gonna be a nasty bruise,” Hamston said. “You’re lucky it’s not broken. Take the rest of the day off and see how it is tomorrow.”

Mark limped to the Hovey house, where Gwanel ministered to him. She tsk-tsked him for an hour while preparing a poultice purported to reduce swelling. He slept fitfully that night, waking in pain every time he turned on the bed. The next morning, a black-and-blue bruise covered half of his left thigh from knee to hip. It was the worst bruise of his life. Comparing it to other major bruises he’d had, including those from football, he assumed it would be a sixday or more before he could work again.

Thus, he experienced a minor shock when that afternoon he noticed less pain and checked the bruise. The coloration matched his memory of past bruises after five or six days post-injury. By the next morning, the bruise was a fraction of its original size, and he could move freely with no pain.

“The nanites?” he asked aloud in English. “Although I suppose it could just be that the bruise wasn’t as bad as it initially looked and only broke some blood vessels near the skin.”

He returned to work the next day, to Hamston’s surprise. Exactly a sixday later, the second event occurred. An overnight windstorm damaged a storage shed behind the workshop severely enough that the blacksmith assigned Mark to tear down one wall and part of the roof in preparation for repairs. He was using a crowbar to loosen planks, and as he pried at a particularly recalcitrant section of the wall, the wood split. Mark stumbled backward at the sudden release of resistance. He tripped and fell, his back landing on an ax propped against a wheelbarrow. His butt absorbed most of the impact, but he felt a searing pain as a corner of the ax blade dug into his back. He scrambled to his feet. There was blood on the ax blade.

He walked outside and called to another worker. “Come look at this, I think I cut myself.”

Mark pulled off his shirt. Blood soaked the cloth around a three-inch gash.

“Holy Sholster!” exclaimed Felamer. “That looks bad! We need to stop the bleeding until we can get you to a medico.”

“Use my shirt,” said Mark. “I can’t reach the wound.” He sat on the ground, feeling light-headed.

Hamston hurried over, saw the injury, and ran off to hitch up the shop’s wagon while Felamer pressed the folded shirt to Mark’s back.

It was Mark’s first experience with Frangel medical practice. He cast a wary eye on the man in his thirties who arrived wearing a brown cassock and carrying a large leather satchel.

“Ah, here’s Medico Fulmon,” said Hamston. “I’m glad it’s him and not Wylout. That old man’s hands shake so much, the stitches would zigzag in all directions.”

An hour later, the Frangel doctor, as Mark interpreted the medico role, finished the stitches.

“That’ll hold you for now, Ser Kaldwel,” said Fulmon. “I cleaned it as best I could. It’s not likely to get a Markal’s Curse infection, but pay attention if it isn’t healing within a sixday. It’s not bleeding, so I won’t put on a bandage. Just be careful not to do anything to break the stitches. Unless things change for the worse, come back in a sixday, so I can look at it.”

Mark had never heard of Markal’s Curse, but the alien AI said he would be immune to infectious organisms. When he returned to the Hovey house, he borrowed two mirrors from Gwanel, so he could see the wound. He was glad he checked after the stitching, rather than before. A three-inch line with stitches lay in the middle of a reddish swelled area just under his left scapula. Tolerable constant pain turned to intense jabs if he moved his left arm too fast.

Gwanel fussed over him during evening meal, and he slept ten hours. The next morning, he looked again at the wound. The redness and swelling were gone, but it was odd that the stitches seemed to extend beyond both ends of the gash. He adjusted the mirrors and looked closer. A thin line was barely visible, extending from both ends of the gash.

My Lord, it’s healing like gangbusters, Mark thought. First that nasty bruise from the horse and now this. It must be whatever the aliens did to me. The AI didn’t say anything about healing faster, but it must be the nanites.

The next evening, even with mirrors he couldn’t see the wound, and the stitches appeared to have been sewn onto uninjured skin. Assuming this example was indicative of the course of future injuries, the obvious advantages were tempered by a significant negative.

What if people see that I heal faster than anyone should? Mark wondered. Could it trigger a backlash that I’m unnatural, a minion of whatever devil they have, or just plain so different as to be feared?

He never went back to Medico Fulmon or allowed Gwanel to check the wound again. When he returned to work after a sixday, he told anyone who asked that the wound wasn’t as deep as originally thought.

He waited an additional two sixdays to visit a different medico for stitch removal.

“Very clean healing, Ser Kaldwel. Very nice for less than a month.”

Mark didn’t tell him the wound had looked completely healed after four days.

That settles it, thought Mark. Whatever the aliens’ nanites were supposed to do, it includes fast healing. Pretty cool. I wonder if it’s purposeful or a by-product of what the aliens intended? Either way, it’s a good deal—immunity and fast healing. A twofer.

The third event happened a sixday after he returned to work. The other workers had repaired the shed, but scattered wooden debris needed to be salvaged for reuse or unusable pieces piled to burn. An hour after starting work, Mark leaned down to pick up a piece of broken window sill and felt a prick on the back of his hand. A creature vaguely reminiscent of a large green cockroach with a tail scurried away and disappeared under more debris. Mark looked at his hand. A dark pinpoint was surrounded by white. As he looked, the white changed to red, and he began to feel a sting.

He cursed the creature, whatever it was, and tried to return to work, only to find that the stung hand wouldn’t respond. The blacksmith happened to walk out from the shop and saw Mark first shake his hand, then grasp the wrist with the other hand.

“What’s wrong, Mark?” Hamston called out.

“Some damn little pest stung me. It’s starting to hurt.”

In the seconds it took for the owner and the other workers to gather, the pain intensified, and the pinpoint was now centered on a swollen lump that seemed to spread as Mark watched.

“Merciful God!” someone shouted. Mark couldn’t tell who it was because his vision blurred, and the pain faded to numbness.

“I haven’t heard of anyone being stung here for almost a year! Someone run get a medico. I don’t know if anything can be done, but maybe there’s a new treatment.”

That was the last thing Mark heard before he faded away.

He later remembered having moments of awareness and delirium. The next time he was fully aware of being conscious, he found himself in his bed at the Hovey house. Ulwyn, Gwanel, and a man he didn’t recognize stood by the bed.

“Can you understand me, Ser Kaldwel?” said the man.

“Ye . . . Yeah. What happened?”

“My name is Nossum. I’m a medico. You were stung by a stirkin.”

“We were certain you were going to die like everyone does who gets stung by that awful creature,” cried Gwanel.

“Well, not everyone dies,” said Nossum, “but about three-quarters do, and many who survive have permanent physical impairment. In cases where the sting is on an arm or leg, it’s often best to amputate the limb as soon as flesh begins to die.”

“Ampu—” Mark hurriedly pulled up his hand. It was still there, but wrinkled skin surrounded a nasty scar running from the base of the forefinger two-thirds of the way to the wrist.

“Never saw the like,” said Nossum. “Your hand swelled so much, the skin broke. Usually, flesh begins to die and the body turns chill. It was the opposite for you. Instead of looking like a poison, it was like your body fought an infection.”

Nossum and the two Hoveys continued to talk, but Mark had stopped listening.

The nanites? he wondered. The AI said I wouldn’t get an infection. Maybe it wasn’t an infection the nanites fought, but the healing, replacing tissue killed by the poison until it washed out of my system. And the scar? It looks new, but did they see it heal abnormally fast?

“How long was I out?”

“Over a sixday,” said Ulwyn.

“The scar looks like it just healed,” blurted Mark without thinking.

“Of course,” said Nossum, puzzled. “Why wouldn’t it? Oh, maybe a little faster than for most people, but you obviously have a strong constitution.”

Something’s wrong, thought Mark. He’s obviously been seeing the hand regularly, and it only healed slightly faster than normal?

Two days passed before Mark was alone long enough to find a knife and nick a thigh to draw blood. When he had first noticed fast healing, he had done the same thing to check healing speed. A similar nick had quit bleeding in about thirty seconds and was imperceptible by four hours. This time the nick bled for an estimated four minutes and was still visible as a healing scar the next morning. Something had changed. It was unnerving.

Over the next two months, he repeated the nicking test once a sixday and kept a record of how long it bled. By the end of the first month, the time had slowed to a minute, then stayed the same.

Whatever the stirkin poison did, it impacted the nanites’ ability to heal me. I suppose only time will tell if there were other effects, but I’ll definitely be wary of encountering the little bastards from here on.

He was disappointed. It looked like the healing effect had been attenuated. However, the consolation was that he still healed faster than normal, and the nanites had almost certainly saved him from death or loss of the arm.

CHAPTER 7

FIRST INTRODUCTION

Even before the main shock had passed of waking up aboard an alien spacecraft and learning he’d never set foot on Earth again, thoughts had edged into Mark’s consciousness about which innovations he might introduce to a culture with Earth’s circa 1700 technology. Naturally, such ideas depended on him surviving the transition, and assuming he could fit into whatever societies he found himself in. He trusted that Hal’s technology estimate was accurate. He was well aware of the list of assumptions, each with its caveats.

Now he had been in Tregallon more than an Anyar year—about an Earth year. His health was better than ever in his life. Total immersion in Frangelese and his dedication to learning the language gave him confidence he could communicate satisfactorily for complex interchanges.

The previous month had been dramatic: the recognition of faster healing, the potentially fatal stirkin sting, and the loss of some, though not all, of the enhanced healing. Days of hiding the ax cut while it healed and then recovering from the stirkin poison had given him time to think of the future. He had become almost too comfortable with his daily routine. His conclusion? It was time to stop thinking about making the introductions and doing them.

He had grandiose visions of steam power for trains and ships, industrial-scale economies, long-distance communication (telegraph to radio), and eventually combustion engines, electricity, and powered flight. Though not a focus of his interest, he assumed pure science would leap forward centuries from the physics, engineering, and mathematics to support his dreamed-of projects.

After he made the decision to begin introducing technological innovations, with the visions of what he might accomplish during his lifetime, what was left was everything in between.

Patience had never been one of his strengths. In high school, he saw no reason to follow the custom of playing on the freshmen football team before moving on to the varsity. In the Naval Academy, he had performed well academically but had no taste for the sundry details of cadet life that led to leadership positions. As a serving officer, he felt that the customary years between possible promotion were arbitrary and a waste of time once he was confident he’d mastered the duties of a rank. He grudgingly acknowledged that the failure of his marriage was partly due not only to him and his wife being mismatched, but to his impatience with both Jocelyn and the interpersonal work that might have saved the relationship.

Anticipating the difficulties he would face and the pitfalls of being too ambitious, he resolved to start slowly and to regularly remind himself to be cautious. His knowledge of Anyar technology was also limited to his experience in Tregallon, so he couldn’t make more ambitious plans until he had more information.

And crucially, he was starting with zero resources. He remembered a quote whose source he couldn’t remember: “It takes money to make money.” He could go it alone, or he could convince people with resources to back his projects. Either way, he needed to demonstrate success to raise both coin and backers. Thus, he groped for where to start. It had to be simple, result in products people wanted, and be profitable. From success with small projects, he could plow coin into the next larger ventures. Repeating the cycle, he would reach a critical mass of resources and reputation to make possible everything he imagined.

Simple. Easy to make. In demand. The three pillars needed for his first project. To search for candidates, he met with most of the tradesmen and the craftsmen in Tregallon, travelers passing through the town, Hamston and Haral enough times to drive them to distraction, neighborhood children, and Ulwyn and Gwanel Hovey. It was during his offhanded questioning of Gwanel about Frangelese clothing that an idea congealed: a product that didn’t exist in Tregallon and, as far as he could find out, nowhere else in Frangel. It was a product he was convinced would be well-received and easy to make, though not necessarily by him. It was also a product that seemed almost too trivial, considering everything he hoped to eventually introduce.

Mark’s previous surveys of Tregallon shops failed to identify a potential collaborator for his idea. Success came on a Godsday afternoon when the main square of the town was lined with vendors. He’d just passed a leather-goods stall when he came upon a wizened elderly man at a table covered with jewelry. He stopped.

“Looking for something specific?” asked the man. “Maybe for a wife or another woman? Big strapping man like you must get more than your share of interest from the women. Maybe it’s more than one woman you’re looking to buy something for.” The man waved his hand over the table. “Lots to choose from. Necklaces, bracelets, rings, broaches. If you don’t see exactly what you’re looking for, I’ve plenty more in my shop. Tell me what you want. I might even be able to make it special for you.”

Mark didn’t respond right away but looked over the merchandise, with special interest in the necklaces. The workmanship was high quality, but the base materials were limited to brass and a blue stone he thought he recognized as amethyst. It was his mother’s birthstone and a component of several presents he’d given her over the years.

“My name is Mark Kaldwel. I like your work. Could I know your name?”

“Wiflow. Eldes Wiflow. Been making jewelry here the last fifty years. Could have moved to a big city, but I like Tregallon and the people.

“All of your jewelry seems to be made of the same materials,” said Mark.

“If you want something fancier, you’ll have to go to Kaledon or Brawsea,” rejoined the man in an annoyed tone.

“No offense,” said Mark, “it’s all fine work, and I’ve a mind to buy some pieces, but I’m just trying to satisfy my curiosity. For example, the stones. Where I come from, they’re called amethyst.”

“Never heard that word,” he said. “They’re lordlyn. I have a site where I get these.” He reached behind him to a box and brought out a rock about six inches in diameter. “You break these open, and the inside is hollow. Depending on the source, there can be different types of crystals forming an inner layer around the cavity. My source has mainly lordlyn.”

Geodes! thought Mark. I had two in my room when growing up. Always loved them. The one Uncle John gave me for a birthday was the prettiest, but I always favored the one I found when our college geology class went on a field trip near Pike’s Peak.

He knew the spheroid or oblate masses occurred in sedimentary or igneous rock where silica formed crystals lining the cavity. Often the outer layer of rock was hard enough that weathering could erode away the surrounding rock, leaving the geodes exposed or lying on the surface.

“I believe they come in many colors and shades, but yours are all dark purple.”

On Earth, amethyst came in various shades of purple, the darker tending to be the rarest and most sought after. The jeweler’s products were all of a deep purple with red highlights.

“No place else this part of Frangel has this color. My jewelry may not be made of silver or gold, but the lordlyns I use go even better with the brass.

“I was wondering where you get the brass wire. Do you make it yourself?”

“Right in my shop.”

“I’m guessing, but you must make the wire by drawing the metal through small holes.”

“Hah! Haven’t gotten that question before. Most people just ignore the wire and look at the stones. You some kind of craftsman?”

“Something like that, although probably not like any here in Tregallon. I asked about the wire because I have a product I’m thinking of making and selling. I’d like to come to your shop after you’re through here and discuss this with you. Maybe we can do some business.”

“I’ll be here another three hours. If you come back when they strike the cathedral bell twice to end the market, we can walk together.”

Mark agreed and returned to the Hoveys’ house.

“Ulwyn, I have an idea for a new product, but I don’t know what the customs here are for men working together. My idea would involve me working with the jeweler named Wiflow.”

Ulwyn stroked his beard. “Hmmm. Wiflow. Sharp as a razor, that old man. I won’t say he’s dishonest, but be careful how you deal with him. He likes to follow the exact specifics of an agreement, and he’s not averse to including details he can take advantage of.”

Four hours later, Mark and Wiflow sat on chairs in the jeweler’s workroom.

“All right, what’s this product you want to make?”

“First, we have to settle that anything I tell you is confidential. To me, this means if I describe my idea to you, you can’t tell anyone else or make the product without my permission.”

Wiflow frowned. “Just out of curiosity, how do you think you could stop me?”

“Well, for one thing, I could break every bone in your body.”

Wiflow’s facial muscles didn’t change, but his eyes briefly ran over Mark’s broad shoulders, thick arms, and flinty expression.

“Doing that could get you in serious trouble with the town’s magistrate.”

“Maybe, but that wouldn’t mend any of your bones.”

Wiflow smiled. “Well, then, let’s avoid any unpleasantness. I give my word I won’t make your product or tell anyone else about it. That’s probably a sure thing because it’s unlikely anything will come of this.”

“We’ll see,” said Mark. “I want to take a short piece of wire, twist the middle into a loop with both ends pointing in the same direction. One end will be sharpened to a point, and the other end needs to have a small cup, cover, cowling, or whatever you call it, that the sharp end rests in to be secure from sticking a person. The loop in the wire provides tension so the two ends want to separate. When used, the wire below the sharp end is pressed to allow the end to come free of the cover. To use, the pin is pushed through layers of cloth or paper, then the pin point put back in the cover. Now the two pieces of material are held together.” Mark stopped.

Wiflow wrinkled his forehead. “That’s it? What good is it?”

“Think about it. It’s called a ‘safety pin.’ A person can carry them around in a pocket and not be stuck by the pin, keeping it to use in whatever comes up. You can hold clothing together, instead of needing ties or buttons, temporarily repair tears in clothing, secure bandages, fasten diapers on babies, close wounds either permanently or until stitching can be done, and even use the safety pin as a fishhook if nothing else is available. Then there’s use as a pin to lance boils, remove splinters, and be a toothpick. I’m sure there are any number of other uses.”

“A ‘safety pin,’” mused Wiflow, sitting back in his chair and staring at the ceiling. “Safety pin. I’d have to figure out how to efficiently make and attach the cover—probably easiest by making the cover end longer than the sharp end, then pounding the blunt end flat and bending it into a trough for the pin. The alternative is to make the cover, cowl, or whatever we’ll call it, separately and then weld it to the wire. I could try several methods to see what works best.”

Wiflow looked back down at Mark. “I’d have to complete a few of the pins to test them, but I don’t see a problem. However, what market is there for your safety pin?”

“Well, to start off, every woman in the entire world.”

The old jeweler didn’t quite roll his eyes, but the grunt and half-smirk conveyed his opinion of Mark’s statement.

Mark wasn’t annoyed. He’d come prepared.

“Are you married? Have a wife, daughters, nieces, or sisters in Tregallon?”

“One of each.”

“I propose that I pay you to make a dozen of the pins. You show them to the women in your family, and then we’ll talk again.”

Four days later, Mark returned from work to find Wiflow sitting in front of the Hovey house. The jeweler jumped to his feet and rushed to Mark.

“I’ve never been one not to admit I was wrong when it’s proved to me! My wife thought I was the cleverest man alive when I showed her the pins. At least, that was at first. Then she started complaining why hadn’t I come up the idea before? I wasn’t going to tell her the pins weren’t my idea, but finally I did to get her to shut up about me not thinking of them until we were old.

“The family women want more pins as soon as possible. In fact, my daughter kept pushing me to make different sizes of pins for different purposes. That got me thinking that there might be uses for iron pins. They’d rust, but workers might have purposes that wouldn’t matter that much. I don’t know about the iron pins, but certainly the brass ones will sell fast. I wouldn’t be surprised if we could sell five to ten thousand right here in Tregallon within a few sixdays.”

Mark had to restrain himself from yelling, “Yes!” and fist-pumping.

“How long would it take you to make that many? And what about the larger cities? If you think we could sell thousands here, it must be hundreds of thousands if we include Kaledon and Brawsea.”

“Wait, wait. I think they’ll sell. That doesn’t mean I can commit to making that many pins.”

“Well, couldn’t you hire more workers, so it’s not just you alone making them? Once the procedure is worked out, I’d think one person could make hundreds of pins in one day.”

“First, I couldn’t have my shop make nothing but pins. Besides my shop, I sell at the Godsday market because it’s what I’ve done for the last forty years. I enjoy the market and talking with people. I also sell my jewelry to shops elsewhere in Frangel. I’ve three workers doing most of the routine work. My son, Tomtun, and I do the finer pieces and supervise the others. I have jewelry orders I’ve committed to filling. I could see stopping the jewelry work for perhaps only a sixday to make the pins.

“Then there’s the question of how much of a market there would be for the pins and how long it would last. Eventually, we’d saturate the Tregallon market. From then on, it would only be replacing pins lost or broken, which would be a steady market needing only one worker part time. The problem with wanting to sell elsewhere is that once the safety pins were known, other craftsmen would easily duplicate them. That means there’s no incentive to increase workers in anticipation of a long-term market.”

Wiflow shook his head. “Sorry, but I’m only willing to divert a little worker time to this.”

Deflated, Mark sat on the bench Wiflow had used while waiting.

He’s right. Other jewelers, or who knows what other craftsmen, could be making pins within days of seeing the first one.

“Is there any rule or law about . . . I don’t know the Frangelese word for it . . . something that gives the originator of a product exclusive rights to sell them for a defined period of time? Where I came from, it’s called a ‘patent.’ You own the patent, and no one can compete with you until the time the patent expires.”

“Patent? No, I’ve never heard of anything like that in Frangel. Depending on where you lived in Frangel, I know that districts or cities might grant decrees to give exclusive rights to resources or products, but that isn’t the case in Dal-Kaledon.”

“Dal-Kaledon? What’s that?”

“It’s the district Tregallon is in. The territory surrounding Kaledon. Of course, Kaledon is a district by itself.”

Mark realized he had minimal knowledge of the Frangel political system. He knew it had what sounded like a king, but he had no idea what authority and powers came with the title. He’d heard oblique references to authority, and Ulwyn had once tried to explain the system, but Mark had been so consumed by his own adjustment and then wondering how to raise money that he hadn’t paid attention. A foolish lack of interest, he now admitted to himself.

“I’m not from Frangel and am not clear on how authority here is organized. There’s the king and districts, but what is in between, and how do power and authority flow? Is the king absolute, meaning anything he says is the law? Who makes the law? I should have asked these questions before.”

“The king is the leader of Frangel. Right now, the king is Ordwain. He’s almost eighty years old and has been king my whole life. It’ll be unsettling when he finally dies, but his son and heir, Teowain, is widely respected and has stood in for his father the last few years—at least, in traveling around Frangel and passing on his father’s wishes to the House of Estates.”

“All right,” said Mark, his voice tinged with frustration. “Neither do I know what the House of Estates is. You’d better go ahead and explain it all for me.”

Wiflow guffawed. “For someone not from Frangel and not having years of understanding, it’s going to be hard for you, but I’ll try to give you a basic outline.

“Frangel has ten districts. The three largest cities are seaports and have bigger populations than the next largest cities, so each of those three is a district: Kaledon, Brawsea, and Landylbury. It’s recognized that the people and societies of each of those cities have interests that are not exactly the same as outside the cities, so those people have their own districts. Tregallon is in the district surrounding Kaledon, Dal-Kaledon. The other two Dal districts are Dal-Brawsea and Dal-Landylbury. Those six districts have over nine-tenths of Frangel’s population. Then there’s the Nurburt District. It’s centered around the city of Nurburt in central Frangel. The rest of Frangel has scattered populations and larger land areas than the other districts. Kardlyn consists of most of the land in northern Frangel not part of the seven districts I’ve mentioned. The Gundel District is most of western Frangel and to the Timbar Sea. The tenth district is just named South. As you can guess, it’s the southern part of Frangel. Few people live there because the climate is much colder and the land poorer. Probably hardly anyone would live in the South District at all if it weren’t for mining, trapping, and hunting. There you have it, ten districts, each of which has members of the House of Estates, which authorizes all new laws and changes to existing laws.”

“And how are the members of the House of Estates determined?” asked Mark. “Is it hereditary, do the people select them, or what?”

“Well, it depends which district you’re talking about. The Holders, that’s the title for members of the House of Estates, are chosen by each district according to their own customs. In Dal-Kaledon, the leaders of each community send a representative to a gathering every three years to select a list of candidates to be Holders. In Kaledon, an assembly of the largest property owners and merchants selects the candidates. Brawsea is the capital of Frangel, and there the Holder candidates are selected by three nobles who rotate among the top twelve titled nobles in the city. I’m not sure how it works exactly in all the other districts, though I understand South District does it by gathering anyone interested and they vote.”

“All right, that’s candidates, you say, but how do you get from being a candidate to being a Holder in this House of Estates?”

“That’s when the king has a part. He takes the complete list of candidates and chooses among them. The aim is to have Holders fairly distributed among the districts by population, a selection of nobles and merchants, and to include members of the two religious sects.”

“Religious sects? I thought everyone was of the same religion?”

“Oh, no. Most people in Tregallon follow Sholsterism . . . at least, they pretend to. In other places in Frangel, people tend to be followers of either Sholsterism or Morwynism. Most districts are mainly one or the other. Dal-Kaledon and Nurburt are exceptions, in that the population is divided between the two sects.”

Mark’s head had started to swim as he tried to picture the Frangel political system.

“So, how does the king select from the candidates, and aren’t there arguments about who he selects?”

“A new House of Estates is selected every three years. It’s common that not everyone agrees with all the king’s selections, but the existing House of Estates has to approve the composition of the next House. Once the members are approved, the king meets with all one hundred Holders to get their views of the important issues, dangers, and what changes they would or would not like to happen. The king will then ask one of the Holders to gather a majority of Holders to support him as the Prime Holder to be the actual person to lead the country. If, after two sixdays, no majority is gathered, then the king asks another Holder, and this continues until a Prime Holder is confirmed and selects five to ten men to serve as the Estates Council—the number varies with the Prime and the current issues. The Prime is the leader of the Council that oversees aspects of governing Frangel.”

Mark grunted, then cleared his throat. “No offense intended, Wiflow, but I don’t see how that would work. Sounds too complicated, no clear line of authority, and I’d expect the various factions to argue endlessly over which candidates are chosen. It also isn’t clear exactly what authority the king has.”

“Well, I only gave you a summary. How it actually works is much more complex. What you don’t realize is that for almost a century, Frangel’s history was filled with terrible wars with Madyrna, the realm east of Frangel; fighting between the two religious sects; attacks on our coast by Krinolin raiders; and general lawlessness. This chaos ended only when the leaders of the two sects and several of the most powerful lords got together and established the basic government we still have four centuries later. Oh, there have been changes, but it happens slowly. Even though it was long ago, people still know of that dark time, and every child is impressed with how important it is to avoid internal strife. After all, we’re all Frangelese.”

“I’ll admit I’m surprised they settled it like you describe. Humans usually cling to beliefs or eventually revert to conflicts over religion.”

Wiflow laughed. “Don’t think every Frangelese went along that easily at first, but the meeting of sects and nobles set the tone of looking at the greater good first. For example, someone had to be king, but the nobles understood that if he came from one of their families, there would be no end of jealousy. That’s why they chose a widely respected minor family that hadn’t been involved in most of the fighting. The sect leaders also rose above many of their followers and together forbade fighting based solely on religion.

“Naturally, none of this went smoothly at first. Records of that time are incomplete. Some scholars think it was deliberate, so future generations wouldn’t learn everything that was done to ensure success and prevent lingering resentments.”

“I certainly respect those leaders if they got it to work,” said Mark, “although it doesn’t help me understand exactly how your system functions day to day.”

“It does work, but no one thinks it’s easy. One joke is that a reason why no other realm would try to conquer Frangel is that they couldn’t figure out who was in charge and who to conquer.”

Mark shrugged. Wiflow’s description gave him more insight than he’d had before—enough that he knew he was far from understanding Frangel. As his innovations became more impactful, he knew he would need to correct his knowledge deficiency. However, he doubted it was critical for his first introductions.

“All right, so there’s nothing like patents, but how about this, Wiflow? What if we don’t offer any pins for sale in Tregallon until we have those ten thousand already made? Before anyone else could start making pins, we would have already sold those thousands. After that, it might not be worth anyone’s time to bother making more, and one part-time worker would be sufficient for you to replenish those lost or broken.”

Wiflow pursed his lips. “That might work, assuming word didn’t spread too fast and give other craftsmen time to start making pins.”

“We could do a blitz campaign,” said Mark.

Wiflow’s blank look clued Mark to his confusion.

“Blitz campaign. It’s a phrase used where I come from. It’s where we work to let the maximum number of people know about safety pins as quickly as possible. For example, I’m staying with Ulwyn and Gwanel Hovey. We could have Gwanel and all the women in your family go to every woman they know to show how the pins work. That has to be a hundred or more women. Then, we could tell the first few dozen women who come to buy the pins that we’ll give them a free pin for every woman who comes to your shop telling us who sent them. Plus, once this starts, it wouldn’t surprise me if almost every woman in Tregallon finds out within two days. From the women, the men will hear of it and start finding uses for the pins. Within a sixday, two at the most, we might sell everything already made. You could then take future orders with half-payment guarantees. By the time those orders were filled, we would have cornered most of the market, which would delay anyone else making the pins.”

Wiflow’s eyebrows raised, and he took a half-step back.

“Have you already sold these pins elsewhere in Frangel or maybe even outside of the Drilmar continent? You seem awfully familiar with selling strategies.”

Elementary marketing, thought Mark, especially for someone raised on TV ads and shopping channels. My job with General Dynamics might have involved promoting light armored vehicles and tanks to various countries, instead of safety pins, but many basic selling principles aren’t that much different.

“I’ve had some experience, but I don’t know how things are here in Frangel, so I can’t be certain what will work.”

“I like your ideas,” said Wiflow, stroking his beard. “I’ll have to give this some thought. There’s the danger of getting too greedy and missing what can go wrong. However, I’m wondering if this blitz campaign might also work in the large cities. Travel between Tregallon and Kaledon isn’t that frequent—even less so with Brawsea. But if your ideas work here, there’s no reason they wouldn’t work in big cities. Of course, the problem with a blitz campaign in Kaledon and Brawsea is we’d have to have hundreds of thousands of the pins ready to sell right off. The only way I would even consider such a commitment is if the sales here in Tregallon were as great as you predict, and we sank all the profits into making pins for sale in Kaledon and Brawsea.”

Mark nodded, relieved that Wiflow was thinking of details, rather than still deciding whether he should commit. “I agree with using caution and seeing how things go here in Tregallon. However, assuming it goes well, I’m willing to put all my share of profits into blitz campaigns in Kaledon and Brawsea.”

“Well, now, that brings us to the division of profits. Since I’m providing the workers, my shop, and my own expertise, I think a fair split of profits, after expenses, should be four parts to me and one part to you.”

“Eighty percent to twenty percent? I don’t think so, Sherlock,” Mark said aloud in English.

He didn’t know the degree to which bargaining was expected in Frangel. He’d had plenty of experience in buying gifts for his family as he traveled on business: Morocco, Jordan, Chile, and India, to name a few places. Experience didn’t equate to interest. He had the usual American preference for simply knowing what the price was and deciding without discussion whether he was willing to pay. Nevertheless, he didn’t know whether Wiflow might be offended if he didn’t go along. He sighed.

“Obviously, you’re delusional, Wiflow. Since it’s my idea and you wouldn’t have anything if it weren’t for me, the split should be the other way around—four parts of five for me.”

Mark knew the next fifteen minutes would be boring for him, but he suspected the same minutes would be among the day’s most enjoyable for Wiflow. He figured they’d end up exactly where both knew they would. One difference in their performances was that Mark had no intention of accepting less than an equal split, whereas Wiflow likely hoped to come out better than he secretly thought was fair. In the end, it was equal shares of profits after expenses. Mark suspected Wiflow’s sigh of disappointment was due to the part of the agreement about maintaining accounting records for regular review. Mark would need to keep an eye on the elderly jeweler.

As shrewd and expert in jewelry making as Wiflow was, mass production was not part of his experience, nor of anyone else’s in Tregallon, although Mark wondered about the mercantile communities in Kaledon and Brawsea. The next sixday, he spent an hour a day at Wiflow’s shop, observing Wiflow and offering occasional suggestions. Making more wire was the first task because they needed far more than had previously been required for jewelry. Mark watched small brass ingots be beaten to flat sheets, then cut into thin strips that were hammered round and pulled through a succession of stone dies to produce wire of the planned gauge.

The basic safety pin design, as drawn by Mark and modified by Wiflow, took two days of making minor changes and confirming the design. Wiflow and Tomtun worked out the procedure before production began.

The jeweler and his son did the first run of pins while the other three workers observed. The first full day of production they made 47 acceptable safety pins, accompanied by curses, workers’ questions about this ridiculous new project, stuck fingers, and Wiflow telling Mark he was about to abandon the entire idea.

The second day involved all five workers, and they made 193 pins. The third day, 320. The fourth day, 944. The fifth day, 1,030. On Godsday, Wiflow manned his booth as usual, and Mark sat with him between customers, as they discussed the sixday.

“Twenty-six hundred pins,” said Wiflow. “I think five of us doing the work could eventually make twelve hundred a day, but let’s assume a thousand to account for illness or unforeseen happenings. That’s the most we can produce per day. That might give us close to our ten thousand goal by the end of next sixday, but I still have a jewelry business. I’ll only be able to put two, sometimes three, people on this at any one time from now on. We’re all more skilled than necessary for this work. In the future, I can see hiring more men, but it will take time for them to be as productive as the workers I already have, and I’d be paying them much less. The other problem is that I’m not sure there are enough men who have the ability to work with small items, such as making the pins.”

“How about women?” asked Mark. “They’re usually better at fine work.”

“Women? Hmmm. You may have something there. Another advantage is, I wouldn’t have to pay them as much as a man.”

So much for equal pay, thought Mark. I suppose that’s something I could help change, but if that’s the custom here, it’s to my advantage. Anyway, it could prove more difficult altering cultural details than getting technology accepted.

“Of course, I’m not sure how many women would be available to work all day,” said Wiflow. “Most have homes to care for—except for girls not yet married, older ones who are widows, or those unable to find a husband.”

Wiflow paused and drummed the fingers of his right hand on the booth’s tabletop. “No, it hadn’t occurred to me to hire women, but there’s bound to be plenty of possibilities because there are more women than men.”

“Well, worrying about more workers is for the future,” said Mark. “With fewer workers, this will mean it will take two more sixdays to reach our goal of ten thousand pins.”

“Only one extra sixday,” said Wiflow. “I think I might put more worker time into it than I first said. Of course, it’s not like there’s a deadline or anyone else competing with us.”

Mark sighed. I know he’s right. It’s just that I’ve gotten excited about my first try at introducing something new. Patience, Mark. You’ve got to be patient to make the money you’ll need for bigger ideas.

CHAPTER 8

TWO INNOVATIONS

Wiflow’s estimation of one more sixday extended to one sixday after another, testing Mark’s patience. A trading house in Brawsea had sent Wiflow a letter stating that a previously agreed-on delivery date for a large order of earrings had been moved up.

“Sorry, Kaldwel, but this is an important long-time customer. I may be optimistic about safety pins, but the market for them is still unproven. I can’t afford to disappoint guaranteed business.”

With nothing to contribute to pin introduction, Mark turned to a second innovation he had dabbled with in spare moments at Hamston’s blacksmith shop. He had on several occasions been a passenger on Ulwyn’s and Hamston’s wagons. One day, he rode alongside Hamston on the driver’s bench during a round trip to the other side of Tregallon to deliver a set of ornate balcony railings. The wagon rode well on the dirt road outside the town, but in passing through Tregallon, they traveled over a section of a cobblestone street in dire need of repair.

“Good grief, Hamston!” Mark exclaimed, after a series of jolts to his tailbone caused by missing cobblestones. “Don’t they ever replace missing stones?”

“It’s this street. I forgot to avoid it like I usually do. The city authority is in dispute with the neighborhood over who’s responsible for repairs. Supposedly, the duty is shared, but the two sides have been arguing for the last year.”

Another jolt sent Mark into the air before he reconnected with the wooden bench in yet another spine-jarring impact.

“Damn! It’d at least be a smoother ride if your wagon had springs.”

“Springs? What’s that?” asked Ulwyn, glancing at Mark while simultaneously maneuvering around carts and people walking.

Mark struggled to find a Frangelese word to replace the English he’d used. That was when he realized he didn’t know the language’s word for “spring” because he had never seen one or heard them referenced.

“Uh . . . a coiled bar of metal that compresses under weight. They can be used to cushion shocks.”

Hey, thought Mark, a figurative light bulb turning on. I wonder whether that’s something to introduce here if springs are unknown. Sure would help my ass if these wagons had them. I wonder how to make them with existing technology. Hmmm . . . wait. It’s really a leaf spring I should think of.

Hamston’s attention was diverted as he greeted an acquaintance, which let Mark consider the new idea.

Yes, a leaf spring. Simple in concept. He envisioned two arched strips of metal connected at their ends, so that they formed a leaf shape. It would take good-quality steel, which he didn’t have the skill and experience to make using existing tools, but he bet Hamston could do it. All he had to do was make a model to show the principle to the blacksmith. Maybe he could make Hamston a partner, as he had Wiflow with the safety pins. He figured different partners for different projects would be a buffer against individual bad experiences.

His impatience with the safety pin project was difficult to suppress, but the leaf spring provided a good diversion. It was a month later when he felt as satisfied as he could be with the first pair of leaf springs. He expected them to break easily, but he only needed them to last long enough to demonstrate the concept to Hamston.

“Hamston, there’s a new project I’d like to talk with you about.”

“New project? The one you hinted at a while back?”

“It’ll take some explaining, so I’ll give you a demonstration and details when you have time.”

“All right. Let me get the others going on their work for today, and I’ll come to you.”

Mark used two vises to hold the two leaf springs he’d finished into positions three feet apart and parallel. He was examining the setup when the smith returned.

“Humph. I suspected this is what you wanted to talk about. I wondered what in St. Hulde’s name you were doing with whatever these are. Am I to think you’re about to tell me?”

“Yes, that’s part of it, but I also need your help, and there will be a business proposition.”

Mark turned to the springs. “These are called leaf springs in the language of the people where I come from.” He sat a thick wooden board on top of the springs and held it in place with his hands.

“Imagine this to be the seating box of a wagon. The box should be bolted to the springs or the box attached to an iron frame, but for now I’ll hold it in this demonstration. I’ll ask you to put one of the small anvils on top of the board.”

Hamston’s quizzical expression didn’t stop him from cooperating. The blacksmith was probably the strongest man in Tregallon, except for Mark, and easily lifted the anvil and set it on the board. The springs sagged under the weight. His eyes widened and he leaned forward, putting a big hand on top of the anvil and putting part of his weight on it. The board sagged slightly more. He relaxed the pressure, then repeatedly pressed and released before he switched to picking up the small anvil and setting it back down.

Big and rough looking as he is, I sensed Hamston is one smart cookie, Mark thought. He’s figured out the purpose right off.

“Amazing,” said Hamston. “This leaf spring of yours will take jolts away, as the wagon goes over rough surfaces. The driver would still move with bumps and holes the wheels go over, but it would be rocking and bouncing, instead of jolts.”

Mark nodded. “Right! I think once people experience leaf springs making rides easier, every new wagon will have them, and I expect existing wagons can be modified.”

The blacksmith continued to push on and release the anvil. Mark had to maintain the board’s balance.

“That may be true,” Hamston agreed, “but what about also putting these springs not just under the driver’s seat, but under the body of the wagon above each wheel? That would take four of your springs but would keep the entire wagon body from sustaining sharp jolts that make wagons age.”

Thank you, God, for smart people, Mark thought. Hamston sees the implications without me having to work at it.

“Of course, the wagon would be more expensive to make and maintain,” said the blacksmith, “but it would more than pay for itself by being easier on the wagon and letting the driver go faster.”

Hamston stopped bouncing the anvil and put both hands on hips. “The obvious question is whether the springs will hold up to the constant compression and relaxation.”

Mark lifted the anvil and set it on the ground, letting the board slide off the springs.

“That’s where I need your help. I’ve learned a lot about smithing the last few months, but it’ll take your experience and your shop to produce steel strong enough to make leaf springs practical.”

“Oh, it’s possible,” said Hamston. “I can tell by just looking at the springs you made that they’ll quickly fail. Oh, they’re not bad for someone with as little experience as yourself—I could see you eventually having your own smithy.”

Hamston crossed his arms. “You mentioned a business proposition. I assume you want me to agree to make these leaf springs in my shop. We could make enough of them for a few wagons to test the market. They’re not going to be cheap to make, so I’m not sure how many wagon owners would be willing to pay the price. It might be people who travel a lot or have enough coin to pay for the better ride. However, if by chance the market justifies it, I’d have to add another worker. That could be you if you were interested in working more and after I trained you specifically to make the right type of steel.”

The blacksmith’s positive attitude toward making springs was encouraging, though his opinion on the number that might be sold wasn’t.

“Isn’t there a way to increase production? Maybe with more workers?”

Hamston shook his head. “Not here in Tregallon. Oh, I could train more men, but that would take time and coin—and to what purpose if there’s not a big enough market?”

Mark had intended to keep his plans for selling leaf springs in the largest cities secret from the blacksmith at first, but he realized that wouldn’t work.

“What if I said that my intention was not to sell the springs only here but everywhere in Frangel, starting with Kaledon and Brawsea?”

“Ah, well, that’s different. I think we could make enough springs for Tregallon but not for a much larger market. No, you’d need to work with the larger blacksmith shops in those cities. With larger bellows, forges, and trip hammers, production of the right grade of steel would go much faster. It might also be possible for those blacksmiths to expand their shops even more if the market was there.”

He’s right, thought Mark. I’ve been so wrapped up in getting the test springs finished that I didn’t consider what it would take to produce thousands of springs.

Now that Hamston had laid it out, Mark saw only one way forward.

“If I wanted to go to Kaledon and find a smithy that could do that scale of work, how would I go about it, and could you help?”

Hamston used one hand from his crossed arms to drum fingers on the opposite shoulder while he was silent for a minute.

“I know a smithy in Kaledon that could at least get you started on producing hundreds of springs. That would let you determine the market in a large city. His name is Arko Stillum. I hate his guts.”

Hamston paused to spit to one side.

“He was married to one of my cousins and was beating her. When I heard about it from other relatives, I nearly headed to Kaledon to do something about it, but my cousin left him and came to Tregallon. I never understood why she married the bastard in the first place. I only met him three times, and we almost got into a fight every time.

“Anyway, as nasty as he is, he’s a master blacksmith and has one of the largest shops in Kaledon. He’s greedy, too. I can make some proper leaf springs for you and equip a wagon you can take to show him how the springs work. I’ll also give you a letter from me. As I should have more accurately said, we hate each other, but he’ll put that aside for enough coin.”

Shit! Mark thought. The leaf spring project just got more complicated than I thought it would be.

“I’ll admit I’m disappointed, Hamston. I’d hoped you and I could become partners in this.”

“About all I can contribute is making springs for the Tregallon area and helping you make contacts in Kaledon. What if we make the following deal? I’ll make springs and equip any wagons you need to convince bigger smithies in the cities to work with you. I’ll also try to get you introduced to Stillum. I suppose I can write to a blacksmith I casually know in Brawsea. If he’s not interested, he may have suggestions for other blacksmiths there who might be able to help you. In return, I get the rights to make springs for anyone in Tregallon who wants them. If I make them for people outside the town, then we’ll share the profit.”

Mark hated giving up any profits, but Hamston’s advice rang true, and he needed the blacksmith’s help. He was also happy to turn over making functional leaf springs to Hamston because Wiflow announced they had exceeded by two hundred their goal of ten thousand pins.

An unusually large number of Tregallon citizens headed for the town square on market day after word spread that something new was going on sale. The day was perfect for the safety pins’ roll-out—scattered clouds, mild temperature, and a gentle breeze. Wiflow, his son Tomtun, and Mark each carried a box of pins to Wiflow’s usual spot. Assistants had already brought the table and chairs.

“What—!” exclaimed Wiflow, when he saw two dozen women and several men milling around the empty booth.”

“About time you got here, Wiflow,” said a gray-haired woman in a grating tone. “And what’s this amazing thing you’re going to try and sell us?”

“Patience, Nurla, patience,” said the jeweler. “Give us a moment to set up, and I’ll let you be the first to try a safety pin.”

“A what?” asked a portly, well-dressed woman.

They stacked the three boxes behind the chair. Wiflow sat, turned to the first box, and pulled out a handful of pins. He dropped them on the table and spread them out. An assistant handed him small pieces of cloth.

“If you’ll all gather round, I’ll demonstrate.” He held up a single pin.

“What in damnation of all the saints are you trying to do, Wiflow?” exclaimed the first woman. “A new piece of tiny jewelry, and one so ugly, who’d want to wear it?”

“Not jewelry, Nurla. Watch.” Wiflow held the pin above his head so most people could see it. He pushed on the pointed end to lift it out of the groove and to one side to release it. The assistant, standing behind Wiflow, held the edges of two pieces of cloth together above Wiflow, and the jeweler pushed the point through both fabrics and refastened the pin. The assistant released one cloth, letting the other fall to show they were now attached.

Wiflow took the result and held it with both hands. “My friends, you now see that the two pieces of cloth are held together. The sharp point of the safety pin is shielded. Imagine you have pieces of clothing you need to stay in position, a tear needing temporary repair, or any other time when you need to hold cloth together without ties, sewing, or buttons. Also, those of you with babies can imagine using the pins to secure diapers safely and quickly.”

Utterances from Wiflow’s audience ranged from disgust, puzzlement, and cautious appreciation to a few approvals.

“Now, I’m going to give each of you two safety pins so you can try them for yourselves. These are free. I only ask that if you find them useful, you tell others about them.”

The giveaways were Mark’s suggestion, one vigorously resisted by Wiflow until Tomtun supported the idea.

A third of the group drifted away without collecting the free samples. Another third took their two pins and left the area—the rest stayed and manipulated the pins, sometimes with further demonstrations by Wiflow, the assistant, and Mark. By the end of the first hour, they had sold a hundred pins at one small copper coin each—the cost of one loaf of bread per coin. By two hours, a few members of the first audience came back, along with women who had heard of the pins from new owners, and sales had passed three hundred. At three hours, the booth was surrounded by boisterous customers, mainly women, impatient to purchase the new marvel.

The occupants of the two adjacent booths quit trying to shoo Wiflow’s customers away from their businesses and either gave up for the day or moved elsewhere on the square. Mark and Tomtun occupied the two now-vacant spaces, and sales rocketed. The last pin was sold just as the bell rang to close the market. Disgruntled potential customers were assured more pins would be available as soon as possible. Wiflow took another of Mark’s suggestions and offered preorders—half the price paid now to reserve pins as soon as they were made. A surprised Wiflow estimated he had orders for another thousand pins.

The elderly jeweler shook his head as he checked the three empty boxes and ran his hands across the table’s surface.

“I thought this would work, even without your ‘sales tricks,’ as you called them, but this . . .  ”

The jeweler’s expression of wonder morphed into concern, as he glanced down at the cloth sack bulging with copper coins. He turned to Tomtun. “Run back to our shop and bring several thick leather sacks. Also, the two pistols we keep in the shop.” Wiflow stopped and looked Mark up and down. “And one of those four-foot-long brass stock bars from the store room.

“Now!” he ordered when Tomtun didn’t disappear immediately.

“We’ve got ten thousand small coppers. The bag I brought isn’t big or strong enough to hold all the coins. I expected we might sell a few thousand pins at the most. We might tempt someone or some group to try to steal the coins. Tregallon is safer than the large cities, but this many coins might be too much temptation. I think we’re safe as long as we’re in the square and there’s still a lot of people around, but my shop and home are far enough away that I don’t want to take chances.”

“Why did you tell Tomtun to bring the brass bar?”

“It’s for you. I only have two pistols, but I figure a big brute like you swinging the bar will be an added deterrent. Word will spread about the sudden demand for safety pins and that we must have piles of coins. First thing tomorrow morning, Tomtun and I will be busy with the shop, so I’ll ask you to look at strengthening all my doors and windows. You should do the same with the Hoveys’ house where you’re staying and advise Ulwyn what’s happening.

“If we were in Kaledon or Brawsea, there would be money-changers who would provide a secure place to keep the coin in exchange for fees. Tregallon hasn’t had enterprises holding onto that much coin at one time, so the need for money-changers hasn’t happened.”

Bankers? wondered Mark.

“This is something unusual for Tregallon,” said Wiflow, “so much coin in one place, even if only copper coins. We’ll have to find people and tradesmen willing to exchange for higher coins.”

Mark shrugged. “I don’t understand. People must have coin from wages and from selling things.”

“Yes, but not that much. Most people’s wealth is in their possession—houses, land, tools, clothing, animals, and other things. Hardly anyone keeps a large amount of coins at home or in shops.”

So, no savings as such, thought Mark. The town’s coin supply must be limited and stays in constant circulation.

If Wiflow was right about the danger of having too much coin in their possession, Mark needed to consider his own situation. He estimated his half-share in the first profits would come to about two thousand soldors, the Frangelese monetary unit, in the form of two thousand copper coins. He hadn’t considered the problem of the small price and big demand resulting in so many coins. The solution was to follow Wiflow’s lead and change most of his profits into higher-denomination coins that were easier to carry and conceal.

Ten minutes later, Tomtun returned, sweating and puffing, and the three men walked to Wiflow’s shop. There, they put the bags of coins in a metal box bolted to a thick pillar and locked it with a large padlock.

Mark was elated. He had more ambitious ideas for innovations than he knew would be possible in a lifetime, but ideas were not reality. He hoped a small project like the safety pins would provide the experience critical for projects of larger scope. A smile grew, as he imagined future historical accounts extolling a man named Mark Kaldwel and how the Anyar industrial revolution began with safety pins. His suppressed doubts vanished. He waited until Tomtun left, then put a hand on Wiflow’s shoulder and broached their next move.

“I know it’s only one day, Wiflow, but tell me you don’t think this would work in Kaledon and Brawsea.”

The jeweler licked his lips. “I’m almost a believer, Kaldwel, but those are different situations than Tregallon. Anytime you do business in those places, a wise man stays aware of bigger forces, some of which need to be treated with care. The guilds control most production through interlocking relationships and contracts. The large merchant houses work closely with the guilds to control imports, and government officials don’t like changes.”

“For safety pins?” asked Mark. “How can they control a market they don’t know exists?”

Wiflow nodded. “I agree I don’t see how, but it’s not something to believe isn’t possible. Our best chances of not rousing opposition is to do exactly what we did here—quickly create a new market and dominate it at first. There will be more competition that develops faster than it will here in Tregallon. Our best strategy is that once safety pins are known to have a steady future market, we might strike a deal with one of the guilds to have the pins fall under its purview.”

Cartels. That’s what Wiflow is talking about, thought Mark. These guilds control product markets and suppress competition and innovation. What a bunch of shitheads. But hey, if we’re going to deal with them, then Wiflow’s right that we need to connect with our own shitheads.

Mark knew the downside of cartels for the overall economy, but he recognized the advantage to cartel members. He didn’t make the rules here, so he wasn’t going to moralize.

“Does this mean you don’t think we can or should do it?” Mark asked.

“Oh, no! Despite my reservations, my instinct tells me this is a chance of a lifetime. I may not live that many more years, but I see a chance to secure my family’s future for generations.”

Wiflow laughed. “It also has me more excited than I’ve been in a long time. When I was much younger, I was full of ideas about what my life would be like. However, we’ll need to move fast. It won’t take long before someone in Tregallon travels and other places in Frangel learn about the pins. We can be thankful that the harvest season is coming, so travel is less frequent while so many people deal with crops. If I had to guess, I’d say the first pins will reach Kaledon or Brawsea in three or four months. Then, once they are known there, word will spread fast.”

Mark stroked his beard. “Then we’re wasting time. The two limiting factors are brass and people. I saw your supply of brass. It’s nowhere near enough. I assume you know suppliers.”

Wiflow shook his head. “I can find more here, but my regular supply comes from Kaledon. The fastest way to get more will be to go there in person and bring back a large supply. The shop I usually buy from will become suspicious if I buy too much, but there are other shops. It would be better if the purchases could be made by more than one person. I’m not up for wagon travel that far anymore, but I can send Tomtun. If you go with him, we can create a story about who you are and why you need brass.”

“What about Ulwyn Hovey? He told me he gets to Kaledon once a year. What if three of us go? That will give us more people to do what’s necessary.”

Wiflow nodded. “Ulwyn’s reliable. We’ve dealt with each other for thirty years or more. He’s honest as anyone and can be trusted to keep his mouth closed. We wouldn’t bring him in as a continuing partner, so I prefer to give him either a set amount for the one trip or provide him with pins for trading. If Ulwyn agrees to go, he can check on the best market sites for selling the pins—there are seven or eight in Kaledon. The one in the main plaza is the largest, but I expect it’s the hardest to get booth space. I haven’t sold there for many years, so I don’t know the current situation.”

“I’ll speak to him tonight,” said Mark.

“The other issue is workers,” said Wiflow. “I’m not willing to give up my jewelry business, so I’ll need at least two more workers to do much of the pin work. That leaves my other three for my regular trade. It’ll take a month to train new people enough to be useful, even if the pins are so simple. However, that may work out because I’ll need most of that same month for you to get to Kaledon, purchase rods and sheets, and return. By then, more workers should be trained enough to be productive. However, even when production starts, we shouldn’t expect more than two hundred pins a day from each new worker at first.”

Mark did the math.

Shit, he thought. That means we’re looking at eighty to ninety days from now for a Kaledon blitz campaign.

“What about Brawsea?”

“No way we can do both cities at the same time. We would also want to add more workers because Brawsea is the largest city in Frangel. It would take time to produce another two to three hundred thousand pins. However, if we can associate with a guild in Kaledon, it should transfer to Brawsea. That means we wouldn’t be under as much time pressure.”

“Could we add even more workers?”

“We’ve already talked about this. There’s only so many available men who could do the work.”

“Then what about women, like I mentioned?”

Wiflow sighed. “It’s not something commonly done, although I understand your reasoning that there should be many women who would want the work. If we do hire women, the men I didn’t hire will be angry. I don’t want to start trouble.”

“Tough shit,” said Mark in English and then translated into Frangelese. “Anyone looks like they’re a problem, tell them to see me.”

Wiflow frowned. “I checked around when you first came to me. I know your reputation as someone not to cross, but no one is invulnerable, and we’d have the women and men we hire to worry about.”

“You spread the word that anyone causing trouble will be directed to me. No one’s going to harass our workers. I’ll see to it.”

The jeweler gave a tight smile, shrugged, and moved on to plans for the next months.

Mark only partly listened the next half hour—responding enough that Wiflow didn’t know Mark had switched to thinking about the leaf spring project.

I wonder if I can release both products at the same time? he thought. Pins and springs. If it takes two months to produce enough safety pins, maybe there’s time. I’ll talk again with Hamston.

He forced his mind back to Wiflow, except for sporadic visions of wealth and technological innovations.

Tomtun Wiflow had listened while his father discussed the day’s success and future plans. He had questions but waited until Mark left the shop.

“I admit I was pessimistic the pin sales would go so well, Father. Kaldwel always seemed too optimistic, but I was wrong to want to be more cautious.”

“Oh, you weren’t wrong, Tomtun. A bit of caution is never wrong. I suspected the sales would go well, but even I was surprised at how well. However, I’ll admit I’m a little worried that Mark needs a bigger dose of caution. When we move on to Kaledon and Brawsea, there will be many unknowns. If he doesn’t stay alert, then you and I need to be. I think it will work out, but I suspect Mark will come up with other innovations as well. I just hope he doesn’t get so confident he misses possible warning signs.”

CHAPTER 9

KALEDON

That night, Mark sat with the Hoveys for evening meal. Leading the menu was elswyn, a chicken-size murvor that tasted more liked salmon. The chemistry that paired the odd flavor with a flying creature was lost on Mark. Yet he became a fan of the dish after he got over eating something that looked semi-reptilian.

He hadn’t decided when to bring his hosts into his leaf spring plans. He thought he would wait until the meal’s end before probing for a way to get to Kaledon.

Once an Anyar year, Ulwyn took a longer trade route to include a stop in Kaledon, almost 300 miles away. It was the second-largest city in Frangel with a population of 300,000. In the city, Ulwyn would replenish his stock of trade goods that weren’t easily available to his usual customers. When he was younger, Ulwyn also went to Brawsea every two or three years. However, the Frangel capital, with a population of almost 500,000, was more than a 400-mile trip from Tregallon and was now too far for the aging trader to travel. Talk at the evening meal touched on the topic of the upcoming trip to Kaledon.

Mark was prepared to give his argument for making a Kaledon trip. However, before he started, Gwanel looked expectantly at her husband.

“Uh . . . Mark . . . there’s something I’ve been thinking about,” said Ulwyn.

Gwanel harumphed.

“Well,” said Ulwyn, “it’s something Gwanel and I have discussed. I mentioned to you the yearly trip to Kaledon. In the past, many times Gwanel or one of the children would accompany me, but Gwanel’s back doesn’t tolerate that much time on the roads anymore, and both our children live elsewhere now and have their own lives.”

Gwanel had borne five children, two of whom had died in childbirth or within the first year, and the third died from an accident. Their son and his family had moved close to Brawsea, the Frangel capital, when his wife’s family had made a work offer they couldn’t refuse. The Hoveys’ daughter lived in a town an hour from Tregallon.

“The last few years I made the trip alone, but I’ll admit that Gwanel is right. The time is coming when I won’t be able to make the journey alone anymore. You’ve heard me say that I’ve started losing customers for some of the more exotic trade goods since my supply has dwindled or been exhausted. It’s becoming a serious-enough problem that I need to make that trip to Kaledon. I’ve . . . that is, we’ve wondered if you would accompany me next sixday. When added on to my regular trade route, the entire trip will take most of a month.”

Mark had to suppress his laughter. “Good idea, Ulwyn. It’ll give me a chance to see more of Frangel. I’ll admit I’ve been wondering how to talk to you about my seeing either or both Kaledon and Brawsea. You know I’ve talked with you about starting my own businesses, and this will give me a chance to see Kaledon and better gauge what might be possible.”

“Don’t forget my warning about getting your hopes too high for introducing new ways. Frangelese people are not always eager for change.”

“Yet the safety pins seemed to be accepted with no problem.”

Ulwyn grunted, still annoyed at being kept out of that project.

Gwanel laughed. “That might be because the pins were eagerly accepted by the womenfolk. Men tend to be more resistant, especially if they’re afraid something new will impact their work or trade. In that case, Ulwyn’s concern might be correct—for once in his life.”

Mark let the couple perform one of their faux arguments for five minutes before bringing them back to his plans. Neither of the Hoveys grasped the concept of the leaf spring, but he assured them the springs worked. When he suggested that the box seat of Ulwyn’s trade wagon be equipped with springs, Mark suspected the trader’s quick acquiescence was due more to refuting his wife’s testimony about his intransigence than to belief in a smoother wagon ride.

The following three sixdays, Mark alternated between his two projects. Hamston modified Ulwyn’s wagon with two leaf springs supporting the seat box. An added feature was leather skirting that could quickly be attached to hide the springs.

“If you want to keep the springs secret,” said Hamston, “you’ll want to hide them from anyone who might understand what they do. You can either leave the skirting on all the time or put it on when passing through villages, towns, and when you get to Kaledon. Then you can work out with Stillum how to keep the springs secret until you’re ready to sell them.”

While preparing for the trip, Mark gained his first experience with Frangel firearms. He had occasionally seen men carrying muskets or pistols—all flintlocks. Yet it was infrequent enough that Mark interpreted this to mean Tregallon citizens considered themselves reasonably safe. However, Ulwyn brought a musket on his trade route.

“We’ll need to take more precautions on this trip,” said Ulwyn. “You’ll be carrying a large amount of coin, in case you need it to prepare for selling the pins and springs in Kaledon. Even if people don’t know your intentions, there’s a chance the wrong men know of your and Wiflow’s success with the safety pins. They might suspect you’re carrying some of the profits with you. It’s not uncommon for prosperous people to carry money pouches under their clothing. I’ll take my old musket, but I think we need more. I’ll leave that up to you, but I suggest a couple of pistols and either another musket or a shotgun.”

The trader stopped speaking and gave Mark a questioning look. “It just occurred to me I’ve never heard you say anything about having used firearms. Have you?”

“Yes. Both musket and pistol. Not the same types as here, but the principles are the same.”

Sort of, Mark told himself. My Remington 270 counts as a long-distance gun.

He’d hunted with his bolt-action rifle from his early teens until he left for the Naval Academy. The last time he’d seen the rifle was alongside other family firearms in his parents’ house twenty or so years ago. At the Academy, he’d been through the standard firearms training, like all midshipmen. That was the last time he’d touched a firearm.

Following Ulwyn’s advice, he went to the only firearm shop in Tregallon and left with two pistols and a shotgun that reminded him of a blunderbuss, the short, wide-bore precursor to the shotgun. It was useless at long range, but effective for close-in fighting. A high-school friend had owned a copy of a historical blunderbuss and had told Mark more than he needed to know about the weapon. It had been used by eighteenth-century guards, and the flared end of the barrel facilitated loading when on horseback or on a moving conveyance. Anything small and hard enough could be used as projectiles (balls, nails, even rocks). A pistol version called a dragon and favored by some cavalry had been the origination of the name dragoon.

Outfitted with his arsenal, one day Mark spent several hours outside Tregallon, practicing loading and firing all three of his purchases. His initial contempt for the flintlock weapons faded as he practiced. He reminded himself that if robbers waylaid them to or from Kaledon, the men wouldn’t be armed with assault rifles and thirty-round magazines.

Safety pin production ramped up after they hired and trained new workers. Wiflow warned they would have to stop unless Mark returned in a month from Kaledon with a large supply of brass stock.

Gwanel scolded her husband about behaving himself while away from home. Mark was sure it was the same lecture she’d given Ulwyn for decades. However, when she caught a moment alone with Mark, her moist eyes and entreaty to watch out for Ulwyn bespoke her true feelings.

They were still within sight of the town when Ulwyn began giving Mark Suvalu language lessons.

“It’s a simple language without complex rules, as you might expect for a trade language intended to be spoken across much of Anyar, especially in the port cities. Wouldn’t do any good if a trade language took too long to learn. I can teach you the basics, though I don’t speak it fluently on all topics. I’ve only picked up enough over the years to get by with simple exchanges related to my trading. However, if you move to Kaledon or Brawsea and deal with foreigners, it would be best if you know more Suvalu than I can teach.

“We’ll start with some basic words such as numbers, colors, common trade items, and then action words like walk, run, buy, sell. Once you learn those, we’ll practice as if we’re buying and selling.”

They were four miles outside Tregallon when Mark removed the clamps that Hamston had included with the springs to prevent their compression.

“Even when hidden by the skirt,” Hamston had said, “anyone seeing the seat moving different from the rest of the wagon will notice something’s strange. If I was you, I’d put the clamps on when we’re around witnesses and take them off when no one’s around. You can always slow or stop when passing people on remote stretches of road.”

They followed Ulwyn’s usual trade route heading initially east, away from Kaledon. Before they reached the first trading stop, Ulwyn was a fervent believer in leaf springs.

“God’s graces, Mark! I concede your springs are marvelous. I only wish you’d decided to be cast away in front of me forty or more years ago to save all those jolts to my ass!”

The farthest stop was seventy miles east at a coastal town of about one thousand. From there, they began a half circle around Tregallon, weaving in and out to catch stops ranging from hamlets of only a few score inhabitants to towns of up to two thousand.

On Ulwyn’s suggestion, Mark carried Ulwyn’s old musket while the trader handled the wagon. The two pistols and the blunderbuss were concealed at their feet or within reach behind them.

“If we appear too armed, it might send a signal we’re transporting something valuable,” said Ulwyn. “Also, if men do intend to stop us, we don’t want them to see us as so dangerous that they think it’s best to shoot first.”

Two days later, they passed through a village of perhaps a hundred residents, most of whom stood and watched quietly as the strange wagon rolled through—the two men had forgotten to apply the clamps.

“I wonder what they thought when they saw the wagon bed and seat moving different from each other?” asked Mark, once they left the last staring villager behind.

Ulwyn laughed. “It’ll probably be talked about for years. Maybe they thought there was magic involved.”

Thirteen days after leaving Tregallon, they reached the other end of the half circle to the ocean and west of Tregallon.

“Normally, this is where I turn east to head home,” said Ulwyn, “and I’d be back there in three or four days.

He suddenly reined in the team, as they met a fork to a smaller road heading south. “Hey, that reminds me. There’s a God’s Tears only a few miles away. It’s been years since I visited it last. Wouldn’t mind refreshing my memory of how odd it is. You might like to see it, too.”

“God’s Tears? What’s that?”

“It’s this three- or four-foot crystal coming out of a rock. One of the strangest things I’ve ever seen. Smooth as glass, about the shape of a bluish bird or murvor egg. They’re pretty rare. I only know of two others in Frangel, though there may be more. Used to be called Markot’s Tears after a pagan god.”

Ulwyn lowered his voice, as if about to say something not quite respectable or believable. “There are stories of people hearing noises coming from one of them—not this one, but one along the east coast of the Timbar Sea. Also, that murvors, birds, and insects won’t land on them. There’s even myths about their origin.”

The trader cleared his throat, and his voice rose to normal levels. “Of course, I don’t listen to such tales. It must just be some natural crystal. What do you say we take a couple of hours and go see this one? I might not get many more chances.”

Hell, thought Mark. This is not a sightseeing trip, and I’m certainly not interested in some piece of rock.

“Maybe on the way back we can make the detour if there’s time,” said Mark. “I’m anxious to get to Kaledon and then back to Tregallon.”

Ulwyn sighed. “Well . . . if you’re not interested . . . I guess I’ve already seen it, and I doubt it’s changed any.” He flicked the reins, and the horse team started off again.

“All right, now we’ll keep on west to Kaledon. The springs will let us go faster than I could before, so we should be there in six or eight days, depending on the weather and assuming nothing on the wagon breaks or one of the horses doesn’t die on us.”

Naturally, one of the horses suffered an accident. On the fifth day heading west parallel to the coast, a fog off the nearby water blanketed the road. Horses and Ulwyn missed seeing a hole in the road. Mark yelled a warning too late, and the left horse broke a leg. The trader was almost in tears. The horse had served him for eight years and was near retirement. Mark offered to put the animal down, but Ulwyn said it was his fault, so he would do it.

Fortuitously, a village was a mile behind them. Mark walked back and paid an exorbitant price for a horse whose owner saw he had a bargaining advantage over travelers not going anywhere without a replacement.

Ulwyn was morose the next two days until they reached the outlying villages and towns near Kaledon.

“I always look forward to coming. Oh, not that I want to live here, but the mass of people and the sense of this place having more energy than Tregallon is exciting until it gets annoying.”

“Where do you plan for us to stay? An inn?”

“My cousin Argah lives there—or maybe he’s a second cousin. I don’t know. Gwanel understands these things better than I do. Argah’s family visited Tregallon with him when we were both eight or nine years old. We got along fine, and when I first went to Kaledon to buy trade goods, I visited him as a family obligation. He offered to have me stay with his family, and I’ve done that for many years. Last year he was having health problems. I haven’t gotten any news, so I assume he’s all right. He’s a brass and bronze craftsman. That includes some jewelry, but most of his business is utensils, pots, specialized metal fittings, decorations, and various pieces that can’t be iron or copper.”

The last night before reaching Ulwyn’s relative, they splurged by staying at an inn. It was the first time they’d had a roof over their heads since leaving Tregallon. After a bath, a hearty meal, and several tankards of ale, they slept the sleep of the dead. Early the next afternoon, they passed through the main part of Kaledon.

The profusion of three- and four-story masonry buildings prompted Mark to ask a question.

“Are there earthquakes in Frangel?”

Although I guess they properly should be called “anyarquakes,” thought Mark.

“Earthquakes?”

“You know. When the ground shakes for no obvious reason. Could be just small tremors or even strong enough to destroy buildings and open cracks in the ground.”

“Ah, yes and no. I know of those, but not in Frangel. I hear it sometimes happens in Rumpas in western Drilmar. It’s worse in other places on Anyar, particularly in Ganolar and the northern parts of the territory supposedly controlled by the Harrasedics in eastern Melosia. I wouldn’t know about places farther west like Landolin or western Melosia.”

I guess the answer was obvious, thought Mark, because if Kaledon had earthquakes, these buildings would have long ago turned into piles of rubble.

The other feature Mark noticed, perhaps the most striking, was the oppressive stink from the amalgamation of human and animal body odors, fecal matter, cooked and decaying food, and smells from shops and what seemed to be small factories.

At least, it didn’t hit me all at once, thought Mark. Just crept up on me as we got into the city. This is far worse than in Tregallon.

He kept telling himself he’d get used to the smells, but he conceded that even if he might come to tolerate them, he’d probably never become accustomed to them.

Ulwyn deliberately drove through the main plaza. Mark estimated the rectangular shape covered about forty acres, with permanent wooden booths on all sides.

“From what I hear, there are some versions of central squares in most of the largest cities in realms throughout Anyar. The details seem different, but here in Kaledon the booths are owned by traders, craftsmen, and artisans. You won’t be able to use those unless you find an owner willing to let you use his booth as a favor or by paying him enough. Anyone else has to sell during market day on a spot within the plaza. Those temporary booths can only be set up starting at sunup, and the positions are assigned by monitors working for the Kaledon City Council. Sellers need to come early and line up where monitors have set up a table and a roped corridor. To be sure to get a space, you should come no later than two hours before sunup.”

Mark was relieved when, just before sundown, they found Ulwyn’s relative’s house near the crest of a hill a half-mile north of the plaza. The elevation provided partial relief from the smells. Argah proved to be a more urbane version of Ulwyn. After a meal, the two cousins relived family history and exchanged news while Mark walked the hill’s streets for an hour before returning to sleep.

The next morning, Ulwyn, Argah, and Mark met to plan Kaledon’s safety pin campaign. Mark had decided to give Ulwyn a small share of the safety pin project. At Ulwyn’s suggestion, he also made Argah a minor partner. Before they returned to Kaledon, the jeweler had organized a spread-the-word campaign to precede whatever market day was settled on once the pins were produced. The cousin became a fervent convert after seeing the pins work and hearing of the Tregallon success. He was less optimistic about the leaf springs.

“Oh, I don’t doubt people will like them, but I agree with Ulwyn that people using streets in the main part of Kaledon might not think the smoother ride worth the cost. Of course, it’ll be different for those living farther out in the countryside where the roads aren’t good.

“Then there’re the guilds. The blacksmith guild is not among the larger and more powerful in Kaledon, but neither are they too small to ignore. Your contact will know more. You said his name was Stillum?”

Mark found the man later that afternoon.

After reading Hamston’s letter and experiencing the leaf springs’ performance in the Hovey wagon, Stillum said, “I don’t know. The blacksmith guild isn’t as strict as others, such as the weavers’ or carpenters’, but it’s probably because there are so few changes to the basic methods. However, it’s not the blacksmith guild you should worry about the most—it’s the wagon-maker guild. They aren’t that big or influential, but your ‘springs’ might be seen as a direct attack on the guild’s members.”

“But surely they couldn’t resist customers wanting the springs on their wagons,” protested Mark.

“Think of it from their point of view,” said Stillum. “If the springs mean wagons cost more, then a wagon maker will sell fewer wagons. If he keeps the wagon price the same as it was before he added springs, then he makes less for every wagon sold. Where’s the incentive for him?”

“So, you’re saying I shouldn’t bother?” asked Mark.

“No, only that you should be aware of the problems. To avoid having the wagon makers feel threatened, you might consider going right to the guild after you get support from a few of the more prominent wagon makers. They could make the argument that wealthier customers would pay extra for comfort and status. This would inevitably mean bribing some guild members or making them additional partners.”

Mark left discouraged. He told Stillum he’d think over what he’d heard, but one thing was clear. His original assumption that the springs would be a significant coin generator was succumbing to reality.

“I confess I was too optimistic,” Mark later told Ulwyn. “I just imagined every wagon owner would want the springs. It never occurred to me there might be forces pushing against this innovation or that wagon owners wouldn’t be as enthusiastic as I thought.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Ulwyn.

“I’ll think about what I heard today and will talk again with Stillum. He said he was willing to make any number of springs I wanted, but he would do it only after being paid for each spring. He said he couldn’t risk making large numbers that might not be sold. I can see it from his point of view. As I said, this will take some thought, but I suspect I’ll have to take his advice and go to wagon makers and their guild.”

Mark sighed dejectedly, then gave a rueful laugh. “I suppose it’s a good lesson. I was so sure my brilliant idea with the springs would be successful. Maybe I should have known better than to trust my gut. At one point, I thought the safety pins were the least important of my two projects, and they turned out to be the most successful.”

Four days later, Mark and Ulwyn left Kaledon with a re-supply of brass. Argah would arrange details for the campaign once Ulwyn wrote him a cryptic letter signaling when he and Mark would return with 200,000 pins.

An agreement was agreed to with the wagon-makers guild. Stillum would make a hundred leaf springs, pre-paid by Mark. Stillum would supply them to wagon-maker guild members initially for wealthier customers, with Mark getting an agreed-on amount for each leaf spring sold. Two springs would be used for wagons where only the driver’s box was to absorb shocks, four more springs where the wagon bed would also be cushioned from jolts.

Half an hour from what seemed like the outer edges of Kaledon, they passed through a section of forest. Mark was looking up, watching a V-shaped flight of a flock of black-and-white murvors, when Ulwyn muttered, “Uh-oh.”

Marked looked down, then ahead to where Ulwyn stared. Three men with muskets were standing alongside the road, their horses tied to trees twenty yards into the woods.

“I don’t like this,” said Ulwyn. “There’s no place to turn around, and they’d catch us even if we did.”

“You figure they plan to rob us?” asked Mark, his gut tightening.

“Well, they don’t look like they’re out here for a pleasure ride, although it’s possible they’re hunters.”

Mark reached down and picked up the two pistols, laid one on Ulwyn’s lap, and put the other in his own belt. He leaned the musket where the three men could see Ulwyn snatch it, and he held the blunderbuss pointing forward in his lap.

“Keeping the weapons hidden was to avoid giving the impression we had something worth stealing,” said Mark. He kept an eye on the men, as he arranged the firearms. “These men might already have made that evaluation, so we might as well try to warn them off.”

One of the three men stiffened when Mark picked up the pistols, then he said something to the others after they saw the blunderbuss. Mark did his best to project a “death stare” like he’d seen in movies, keeping eye contact on the one he thought was the leader. None of the three men said anything as the wagon approached, then rolled on past. Mark turned his head, then his shoulders and body to watch until they were fifty yards past.

“Well, maybe they were only hunters, but we should camp well off the road the next few nights and take turns keeping watch. What do you think, Ulwyn? If they intended to rob us, how would they know we had anything worth the effort?”

“I can’t be sure,” said Ulwyn. “Could be just random chance, but I suppose it could be the guilds. Or maybe one of the wagon makers you’re working with decided to eliminate your involvement and not share the profits.”

They never saw the three men again. The trip back to Tregallon continued at a slow pace due to the wagon being filled with trade goods Ulwyn had purchased and a thousand pounds of brass rods and sheets.

Ulwyn continued giving Mark Suvalu lessons, and by the time they returned to Tregallon, Mark had mastered most of what the elderly trader knew of the trade language. Two sixdays after leaving Kaledon, they crested a rise and saw Tregallon’s outline two miles ahead.

The trip back gave Mark time to mull over where he thought he’d made mistakes he could correct with future innovations. The spring experience didn’t dissuade him from believing that certain lucrative innovations would also be major advances in Frangel technology. In the future, he needed to undertake more exhaustive planning.

CHAPTER 10

RETURN TO KALEDON

Wiflow ran out of the jeweler’s shop when Ulwyn stopped the wagon in front. “God’s Mercy, Kaldwel, you’re back just in time. Production is going better than I expected. We would have been out of wire within two days.”

Tomtun and two workers were moments behind Wiflow, and all hands began unloading the new brass supply.

“If we work into the evening and most of tomorrow, we should make enough wire to keep production at its peak,” said Wiflow. “I’ve hired more workers, including six women, and while their output is not as much as experienced workers, it adds up. I think we’ll have enough pins for the Kaledon ‘campaign,’ as you phrase it, in a month.”

When the unloading was finished, Ulwyn bid them goodbye. “I’m heading home, Mark. Every bone is aching from the wagon ride, even with the springs. I want see to Gwanel, then soak myself for an hour and lie in my own bed—I expect to sleep until tomorrow morning.”

Mark wouldn’t have minded a bath and bed either, but he wanted to spend some time with Wiflow to view the results of the last month’s production and plan for the next month. His desire was to be unfulfilled.

“No time to meet today, Kaldwel. I’ve got to help turn the new brass stocks into wire. If you want to see the pins, they’re in crates out back. We added a crude storage area to the rear of the shop. As for planning, there’ll be time to talk in a day or two.”

“How many pins do we have ready for Kaledon right now?” asked Mark.

“Maybe a quarter of the total we talked about, but don’t worry. As the new people get better, the rate of production will increase enough that I’m sure one month will suffice. Then, when those pins are headed for Kaledon, we’ll continue making them for Brawsea.”

The next month once again tried Mark’s patience. He never ceased worrying that word of the safety pins had reached Kaledon, and they would arrive with wagons of pins only to find a market already satisfied by local craftsmen. For four days after their return, he hung around Wiflow’s pin operation, now housed in a previously empty building not far from the shop. The jeweler had listened to Mark’s explanation of the advantages of an “assembly line” and adapted some of the methods. Instead of each worker doing all the steps in making a pin, men and women worked in linearly positioned teams, each member performing one of the series of simple tasks needed to make a finished pin.

“I admit I was skeptical,” said Wiflow, “especially about rotating the workers to different tasks. I thought they’d be most productive with each of them doing all the steps, but you were right. Now, we trade steps every two hours. While there’s no difference in production at the start of the workday, it’s clear that by mid-afternoon almost as many pins are being produced as during the first hour, instead of slowly going down. There are also fewer faulty pins. If there was a bigger market for jewelry, I’d consider using the same techniques at least for the smaller, simpler pieces.”

Satisfied that production was under Wiflow’s control and with nothing immediate to contribute, Mark spent the rest of the next month working with Hamston again. He used part of the time deciding on a third innovation to follow the safety pins and the leaf springs—an innovation that would use the profits from the first two introductions. He came to a decision but delayed sharing it, yet. In addition, the third innovation would require coin—far more than Mark had.

Finally, a month passed. Pin production was proceeding, but Mark and Wiflow agreed it was time to head back to Kaledon. Letters passed via messenger with Argah and Stillum. Preparations were complete for the safety pin campaign in Kaledon—they just needed a specific projected date and the pins themselves. Stillum also reported having enough springs for their introduction.

A neighbor of the Hoveys was respected as a weather forecaster and predicted a storm would hit by noon. A shallow but wide stream fifteen miles west of Tregallon was known to turn into a torrent during and after heavy rains and could close the road for days, so their party left two hours before sunrise. Mark had taken lessons and turns driving a wagon during the previous trip to Kaledon, so he drove the lead wagon with Wiflow as a passenger. Tomtun rode in the second wagon, along with Tolyn Elston, who drove the wagon and served as a guard. Mark had worked with Elston in Haral’s crew, and they’d kept in casual contact

They beat the storm to the stream and made an early camp a mile on the other side. The rest of the trip was uneventful. When they passed the turnoff to God’s Tears, Mark noted the landmark in passing. He had no more interest in the detour than he’d had the first trip, though he mentioned to Wiflow the oddity Ulwyn had described.

“God’s Tears?” said the jeweler. “Yeah, I’ve heard of them but never seen one. All my interest in crystals has involved the lordlyn for my products. You say one of the tears is not far down this side road? Maybe on the way back we can stop if you’re interested, but I don’t feel the need.”

The campaign rollout came three days after they arrived in Kaledon.

The group went over all the preparations for the last time, and Wiflow said, “Okay, then we’re set. Argah, you’ve done wonders getting everything ready.”

The Kaledon metal worker laughed. “Now I hope it all works out like we think it will. I know I’ve put in a good bit of coin—finding and preparing space in four different plazas for market day. I was worried you Tregallon people would object to me taking the initiative.”

“No, you did right,” said Mark. “In Tregallon we almost sold out the first day, but that was with a far smaller market plaza and only a fraction of Kaledon’s population.”

Mark didn’t confess he’d considered selling at multiple locations but dismissed the idea as too complex to coordinate. For once, he was glad to be proved too conservative. Each of the three principals from Tregallon—Mark, Wiflow, and Tomtun—manned stalls with one of Argah’s workers while Argah was at a stall in the fourth plaza. Instead of the first word being relayed by family women, Argah had hired a group of ten- to twelve-year-old girls to demonstrate how to use the pins. The day prior to market day, the girls had raced around Kaledon distributing single pins to random women. The result was reminiscent of what had happened in Tregallon, only on a larger scale. The rented stalls were twice the size of Tregallon’s, and the two men assigned to a stall in each plaza were assisted by a sales assistant and a guard.

“I need a beer,” said Mark, after the market where he was stationed closed with a sound reminiscent of a foghorn. He looked at the partly full crates and estimated they’d sold over half of the pins—to his initial disappointment. When the four teams gathered at Argah’s house that evening, the total of pins sold rose to almost 60 percent. Mark’s beer had to wait until they deposited bags of coin with a money-dealer Argah trusted.

They were on their third round of beers at a small pub when Mark asked for an assessment from Wiflow and Argah.

“Better than I’d feared,” said Wiflow, “but not as good as I’d hoped. Argah, we could continue selling during the week out of your shop and finish next market day. However, I’m wondering if us Tregallon people need to stay, or can you handle it from here?”

Argah shrugged. “I’m sure we can, but how do I get you your share after selling the rest?”

“If you’re convinced the other pins will sell, can we simply take our share of coin for the total pins, and you keep all the coin by selling the remainder after we’re gone?”

Argah eyed Wiflow, one eyebrow raised. “What about the future? I’ll admit I think the rest of the pins will sell, but there’s bound to be continuing demand. Of course, other shops will begin making them—I’d be surprised if some aren’t already starting. I’ve had a couple of my workers making pins just to find out how difficult it is.”

Wiflow shrugged and smiled. “We’ve assumed that both of those things would happen. Mark and I have talked it over. We’ll agree to let you claim to be the only true seller of ‘Tregallon safety pins.’ That should count for something until more sellers and people realize our pins aren’t better than at least some others. I expect that will happen within a few months. We’ll agree not to bring more pins to Kaledon as long as we get a one-fifth share of any pins you sell for the next year.”

Arguing and bargaining went on for most of an hour, and the final agreement was as proposed by Wiflow.

“Too bad there aren’t patents in Frangel,” said Mark after they left Argah. “That would have kept other producers away, so we could control the market.

“Maybe,” said Wiflow, “but this is a good deal. A year from now we’d be only selling as many safety pins as any one of scores of shops and craftsmen. We have to be satisfied with what we’re getting. Now we have to focus on Brawsea.”

Wiflow paused and tugged at his beard as he gave Mark a smile. “You may be changing my thinking, Kaldwel. I find myself having grandiose plans that never would have occurred to me. What if we didn’t stop after Brawsea? That was our original thinking . . . saturate a demand before other shops jump in. Then we’d scale back to a lower level of production like all other sellers.

“But what if we went to Landylbury next? It’s about the size of Kaledon, smaller than Brawsea. Maybe Baernton, the capital of Novaryn? I wouldn’t try to do anything in Madyrna, but maybe we could strike deals with Fuomon and Harrasedic traders? We’d have to cut them in on a big share, but maybe we could convince them to do your ‘blitz campaigns’ in their lands the same as here.”

Mark was taken aback by Wilflow’s surge of enthusiasm. “Well . . . that’s something we can talk about, but let’s focus next on Brawsea. If that goes well, we can always decide whether to try elsewhere.”

The irony wasn’t lost on Mark. For once, it was he who was cautious and the jeweler optimistic, instead of the reverse. Although Wiflow’s idea had merit, Mark was eager to move on to innovations where he had more control over markets and potential competitors.

Early the next morning, Mark made a final visit to check with Stillum on sales of leaf springs. The pin rollout had consumed most of Mark’s time. He’d only checked once with Stillum after arriving in Kaledon.

“I listened when you explained your plans for selling,” said Stillum, “but I didn’t see how it would work the same with the springs. So, what I’ve done the last month is give rides to potential customers on wagons and carriages with the springs, but with coverings preventing anyone from actually seeing them. They only knew I’ve managed to find a way to make the ride easier. Even without ever seeing a spring, most people I demonstrated them to paid half of the cost to reserve a place in our work schedule.

“Better still, many of those convinced customers told friends, family, and business connections about the secret miracle technique for better rides. I had more than six hundred orders without releasing a single spring. Of course, that will change quickly. The first modified wagons will be on the streets and roads in a sixday. After that, the secret will be out, but we’ll have sold a thousand wagons’ worth of springs, with more certain to be ordered before other smithies duplicate ours.”

Stillum shrugged. “From that point on, it’ll be competing with other smithies for the leaf spring trade, but everyone in Kaledon will know it was my shop that introduced them—thanks to you. I think your reputation will spread, as word circulates that both the leaf spring and the safety pin came from Mark Kaldwel. I have a suspicion there will be more surprises from you, so if any future idea needs smithy work, come see me.”

“I’ll keep it in mind, Stillum. As for my share of the leaf spring profits, give it to Argah, as we discussed, and he’ll see it gets to me. If things work out, you’ll see me again in Kaledon—I just can’t say exactly when.”

When Mark left the smithy shop, he ruminated over Stillum’s interest in being part of future projects. Hmmm . . . eventually there will be a steel industry. How to start from scratch is something I’ll give serious thought to, well before the time comes. I wonder if potential partners would be either smiths like Stillum or the smelters where initial refining is done—or both. Food for thought.

An hour later, Mark and the rest of their party departed Kaledon, heading east toward Tregallon.

***

Hundreds of miles above Anyar, one of a set of geosynchronous observation satellites downloaded a packet of data to an AI’s station also circling the planet. The AI scanned the data, extracted individual pieces of information for cataloging and cross-referencing, and archived the entire download. Among the observations not deemed important enough for further study was the periodic gathering of humans in city plazas. The AI’s reference banks suggested the gatherings were related to local economies—buying and selling various goods. Among the ignored market days was one in the city of Kaledon, realm of Frangel, Drilmar continent—not that the AI knew the names assigned by resident humans. A fractional second consideration of the data occurred only because a human from Earth had been deposited on a beach east of the city. Another fractional second analysis failed to find a reason to associate the market day with the human, and the AI continued its analysis.

CHAPTER 11

WEAVING

Although buoyed by the safety pin and leaf spring sales, Mark never lost sight that the success was transitory. Other craftsmen were already starting to sell copies of both products in Kaledon, as confirmed by messages from Argah and Stillum. Mark and Wiflow discussed stepwise pin production cutbacks for Brawsea in similar anticipation of other producers jumping into the market in that city. They were also prepared for inevitable price reductions when the market became saturated.

“I figure it’s worth continuing to make the pins as long as the price stays above five pins per copper/silver coin,” Wiflow had told Mark, after accounting for the last month’s books. “Below that and the transport to Kaledon and sharing with Argah will make it a losing effort. Your idea of selling the pins as ‘Genuine Tregallon’ pins will help for a while until people realize there’s no functional difference between ours and others. For Brawsea, we’ll see how that goes and if we can arrange to work with someone there to handle things. I’ve mentioned the possibility of Landylbury and beyond Frangel, but I’ve come around to being more cautious. Such an expansion might be possible, but I don’t want to lose the coin we’re making by being too ambitious.”

Mark didn’t disagree. They had already evaluated the future of the safety pin market, and he suspected Wiflow was content to go back to his normal jewelry trade—albeit significantly richer than before. In contrast, Mark was eager to move on.

However, the production cutback would happen only after stockpiling for Mark’s intended campaign in the Brawsea market. From everything he’d heard, Frangel’s largest city and capital was more sophisticated than Kaledon and was the main international trading center of the realm.

It also would give Mark a better introduction to the technological and political situation in Brawsea. That would prepare him for his next big introduction, the one he thought would give him the resources for what he really planned to introduce. This experience would be vital if he wanted to succeed in using his knowledge and experience in mechanical engineering, materials science, general science, and information from twenty-first century Earth to make major changes to Anyar’s 1700s technology.

His ultimate projects would take coin. Lots of coin. Far more than the safety pin and leaf spring introductions could provide. He didn’t doubt he could come up with more simple innovations, but he needed a home run to amass the coin for things like Bessemer furnaces, steam engines, railroads, and—if he lived long enough and was successful enough—maybe internal combustion engines, aircraft, and who knew what else?

But first things first. One successful innovation had to provide the coin for the next-level innovation, which would provide even more coin until he had the resources and reputation to do whatever he wanted.

He also didn’t deceive himself that a position as a miracle worker, a genius, or someone inspired by whatever gods people believed in didn’t have its attractions.

However, the long-term plan hinged on the next phase. What could he introduce that would yield magnitudes more coin than safety pins and leaf springs? While waiting for pin production to reach target numbers for Kaledon and Brawsea, he had partly filled the days by thinking long and hard. He obsessively visited Tregallon tradesmen’s and tradeswomen’s shops and talked to people until he exhausted any information they might have. This continued even after the solution had coalesced in his mind. Cloth making.

He needed a product that couldn’t be immediately copied, as had happened with the safety pins and the leaf springs. Textiles seemed a promising candidate. During his stay with the Hoveys and his tours of tradespeople in Tregallon, he’d observed the current state of clothing production. A textile industry required isolating and processing fibers, spinning the fibers into yarn and thread, weaving cloth, and using the cloth to make articles of clothing. There were three sources of clothing: carry out all the steps within a family; buy products of one or more of the steps from another family or tradesperson—such as thread or cloth; or buy the clothing ready-made. As expected, the state of individual or family finances was usually the determining factor; that is, the wealthier the buyer, the more clothing was purchased already made. Conversely, the poorer the family, the more its members made their own clothing.

Gwanel Hovey provided a convenient example. Mark watched her spin yarn and weave cloth on a loom she’d used for almost fifty years.

“Why are you so interested in watching me spin and weave?” Gwanel asked one day after Mark had pestered her with questions.

“I’m just curious how it’s done here in Tregallon. Is it the same everywhere in Frangel?”

“Oh, the steps are the same, but I hear that in the bigger towns and cities there are more shops where a worker might only do one step. For example, one group might only spin, another group weaves cloth, and a third makes clothing out of the cloth. Sometimes all this is in a single large shop, and other times a shop might do only one of the steps and trade with other shops doing different steps.”

“I see you spin two different kinds of fiber.” Baskets in Gwanel’s workspace had either a dark-brown fiber mass or a lighter-colored fiber that felt softer to Mark’s touch. The two fibers matched in appearance most of the clothing worn by the Hoveys and all the clothing Gwanel had provided to Mark before he earned enough to buy from Tregallon shops.

She held up some of the dark-brown fiber. “This is sheared from krykors, then treated to make it ready to spin. I got this batch of fibers from a farmer who traded Ulwyn for a cooking pot.”

Mark translated to himself that the animal fibers were a type of wool, and the source was the ubiquitous sheep-size animal seen in town and on almost every farm or ranch Mark had passed by. He had also eaten stringy but savory krykor meat at the Hovey table and at the Crazy Squirrel pub.

“And the other fiber?” he asked.

“It’s flurox,” she said. “A plant I’m sure you’ve seen growing outside town on farms. It grows about waist high and has red flowers.”

When he’d seen the fields, he had assumed it was a type of fodder crop.

“I make all of our clothes,” said Gwanel. “I used to make the fibers myself when I was younger, but now I buy it from shops in Tregallon or occasionally directly from farmers on market day. Sometimes fiber is given to Ulwyn in trade.”

Gwanel went on to summarize making flurox fiber, a process that sounded similar to how Mark’s aunt made flax fibers she spun into thread. Aunt Betty was a fervent member of a colonial life reenactment society active in connection with a history museum in Pueblo, Colorado. She was always willing to describe her spinning and weaving hobby to a young nephew eager to ingratiate himself, in hopes of being rewarded with another of her products—large cookies.

Mark’s settling on cloth weaving was facilitated by his past. During a two-week visit one summer, he’d helped his aunt pull flax from the ground, rinse off clinging dirt, and lay it all in a shallow wooden tank Uncle Bill had made for her. After a few days in the water warmed by the sun, the inner parts of the stalks had rotted enough—a process she called retting. To isolate the flax fibers, they beat the straw to break it and then separated the fibers from the stalk fragments using hand tools and combs, a two-step process called scutching and heckling. He was sure she had explained the origin of the words, but he couldn’t remember. The final product was flax ready to be spun into yarn.

He had humored his aunt when she tried to convert him to weaving—it hadn’t succeeded. However, he sat through a few sessions of both spinning and weaving with Aunt Betty guiding him, step by step. Then, as a senior in high school, he was required to do a library project that involved researching and writing an extensive report on a topic of his choosing. His aunt suggested weaving and its influence, along with that of steam power, on the Industrial Revolution. Thus, what Mark lacked in practical experience was compensated for by his knowing it could be done and understanding the basic principles.

Watching Gwanel spin flurox the first time brought back longings for Earth that he hadn’t felt for many months. He could almost imagine Aunt Betty and smell her cookies. Whether it was the connection to his past or the logic of the introduction, he didn’t know, but he settled on weaving as an innovation to introduce. He hoped this would give him the resources for what he really wanted to do.

However, his plan to advance Anyar’s cloth making required constructing two machines unknown in Tregallon or the rest of Frangel—versions of the spinning jenny and a loom using a flying shuttle. Neither was useful without the other. The spinning jenny increased thread production by allowing the spinner to produce thread on multiple spindles at the same time. However, while this innovation alone would provide more thread for weavers, the increase in thread production was of limited utility without a concomitant increase in weaving speed. Similarly, the flying shuttle sped up the weaving process but was hampered by limited thread availability. Only when both innovations were operational would cloth production skyrocket and form a foundation Mark could ride to a true industrialization of Anyar.

Mark didn’t want to offend Gwanel by not including her in the weaving innovation development, but he didn’t think she possessed the energy level he expected would be necessary. He also figured older weavers would be less receptive to changes in what they had been doing for decades.

When he asked her to recommend other weavers in Tregallon, he groped to apologize for not inviting her to join the new project.

“Don’t worry, Mark,” said Gwanel. ““I’m used to doing it the way I always have. It’s my way of relaxing. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I tried to spin and weave a different way. You’ll also find other older women and men less likely to change. I suggest younger ones, like Dayna Firman. She does weaving only and is one of the best weavers in Tregallon, which doesn’t make her friends with some of the older women.”

The next day, Mark explained the basics of the spinning jenny and the flying shuttle to Dayna Firman while twin one-year-old boys crawled around the floor of the main room of her family’s house.

“Ser Kaldwel, you say this would speed up weaving, but I don’t understand exactly how it would work.”

“That’s not necessary, Sen Firman. You, I, and a carpenter would work together to build a new loom that includes the speed loom.” Ulwyn had suggested that substituting speed loom for flying shuttle would make the process easier to visualize. Similarly, the spinning jenny would be known as the many spinner.

“I’m confident that you’ll grasp it quickly once we begin designing the loom,” said Mark. “I expect it will take some time to work out all the details.”

“I’m sorry, Ser Kaldwel, but even if your speed loom works, I can’t be taking time away from the work I already have, in addition to my home and children.”

“Of course, I would pay you for your time spent on the speed loom project. Shall we say at twice the coin you normally receive for weaving?”

“Twice—! Ah . . . I’ll have to talk with my husband, but I’m sure I can help you as long as my family doesn’t lose coin.”

“Fine. Once I find a carpenter to work with us, I’ll let you know when we’ll start.”

In the end, Mark committed to hiring Dayna’s husband, Holt Firman, as a foreman once all procedures were worked out and production ramped up. Holt was initially resistant to his wife working outside the home, but Mark made the offers of employment too good to pass up—once he decided Holt was a solid worker, honest, and not likely to be a detriment. However, Mark was convinced he needed Dayna.

“No, Ser Kaldwel, I can’t work with you,” said Yurnel Borsan, a carpenter Ulwyn had suggested as the best loom maker in Tregallon. “I have enough orders for looms to keep me and my eldest son busy for most of the next year. However, I have an idea that might help both of us. My younger son, Kornel, is a fine craftsman, perhaps as good or better than me and my older son, but he’s too easily bored by most of our orders. I think he’ll grow out of it once he matures a bit and understands that responsibility means doing things you’d rather not do. Maybe working on this loom idea of yours will catch his interest. A break from our family business might also make him more content when he comes back to it.

“However, he’s still a valuable worker, and you would need to pay me for the time he spends on your project. Shall we say at twice what he would earn for the family at our business?”

Mark groaned to himself. Bargaining. Not one of his favorite things.

Christ! he thought. Why not just tell me your best price, I’ll do mine, and we’ll meet in the middle right off?

“Surely not twice?” answered Mark. Irritated or not, he had to play along with the custom. “I can argue I’m actually doing you a favor by giving your son something he can be enthusiastic about. You should just loan him to me part time since it won’t be full-time work.”

In the end, they agreed Mark would pay one and a half the estimated value of the hours Kornel Borsan would work on the speed loom.

After a frustrating session spent drawing a spinning jenny, Mark thought, Too bad the aliens couldn’t have given me a perfect memory, in addition to the nano-elements for disease and the quick healing.

Mark then met with Dayna Firman and Kornel Borsan to go over the diagrams he’d struggled to come up with.

It took two hours for Mark to be satisfied that Dayna and Kornel understood as much as he could communicate to them on the design of the many spinner and the speed loom. Kornel made several good suggestions that Mark agreed to.

“We should start with the many spinner,” said Kornel. “From what I understand about weaving, if we can’t greatly increase the production of thread, then the speed loom isn’t going to be useful even if it works.”

Dayna nodded vigorously. “It won’t make any difference how much faster the loom is if there’s not more thread. It would take too many hand spinners to feed a speed loom  and would make the cost of the cloth too expensive.”

“I also think the number of spindles should be reduced to two on the first machines, instead of the eight you propose,” said Kornel. “This is all so new, we need to make it as simple as possible until we see if it’s going to work at all. If we can get it to work with two spindles, then I don’t see a problem with increasing the number with some work. I’ll think about this, but I believe I can make a two-spindle spinner that can be modified for more—maybe up to eight or ten.”

Mark felt encouraged by Kornel. The young carpenter might not believe the new machines would work as Mark described, but he obviously was enthused about trying to make them. Dayna was even less optimistic, though she pointed out an aspect that hadn’t occurred to Mark.

“You realize that if the new loom works as you describe, I’ll be able to weave much wider cloth than before. Now, I’m limited to my arm spread to pass the shuttle through the shed, the space between separated warp threads. When a wider cloth is required, I need an assistant to help pass the shuttle, but that slows the weaving and costs more.”

Satisfied he had launched Kornel and Dayna to work on the speed loom as well as he could, Mark left them. He worked separately with Kornel on the first model many spinner. He didn’t see any reason to mention a worry that might derail the entire project. He remembered that the early spinning jennies produced thread too weak for the warp, the longitudinal threads through which the transverse threads, the weft, were woven. Whether the local flurox plant fiber was naturally strong enough to overcome the spinning jenny’s limitations of thread strength had to wait for operational machines to be tested. He told himself that no matter what the results, he would find a way around any problems.

He checked in with both Kornel and Dayna every day for the first two sixdays. Finally—

“Ser Kaldwel, there’s nothing new to report, the same as I said yesterday, the day before, and the day before that. I’ll let you know when there’s any progress or a problem I don’t think we can solve. So, please go away and leave us alone.”

Mark knew Kornel was right. He steeled himself to check only twice a sixday; then for three sixdays, it was only once a sixday. On a rainy day, with his mood matching the weather, Mark walked into the work area he had rented for Kornel and Dayna. Both of the project members were waiting for him, Dayna with a wide smile and Kornel with a smirk. Mark’s heart rate quickened.

“I hope the way you look means there’s good news.”

“There is!” said Dayna, clapping her hands. “The many spinner works!”

“Well, sort of works,” said Kornel. “It works for a few minutes, then the threads bind on something, the thread breaks, it runs out of fibers to spin, or the spindles don’t spin at consistent rates.”

Mark’s hope sank. “Then how is it working?”

“Oh, those are just details,” said Kornel. “Dayna and I will work those out in a few days. Well, maybe a sixday. But it all looks good enough that I’ll begin preparing the extension components, so we can increase it to a four-spindle spinner. I might even go ahead and make enough parts to go to eight spindles as soon as we see four are working. I don’t think we should try to do more until we have more experience. If you need more thread than eight spindles at a time, you should look to hire more people, and I can build more machines.”

Mark took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Kornel and Dayna sounded confident enough. He figured this was one major hurdle soon to be behind them. The loom was something else, as he found out.

“How about the speed loom? How’s that going?”

Dayna’s cheerful mood vanished, and she flushed and glared at Kornel. The young carpenter looked away but didn’t say anything.

“Kornel keeps telling me it’s not working because I’m not using the new loom correctly. As if he knows anything about weaving!”

“Kornel?” said Mark, his tone of voice indicating he expected an explanation.

“All right. Maybe I said things I shouldn’t have, but Sen Firman doesn’t want to hear anything I say. She wants to weave with exactly the same position and motions as she did before, and that’s not possible.”

Mark sighed. He wanted to shake both of them hard, but he took a breath instead.

“Let’s look at the latest version, and each of you tell me what you see are the problems.”

Both Dayna and Kornel opened their mouths, but before they could rush to tell their sides, Mark cut them off. “Stop! You’ll both get a chance to talk, one at a time.”

In the next hour, the three of them clarified, at least in Mark’s opinion, that Kornel was not taking into consideration that the weaver had to sit for hours at a time performing repetitive motions. Mark didn’t try to explain ergonomics or repetitive-motion injuries but got a grudging acknowledgment that weaver comfort was a critical factor. For Dayna, he got her to acknowledge, as grudgingly as Kornel’s acquiescence, that she had to modify her position and motions for the new loom. Both workers ended up unsatisfied but seemingly resigned to working together better than before.

The third pillar of Mark’s textile plan, in addition to the many spinner and the speed loom, was a large enough supply of fibers. Of the three pillars, the last was the first to be solved. Although the territory within a hundred miles of Tregallon was not a major weaving area, it was a major producer of fibers: “wool” from krykors, “flax” from the flurox plant, and fibers from the risolum plant that were similar to hemp and used in rougher clothing, burlap-like sacks, rugs, curtains, and upholstery for higher-status families.

Mark was interested only in flurox and wool, and he had decided, after conferring with Dayna and several tradespeople in Tregallon, to focus initially on flurox.

There were no large growers or companies, as in the United States. Although fiber production was a major part of the Tregallon area economy, it came from hundreds of small farms. However, garnering commitments to produce all the fiber he needed came refreshingly easy. The individual farmers transported and sold processed fiber bundles to a small port seventy miles from Tregallon. A typical farmer made three or four trips a year with wagonloads of fiber bundles to the port to sell to traders from Kaledon and Brawsea—mainly the latter.

After talking about fiber prices with five farmers without revealing the purpose of his questions, he offered them slightly less than the farmers averaged from selling at the port. Although they forwent the possibility of higher prices, the certainty of Mark’s offer and not having to transport the fiber led most farmers to accept his offer with minimal bargaining—at least, after Mark walked away from two farmers who wanted to dicker beyond his tolerance level.

On the day that Kornel and Dayna proudly demonstrated a fully functional two-spindle many spinner, Mark changed the intended plan. He made a leap of confidence, or possibly his patience had worn too thin, and he ordered Kornel to go straight to the eight-spindle spinner. At least part of Mark’s decision derived from his worry that a warehouse would fill up with unused flurox fiber bundles. Yet Ulwyn had told him he could always transport and sell the fiber at the port if his plans fell apart. In that case, he would take only a small loss at worst. And who knew? If God was smiling on him, the price might even be higher.

The speed loom was finished to Dayna’s acceptance, if not total satisfaction, by the time the spinner was successful. Kornel and Dayna spun enough thread to keep the new loom busy for a sixday while he expanded the spinner to eight spindles.

It was a tense day for Mark when Dayna began the first serious weaving of a roll of cloth. Smaller tests had been successful, but the real test was whether the machine would work continuously for a whole day and how much faster it was than the traditional loom.

Dayna started slowly, checking the packing of threads every five to ten throws of the shuttle. The loom worked, but Mark barely controlled his impatience with the speed being even slower than Dayna’s old loom. Finally, he left, saying he had other business to attend to and would return later.

Six hours later, Mark couldn’t wait any longer and returned to find Dayna in a glowing mood.

“This is going to work just like you said it would, Mark. I’m already going faster than I can with my other loom, and I think within a day or so, I’ll be going perhaps four times as fast or more. Kornel also had an idea of how to do a faster beat up of the weft threads, and it works!”

She referred to needing to push each new weft thread firmly against the previously woven threads. Mark resolved to have Kornel show him the improvement in beating later. For the moment, his mind moved on to planning the next stages.

When Kornel finished the spinner expansion, problems arose almost immediately and centered on feeding eight simultaneous thread lines. Different flurox batches didn’t work the same with the spinner. Some batches of fiber contained enough particulate matter to jam the process at different points. Compounding the problem was finding the level of tension needed for different fiber batches.

After a sixday of little apparent progress, Mark left his other work and stayed with Kornel until they worked out the problems in three days. A month passed, and the cloth workforce expanded to ten weavers and supporting spinners. New workers trained on a dedicated set of machines, sometimes in shifts of six hours each. When Dayna and Holt declared them sufficiently competent, the newly trained moved to their own machines and joined the production effort. When Mark was satisfied there was nothing more he could contribute, he left bolt production to the two Firmans.

CHAPTER 12

BRAWSEA

Mark preferred to go earlier to Brawsea, the Frangel capital, but they had too much to do with selling safety pins and leaf springs in Tregallon and Kaledon and getting the multiplex weaving project working.

Sales of safety pins in Kaledon had fallen off, as expected, as other makers flooded the market. Wiflow had already decreased production on pins for Kaledon and focused on reaching their goal for Brawsea. That there was still a good market for their pins in Kaledon was due to Argah selling them as “genuine Tregallon pins.” Mark didn’t know how long that piece of subterfuge would work.

Still, Mark’s share of the profits from pins and springs was about 200,000 copper/silver coins, or $200,000, as he translated into familiar monetary units. The total accounted for products sold and people placing preorders and paying half the price up front. Mark had been surprised by preorders coming from shops and traders who immediately saw the pins as a necessary product to have in stock. In addition, his ongoing share from springs and the arrangement with Kaledon smithies promised a steady stream of coin into the future, though at lower amounts.

Finally, it was Wiflow who asserted they needed to act.

“If we’re going to sell in Brawsea, we don’t dare wait any longer. We need to move as soon as we reach the planned number of pins and leaf springs.”

“What’s the count on pins?”

“Our original target was seven hundred thousand. We’ll pass that in two sixdays, but production of leaf springs is slowing the timetable down. The last time Stillum wrote, he said sales within Kaledon are still more than we projected, so storing springs for Brawsea hasn’t kept to schedule. I’m worried that if we wait for the leaf springs, the loss in pin sales will cost us more than if we go right away.”

Mark was torn. He didn’t want to lose the advantage of a blitz campaign in Brawsea dependent on being the only source of safety pins, but he had thought to arrange a similar deal with the Brawsea blacksmiths as he had with Kaledon. He now conceded that the long-term selling of springs in Brawsea needed to wait.

Then there was the next project just about to come online—faster cloth production.

“No matter what we do, there are advantages and disadvantages,” said Mark. “Here’s what I think we’ll do. We’ll send a rider to Stillum with the message to continue production of springs for Kaledon and send all they have for Brawsea there by ship.

“Wiflow, you continue pin production here in Tregallon for another two sixdays, then we’ll load everything on wagons and head for Brawsea. We should arrive there by the time the ship arrives, which should give us time to prepare for pin sales and meet with the local blacksmiths.”

“Ulwyn tells me he was teaching you some Suvalu,” said Wiflow. “I probably know more than he does. I lived a few years in Kaledon near the harbor, where many shopkeepers and tradespeople speak the language. If your ideas are to work, you’ll need to speak the trade language. On the way to Brawsea, I can work with you to add any words and phrases you didn’t learn from Ulwyn.”

Wiflow gripped Mark’s forearm. “Remember, Mark, the situation is different in Brawsea. The guilds are much more powerful than in Kaledon, and we won’t initially have a contact blacksmith to help. We may need to go straight to the blacksmith guild leaders and hope they’re agreeable to working out an arrangement like we have in Kaledon. I don’t have enough experience with the Brawsea guilds to know how it will go, but things I’ve heard should make us cautious in our assumptions.”

“What we don’t know, we don’t know,” said Mark, sighing. “The trip to Brawsea has three objectives, and the leaf springs are the least important. First priority is selling all the pins. We need to recover the coin we’ve put into amassing the pins, and it’ll be our only chance for maximum sales there, as it was in Kaledon, before others jump into the market.

“As for leaf springs, yes, we want to sell those already made and see if we can make a similar arrangement for long-term sales, as we did in Kaledon.

“And third is the project you’re not directly involved in—the weaving of cloth. I’m going to need some time to investigate how I should go about entering the cloth-making market—what the market is, the prices, issues with different guilds, possible export markets, clothing makers who would buy my cloth, and . . . oh, I don’t know . . . probably a dozen other issues I haven’t thought of yet.”

Two sixdays later, a six-wagon convoy left Tregallon heading east along the main road that paralleled the coast toward Brawsea. Each wagon was pulled by an extra pair of horses, more than usual, in order to make the 400-mile trip faster and put less strain on the horses from the heavy cargo. They tied two riding horses behind the wagon Mark rode in. The wagons contained 782,500 safety pins—approximately, according to Mark, although Wiflow insisted he had an exact count. The wagons also carried 200 leaf springs made by all the blacksmiths in Tregallon. Hamston had initially resisted Mark’s suggestion to bring in the other two blacksmiths, but Mark argued it was a chance to ameliorate future relations among the three Tregallon smithies.

Also in the wagons were extra wheels, tools to repair wagons, food, tents, personal possessions of the twelve men, and sample textiles. In addition, the wagons themselves were outfitted with springs.

In the last three sixdays before leaving, Kornel and Dayna had the many spinner, the speed-loom machines, and the staff working hard. The weavers had spent long hours weaving enough cloth for a set of sample bolts. Half were the color of the original fibers, while the other half were solid colors using the only three dyes easily available in Tregallon: green from the dried bodies of an insect analog, yellow from a wildflower, and red from an ash soda extract of a mineral deposit common in the Tregallon area. The three dyes fixed permanently on fibers. A clothing maker told Mark that dyes for other colors were available but needed different ingredients to fix the dye on the fibers or the cloth.

After looking at the colors of the first set of shirts, Mark wasn’t impressed by the subdued shades and tones. He had seen clothing of different colors, but most common people, including the Hoveys, wore clothing of the natural color of the fibers.

He had stood near what he considered a puke-yellow bolt, thinking, It’s examples like this that make me wish I were a chemist. There must be more varied and brighter colors than these. Of course, if I were a chemist, I might not know how to make steam engines, much less internal combustion ones or aircraft.

In the first section of the trip, they reached a spot in the road that looked familiar to Mark. As they approached Derwun Bay, Ulwyn called out from the next wagon.

“Mark. This is where I found you. Right here is the path to the beach.”

Mark told his driver to stop, and he walked down the winding, narrow track to the water, followed by Ulwyn. He stared up and down the beach and remembered waking, the waves, crawling to shade, then fighting through growth until he stumbled onto the road.

This is where the damn aliens dumped me, thought Mark. I wonder how they did it. A craft of some sort . . . small enough not to be noticed, unless it had cloaking of some kind, like the main ship must have to avoid being seen flying around Earth? Maybe a transporter like on Star Trek? He laughed. Who knows? But the beach is hidden enough from the road that they could have dropped me off and left within moments.

“And you still don’t remember how you got here?” asked Ulwyn.

“No. Nothing more than what I already told you. It’s almost as much a mystery to me as it must sound to you.”

Mark’s curiosity satisfied, they returned to the wagons. Twenty minutes later, they left sight of the bay and climbed a series of low forested hills until dark. For the next two days, they passed through fertile valleys separated by bare rocky ridges that he estimated ranged from two to five hundred feet high. Then the terrain changed to rolling grassland with farms, ranches, and more people as they traveled farther east.

It took two complete sixdays to reach the crest of a ridgeline west of Brawsea, where they could see the city and the distant ocean. They still had ten miles to go, but the stiff onshore breeze resulted in clear air, a rarity Mark hadn’t appreciated until he experienced the oppressive odors the capital was famous for.

“Yep, there it is,” said Ulwyn. Mark had given the elderly trader a small share in the weaving business. He figured Ulwyn’s experience would be useful.

“The view from this ridge hasn’t changed since last time I was here, though I’m sure there are changes in the city. I suggest we stop early today. If I remember correctly, a few inns in outlying towns along this route are large enough to provide rooms and stables for us. By stopping early, we should still find space available that might be taken by sundown.”

Ulwyn’s coming had been argued against by Gwanel, who cited his age and what sounded to Mark like serious arthritis. However, she acquiesced when her husband claimed it was likely his last chance to see Brawsea, and the convoy meant he wouldn’t be driving a wagon.

His other excuse was to help Mark make useful contacts. Even though it had been five years since his last trip to Brawsea, Ulwyn thought tradesmen he’d dealt with previously might remember him. They could provide useful insight on whom to see about Mark’s textile project and who could advise him on getting space in the Brawsea main market, an eighty-acre square in the center of the city. Every Godsday, the Great Plaza of Brawsea filled with stalls of goods, crafts, animals, and foods. Ulwyn had made it a point to experience the market every time he visited, and he had fond memories.

“The problem you have, Mark, is that this isn’t like Kaledon. Here, there aren’t simply empty spaces you and Wiflow can set up on. Every possible space for a stall is already assigned. Some families have used the same space for generations. Your only option is to find a space holder willing to let you use his space if you pay him enough.”

“Does a formal authority run the market?” asked Mark.

“Not exactly. Each space holder pays a yearly amount that goes to a family that maintains order in the market. I don’t know how this specific family got that job, but I’d heard they’d been doing it for over a hundred years. The family keeps a record of who is authorized for each stall. They also prevent anyone from setting up new stalls. That way, they keep the paths open, and they settle disputes.”

“And that works?” asked Mark. “If the market is as big and dynamic as you describe, I expect it would take more than one family to maintain control.”

“Well, when I say ‘family,’ I’m talking about a very extended family. Last I heard, they have twenty or thirty men who go armed with pistols and muskets. Did I mention no other firearms are allowed in the plaza on market day? Anyway . . . any sign of trouble, and they come running. If they aren’t enough, most vendors will support them. It’s to everyone’s interest to maintain order.

“However, if something happens that the family can’t handle, the king’s palace and a troop garrison are only a mile away. I know of two cases in the last forty years where Frangelese soldiers put down riots. Once it was a stupid case of two competing craftsmen starting a fight that spread wide enough that the family couldn’t handle it. Rumor was that half of the family’s men were sick with something and not there that market day.

“The other case was more serious. Most of the people of Brawsea follow Sholsterism, although there’s a large number of Morwynism followers, especially among the trade sectors. Normally, the two groups get along or ignore each other, but occasionally there’s an outbreak of fighting, often started by something stupid like one group being offended by the mere existence of the other group.

“In that bad case I mentioned, a rumor started that a Morwyn mob had burned a Sholster house of worship. Turned out to be a false rumor, but once it circulated, Sholster mobs attacked Morwyn followers and burned several houses and an abbey.

“As you might expect, the Morwyners retaliated, and it got out of control. The Brawsea authorities seemed to suppress the fighting until market day, but then a Sholster mob started moving through the plaza, beating and burning everyone, no matter what sect they belonged to. They claimed fellow Sholsters shouldn’t interact with heretic Morwyners.

“The king at the time, Charlyn the Third, got word something was stirring and had troops ready nearby. Many suspect he let the riot go far enough that when he cracked down on the Sholster faction organizing the riot, he could be more brutal than otherwise.

“But that was an extreme occurrence. Most of the time the market works without trouble, and any normal disturbance is handled either by men at nearby stalls or when the men of the family enforcing customs come running.”

“So, there are both Sholster and Morwyn followers in Tregallon?” asked Mark. He hadn’t been curious about the variety of religious practices—simply assuming the services he attended with the Hoveys’ represented the only religion. “I attended a few Godsday services with the Hoveys in Tregallon, but I didn’t notice any tension in the town over religion.”

“That’s because although most people in Tregallon follow Sholsterism, the people keep their faith to themselves. Everyone knows who follows which sect, but I can’t remember any problems. It’s similar in many places in Frangel, but in large parts of the land most of the people will belong to one of the two sects. Have you seen a map of Frangel?”

“Wiflow showed me one when we were planning our sales,” said Mark. “I also bought a copy from a bookseller in Kaledon.”

“All right, then. Imagine the map and draw a line from Kaledon on the northwest coast almost south to just before Nurburt and then east to the Madyrna border. Every place east of that line most people follow Sholsterism, which includes maybe two-thirds of the population of Frangel. West of the line is mainly Morwynism territory. The only exception is along the northeast coast, a strip of land with people who follow what is called Ar-Morwynism.

“Centuries ago, the two sects were intermingled. When terrible religious wars broke out, the people migrated to areas containing mainly fellow followers. This happened before the king at the time, Markolean the Great, used the army to stop all intersectarian fighting. He was only able to do that with an army made of followers of both sects. The troops respected him because of his successful repulsion of invaders from both Madyrna and Tekleum who tried to take advantage of Frangel’s internal fighting.

“The separation of sects left a pocket of Morwynites split off from most of the rest. Over time, their rituals drifted away from those of the other Morwynites in southwest Frangel. Now I understand they almost form a third sect, though I haven’t dealt with them myself since I’ve never been to far northeast Frangel.

“Legends say that after Markolean the Great stopped most of the intersectarian conflicts, the isolated Morwynite pocket in northeast Frangel still had enough problems that many people left Frangel, never to be heard of again.

“Oh . . . I wandered off your original question about how the Brawsea market works. You and Wiflow need to find one or more stall owners willing to let you use their space. I don’t see how you can sell in multiple markets like you did in Kaledon since you don’t already have contacts. That means we’ll likely need to stay for several market days, as well as find a place to sell the pins the other days of the sixday. All I can do for your textile project is introduce you to a few of the tradesmen I used to purchase from. After that, it’ll be up to them to point you to who to see next.”

Following Ulwyn’s advice, they stopped at a two-story inn that reminded Mark of Tudor-style architecture. They were still five miles from the center of Brawsea. The inn’s stable was too small for their party, but a vacant piece of land behind the inn served as a place to stake and hobble the horses. The inn was able to accommodate the men once they agreed to double up by sleeping on the floors, in addition to narrow beds. A quarter of the men stood armed guard over the wagons and the horses during the night, trading off every two hours. Mark was worried enough about their goods to rise twice during the night to check whether the guards were alert.

They changed their intent to continue on into Brawsea the next morning when they gathered for the inn’s morning meal service—a porridge-like dish, fruit, and kava, a coffee analog.

“What if we leave the wagons and rest of the men here?” Mark suggested to Wiflow and Ulwyn. “It’s three days until market day, and there’s so much to do, it makes no sense to bring the wagons any closer until we know what’s happening. What if Wiflow and I investigate market day and talk to any blacksmiths we pass? Ulwyn, you find the tradesmen you know who might have insights about selling cloth in Brawsea.”

“Makes sense,” said Wiflow. “I was thinking about visiting a few jewelry shops near the Great Plaza. Even if I don’t know the jewelers, we should be able to find a few willing to answer questions from a fellow jeweler. I can always say we’re here after hearing about the far-reaching reputation of Brawsea jewelry.”

“Is it well-known?” asked Mark.

“Nah,” said Wiflow. “Mainly pieces of trash meant for the thousands of foreigners always in the city and local citizens who think trinket styles copied from other realms are somehow exotic. Naturally, I won’t say any of that to the jewelers we ask to advise us. Leave the talking to me.”

“What about you, Ulwyn?”

“Probably best if you two ride the horses into the city, but my back won’t let me. I’ll go by wagon or cart or something where I can sit. I’ll ask the innkeeper where we might rent a small wagon or cart, and I’ll get one of our drivers to go with me.”

They arrived near the city center at mid-morning. Wiflow and Mark put their horses in a stable and left Ulwyn with a cart and a driver to search for past acquaintances.

Wiflow’s confidence in jeweler camaraderie was tested by mid-day. Seven jewelers near the city center refused to talk with them once they knew the strangers’ interests, wanted to be paid for advice, or gave Mark or Wiflow bad vibes.

They experienced a similar lack of progress after talking with two blacksmiths who referred them to the wagon-maker guild.

“Seems like I’ll have to go straight to the guild. I was hoping for more interest from blacksmiths, but evidently there’s overlap with the blacksmith and wagon-maker guilds. At least, the last smith gave us directions to the wagon-maker guild headquarters.”

“As for the pins, maybe the jewelers we visited are too fancy,” said Mark. “You know, accustomed to dealing with the upper classes around the center of Brawsea. Let’s try closer to the harbor.”

The two men walked a half-mile before looking again for jewelry shops. Within sight of the harbor, down a straight avenue, they found their first useful source. The owner of a small jewelry shop was not in, but his eighteen- or-nineteen-year-old son was without customers when they arrived and proved gregarious.

“Well, our family doesn’t have a stall—we’re not important enough in the jewelers’ guild. My father hates our guild’s dumon.”

The son noticed his two visitors’ blank looks.

“Dumon. You know. A guild head.”

Two heads shaking brought forth a sigh. “Every guild is led by the dumon, plus the larger guilds have a group of dumonotes, men who act for the dumon and are candidates to be the next dumon.

“But back to your question. No, we don’t have a stall, but I suggest checking with some of the small bakeries near the Great Plaza. There’s a few of them that have stall positions left from long ago when the market day wasn’t that big. There’s always grumbling about making them give up their positions. However, so far no one or group has wanted to make a change from tradition that might set an example.”

“Why should I give up my family’s stall at market day?” asked Wis Nampton, patriarch of the third bakery Mark and Wiflow visited. “We do good business on those days, and it lets people know about our baked goods.”

“I understand,” placated Wiflow, who continued to do their talking—tradesman to tradesman. “However, it’s unlikely you get all that many new customers on any Godsday market, and the six hours between the end of Godsday services and market day closing can’t be but a small part of your sixday’s income. We appreciate that you would lose some business, which is why we’re willing to generously compensate you for business lost. Shall we say one small gold coin for use of your stall for one Godsday?”

Nampton’s eyes narrowed. He laughed. “One small gold? That’s not near enough.”

Here we go, thought Mark. We’re going to get the stall. Now it’s just a matter of Wiflow bargaining with the baker.

Thirty interminable minutes later, they had permission to use the baker’s stall on the next market day. It cost one small gold and two large silvers—about $350, by Mark’s estimation. He would have paid more just to get the two bargainers to shut up.

Mark’s irritation was fostered by his feeling that although plans were progressing, they weren’t moving as fast as he would like. He kept reminding himself to be patient, a trait he’d had to work on too often back on Earth. His mood wasn’t helped when they returned to the inn just after sundown and reunited with Ulwyn, whose report on textiles was not encouraging.

“I started off visiting cloth sellers I’ve done business with before, although it was many years ago. I told them I was in Brawsea to buy bolts of cloth for my trade and for shop owners in Tregallon—which was honest. As I told you, with our wagons going back empty to Tregallon, I’ll be buying more trade goods than I could carry with just my own wagon. Among what I’ll buy are enough cloth bolts for two wagons, three if the prices are right. We can sell them to towns on the way back. Any left when we get back to Tregallon, I’ll use on my trade route.”

“And you don’t think it’s a little odd to be buying wagons of cloth when we’ll be producing it much cheaper in the next few months?”

“No offense, Mark, but that’s true only if everything works as you hope. There’s always the chance you won’t succeed, or it will take longer than you think. Even if things work out well, we can’t be sure when you’ll be producing enough cloth. Also, your cloth will be in limited colors. I’ll be buying medium to higher-end cloth that your first efforts won’t compete with.

“Anyway, the first merchant was a disagreeable man who would only talk about potential sales. All my questions about the cloth trade in Brawsea were ignored at first, and then he got suspicious and angry when I kept asking.

“The second man was better. He pretended he remembered me, but I think he was lying so as not to offend a potential customer. I spent two hours with him and came away with half a wagon of cloth. He was talkative, and I think I got a good sense of the textile trade here in Brawsea. It doesn’t sound good for you.

“The guilds have fiber processing, thread spinning, cloth weaving, and clothes making wrapped up tight as could be. No one can enter into any of those trades without being a member of one or more guilds. The Council of Guilds is, for all practical purposes, the government of Brawsea. Oh . . . it’s not official. There’s a mayor appointed by the king and representatives of the different sections of the city to advise the mayor, but the mayor doesn’t do anything without the approval of the Council of Guilds. No mayor is going to go against the guilds because they pay so much in bribes to members of the Frangelese court, including members of the king’s family.”

“And we can’t just set up shop and start selling cloth without guild membership?” asked Mark.

“Who’s going to buy it? Clothing makers won’t. The guilds are so intertwined that the clothing-maker guild will only buy cloth from members of the weaving guild. It would be the same if you tried to sell thread—no weaver will buy thread not spun by a spinner guild member. The guilds might send thugs to wreck your goods and attack our people. Alternatively, they might prevail on the authorities to stop us. I just don’t know.”

“Well, shit,” mumbled Mark. Neither Ulwyn nor Wiflow needed a translation from English to interpret Mark’s response to the news.

It’s a cartel, monopoly, or whatever economists would call it, Mark thought. A neat tangle of relationships to keep out competition where there’re no anti-trust laws.

It was a system designed for the benefit of those who had, against anyone who wanted the products or the services of those in control. No competition meant the cost of clothing you bought ready-made, the end product, was higher than it had to be. Coin that could have gone into food, better living conditions, and medical care went into the hands of the guild members. It also meant poorer families were more likely to make as much of their own clothing as they could—thereby reducing the market for ready-made clothing and having family members spend more of their time not doing other productive work. The entire society and most members were less productive and poorer as a result.

Well, that’s the society’s problem, thought Mark. My problem is what to do? I’m too committed to textiles to drop the idea and end up wasting a good part of a year and all that coin. I’d then still be looking for innovations to fund what I really want to do.

“What about bribing someone with influence in the guilds?” asked Mark.

Wiflow shook his head. “That might work in Kaledon and Landylbury, but the guilds are too strong and organized here in Brawsea. Any bribe would have to be so large you wouldn’t have enough coin left to expand cloth production.”

“Something else occurs to me,” said Ulwyn. “I stopped briefly in several what you call ‘factories.’ We don’t have them in Tregallon, and the ones I saw in Kaledon are far smaller. In one factory here, I saw hundreds of women, in row after row, weaving cloth on looms the way Dayna used to do. In other places, there were large rooms of women spinning thread. Men brought new supplies of thread, and scores of boys maybe ten years old ran to exchange filled spindles with empty ones. It was similar in a weaving factory—hundreds of men and women weaving cloth and many more men and boys working to supply the weavers and take away finished bolts.

“Mark, do you realize that if your project works, thousands of people will lose their jobs? Imagine the reaction of all those people finding out your faster way to make cloth takes away their income. I don’t know which would be more dangerous, the guilds or the families of workers.”

Ulwyn’s comments stirred a memory in Mark, but he couldn’t quite dredge it up—something about riots in Europe during the early stages of the Industrial Revolution. He hadn’t paid much attention to the required humanities courses at the Naval Academy. However, he dismissed worrying about workers. It was the guilds he saw as the biggest threat.

Mark visualized a map he’d studied of Anyar. “What about selling the cloth to traders from other places on Anyar? I assume much of the textile production is traded to other realms on Anyar—elsewhere in Drilmar or across the Throat in eastern Melosia?”

“I’m not sure about traders from Tekleum and Madyrna,” said Wiflow. “They border with Frangel and have a difficult history with us, what with past wars and continuing incidents, but the guilds’ reach may even go to them—at least, in textiles. I just don’t know. Novaryn might be possible since we have good relations with them, but they have guilds, too. You’d have to talk with people from all of these places to see if they might be interested. We might have a better chance with the Melosians—Fuomon, the Harrasedics, and even Krinolin.”

“Forget the Krinoliners,” said Ulwyn. “I overheard a group of men at the harbor talking about how Krinolin ships are barred from all Drilmar and Melosia ports.”

Wiflow noted Mark’s puzzled expression. “Krinolin, the last large land mass to the east before the Great Ocean. They keep to themselves and only allow trading at one port in southern Krinolin, even though they want their own ships to have access to all ports elsewhere. Every so many years there’s a blow-up, and the Krinoliners are forbidden port access. If it goes as usual, a year or so from now everyone will forget what the current problem was, and you’ll again start to see an occasional Krinolin ship in a major harbor.”

“That leaves Fuomon and the Harrasedics,” said Ulwyn. “Neither one is likely worried about Frangel guild retaliation. I’m sure both are aware of the guild fixing prices higher than they should be. Their problem is that Frangel textiles are among the best in the world. I imagine they’d do something about it if they weren’t worried more about the Narthani.”

“Narthani?” said Mark. “I heard references to them. What’s the history? I understand they’re from another realm on Anyar.”

Wiflow and Ulwyn looked at each other. Ulwyn shrugged, then spoke. “I only hear things. Tregallon is far enough from the major cities that we don’t get all the latest news. All I know for sure is that Fuomon and the Harrasedics have been fighting the Narthon Empire for most of a century. Not necessarily continuously, but serious wars have been ongoing for the last forty or so years. They’re supposed to be quite nasty opponents.”

“I hear the same,” said Wiflow. “Seems like they believe it’s their destiny to rule all of Anyar. They think the rest of the world is inhabited by lesser peoples. I’ve even heard the men are clean-shaven as a sign of their superiority. Where they got that idea, I don’t know. Anyway, the Iraquiniks are fighting them, in addition to the Fuomi and Harrasedics. The Narthani also crossed the Throat and invaded Rustal on the Ganolar continent. Rumors are, the conquest may not have been worth it, but it caused worry that the Narthani might someday do the same with Drilmar. That’s the main reason the four Drilmar realms haven’t had serious conflicts among themselves the last fifteen or twenty years. The concern about the Narthani led to a treaty stating that if any Drilmar realm is invaded from outside the continent, the other realms will come to their aid. Whether they would meet the obligation if an invasion happens is anyone’s guess.”

Mark dismissed worrying about the Narthani. They were a distant threat, and he couldn’t evaluate whether his companions’ knowledge of Anyar geopolitics was accurate or informative. His problem was the now.

“So, that leaves us with Fuomon and the Harrasedics. Tell me about them.”

“I don’t know if Fuomon traders would be that interested,” said Wiflow. “It’s worth talking with any in port, but I expect they’re focused on trading for goods to help in the war against the Narthani. The Harrasedics might be better. They aren’t a single realm, but a large number of small states and independent cities more united in trade competition and against the Narthani threat than in any central allegiance. They speak different dialects of Harrasedica. I hear the Harrasedics from the western part can hardly understand those in the farthest east. That’s one of the reasons Suvalu was created. It turned out to be so useful that it keeps adding words from other languages, like Fuomi and Frangelese, and developed into the main trading language for Anyar. I understand it’s used even as far west as the Ganolar and Landolin continents. I’ve dealt with a few Harrasedic traders, and if they’re a good sample, they’ll look to get the best price for goods, no matter what the local political considerations.”

Mark tugged at his beard and sighed. “All right, what I hear is that neither of you think I can sell cloth and thread in Brawsea and that as long as we’re here, I should talk with any Fuomi and Harrasedic traders I can find. But what about Kaledon? You say the guilds aren’t as strong there. Could that be the place to sell cloth to both Drilmar and Melosia traders?”

“Well,” said Wiflow, “the guilds don’t seem as strong there, but I don’t have enough experience to give good advice. Argah or some of others there will be better sources of information.”

“I don’t know either,” said Ulwyn, “but it might have to be Kaledon or nowhere. Tregallon isn’t a port with docks, so it would be hard to ship from there, except for maybe using Derwan Bay to transfer shore to ship. And that assumes you could make enough cloth—which you couldn’t. The town doesn’t have enough available workers. No, I think it has to be Kaledon.”

“Surely, we could increase production in Tregallon more than now?” asked Mark.

“I suppose you could,” said Wiflow, “but not enough to become a major producer, as you’ve described is your goal.”

Mark refused to give up. “All right, so we have problems, but I believe they can be dealt with. The first thing is to talk with Fuomon and Harrasedic traders and find at least one who’s interested.”

“No,” insisted Wiflow, “the first thing we need to do is return to the main reasons we’re in Brawsea. Market day is in two days, and we need to get ready. Plus, you need to talk with the guilds about your springs.”

Ulwyn picked up on the jeweler’s diversion back to safety pins and leaf springs, and although Mark participated, most of his internal focus stayed with textiles. He came back to full attention only when Ulwyn mentioned he had rented a cart and spent three hours riding around Brawsea talking with mothers carrying babies. He had only to show how the pins were an efficient and safe method of securing diapers to create fervent advocates—especially after promising free pins if they spread the word among friends and relatives.

Wiflow nodded vigorously. “Yes, we all should have been doing this. We had more time and spent more effort creating a market in Kaledon. I suggest Ulwyn and I continue spreading the word, and Mark, you take care of getting the goods from the wagons to the market. We didn’t tell the baker we might need his stall for several market days, but if sales go well, we need to arrange temporary selling sites, so we can continue selling between market days. There must be tradesmen who own vacant land or buildings we could use.”

“All right,” said Mark. “Let’s do as you suggest.”

The other two men didn’t comment on Mark’s evident lack of enthusiasm. His mind had moved on from selling their existing products in Brawsea to finding outlets for cloth production.

Patience, he chastised himself. Patience. We don’t have enough coin to expand cloth production unless the pin and spring sales go well.

“However, we can’t ignore talking with Fuomon and Harrasedic traders,” Mark said. “We should have time for both activities—finding traders and getting ready for market day. But I’ll need Wiflow’s help with Suvalu since I still don’t speak the trade language fluently. I’ll try to locate possible contacts and then ask Wiflow to come with me tomorrow afternoon to talk to them in more detail.”

The next morning, Mark spent a frustrating hour at the wagon-maker guild’s headquarters. He was unable to get to see the dumon, and an underling evidenced no interest in leaf springs that might change how wagons were made.

“If we had more time, I could keep pestering them until I got someone to listen,” said Mark. “Maybe I can get more attention if I create community interest in the springs. We’ll have a wagon at the plaza on market day, and we’ll give free rides to anyone who wants to test our new ‘marvel.’ Maybe that will get the guild’s attention.”

“I don’t know, Mark,” said Wiflow. “You’ll risk getting a bad reaction from the guilds, plus you’ll be giving away the idea of the springs without getting sales.”

“Those are the risks, but I’m not sure what else to do. However, maybe we can still sell at least some of the springs to customers who would buy them for their own wagons and have smithies do the modifications. We’ll see what happens.”

CHAPTER 13

A VEILED WARNING

None of the three Fuomi traders Mark located showed even marginal interest in a man they had never heard of or dealt with, who seemed ignorant of basic facts of the textile trade, who had no connection with the Frangel guilds, and who had outlandish ideas about supplying cloth at half the usual cost. Despite their dismissal of Mark’s overtures, all three Fuomi were polite. Two of them treated Mark like a poor besotted soul to be humored and sent on his way. Not so with the Harrasedics.

“Why should I believe you can deliver quality cloth at half the price as usual?” Juko Nigulas said with a sniff of derision. He was a Harrasedic trader from the free city of Hapsula and the least obnoxious of the Harrasedics Mark had approached.

“You said that you’re new to Frangel,” said Mark, straining with his Suvalu. Talking with Wiflow in a controlled setting was one thing; carrying out a spontaneous back-and-forth chat with a fluent speaker was something else.

“Yes, I’m new to Frangel,” said Nigulas, “as is who I represent—the House of Vanyo. We’ve traded exclusively with eastern Melosia and occasionally Krinolin. I’m here in Brawsea to see if it’s practical for us to establish a presence on the Drilmar continent. Another of our people is in the Novaryn capital doing the same. We’re starting small to see if our house’s resources would be well invested in Drilmar trade.”

As with all their exchanges, it took Mark a moment to gather his thoughts and form them in understandable Suvalu. “Then this is a chance to get ahead of other Harrasedic trading houses already in Brawsea. You’re trying to start new here, as are we. You compete with other trading houses, same as we do with Brawsea guilds. Maybe this is an opportunity for both of us.”

Mark watched the garishly dressed man finger the right upward curl of his mustache. The shine of that patch of hair and the three-inch goatee, along with the way they held their form as if starched, made Mark suspect the Harrasedic groomed his hair with oil.

“Opportunity only exists with firm conditions. In the case of you and I, the question is whether you can deliver quality cloth, as you claim. If the answer is yes, then, of course, I would be interested. Can you do what you say?”

Mark cursed to himself for his staccato Suvalu, though he knew he was doing better than he’d feared—Wiflow had interceded only once when Mark got stuck. “I’ll be honest,” he said. “To do the level of business that will make both of us rich will take time. We cannot spend all our coin to make mountains of cloth without having assured buyers. What if we go slowly? I’ll work to produce enough bolts of cloth for you to take to Melosia. If the House of Vanyo is satisfied, I can increase production. In a year, I believe we can produce all the cloth your house would want.”

The other end of the mustache got Nigulas’s attention. “As long as it doesn’t change what I’m doing here in Brawsea with the existing producers, I see no reason not to be open to future possibilities. You say your cloth is made in a town several hundred miles from here. I will be here in Brawsea for at least another four months. If you send me a message when you can deliver one hundred bolts of the same quality cloth you’ve shown me, I’ll arrange for one of our ships to pick up the bolts when I return to Hapsula, and I’ll pay you the price we’ve talked about. That should give you enough coin to expand production. I’ll then check with you when I return, and we can plan from there.”

Mark turned to Ulwyn and Wiflow. The jeweler had listened to the discussion, but Ulwyn’s raised eyebrows conveyed that his Suvalu was too rudimentary to follow the trade language exchange.

“Let me talk with my friends,” said Mark. He motioned for Wiflow and Ulwyn to move forty feet away to a section of the wharf devoid of workers.

“What do you think?” Mark asked his two companions quietly in Frangelese. “We have another fifteen bolts back in the wagons. We should be able to reach one hundred. In fact, I’m thinking of offering two hundred bolts to give him more confidence we’re for real and not wasting his time. Can we do another hundred and eighty-five bolts in time?”

“Too bad the Firmans didn’t come with us,” said Ulwyn. “They’re the ones actually doing the weaving, so they’re the ones to say if it’s possible.”

“Remember,” said Wiflow, “although we took all the finished bolts with us, they’ve continued to work while we’ve been gone. It wouldn’t surprise me if, by the time we get back to Tregallon, they already have another fifteen to twenty bolts finished. Most of the coin is yours, Mark, but I’m willing to risk my share you’ve promised me of the cloth profits. How about you, Ulwyn?”

The elderly trader grimaced. “If I was twenty years younger, I’d agree in an instant. Now . . . well . . . Gwanel nagged me not to get too enthused about what we’re doing. She’s happy with the extra coin I’ve already made since Mark arrived.” He sighed. “Oh, well, if it all works, she’ll have no complaint. Of course, the two of you don’t need my small share. I expect you’ll succeed without me.”

The elderly trader scratched his beard for a moment, then grinned. “I agree. Gwanel’s been mad at me before. If we lose everything we’ve made so far, she’ll get over it . . . eventually.”

The three men walked back to Nigulas.

“Ser Wiflow will speak for us,” said Mark. “His Suvalu better than mine. We want to be sure we understand one another.”

The Harrasedic nodded and looked to the jeweler.

“Ser Nigulas, after discussing your idea, we agree, although we believe we can finish two hundred bolts before you return to Hapsula. They would be yours at the agreed-on price.”

Nigulas’s eyes widened slightly. His goatee got his attention this time.

“Well . . . if you think you can have two hundred ready, then I’ll say that I will take them all, as long as it’s the same quality as the bolts you’ve shown me. I’ll confess your increased number has intrigued me. I still think there’s some trickery on your part, or maybe you’re just delusional, but if you can do what you claim, then there may be a profitable future for all of us. I’ll send you a message when I know for sure the date I’ll leave Brawsea. Are you near a harbor where we can dock for the loading?”

“Uh . . . no,” said Mark. “But there’s a cove not far away. A ship can anchor near enough to the shore that the transfer can be done by longboats in no more than a few hours once you arrive.”

“All right, then,” said Nigulas, “when you’re ready, send a message to our Brawsea office. We’re located on the second floor of a building near the harbor. A House of Vanyo sign is prominent. I’ll either be there, or they’ll know where I am and get the message to me.”

As they left the meeting, Wiflow said, “Can we now focus completely on market day tomorrow?”

By noon the next day, they knew two things. The first was that safety pins were a success, though not as great as in Kaledon. Wiflow countered Mark’s disappointment.

“No, sales aren’t as good, even with a bigger market and larger crowds than in Kaledon, but remember, we spent more time spreading the word about the pins—your marketing, as you phrase it. Don’t worry. The customers who are buying are just as enthusiastic as in Tregallon and Kaledon. That only means it will take longer for the market to build. No matter what happens, I think we’ll sell most of what we brought with us from Tregallon within two sixdays, three at the most.”

Mark didn’t argue. He suspected the jeweler was right, but he chaffed at the delay in getting back to Tregallon. His focus had already moved on to the weaving project.

The second thing they learned was there would be no leaf spring market in Brawsea. Mark had arranged for the smallest wagon they’d come with to be held on a street near the baker’s stall. A wagon bench with leaf springs was set up at the stall so potential customers could bounce on the bench to experience the spring’s effects. Customers needing further convincing were sent to the wagon for a short demonstration ride.

They’d sold twenty springs by the first hour after the market opened when five men approached the stall and pushed customers aside.

“Who is in charge here?” demanded a burly man Wiflow recognized as dressed in Brawsea officialdom clothing.

Before Mark could speak up, Wiflow jumped in, worried that Mark would say the wrong thing.

“I am, Ser. And who do I have the honor of speaking with?”

“Wortson’s the name. I have market duty today to ensure all the proper customs are followed. These men with me are from the Wagon Guild and have charged that you are selling wagons without being members of their guild.”

Despite protestations that they were not selling wagons, only a part that could be added to existing wagons, after twenty minutes of argument, Mark reluctantly accepted that they wouldn’t be selling leaf springs in Brawsea. However, he balked when the wagon guild members tried to insist they would confiscate the springs. After Wortson listened to both sides, Mark suspected he perceived that Mark would not give up the springs without a physical confrontation. The guild members were sent on their way after Wortson told them they needed a writ from the Guild Council—something that wouldn’t happen until the next council meeting in two sixdays.

Mark stewed as the five men left.

“It’s not like we expected big sales,” said Ulwyn. “In Kaledon, we had Stillum to work with us. We’ll just take the springs we brought with us back to Tregallon and send them to Kaledon. We can stop at blacksmiths on the way back home and see if they’ll buy springs from us. I think a demonstration will convince most smiths they can sell them to the more affluent local residents. I might even be able to sell them on my trading route if I ever get back to it. Of course, you’ll have to tell Hamston to cut back on making new springs.”

“That leaves the six hundred springs shipped from Kaledon,” said Mark, shaking his head. “They’re sitting in a warehouse for now. We’ll have to arrange to send them back to Stillum, along with news about what happened here. I trust he can sell them in Kaledon. He’ll also be cutting back production now that the Brawsea market is closed to us.”

Wiflow’s prediction was confirmed that pin sales would build over the next two sixdays. Although the first market day disappointed Mark, word spread, and the temporary site in a vacant stable had more customers each day. On the second market day, this time the jeweler and nail guilds tried to shut them down. However, the overseer of the market was again called to settle whether the Tregallon safety pins impinged on an existing guild. To Mark’s relief, the issue was settled when the guilds could not show that safety pins were a product already being produced by guild members.

It was the second market day when a new wrinkle appeared. By that time, Mark’s daily use of Suvalu had smoothed the rough edges. They had been open for business for two hours when a richly dressed man of about forty years and a haughty manner appeared, accompanied by two similarly dressed men and four rougher-looking men who raised warning signs with Mark.

“Who’s in charge here?” demanded the men’s leader.

Mark, Ulwyn, and Wiflow looked at one another. Mark saw that neither of his companions was eager to volunteer to identify himself, so Mark spoke.

“I am. Who wants to know?”

“I am Dumonote Lurmon of the Cloth Guild. You are required to come with us to answer questions.”

“Questions about what?”

“Yours is not to ask questions, but to answer them to the Cloth Dumon. Come with us.”

Mark was tired and overly anxious to return to Tregallon. And he was hungry—having missed eating when he woke up and only snacking on a dry roll he’d grabbed from another bakery stall. He was also offended by the man’s peremptory manner. It wasn’t clear which of the two reasons was most responsible for his response.

Mark snarled. “Well, I don’t care who wants to ask me questions. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

The man turned red. “You’ll do as you’re told, or we’ll force you to come.”

“Who? You? You look like the only thing you can force is a quill across paper.”

The four enforcer-looking men began to step forward, then stopped when Mark picked up a four-foot-long, two-inch-thick bronze bar. Although no weapons were allowed inside the market, Mark had figured he could explain the bar as a demonstration of the stock from which they made pins.

One of the four men licked his lips when he saw how easily Mark twirled the bar. He looked at the dumonote.

Before a decision was made, a deep voice drew all their attention. “What’s going on here?” It was the market overseer.

“This man is summoned by the Cloth Guild Dumon and is refusing to come.”

“Well, settle it away from the market. You know the rules. I don’t care which guild you’re from, there’s no disruption in the market.”

The dumonote glowered and commanded his companions to follow him.

The overseer turned to Mark. “I don’t care if you started this or not, you’re causing too much trouble with the guilds. Any more and I’ll ban you from the market.”

Mark set the bar down. “Sorry, Ser. They seem to be focused on me, but I’ll be leaving soon, and my two partners will continue without me. That should help with any guild problems.”

The next day, they arrived at the vacant stable they’d rented for a temporary shop to sell pins on the other five days of each sixday. A red-haired young man stood waiting for them.

“Excuse my interruption of your preparations to open for business, but I am Dumonote Rynlow of the Cloth Guild. Unfortunately, another of our dumonotes was overly rude yesterday when he came to see you. The Cloth Guild Dumon has asked me to offer apologies for other man’s behavior and to transmit an invitation to join him for mid-day meal at the guild building. Dumon Klinster says he would appreciate you accepting.”

Mark looked at Wiflow, who shrugged. Ulwyn nodded from twenty feet away, where he was arranging boxes of pins.

“Thank you for the invitation,” said Mark. “I will come, but at what time, and where is the guild building?”

“Good. An aide will come at mid-day and take you to the guild. It’s only a fifteen-minute walk from here.”

“I suppose you did the right thing,” said Ulwyn after the man left. “Still, it makes me uneasy. I’ve been hearing stories about men who’ve run afoul of powerful Brawsea guilds, but I didn’t know how much credence to give what I’d heard. I just hope this second man was truthful that yesterday was an aberration.”

At the first ring of the mid-day cathedral bells, a well-dressed teenage boy appeared to guide Mark. As told, the walk to the Cloth Guild building took fifteen minutes through a section of the city that implied wealth and power. The guild building was not ornate, but Mark could see the quality of the workmanship. They entered a large foyer to be met by Dumonote Rynlow.

“Thank you for coming, Ser Kaldwel. The dumon is waiting on the veranda.”

How’s he know my name? thought Mark. I didn’t tell him.

“How many members does the Cloth Guild have?” Mark asked as he was led up a wide marble staircase.

“There are different membership categories. Masters, journeymen, and apprentices. There are also many who work for the guild but are not members.”

The response hadn’t answered Mark’s question, but he was distracted when they passed an open door to a room with scores of men bent over what appeared to be ledgers. Rynlow noticed his reaction.

“It’s critical that the guild keep accurate records of all textile transactions. Although we are formally only the guild for cloth weaving, our reputation has traditionally led other guilds involved in textiles to use our accounting system. About half of the clerks you see work for the guild. The other half are from the spinning and clothing guilds.”

I’ll bet that implies the Cloth Guild is one of the most important in the city, thought Mark.

They climbed wide stairs to a hallway. At its end, they passed through a pane-glass double door onto an open-air veranda with six table and chair setups, only one of which was occupied.

A white-haired man rose to greet them. However, what first caught Mark’s attention was the pattern of tiles covering the floor. On Earth, it would have clearly been intended to simulate an immense spider web. He altered his strides to avoid stepping on the “threads.” There were no spiders on Anyar, but the symbolism raised the hairs on Mark’s forearms. He shifted his gaze to the dumon.

“Ah, thank you for coming, Ser Kaldwel. Please sit. We’ll eat, then talk.”

The greeting belied the stern visage, the cold eyes, and the manner and aura of a dangerous man. He didn’t appear prone to direct violence but was the kind of person who ordered others to do whatever he wanted.

The dumon was lean and his face narrow—in the manner of a blade. Mark had no doubt this was a man he couldn’t be too cautious in dealing with. Mark also had a flash comparison.

Well, fuck me if this guy wouldn’t have been perfect casting for either Tywin Lannister or Littlefinger from Game of Thrones.

Mark hardly noticed the meal. It was served by teenage boys dressed similarly to the one who had guided him to the guild hall. He sipped slowly on the dry, wine-like drink to stay as alert as possible. They ate while engaging in chit-chat on the weather, Mark’s impressions of Brawsea, and the sales of his two novel products. Only when they reached the latter topic, as the meal was finishing, did they move into the purpose of the meeting.

“I understand the sales of your ‘safety pins’ are quite impressive. The market manager ruled that they do not fall under either the jeweler’s guild or any other established guild. Of course, the Council of Guilds could always overrule that opinion, but I don’t think that’s necessary or desirable. There are precedents for establishing new guilds for novel products or significant-enough changes in existing conditions. I’m sure with my recommendation the council would grant such a request.”

I think I’ve just been bribed, threatened, or both, thought Mark.

He also took a moment to consider the implications for future pin sales. It never hurt to have influential contacts. The dumon was effectively offering to support Mark and his partners with a monopoly on sales of safety pins. The price would naturally come down as the market grew saturated and the novelty wore off, but it could be a steady income for all three of them. Even better would be if it eventually included all of Frangel.

“Your support and advice would be greatly appreciated,” said Mark, who pressed further on the leaf springs. “It’s unfortunate that the market manager ruled against us on the springs to make wagons ride smoother.”

“Ah, well, that’s a different situation. The Wagon Guild is quite conservative and protective of its prerogatives. You must recognize that your ‘springs’ are directly applicable to wagon building and modification. Now, if you had gone straight to the Guild Council and filed a request for your springs to formally be submitted to the Wagon Guild as a modification of the existing trade, then the guild might have either granted you a fee for your innovation or given you membership in the guild. As it is, that might still be possible, but even with my support the chances are not good—though not zero.”

Mark took the dumon’s words to mean the Cloth Guild might be willing to at least try to pull strings for springs. He suppressed a smile at the rhyme.

The dumon also smiled, but his expression did not reach his eyes. “Though I suspect you will still garner enough sales in Kaledon, where you made agreements with the Wagon Guild chapter there. Then there’re the other parts of Frangel where the Wagon Guild is not strong.”

How the hell does he know about our sales in Kaledon? Mark wondered.

“Of course, these topics are only of marginal interest to the Cloth Guild. Not so are rumors we hear of you and your partners asking questions about possible markets for cloth at a much lower price than exists now. You must appreciate that the Cloth Guild would react vigorously to any attempt to undermine the existing cloth market in Brawsea or elsewhere in Frangel. Such an ingression on our guild’s rights would impact relations with other guilds and the rulers of Frangel, including the royal court.”

Well . . . no doubt about that one, Mark thought. It’s definitely a threat.

Mark’s instinct was to tell the dumon asshole to go fuck himself. Fortunately, he had left his instincts back at the inn and had instead taken along common sense for the meeting.

“Oh, that was just speculation, Dumon. We’re new to markets in Brawsea, as you can tell from our error in trying to sell the new springs. Sometimes we let our enthusiasm run well ahead of what’s possible. We certainly wouldn’t want to impinge on the Cloth Guild’s rights.”

“That’s good to hear, Ser Kaldwel. I suspected it was such, even though I did ask some of the more experienced guild members whether cloth could be made for half the price currently charged—I believe that was the ‘hypothetical’ number the rumors had you mentioning. Our members assured me such a price would be selling at a significant loss and that no weaver alive could produce cloth fast enough. Nevertheless, I’m reassured by you.”

Mark didn’t believe for a second the dumon was satisfied. Even in his previous existence on Earth, he’d never felt intimidated by anyone, but the lean man with the sharp-edged features rang warning bells he didn’t know he had.

“Well, Dumon, thank you for the meal and the useful discussion. I will be talking with my partners about the possibility of forming a new guild here in Brawsea. I hope I can call on you again if we decide to pursue that option. Advice from you would be greatly appreciated, and we would be in your debt.”

The dumon casually waved a hand. “It’s always good to consider new blood, even in established societies such as ours in Brawsea. You clearly are a man with interesting ideas, and I look forward to our interactions being advantageous for all of us.”

Mark and Klinster exchanged more pleasantries. Then the same boy who had guided Mark to the guild hall escorted him back to the rented space where Ulwyn and Wiflow were busy selling pins—mainly to mothers carrying babes.

“How did it go?” asked Ulwyn.

Mark rolled his eyes. “Tell you later.”

Mark waited until they’d packed the unsold pins in the wagon to return to their inn. When the last customer was out of hearing, he motioned the two men closer until their heads almost touched.

“What a snake!” Mark whispered.

Ulwyn and Wiflow responded with blank looks.

Oh, shit. No snakes here. I guess the analog would be the damn stirkin that poisoned me.

“Sorry. Just saying Dumon Klinster might as well be a giant stirkin—pretty colors, but ready to strike with that poisonous stinger.”

Both men grunted.

“Well, exactly what did he say?” asked Wiflow.

“It wasn’t just what he said, which was clear enough. There’ll be no selling cloth in Brawsea to undercut existing prices. He sweetened things by offering to help us establish a safety pin guild here, but I can’t judge whether he was serious. Even if he was, the three of us know that once the concept of the safety pin is out, they’re too easy to make to completely restrict production, even if we could have our own guild. Plus, once the novelty is gone and most people who will use the pins have all they need, the market will shrink.

“No, it wasn’t so much his words as my impression that he’s one nasty character. It’s best if we keep far away from him. Any lingering thoughts we have about selling cloth in Brawsea, we can forget. It’s Kaledon and Tregallon for us. I wouldn’t mind if we were even farther away. I want to get far from the Brawsea guilds.”

“What about trying to work a deal with them, like you did for the springs with the Kaledon blacksmithing guild?” asked Wiflow.

Mark spit to one side. “Not going to happen. I wouldn’t trust this Dumon Klinster for one second. It’s better to just get as far away from him as possible.”

***

Mark wasn’t the only participant perturbed by the lunch meeting. Dumon Klinster intently watched Mark walk away. The man’s size and ease of movement spoke of tremendous physical strength, but it was what the man said and didn’t say, along with the dumon’s cunning and intuition, that were more important.

Klinster scowled at dumonotes Rynlow and Lurmon, who stood and waited for their leader’s evaluation of the stranger.

“I don’t like it,” said Klinster, his mouth pursed and brow furrowed. “I can tell when a man’s lying, and this Kaldwel fellow was doing exactly that. He tried to claim he and his companions had exaggerated their ability to provide cloth at such low prices. As unlikely as it seems, I believe we need to take this threat seriously.”

“And there’s the two new products they’ve brought to Brawsea,” said Rynlow. “I might have believed his claim of exaggeration was plausible if it weren’t for the safety pins and wagon springs. Both are innovative new ideas. It makes it unlikely their third product, the cheaper cloth, has no foundation.”

Klinster slapped the top of the desk with his right hand. “No, we have to assume there may be something to this. Rynlow, here’s what I want you to do . . . ”

***

By the third market day, the baker tripled the price for them to use his stall. Ulwyn was outraged, but Wiflow agreed with Mark that they were near the end of both time and stock.

“The effort to find another stall in the market isn’t worth it,” said Mark, “and that’s assuming we could find a spot that didn’t want the same coin as the baker, or more. That’s it for me. You two can stay to finish selling the rest, but I have to get back to Tregallon.”

“Ulwyn and I have talked, and we’ll be going with you. I found a clothing dealer with one of the largest stalls in the market. He’ll take all the remaining pins for one copper/silver for every three pins. That’s only one-third what we’ve charged, but it keeps us from hauling them back to Tregallon or staying here any longer. Plus, we can see the demand declining, so the clothier can sell the rest over whatever time it takes.”

After the market closed, they began packing and preparing for the return to Tregallon. They had sold four-fifths of the pins they had brought to Brawsea.

The next day, they left Brawsea, the wagons two-thirds empty but carrying bolts of cloth Ulwyn had bought, along with other trade goods the elderly trader had purchased. The light load meant they could push the horses harder. Mark was becoming noticeably more irritable in his urgency to begin the next step.

The shorter time for the return trip was not without excitement, verging on trepidation. They lost one of the wagons while crossing a stream swollen by torrential rains that lasted three days. Fortunately, the wagon was nearly empty, which may have contributed to its floating away.

Two days later, a village warned of robberies in the area—leading the party to cluster the wagons each night and have a third of the men on guard duty at a time. They relaxed only after passing several more villages and a modest-size town whose citizens were unaware of a band of robbers.

However, Mark’s most serious problem was that for the first sixday after leaving Brawsea, he had the itch they were being followed. Twice, he had the party stop for several hours after they passed through constricted terrain where there were no alternate routes. While the others waited, he backtracked to watch the road toward Brawsea. Neither time did he see anyone who could plausibly be following them, but the itch didn’t go away.

CHAPTER 14

ELATION’S DARK SHADOW

Tregallon

Dayna Firman shook her head so hard, her braided straw-colored hair bounced past both shoulders.

“I don’t know, Mark,” she said, after hearing his proposal to expand Tregallon’s cloth production. The caravan had reached Tregallon near dusk the previous day, and Mark was at the weaving facility when the Firman couple arrived the next morning: Dayna, the head weaver, and her husband, Holt, as the overall manager. Initially, Mark had hired the husband with his serious demeanor as a necessary sop to Frangelese customs; a wife couldn’t have a more prestigious position or make more coin than her husband. Fortuitously, Holt was more than competent and was a perfect fit for coordinating workers. However, Dayna was a marvel. Her skill at weaving far surpassed the other weavers’, and she was sharp—having made several critical suggestions on improving productivity and loom design.

“We’ve hired almost everyone who I believe is both competent and available for spinning and weaving. Everyone has worked hard while you were gone, and I believe most workers are nearing their best output. To approach the ability of the workers we have now, we’d have to hire not just more people but less productive weavers or people without much experience who would only become better with training over many months.”

“And that’s ignoring the fiber problem,” said Holt. “We’d have to start using lesser-quality flurox plants, which means more workers to process the fibers.”

“You’re not telling me it can’t be done,” said Mark, impatience laden on his words, “only that it won’t be easy. Time is short. The Harrasedic trader will only be available to come in about three months. Since I have to send him word that the promised number of bolts is available, I’ll need to relay a message in two months to be safe.”

Dayna Firman rolled her eyes, and Holt shook his head before opening his mouth to protest—stopped by Mark’s palm-out, fingers-splayed gesture.

“I told him two hundred bolts. You say there are thirty new bolts already finished. Of the sample twenty we took to Brawsea, we left five with Nigulas and returned with fifteen. That means a hundred and fifty-five more are needed. If we end a little short, that shouldn’t make a difference, but to impress him I’d like to be as close to two hundred as possible.”

Dayna was obviously still dubious, but Holt became pensive.

“Well, I suppose it’s possible, but we need to face facts. More spinning and weaving means more machines. Then there’s training of new workers. We don’t know how productive more workers and machines are going to be by the time you have to send your message. Then it would depend on when the Harrasedic ship arrives.”

Mark smiled, relieved. He had them going from “it’s impossible” to “with lots of work and under some assumptions.”

“We should also talk with Mayor Bynum,” said Dayna. “We may need to bring in workers from other towns and villages. He’ll need to know what’s happening, and he may have ideas.”

Mark had met what passed for the town’s leader several times and had gotten a good impression. Bynum had been the “mayor” for twenty years, and although the position was not hereditary, Bynum had taken over after his father’s death had left the position vacant.

“Good idea, I’ll go right away to see him after we finish here,” said Mark. “Then I’ll find Kornel about making more spinners and looms. We’ll add them as we get new workers.”

Mark waited until another eighty bolts were produced after their return from Brawsea before he sent duplicate letters to the Harrasedic trader, Nigulas, in Brawsea. One letter went by the Frangel version of the post office—meaning sporadic pickup and delivery, with items too commonly lost or damaged in transit. The second letter was delivered by a young Tregallon man hankering to see a big city. Mark paid him a small gold upon leaving, with the promise of three more when he returned with a letter from Nigulas.

Both letters were delivered to the correct recipient, as reported in the return message.

Ser Kaldwel,

I received both of your letters and am pleased to learn you will have the agreed-on number of bolts ready for delivery. I plan to leave Brawsea on the first Godsday of next month, the Frangelese month of Hemulton. Assuming good weather, we should be at the cove you described a few days later. We will anchor and wait if you are not there. Be warned the captain will only delay no more than two days. I suggest you arrive early to be sure we connect.

Respectfully,

Juko Nigulas, Factor, House of Vanyo, Free City of Hapsula

“I doubt we’ll achieve the two hundred bolts you promised the Harrasedic,” said Dayna, when Mark shared Nigulas’s letter. “That only gives us four sixdays before you need to leave to meet the ship.”

“But it should be close,” said Mark. “We have one hundred and forty-two. If we can come close to one hundred and ninety, I don’t think Nigulas will balk at the sale.”

The next twenty-four days were long work hours for the entire staff, including Mark. He went from one group to another, constantly checking progress and urging people to work harder. When he left Tregallon, it was with two wagons, two drivers, one guard in addition to Mark, and 184 bolts of flurox cloth, each bolt one of three solid colors or undyed. Dayna had begun experimenting with weaving their first multicolored cloth, but Mark estimated it would be many months before they tried production of anything other than plain cloth. He figured once the Harrasedics purchased an entire shipload of the plain cloth, there would be time and coin to further expand and diversify.

They arrived at Derwun Bay early to be sure they didn’t miss the Vanyo ship. The four men camped within a grove of trees similar to live oaks and a hundred yards from the shore not far from where Mark first awoke on Anyar. There, they waited. Mark’s niggling worry that they might have missed the ship threatened to transform into full-bore catastrophizing by the evening of the third day. He slept fitfully that night and was standing on the beach when the sun rose the next morning. He didn’t count how many times he walked the breadth of the beach, only that by the time the tide changed, his footprints covered the sand. A wave washed halfway up the beach when he first saw sails.

He sighed in relief only when convinced he recognized the same purple-and-gold flag on the ship that had been displayed in front of the Vanyo building in Brawsea. An hour later, the ship dropped anchor two hundred yards offshore. Mark recognized the man waving as Nigulas.

The Harrasedic stepped out of a longboat manned by eight men. “We were delayed two days. I’m not sure what the reason was, but port officials insisted on searching the ship for something they never explained. Just one of those things that occasionally happens in foreign ports.”

The Harrasedic looked around. “So, where are the bolts?”

“Just off the beach.”

“All right, let me look at them. If they’re as good as the ones you showed me in Brawsea, then we have a deal. I’ll pay you while the crew starts transferring the bolts. The captain has an instinct that a storm is brewing, and he wants to be as far north as we can get today.”

They wound along a game trail from the beach to the campsite. Nigulas took an hour to give at least a cursory inspection of every bolt. The Harrasedic didn’t say anything about numbers but ended by matching Dayna’s count of 184.

“Close enough, as promised,” confirmed Nigulas, after examining the last bolt, “and I’ll pay the agreed-on price per bolt. I left the coin on the ship, but if we can load the longboat with the first batch, I’ll return with the payment.”

Mark would have preferred to be paid before any bolts were taken away, but he didn’t want to make an issue of it—hoping that the Harrasedic wouldn’t just sail away.

“That’s fine, and while your men are loading, shall we talk about our future relationship?”

“In a moment,” said Nigulas, who called out in Suvalu to the crewmen who had followed them from the beach. “Start loading bolts. Careful with them, and wrap five at a time in the heavy cloths we brought.”

The Harrasedic turned back to Mark. “The cloths are water-resistant—enough to get them on the ship in good shape and then be stored in the special hold with Brawsea cloth.

“Now . . . the future? I can’t commit the House of Vanyo since I’m not senior enough, but I’d be shocked if our leaders didn’t want to develop a long-term association with you. Of course, they’ll want to know how you can produce cloth at such lower prices than we pay in Brawsea. I’ve seen the weaving works there, and I don’t know how they could double production with same number of workers. The obvious suspicion is that you’ve improved the weaving speed.”

Nigulas held up a hand before Mark could reply.

“No, I don’t expect you to tell me how you do it, but don’t be surprised if you can’t keep it a secret very long. I expect our leaders will try to find out, not to mention people and groups here in Frangel. I can imagine how the Brawsea guilds will panic when word gets out that we’re buying Frangel cloth from elsewhere on Drilmar and at a fraction of the usual price.”

“Well,” said Mark, “if it works out, by the time the guilds know what’s happening we will have production high enough that our trading relationship with the House of Vanyo will be well established.”

Nigulas shrugged. “Time will tell, and only a Master of the Universe might know, but I’m optimistic about how Vanyo will respond. One question sure to be asked at our main hall is whether you can supply cloth in other than the plain colors we’re taking back to Hapsula. These are fine, but there are better profit margins in patterned cloth.”

“We’re just starting to produce multicolored cloth,” Mark assured him, not mentioning that these were only Dayna’s first experiments. “It’ll take some time to increase production.”

“My advice would be not to copy the Brawsea patterns. While they are recognized throughout eastern Melosia, it would be to your and our advantage to have novel designs. That way, the House of Vanyo can market something new, and you can possibly avoid exacerbating relations with the Brawsea guilds more than they already will be.”

Mark snorted, dismissively. “Well, I’m not worried about the guilds. They’re a long way from Tregallon and even farther from Kaledon. We worked out an agreement with the Kaledon wagon guild for another product. I don’t know about the Kaledon textile guilds, but I’m sure we can make some arrangement with them. Otherwise, we’ll simply expand production near Tregallon and maybe some of the smaller cities and large towns.”

“Don’t dismiss too lightly the reach of the Brawsea guilds or those in Kaledon,” said Nigulas. “I’m not as familiar with those in Kaledon as I am in Brawsea, but, as I said, I’d keep an eye out for possible trouble.”

A seaman interrupted their conversation. “Factor Nigulas, we’re ready to row back to the ship. Are you staying until we return for the rest or coming back with us?”

“I’ll come with you. I have something to retrieve from my cabin.”

The seaman called to the other men to launch the longboat.

“I’ll be back,” said Nigulas and joined the others.

Mark watched them row, unable to tamp down worry the trader wouldn’t return. He relaxed only when he saw Nigulas climb back down into one of two boats that returned this trip. Ten minutes later, Mark was handed a leather sack while the ship’s crew began wrapping and loading the remainder of the bolts into the longboats.

“Here it is,” said Nigulas. “As we agreed. Count it if you wish.”

Mark loosened the draw-string and peered quickly inside. “No need. By the weight, it must be about right, and I wouldn’t expect a short-fall on this, our first transaction.”

Nigulas offered a right hand, and Mark clasped it, saying, “Here’s to a long and profitable future for both of us.”

“If you have a God or Gods, may they make it so,” said Nigulas. “I probably won’t be able to send a message back to here from Hapsula once my house has made any decisions, but I’ll get a message to you as soon as I return to Drilmar—which will be in five to six months. I assume you will not be returning to Brawsea since you imply Kaledon will be your main location. I also hope you work out arrangements with the guilds there. It will make it easier if we use a major port. Also, is there someone in Kaledon I could send a message to, in case you’re not in Tregallon when I return?”

“There’s a craftsman named Argah, but I don’t know his complete name or exactly where his home and shop are. However, as soon as I have the address in Kaledon, I’ll send a message to your Brawsea house.”

“Good enough. One way or another, we’ll make contact. If all goes well for both of us, I look forward to buying all the bolts you can produce by the time I return.”

The Harrasedic turned toward the last longboat, now ready to be pushed off the beach.

“One question, Ser Nigulas. You think your house will be interested, but what if your leaders don’t agree with you?”

“Oh, I doubt that will happen, but if it does, then I’ll make other arrangements. The House of Vanyo is cautious, but it also doesn’t discourage members from pursuing options the leadership declines to be involved with. If Vanyo is not interested, I can talk with other houses or even put together an independent consortium of investors. Every instinct tells me this is an opportunity I can’t let escape, so you can expect to see me back here in five or six months with even larger sacks of coin.”

Mark stood on the sand for most of an hour while Nigulas boarded his ship. It then raised anchor, unfurled its sails, left the bay, and disappeared at the horizon. However, his mind was on bolts, hiring more workers, ordering more machines, and what he would do with the profits of a dynamic textile industry.

“Is that sack at your feet what I think it is?” asked Ulwyn, who had come from the encampment.

“Yeah. A lot of small gold coins.”

“Hand it to me. I know most of it will go to expanding cloth production, but I love just feeling the weight and knowing it’s ours, if only for a short time.”

Mark laughed, his elation unhidden. “This is just the first sale. We’ll have plenty of chances to hold sacks of coin. But with what Nigulas paid, I can ramp of production. By God, I think this is going to actually work as well or better than I’d hoped.”

Two sixdays later, Mark was once again leaving for Kaledon, this time accompanied only by Holt Firman. Mark wanted Dayna to come, too, but both Firmans held fast to their decision that she needed to stay with their two young children. Mark tried to argue, then surrendered when Holt said that his wife had just learned she was pregnant again.

Mark had considered adding two men as guards because he was carrying a moderate fraction of the profits from both of his first introductions. Finally, he decided that two men dressing down to peasant level would be less noticeable. Still, both men carried arms in plain sight, and more firearms were concealed on their mounts and the two packhorses.

By not using wagons, they were able to push the horses and arrived in Kaledon after a single sixday. The blacksmith, Stillum, was their first stop, and he quartered them and their horses in his house and stable the first night.

“Everything is going well here, Ser Kaldwel,” said Stillum. “Spring sales were strong and then sagged, as we predicted. Almost all the major blacksmiths are making them, and any wagon maker who doesn’t include them in new wagons is losing most of his customers. Sorry about Brawsea not working out for the springs, but I’m thinking by the time we make enough springs for most wagons in this part of Frangel, we might begin exporting to Novaryn.”

The next morning, Mark and Holt went to Argah and got a similar sales report.

“We’re still selling pins at a good rate, though sales are slowing, as more tradesmen start making them. Your idea about calling ours the ‘original Tregallon pins’ is helping, but even so, I’ve had to lower the price. It’s clear we’ve made most of the big profits, but it’ll continue as a low-level income stream into the future.

“However, I can’t help you with your new idea. I know nothing about textiles. You’re on your own. You can wander around the city and check on shops, but it’d be easier to wait until the Kaledon market day. There will be scores of cloth and clothing stalls. You could talk to all of them the same day.”

“That’s three days from now,” Mark said. “We’ve really got nothing else to do until them. I don’t want to waste time. Holt and I will explore our options.”

“Well,” said Mark, as he and Holt left Argah’s shop, “I was hoping for a little more help. It means we need to find a Kaledon partner for our cloth—someone who can see the potential for his own sales and who can help us start planning for production facilities in Kaledon. If it takes making him a minor partner, it’d be worth it. I also want to get a sense of the textile guild situation here before contacting them directly. The shopkeepers might provide enough information to help us make a decision on that.”

Mark had resigned himself to seeking partnerships because it had worked well for pins and springs. He had already given the Firmans a small share in addition to their salaries. He figured their commitment and experience would be worth it. Now, he needed someone to be his primary Kaledon contact, even though he anticipated moving full time to the larger city.

He shook his head. “I confess I didn’t think very far ahead and assumed Argah would help. He’s right that market day would be the easiest way to get a general sense of who might work with us, but if we found someone promising, there wouldn’t be time for serious discussion. For now, we’ll wander around looking for cloth and clothing shops. What we’re after is someone who is interested in being a junior partner. If it’s like with the pins and springs, it’ll probably be a tradesman of a smaller shop who’s ambitious.”

“Why don’t we split up?” asked Holt. “We’ll cover twice as many shops. Naturally, I can’t make any decisions, but when we meet back tonight, I can tell you if I found any promising candidates.”

“Hmmm . . . yes, you’re right, but let’s meet at mid-day. That’ll give us a couple of hours to see how it’s going.” Mark turned to survey what they could see of the city’s skyline from the small hill where Argah’s shop was located. “See the big cathedral? Starting from here, we’ll go in opposite directions, circle around, and meet there at mid-day. If I remember from the last time I was in Kaledon, that’s the largest cathedral in the city, and it sits next to the main market plaza. We’ll meet, eat, and check with each other on results.”

They parted. Mark watched Holt’s back for a few moments while he reflected on his good fortune to have connected with the Firmans. Hiring the husband had almost been an afterthought because he had to satisfy local customs. Yet Holt might turn out to be the most valuable member of the couple. He might not have Dayna’s artistic flair or be as clever, but his organizational skill and willingness to take on responsibility were proving invaluable.

Mark turned and began scanning shop signs.

He would never again see Holt alive.

CHAPTER 15

HUNTED

Mark walked for an hour without seeing a clothing shop. Just as he began cursing with impatience, he looked down a perpendicular street to see tables of cloth and clothing in front of multiple shops. Smiling, he quickened his pace. With so many to choose from, he opted to start with the first one, only to be turned away. The owner had no interest once he realized Mark wasn’t a customer. The second shop’s workers had too many customers for Mark to wait. Approaching the third and fourth shops resulted in the same outcome as the first, but the fifth was more promising. A woman with graying hair was vociferously expressing her opinion of the ridiculous offer a potential customer had made for a cloak. Mark waited until they settled on the amount and the woman was free.

“Pardon, Sen, but is the shop owner here today? I have a potential business opportunity I’d like to discuss.”

She waved toward the nearest shop door without looking at Mark and moved to a couple who had stopped to look through a table of pants.

Inside, a teenage girl and a man about the woman’s age talked with customers. Mark wandered through the shop until the man was free and approached him.

“What can I help you with, Ser? We’ve a good selection of shirts just put out for sale. For today only, I’m willing to sell them for a fraction of the usual price. You won’t find a better selection for a man your size.”

“Actually, I’m not here to buy anything, but I’m planning to start a significant new business here in Kaledon, and I’m looking for tradesmen such as yourself who might be interested in providing advice and possibly forming a relationship with my new business.”

“New business? What kind of new business?”

“It’s cloth production. I plan on offering high-quality cloth at half the current prices. I’m sure a tradesman such as yourself can see the profit potential.”

“Cheaper cloth—”

The shop owner’s obsequious manner dissolved. He stepped away, as if to avoid being too close to Mark. His eyes narrowed, and the fingers of one hand drummed along his pants leg.

“What’s your name?”

“Mark Kaldwel,” slipped out of Mark’s mouth before caution prevailed.

The man swallowed hard, and his Adam’s apple bounced up and down. His fingers stopped drumming, and his expression turned blank.

“Well . . . I’m always looking for new opportunities, Ser. I’m a little too busy right now, but what if you come back at the next cathedral bell? Then we’ll have time to talk.”

The last hourly bell had rung about thirty minutes ago, but Mark wasn’t planning to wait near the shop. His internal alarms signaled something was “off.”

“That’ll be fine, I’ll wander over to the next shop and look at their clothing. But I won’t talk to the owner about this opportunity I’m offering until you and I can meet.”

He left the shop and walked past the woman in front dealing with a customer, her back to Mark. He hurried across the street and stood between two racks of clothing, hidden except for an inch-wide separation of hanging coats and dresses. It gave him a view of the shop he’d just come from.

As soon as he took his position, the owner came out of the shop and spoke animatedly to the woman, who shook her head. The owner yelled something into the shop, and the girl came out. After a brief exchange, the girl ran off. She passed within feet of Mark but didn’t notice him.

The owner walked to the front of the shop Mark had said he would visit, looked in briefly, then went back into this own shop. Mark moved six or seven shops farther along the street and did his best to imitate a large man browsing through clothing. He estimated that fifteen minutes later the girl returned, followed closely by five men. One of them was dressed like the market day manager. The other four looked like trouble and wore common Frangelese clothes.

The girl ran into the shop and came back out moments later with the owner and the woman following. The owner pointed to the shop Mark had said he would visit. The five men ran into the shop, only to exit seconds later to begin checking more shops. Mark ran down a narrow passageway to the next street, then quickly walked two blocks before he stopped to think.

What’s going on? he wondered. The man’s manner changed when he heard my name, then he sent for the authorities or whoever those men are. But the shop owner had only just met me, so how could he know of me?

Maybe his name might be known from either the safety pin or the leaf spring sales, but why would a clothing shop owner be alerted to watch for him? It was as if there were a widespread notice to be on the lookout.

Another thought jolted Mark. What about Holt? If the trigger was Mark’s name, Holt might mention it while talking to shopkeepers. He had to find Holt to warn him, but he wouldn’t know the man’s whereabouts until they met at mid-day.

Mark continued another five blocks until he came to a clothing cart in a small square. There was no apparent shop connected to the cart, so Mark gambled that whoever was interested in Mark Kaldwel might not alert every street cart. He couldn’t hide his size, but to alter his appearance, he bought a stocking cap, a coat of a different color and design, and a scarf. The temperature wasn’t cold enough to require more insulation, but neither was it so warm that added clothing would be immediately noticed.

Having obscured his appearance as much as he could on short notice, Mark went directly to the cathedral and the plaza. In one corner of the plaza, fifty to sixty men in shabby clothes sat huddled against a low masonry wall.

Kaledon’s version of the homeless? wondered Mark.

Taking a chance, he located a view of the plaza, squeezed into a gap among the men, arranged his attire to obscure his face, and waited. Two hours passed to the mid-day bells. No sign of Holt. Three times, he thought he either saw the same five men or other groups moving with a similar sense of purpose. Four hours. Finally, after five hours, he left the cluster of men, many of whom were sleeping.

Blacksmith Stillum’s place was two miles away, but Argah’s was on the way. By the time Mark approached the shop and the second-floor home, the sun had set an hour earlier. His progress had been slow. He didn’t know what was happening, but slinking in the shadows along narrow passageways and constantly checking for followers seemed prudent.

Mark peeked around the corner of an alley a block from Argah’s. On a bench in front of the shop sat someone who looked like Holt Firman. Mark couldn’t be sure because the only light was from the shop and dwelling windows. Suddenly, a carriage with two lanterns mounted beside the driver passed the shop. In the added illumination, Mark confirmed Holt’s clothing and physical shape.

Mark inhaled and exhaled more deeply than he had for hours. Holt was safe.

From the alley, his left leg began a stride into the street but froze before the foot touched down. The sitting man had sagged to one side, his head flopping forward. A voice yelled something Mark couldn’t make out. A second voice responded from a different location. A man ran out of the shadows and caught Holt just as he fell face forward. The man slammed Holt back against the shop’s outer wall. Holt’s head flopped one way, then the other, both beyond the normal possible range.

There was no doubt. Holt’s neck was broken. He was dead.

The air seemed to suddenly turn chill, as Mark tried to absorb what he didn’t understand. What was happening? Who were these people? Had Holt been murdered? Whatever was happening, Holt’s body was being used as a lure.

Maybe Argah can explain, thought Mark, grasping for footing.

This speculation was followed by fear that his collaborator was also dead.

Mark needed information. If Argah was alive, he was the best source. Mark had to get inside Argah’s dwelling, but how many men waited inside and outside? How were they armed? Mark carried only a knife, having left all the firearms at Stillum’s.

He needed to divert the attention of the men waiting in the street. But how? His mind proposed several schemes, some impossible and some ridiculous, before settling on one with a low risk, even if he was dubious of the approach. He went back down the alley to the next street, then several blocks farther, where illumination indicated nighttime activity.

He chose a seedy pub as his most likely recruiting ground. Among the patrons at a bar was a man standing alone. He was dressed in what looked like a uniform. Mark sidled up to him and ordered beer. Halfway down the stein, he asked the man, “I don’t recognize the clothes. Are you with the magistrate?”

“Hah! I wish. That way I could steal from the people, instead of wearing this silly garb as a toll-taker on the Urslow River Bridge.”

Mark took a chance. “How would you like to make a large silver?”

By Mark’s estimation, the coin equaled about $50. He’d considered a larger denomination but decided it would raise too many suspicions.

Startled, the man frowned. “A large silver? To do what?”

“I’m running away with a man’s wife. I don’t live here, and once we’re out of Kaledon, he’ll never find us. The problem is that he’s suspicious and has several men watching their house. I want them to leave watching the home long enough for me to go to her and the two of us disappear. I need someone to go running to the house and yell out that ‘Mark Kaldwel' has been seen among men staying at the Grand Plaza.”

“The homeless and drunkards?”

“Yes. If you would do this, just yell out that Mark Kaldwel was hiding among those men. If anyone questions you where you got the information, say you don’t know who it was, just someone who seemed important. That’s all you have to do.”

“And you’ll give me a large silver? It’d have to be up front. I wouldn’t want to do this and find you disappeared.”

“Of course.” Mark pulled out a large silver coin and laid it on the bar top.

“And that’s all I have to do? Just yell out what you said?”

“That’s all. What’s your name?”

“Hurkyl.”

“All right, Hurkyl. Show the coin and say a man you never met before offered it to you to run and give the message. Tell them he said he’d be waiting in front of the cathedral. When they leave, come back to where I’ll be waiting and watching, and I’ll give you a small gold coin.”

“A silver and a small gold? She must be quite a woman.”

“Who can tell why a man fancies a specific woman?”

Hurkyl accompanied Mark, and they made their way back toward Argah’s street. There, they stood in the shadows a block away.

“There it is,” said Mark, “the craft shop on the bottom floor with the drunkard sleeping in front. The man and wife live up the side stairs to the second floor. There’s at least one man inside and several hiding along the street.”

Mark took out a small gold coin and stuck it between two bricks in the wall they stood next to. “In case I’m not here, grab this other coin and go.”

Hurkyl gulped a deep breath and took off running. Half a block from Argah’s, he began yelling, “Hey, hey! People looking for Mark Kaldwel! He’s hiding at the Main Plaza!”

Hurkyl repeated the words three times before two men rushed from an alcove and threw him to the ground. Two other men appeared from across the street, and the door to Argah’s home opened. Light from inside briefly outlined a man, until he raced down the second-floor steps from the residence to join the other four who now held Hurkyl upright.

Mark couldn’t make out words, but the voices were loud. The man from the house shook Hurkyl by his shirt. Hurkyl said something, then pulled the silver coin from a pocket and pointed in the direction of the plaza.

More voices. Arguing. The man from the home grabbed another man’s arm and pushed him in the direction Hurkyl pointed. More voices, mainly a “command” tone from the man who seemed to be the leader, and the four outside men ran off toward the plaza while the leader went back inside. Mark stepped farther into the alley, as the four men passed his position without glancing to the side. Moments later, Hurkyl stumbled into the alley.

“What the devil did you get me involved in? That wasn’t a suspicious husband with his relatives. I’m lucky they believed what I said and didn’t kill me.”

Hurkyl swallowed and shivered. “And that man in front. I think he’s dead?”

Mark pulled the coin from the bricks and added another small gold, showing them to Hurkyl. “Did it sound like there were more men inside?”

“How do I know!? I was busy wondering whether I was about to be killed.” Hurkyl panted several times, then shook his head. “It didn’t sound like it.”

Mark handed the coins to Hurkyl.

“Disappear.”

Hurkyl complied.

Mark looked toward Argah’s. No matter what Hurkyl thought, there could be more than one man inside. One or more, how were they armed?

This is a bad idea, Mark thought, as he looked for a different way into the shop. A narrow passageway ran along the rear of the jewelry shop. He remembered another set of stairs inside the shop that led to the residence.

Mark reached the back of the shop and looked for a way in. He grunted in disgust when he found an old door closed off by timber sections. Then, in the dim light, he spied in the brickwork what must have been a small window. It had been closed by a different style of brick. Mark pulled out his knife and began digging at the mortar. After ten minutes, he was still working on the first brick. He felt anxious that the four men would fail to find their quarry at the plaza and would return to the shop.

With a push on the knife hilt, the blade point broke through, and the knife lurched forward several inches. When Mark pulled the knife out, the brick rotated enough that he could grab a corner. After several back-and-forth jerks, the brick came free. Mark dropped it on the pavement and listened. Nothing.

He could now reach his hand into the hole but worried he’d make enough noise to be heard. The cathedral bells began ringing the beginning of the new hour. Mark frantically tore at the bricks before the bells finished. In his adrenaline rush, it never occurred to him how astonished an observer might be on seeing a man ripping a brick wall apart by hand. Finally, before the last cathedral rang, the hole appeared large enough.

He worked to pull himself through the opening, using contortions of arms, shoulders, and hips. Halfway through, he momentarily became stuck. Then his hips cleared the opening, and he fell face-first onto a dusty floor. He waited a minute to listen. His dark-adjusted eyes made out a storage room. By chance, he had landed between boxes filled with scrap metal.

He rose and moved cautiously through a hanging-bead curtain into Argah’s main workroom. His only weapon was his knife, now missing its tip. He needed something more and opened wooden shelving that held two-inch-diameter brass bars, used as feedstock to make Argah’s products. He pulled out one of the four-foot bars and hefted the weight. He imagined hitting a human being with it. He’d never killed anyone, but after seeing Holt’s lifeless body, he wouldn’t hesitate.

He took off his boots and walked carefully across the heavy plank flooring, then up the stairs. He gently put his weight on each step to minimize creaks. At the top, he listened with an ear to the wooden door. He heard an angry man’s voice and a second person moaning. The door latch didn’t squeak as he lifted the handle. When he opened the door a finger-width, the voice was clearer.

“Where’s the rest of the coin?”

A cry followed the smacking sound of fist on flesh.

“I’ll beat this bitch to death unless you tell me where you’re hiding the rest. There has to be more. You’ll tell me before the others return.”

“Please! I’ve told you where everything is in house. There is nothing else.”

Another blow and a cry. It was Argah begging, so the moans must be from his wife. Mark hadn’t heard a second voice, and the assailant’s words supported that he was alone. Mark waited, barefoot, until the man began ranting again, then ran into the room.

The two older persons were bloody and tied to chairs. A man stood in front of the woman, his fist raised for another blow, when something—a creak of the floor, a rustle of Mark’s clothing, an instinct—caused the man to turn. Mark swung the bar only enough to stun, rather than crush the man’s skull as he wanted to. The bar struck his cheek and the side of his head. He dropped to the floor as if deflated.

“Oh, merciful God, Mark. Oh, God,” cried Argah. “I thought they killed you, too.”

Mark checked the downed man. He was breathing and semiconscious, a pistol and a knife in his belt—both of which Mark took away. He freed Argah and gave him the man’s knife to cut his wife’s bindings. Argah carried her to a sofa-like piece of furniture and gently laid her down. He ran for water and cloth while Mark secured the assailant to one of the same chairs his victims had been tied in.

“They came this afternoon. Five of them. They had your man Firman with him. They already knew his name and wanted him to tell them where you were. He said he didn’t know, but they beat him and beat him. They did terrible things to him—putting hot metal to his body, using one of my long needles to stab into his joints, and other things I didn’t watch. I closed my eyes, but his screams will haunt me the rest of my life.” Argah shook himself, as if to push the memories away.

“I think the man on the floor is their leader. He kept saying not to damage Firman’s face, in case they needed to use him as bait to draw you in. Then, about two hours ago, the leader decided Firman had told the truth, in which case they didn’t need him. Another man, they called him Roka or Rokan or something, twisted Firman’s neck.” Argah shuttered. “I could hear the bones break.”

“Who are they!?” asked Mark.

“They’re from Brawsea. I knew from their accents. I heard them talking among themselves. It sounded like they were from Brawsea guilds. At least, they kept talking about ‘guild this’ and ‘guild wants’ . . . I can’t remember everything, but they knew about you and your textile project. Several times they said the words Tregallon and looms.”

The jeweler stopped cleaning his wife’s face and turned to Mark. “They were going to kill us all. They didn’t try to hide it. After they killed you, they were going to do the same to us.”

“We all need to be gone before the others return,” said Mark. “They think I’m hiding among the men sleeping in the plaza. They could be on their way back right now. Can you and your wife move?”

“If you can help me get her to a friend not far from here, we can hide there until I think those men are gone. In the morning, I need to go to the central magistrate building. One of the other four men is a low-ranking member of Kaledon’s magistrates. I think they bribed him, but I know a few higher-ranking people whom I don’t believe sanctioned this. I’ll go to them.

“They searched the house and shop and found all the coin I had here. There was a sixth man, but he took the coin and left hours ago. He told the other men a ship waited for him at the harbor. Fortunately, I only kept part of our coin here. We’ll leave Kaledon, perhaps permanently. There’s still enough coin for us to live well and leave some to our children when we’re gone.”

“Let’s hurry,” said Mark. “Grab only items you cherish as irreplaceable, and let’s go. You get ready and find something warm for your wife. I’ll take this man into the shop and ask a few questions. Don’t take long. Figure on leaving in ten minutes.”

Mark didn’t wait for a response. He picked up the chair and carried the leader down the stairs, then set him against a wall next to a basin of dirty water. Taking a bucket, he dipped into the basin and threw water into the assailant’s face. The man sputtered and coughed.

Mark grabbed the man’s hair and slammed his head against the wall. “You’re going to answer a few questions if you want to live. Who sent you?”

The man’s eyes rolled. Mark repeated the dousing with water. “Who sent you?”

“Go to hell!”

There wasn’t time for lengthy interrogations, establishing rapport, or worrying about rights and ethics. Mark needed information NOW. Holt’s death, the torture, and the men’s intent to also kill Mark and both Argahs obviated any of Mark’s hesitation. He pulled out his knife and cut off the small finger on the man’s right hand.

The scream reverberated around the room. Mark didn’t worry about neighbors hearing anything. Even if they did, by the time anyone interrupted, Mark and the Argahs would be gone.

“Once more, who sent you?”

The man, now sobbing, looked blankly at the ceiling. Only when Mark again grabbed the man’s right hand and moved his knife to the next finger did the man stir.

“Wait, wait! I’ll tell you. Dumon Klinster. He said you would destroy the cloth guild and many others. Hundreds, if not thousands of people would be out of work if we didn’t stop you. That’s all I know.”

“And he said to kill me and who else?”

When no answer came immediately, Mark pressed the knife against the next finger’s base to draw blood.

“Yes, yes! Everyone you worked with. I just did as ordered! It was to protect the guilds and workers. There’s also a warrant for you on a charge of robbery and murder in Brawsea.”

“Murder? Who was I supposed to have murdered?”

“How would I know!? A guild dumonote was in charge and told us about the warrant. He said he would retrieve guild property you stole that was being used illegally in Tregallon. We were sent after you when we found you’d left for Kaledon.”

“Tregallon. What about Tregallon? What were you going to do there?”

“I don’t know what’s happening there. We rode from Brawsea. When we stopped near Tregallon, we were told you were going to Kaledon. Dumonote Rynlow gives the orders. We just do what we’re told. Some of us were ordered to follow you to Kaledon. That’s all I know.”

Klinster and Rynlow. The Cloth Guild. Goddamn motherfuckers!

“We’re about ready,” Argah called out.

“How many of you are there?” Mark asked, applying slightly more pressure on the knife.

“FIVE! That’s all. Just us five. The rest stayed in Tregallon.”

Mark felt sick. What were those men doing in Tregallon?

He couldn’t leave the prisoner to report what he might have heard. Mark’s blood raced hot. Any thoughts of pity were overridden by images of Holt’s body being manhandled to lure Mark to the shop, Argah’s description of how they’d tortured Dayna’s husband, and the brutal beatings of Argah and his wife.

In one swift movement, Mark pulled his knife away from the man’s hand and plunged the eight-inch blade to the hilt into the top of his skull. One hard spasm resulted . . . and then nothing, as the blade severed nerves all the way to the brain stem.

It took Mark several hard pulls, even with his strength, to loosen the blade and pull it out of the skull. He wiped the blade on the man’s clothing, cleaning off blood and flecks of brain tissue.

“Coming,” he yelled, resheathing the knife. He climbed up to the residence again, never looking back. When he reached the top, Argah was holding up his wife with one arm and dragging a large bag with the other. Mark scooped the semiconscious woman into his arms. They hurried down the outer stairs and into the night.

Twenty minutes later, Mark and Argah stood at the back door of a medicinal shop while friends cared for the wife.

“What will you do now, Mark?”

“I have to get back to Tregallon. The man said he was part of a larger group that was looking for me there. He and the others were sent after me when they found out I was traveling here. Whatever happened there is probably over, but I have to go as fast as I can. Our horses are with Stillum. He should be all right because the five men are accounted for—the leader here and the four I sent chasing me in the main plaza. Still, I need to alert Stillum. I assume the sixth man you saw has already left Kaledon. I’ll collect the horses and other gear and be off.”

“Do you have enough coin to get you there? I’m afraid I don’t have any with me after the men stole everything at home and in the shop. But I could ask my friend to loan me enough to get you home.”

“No need. I left most of what we brought with Stillum. We didn’t expect to need that much this trip while we were establishing relationships and accessing the possibilities, but most of my coin is in Tregallon.”

Mark grasped Argah’s hand. “You stay safe, and if I never see you again, have a good, long rest of your life. It’s unlikely I’ll come to Kaledon again, and certainly not Brawsea. I’ll see what’s waiting at Tregallon before I make more plans.”

Stillum was not as sanguine that the Kaledon magistrates were as secure a refuge as Argah thought. “Not if these men have important-enough patrons. Oh, no one in Kaledon likes how Brawsea tries to make itself so important, but remember, the capital of Frangel is there, along with the royal court. You never know how any of them will react or who is backing who.

“I have a nephew in the magistrates. He’s not high ranking, but enough to keep me safe until you’re out of Kaledon. I’m thankful I was not part of your cloth plans. I’ll help you get off, but it’s best for us if I don’t see you again.”

Mark understood Stillum’s position. However, on this night, all he could think of was getting back to Tregallon. Stillum prepared the horses while Mark packed and secured their gear—two leather bags of coin, firearms, extra clothes, and food that Stillum’s wife and oldest daughter threw together. He would leave Holt’s saddle and other riding equipment and take both riding horses and only one packhorse. Within the hour, Mark said cursory goodbyes to everyone. He galloped away on the road that paralleled the coast east-northeast of Kaledon.

He rode as hard as he could through the night. By chance, both of Anyar’s moons took turns providing enough light for him to travel on the road—first the smaller one, and then, as it set, the larger moon appeared above the horizon. By dawn, his arms ached from leading the extra riding and pack horses. At a farm, he changed saddles to Holt’s horse, took enough food and water to get him to Tregallon, and rode off again. He left the one horse and some of the gear behind, to the farmer’s good fortune.

By mid-morning, the road wove through a series of low hills and through forests of Anyar trees—no terrestrial trees in the last hours. Mark’s initial frantic urge to return to Tregallon as fast as possible had finally succumbed to reality: he wouldn’t get there at all if he pushed the horses beyond their physical capability. He paid more attention to his mounts’ laboring, and in late afternoon he traded the horses for others at a large ranch.

An hour later, he fell asleep and almost toppled from his horse. The urgency to return to Tregallon didn’t negate physiological reality—his body needed rest. The sun touched the western hilltops when he staked the horses near a patch of tall grass and a rivulet of water. He threw a blanket on the ground and fell asleep within seconds.

When he awoke, staring at the stars, his mind flashed back to waking up in the white room after the mid-air collision over Colorado. The image vanished, replaced by memories of Holt’s unnatural head flop and stabbing the men’s leader at Argah’s house. Brief, quickly suppressed images arose of what he might find in Tregallon.

He estimated he’d slept six hours. In the dark, he re-saddled one horse and secured his gear on the second. His eyes could make out the roadbed, so he started the horses off walking until the approaching sun gave enough light for them to trot and then gallop.

He remembered that farms and ranches became more frequent from this point on the way to Tregallon. Conserving his horses became less important. He pushed until the animals labored enough that he figured they were nearing their limit. Then he stopped at a good-size ranch with a dozen horses in a corral. The pattern continued. Every few hours he’d change horses. None were of the best quality, but he only required that they keep galloping until he found replacements.

Another night passed with no sleep. Mark’s mind and body could run on adrenaline only so long. He was a capable horseman, but muscles, tendons, and joints protested from being continually stressed, and his vision began to deceive him until he saw phantom shapes.

Night fell again. He had to rest. He staked the latest horses and lay on the ground six feet away.

After what seemed like only moments, he jerked upright and looked around. In the starlight he saw one horse look at him as if to say, “What, you can’t sleep? I’m keeping watch.”

Mark’s heart pounded. Had he slept at all? The stars looked different . . . he thought. Whatever had happened, he didn’t feel as exhausted as before. Getting off the ground proved he must have slept because every muscle and joint protested.

Stiffly, he re-saddled, mounted, and started off walking, then moved into a canter. Finally, after ten minutes or so, he broke into a gallop. Whether the road was better, he couldn’t remember. Maybe his eyes had gotten accustomed to the low light, but he pushed on without a moon for an hour. The first lightening of the sky told him he had slept longer than he’d thought.

He thanked God for farmers when his horse stumbled within sight of a corral holding five horses. Nearby, a farmer and two grown sons were hitching two other horses to a plow. But Mark didn’t thank God when exchanging horses involved his handing over a small gold coin—the equivalent of $250.

When he passed a rock-strewn valley he recognized, he knew he would make Tregallon before sundown. He pushed the horses mercilessly. At mid-day, he changed mounts again, this time at a ranch. He came away without a detailed memory of the exchange or how much he’d paid the rancher.

By the time he saw the edges of Tregallon, a stoic sense of doom had replaced mere fear. Whatever had happened in the town was well past. What awaited him?

He raced past houses and businesses without noticing them. He was too focused on getting to their weaving “factory.” As he approached the location where his visions of the future were being developed, he dropped the lead to the packhorse and unconsciously held his breath.

A pile of cold ashes and burnt timbers lay in place of his dreams. He sat on his horse, thinking his worst fears had been confirmed. He was wrong.

CHAPTER 16

ASHES

His urgency to return to Tregallon had seemed to stretch out the miles. Yet the miles traveled were also too few because Mark knew at the end he’d have to tell Dayna Firman that her husband was dead and his body had been left in Kaledon. Now those feelings receded, to be replaced by worse images that rose unbidden.

He hadn’t dismounted at the factory. Now he urged the exhausted horse into one more run, this time the mile from the factory to Ulwyn and Gwanel Hovey’s house.

“No, no, no,” he chanted softly in sync with his mount’s hoofbeats. They raced down streets with late-afternoon shadows and citizens scattering to avoid his horse. Mark noticed people calling out and arms pointing at him, but he only stored the images for later reflection. He focused on imagining the Hovey house as he’d left it—as if by concentrating hard enough, it would come to be.

From two blocks, three hundred yards, he knew his effort at willing reality had failed. The Hovey house wasn’t the first burned building he saw or the second. It might have been the third or the fourth. He didn’t know.

On one side of the street lay one burned structure after another. On the other side, only a single burned-out shell stood in the location of the leather goods shop. On both sides, men and a few women sorted through ashes. Men wearing leather gloves and scarves over their mouths loaded structure remnants onto a large wagon.

Mark stood in the middle of the street in front of the burned-out Hovey house. He had dismounted, not that he remembered doing so. The horse trembled in exhaustion, reins on the ground. Workers stopped to look at Mark. One called out. Others looked at each other, as if wanting someone to tell them what to do. Despite the burned ruins of so many structures, only traces of smoke odors remained. The fire had been set many days earlier, and later, heavy rains cleared the air and turned ash into mush.

Mark stared with no sense of time, until a hand grasped his elbow. Only when the hand shook his arm did he hear a voice.

“Mark. Mark. We thought you must be dead.”

He turned to the voice.

“Wiflow?”

“With no word from you since you left and with what happened here, we all assumed . . . ”

Mark didn’t answer, just continued looking at the ruins.

“Come. Let’s walk to my house.”

“Ulwyn and Gwanel?”

Wiflow didn’t answer immediately. Mark turned his head to look at the Tregallon jeweler.

“Gwanel is fine. She’s staying with friends. One of the children came to be with her.”

“Ulwyn?”

Wiflow shook his head sadly. “Dead, I’m afraid. It happened before anyone recognized what was going on.”

“What happened?”

“Let’s go to my place, and we can talk.”

“What happened!?” Mark shouted, drawing more attention from the few people not already staring at the two men.

Wiflow sighed.

“As far as we can tell, about fifteen to twenty men came into Tregallon at first light. They broke into the factory. Thank God, no one was at work yet. In another half hour, all the workers would have been there. Several people saw them putting spinners and looms on two wagons. Most of the machines might have been in pieces, maybe to make them easier to move . . . I don’t know. Then flames burst out of the windows and doors. The men must have splashed oil around before starting the fire. We’re fortunate more of Tregallon didn’t burn, too. At least, the factory wasn’t set against other buildings, so when it burned, it didn’t spread.

“Gwanel only remembers men bursting into their house just after they’d dressed for the day. They struck her unconscious. I suppose we can be thankful the men pulled her outside before starting the fire. We’ll never know what happened with Ulwyn, but we found his body after the fire burned out.”

“What about the men? Didn’t anyone try to stop them?”

“It happened so fast, and there were two groups of them. One here and one at the factory. By the time the town’s magistrates and a few men armed themselves, it was too late. A gun battle ensued. Townspeople killed two of the raiders and wounded two or three more. They left the dead and took the wounded, so there was no one to question.”

“I know who they were,” said Mark, his voice dead of emotion but laden with portent.

“Dayna was injured, too,” said Wiflow. “They beat her and scared the children badly, but she’s healing and waiting for Holt.” The jeweler glanced around. “Did he go straight home? It’ll be a shock for him to see his wife, but at least she’s all right, and their house wasn’t burned.”

“Holt’s dead,” answered Mark, his voice as dead as Holt.

“Merciful God! I’d assumed with you back that Holt was alright. Poor Dayna.”

“This is all my fault.”

“Your fault? How is this your fault, Mark?”

“I was warned. You and Ulwyn had reservations about the guilds, as did people in Kaledon. And Brawsea . . . it was all there in front of me. How powerful they were. How arrogant with their power and connections. Even Nigulas, the Harrasedic, warned me to be cautious.”

“The guilds? You think the Brawsea guilds did this?”

“I know they ordered it. Five men followed us to Kaledon. I killed one of them. He confessed the order came from Dumon Klinster, head of the Cloth Guild. They were supposed to kill us or maybe just me and Holt was incidental.”

Wiflow shook his head. “If it’s the Brawsea guilds, then there may be no recourse to justice. They’re simply too powerful, too rich, and with too many connections in the capital right up to the court.”

“Oh, there will be a bit of justice,” said Mark, “though not enough to make up for what’s happened.”

Wiflow didn’t know what the big, strange man was thinking. Whatever it was, he suspected he didn’t want to know. Yet however much he wished he could remain ignorant, he couldn’t help himself.

“What will you do?”

“Right now, I need to tell Dayna that her husband and the father of her children is dead. Where is she staying?”

“I’ll take you.”

Mark picked up the reins of his horse. They walked slowly past people staring silently, but he didn’t notice them.

“Here,” said Wiflow, when they came to a modest-size house on a low hill overlooking the main part of Tregallon.

A brown-haired woman answered the knock on the wooden door. She blanched when she saw Mark, put a hand to her throat, and stepped back. “Ser Kald—”

Mark recognized her as one of his weavers but couldn’t remember her name, only that she was one of the first trainees in the new method of weaving.

“I’m here to see Dayna.”

She glanced past Mark. “Is Holt . . . ”

Mark shook his head. His expression conveyed the tragic news. The woman put a hand over her mouth, stifling a groan before she gathered herself.

“I’ll get her.” She turned her head. “Dayna. Can you come here? There’s someone to see you.”

The young woman who walked into the room was nothing like the person Mark had seen before leaving for Kaledon. Healing bruises marred her face, her nose bent slightly to one side, and one arm hung in a sling. Her drawn face morphed into shock, her mouth gaped, and her free arm went to the base of her throat. Then a smile appeared. Her eyes lit momentarily, as if a lantern cover had been lifted, only to fade, as she took in Mark’s bedraggled appearance and somber demeanor.

They stared at each other for almost a minute.

“It’s Holt, isn’t it? He’s dead.”

Mark nodded. “I’m sorry, Dayna. There was nothing I could do.”

Tears appeared and flowed down her cheeks as her friend led her to a chair. Mark followed.

“I thought I’d already shed a life’s worth of tears. Enough to never have to cry again.”

Mark didn’t respond. His mind searched in vain for sufficient words of comfort. So he stood, waiting for what was next, whatever it might be.

“I’ll be outside,” said Wiflow. He then closed the door, leaving Mark with the two women.

Minutes passed. Dayna stared at the floor, tears slowing. Finally . . . “How did he die?”

“Some of the men who came to Tregallon followed us to Kaledon. One night, while we walked on a street, they attacked us. We killed several of them. Holt fought well, but one of the men shot him before the last of them ran away. He died instantly. He never felt any pain.”

Mark saw no reason to tell Dayna about her husband’s horrific death, how his lifeless body was meant to lure Mark, or how his body probably now lay in an unmarked grave or even a refuse pit. Bad enough that Holt had died. Why let her carry other images?

Thankfully, she asked only a few other questions.

“I’m tired,” said Dayna. “I need to lie down.”

The other woman helped her leave the room.

“She had to be told, Mark,” said Wiflow, when the two men again stood outside. “You were right to get it done quickly.”

“What about the other workers? Were any of them at the weaving factory or attacked at their homes?”

“No, the men only went to the factory and the Hovey and Firman homes. They knew exactly who they were after and where they lived. I’ve thought about that, and I believe someone in Tregallon directed them where to go. Someone with a grudge against you, me, or . . . oh, I don’t know. I suppose someone who they forced to tell them. We’ll probably never learn the truth.”

“And exactly when did all this happen?”

“Two days after you and Holt left. Dayna heard the men say others had been sent after the two of you to kill you. That’s why she’d assumed both you and Holt were dead.”

Two days! thought Mark. If only we’d waited!

His reaction quickly submitted to reality.

No, if I’d been here, I’d almost certainly be dead, too. Not with fifteen to twenty of them, plus the five who followed us to Kaledon.

Despite his rational second thoughts, he still wished he’d been there.

“Let’s get you to my house so you can clean up and rest. There’ll be time later to talk about what comes next.”

“Yes,” said Mark, “I need to rest, but there’s no question what I’m going to do. I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I’m going to kill Dumon Klinster.”

Wiflow froze, then turned to Mark and shook his head vigorously. “I know you’re shocked and angry, but think about this before you act. You’d probably be killed trying it, and to what end? Your dying won’t bring Holt or Ulwyn back, even if you succeed, which isn’t likely. And if you did manage to kill him, the guilds would come after you. You certainly couldn’t come back to Tregallon.”

“I can’t stay here anyway,” said Mark. “I learned from one of the Kaledon men that I’ve been charged with murder and robbery. From what you say about the men taking some of the spinners and looms with them, I’m guessing I’m supposed to have stolen the machines from the cloth and spinner guilds.”

Wiflow cursed. “Wouldn’t surprise me if they either keep the new machines hidden or eventually claim they’re guild inventions. We talked before about your innovations eliminating many jobs, but the leaders of the guilds might see the machines as a way to slowly reduce the number of workers needed. At the same time, it would increase their own profits, while preventing a worker backlash.

“But you’re right. You can’t stay here. I know revenge sounds sweet, but we need to accept that there may be no justice. My advice is to go south. The farther you get from northern Frangel, the better. Most of the population is here in the north. Not only are there fewer people in the south, but the north has less influence the farther south you go. Change your name and find someplace to live.

“You might need to leave Frangel entirely. Maybe Novaryn. Its customs and language are similar to Frangel’s. Madyrna is closer, but it might be harder for you to fit in—the Madyrnese can be hostile to outsiders, and the language is totally different.”

Mark didn’t speak the rest of the way to Wiflow’s house. The jeweler called a teenage boy to run ahead to alert his wife. When they arrived, she had prepared a bath and somewhere had procured a set of clothing that would fit Mark’s big frame. Afterward, he ate whatever she put in front of him and went straight to a bed made in the small bedroom.

When he awoke, mid-day light beamed through two windows. He’d slept seventeen hours. As he lay there, he had a few moments of lassitude before memories flooded back. He rose quickly, as if to shoo away thoughts. The house was empty, so Mark helped himself to bread and dry cheese, washed down with cool water from a jug. When finished, he walked to the remains of the Hovey house. No one was working on cleanup at the moment, so he took a shovel left nearby and went to the shell of the small stable. There, in a corner where a stall had been, and where he’d planned to clear away ashes and dig, he stood looking at an ash-layered hole in the ground—an empty hole where he and Ulwyn had hidden most of the remaining coin from pin and spring sales. He dropped the shovel and went back to Wiflow’s house, where he sat inside looking out a window at people passing on the street. An hour later, Wiflow arrived.

“Ah, you’re awake. You slept like a dead man. Uh . . . ”

Wiflow stopped speaking. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s all right,” said Mark quietly. “I’ve just been sitting here, thinking for at least an hour. I was right yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“All this is my fault. I was so sure I could introduce new products and ways of doing things that would make me rich. Yes . . . I admit I wanted wealth, but mainly I wanted the coin to do so much more. Things you can’t imagine. Things that would seem almost like magic. I saw my life laid out. So much to be accomplished. Steam power. A real steel industry. Alloys like no one here can imagine. Industrialization on a scale you wouldn’t believe. I would have been remembered as one of the great men of Anyar history.”

He cut off speaking and looked to Wiflow. “You don’t have any idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Not really, Mark. You’ve been through so much. I can see how your thinking might be confused.”

A humorless smile creased Mark’s otherwise granite face. “It doesn’t matter. I was stupid and self-centered. Never thinking for a moment that anything would stop me, as long as I pushed forward. After all, my grand ideas were so important, everyone would accede to their inevitability. And I pulled all of you along with me. Ulwyn and Holt, dead. Gwanel and Dayna, traumatized and losing their husbands. Argah, leaving Kaledon and possibly never returning.”

“Argah?”

Mark ignored the question. “I went to where Ulwyn and I hid the rest of the coin I hadn’t yet used for cloth production. It was gone. If I’ve guessed right, they made Ulwyn tell them where it was, probably by threatening or doing something to Gwanel.

“Everything is ashes. People’s lives, everything we built, the coin we made. And there’s no way to start over. Even if I thought it might be possible to stay here, who would work with me after this, even if I were willing to risk more lives?

“So, I’ll go. You don’t need to know where or what I intend. Forget what I said about Klinster. Best you insist you know nothing. You might believe you’re safe here and the town would stand by you, but you’ll all be better off without me here. There’s one thing I have to do, though.” Mark pulled a leather sack off the floor. “Here’s the rest of the coin I took to Kaledon to find new cloth partners and start building a larger cloth factory. I want you to give it to Dayna and Gwanel, a little more to Dayna because of the small children. I can’t replace their husbands, so it’s all I can do for them.”

Wiflow took the sack. It would provide a comfortable life for Holt’s family and the rest of Gwanel’s years.

“But you’ll need coin to live on, wherever you go. More important, though, give up the idea of revenge. You’ll only get killed, which will serve no purpose. Maybe God has some other destiny for you somewhere else.”

“If I ever believed in destiny, especially for myself, that’s gone. As for revenge, I’ll not say anything else. Forget I ever mentioned any such thing.”

Wiflow sighed. “Don’t think you’re the only one with great dreams, Mark. Mine may not have been on the scale of yours, but I’d come to believe in your destiny for things beyond my understanding. I won’t ask now, of all times, but I’d long ago come to doubt your story of how you washed ashore on Derwun Bay. You’re right. I won’t ask for details of your plans. I’ll do as you ask and give what’s in this sack to Dayna and Gwanel after you’re gone, but you can’t go coinless. Wait here.”

The jeweler walked out of the room. When he returned ten minutes later, he carried another leather sack, this one much smaller than Mark’s.

“There’s enough coin here to do whatever you need to do. I made more coin from the pins than I ever imagined possessing. I’ll be well taken care of, as will my wife and children after I’m gone . . . so take this as a gift from a friend. You can use some of it for a new horse, more clothing, and whatever else is necessary.”

Two days later, Mark rode out of Tregallon leading a packhorse. The only goodbyes were to Wiflow the previous evening when Mark asked the jeweler to apologize for him to everyone who knew him—whenever an appropriate time and occasion occurred.

He took with him several changes of clothes, coats for different types of weather, his and Holt’s muskets and pistols, and the sack of Wiflow’s coins, now only slightly diminished. His life in Tregallon was over. He rode down various streets to connect to the road to Brawsea. Several people spoke to him. He acknowledged them with nods but didn’t answer. It took him only ten minutes to leave the last part of the town and climb a low hill east of Tregallon. He never looked back.

For the third time in his life, he faced starting over. First, when he was born; second, when he awoke on the Derwun beach; and now, as he left Tregallon. The first time he had been a blank slate with no more plans than to sleep, eat, and shit. The second time, grandiose dreams had filled his thoughts. This time, there were no dreams, no long-term plans, only a thirst like he’d never felt before. A thirst that could be slacked only by revenge, which might assuage a modicum of his crushing guilt.

He took his time, so he could think, settle his emotions, and consider whether what he intended was rational, emotional, both, or if it made any difference. He didn’t worry about himself, only that being too rash would prevent him from extracting a measure of justice from this world.

He rode the same horse the entire distance, pacing the animal as much as himself. At first, he avoided villages and towns, but by the halfway point to Brawsea, he stopped at inns every second or third night.

When sleeping in the open, he sat or lay near a fire, looked into the flames and the coals, and thought. His assignment of blame didn’t change from when he’d first returned to Tregallon. Although other men had murdered, burned, and stolen, his own actions had led to what happened. His narrow, arrogant focus on himself and what he envisioned he would introduce had made him oblivious to the reaction of society, its members, and its leaders. If he had been more patient, over time he could have introduced innovations to change the planet. Maybe the results wouldn’t have been as substantial as he’d envisioned or the garlands covering him as great. His ego and lack of patience had clouded his mind.

By the time he approached Brawsea, he allowed himself to consider the future—assuming he had one. He could move to another realm on Anyar and begin again with the same goals, but this time school himself to proceed with more caution. Novaryn and Madyrna had the advantages and disadvantages mentioned by Wiflow, but both lay too close to Brawsea. That left Tekleum and Rumpas on the Drilmar continent, neither of which he knew anything about, but he hadn’t known anything about Frangel either.

Other realms? To get to Fuomon or the Harrasedic states and cities required crossing north over the Throat, the ocean separating Drilmar from Melosia, the largest continent. However, north led to the ongoing wars with the Narthani.

Maybe I could contact Nigulas, thought Mark. He might slip me out of Frangel if I convince him I can produce cheaper cloth. Even if it did mean starting over again with a strange people and language. I’ve done it once, so I can do it again, no matter how much I hate the idea.

Going through another rebirth was so unappealing, he pushed aside the possibility—at least, for now. At least, until he’d settled with Klinster.

At the moment, a second option was the most appealing—to ignore the future. He would fulfill his objective for coming to Brawsea. If he lived after that, he would have time to think about a future life.

When he reached the outskirts of Brawsea, he began to worry about being recognized. Not that he thought it likely, but accidentally coming into contact with someone he’d met or who remembered his description wasn’t impossible.

He thought he was being over-cautious, but he circled the city to enter from the east, the opposite direction from Tregallon. Among the facts he’d learned on the previous visit to Brawsea was that day-laborer camps lay on the city’s outskirts. Unlike in Kaledon, sleeping in public was not allowed in the main part of the capital. Wagons arrived at the camps before sunup and transported workers to designated sites where they could be hired for the day. Mark had too much gear to leave unattended in such camps, so five miles from the city center he stayed at a small, cheap inn and left his horses and possessions there, a twenty-minute walk from a work camp.

The next day, he wore a set of clothes deliberately chosen as typical of common laborers. He couldn’t hide his body frame, but he remembered that beardlessness was not uncommon in Brawsea, especially among foreigners. The beards he’d seen had come in different lengths, compared to Tregallon and other smaller communities where full beards were the most common. During his previous Brawsea visit, his beard had been full. Halfway from Tregallon to Brawsea, he’d shaved. Now, instead of a full beard, a half-inch stubble covered his cheeks and chin. At the first opportunity, he intended to buy shears so he could approximate a three to four days’ growth—simulating a laborer who preferred the shaved look but who shaved only every few days.

He also trimmed his hair and intended to use the shears the same as with the beard.

His last attempt at disguise was to change his mannerisms in moving. In his small room, he practiced taking smaller steps, hunching his shoulders slightly, and avoiding eye contact.

Whether he succeeded at his efforts to avoid being recognized would be confirmed by his remaining alive the next one or two sixdays.

CHAPTER 17

A COLD DARK FIRE

On Mark’s first visit to Brawsea and the meeting with Dumon Klinster, he hadn’t paid attention to details of either the Cloth Guild Hall structure or the surrounding neighborhood. Now he spent an entire day correcting this delinquency. The five-story hall stood two or more levels higher than nearby structures. It occupied a quarter of a block with alleys separating it from adjacent buildings on both sides and the rear. The outside was constructed from gray stone blocks with layers of a thinner, darker stone every six or so feet. He saw no windows on the first two floors, except for a second-floor veranda with awnings at one corner of the second floor. On the third, fourth, and fifth floors, square, multi-paned windows were set every ten feet, except for one corner of the top floor. It had windows one foot apart for twenty to twenty-five feet.

At the ornate main entrance off the street, a man in raiment that reminded Mark of a hotel doorman stood at the double doors. He greeted people who approached the door, asked something of them, and opened the door for them or turned them away. Mark assumed he asked about their business with the guild, though he couldn’t hear from the opposite side of the street. The man might also be armed; a noticeable side bulge in his cloak suggested a pistol. Mark’s quick walk down the alley behind the building located the only other entrance.

To avoid being seen hanging around the hall, he alternated observing from different distances, walking behind clusters of pedestrians and pretending to be a group member, and finally, in the afternoon, going to the roof of a three-story building two hundred yards away. There, he sat in the shadows with a view of the guild hall’s street entrance.

Satisfied he’d seen enough for the first day, he returned to the inn, this time walking the five miles. Famished, he ate at the inn’s combined dining area and small pub. He retired to his room to think about the guild hall and people’s goings and comings. From the degree of traffic in and out of the building, he estimated close to a hundred men and a few women worked inside. Another approximate hundred or more, mainly men, visited the building for anywhere from a few minutes to several hours every day.

He didn’t see Dumon Klinster or Dumonote Rynlow. They either had business elsewhere or had come to the hall before Mark arrived. The next day, Mark left his room two hours before sunrise, so he could observe early arrivals. He found a good position on the rooftop of a two-story building a hundred yards away and on the opposite side of the street from the hall.

When he took up position, he saw a different man at the door—this one armed with a musket. At the ring of a cathedral bell, the armed guard was replaced by the doorman Mark had seen the first day. The two men exchanged words, and the night guard walked away. Over the next few minutes, two similarly armed men exited—the only people leaving, as other men began arriving and going inside.

So, thought Mark, looks like three armed guards at night—one at the door and two inside. The big assumption is that they don’t keep armed men inside during the workday. Now . . . where’s Klinster and Rynlow?

Mark’s early arrival succeeded in letting him spot one of his quarries. It was light enough for Mark to see clearly when a carriage stopped, and a slender, red-haired man exited. Rynlow. The doorman opened the hall door and let the man pass without checking his business.

“Asshole number one,” said Mark, mumbling before he looked around to confirm he was alone on the roof. “Now where’s number two?”

More men arrived, but none appeared armed.

“The first three men must be guards or night watchmen or whatever they’re called here, but no one is obviously armed during the day.”

Hours passed. No Klinster.

“Well, is he somewhere else, did he come in the back, or does he work from home?”

Mark resisted the itch to start observing the rear entrance because he’d risk not seeing the dumon arrive in front. If he didn’t watch the front entrance an entire day, he could miss Klinster’s arrival.

Mark had brought food and water. He kept constant watch on the front entrance all day, except for twice urinating at the opposite side from his perch. Once, someone came onto the stairs to the roof. Mark ducked behind a set of chimneys for five minutes until the person left. While hiding, Mark used the time to first silently curse and then pray Klinster didn’t choose to arrive then.

He ended his surveillance when the dim light precluded his identifying anyone. By the time most of the guild staff had left for the evening, six commonly dressed men entered the hall.

I bet that’s the evening cleaning crew, thought Mark. I didn’t see such men leave in the morning, so they probably finish cleaning and leave earlier.

Satisfied he’d seen all he could this day, he caught a dayworkers’ wagon returning to near his inn, which saved him from walking the five miles for the second time that day.

While eating and finishing the one stein of beer he allowed himself, he decided he’d observe the rear entrance the next day. Three days later, it dawned on him that he kept missing Klinster because the dumon lived in the building, probably on the top floor with the different window arrangement.

The next day he returned to observing the front entrance. At mid-morning, Klinster, accompanied by three other men, exited the front door and got into a carriage. Two hours later, the four men returned.

“That’s it, then. The son of a bitch lives there.”

To confirm it, the next day Mark changed position to a three-story building directly opposite the guild hall’s top floor corner with the series of adjacent windows. What he hadn’t noticed before was a small balcony just large enough for one person. At mid-afternoon, a man opened a glass-paned door and stepped onto the balcony. Klinster.

“All right, motherfucker. I’ve got you spotted. Now how to get to you?”

Mark missed the last workers’ wagon by seconds. He saw it leave the pickup point when he was a block away. However, he had made the same walk enough times that the route back to the inn required only minimal attention while he plotted his next moves.

“I could burn the building down in the middle of the night. If I plan the fire correctly, Klinster won’t be able to escape. But what if there are others in the building?”

Mark’s anger at Klinster was as strong as ever, even if the blaze had cooled to a cold determination. However, his lack of moral qualms about killing Klinster and Rynlow didn’t extend to innocents. If possible, he wanted to enter the hall when only Klinster and the three guards were inside, which meant sometime in the hours before the working day began. That plan seemed like the best option because catching the dumon outside the hall might be a chancy proposition. The dumon seldom left the hall and, when he did, was always accompanied by two men who had the rough, alert look of bodyguards. Mark decided getting to Klinster had to happen in the hall at night. It would minimize the potential of killing innocents and would be better for him to flee in darkness after the confrontation—assuming he survived.

His surveillance pointed to three guards at night—one at the front and two inside. He didn’t count guards as a protected class of workers. The door guard carried a large key that he used to open the door when he allowed the occasional authorized early evening visitor inside. On the one evening Mark stayed to watch these after-work-hour visitors, they all left again before midnight. One of them was a well-dressed young woman who stayed two hours. Mark could guess her business with Klinster.

However, a serious issue complicated his planning—he didn’t know the layout of the building’s interior. His only experience was limited to the entry foyer and part of the second floor. He couldn’t walk in and ask for a map, so he needed another source of information. The solution was obvious.

The next day, he waited until early afternoon before riding his horse to the vicinity of the guild hall. On previous days when Mark watched the hall, Rynlow left by carriage within minutes of cathedral bells signaling the workday’s end. For an hour and a half, Mark rode and led his horse to public watering troughs, all the while staying within the first three blocks of Rynlow’s carriage route. He couldn’t keep constant surveillance on the hall, but when a carriage passed him that looked like Rynlow’s, he rode behind it to a posh neighborhood set along a river. The twilight worked in his favor because he could follow closer than in daylight. Just as he began to worry that he looked too out of place for the surroundings, the carriage pulled into the drive of an expansive house.

Mark stopped and dismounted at the edge of the property, about fifty yards from the house and partly screened by shrubbery. A lit lantern hanging next to the front door of the house let him identify Rynlow.

The following morning, Mark waited two blocks away from Rynlow’s house and along the route back to the hall. He’d noticed that on half the days, Rynlow arrived at the hall only about mid-morning. Mark suspected he knew why the dumonote was late those days.

On cue, Rynlow’s carriage passed Mark’s position before deviating from the normal route by turning east. Mark followed a hundred yards behind and mingled with local traffic, so he didn’t think he would be noticed even if the dumonote and his driver were checking.

The carriage pulled into the yard of a building with scores of workers lined up at a kiosk. It looked so similar to large factories Mark had seen in old newsreels and movies that he suspected it was a cloth-making facility. Rynlow’s carriage bypassed the main building to stop at a smaller structure attached in the rear.

Mark had seen all he could for now, so he left to find shops to purchase items he needed. Later, he found an open field two miles away, staked his horse, and took a nap on the ground, using the saddle as a pillow.

It was a moonless night when he returned hours later to the presumptive factory. After watching and listening for half an hour, he decided there were no guards or night watchmen. He tied his horse within a small grove of trees to the rear of the factory, climbed over a six-foot wooden fence, and crept to the attached windowless building with two large double doors. Heavy metal locks hung on the outside of both doors. He walked around the sides of the building and found an opening fifteen feet off the ground. At about the height of a basketball rim—ten feet—a beam with an eye hook fixed into the bottom of the distal end stuck out from the opening.

He had played basketball in high school, though football and wrestling were his main sports. What he lacked in jumping ability, he had made up for in aggressive defense and a decent shooting touch. What he had never done was dunk the ball or even come closer to the rim than six to eight inches. Still . . . that was “Earth Mark.” The new Mark was more toned and muscled than in his first life. From experience, he believed the AI’s claim that he would have more energy.

He backed off thirty feet, raced forward, and leaped as if going for a dunk. His right forearm hit the beam, so much higher than he’d expected that he almost lost his grip when gravity counteracted his leap. His left arm flew up, and his fingers clamped to the beam.

He hung in surprise for several seconds, then, with a heave, pulled himself up onto the beam and into the building’s opening. He was in a large room with a wooden plank flooring, bins of fiber of some kind, and boxes of something stacked along two walls. One moon and the stars gave enough light through the opening for him to find a ladder going to the ground floor. He listened. No sounds.

Careful in footing and grip, he descended the ladder to where there was even less light. His dark-adjusted eyes let him suspect he was in a work area. He stood for several minutes, waiting for his eyes to further adjust as much as they could. Gradually, he began to detect shapes that might be machinery, a suspicion confirmed when he stumbled into a wooden frame he identified by feel—a traditional Frangel loom. He walked while using his hands to find more looms until he came to something different. It took him only seconds to recognize a speed loom from Tregallon.

“Son of a bitch,” he mumbled. “They might not want me to speed up cloth making, but I bet they plan on getting filthy rich themselves on my looms and spinners.”

His instinct was to set the building on fire to destroy his machines—if he couldn’t use them, why let the guild? He stood in place several minutes, warring with his options.

“I can’t,” he yelled. “If Klinster is killed and the Tregallon machines burned, it’ll be like posting a notice ‘Mark Kaldwel was here, you assholes!’”

Klinster must have enemies. If Mark had a chance to cast blame on other potential assailants, it would be foolish for him to draw suspicion to himself.

He froze and listened. Had anyone heard his outburst? Nothing after two minutes. He laughed.

“Okay, so I can’t set a fire,” he said, softly this time. “But hey, the spinning and better looms will be out there, even if I don’t get the credit. Maybe it serves me right. What I do know is that neither Rynlow or Klinster will benefit.”

Three evenings later, Mark lurked in bushes near the front door of Rynlow’s house. The innkeeper’s one-horse cart he’d rented for the day waited, tied within a grove of trees. On cue, the same carriage came up the drive and stopped at the house. Rynlow exited and said something to the driver, who then drove off. The dumonote went to the front door. Up to this point, everything had been routine until Rynlow pulled out a key to unlock the door.

From twenty feet away, Mark burst out of the shrubbery. The dumonote reacted too late. Mark slammed him against the house’s masonry wall, stunning Rynlow.

Before he could recover, Mark stuffed a cloth ball into the dumonote’s mouth and secured it with a gag tied behind his head. Rynlow struggled futilely, as Mark tied his hands behind him and his feet together.

Standing to look at his handiwork, Mark surveyed the area for witnesses. The night was quiet. No one was in sight.

Rynlow fought against the bindings, and Mark realized someone might hear the muffled sounds. He pulled the body upright to put his mouth next to Rynlow’s, a knife at the dumonote’s throat.

“You feel this blade?” Mark whispered. “I can easily cut your throat. You’ll bleed out right here for someone to find you. Shut up and you might live.”

Mark had no qualms in lying, at least to this man.

Three hours later, in the deep basement of an abandoned building a mile from Mark’s inn and farther away from the center of Brawsea, Mark stood over the bound body of Dumonote Rynlow. Once heir apparent to be the next Cloth Guild Dumon, he was now a lifeless lump. At first, the man had resisted giving information, and Mark wondered whether he would ever come to grips with what he’d done to break another human. He feebly consoled himself that it was nothing compared to what Rynlow’s men had done to Holt Firman. In the end, Mark gave the sobbing man water, wiped his face with a wet cloth, told him he would be released, and then shot him in the back of the head when he wasn’t expecting it. It was the closest to mercy Mark could manage.

However, Mark now possessed a description of the Cloth Guild hall structure, including the layout of the dumon’s residence, the number and placement of guards, and the cleaning workers’ night schedule.

His next action was to permanently disappear Rynlow’s body. In planning for this night, Mark had lacked a quick solution until he saw a wagon with a body coming from one of the worker encampments near his inn. He followed and witnessed the body being tossed into a pit by two men. After the men left, he approached the eight-foot-deep, fifteen-foot-wide hole and found it contained a dozen or more bodies—all men.

Now, Mark loaded Rynlow’s body into the cart and steeled himself. He drove the cart to the mass grave and hobbled the horse, which reacted badly as soon as it smelled the pit’s contents. Then Mark worked as fast as he could. With a cloth covering his mouth to stifle the smell and wearing pants, shirt, and leather gloves he’d bought for this purpose, Mark tossed Rynlow’s naked body into the pit. He left it among several other fresh corpses lying on top of those in various stages of decomposition.

Mark drove to a garbage dump only a few hundred yards away. There, he stripped off his blood-splattered garments and threw them and Rynlow’s clothing onto a burning pile of trash. He then dressed again and drove the cart once more toward Brawsea. Time was critical. The first workers would start arriving at the guild hall in four hours.

After reaching the hall, he led the horse and cart to the alley in the rear and tied the horse to exterior piping—for water or waste, he didn’t know. He had to hope no one stole the cart while he was gone.

He couldn’t hide his physical frame, but he could cause witnesses to confuse the pursuit if they thought there were two suspects. From under the cart’s driver seat, he pulled out an ash-filled stein he’d pilfered from the inn. He worked the ashes into his hair and beard. In daylight, it would look ridiculous, but in the dim light, the front entrance guard would see a big man with gray or graying hair—hopefully.

The bored, musket-carrying night guard at the front entrance of the guild hall was the same one every night. Mark ran from the east alley, shouting, “Help! A man’s been attacked in the alley. Help!”

The guard whirled to face Mark’s direction and raised his musket to port arms. When Mark was twenty feet away, the guard pointed the musket at Mark.

“Stop!”

Mark obeyed and leaned against the wall.

“As I walked by the alley, I heard a man call out. He’s lying near the back door of this building and seems hurt bad. He said to come here for help.”

“You’ll have to get help somewhere else. I can’t leave the door.”

Mark stood back up and shrugged. “Doesn’t make any difference to me. I don’t know the man. He said his name is Rynlow, and he’s a dumonote in the Cloth Guild. I’ve done my duty and told you. Do what you want.”

Mark made as if to walk away.

“Wait! Rynlow? You say that’s his name?”

“Something like that. He could hardly talk, bleeding so much.”

The guard rocked on his feet, caught in a conundrum.

He’s probably been drilled to never leave his post, thought Mark. But he has to know that if it’s really Rynlow needing help and he doesn’t respond, he might be in even deeper shit.

A stream of frustrated curses rolled from the guard’s mouth. “All right! Quick. Show me where he is.”

Mark trotted to the alley, the guard close behind.

“In there, behind those boxes. I’m not going in again. The man who attacked the dumonote might have come back. I’m not armed.”

“Follow me. You’re not going anywhere until I find out what’s going on.”

Twenty feet into the alley, Mark picked up a makeshift sap, a small cloth sack holding a fistful of pebbles. A blow to the back of the guard’s head resulted in a grunt, and the guard collapsed face-down on the brick paving. Mark checked him.

Lordy be. Just like in the movies and books. Of course, they usually use wet sand, but you make do with what you’ve got.

The man breathed deeply, which relieved Mark. He wouldn’t need his backup plan of using the heavy, eight-inch-bladed knife. He had bought it to replace the one whose tip broke while he dug mortar at Argah’s shop in Kaledon. However, the success of the sap blow didn’t mean the knife wouldn’t have a use prior to Mark’s entering the hall. He hurried back to where the sap had been and picked up a small bottle of cooking oil. He’d never looked into the oil’s origin, but it resembled olive oil in feel and smell.

After pouring a small portion of oil into his hand, he worked it into his ash-coated hair and beard, then shaved carefully with the knife. In the dark, he assumed he’d missed places, and he knew he’d nicked himself in multiple spots by the time he finished. No matter. A little blood would make less of an impression than a man with a shaved head and face. The unconscious guard would report a man with gray hair and beard, while any other witness would claim to have seen a clean-shaven man.

His final preparation lay within one of the boxes he’d pointed the guard to. Mark strapped on a harness he’d paid a leathergoods worker handsomely to make for him on a rush basis. Four pistols went into the holsters. He hadn’t brought along the materials for reloading—it would be fire and drop. A second knife went into a tight sheath at his left shoulder, the knife handle facing down, so he could jerk the knife out with his right hand.

An ax handle completed his armament. He’d briefly considered a large bladed weapon, but he had no experience with swords, spears were too unwieldy for close-in fighting, and he decided swinging something similar to a baseball bat would likely be as effective as the other options.

Ready, he relieved the guard of the door key, then picked up the guard’s musket and pistol. He hoped he wouldn’t have to depend on them because he hadn’t done the loading, but he’d leave them inside as an emergency backup.

He went to the front door and paused, key inches from the lock.

Is this the stupidest clown act in history or not? he wondered. I must look like something out of a fantasy video action game.

It flashed through his mind that he still had time to back out and leave. Then . . . no. He’d already killed Rynlow, leader of the raid on Tregallon and responsible for Holt’s death, but Klinster had given the original orders and set the tone for the entire guild hierarchy. The dumon waited on the top floor. Mark pushed the key into the lock and turned it.

Against his expectations, the large foyer seemed well lit. Two whale oil lanterns on opposite sides of the space appeared almost glaring to Mark’s dark-adjusted eyes. However, they revealed no guards—an observation he immediately had to amend.

“Mamyl. That you? You know you’re supposed to pull the bell cord once if it’s just you and twice if it’s a guild member.”

Well . . . no, I don’t know that, thought Mark, as he quietly put the first guard’s weapons next to the door and then raced to the wide staircase. The voice had come from somewhere higher in the building.

“Mamyl?”

“Yeah,” uttered Mark in an abysmal imitation.

“Well, do what you’re supposed to be doing, or I’ll have to report you next time.”

Mark assumed the faint light from above came from more of the small lanterns. He was two-thirds of the way to the second floor. He could tell the second guard was closer because he heard boots on marble coming in his direction.

Mark pulled a pistol with his left hand. He was ambidextrous enough to be confident the off-hand could handle the pistol while the right hand was free to wield the ax handle. If possible, he didn’t want to alert the third guard, Klinster, or anyone else Mark didn’t expect to be in the building.

He reached the second floor just as a man with a musket came into view ten feet away. Mark rushed as the guard pulled the musket off his shoulder. Mark’s swing with the ax handle parried the musket barrel.

The man brought the musket stock up to catch Mark under the chin. Mark moved his head just enough that the handle only grazed him, instead of breaking his jaw, but it clipped the pistol and sent it flying across the floor.

Both men cursed, loud, one in Frangelese, one in English.

They were too close to each other for Mark to swing the club again. He dropped the ax handle and grappled to prevent the guard from firing or swinging the musket. Cheek to cheek, chest to chest, the two men were of the same height, though Mark had a weight advantage. His strength began to assert itself.

Legs alternately intertwined and braced apart, torsos twisted as the two men strained against each other. The guard was forced back until he hit a wall. Mark rotated his lower body perpendicular to the guard and pulled him into a hip throw. The guard grunted once at the unexpected move and a louder, second time as he hit the floor.

Mark pulled the knife out of his chest sheath and stabbed the guard just below the rib cage. The man’s body spasmed, his eyes popped wide, and his mouth opened to scream. Mark prevented this by jamming his left hand over the man’s mouth.

He stabbed the guard a second time, this thrust near the first wound but angled upward at the diaphragm and the heart. The blade pierced something vital because the man jerked once and went slack. Mark lay on top of him for several seconds. The man’s chest rose once, then fell slowly and didn’t move again.

Panting, Mark wiped the blade on the guard’s clothing, then retrieved the dropped pistol. He raised his head to listen, wondering whether the fight had been heard. Only the faint ticking of a clock came from somewhere in the building.

He climbed off the body and checked himself. He’d come through with only a few future bruises and a shallow gouge along his cheek where the musket’s edge had furrowed. It bled, but not enough to deal with.

He took several deep breaths, dragged the body into a nearby room, and started up the next flight of stairs. They were narrower than those leading to the second floor.

Third floor. Nobody and no sound. Another small lantern glowed in an alcove opposite the stairs, the same position as on the second floor.

Just before he reached the top of the fourth floor, Mark decided the time for stealth was about over. He left the ax handle leaning against the stairwell wall and continued, pistols in both hands.

Fourth floor, nothing, but he froze. A new sound came from the top floor. Boots shuffling on the marble flooring? Clothes rustling? He didn’t know.

When he was six steps from the top, the same sounds recurred, from the same approximate location, and probably closer only because of his movement.

According to Rynlow, the top floor had a single door twelve to fifteen feet away in line with the stairs—the door to the dumon’s residence.

The third guard was supposed to be standing beside the door. When Mark came into view, the guard would have seconds to respond before Mark would be on him—seconds that were enough to bring a musket into play.

CHAPTER 18

A DEBT PAID

Mark leaped onto the fifth-floor landing. He fired both pistols at the startled guard who was leveling his musket to aim. Both balls hit the guard’s chest with eruptions of blood. He staggered against the door and slid to the floor. One of the balls had passed through the guard’s body and left a hole surrounded by blood splatter on the dumon’s door.

Mark ignored the guard’s blood, still pumping, and eyes following his assailant.

Mark dropped the two expended pistols, plucked a pistol out of the guard’s belt and stuck it in his own waist, and pulled out his other two pistols. He tried the door latch. It was locked. He stepped back and kicked just behind the latch as hard as he could. He heard something break, but the door didn’t open. He kicked again. This time the door gave so suddenly, he stumbled and almost fell on the guard’s body.

Recovering, Mark ran into a large room lavishly decorated with paintings, crystal ornaments and vases, and bookcases lined with leather-bound books. An opening led to another opulent room, this one with windows on two sides. In the middle of the room was a bed whose occupant, until moments earlier, had been sleeping. Now Dumon Klinster stood by the bed, a raised pistol in one hand and a second hanging by his side.

Mark and Klinster fired at the same time, both missing their targets. Both dropped their first pistol, raised their second, and again fired together. Both men hit their targets.

Mark spun halfway around and felt a searing pain on the outside of his left thigh. When he whirled back, Klinster lay on the bed clutching his side, where Mark’s ball had struck him.

“Don’t you know who I am? I’m Dumon Klinster! Robbing the guild hall is bad enough. Killing me will have all the guilds after you for the rest of your short life, no matter where you run to.”

Mark snarled as he pulled the guard’s pistol from his waist. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re nothing but a pile of shit. In fact, I do shit a disservice by saying that. I guess I don’t have the words, at least not in your language. As varied and colorful as English can be, even then I can’t recall a vile enough word for a man who would order the torture and murder of innocent people. You’ve probably done the same before and worse.”

Klinster blinked, confusion mixing with pain from his wound. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t recognize me, do you? Look again. Imagine me with a full brown beard and head of hair. Imagine you’d met with me months ago and never expected to see me again.”

The dumon’s expression morphed from confusion to recognition to fear. “Kaldwel!”

“Bingo! Pay the man by the bed the boobie prize. Unfortunately, you won’t live long enough to enjoy the win.”

Mark raised the guard’s pistol.

“NO! WAIT! I’m a dumon! I can pay you anything you—”

CRACK!

The ball hit just below the man’s windpipe and forestalled further words.

Mark wanted to turn away. There was no logical reason to stay and watch the last light leave Klinster’s eyes and his last struggle for breath from lungs and a windpipe filling with blood. Mark should be leaving. He shouldn’t watch almost with pleasure the FINAL moments of another human’s life. Unfortunately, what he should do was irrelevant. Preeminent was his need to see Klinster die.

The wait was short. Less than two minutes after the two men fired, Yyslin Klinster, the Seventeenth Dumon of the Cloth Guild of Brawsea, the third-richest man in Frangel, a man feared and listened to by even the Frangel royal court, died at the hand of Mark Caldwell, a stranger from a farther distance than any human on Anyar could imagine.

Mark was disappointed. The anticipated satisfaction failed to materialize. Killing Klinster and Rynlow didn’t bring back Holt and Ulwyn. Dayna and Gwanel would continue mourning their husbands. Gone, too, were Mark’s visions of transforming Anyar.

He needed to go. Reflection could come later. Maybe the guard in the alley was already awake. Someone might have heard the pistol shots. Maybe something else unexpected could happen.

He pulled down his pants to check his wound, just now starting to hurt like hell as the adrenaline washed out of his blood. It was a clean shot, hitting about an inch from the edge of the outer thigh and going straight through. Klinster’s pistols were small-bore, easily concealable weapons—fortunately for Mark. The hole was smaller than the one in Klinster’s throat.

Mark, in a moment of swirling thoughts, cursed the aliens. He wished the modifications of his biology had included tougher skin to go along with faster healing.

His bleeding had already slowed to only a trickle. He cut off a piece of Klinster’s nightshirt, a section devoid of blood, and tied a wad of the cloth on the entrance and exit wounds, then secured them with a strip of the same cloth. If his past experience on Anyar was any predictor, the wound would slow him down only for the first few days, though residual pain and stiffness would linger. Complete healing would be faster than on Earth, though not as swift as before the stirkin’s sting.

He dropped the guard’s pistol by Klinster’s body and holstered his own two pistols. Outside the apartment, he retrieved his other two pistols and picked up the third guard’s musket. To his surprise, he’d survived. Now, getting away was the priority. From the fifth floor he descended, limping, and stopped only to listen at each floor before continuing.

“Hello?”

Mark froze, as his foot touched the bottom of the stairs from the third to second floor.

“Hello? Why is the door open? Where’s the guard? Is something wrong?”

The man’s voice was tentative.

Damn, just what I need. Some early working staff showing up. Probably he’s never found the door open and unattended, Mark thought. He didn’t want to kill anyone else—that urge was satiated. But he had to GO.

“Nothing wrong,” he called out. “Another guard had an accident. I’ll be right down to relock and man the door. Where do you work?”

“Third floor. Accounting.”

“Hurry on up and stay where you work until I come tell you otherwise.”

Mark ducked into the second-floor room with the second guard’s body. When he peered out the cracked door, he witnessed a fortyish man scurry up the stairs.

After he heard a door close, he took the remaining stairs down three at a time, momentarily oblivious to his wound. At the first floor, he left the musket, exited the front door, locked it, and turned to walk away. Two men outside stood staring at him. Three more watched, stationary, from a farther distance. All five men looked confused.

Mark could imagine the situation from their standpoint—a strange man, not the regular guard or doorman, bald head and clean shaven with multiple nicks and abrasions, pistols everywhere on his body, locking the hall’s main door

“Nothing to worry about,” Mark called out. “Just a disturbance inside. Dumon Klinster told me to tell you to wait here until the guard comes to open the door.”

With that, Mark walked off, ignoring their questions. A block later, he threw the key onto a pile of trash in an alley.

CHAPTER 19

WANDER SOUTH

Mark reached the inn as the sun edged above the eastern horizon. The owner asked no questions when Mark returned the cart. Nevertheless, Mark commented that he’d used it to make a series of nighttime deliveries from farms near Brawsea to local markets. He explained his lack of head hair as the result of a job where tar became tangled in one side of his beard and hair. The easiest solution was to shave it all off. He also informed the innkeeper that a job offer in a town east of the capital meant he was leaving as soon as he packed his belongings.

An hour later, Mark rode east two miles, then turned south across open grass country. He had bought two quality horses and gear in anticipation of fleeing Brawsea. The purchases were both rational and an effort to convince himself he wasn’t on a suicide crusade. The riding horse was a large, well-muscled chestnut. The roan packhorse carried enough food for three sixdays and gear for camping.

Mark hadn’t slept for thirty-six hours. Though he couldn’t predict the immediate or longer-term response to the night’s events, he accepted that the results might be seismic. He wanted to get well away from Brawsea.

The grassland changed into farm country with dirt roads, one of which he followed south toward a forest. In the late afternoon, he crested a hill and could see the sun a hand’s breadth above the western horizon. Worried that he’d fall off the horse from sleep deprivation, he rode off the road two hundred yards and staked his two horses amid grass and adjacent to a pond. Under an oak-like tree, he spread a blanket and fell asleep seconds after lying down.

In the next sixday, he drifted south-southeast fifty miles by his estimate, avoiding villages or other human habitations. His wound, though not infected, ached enough from riding that the discomfort wore on him. He found a small glade among tall rock outcroppings that provided isolation from the nearest road and eyes that could report a strange man with a shaved head and beard. For two sixdays, he waited for the wound to heal and enough hair to grow so he wouldn’t be as noticeable among the rural population, where hairstyle varieties were limited.

He spent much of the time sleeping, in addition to walking near the camp, sitting in the shade of an Anyar tree, and staring at a small fire after sunset. There were hours of contemplation and recollection. He recalled his life on Earth—from his earliest memories to the last day. Had Hal told the truth about the aliens’ intentions? If yes, that meant a second group of aliens had transplanted organisms from Earth to Anyar thousands of years ago. Why? If there were other survivors of the United flight, could there be other humans from Earth on Anyar? These and others weren’t new questions, and he never expected to get answers.

Then there were the hours he spent thinking about his second life, from waking up on the beach at Derwun Bay to the current moment. The initial adjustment. Learning a new language. Planning for all the innovations he could introduce if he just had the resources. Tregallon. Safety pins, leaf springs, and weaving. Kaledon. Brawsea. Always ending with Holt’s death and the results of the Tregallon raid. The hours he spent going over the technological inventions he’d introduced kept coming back to an acknowledgment that he had ignored possible consequences, particularly for weaving. The warning signs were there, but his arrogance—thinking he could handle any problems—was unforgivable. Even after Holt’s death and during his rush to return to Tregallon, it was only in the last hours before he arrived that most of his worry shifted from the weaving factory to the people. He would carry the guilt the rest of this life.

When he resumed moving south, he covered another hundred miles before stopping in a village to buy food—bread, cheese, dried meat, and a sack of a fruit he didn’t recognize but that had a taste and texture similar to persimmons. The woman at the market assured him the fruit would last several sixdays without spoiling if he kept it out of direct sunlight.

He continued south for another four sixdays after leaving Brawsea. When his pack animal lost a shoe, he looked for a blacksmith several miles ahead in a larger-than-average village—not quite big enough to be called a town. While re-shoeing the horse, the burly smith asked whether Mark had done blacksmith work.

The blacksmith smacked his generous paunch. “Just asking because the way you’re muscled speaks of heavy work, though you’re leaner than most smiths.”

“I have,” answered Mark, “though not enough to call myself a blacksmith.”

“Well, I’ve a nephew who’s starting a smithy twenty miles from here. Since he’s family, I offered to help make all the tools and equipment he’ll need. Turns out my nephew was too ambitious, and it’s a big job. I could use some assistance if you’re interested in staying a while. Can’t say what I’ll pay you until I see what you can do, but you look strong enough. I should get some use out of you, even if I only provide food and a place to sleep dry.”

I have to quit moving constantly sometime, Mark thought, so why not here?

“All right. I’m interested.”

“After I finish your horse, I have another small job for today, so we can start tomorrow. My name is Ilmar Nestun, what’s yours?”

Mark just stood there, stumped. He hadn’t considered what name he’d use. Was he far enough from Brawsea to use his own name? He didn’t know. If he used another name, what would it be? Nothing popped into his head until he reviewed the last sixdays’ wandering south, not sure what he’d find.

“Kris Kolumbus. My name is Kris Kolumbus.”

He stayed in Vynmor for three sixdays. He helped Nestun in the mornings and found manual labor jobs in the afternoon—clearing land, chopping wood, and tearing down a dilapidated barn. When it was time for him to leave, his hair and beard were long enough that he didn’t seem out of place, his coin purse was a little heavier than when he’d arrived, and his wound was completely healed.

“Sorry you’re going, Kris,” said Nestun. “You don’t have experience at blacksmithing, but you’ve got the knack for it. If you were to stay and work with me, I’d look for more jobs as you got more experience. I could even see us being partners in a couple of years.”

“Thanks, Ilmar, but I’ll be moving on. I hear the land turns to ranching farther south. I think I’d like to try ranch work for a while. If that doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll come back to Vynmor.”

Mark had no intention of returning. The time in the village had been quiet, but he still felt too close to Brawsea. He hoped after a few hundred more miles he would feel different.

For the next month, he meandered another two hundred miles south. A series of forested hills and low mountains separated valleys and plains where farms gradually gave way to ranches. He stopped for up to a sixday to work, replenish supplies, and occasionally stay at inns to clean up and treat himself to an evening of beers. It was in the town of Ursalyn, population around two thousand, where he chanced on a rancher recruiting riders to hunt for and gather cattle. They had been scattered widely by the same storm Mark had sheltered from in a cave for two days.

It took two sixdays of long hours to collect most of the cattle until the owner was satisfied. Mark was paid for his work, but the most important result was that he remembered what it was like growing up on his family’s ranch near Pueblo, Colorado. His father insisted on calling it a ranch, even though most years they made more income from farming wheat than raising cattle. Yet whatever it was called, during his teenage years Mark couldn’t wait to be off to college, which turned out to be the United States Naval Academy.

Now, near the town of Ursalyn, in central Frangel, on the continent of Drilmar, on the planet Anyar, Mark experienced muscle memory—the retention of motor skills learned deeply enough to be drawn on without conscious effort. The days he spent chasing and herding cattle seemed like a natural activity and surfaced memories that led him to reconcile that he didn’t hate the family tasks of his youth. He acknowledged that his distaste for ranch life might have disguised a youthful urge to be on his own and away from what he perceived to be a boring existence. What he did know was that the dark cloud over his mind and feelings since Kaledon noticeably thinned while he worked cattle.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said aloud to his horse. “I’m supposed to hate chasing these stupid steaks-on-the-hoof. All right, all right! So maybe I was just a dumb teenager thinking I had to be rebellious against something. Quite nagging on me, you nag.”

A brindle cow and her calf broke in opposite directions. Mark directed Secretariat after the calf, assuming the mother wouldn’t go far from her child. He’d become fond of the horse he’d ridden since Brawsea. Maybe he mentally assumed a common bond between the two fugitives, and the horse was his only living connection to his time on Anyar. It was only after Vynmor that he quit referring to the animal as “horse” and gave it a name. He didn’t know why “Secretariat” jumped into his mind, except that it was one of the few movies he’d chosen to see more than once. Maybe because the original Secretariat was so strong in his triumphs, Mark hoped some of that would wear off on him—not that he could identify what a “triumph” would be, not after Kaledon and Tregallon.

Once he had a rope on the calf, the mother followed it back to the day’s gathering site. “There you go,” he said. As both cattle merged with the others in a deep dell, Mark signaled to the rancher.

“I saw a couple more cattle farther up the hill from where I found these two. Me and Secretariat will head back in that direction.”

“You still haven’t explained to me where you got the name Secretariat.”

“I told you. It’s a famous horse where I come from.”

“Famous for what? Certainly not for racing in this part of Frangel, or I would have heard the name.”

“Well, you know how it is. What’s famous in one part of Frangel might not be known in other parts.”

The rancher waved a hand in good-natured dismissal.

When Mark left Ursalyn, he headed southwest, deeper into ranch country. For hundreds of miles, he continued to use the name Kris Kolumbus. His coin supply dwindled, as he stopped less often to replenish it. When he came to Nurburt, the biggest town since he’d left Brawsea, he estimated the population was twenty thousand or more. The town was located about eleven hundred miles south of the Frangel capital. His urge to keep moving slackened and was replaced by a need to stay in one place longer than a few sixdays. He began thinking, consciously for the first time, about finding some version of a “home”—a place to live the rest of his life. His questions included whether Nurburt was the place and whether he was far enough from the guilds.

He took a leap of faith on using his real name one evening while sharing steins of beer in a pub. For the last sixday he had relaxed more than in the past months. He exchanged work on repairing fences and stable walls for a cot in a tack room. Evenings, he frequented the same pub and made an effort to engage other patrons. On one of those evenings, the next chapter in his Anyar life began.

“Yes, a man can make a livelihood trading for furs in the south, Kaldwel,” exclaimed a wiry middle-aged man named Runold. “But you need to live near your trap lines most of the year. The lonely country is not for me. No, there’s a better option. I tell you, there’s real coin to be made from destrex hunting, Yeah, the creatures are dangerous, but men are killed when there’s only one or two of them on the hunt. With five or six men, it should be safe enough. Even with that many, the payoff is still good since the hides sell for so much.”

Runold was sitting at a table with Mark and two other men.

“What’s a destrex?” asked Mark before his beer-softened brain could override his mouth. His entire time on Anyar, he’d made a point of saying as little as possible to hint he was anything but another citizen, albeit from a different part of Frangel.

Three pair of eyes swiveled to the source of the curious question.

He hustled to recover. “You know, there may be different types of destrex this far south. I’m from farther west-northwest, toward the Timbar Sea.”

“I don’t know about destrex there, but here we have two kinds—ormals and oklands.”

“I hear the ormals are the worst to hunt, even though they’re smaller,” said the man with rummy eyes whose name Mark never learned.

“Yeah,” said Runold. “Damn things can change their hides to look so much like wherever they are, you can almost bump into them before you know they’re there.”

A chameleon? thought Mark. Bump into them? How big are these things?

“What’s the biggest one you’ve ever seen?” asked Mark, preempting the talk before he slipped again and the men realized he’d never heard of destrex.

“Well . . . there was a dead one that must have gone twenty feet.”

“Twenty feet!” exclaimed one of the other men. “My God! I didn’t realize they came that big.”

You know, thought Mark, I don’t believe any of these guys have ever actually seen a live whatever they’re called.

“Of course, if you’re going to go destrex hunting, why not go all the way to the oklands?” said Runold. “Their hides might not conceal them as much, but they stay looking the same after tanning—not like an ormal hide that fades with time.  Still, somewhere around two large gold coins for a single okland hide makes a little risk understandable.”

Holy shit! thought Mark. Two large golds. That’s around $2,500 by my conversions.

Mark went fishing again. “Yes, if you’re going destrex hunting, go for the big payoff. Imagine that much coin for one hide.”

“Of course, there’s a reason not that many okland hides are available, even if a good one is worth ten large golds in the big cities up north. The big beasts are hard to kill because the hide is so tough. That’s part of the reason they’re in such demand for boots and other leatherwork, especially to the Fuomi and Harrasedics.”

Twelve-thousand-dollar equivalents in the large cities! Mark thought. Double holy shit.

“I’ve never thought about hunting destrex, but how would one go about it?” he asked.

“Hah!” crowed Runold. “That’s what I hoped to hear. I’ve a sense you’re a good man to depend on. Me and three others are planning to go destrex hunting. Word is the territory a hundred and fifty miles east-southeast of Nurburt has plenty of them. We think the four of us should be enough, but since it’s our first time, I figure another man or two is prudent. Even with six of us, a single okland hide divides pretty well. Naturally, we’d hope to shoot more than one.”

Mark had hunted with his father, brothers, and cousins. The mountains within driving range of the family ranch had hunting seasons for bear, puma, elk, deer, bighorn sheep, and Rocky Mountain goats. He always declined to hunt with the other family men for bear or mountain goats. He thought the numbers of both were small enough that they shouldn’t be hunted. Plus, no one he knew ate bear, and rumors were that mountain goats tasted like leather and were as tough.

“As I said, with five or six men it should be safe enough,” Runold assured him. “How about it, Kaldwel, you up for joining in?”

“Sounds good,” said Mark. “I don’t have any plans or work lined up right now, so I’ll join in on the hunt, as long as we share equally. When do we leave?”

“If you can be ready at sunup tomorrow, we’ll head east to the pass over the mountains and then into the plains beyond.”

The next morning, they followed a road south and pushed hard. They cleared the pass three days later. A dusting of snow fell at the crest. From there, it was sharply downhill with views of seemingly endless flatlands in front of them.

Most of the hunting party failed to impress Mark. Runold seemed all right, as did a sixth man Runold had found at the last minute—a tall, stringy man who didn’t seem to have a name. Runold explained the man had an accent because he was originally from Madyrna, the realm to the east. Why he was in Frangel wasn’t clear, but Runold implied it involved an involuntary decision.

As for the other three men, Mark thought they resembled Frangel versions of something between gutter sweepings and street thugs. He resolved to talk with Runold if they managed to kill one of the destrex. He worried he’d need to watch his back in case one or more of the three men was tempted to reduce the number of partners.

It was when they reached the last trees—stunted, scrawny growths that became shorter the farther south they traveled—that Runold made an announcement.

“There it is. This low brush continues another couple hundred miles before other plants take over. However, this type of growth runs the entire width of Drilmar, except for north to south mountain ranges. Here’s where the destrex supposedly prefer to live and hunt prey.”

“What do they hunt?” asked Mark, who then hurried to hide his ignorance. “I can’t recall hearing what’s the local prey.”

“There’s three or four different animals large enough to be hunted by destrex. Or is it four or five? I forget. Some of them live alone or in small groups. Others are in herds that run into the hundreds. My great-grandfather once told me that the herds ran into the many thousands when he was a boy, and they ranged all the way north of Nurburt.”

“That must have meant the destrex were also found that far north,” said Mark.

“Yeah, but not anymore. Our best chance to find a destrex is to follow a moderate-size group of browsers at a distance. Once a destrex makes a kill, it’ll guard it from another destrex. Then we can approach and kill it.”

“Must be dumb beasts to just sit,” commented one man.

“I don’t know,” said Runold. “They’ve a reputation for being clever.”

Probably because they evolved as the apex predator in this part of Drilmar, thought

Mark. They don’t run off if they don’t think anything is a threat to them.

He remembered how mountain lions were often hunted in Colorado. Mark had demurred in accompanying his cousins when one of them procured a mountain lion hunting license. The standard tactic was to use dogs. Once they had the scent, a pack of dogs would trail the big cat until they got close. The cat would climb a tree, then wait for the dogs to realize it was out of reach and leave. The hunters would follow the dogs and shoot the animal that had evolved to climb a tree to put it out of reach of predators larger than itself. Mark didn’t tell his cousins his opinion of their “sport.”

“We’ll camp here tonight and start looking for animals to follow tomorrow.”

Mark’s unease about his companions grew when they wanted to camp next to a stream but with no other protection, and they proposed a single guard at night. When Mark insisted on two guards, one near the staked horses and the other tending a campfire to be kept going all night, most of the other five men thought it was probably a good idea.

Dawn the next morning solidified Mark’s opinion of their venture when he went to urinate and found the horse guard sleeping.

What the hell was I thinking of to join these idiots? he wondered.

He kicked the man’s boot. “I’m a destrex and just chomped your goddamn head off!”

Mark saw two choices: head back north and leave the other five to their own devices or take charge. By a very slim margin, he chose the latter option. Runold surprised him by not arguing.

Maybe it’s a good sign that at least Runold has reservations about these bozos, thought Mark. Or maybe it means we really should get our butts out of here.

Finding prey animals proved easy enough that it almost raised Mark’s mood. When they went to saddle up, a group of fifteen to eighteen lombars were grazing within a hundred yards of the horses; that’s what Runold called the animals that looked like a horse crossed with a camel. They took off when the largest one in the group spied the humans.

Hmmm, thought Mark. They didn’t seem to mind the horses but were afraid of people. Maybe they were okay with our horses because they were other grazing animals? Something like in Africa where zebras, gnus, and giraffes provide added senses against lions. But they recognize humans as predators or something unknown.

They followed the lombars all day, staying far enough away not to spook the animals but still maintain visual contact of the drifting, grazing animals. At mid-afternoon, they accidentally came within two hundred yards of the lombars and their party’s first sight of a destrex. Fortunately for the humans, the destrex was focused on other prey.

Mark’s first reaction was amusement. He flashed to watching videos with his daughter when she was four. The creature resembled a cartoon alligator standing high on four long legs, instead of belly on the ground and propelled by splayed legs. While Mark watched, the hide’s color subtly changed as if a breeze wafted over short grass.

In an instant, his amusement vanished. He stared, aghast, as the destrex exploded, sprinting after the lombars faster than Mark knew their horses could run. The prey scattered, except for one knocked off its feet and held to the ground by a clawed front foot. The doomed animal began screaming as the destrex tore off chunks of its flesh to swallow whole. Mark cringed.

Runold broke the six men’s silence when he whispered, “Are we close enough to shoot from here?”

“How the hell do I know?” said Mark before realizing he’d used English. He switched to Frangelese. “You’re the one supposed to know such things.”

“There’s six of us with muskets. That should be enough.”

“Yeah, if we all hit the damn thing,” said Mark. “What’s the chance of that at this range? We’ll be lucky to get three hits.”

“Oh, shit,” said another man. “You mean we’re going closer?”

“Remember, they’ll stand to guard their kill,” said Runold.

The destrex spotted them and assumed a defiant stance over its finally dead victim. It put out a screeching call and showed an impressive mouth full of jagged teeth.

“What do you think? Closer? A hundred yards before firing?” Runold asked Mark.

“Better make it closer to be sure we get enough hits, but let’s do it spread out a little, and go slow so it keeps eating.”

They staked the two packhorses and aligned their horses to face the carnage. When they moved apart, Mark made sure he was on one end of their line. He figured the beast would likely charge the center of their group.

At eighty yards, they stopped until the vocal display ended and the destrex went back to eating. At seventy yards, it noticed them getting closer and resumed screeching.

“Let it quiet down again,” said Mark. “We only need to get a little clos— ”

CRACK!

The shot came from Mark’s left. He couldn’t see who it was, except it wasn’t Runold.

“Fuck!” yelled Mark. The destrex’s profile while eating turned into a head-on view as it charged. Mark didn’t know whether the first shot had hit, but it had no apparent effect.

Five more muskets fired a ragged volley. Mark knew his shot was good, hitting the destrex’s chest. It stumbled but only momentarily before continuing.

Panic ensued. One thing the riders and the horses agreed on was to be somewhere else—anywhere else. The problem was disagreement on which direction to take.

Mark had turned his horse after he fired, ready to run for it. When he looked over his shoulder, though, the destrex had a grip on the throat of a horse in the middle of their line. The rider was flung skyward. The creature’s flaying tail knocked a second man off his horse. By the force of the blow, Mark thought most of the man’s bones must be broken.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Mark intoned.

He knew he needed to flee.

He didn’t owe these men anything. Instead, he leaped off his horse and let it run off. He couldn’t reload his musket while saddled.

Pour powder into the barrel.

Grab a ball out of his belt pouch and drop it in the barrel, followed by a paper patch.

Pull the ramrod from under the barrel and ram the ball and patch down the barrel.

Sprinkle a small amount of powder in the flash pan.

Raise the musket, cock, aim, pull the trigger.

The hammer struck metal to ignite the pan, allowing the flash to travel through the tiny hole leading to the inside of the barrel.

CRACK!

Mark’s shot hit the creature’s side. It was less than forty yards away. Another musket fired from somewhere toward the other end of their line. He saw one man whipping his mount furiously as he fled. Another rider was thrown from his horse and ran after it.

Mark was an automaton. There was no time for thinking. Reload. The destrex could have torn him to shreds at any moment, but its brain wasn’t evolved enough to recognize that wounds could be caused by enemies not within biting distance.

CRACK! Mark fired again, this time hitting the side of the destrex’s neck. He had finished reloading for the third time when his remaining colleague fired. The creature whirled, hit on its other side.

Back and forth, it shook its head. A human leg hung from one side of its jaw. The destrex was obviously seriously wounded, but they need to finish it off. Mark held aim at the head and slowly walked forward. He caught a glimpse of the man on the other side staring incredulously at him.

At twenty yards away, the creature stopped moving and watched Mark, mouth open.

CRACK!

Mark shot at the open mouth and hit the back of the throat. He hurriedly reloaded.

CRACK came another shot. The other man was also nearer to the monster and had fired into the back of its head.

Mark finished reloading and was raising the musket to fire when the animal’s legs collapsed. Its head thudded to the ground. Both men froze, looked at each other, and then, as if by mutual, though unspoken, agreement, walked to within ten feet of the head and put two more musket balls into the brain.

Mark’s hands had been rock steady . . . until now. They trembled as he sat the musket stock on the ground. His mouth felt like it had last tasted water a month ago, his knees threatened to knock together, and his heart thudded in his chest.

The other man stared at him, at the destrex, at Mark again. The man’s mouth opened and closed several times before words came out.

“Thought the fucker would never die.”

Mark agreed, but what he said was, “Well . . . that was exciting.”

“Yeah, well, then I’ve had all the excitement I need for rest of my life.”

“Pardon, but I’m afraid Runold never told me your name, and we never spoke since we joined up.”

“Name’s Rokoldoranderanin. You’re Kaldwel, and yes, my name’s a mouthful. Parents never would tell me why they stuck me with it.”

“How about if I just call you ‘Rocky’? Assuming you’re not offended.”

“Hell, I’ve been called more things than I can remember, and most of them uncomplimentary. Rocky sounds fine.”

“I don’t think we have to check on the man whose leg is hanging out, but what about the other one?” Mark asked. “The way he went flying didn’t look good.”

“His neck is broke and likely most other bones. Well, that leaves just the two of us to split the hide.”

God! Don’t spend too much time grieving over your companions, thought Mark.

Rocky caught his expression. “Didn’t know any of you men until Runold started looking for partners. Too bad for these two. Fuck the two that ran away.”

“It’ll be a four-way split,” said Mark. “We don’t know what the two dead men would have done if they’d had time to react, but we can’t assume they would have run. We can give their share to their families.”

Rocky shrugged. “All right, and I suppose you want us to bury these two?”

“I’d want someone to bury me. Wouldn’t you?”

“No. I’d tell them to go get good and drunk and toast me with every stein.”

Mark couldn’t help himself. He laughed.

It took an hour of listening to Rocky complain for them to dig a grave big enough for one whole and one partial body. Fortunately, it was still before mid-day, so there was time to skin the destrex before dark. This wasn’t an easy task because once they finished one side, they had to use ropes and the horses to roll the carcass over to skin the other side. They dragged the hide to a nearby stream, made an effort to scrape off more flesh from the underside, then spread salt on the flesh side to stop putrefaction before whoever bought the hide tanned it. They let it dry in the sun, as they washed themselves of dirt and blood. Mark guarded their dearly paid-for prize while Rocky rode to retrieve the packhorses.

Before they left the carcass, Mark paced off a length estimate from tip of snout to end of tail. Twenty-three feet.

“I hope this is as big as they get,” said Mark, shaking his head.

“Well, let’s not find out if there are bigger ones,” said Rocky. “Let’s get this hide headed back north. We’ll need to find a place more inaccessible for the night to keep scavengers away, much less another destrex. I hear they’ll eat their own dead.”

“One packhorse will never be able to carry the hide,” said Mark. “I didn’t realize how heavy such hides were.”

“We’ll cut it in half and put it on both packhorses,” said Rocky. “I’ll go bring back the horse whose whole rider we buried. It can carry the essentials from the two original packs. I’m sure as hell not leaving this hide after all this.”

“I hear you, friend.”

A sixday later, Mark and Rocky, both bedraggled and bone-weary, waited for a Nurburt trader to inspect their hide. As Runold had stated, the okland hide hadn’t changed in appearance since they’d first seen it on the original owner.

“Not a bad hide,” said the trader. “But not the best. Cutting it in half takes a little off the value. You should have divided it back to belly, instead of along the back. The most desired part for the best boots is the top of the back. By cutting it that way, you lost some of the prime hide for the highest-quality leatherwork. There’s also the musket holes. They’re not as important, but they do limit how the cutting of the hide goes.”

Mark grunted. “We were a little too busy staying alive to worry about shooting holes in the wrong places.”

The trader shrugged and dropped the flap of hide he was examining. “I’ll give you three large golds for it.”

“Three!?” exclaimed Mark. “I thought an okland hide was worth as much as ten large golds.”

“Maybe in Brawsea, Kaledon, or Landylbury, but not here. Even there, the best price would be for an intact hide and not one sliced in the wrong direction.”

“Maybe we should try somewhere else,” said Rocky.

“As you wish,” said the trader, “but they won’t give you a better price and likely less. A shipment is heading north in two days, so I’m giving you my best price since it’s convenient.”

Mark did a mental translation. Three large golds. Almost four thousand dollars. A thousand apiece, once we find the families of the two killed by the destrex.

Mark and Rocky consulted with each other and decided the offer was the best they were going to get. They accepted.

“How do you expect to find the families of the two we buried?” asked Rocky.

“My only thought is to see if Runold got back and goes to the same pub where we met. You’ll have to hang around if you want to be sure I don’t keep the coin for myself.”

“No. You’re probably more honest than me, so I’ll trust you. If you can’t find any family and there’s another share or two to split, leave word at the main cathedral. I’ll check in about a month. Right now, I need to get home to see if my wife will still let me in and hasn’t taken up with another man. Maybe my share will soften her opinion of me from the last time I was home.”

Locating Runold proved easy. Mark found him in the same pub that very night. To Mark’s surprise, Runold offered no apology for running away, only the lame excuse that his horse had bolted and run so far in the monotonous, unfamiliar terrain that by the time he regained control, he couldn’t find Mark and the others. It was plausible, but Mark didn’t believe it for a second. Nevertheless, Runold knew where to find the two families and for a large silver coin led Mark to them. One wife broke down on hearing the news, while the other seemed almost relieved. Having done what he considered his duty, Mark let Runold know they wouldn’t be drinking together again.

Two days after returning to Nurburt, Mark Caldwell sat alone sipping a beer in the same pub where Runold had recruited him. He was firm in the knowledge that a career in destrex hunting was not in his future. Now he waited for inspiration, fate, opportunity, or whatever would help point him in a direction. In lieu of a specific idea, he had left a message at the Nurburt cathedral—a common custom in rural Frangel, where no regular postal system existed. The rancher he’d worked for in Ursalyn had given Mark a name for possible employment if he ended up in Nurburt. The message simply stated Mark was looking for work and referenced the Ursalyn rancher.

“Are you either Kris Kolumbus or Mark Kaldwel?”

Mark turned warily to face a rangy middle-aged man with only a few gray hairs in his beard and no hair at all on his head.

“I’m Keeslyn Toodman, and I got a cathedral message from someone named Mark Kaldwel who’s looking for work.”

Toodman read Mark’s expression and smiled. “I also got a letter from a distant cousin who ranches Ursalyn farther north. It took a while to get to me, but he said he recommended me to a good worker who might be heading my way. Said his name was Kris Kolumbus. Doesn’t take much puzzling to think someone might use different names for their own reasons. Also doesn’t make any difference to me why they do that, just as long as I don’t have any problem with them.”

“I’m Mark Kaldwel, and it’s my real name.”

“As I said, don’t care what your name is. I need temporary workers for a few months. I bought a small ranch near mine. The previous owner died a year ago, and the wife tried to keep it going by herself and with some relatives. Didn’t work out, and the buildings and fencing need repair. What few horses and cattle she had have scattered into the hills. My cousin says you were good at finding his lost animals, so sounds like you’re a good match for what I need.”

Mark didn’t speak, just held out his right hand.

CHAPTER 20

STAY AHILE

Mark rode with Toodman to his ranch. The countryside was rolling hills covered with grass and scattered tree stands. The former was either grass imported from Earth or another example of parallel evolution on the two planets. The feathery foliage of most trees identified them as Anyarian, except for cottonwoods. These lined the occasional watercourses, now dry toward the end of the summer in Anyar’s southern hemisphere.

“I see a lot of dry streambeds,” said Mark. “Are there problems with finding enough water for your animals this time of year?” He remembered his family’s ranch in Colorado and the two wells that provided livestock with water in years of low rainfall.

“Not a serious problem,” replied Toodman. “There are enough small ponds between the hills. Many of them never go dry, even during the driest years. Other ponds dry up, as their feeder streams quit running. The difference is odd, but no one can give a convincing explanation. There’re even a few ponds that always have water, even with no streams emptying into them.”

Seeps, thought Mark. The low spots must be at or below a permanent water table level. Otherwise, you’d have trouble keeping good-size herds in this terrain.

“One reason I bought the neighboring ranch is that it and my land surround one of the larger permanent ponds—one big enough we call it a lake.” Toodman laughed. “Well, I call it Toodman Lake, but the other owner named it after himself. By buying the other ranch, now I can call it what I want, and no one can argue. Of course, an important reason I purchased the ranch is so I’ll have sole claim to the lake—plus, the land is good, and the widow wanted to move north to live with her family.”

Half an hour from the ranch, they passed several hundred cattle drifting parallel to the road. A cluster of five animals crossed the road in front of the wagon, and the three adults and two calves trotted to join the rest of the herd. It was the first close look Mark had at the Anyar cattle he’d be working with for Toodman. Mark’s father had been an aficionado of cattle breeds, and the Caldwell family heard more discourses on cattle history and breeding than most members were interested in.

Whoa! thought Mark. They’re bigger than the ones I’ve worked with farther north. Maybe these are a different breed—they look a little like reconstructions of aurochs with a touch of wild water buffalo. I guess that might make sense if their ancestors were taken from Earth before modern breeds developed.

He knew the extinct auroch had given rise to most cattle breeds. However, the extant wild water buffalo belonged to a different branch of bovines, one that had led to the domestic water buffalo. He also hoped that if these cattle were descended from the wild auroch and he had to herd them, most of the mythical aggressiveness of the large bovine had been bred out.

Mark saw a couple of riders two hundred yards away, and one waved. Toodman waved back.

“One of our herds,” the ranch owner said. “We’re moving them to another small valley—they’ve pretty much eaten out where we had them. This way, the other pasture can regrow. If we left them there much longer, the grass would take longer to recover.”

Mark nodded without commenting, glad the rancher was aware of managing the range itself and not just the animals. He was also impressed when they arrived at a cluster of structures in the main ranch complex. A large house sat slightly apart from a row of cottages and two long buildings that had multiple windows but only one door.

Toodman pointed out the structures. “The small houses are for permanent workers and their families. Single men live in the two barracks, either in rooms, if they’re permanent workers, or in the large common room, if temporary. You’ll be in a common room. It’s about two-thirds full now, but there will be fewer men when the weather closes in for the couple of months before it warms up. You’ll eat in the smaller building between the barracks—it’s a kitchen and eating area.

“The barns and workshops are kept farther from dwellings to avoid odors and noise. Some men work night shifts with the herds, so they sleep during the day. The foreman and the permanent men will clue you in on how things work here. Tir Murklyn is my foreman. He oversees the day-to-day details of much of the work and will show you where to put your things and sleep. You’ll start tomorrow with a crew rounding up the cattle and horses from the other ranch. You all may sleep out on the range sometimes if you’re too far away to get back here for the night. Again, the others will tell you how things work. You’ll need to put together a sleeping roll. The barracks have blankets and waterproof covers you can pick from to form a kit if you don’t have your own gear.”

For the first time since leaving Brawsea, Mark had no expectation of when he would move on. He joined a crew of four other men in rounding up scattered livestock on both the newly purchased ranch and the more distant parts of the Toodman property. The land this far south took more acres than in northern Frangel to support each animal. He hadn’t realized the amount of land the local ranches required to be functional.

The mix of personalities among his coworkers was typical—some Mark liked and others less so, but all were tolerable. By the end of the first sixday, he recognized he was more relaxed than since leaving Brawsea. The work was similar enough to his previous experience with the rancher Nestun and his family’s ranch that he learned and adjusted quickly. The large cattle he worked with proved different only by being more sensitive to approach from the rear. It took only one incident for Mark to understand why the ranch workers didn’t push the animals too hard.

The man in charge of their crew wisely insisted Mark ride one of the ranch horses until he gained experience with the cattle—the argument being that one novice at a time was best. Secretariat became introduced to southern Frangel cattle after two sixdays, and Mark took his turn educating the horse.

Five sixdays after starting, his crew leader left the ranch, for reasons Mark didn’t know.

Toodman found Mark combing Secretariat and told him, “I know you’re relatively new here, Kaldwel, but you’ve got the knack for this work, and the other men respect you—I checked. You’ll take over as the crew leader. I won’t look for another man this time of the season, but the four of you should be able to finish the job.”

By now, the search for scattered livestock went farther from the ranch headquarters, and they found fewer animals each day. Mark’s crew slept most nights on the range. They returned only when bringing in batches of animals to join herds being positioned for the coming colder weather.

Hard work and increasing cold characterized the following months. This far south of the Anyar equator and in the center of the Drilmar continent, the winter season eerily resembled south-central Colorado—days with clear sunlight and freezing nights, snowstorms that dropped inches to feet of snow that disappeared with the following warmer days, and local creatures achingly similar to prairie dogs, along with a pronghorn antelope that had much longer horns than on Earth.

When the rancher voiced satisfaction that they’d found most strays, work shifted to repairing fences and structures on the purchased ranch. Toodman intended to sell sections of the property when the weather turned warmer. When the sale occurred, Mark expected to be looking for another job—which is why he was suspicious when one day Toodman called him into the main house.

“Mark, I don’t dally around. You’re one of the best workers I’ve ever had. The men all respect you, and you seem like a decent man, although you’re pretty tight in talking about yourself—which doesn’t bother me. I’ve talked with Tir. I’d like you to stay working for me. I’ve some ideas I’ve toyed with for a couple of years, but I haven’t had enough workers I trusted that they could take over some of what I used to do myself. Age is catching up with me, and I’m not a fool who thinks he can keep doing what he did when he was twenty.

“I don’t promise anything into the future right now, but I’ll raise your wages to half-again what I’m currently paying you. If things work out, by next winter you might be earning more yet. What do you say?”

Mark’s first reaction was relief. His big dreams from his time in Tregallon seemed just that—dreams that faded the more time passed. For months he had wandered, worked, wandered again, made the mistake of going destrex hunting, and then worked again in an environment where he liked the people. It was the longest he’d spent in one place since leaving Tregallon for the ill-fated trip to Kaledon. He didn’t know what the long-term future held, but for now he wanted to stay in one place without having a known end date to move on.

As a “permanent” worker on the ranch, Mark rated a small room in a barracks for single men. His meager possessions gradually accumulated during occasional visits to Nurburt. Secretariat lived in a regular stall for the winter, and Mark continued to eat in the communal room next to the barracks. Mid-day meal was usually delivered at work sites, given to workers to take with them, or provided as a quick grab-and-go if work happened around the main buildings. Eating in the morning and the evening were the first scheduled meals Mark had had since leaving the Naval Academy, where meals were orchestrated, and decorum prevailed. Not so at the ranch. There, nonstop multiple conversations created a semi-chaotic atmosphere. It reminded Mark of extended family gatherings when he was growing up.

There was no fixed seating. Men sat at whatever empty seat existed when they arrived. In addition to single men, the meal often included visitors, temporary workers, and occasionally a husband who wasn’t on good terms at the moment with his wife.

It was there he first saw Maghen Lorwell, an assistant cook to the Toodmans’ house and a helper with the workers’ meals. At first, Mark maintained a personal distance from ranch coworkers, but that changed with his permanent status and living full time at the main ranch. There, he ate elbow to elbow with the others, and conversation was impossible to avoid.

“No, you don’t, Mark. You’re coming with us to the Nurburt harvest festival if I have to tie you up and drag you.”

Mark eyed the man sitting next to him, as they finished evening meal. Lex Tylmar stood six inches shorter and weighed eighty pounds less than Mark. Though he was a tireless worker, no one at the table believed he could restrain the odd man he’d taken on as a friend. General laughter ensued, along with a chorus supporting Tylmar’s position that Mark needed to become more social away from the ranch.

“How do you expect to catch women if you don’t go where they’re at?” quipped a voice from the other end of the long table.

“Maybe he’s not interested in women,” offered a late-forties woman named Hurla while clearing empty dishes off the table. Her husband worked as the ranch’s farrier and horse trainer. “No other reason a big, strapping man like Mark wouldn’t take advantage of available women in Nurburt. Sure, not that many around here. Well . . . except maybe for Maghen.”

Mark had noticed the referenced woman. It was hard not to see the big woman on the occasional days she helped with worker meals. Maghen Lorwell stood only a couple inches shorter than Mark, and her loose work clothing suggested a sturdy body. During the course of a sixday, he might see her five or six times—putting plates of food on the table, removing empty plates, or walking between ranch buildings. He vaguely remembered hearing that she usually worked at the main house, cooking and cleaning.

“Hey, what about Maghen?” asked Tylmar. “She’s unmarried and might be a match for Mark.”

“Not a bad idea,” offered a gravelly voice. “At least, he’s someone who could protect himself if she gets offended.”

“Now, now,” Hurla said. “Maghen only smacked that man when he put a hand where she hadn’t said he could put it.”

Mark’s raised eyebrow elicited an explanation from Tylmar. “A man who used to work here before you came. Kept pestering Maghen, wanting to get her on some hay in the barn. She wasn’t interested. Finally, one day he did more than pester, and she beat the crap out of him. When Toodman heard what happened, he dumped the man on a wagon, took him to Nurburt, and left him on the street. Maghen apologized, but it served the asshole right.”

Not to be diverted, Tylmar brought the talk back to the harvest festival, and Mark gave in—easily when he realized he did want to go. He’d been holed up at the ranch long enough. He felt the urge for a change in his routine.

The next Godsday, five wagons loaded with passengers took the fifteen-mile trip to Nurburt.

“It’s a tradition at the ranch,” said Tylmar. “Every year, work stops during the harvest festival so anyone interested can attend. Locals claim ours is the best festival in southern Frangel, but I wouldn’t know since it’s the only one I’ve ever attended.”

Mark found himself in a wagon with eight men and bags of clothing they would need for the stay. Other wagons carried more workers, families, neighbors, and enough tents for the entire caravan.

Toodman provided just enough of a nasty-tasting alcoholic beverage to keep everyone, especially the men, in a festive mood during the trip—though not enough to become drunk. Thus, the three-hour trip passed with singing and banter between wagons. They arrived enough before dark to set up an encampment of tents and fire pits.

Mark skipped the next morning’s formal beginning of the festival. He’d heard enough from Tylmar to know three to four hours of speeches were something he could miss. At mid-day, a bell rang twenty or so times to signal the opening of displays and activities. Mark joined Tylmar and a dozen Toodman workers headed to forty or more acres of stalls, displays, ad hoc musical performances, and events. Within minutes, the group began to splinter, as individuals or smaller groups headed for different interests.

An hour later, Tylmar and Mark had walked through a row of food stalls, sampling as they went. Mark had what looked like a burrito filled with a spicy Hungarian goulash occupying both hands and mouth and couldn’t verbally respond when Tylmar said, “Oh, look. Here comes Maghen and her family.”

Mark paused, trying to keep the burrito sauce off his clothes. He saw a group of people pass twenty feet away. A group of mainly big people, except for two women almost a foot shorter than the other four. The three men appeared to be of Mark’s height or taller. The oldest man had a wide gray beard, but there was nothing old about his wide body. The two younger men were obviously sons—even with beards, they strikingly resembled the father. One of the two short women wore her gray hair in a bun, and the younger woman carried a baby in one arm and held the hand of a four- or five-year-old boy in the other. The third woman was almost as tall as the men, had a robust build, and was striking, which surprised Mark. His taste on Earth had run to those like his wife, Jocelyn—slender, blonde if possible, and somewhat heart-shaped faces. This woman was anything but slender but was definitely a woman. Her brown hair with lighter highlights hung loose around her shoulders, and a firm jaw in a round face exuded health and animation, as she talked with her companions.

Mark scanned the crowd. “Where’s Maghen? I don’t see her.”

Tylmar grunted. “Then you’re blind. We walked right by her.”

Mark cast his gaze in several directions, then shook his head.

Tylmar grasped Mark’s arm and turned him around. “There. That group of big people, two shorter women, and the small child. That’s the Lorwell family—parents, four grown children, and two little ones from the older daughter. They always look odd, the father, three big sons and a daughter, and the much smaller mother and other daughter.”

Mark made the connection. “The other daughter is Maghen? Sure doesn’t look like her.”

Tylmar shrugged. “Just goes to show you haven’t really looked at her. She’s not bad looking when she’s out of work clothes, though too good-size a woman for most men. A hard worker and nice as could be, until you piss her off.”

He tugged on Mark’s arm. “How about we head over to the event field for a while? There’s always something fun to watch, and if you’re careful, it’s a good place to lay some bets.”

Mark hesitated. He wanted a second look at the Lorwell family, but his hands were still busy with the burrito, so he followed Tylmar.

On the way to a flat grassy field with flags and scattered stands, Mark finished the burrito. He cleaned the remnants off his hands and face with the cloth he carried as a handkerchief. They first stopped at a makeshift archery range and listened to vociferous betting while four men strung what looked like longbows and tested the pull strengths.

“Bowmanship is still a pastime in this part of Frangel. There’re songs and legends about a couple of centuries ago when the Frangelese beat off armies from Madyrna and Tekleum, due to the men’s skill with bows. I never had the knack, but some men practice all year to compete, especially at festivals. We can stop and watch if you’d like.”

“No,” said Mark. “I’ve hunted with a bow but never could hit anything.”

Shouts erupted from a nearby cluster of several hundred people standing in front of a two-foot-high platform. On it stood several men and objects Mark initially couldn’t make out.

“Krykor judging,” explained Tylmar, just as Mark recognized several of the lumps on the platform. They were the sheep-like animal that provided a wool equivalent. Mark’s textile venture had focused on flurox, but he had intended to expand to wool. At this thought, too many memories surfaced in his mind.

“At one time, I wished Toodman raised krykors, instead of cattle,” Tylmar said with a laugh, “but then Toodman had me round up a krykor flock that strayed onto the ranch. Even though krykors are smaller than cattle, they can be harder to control. Trust me, I prefer cattle. Let’s see what else is going on.”

The next event they moved to elicited the hardest belly laugh from Mark in a longer time than he could remember. They watched as men waded into a flock of krykors, then each grabbed one, threw it over a shoulder, and ran to where event partners waited at small pens.

“Don’t ask me where this came from,” said Tylmar, “but everyone enjoys watching or participating.”

After twenty minutes, Mark estimated less than half of the captured krykors made it to pens. Some escaped while being transported, often when men ran through a muddy ditch presumably created as an obstacle.

After bypassing two more events, they approached another shouting crowd that surrounded a thirty-foot circular area.

“Weightlifting,” said Tylmar. “I might have expected to find the Lorwell family here.”

Mark jerked his head around to scan the crowd. He finally identified the same family that Tylmar had pointed out earlier. Tylmar was right; the short mother and daughter among the other adults towering over their neighbors were curious looking.

His gaze stopped at the woman Tylmar had said was Maghen. It took a moment for Mark to agree, once he searched his memory and compared it to the woman he looked at.

“You’re right,” said Mark. “She looks different when she’s not wearing work clothes.”

“What?”

“Maghen. Over there.”

“Oh. Yeah. Look, one of her brothers is about to have a turn. I think the one named Erlon. The other one’s Fenon. The father was the champion for many years. Now his two sons are the best.”

They watched as Erlon stripped off his shirt to show an impressive set of muscles. He assumed several momentary poses before moving to two wooden blocks supporting an eight-foot iron bar two feet from each end. Erlon proceeded to slip iron discs with center holes onto the bar ends. When he’d added the same number of discs to each end, he stood between the blocks. He bent to grasp the bar and, with a grunt, lifted the bar to his chest, then pressed it above his head.

Good thing the bar is that long, thought Mark. A major accident is waiting to happen with nothing clamping the discs from falling off.

Mark shook his head. He imagined a single disc slipping off and the now heavier end sagging, letting discs fall off that end. This would further unbalance the bar. The man’s feet could be in serious danger from falling iron, as could his head from the bar’s violent snapback.

Erlon brought the bar back to the wooden supports. His effort was rewarded with cheers, particularly loud from his family. Brother Fenon followed with the same weight arrangement, then five more men, one of whom failed to push the bar fully above his head. Erlon then approached the setup again.

“I assume they keep adding weight until only one man is left?” asked Mark, strangely more interested in the event than he’d expected.

“Yeah. Shouldn’t take long. This was just a warm-up. The two brothers will quickly go beyond what the others can lift, although two years ago a stranger in town gave the brothers quite a struggle until Fenon finally won.”

They witnessed two more rounds of added discs. By then, only the Lorwell brothers and one other man remained. Later, Mark couldn’t have told anyone what came over him, but he admitted to himself it was likely related to seeing the animation on Maghen Lorwell’s face as she watched the competition.

Before he thought about consequences, Mark turned to Tylmar and asked, “How do you get to give it a try? Do you have to start at the beginning weights or try where they are now?”

“I don’t think there’re any rules. Why?” Tylmar turned from watching the participants. “You? You want to give it a try?”

Mark smiled. He wasn’t much for archery or running around carrying krykors, but he did know about weightlifting from his younger days with football and wrestling. “Oh, I think I can manage.”

Tylmar gripped Mark’s forearm and leaned over. “You’re big and strong enough, but do you really think you can compete with the Lorwell brothers?”

“I can’t guarantee, but I’d bet on me if I could.”

Tylmar’s grin became predatory. “In that case, slip me whatever coin you want to bet. I’ll announce you want to join in. You step into the circle, and there’ll be a flurry of talk and betting. No one has seen you lift, so I’ll try to lay off bets and see if I can get good odds.”

“Remember,” said Mark, “I don’t know exactly how much weight they’re using, so I can’t guarantee, but if you’re okay with that, let’s do it.”

Mark surreptitiously passed over all the coin he carried—everything he had expected to spend during their time at the festival. He later assessed that was a foolish move.

CHAPTER 21

DISPLAY

Tylmar pushed past people at the edge of the circle. He rushed over to where Erlon Lorwell leaned down to add more discs to the bar.

“Wait, wait! Another man wants to lift.”

He waved to Mark, who stepped forward. Three minutes of arguing ensued among audience members, the single non-Lorwell contestant who was still active, and an older man apparently serving in a semi-official capacity.

Mark only half listened to the discussion. He pretended to gaze around at the crowd but managed to catch glimpses of Maghen Lorwell. About the fourth time, he paused with his eyes on her. She looked back and smiled.

What are you doing, Mark? he thought. Don’t piss around and fool yourself. You’re trying to impress the girl.

He smiled back, and she whispered something to her father, who up to then hadn’t participated in deciding whether a newcomer could still try the weights. Whatever his daughter said, he spoke loudly, getting everyone’s attention.

“Oh, for God’s sake, let the man try. This is not some official event. It’s to see who’s the strongest man at the festival. Quit pretending this is anything but fun.”

A cheer went up, and the already dwindling number of complainers shut up.

Old guy must still have clout, thought Mark. I bet when he was younger, he could have given his sons some serious competition.

The other three contestants moved aside, and Erlon Lorwell motioned Mark to the current weight. Mark gave Maghen one more quick look before he turned his back on her to address the bar. He interpreted her expression as either friendly curiosity or “Does this bozo think he can actually do this?”

From the number of iron plates on the bar, it had to be a significant amount of weight. Mark hadn’t warmed up, which was a good way to tear a muscle or get a hernia. He gripped the bar, positioned his feet, and tested the weight. The bar didn’t move. A few titters broke out. He ignored them.

He took a breath and tried again, this time seriously attempting to move the bar. It lifted several inches before he set it back. He had the measure of the weight. Titters changed to laughter.

He reset his feet and hands, went into rapid in-and-out breathing to prepare for a burst of power, shut down his lungs, and pulled with his arms and drove with his legs. When the bar was chest high, he rotated his arms and dropped under the bar, holding its position while he straightened up, arms fully extended. After a second, he let it drop, then caught it before it hit the blocks. He set it down quietly.

Shouts erupted from all sides, and a blow to Mark’s back took his breath away.

“That’ll show ’em,” said a laughing Erlon Lorwell. A second pat on the back was more restrained than the first. “Now stand aside for a real man.”

The Lorwell brother added another disc to each end of the bar.

Maybe it’s best I don’t know exactly how much this weighs, thought Mark, for a moment regretting he’d stepped forward. Then he reconsidered. He knew he was stronger than on Earth. Now was his chance to find out how much stronger.

Erlon lifted the new weight, as did brother Fenon, who scowled at Mark. The third man made a half-hearted attempt and backed off the weight, shaking his head. Mark repeated his previous routine and lifted successfully, though from his remembered experience he could tell there wouldn’t be many more rounds before he reached his limit.

On the next round, Fenon was out of rhythm and couldn’t get the weight extended above his head. With a disgusted shout, he dropped the bar heavily on the blocks, surprising Mark that the wood didn’t shatter.

Mark hadn’t glanced at Maghen in the last round but now tried to sneak a look. Pondering eyes stared back.

Suddenly, the urge hit Mark to fail at the next lift and fade into the crowd. After most of an Anyar year working to stay unobtrusive, he was on public display. If he won whatever booby prize the winner got, his real name would spread. And he didn’t fool himself. He wanted to impress a woman he’d never spoken to, who wasn’t all that objectively attractive, and who looked like she might be a fairly good weightlifter herself.

She smiled again.

Oh, what the hell, he thought.

“Ser Lorwell,” said Mark, addressing his last competitor. “Would you allow me to go first this time?”

Erlon smiled. “Going to try and drive me off, are you? Go ahead.”

Mark decided to go all in on a final lift. He put two more discs on each end. Gasps, murmuring, and shouts roiled through the crowd, which had now grown by another hundred or more people. Erlon’s smile dimmed, but the eyes remained friendly.

What’s the worst that can happen? thought Mark. If I can’t do it, I’ll bet Erlon can’t either, so we’ll probably take off a disc.

Mark assumed his stance. He hadn’t tested the weight on the last round but did now. It didn’t budge. He tried again and got it barely off the ground before dropping it. The crowd’s reaction varied from cheers to disappointment.

He heard a woman’s voice behind him. “Try again.”

He turned to meet Maghen’s look. She didn’t say anything, but he thought she nodded ever so slightly.

I don’t believe this, thought Mark. I’m acting like a male bird putting on a display for the opposite sex. I haven’t tried so blatantly to impress a female since I was a sophomore in high school.

That time it had been Juliet Jablonski, willowy with blue eyes and yellow-blonde hair. She was considered out of reach for a mere sophomore. Yet he had lettered on the football team and won the county’s heavyweight wrestling championship. Buoyed by self-confidence, he’d walked right up to her in a hallway and asked her to go to the homecoming dance with him. Her shriek of laughter rang through half the building. She called out to a cluster of other senior girls what a dipshit had just said to her. He’d slunk off, and for weeks he was convinced everyone in school was ridiculing him.

Mark grabbed the memory and turned to face Maghen Lorwell, who looked nothing like Juliet Jablonski. It was a trick a coach had taught him—get his blood pulsing and adrenaline flowing by mentally constructing an enemy to face or a critical need to succeed.

He took his position and pumped up and down with his legs, as he drew in and expelled three large breaths. He ended each with a grunt and imagined himself exploding when nerve impulses went to every relevant muscle. The trick was to be quick and assume success. There could be no hesitation or doubt—it was all the way or nothing.

The bar came off the blocks. His ears picked up metal groaning, though his brain ignored the information. He exploded upward, then dropped into a squat under the bar, arms stiff supporting the weight, every muscle quivering. Legs and torso raised him to a standing position. Only when fully erect was he aware of the rest of the world. He stared at Maghen’s face and a thumb’s up—a gesture he hadn’t seen before on Anyar.

His body wanted to release the bar and jump out of the way, but he unlocked his elbows, slowed the fall until the weight hung at his knees, then gently set it on the blocks. He knew his form had been atrocious, but no muscle or tendon felt torn—which he counted as the best result.

Cheers erupted.

Erlon raced to embrace him, then shouted, “I concede! No point breaking my back!”

Mark became engulfed by the cheering crowd. A seeming endless stream of people wanted to offer congratulations, shake his hand, slap him on the back, and ask questions about his name and origin. Several times he caught glimpses of a grinning Tylmar collecting coin from losers—most of them with scowls. Tylmar mouthed the words “five to one” when he caught Mark looking at him.

No wonder some people are pissed, thought Mark. They probably assumed five-to-one odds were good with a known champion against the stranger.

The crowd began dispersing as the Lorwell family’s bulk squeezed other people out of the way.

“Father, this is Mark Kaldwel,” said Maghen. “Like I told you, he also works for Keeslyn Toodman.

“Ser Kaldwal, these are my parents and my sister, Lori.” She smiled. “You already know my brothers.”

“Hmmph,” uttered the family patriarch, only to be elbowed sharply by his short wife.

“Get over yourself, Hurmon Lorwell. And at your age, you should be over acting like a disappointed child.”

“Woman never stops nagging me,” said Hurmon. “Even worse, Tura’s often right.” He held out a hand. “Congratulations, Kaldwel, but expect my sons to be back next year to give you a run for it.”

“I may not contest them if that’s the case. I think I almost broke half a dozen parts of me.”

All the family members laughed or smiled, except Fenon.

“Don’t mind my brother,” said Erlon, “he’s no more surly today than any other day.”

Fenon stomped off.

“Been working for Toodman long, Kaldwel?” asked Hurmon.

“A few months. I’m from northern Frangel but wanted to live in more open country than up there. My family owned a small ranch they sold. I tried other work but decided to come this direction to find work.”

Mark intended to head off too many questions and had settled on saying just enough to satisfy people’s initial curiosity.

“Maghen has never mentioned you.” said Hurmon, “So, glad we got the chance to meet.” He looked down at his wife. “Time for you to get your preserves ready for the judging?”

“You and Erlon can help me,” she said. “We’ll leave Maghen with Ser Kaldwel.”

When they left Mark and Maghen behind, she chuckled. “Mother is always looking for ways to push me to talk with any man who might be a husband candidate.”

“And that’s me?”

“Well, you’re a man, and you have a job, are strong and acceptable looking, and don’t drool. For mother, that puts you high on her list. The one thing she didn’t get to do was find out if you’re married. I’d guess not, since you’ve been working for Toodman long enough without signs of a family.”

Mark laughed. “You can tell her the answer is no. I was married once but not anymore.”

“Why once and not now?”

Mark felt momentarily discomfited. He knew the Frangelese were more direct than most people on Earth, but he wasn’t comfortable revealing details of his life. Still . . . she’d asked, and for some reason he relaxed.

“Simply a mistake, partly on my part. I didn’t look closely enough at who she really was. Plus, she became unhappy once she decided I wasn’t going to provide the quality of life she expected. We dissolved the marriage, so we could both go about our lives the way each of us wanted.”

Mark figured his being cast onto an alien planet God knows how far from Earth should count as ending the marriage. For Jocelyn, he had to have been reported dead, so no problem there.

Suddenly, Elron reappeared. “Fenon is over at the fighting pit. I think he’s going to take out his frustration on anyone foolish enough to challenge him.”

Maghen turned to Mark. “Let’s go watch. Fenon is one of the better fighters, though he didn’t do it last harvest festival because he had a broken arm.”

Watching the grumpy brother do anything rated extremely low on Mark’s list, but somehow not parting with Maghen was on the list—for reasons he didn’t question—so he followed her. If he’d known what was coming, he’d have declined.

They arrived in time to see Fenon pick a man up and throw him into the onlookers.

“Hah! That’s the best that’s come to the festival this year? Anybody else?”

A woman standing in front of Mark cackled. “That’s probably the only one,” said the woman loudly to Fenon. “I doubt anyone else wants to try.”

Unfortunately, when Fenon looked at the woman, the second thing he saw was Mark.

“What about you, Kaldwel? Got the stomach to face a man and not some lumps of iron?”

“Ignore him,” said Elron. “He’s in a foul mood.”

Mark knew Elron was right. Maghen agreed, as was evident by her frown at her brother’s words. Fenon noticed Mark’s decision to decline the invitation.

“What? Belatrek’s curse come over you?”

Although Mark had no idea what or who “Belatrek” was, that ignorance was not shared with most of the people within hearing—as judged by gasps, followed by silence and hundreds of eyes that turned on him.

Well, shit! I think I’ve just been insulted.

The next few seconds seemed to last minutes, as Mark’s mind evaluated what he wanted to do with what he should do. Tylmar laid a hand on Mark’s arm and shook his pale face when Mark looked at him. In comparison, Maghen’s face turned red, and she snarled at her brother. The Lorwell mother said something to her ill-mannered son, and the father’s glare at his son foretold a coming parental reprimand.

Mark laughed—a deep, belly-resounding noise that froze and silenced the crowd. It wasn’t a laugh of humor, but one of astonishment someone might express when faced with an unavoidable yet ridiculous situation. After being cast onto a beach naked to start a new life, his months of adjusting, the disaster of his grandiose plans, and the destrex hunt, now some idiot was giving him a double dare along the lines of “My daddy can whip your daddy” or “What—are you afraid?”

Mark was pissed. Not so much at Fenon. How could he be mad at a genetic asshole? The little that Mark had witnessed of the other Lorwells showed him that they had temperaments different from Fenon’s. However, Mark’s past frustrations became personified by Fenon Lorwell.

“Okay, jerk. You want to dance? Let’s dance.”

He stepped forward and tore off his shirt, hearing fabric rip in the process.

He tossed aside his boots and strode forward to within six feet of Fenon. The man-child frowned, his belligerence tempered with uncertainty at Mark’s response. Although the challenger’s answer had been in English, the undertones of menace were obvious to the rest of the Lorwells They now frowned at Mark while most other spectators cheered him on.

Hurmon Lorwell stepped between the two men, grabbing a wrist of each and holding their arms high.

“You both know the rules. No biting, gouging, or blows to the groin. Match is over when one man either gives up or is unable to continue.”

Hurmon backed away quickly, leaving the two men facing each other wearing only pants. Fenon lunged at Mark as soon as his father moved. Mark stepped back a half pace, ducked, slid an arm under Fenon’s spread right arm, and twisted into a hip throw.

Fenon landed on his back with a thud. Mark could have finished him right then while on the ground and stunned. Instead, he turned his back and stepped away, as if in disdain.

A roar from behind him warned Mark that Fenon was back on his feet and charging, undeterred. Mark whirled. This time, instead of stepping back, with a shout he delivered a stiff-armed blow with his palm to Fenon’s chest at heart level. Only at the last second did Mark relax his arm to prevent a full-force impact.

Fenon stopped as if he’d hit a wall. His mouth opened, and he gasped for breath. His face turned red.

Again, Mark could have ended the match. Instead, he stepped back but this time in alarm.

From ages eight to fourteen, he had sporadically taken lessons in karate. He hadn’t been a graceful child, and his father had thought martial arts would help his coordination. What he lacked in agility was compensated for by aggression—so much so that the sensei, at no extra charge, gave him private lessons to learn control. And learn he had, though the number and degree of his bruises led his father to visit the dojo. Whatever was said between Dad Caldwell and the sensei stayed with them, but the lessons continued until the sensei allowed Mark back into group sessions.

In the later stages of his private lessons, once Mark learned control, the sensei emphasized what must never be done in karate matches. He left unspoken what might be used under dire, real-world circumstances. Among the forbidden blows was striking to the heart area of the chest, which could lead to momentary paralysis or even death in rare cases.

Mark, in his current mood, had barely stopped himself from delivering a full blow with strength well beyond what he’d had on Earth.

Fenon recovered enough to assume a defensive stance. Mark could easily have brushed it aside. Instead, Mark circled his opponent, pretending to look for openings. His fury abated, he wanted to end the fight with as little attention as possible. But how? He judged that Fenon wouldn’t concede easily. Mark wasn’t mad anymore and wanted to avoid hurting Maghen’s brother, but neither would he throw the match. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t chance it. Fenon was too dangerous and potentially uncontrolled.

Mark closed with Fenon and let himself be pushed backward. They grappled to no effect for almost a minute while Fenon recovered more strength. Finally, Mark believed his opponent appeared to onlookers to be fully aggressive. For the next ten minutes, Mark turned the match more into wrestling than boxing. He choreographed the match as well as he could without making it seem to either the spectators or Fenon that Mark was the puppeteer.

Fortunately, Fenon seemed agreeable to emphasize wrestling that pitted muscle against muscle, rather than blows by fists. Mark knew he only had to be patient. No one who hadn’t wrestled understood the exhaustion that resulted from two opponents putting their best effort against the other. It was effectively maximum isometric exertion. When he felt Fenon’s energy waning, Mark feigned the same, until both men lay on ground, apparently exhausted without a winner.

“That’s all,” called Hurmon Lorwell, moving to stand between the two men. “No winner! It’s a draw!”

The crowd that had grown by hundreds let loose cheers, appreciative of witnessing a match to remember and to retell over meals and beers.

Mark pretended it took an effort to get on his feet. Elron helped his brother up, and people crowded around both men. When Mark looked at Maghen, her expression changed from “wondering” to acknowledgment that they both knew something everyone else was oblivious to.

She knows, thought Mark. He knew people could be smart in different ways. Whatever education Maghen Lorwell had was irrelevant to her ability to assess what she’d seen. Mark didn’t doubt she recognized his subterfuge.

When the spectators had thinned enough, moving on to other events and stalls, Fenon staggered over to Mark and embraced him.

“Maybe you’re an ass and maybe not, but I apologize for saying you were anything to do with Belatrek.”

“Well, I’m not sure if I’m an ass, but I am sure that you’re one,” answered Mark.

Fenon laughed, to the evident relief of the rest of his family.

“It’s true,” said Fenon, “as my family continues to tell me. But never let it be said that I’m not honest. And I’ll never let anything be said about your courage, standing up to me like you did and fighting me to exhaustion.”

You’re definitely an ass, thought Mark, but I’ll take it as a win that I shouldn’t have any more problems with you.

“Here’s what’s left of your shirt,” said Maghen, handing the tattered remnant to Mark.

“Goodness,” said Tura Lorwell. “I’m afraid that shirt is beyond repair. Maghen, take Ser Kaldwel to the stalls that sell shirts. We’ll head back to the judging of home products, which should be starting soon.”

Mark recovered his boots and walked, bare-chested, with her two hundred yards to a lane of clothing stalls.

At the first stall, she rummaged through shirts with rough fabric and surveyed the offerings. “No, I don’t see anything that would fit you, with those shoulders and arms. Let’s try the next one.”

Four stalls later, a brown wool shirt might have been even too large, but it was the best they’d found so far.

“You can keep looking if you’d like. I suspect you’ll have better luck getting shirts made new after the clothier measures you. I noticed your old shirt was high-quality flurox. I doubt you bought that anywhere near Nurburt.”

Mark hesitated to answer. Giving what seemed to be small, innocuous answers could lead to bigger revelations that might raise suspicions about his background story.

“I bought it in Landylbury. It was my best shirt, and I thought I should dress better for the festival than at work.” He figured that claiming to have been to the third-largest city in Frangel would divert attention from Kaledon and Brawsea.

He paid for the brown shirt, donned it, and expected Maghen to leave to rejoin her family.

“Let’s walk,” she said.

He let her lead, as they wound among stalls and onto a grassy area between the festival and staked horses and wagons.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For . . . ?”

“For not hurting Fenon and at the same time not humiliating him. I know he can be exasperating, but he’s getting better. We were worried about him when he was younger. Now it’s only an occasional episode when he becomes that obnoxious. Father and mother believe in another year or two, we can quit worrying about him. Fortunately, he loves his wife and child dearly, and their influence has been God sent.”

Well, why not be honest? he thought.

“I wanted to end it without anyone getting hurt or embarrassed,” Mark said, “so I did the best I could. I’ll admit I was too angry to start. And no, not at your brother, though he can be an asshole. Something just triggered memories of things that happened to me in the last year. Other than Fenon, you seem to have a fine family.”

“All families are different, but I always thank God for the one I have. How about you? Did you leave a family from wherever you’re from?”

The background story Mark had settled on telling included as much accurate information as he believed didn’t hint at his true origin. The theory being that the least fabricated meant the least chance of his screwing up the tale.

“Parents, two brothers, two sisters, plus the usual uncles, aunts, and cousins. I never kept straight the relationships after those.”

“Do you miss not being near them?” asked Maghen.

“Yes and no. As with all families, there are some you like better than others. But still, family is family.”

“You’re right. And I do love Fenon. When I was young, he took it as his role to defend me from other children who called me names. It was a childish thing, I know, but I was always embarrassed about being larger than most girls and not attractive.”

Mark was perplexed at how to respond. Most rational men knew that talking to women about their size and appearance was off limits. Yet the young Lorwell woman seemed easily forthcoming.

“Well, I don’t think the size of anyone is a true measure of their worth, and I wouldn’t have thought to consider you unattractive.”

Denying she was unattractive was the best he could muster.

She smiled, as people do when they don’t believe what they’ve heard but avoid making it an issue.

Mark realized he didn’t know how to identify whether a man or a woman was married just by observation. On reflection, he couldn’t remember any obvious symbols such as wedding rings. He’d been too focused on himself and hadn’t picked up on many ordinary customs. But she had mentioned her mother always being on the lookout for a suitable husband for her.

“Do you want to be married?” he asked, startled and then unsure where the question had come from. She shrugged ruefully. “It’s not always easy for women to marry because more girls are born than boys. Men tend to die of accidents more often than women, and there’s fighting—not so much as happened long ago, but the occasional feud or minor fighting still occurs between Frangel and its neighbors. By the time we’re of marriageable age, the excess of women is even greater.”

Maghen continued. “It means there are women who never marry and other women who pick husbands they otherwise wouldn’t choose. I have the additional problem that not many men want a wife my size.”

“Well, I’m not most men,” Mark mumbled.

Now why the hell did I say that? he thought. She might take it as suggesting something to her.

Maghen seemed to ignore his comment—he hoped.

“Especially one who speaks her mind,” she said.

I’ll bet it’s not just her being honest. That seems to be a Frangelese trait. But men might sense she’s got something more than them—call it common sense.

Mark had the sudden feeling their conversation was about to veer into awkward territory. Relief came in the form of Tylmar searching for Mark to go to an adjacent field where horse racing took place. Tylmar was convinced he had a foolproof method of choosing winners, and the coin was burning a hole in his pocket.

Maghen appeared puzzled by Mark’s offer to help her find her family and assured him she could fend for herself. Tylmar’s incessant jabbering and the races garnered most of Mark’s attention for the next two hours. After that, he sampled far too many different beers while moving between musical events into the late evening. Nevertheless, his recollections of the events earlier in the day kept cropping up. Among the images was a certain tall young woman.

***

Maghen watched the two Toodman workers walk away, but she mainly studied Mark Kaldwel. She had never spoken with him before, except for occasional exchanges when she helped with workers’ meals. She smiled, remembering the longest conversation they’d had before today. It involved his asking for more bread at an evening meal several sixdays ago.

Not that she hadn’t noticed him. It was hard not to, given his size. The way he moved implied impressive reservoirs of energy and strength. Once, she’d watched him help move the table in the eating room. She didn’t know how much the thirty-foot table weighed, but the only other time she had witnessed it being moved involved her and five men—three people on each end. Kaldwel had been talking with Tylmar and continued the conversation, absentmindedly picking up one end of the table by himself while Maghen and two men hurried to lift the other end.

Thus, when he stepped forward at the weightlifting event, she hadn’t joined in the titters. As Kaldwel first tested the weight and looked her way, she reflexively hinted encouragement.

She hadn’t missed his attempt to make eye contact without being noticed. His glances might have been mere curiosity, but she knew she would be watching him more closely.

CHAPTER 22

SETTLING IN

The festival continued the next day. The ranch staff and families watched and participated in activities of individual or group interest. Mark declined Tylmar’s and several other workers’ offers to stay together, saying he wanted to just wander around and decide which items of clothing to purchase.

He hadn’t lied . . . quite. He did wander among the stalls, and he did buy two shirts, leather gloves, and boots. However, he spent much of the morning shadowing the Lowrell family. Several times he almost convinced himself to approach Maghen, an action that never materialized. Occasionally, he lost track of them and spent nervous moments searching without stumbling on them. That worked most of the time. Twice, he thought Maghen’s gaze passed over his distant position, but neither time did she stop and stare.

During the entire morning, he felt farcical but pleased that no other Toodman worker had caught him tracking the family. He also found himself staring more intently at other women, something that provoked a few glares before he realized what he was doing.

Finally, feeling too foolish, he reconnected with three other ranch workers and spent the rest of the day with them. He saw the Lowrells only twice. Maghen smiled at him both times.

When they returned to the ranch and resumed work, he didn’t see Maghen for the first three days. That third evening, he engaged Tylmar in conversation about the festival, and, as innocently as he could, he mentioned Maghen’s absence.

“Oh, I imagine she spent some added time with her family. They live north of Nurburt. She’ll show up by next sixday.”

“Where do the women working at the ranch live?” asked Mark. “It hadn’t occurred to me to wonder.”

“Well, of course, wives live with their families off the ranch or in the family cottages over by the river. There’s only three unmarried women who work here—Maghen and two youngsters about sixteen years old. They live in a cottage next to the main house. It’s strictly forbidden territory, according to Toodman. Quickest way to get thrown off the property is sniffing around the young ones.”

“Only the young ones? What about Maghen Lorwell?”

“Oh, I think Toodman and everyone else assumes she can take care of herself. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just curious,” said Mark and hurried on to another topic.

As Tylmar had predicted, the day after the next Godsday, Mark sat talking with other workers at morning meal when someone placed a bowl of the local version of porridge in front of him. He didn’t need to turn to identify who it was—the size of the figure in the corner of his eye and the humming voice were sufficient.

“Hello, Maghen. Back from visiting the family?” asked Tylmar.

“Yes, I love them all, but I worried that all you worthless men wouldn’t know how to eat or wash your own clothes if I didn’t return.”

Good-natured banter ricocheted between the eaters and the servers—except for Mark, who kept silent. He was content to leave when he finished eating, so he could be alone and clear his thoughts. He pushed his mug of kava away, and Maghen appeared as if by magic to pick it up.

“What’s with Mark, Tylmar?” she asked. “He hasn’t said a word all meal.”

“I think he’s relieved you came back. He’s been asking about you.”

I’ll strangle him, gut him, and tie him hanging from a tree by his feet, Mark promised himself.

Mark waited for her to respond and wondered when she didn’t.

During the subsequent two sixdays, Maghen helped out at the workers’ eating building more than usual. She explained her more frequent attendance as only routine filling in where needed. Mark and Maghen experienced other interactions during their “chance” crossing of paths on other days. At least, that’s what Mark told Tylmar.

“No, there’s nothing going on between us. We just happen to talk to each other more than usual.”

“Right,” said Tylmar, “and I’m the exiled emperor of Madyrna.”

Mark huffed off.

Life changed again on a day when Maghen didn’t appear at morning meal. Mark grumped and scowled enough that even Tylmar quit trying to engage him in conversation. After eating, he followed the last of the men out of the meal house and joined the half of the workers not already assigned specific work for the week. Tir Murklyn waited for them. The late sixties foreman had worked at the ranch since before Huron Toodman was born. Age and old injuries prevented him from doing active labor, but he was respected by most workers and was close to the Toodman family.

“All right, you lazy trash. Shut up and listen. I don’t know if there’s hope I’ll get work out of any of you, but we’ll try anyway.”

It was Murklyn’s daily opening statement and brought forth the usual retorts deriding the foreman’s experience and ancestry. Mark had thought the ritual trite when he first experienced it, but he had come to look forward to it.

“Mark, take Tylmar and Vastal with you to finish fixing the fencing along the east gorge. Toodman noticed one of the horses kicking at it a few days ago. It’s been a few years since we repaired it. We don’t want the stupid animals falling off the edge.”

Mark knew the site: a half-mile of wooden rail fencing that blocked horses or cattle from plunging a hundred feet to their deaths.

“It’s close enough to the ranch for us to send out mid-day meal. Don’t bother mustering here in the morning until you’re finished. Just let me know how it’s going.”

For the next two days, the three men put in new railings and dug holes to replace rotten posts. An eleven-year-old boy named Werlyn brought food about noon. On the morning of the third day, they rejoined the morning muster.

“We’re almost done,” said Mark to Murklyn. “We won’t need all three of us to finish. I can do it alone and be done by afternoon.”

“All right, Mark. Go ahead. If you finish in time, check the next valley to the southwest. A neighbor asked Toodman to be on the alert for some of his horses he thinks strayed onto Toodman land.”

The day’s assignment pleased Mark. It gave him a day to himself, something not always possible amid the work and society of the ranch. He believed he had moved far away enough in distance and time from the guilds to escape their attention. Assuming he was correct, what next? Spending the rest of his life working on someone else’s ranch didn’t appeal to him, nor did the image of living a solitary life. Until he came to the ranch, his relationships had mainly been with workers and coworkers, but he hadn’t formed close friendships, except with the Hoveys. He’d had no serious connection to a woman his age, aside from occasional nights with Ronalyn in Tregallon. Yet that connection only seemed to be satisfying their mutual needs without the pretense of anything more.

He had occasionally reflected on his lack of deep personal connections, but from the beginning of his time on Anyar, his visions of all the innovations he would introduce consumed him. Now, something had changed. Even with no clear plan for the future, instead of feeling lost he was more relaxed than he could remember—including in his last decades on Earth. He counted Tylmar as a friend, and several other workers were heading in that direction. Toodman and Murklyn were his employer and his immediate boss, but the relationship with them was relaxed and laden with mutual respect.

Then there was Maghen. He didn’t know why his thoughts kept returning to her. Maybe his relative lack of interest in women had finally caught up with him, and she was the only appropriate woman at the ranch. At least, that was his first thought, but he soon questioned whether there wasn’t something more. He didn’t know his mind, except that being interested in women was no longer in the background.

Such issues ran through his head when he arrived at the last section of fence to be repaired. After walking the line and testing posts, he decided three needed replacing. They had left their tools covered by waterproofed leather, rather than haul them back and forth to the ranch. He retrieved the post-hole digger—a four-inch, two-turn auger attached to a four-foot handle with a crossbar for gripping and turning the head. A five-foot iron pole with a flat-bladed end completed the tool set.

He settled into a familiar routine: break up the surface with the pole, use the digger to screw into the loosened soil, pull out earth pushed into the upper portions of the auger head, repeat. When deep enough, get a pole from a stack they’d brought by wagon the first day, drop the pole into the hole, hold it vertical with one hand while kicking soil into the hole, tamp it with the blunt end of the iron rod, and keep adding soil. One pole. Two. When he finished the third pole, he started attaching railings with square-shafted iron nails.

The early morning clouds had given way to mostly blue skies by the time the sun was at its zenith. The first grumbles of hunger appeared when he saw a horse and rider heading toward him from the direction of the ranch. He turned back to work, figuring to finish the rails between two of the new poles before eating.

Just as he’d set another rail firmly in place, he heard the approaching horse. Turning to call out hello to Werlyn, he stopped, his words caught before he uttered them. It was Maghen.

She waved, and he reciprocated before starting toward an oak-like tree where tools, saddle, and the day’s water flask lay strewn about. Secretariat grazed free a hundred yards away.

“Hello, Mark,” she said, reining in. Her dress was wadded up on the saddle to let her sandaled feet engage the stirrups. His eyes lingered over the strong, firm calves, the light brown hair barely noticeable on the tanned skin. He wondered when she exposed her legs enough for tanning. Then he remembered seeing her with her dress tied up to her knees while washing clothes outside the main house or working in the ranch’s extensive vegetable garden.

“I expected Werlyn.”

“I told him I wouldn’t mind the ride. He was happy to agree since several other boys asked him to go gingle hunting with them.”

Mark’s curiosity about what a gingle was lasted only a second before his attention diverted to Maghen’s easy dismount, which included a little more flesh.

She untied a sack, a flask, and a blanket behind the saddle. “Where should I put these?”

“We usually eat under a tree.”

“I’ll go ahead and take out the mid-day meal.”

“Uh . . . I was going to ask Werlyn if he’d eaten and was there enough for both of us? I’ll ask you the same question?”

“I hoped you’d ask. I also brought extra water, in case you wanted to wash before eating. Why don’t you do that while I get things ready?”

Was he imagining it, or was her voice throatier than usual? He took the flask she held out and walked a few yards away, suddenly conscious of his dirty hands and face. He shucked his shirt and wiped grime and sweat from his skin. When finished, he used his kerchief to dry, then went to his saddle to pull on his extra shirt. It clung to him in spots where the small cloth had missed soaking up all the water.

Maghen knelt, resting on her feet, her sandals lying off the blanket. Spread out were a small loaf of the ubiquitous dark bread, cheese, dry sausage, olives, and a small wooden bowl of pickled vegetables.

His surprise at the amount and variety of food didn’t pass unnoticed.

“I thought you might ask me to join you, so I collected more than we usually send out for workers’ mid-day meal. It seemed like . . . ” She self-consciously tugged at her tresses.

“Anyway, please sit and let’s eat.”

They didn’t speak, as Maghen tore off a hunk of bread and cut the cheese, then handed them to Mark. He hadn’t used all the water in her flask, and she drank some of the remainder while he used water he’d brought.

The silence threatened to become awkward when she spoke first.

“At the festival, you didn’t seem sure about your future plans. Have you given it any more thought?”

“As it happens, that’s something I’ve thought about every day since we returned from the festival. I think I’m tired of wandering. Although I don’t totally understand why, I think the last months here have been among the most . . . ” He couldn’t quite come up with the word, at least in Frangelese.

“Maybe something like ‘calming’ is what I mean. I like the people at the ranch—the Toodmans, most of the workers and their families, most other people I’ve met. And yes, that includes your family, even Fenon.”

Maghen laughed, tilting her head back and slapping a thigh. “God help you, I think Fenon likes you, too!”

Why did I ever think she wasn’t attractive? wondered Mark. Maybe not in the Hollywood, plastic model style, but a vibrant person shines through. She’s certainly not a delicate flower, but for this world she’s quite a woman.

“I’m coming to think I might spend the rest of my life in this area. Not just working for Toodman. I’d want to eventually have my own ranch. Land is still available. I can think of several tracts that, with hard work, could turn into fine ranches. Of course, that means I’d need to come up with enough coin to get going.”

Maghen tugged on a strand of hair while she rearranged items on the blanket.

Is she nervous? Mark wondered.

“Hoping to have your own ranch is a big thing,” she said. “Would you also plan on a wife and family?”

Mark sighed. “It’s been many years since I thought of such things. My previous marriage wasn’t good, but I must admit at least some of the fault lies with me. Now would be different. I hope I’ve changed.”

“If you’re thinking about a wife, what would you look for?”

“That’s one of those hard-to-define things. A woman like my previous wife would be totally unsuitable. I’d not want to make another mistake. But what about you? You must have had opportunities to marry. I know there’s a lack of enough men for every woman, but someone like you shouldn’t have a problem.”

Color rose in her face, and she clenched her hands in her lap.

“Not so many men are as interested as you seem to think. Yes, there have been offers, but ever since I became a young woman, I’ve been determined not to settle for just any man. It has to be someone I like, respect, and who I believe will do his best for his family. A couple of times I was close to marrying before I realized I was on the verge of settling, instead of being certain. I’ve never regretted my decisions.”

“Never?”

“Never,” she said, firmly. “Even if I never marry or have a family.”

They sat looking at each other for a minute. Two minutes.

He made a decision—not exactly one on impulse, but on later retrospection it was the result of a coalescence of thoughts over the last months up until the present morning.

“How about you and I, Maghen? Would we be good matches for each other with our different disappointments?”

Oh, shit, Mark thought. Where did that come from? He hadn’t been conscious his thinking had trended in that direction. He also had no idea whether such a direct question was inappropriate in this culture. Yet somehow he intuited that Maghen was comfortable with an openness he wouldn’t have entertained on Earth.

“I . . . I think I would be willing to consider it. You’re an appealing man, and everything I see and hear from others says you’re honest and hardworking. I’ve also heard Toodman say he sees you as eventually having your own ranch if you decide not to stay working for him, possibly as foreman one day.”

Mark wondered what to say next when she rose to her feet and undid her belt. She leaned down to grasp the bottom of her dress and pulled it over her head.

Mark, a stranger to ever experiencing a speechless state, was speechless. Her body reminded him of a Michelangelo statue he’d seen when Jocelyn and he had stopped in Florence on their honeymoon: a strong body, muscles more defined than with most women, yet undeniably feminine with nipple-tipped breasts, a taut curved abdomen, hips flaring from the waist, and V-shaped pubic hair.

She didn’t speak. Seconds passed. The unexpectedness befuddled him. What was he supposed to do? Not that he didn’t feel urges he hadn’t felt in a long time.

His mind locked up, and he sat staring at her face. After almost a minute, her original flush faded to pale. She grabbed her dress and hurriedly pulled it back on.

“Please excuse me, Mark. I misunderstood.”

She began gathering the mid-day meal items back into the bag.

“I need to get back to the ranch. Leesta will wonder where I am.”

“Maghen . . . I’m sorry.”

“No. It’s all right. It’s my fault. I thought you desired me.”

Mark groaned. “It was just unexpected. Where I come from, things are different.”

She frowned. “Northern Frangel? How different can it be?”

“Maghen, please sit. I have things to tell you.”

She hesitated, then sat, legs to one side.

Well, he thought, I guess there’s no reason not to repeat the story I gave when I first met Ulwyn.

He preceded to outline the same tale: cast onto a beach without knowledge of how he got there, not knowing where his homeland was or how to return, adjusting to a new life, his attempts to introduce innovations and the tragic consequences. He passed over killing the guild leaders.

She listened, first puzzled, then concentrating, then sympathetic, and finally amazed.

“My God, Mark. The life you’ve had. The things you’ve seen. Yet you’ve come through it. Not many men would have. I can’t even imagine what it was like. I’ve lived within fifty miles of Nurburt my entire life.”

If you only knew the half of it! he thought sadly. He had a moment’s regret about everything he could never tell her: other worlds, electronics, airplanes, aliens, artificial intelligences, the Denver Broncos, Bruce Springsteen.

“But you say things are different where you come from. Is that why you don’t find me desirable?” She leaned back. “Or is it just me? I know I’m not as attractive as many other women. Maybe you don’t have those feelings when you look at me. If that’s it, then I understand.”

“Maghen . . . Maghen, I do find you a very attractive woman.” To his surprise, he realized the words he’d reflexively spoken to avoid hurting her feelings were actually true. Back on Earth, he never would have thought of her that way, but there was a vitality to her that drew him.

Maybe it’s the different culture and everything I’ve been through that’s changed me, he thought.

She shook her head. “Then I don’t understand. Is it how I offered myself to you? Is that not done where you come from?”

When he didn’t answer immediately, trying to formulate words and thoughts, she rushed on.

“Does it matter that I have lain with other men before? I’ve heard the Madrynese have strict customs about such things, as do the Tekleumers. For me, it was men I considered marrying or when I was very young. The last time was almost a year ago.”

“It’s not that you’re . . . uh . . . experienced in such things. I’ve been with women other than my wife, so I can hardly expect you to be . . . uh . . . a virgin. I confess I haven’t inquired what the customs are here in Frangel as much as I could have. Maybe I hesitate because I like you. Very much. It’s somehow different when I care for the person.”

“I’m confused,” said Maghen. “I think I’ve said enough for you to know I would seriously consider marrying you. You say good things about me and at least hint that you find me appealing. Whether we marry or not is in the future, but for now, most men would want to lie with me, as I would with you. Make me understand.”

“If this was only something we wanted to do today, and we were both willing, I wouldn’t hesitate. Plus, I’m usually the one to make the suggestion.”

Maghen’s face tightened, and she rose to her feet. “Well, you’re not wherever you come from now. Should I take my dress back off or not?”

Mark stared at the annoyed Valkyrie standing with hands on hips. His pulse and breath quickened. Stirrings in his groin were unmistakable.

With a sweep of his arms, he ejected the items still resting on the blanket onto the grass. He began pulling off his boots. The first time, she had taken off her dress with a hint of coyness. This time she swept the garment over her head with impatience and eager anticipation.

Mark rose to his feet. Before he could slip his shirt over his head, Maghen was doing it for him. He fumbled at his pants and let them drop to his feet. One of her hands lay on his chest, while the other reached for his growing erection.

He stamped his feet to discard the pants, as his hands stroked a breast, the nipple instantly erect.

They dropped to their knees on the blanket, four hands exploring two bodies. Less than a minute later, she put a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him with her. She lay back on the blanket and spread her legs.

“Now, Mark! Now!”

He didn’t need urging. She gasped when he pushed into her, wrapping her legs around him and joining his rhythmic movements. He climaxed in a few short minutes and continued until she followed moments later. When he collapsed, her arms and legs held him in place, in and on her. Their breathing unconsciously synchronized, their heads side by side, his breath expelling onto her neck and hers onto his.

His inhalations drew in their body odors. Both had been working for many hours, he on the fences and she cleaning clothes and removing ashes from fireplaces. They smelled of sweat, earth, soap, smoke, and sex. He couldn’t identify the combination as appealing, but it was real in a way he hadn’t experienced before.

They lay coupled for minutes, he didn’t know how many, silent.

“Do your people kiss?” she asked to his ear.

He raised his head to look at her, then chuckled. “Yes, but usually they kiss first and do this later.”

“My people are the same. If we’re from different people, does that mean we won’t kiss at all?”

He answered with a smacking kiss, followed by a light touching of lips.

When the kiss ended, she sighed and relaxed her vise-like grip on his body.” I don’t want to release you, but I’m afraid one of my legs is cramping.”

They untwined, and sweat made him aware the air had chilled. “I guess we should put our clothes back on,” he said regretfully as he sat back up.

“One moment,” she said and stretched to reach her dress lying near the blanket. From a pocket, she pulled a cloth and proceeded to wipe her groin and thighs. Mark was about to shake his head in bemusement when she nonchalantly did the same for him.

“Don’t want to stain our clothes,” she stated at his startled grunt. “It’s better with a warm damp cloth,” she added matter-of-factly as she finished and rose to her knees.

Mark’s “after-incident” examination confirmed his first impression: a healthy, honest face framing frank, captivating light-brown eyes, a firm body probably honed by work and genetics, breasts, belly, a mons covered by hair, and soft-appearing arms and legs that he now knew belied a not inconsequential musculature.

Momentarily not sure what to say next, he opted to say what popped into his head.

“Well, we’ll have to make arrangements for the next time.”

“Oh,” she said, rising to her feet. “You’re assuming there will be a next time?”

“I hope so,” was all he said, his eyes taking in a different view.

She picked up the dress and slipped it on. As the top rested on her shoulders and the bottom fell below her knees, she said, “Me, too.”

She tugged on a blanket corner, hinting he should get off, which he did. He put his clothes back on while she folded the blanket, recovered items he’d swiped off the blanket, and fastened to her horse’s saddle what she’d take back to the ranch.

“There are things to talk about,” she said, “but they can wait for now. I’ll see you back at the ranch.”

She prepared to mount, then stopped and abruptly walked back to Mark. She gave him a quick kiss, returned to her horse, and rode off without looking back.

A whinny to Mark’s left prompted him to look at his horse.

“What do you think, Secretariat? Is this a good idea or not?”

The grazing horse raised its head, snorted, then returned to eating.

“Yeah, I know. Life is much simpler the way it’s been, but it’s time to move on. Oh, thanks for looking the other way, and I’d appreciate your not gossiping about what happened here to the other horses.”

Mark turned back to watch Maghen riding away, curious whether she would ever look back. She was close to a half-mile away, just barely visible outlined against the sky, when she turned and waved. He waved back, smiling.

Well, maybe my luck has just changed.

CHAPTER 23

COMMITMENT

Mark needed another hour to hurriedly finish the fence repairs. Maghen’s visit had taken enough time that he had to push Secretariat on a futile search for the neighbor’s horses. Then he collected the tools and rode back to the ranch, wondering on the way about seeing Maghen at evening meal.

When he returned, he gave Secretariat a short groom, stabled the horse, and used the men’s common washroom to clean up. He was the last man to sit at the long table, with Maghen and another woman bringing food and water or removing used plates.

“Got here just in time, Kaldwel,” said Maghen. “Sit your ass down and eat what’s left before all these scavengers leave nothing but bones.”

Mark didn’t join in the good-natured responses from the other men. He felt an unfamiliar awkwardness at hiding something, even though hiding had been a defining feature of his life since being cast away on Anyar.

Because he was the last to arrive, it gave him an excuse to finish eating after the other men had left.

“You go ahead and stay with the dishes,” Maghen told her coworker. “I’ll be cleaning up in here while Kaldwel finishes.”

After the older woman left the room, Maghen walked close by. Mark reached for her, only to have his hand slapped away by a cloth she was using to wipe the table.

“None of that now. You’ve touched me enough for one day.” She lowered her voice. “I think Leesta knows.”

“Toodman’s wife? How could she—?”

“When I returned, she asked what took so long to bring you a meal. I’m afraid I blushed, and she started laughing. She finally took pity and said she hoped I was happy with what happened. I said I thought I was, though time would tell.”

“When can I see you again?”

“By see me, I assume you mean without clothes.”

“Well, yes, but also time for the talk you mentioned.”

“I share a cottage with the two Ofalyn sisters. They’re planning on visiting their family for a few days starting this Godsday. If we’re careful, you can come to the cottage after everyone is asleep, as long as you leave before dawn.”

She picked up his empty plates and turned toward the kitchen. He rose, reached out, and grabbed her arm, pulling her to him for a kiss while she held plates in both hands. When he released her, her face was flushed. Strands of hair fell across her brow, only partly hiding the sparkle in her eyes.

They hardly spoke again the next three days, though they saw each other at morning and evening meals and several times passed each other on the grounds. At meals, they ignored each other. When passing, they nods or comments to keep up appearances for anyone within hearing.

There was no formal worship site near the ranch. Once a month, a caravan took ranch workers to Nurburt to attend services at the main cathedral. On other Godsdays, there was an abbreviated service at an outdoor shrine at the ranch for those wishing to participate. Mark’s experience in accompanying the Hoveys to the Tregallon cathedral made him assume the services would be similar here. Thus, he was surprised the first time he attended a service at the ranch that although some of the declarations and responses were the same, others were different.

“We have both Sholster and Morwyn believers in this part of Frangel,” said Tylmar when Mark asked about the service, “although I think there are more Sholsterers. I know at least three of Toodman’s permanent workers follow Morwynism. We’re near the border between the historic Sholster and Morwyn areas.”

“Ah, I remember now,” said Mark. “It was similar where I’m from in the north.”

“Well, I’ve done my duty to God,” said Tylmar. “What do you have planned for the rest of the day?”

“After mid-day meal, I’ll give Secretariat a good grooming and sneak him a couple of fruits. Then I’ll catch up on some sleep if the other men keep quiet enough.”

“Murklyn is having men over to his house for card games later if you’re interested.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” said Mark.

After giving Secretariat his grooming and treats, Mark slept four hours and played cards until dark. Later that evening, he sat on a log section in a grove of trees two hundred yards from the ranch buildings, waiting for the last lantern to be extinguished. It being a working ranch, most residents were asleep within an hour of last light. The exception was in Toodman’s house, where a lantern in the bedroom of their oldest son stayed lit for an hour after the other lights.

Two dogs resembling Rhodesian ridgebacks roamed at night to keep away bold pests, but both animals were familiar with Mark and ignored him. When he got to Maghen’s cottage, he knocked gently. She wore a nightshirt and a shawl when she let him in.

“This feels almost wicked,” whispered Maghen. She closed the door and raised her voice to be merely soft. “This is the first time I’ve had a man in here.”

He couldn’t help but wonder where she’d rendezvoused with the other men she’d lain with, but it wasn’t important enough to ask.

“No one saw you coming?”

“I don’t think so. I waited a few minutes after the last light went out.”

He reached out to embrace her.

“Talk first,” she said.

“Oh.” He laughed. “You don’t trust me to talk later?”

“You’re a man,” she said dispassionately. “Even the best of you can be ruled by what’s between your legs.”

He held up both hands in surrender. “So, we’ll talk. I assume the topic is what might develop between us?”

“I’ve lain with you, and I might again, but if I’m to believe there may be more between us, we need to be clear about what we want in our future lives.”

She sat in a wooden chair covered by a thick fabric and motioned to a second chair for him.  She crossed her arms and sat upright, as if steeling herself for a dreaded task or, as it occurred to him, to prepare herself for unpleasant news.

“I want a husband I can count on. I’m not a helpless female, but life is hard enough without being burdened by a man who needs attention like a child and who is weak. God granting, there will be children. As the mother, it can’t be necessary for me to earn most of the family’s coin, so I have to know the husband is hardworking and aware of his responsibilities. That doesn’t mean I expect a wealthy life, only that we can have the essentials of home and food.

“Many women don’t think about getting a husband who truly respects them. That’s not for me. I want a marriage more like I’ve seen with my parents and with the Toodmans. I think that can happen with you.

“With more women than men, too many of us settle for lives that, to me, are worse than no husband or children. I expect to be a good wife, taking care of our home, our children, and my husband’s needs in the bed. In return, I expect to be treated with respect.”

She stopped speaking and stared at Mark. It was a blunt statement of basic expectations, as if the opening of a contract discussion. Seconds passed. Maghen gripped her opposite upper arms tighter.

It took a few more seconds before Mark stirred himself. Whoops. I think it’s my turn.

Two separate clusters of thoughts swirled in Mark’s mind, sometimes separate from each other, other times intermingling. One cluster summed up Mark’s life on Earth. The other cluster drew from his time since coming to Anyar. In addition, he felt the urge to be honest with Maghen, though not too honest. He settled for telling her what he could.

“I grew up on a ranch owned by my family. I loved all of them, though I confess I didn’t realize how much until I came to believe I’d never see them again. Everyone in the family worked hard, but I was young and didn’t like the responsibilities expected of me to help run the ranch. I knew most of my friends didn’t have the same chores, and my attitude changed into resentment. I became eager to leave the ranch and my family to look for a life that had what I saw as more freedom and excitement.

“I told you what happened in northern Frangel. I had fantasies of introducing things known to my people but not yours. I would become wealthy and influential. In my illusions, I ignored warnings from other people, and two friends ended up dead because of my self-absorption. Others I liked or had some responsibility for were terribly hurt, both physically and emotionally, by losing loved ones.

“You don’t have guilds here near Nurburt. They are organized groups that control specific trades like blacksmithing and weaving. I made enemies in the Brawsea guilds, and it’s one reason I left the capital.

“I’m afraid I focused so much on adjusting to being a castaway in Frangel that I thought only of myself. I didn’t fully appreciate that being in a foreign society meant I needed to understand it better and accept the differences from my home. There’s a saying among my people that sometimes a stubborn animal needs to be hit over the head with a board to make it see straight. I don’t know if what I’m thinking now is straight, but I know part of me wishes to be back among my family and working on the ranch on tasks that seemed boring at the time, but that now are almost soothing. I don’t know if this makes any sense to you, Maghen, but I believe you want me to be honest.”

“I do,” she said. “Someday you can tell me more about these things you wanted to introduce and about what happened with these ‘guilds,’ but while I don’t know what your former life was like, I believe you’re honest in telling me this. So, this is of your past, and we’re here in the present. What about the future?”

“In a way, it’s strange for me. I was so eager to leave my family and ranch life, and now I believe I’ve come to want my own land and family. I might have found a good life in northern Frangel, but here it would be a ranch, something that I believe I have the experience to make successful. How to get the ranch is a problem I don’t know the answer to right now. That’s something I must figure out if there’s also to be a family.”

Maghen started to speak. Mark held up a hand to stop her. The days since Maghen rode to where he was working had provided him with many hours to think. His one clear urge was to feel he had a place.

“Before you say anything, in whatever comes true, I would want you to be the wife in that future.”

Light was dim from the single whale-oil lantern set low, but he thought her eyes turned moist. She clasped her crossed arms tighter as if suppressing her emotions.

“I think we could get that ranch, Mark. It may not be as hard as you imagine, although it might take some years and saving as much coin as we could. Once we bought the piece of land, my family would help with animals to begin with and would willingly help build the first house, barn, and fencing. I also think the Toodmans might help. Ser Toodman thinks highly of you, and Leesta is a friend.”

“How much coin would it take?” Mark asked. “I don’t know what good land costs here.”

“I’m not sure either. Ser Toodman would know. I’ve saved almost a large gold—a tiny amount of what it would take, but it’s something.”

“I have almost four large golds,” said Mark. “Most of it is left from what I came south with and what I’ve earned here at the ranch. The rest is from my one attempt at destrex hunting.”

“Destrex! You didn’t tell me about that! What in Hades were you doing hunting those creatures?”

Mark summarized his ill-conceived hunt, skipping over most details, except for the single hide he and Rocky sold in Nurburt.

“I wouldn’t want you to ever do that again. At least, you were with that other man. Only complete idiots would hunt destrex by themselves. Coin isn’t worth your death.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t go hunting like we did this last time.”

Now I know I’m never going to give you the details, thought Mark.

Maghen unclenched her hands from her arms, giving a little bounce in her chair. Her voice took on a more exuberant tone than her previous businesslike statements.

“Let’s get back to talking about if we were to marry. Where would we live? I’d love it to be near my family, but there’s less unsettled land there, and whatever there is probably would take more coin than here. We know people here. While they’re not family, they are friends. I’m sure the Toodmans would let us live in one of the cottages, or we could build a new one. My brothers would help with the building.

“The other advantage of here is that you can be looking for available land for our eventual home. I know it will be hard to predict, but I hope we would have our own place before we have too many children.”

Mark had the distinct feeling he was falling farther behind in the discussion, if that was what they were having. Now he felt as if he was listening to a monologue detailing the way things would be. He suddenly had images of a cottage like the one they were in, except with half a dozen children, including one or more squalling babies. Panic threatened.

“Let’s not look too far ahead,” he said. “We haven’t settled that we’re getting married.”

“I thought that’s what we were doing,” said Maghen, her tone returning to contract negotiations. “It’s important to understand our plans before we proceed.”

Well, it’s not all a business negotiation, initially flashed into his thoughts, followed by, On the other hand, maybe for this society it needs to be.

They hadn’t spoken of love, but he supposed a harsher life put a high premium on the practical details of a marriage. The omission suited him. Events had moved faster than he felt comfortable with, and he wasn’t ready to give declarations of love if he wasn’t certain of his feelings.

“I’m just saying the future is complex and uncertain enough, so ideas are good,” he said, “but too many details are bound to change.”

She frowned. “Are you telling me you may not want to marry me?”

Christ, how did the conversation go in this direction? he wondered.

“I just think we’ve talked seriously enough for one evening. What’s wrong with us thinking about all this and continuing another day?”

Maghen’s jaw moved sideways in a motion like Mark’s mother used to make when she thought of an answer. Maghen sighed. “All right. I’ll admit you’ve been more patient and responsive than most men who are pressed to think about the future. Maybe you should kiss me now.”

So he did. Her breasts under the nightshirt pressed enticingly against his chest, as he drew her to him. He decided one advantage of choosing a woman closer to his own height was not having to lean down too far for their lips to meet.

His kiss was evidently not passionate enough. She curled one arm around his neck to lock them together harder, their lips pushed against teeth. When his right hand moved down to stroke her buttocks, she drew back and moaned. “Get your clothes off!”

They separated, but only long enough for her to whip off the nightshirt and wait impatiently the few more seconds it took him to shed all his clothes.

She grabbed a hand and pulled him to the bed, then fell on her back and jerked him on top of her.

“Oomph!” she expelled, as his weight fell on her. Then, as he transferred his weight to knees and arms, she clasped her legs around him. He guided himself to her, and they merged, both of them sighing.

The bed frame rocked, slowly at first, then faster, as the rhythm accelerated. When she cried out, he followed suit moments later, the bed thudding against the wall hard three times before the rocking and vocalizations died away.

They stayed joined, as their pulses and breathing returned to near normal.

“You’re certainly more considerate than the other men. They never waited for me.”

The information stymied Mark, unsure what to do with it, especially considering their positions. It was one more reinforcement that he was now a member of an unfamiliar society that wasn’t on Earth. Although, in either setting, he wouldn’t have expected to be graded so soon after intercourse. However, after a moment, his curiosity got the best of him.

“Uh . . . how many men was that?”

“Three. Is that considered too many by your people? You said it didn’t bother you that you aren’t my first man.”

“No, that’s no problem, but we don’t usually talk about previous partners, so it’s something you don’t need to tell me.”

“All right, if you prefer. I suppose that means you’d rather I didn’t ask about your previous experiences either.”

“Right. Oh, and how’s your leg this time?” Mark asked, eager to change the subject.

“Fine,” said Maghen, giggling. “The blanket on the ground was all right, but a bed is nicer. Also, the sun isn’t in my eyes now, and there’s no bug on my leg like before. I couldn’t quite reach it to knock it off, but I figure you wouldn’t take that long.”

Mark laughed, withdrew, and rose to his knees. “You are definitely ‘earthy,’ Maghen.”

“Earthy? What does that word mean?”

“Ah . . .  something like ‘down to Anyar.’ Meaning a practical, uncomplicated, honest person.”

“That sounds good. Yes, I want to always be a ‘down to Anyar’ woman. In fact, that sounds appropriate for what I’m about to ask. When can we do this again?”

Mark leaned down and kissed her. “Not for a while. Let’s get a little sleep and see what happens later.”

Despite his suggestion, he had a question.

“Uh . . . shouldn’t we be concerned about your getting with child?”

“Harumph! Any woman who doesn’t know her cycle should be kept under control by her family. It’s been a sixday since the two moons separated, so I can’t get pregnant for another several sixdays. At least for me. Other women are fertile at different times of the moon cycles.”

Mark listened with surprise at her further description of the cycles of Anyar women that synchronized with the two moons’ orbits. It was the first time he’d learned about the thirty-six-day menstrual cycle on Anyar synchronized to the moons. Although each woman’s cycle varied, it was consistent for her with the moons’ phases. It was one more mystery—the coincidence being that the average cycle on Earth closely matched Luna’s periods and now a similar association on Anyar.

Seven hours and two rounds later, Mark slipped back to the single men’s barracks after promising Maghen he would give serious thought to what they had talked about. The short walk gave him enough time to visualize a different future than he’d first imagined in the alien spacecraft and then during his time in Tregallon. Instead of all the innovations that would revolutionize this alien planet, he now foresaw spending the rest of his life in the central Frangel ranch country and raising a family with Maghen. He also wondered whether it could end up being more fulfilling than either his life on Earth or his initial ambitions on Anyar.

Talks and night visits continued for the rest of the sixday until the Ofalyn sisters returned. Any doubts Mark had of Maghen’s interest in their future together were as long gone as his own trepidation. However, one step remained. He told her that his people’s custom was for the man to make the formal proposal of marriage. She didn’t see why a woman couldn’t do it, and she would wait only so long before usurping his role.

He wanted to pick a time for maximum impact. As controlled and relatively unflappable as Maghen usually was, he wanted to catch her by surprise. The occasion occurred at evening meal the next Godsday when the Toodmans hosted a once-a-month dinner at the main house.

Twenty-five people gathered for the meal, adults and a few children. Mark sat next to Maghen in the middle of one side of the long table. Leesta Toodman orchestrated serving the main course of roast beef, a starchy tuber Mark thought of as potato, several vegetables unknown on Earth, olives, freshly baked bread, and beer. The latter was cool, not cold, because there was no artificial refrigeration—a lack Mark idly thought about addressing one day.

The meal was as noisy as the others Mark had attended at the main house. When everyone seemed finished with the main course, Maghen rose to help clear the table in preparation for a traditional Frangelese sweet dish—what Mark compared to a tort. Leesta, Maghen, and two other women carried a large cooking pan out from the kitchen and tilted the confection for everyone to see before cutting began.

“Honey and yusterberries,” announced Leesta to appreciative exclamations. “Thanks to Tylmar for finding a honey tree two months ago.”

Tylmar stood and took a bow. The gooey honey was a sap modification, instead of nectar from insects, but the consistency and the sugar content compared favorably. Mark had noticed the lack of sweetened foods when he lived in Tregallon. Sugarcane and sugar beets had not made the transplantation to at least this part of Anyar. The local honey was the only sweetener, as far as Mark knew. The source was a parasitic vine that slowly engulfed a tree. Once the original tree died, the sweet sap was produced for only a few months while the vine switched from growth to a reproductive state. The sap was prohibitively expensive and was saved for only special occasions.

While admiring the large tort, Mark wondered whether it would be possible to farm the honey by deliberately encouraging vines to infect trees.

I’ll have to think about that and ask questions, thought Mark.

He laughed, which drew questioning looks from nearby guests.

“Just thinking of something else the tort reminded me of,” he said, which was true. Even if he had given up grandiose plans for introducing innovations, it didn’t stop his thinking about what might be, or might have been, possible.

Nothing wrong with thinking, as long as I don’t get carried away again, he told himself.

Leesta cut the tort, and Maghen picked up five wooden plates holding generous tort portions. She stopped at the other side of the table and let Tir Murklyn relieve her of two plates, one for himself and one for his wife. When she moved to the next guest, Mark pounded on the table with his fist and spoke loudly, “Attention, please, everyone. Attention. There’s something I’d like to say.”

The hubbub faded, and Maghen stopped in place with a questioning look.

“I’d like to thank the Toodmans for the invitation to this meal. As always, the food has been wonderful, and Leesta’s tort I’m sure will match or surpass that. I also want to give my appreciation to everyone who helped me feel I’m making a place here. I came with nothing but what I carried and with no plans for the future. Now I find myself convinced I’ll spend the rest of my life in this part of Frangel. I hope that all of you will be part of my life.

“Now, while all that is true, what I really want all of you to know is that Maghen Lorwell and I have agreed to be married.”

Surprised silence was ended by “THUD,” as one of the tort plates slipped from Maghen’s control and hit the floor.

Mark had waited to speak until he was out of reach of certain strong arms occupied with balancing tort plates. Shouts and congratulations erupted, and the sweet course was delayed for twenty minutes. Mark knew he was respected, but he only then realized the level of affection the ranch family and all the workers held for Maghen.

A slap on the back drew Mark’s attention.

“About time,” said Keeslyn Toodman. “Leesta’s been telling me for months she thought something would develop between you two. Then recently she hinted she expected there would soon be news. I don’t know if the two of you have made plans for where you’ll live, but I hope it’s here at least for a while. The worker cottages are full now, but I’ll talk with you about building another one.”

This time the blow to his back was more forceful.

“You did that on purpose!” said Maghen, who proceeded to deliver a kiss that lasted long enough for cheerful comments: “Not in front of the children,” “Go find a room, you two,” “Isn’t there a law against doing that in public?”

When the festivities died, they had a moment to speak alone.

“I hope you aren’t angry about what I did?”

“You’re lucky, you sneak. Some women would be furious at you, though I’m not. I know we’d talked about being wed, but when you said your people’s customs had the man make a formal proposal, I started to doubt your feelings. I was startled, then relieved, and then as happy as I can remember.”

“Now that the decision is made and the news is out, how long will it be until the wedding?”

“I’ll talk with Leesta tomorrow. They’re hoping the wedding will be here, and I told them it would. However, I expect the wedding to take place in two to three sixdays.”

“That fast?” said Mark. He had been assuming a few months.

“Why would it take longer, unless one of the parties was ill or guests needed more time to be notified and travel? It’s assumed once the announcement is made, all questions or concerns have already been handled, so why wait?”

That was fine with Mark, though he had one question.

“Does this mean that now we don’t have to sneak around to be together?”

“Oh, no. We can’t lie together anymore until the wedding. In ancient days the bride was expected to be a virgin. That’s not true anymore, but the custom is to pretend she is. Now that everyone knows we’re to be wed, and they assume we’ve been coupling. To preserve the custom, we’ll stay apart and not even kiss from this time until after the wedding ceremony.”

The following three sixdays were a whirlwind. Ranch work still needed to be done, but an arbor-covered platform for the wedding ceremony and a new cottage were completed with the help of Maghen’s two brothers, three cousins, and two male relatives whose exact relationship to Maghen Mark had never understood.

He expected Maghen’s immediate family to attend, but so many people came that the single men’s barracks, one barn, and two storage sheds were temporarily converted into sleeping quarters—and those were just for the visiting women and children. All the men slept outdoors, though no one seemed to mind because the Toodmans and Maghen’s family provided a plentiful supply of food and beer.

The last two days before the wedding blurred for Mark. Another custom he had not been aware of required that the groom be kept in a constant state of low-level inebriation to prevent him from changing his mind and fleeing. Mark’s assurances that he had no intention of running went nowhere. Even Maghen proved unsympathetic to his assertion that while he enjoyed beer, too much beer over too many days didn’t sit well with his stomach. She simply said, “Customs are customs.” Her tone implied, “Suck it up.”

As a result, his memory of the wedding was sketchy and of the wedding night nonexistent. His new wife hadn’t expected him to perform connubial duties that night, but the next morning was different.

CHAPTER 24

THEN THERE WERE THREE

The first months of married life passed easily, as Mark felt the intense memories of his Tregallon life retreating until they didn’t overshadow his everyday thoughts. He and Maghen completed furnishing the new cottage after they made two shopping trips to Nurburt for items not available at the ranch or from her relatives. They both continued their jobs at the ranch, though everyone believed Toodman hoped to groom Mark to eventually become the foreman. Tiv Murklyn had noticeably slowed down the last few months. Toodman had told Murklyn that he and his wife could continue to live aty on the ranch as long as they lived, as a just reward for a lifetime of service.

Mark gradually took on more of the foreman duties, with the cooperation of Murklyn. Maghen continued her same duties until she announced her pregnancy to Mark and to anyone who would listen. She figured it had happened in the first month of marriage, which Mark conceded was likely, considering the effort they’d made.

When Maghen’s time to deliver approached, her mother came to the ranch to be with her daughter. She brought a midwife known to the Lorwell family for decades, which was fine with Mark, except for the midwife’s name.

“Mark, this is midwife Murla Vurgyn.”

The incongruity caused Mark to freeze from responding long enough for Maghen to elbow him.

“Ah . . . pleased to meet you, Sen Virgin.”

In the following days, Mark thought it didn’t matter if he visualized “virgin” every time he heard the midwife’s name. However, in his attempt to ignore the transliteration, his brain wouldn’t cooperate and made an even worse substitution.

“Good morning, Sen Vagina.”

“It’s Vurgyn,” said Maghen.

“Right. Vagina.”

“VURGYN!”

It didn’t pass his notice that he must be making subconscious connections: birth, birth canal, midwife, vagina. However, understanding his vocal chords’ confused connection to his brain didn’t help. Finally, he sidestepped the issue by bestowing a new name on the midwife.

“Why do you insist on calling her ‘Ginny’?” asked Maghen.

“It’s a title given to midwives where I come from,” said Mark.

“I’ll tell her that,” said Maghen. “In fact, I’ll tell her it’s a sign of respect from you. She’s gotten annoyed that you kept calling her ‘Vagina’ and now ‘Ginny.’”

When the delivery time came, Mark waited with the other men outside the ranch’s main house where, at the Toodmans’ insistence, the birth would take place. Mark was relieved to be absent from the delivery. He’d made a reluctant offer to be present, only to be dismissed by a perplexed wife and mother-to-be.

“Why would I want any man seeing me like that? Only women are present at births, unless there’s a problem and the only available healer is a man. You did your part, now go away and let me do mine.”

Mark’s worry about the midwife’s competence was assuaged by a female medicant from the Nurburt Cathedral. The priest-doctor said she was present only in case of life-threatening conditions, at which time she would assist the midwife.

“Be calm, Ser Kaldwel. I examined your wife. She’s a strong woman in excellent condition. Midwife Vurgyn also says it seems to have been an unusually easy pregnancy. Your wife reported very little morning sickness, and there have been no signs of common complications.”

The only task left to Mark was to worry. He did that with enough emphasis for Toodman to order the other men to get the husband off the front veranda. Mark had been pacing heavily on the plank flooring, pausing only to listen at the front door.

Three hours later, Leesta opened the front door and called for Mark. He came running, scattering men and dogs in his way.

“Everybody is fine,” Leesta called out. She held up her hands to halt Mark’s leap from the ground up five steps to the veranda. “Calm yourself, and let’s go introduce you to your child.”

Mark took three deep breaths and followed. Maghen lay on a bed. She looked exhausted and euphoric, holding a bundle with a small red face. He rushed to her and kissed her.

“Isn’t she beautiful, Mark?” Maghen said, fresh tears starting to form. “Say hello to Alys Kaldwel.” She held the bundle out, and Mark accepted a weight so light it surprised him. He had been in Japan when Jocelyn gave birth three weeks early, and he hadn’t held Celeste for the first time until two weeks later. He would wonder many times about the profound difference in the two experiences. The first baby had almost been an abstraction, something then part of his life but at a distance. Maybe it was only a retrospective assessment, but now he wondered whether he’d always known Jocelyn would do the rearing, and he would be an observer.

For Alys, it was different. He held the small body just minutes after birth, the mother lying next to him, her face beaming with pride and love. When he gave Alys back to her mother, he sat in a chair next to her and stroked her hair. He felt physically exhausted, though he recognized it was mental and psychological.

Maghen drifted in and out of sleep for the next hour. During one of her conscious moments, she handed the baby back to Mark. “Go and show her off and tell everyone her name. I told you. It’s the custom.”

Mark didn’t argue that the women helping Maghen already knew the name, and it had probably leaked out by now. Customs were customs. He went back to the veranda, where thirty or more workers, friends, and relatives awaited the formal announcement.

He raised the baby above his head. “Say hello to Alys Kaldwel!”

Cheers erupted, followed by close inspections and pleas to hold the baby by most of the women and a few men.

“Never heard the name ‘Alys’ before,” said Fenon Lorwell. As soon as Maghen’s water had broken, Mark had asked a coworker to make the hour’s hard ride to Maghen’s family with the news. Both brothers had gotten to the ranch in time for the birth.

“Oh, I heard it somewhere,” Mark said, “and Maghen liked it.” He didn’t explain the double subterfuge. He told Maghen the name came from his people, letting her assume he meant somewhere on Anyar. He also didn’t elaborate that the name occurred to him not because he liked it, though he did, but because of the association with Alice in Wonderland.

The first time Maghen had asked him for name suggestions if the baby was a girl, he’d thought, If I’m not down the rabbit hole, then who is?

Maghen and Alys moved to their cottage the next day. The mother appreciated his offer to help with baby, but what exactly could he do that Maghen couldn’t because she would need to breastfeed every few hours? Besides, women cared for babies, and what would the other men and women think if they saw Mark doing things that were her duty?

He didn’t have an answer, though he admitted to himself the custom suited him and was rational—at least, given the culture. The first months consisted of long days with less sleep than usual. Wife and child or not, Toodman’s good regard and support or not, Mark still had a solid five days’ work to do every sixday.

After Alys’s birth, Mark heard a few comments about Maghen’s quick delivery and recovery. She had previously told him about several instances of bruises healing unusually fast, but he hadn’t connected her words to his own healing. Now, after the birth, his suspicions were aroused. He watched carefully for any events that caused bruises or cuts. Maghen didn’t have any significant injuries during the next month. Yet her minor cuts and bruises healed quickly enough for Mark to suspect that somehow his faster healing had transferred to her. The obvious mechanism was sex, but he didn’t know how the process worked.

He also checked the speed of his own healing by making a test cut, as he’d done in Tregallon. The cuts still healed faster than on Earth and, though he wasn’t certain, possibly faster than the last time he had done the test. What did it mean? Was he recovering from the stirkin attack, so that his healing ability was slowly returning to the level it had been at first? Was it certain he’d passed on the trait to Maghen? If yes, would her healing ability improve over time? And what about Alys? As she became more mobile, accidents were bound to occur, and Mark would keep a close eye on the child. At some point, he might have to talk to Maghen and come up with a plausible story . . . but not now.

By the end of the second month, the Kaldwel family settled into a routine as Alys slept the entire night. Maghen insisted on attending Godsday services in Nurburt at every opportunity.

“I’m so blessed, Mark, that I need to be sure God knows how much I thank him for my husband and child.”

He didn’t argue. He wasn’t a believer in God, but he didn’t contest those who did. In time, he found himself carried along when Maghen participated in a call and response from the congregation. When the priest got to the point where people remembered two or three things they were thankful for, Mark found himself mouthing, Maghen and Alys.

More months passed. Alys transformed from a reddish lump into a happy cherub who sat up to play with everything in reach. She carried on babbling conversations with any adult in view. In contrast to the first months, when time had seemed to pass slowly, the following months sped by. From the sixth month on, it seemed as if Alys accomplished something every day. By her first birthday she was walking confidently—enough so that they religiously kept the cottage door solidly closed or the toddler would head outside, exploring.

For Mark, ranch work continued, as Toodman slowly gave him more responsibility. When the yearly Harvest Festival rolled around, the Kaldwel family attended. Both Maghen and Mark were relieved of parental duties by the Lorwell women, who fawned over Alys. Mark also avoided both the weightlifting and the fighting event by a series of subterfuges that the Lorwell brothers grudgingly accepted. However, Elron Lorwell gave Mark a sly wink because he saw through Mark’s effort to prevent reigniting a conflict with Fenon.

A month after the festival, Mark was fortunate to avoid a more serious confrontation. After he returned from a day surveying a crop of calves from Toodman’s herds, he dismounted near a stable.

The owner called out to him. “Mark, see me in the main house after you finish with Secretariat.”

“I’ll take care of him,” said Tylmar, one of the three men returning with Mark.

Mark walked toward Toodman.

“Good, we can talk outside,” said Toodman and motioned for Mark to accompany him. They walked side by side to a spreading tree. The owner propped a foot on a large root running along the ground’s surface.

“Got a message from the chief magistrate overseeing this area. A ranch forty miles northwest of here was raided about eight to ten days ago. Word is, it seems to be the same group that hit other ranches farther north and now has moved into our part of Frangel. I’m called on to provide men to help hunt all down these raiders. It’s a distasteful task but has to be done. Mark, I want you to take three of our men and head to Nurburt, where the hunting parties will organize. I understand there will be six or seven such parties that will try to spread out and locate the raiders.

“I’ll let you pick the men, but I suggest younger ones that can handle themselves. We can’t tell how long or arduous the hunt will be, and the younger men will hold up better. It’s been a couple of years since something like this has happened, so I guess we should consider ourselves lucky.”

Maghen was not pleased to hear the news, but she accepted the necessity. The next day, she held Alys and sent her husband off with a fierce hug. She admonished him to bring himself and the three other men back unharmed. She presented him with a new scarf before he left.

“You can’t tell if you’ll be in the mountains and how cold it might be,” she said. “I was going to give this to Fenon, but I’ll make him another one.”

It took all of Mark’s fortitude to put the scarf around his neck before riding away. As soon as the four men couldn’t be seen from the ranch, he jerked the scarf off and stuffed it in a saddlebag.

“What’s wrong?” asked Tylmar, surprised at Mark’s action and expression.

“Uh . . . nothing. I just don’t want to wear it right now.”

Mark didn’t tell them that he’d never wear it again and would dispose of it the first chance he got. He would think of an excuse for losing the gift. He knew he should have declined the gift and told Maghen the reason, but when she presented it in public, he didn’t want to explain in front of the other men. Mark hated spiders and as a child had passed through a phase of spider nightmares. The scarf’s spider-web design made his skin crawl and beads of sweat break out on his body. The phobia had led to more than a few embarrassing episodes over the years, and he appreciated that spiders hadn’t made the transition to Anyar. But he thought it odd that this was the second time he’d encountered a spider-web design on a planet with no spiders—the first time being the floor tiles of the Cloth Guild building.

For the next ten days, the four Toodman workers rode in a twenty-man “posse,” which is what Mark called the group. To the other men, he explained that it was a word from his homeland, Amerika. They traveled as far as sixty miles from Nurburt before a rider appeared and told them the raiders had been cornered by two other posses farther south. Half of the raiders had been killed in the ensuing fight, along with three posse members.

Mark was relieved to hear the news. Thank God for that. I didn’t look forward to killing another person or getting shot at myself. Not after Brawsea.

When they rode into the ranch headquarters, workers and families swarmed out to greet the returnees and clamor for news of the hunt. Some were disappointed that the Toodman posse had not seen any action. Maghen was not among the dissatisfied. As soon as Mark dismounted, her embrace conveyed her relief at his return—which she further demonstrated well into the night as soon as he cleaned up.

Although the posse had fruitlessly ridden for miles, the many hours in the saddle allowed Mark time to think, especially about two topics.

The aliens responsible for him being on Anyar were never far from his thoughts. One entire day he relieved the boredom of the hunt by going over every detail he could remember of the collision, the room he awoke in aboard the alien craft, and everything the AI had said.

There were definitely at least two alien races abroad in the galaxy—the one whose craft collided with the doomed United flight and the second race that had transplanted Earth animals and plants to Anyar—assuming Hal, the AI, told the truth. If there were two alien races more advanced than humans, then there was no reason not to think many more existed in the galaxy. However, try as he might, Mark couldn’t recall any hints about additional races.

The AI also steadfastly refused to answer whether other passengers had survived. Was he the only survivor? Could there be more humans from Earth on Anyar, and how would he ever find out? Questions without answers.

However, the topic that consumed most of Mark’s hours on horseback was his discouragement about his and Maghen’s lack of progress toward their long-term goal.

A month later, he sat down with Maghen after evening meal. “We’re just not able to save enough coin.” Alys amused herself nearby with two rag dolls.

“You have to be patient, Mark. We’re doing all we can. We knew it would take many years.”

“Dear, maybe you were thinking longer term than I was. I confess I thought about a three- or four-year range, but if it continues as it has, it’ll be ten years at the earliest, maybe fifteen years.”

“But what else can we do? Keeslyn increased your salary as he’s given you more responsibility. You do extra jobs for neighbors as time allows, and I sew and make clothes to sell.”

“That’s what concerns me. We’re doing the best we can, which means we need to do something else. I have an idea, though you’re not going to like it.”

He pulled out a pile of papers. “A few months ago, you asked me what I was scribbling on in the evening for a couple of sixdays.”

Maghen had watched, puzzled, as he covered pages with symbols she didn’t recognize. He hadn’t explained why it amused him to employ his mechanical engineering degree to kill a nightmare creature.

“I had the idea then but hoped it wouldn’t be needed. It’s a plan for a new type of musket—one that will fire a ball with more penetrating power and more accuracy at longer ranges than anything I’ve seen in Frangel. It also fires a different type of ball, called a minie ball, that makes it faster to reload.”

Maghen looked at the writing but still didn’t recognize the words or the symbols.

“Is this in the language of your people?”

“Yes. English. The words are descriptions of parts and purposes, along with mathematics.”

“Matha . . . uh . . . what do calculations have to do with how the new musket would work?”

He pulled out a sheet with a diagram. “I know it looks like just another type of musket, but it’s larger, with a longer barrel, and the inside is rifled . . . uh, just different so the ball is more accurate.”

“But what is the musket for?”

“It’s for our own land and the only way I see we’ll ever get it before we’re too old. It’s for me to go destrex hunting.”

The next hour was as close as Mark and Maghen had yet come to a knock-down, drag-out argument. He had been prepared and patiently let her vent, while he argued why it wasn’t as dangerous as she imagined. He felt only moderately guilty about putting a good slant on every aspect.

Mark knew that in Frangel society, the husband had the final say in all matters. Yet it was a foolish man who exercised that authority more than necessary. However, Mark remembered his parents’ partnership, in which they discussed and argued until they settled a disagreement without permanent rancor. Mark also fought his own history. The marriage to Jocelyn was hallmarked by his giving in to her whims, even when he thought them frivolous or childish. Whether he could have avoided empowering her behavior without ending the marriage sooner, he didn’t know.

Yet Maghen was a different situation. His initial trepidations about how they would get along were soon assuaged. She was honest and opinionated but didn’t believe her personal preferences had to prevail. Whenever they disagreed or when tensions arose for any reason, they managed to talk about and come to a resolution they both accepted. Mark hoped something similar would happen by the end of their discussion about destrex hunting.

He waited until he sensed she’d begun to run out of steam—though not out of opinions.

“Maghen, I’m going to do this if it’s possible, but I want you to understand two things. One is that I don’t believe it’s as dangerous as you think. Second is that I want your agreement, even if you don’t believe I should do this. The reason is that it will require finding a gunsmith who can make this rifle. That will take a good part of the coin we’re already saved.”

Somehow, the talk of coin and safety gave her another topic to focus on, or she might have come to the realization Mark was intent on what he proposed. She sat, arms crossed, mouth fixed, and looked at him with smoldering eyes.

Sensing her resignation, Mark pressed ahead.

“The reason other hunters are in extreme danger is that they have to get too close to the destrex because a musket’s range is so limited. Even a killing shot might leave the animal dangerous enough to attack before it dies. When I described to you that destrex hunt I was on, we started firing at seventy yards.”

He didn’t elaborate on how one of the idiots in their party had fired early before they got close enough to ensure hits with enough penetration.

“With this new musket, I’ll be able to fire from at least two hundred yards, possibly even three hundred yards. If I’m careful, I can fire from a position where the destrex won’t know exactly where I am. Then, even if it’s wounded, it won’t know which direction to charge. I’ll also find positions with natural protections such as rock formations or large trees it can’t climb on. Yes, there will be a bit of risk, but no more than working on a ranch.”

He wasn’t being totally honest. There were no large trees in destrex country, and rock formations were notoriously immobile, so the odds of finding them when he came upon a destrex were hardly worth estimating. He would prefer to have two or even three of the rifled muskets, but the cost of even one would likely drain most of their savings. And that was assuming he could find a gunsmith able and willing to make the rifle.

He also didn’t include the detail that he would be approaching the animal after he left the horses or a wagon well behind to avoid giving the destrex something to spot and charge at. The best Mark hoped for was to find a position where he could fire, then step out of the creature’s line of sight and reload.

After another hour of going over the same details several more times, Mark offered a last sop to his wife.

“Of course, everything depends on getting the rifle. Even then, I’ll want to prove to you that the way I intend to hunt is so much safer than how any other hunters do it.”

He felt only slightly guilty that once they paid for the rifle, it would be next to impossible not to use it.

“All right,” she said, “but I’ll want to be convinced.”

He struggled to avoid looking too pleased at her capitulation. Nevertheless, it was a sixday before her mood improved, and that likely happened because Alys said her first word. This meant she made sounds clearly identified with an object. This development calmed Maghen’s worry that Alys was slow to begin speaking. Mark had told her that his mother once said that all of her children had been late and then caught up quickly. Mark didn’t mention that since he’d told Maghen about hunting destrex, he had been prompting Alys to say, “Ma-ma,” whenever they were alone together.

Two months later, Mark camped on the outskirts of Landylbury, the third-largest city in Frangel. The port lay in eastern Frangel near the Madyrna border, only a hundred miles closer to Nurburt than Kaledon. In comparison, Brawsea lay four hundred miles farther away. More than two years had passed since he’d left Brawsea, but he didn’t expect the guilds’ memories to have faded.

Even going to Landylbury was a risk, but Nurburt lacked a gunsmith able to produce the rifle Mark needed. He considered attempting a disguise. However, while ranch work had stripped off what little extra weight he’d carried in Tregallon, he couldn’t hide his size. He settled on wearing a stocking cap favored in the colder southern part of Frangel and a hooded coat. He also minimized his presence in the main part of Landylbury and avoided the harbor area where there might be people from the guilds.

He spent one day posing as a stranger looking for an expert gunsmith to repair a favorite musket. Although he received a variety of recommendations, one shop kept coming up, either as someone’s top suggestion or as an alternative. Minyn Lustor and his two sons owned a firearms shop with an adjacent smithy and forge they used to make weapons on site.

“Why do you need this weapon?” asked Lustor, after Mark showed him diagrams of a 90-caliber rifle that weighed twice as much as most muskets.

“No offense, Ser Lustor, but the use is not relevant. My only question is whether you could make this weapon.”

“Oh, me and my sons can make about anything, but you must know this will be expensive, maybe as much as ten times the cost of a smoothbore musket. To make this rifle, I’ll first make a new mandrel to forge the barrel around. Mandrels need careful work using the hardest metal, not something many gunsmiths can do. Oh, there may be one other blacksmith in Landylbury who could do it, but I’m not boasting to say that if it can be done at all, I’m the best one to try it.

“I’m curious, if you don’t want to say what use you have for such a weapon. You must know that loading such a large rifle will be a slow, strenuous task. The time it will take to force a ball down the barrel with the rifling ridges makes the weapon effectively impractical for anything but single shots if time is a factor.”

“That’s a problem for me to be concerned about. For now, I’ll request an estimate of the cost of such a rifle.”

Lustor shrugged. “Well, it is your coin. Let me think. Time. The new mandrel. Likely things going wrong when doing something like this for the first time. So . . . ”

The gunsmith looked upward with his eyes unfocused as he thought. When he finally gave the estimate, Mark’s hopes sank. It would cost most of their saved coin.

He needed to provide an incentive for the gunsmith.

“Of course, once you make the mandrel and work out the procedure, producing more of the same gun will be much cheaper. You would be the only person making such guns.”

“Where’s the market?” asked Lustor. “I don’t even know why you would want such a gun, so why would I expect anyone else to want one?”

“If I told you what I intend to use the gun for, how do I know you won’t tell others?” asked Mark.

Lustor looked offended. “I think I’m known as the best gunsmith in Landylbury. If I betrayed the confidence of customers, my reputation would suffer. Besides, I’ll swear to you by Saint Disalyn that I’ll keep the information to myself.”

Mark had never heard of Saint Disalyn and didn’t know what the weight of the oath involved, but he didn’t see that he had a choice. “All right. I’m going destrex hunting.”

“Destrex!” exclaimed Lustor, who then turned pensive. “Hmmm. The rifling will allow firing from farther distances, and the heavy barrel will let you use larger gunpowder charges. I think I see now how you expect this to work. You think you can kill the beasts far enough away to be safe. That’s one reason their hides are so expensive. Too many hunters end up being torn to shreds or eaten.

“Now that I think about it, once word gets out about a rifle for hunting destrex, there will be men who’ll want the rifles for hunting other animals, even if they’re not needed. I suppose that might be enough demand for me to make more rifles. I’ll admit I’m interested in the challenge. But I’m thinking of making a counteroffer. If the rifle works as well as you think it will, me and my sons could either do some hunting ourselves or pay other men to do it for us. In return, I won’t charge you anything for the rifle. There should be plenty of destrex for both of us.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Mark. “If too many hunters suddenly have increased success at destrex hunting, word will get out about how it’s done. Other gunsmiths will figure out how to make the rifles, and soon there will be so many hunters that the price of the hides will drop. That’s a chance I don’t want to take.”

Mark counter-offered. “What if we agree that you will make the rifle for half of your estimate, and you can make another rifle and hunt yourself in three years? By that time, I should have made enough coin for my purposes, and it’ll be up to you how you want to proceed.”

The bargaining was on. In the end, Lustor agreed to make two of the rifles for Mark at no charge. Mark could then keep all the coin and hunt for two years, or until he quit destrex hunting. At that point, Lustor’s family had the rights to make all the rifles they had customers for and to begin their own hunting.

Two months later, a message came to the ranch that a package for Mark was waiting in Nurburt. It had been delivered as part of a cargo caravan from Landylbury to tradesmen and shopkeepers.

Maghen was reassured when she saw the rifles. “My God, Mark! I think I almost believe you’re right. Those are the biggest muskets I’ve ever seen.”

“Rifles, Maghen, they’re more correctly called rifles or rifled muskets, although the second name is more accurate when referring to a musket with its barrel rifled.”

“You explained how these rifles work, so I’ll assume you know what you’re talking about. I know I’ve never seen one before.”

“Well, you may have seen the one Keeslyn Toodman has. I’ve only seen him with it one time. They’re rare because of the expense to make them. Now remember, don’t tell anyone they’re rifles. I’ll be telling people they’re just big muskets that let me use a larger powder charge.”

He held up one of the minie balls he’d made while waiting for the rifles. The steel-covered lead shot with lead skirting was designed for penetration and aerodynamics.

“These are smaller than the barrel, so they are faster to load. When the rifle is fired, the lead skirting expands to seal the ball against the inside of the barrel. As the powder drives the ball down the barrel, the spiraling introduces a spin to the ball when it exits the barrel, making it fly straighter.

“Maghen, I’ll be asking you to help by making what are called cartridges. Let me explain. Most muskets and rifles are loaded by pouring powder down the barrel, then taking a musket ball out of a pouch and pushing it down the barrel. Having two separate sources for powder and the ball slows reloading. Plus, you can’t pour the exact amount of powder each time. A cartridge is where a specific amount of powder and the ball are sewn inside a small paper pocket. If I have these for my rifles, what I do to reload is take a cartridge, hold the ball, and shake the cartridge to collect the powder at the bottom. Then I bite off the end with the ball and pour the powder down the barrel. Next, I take the ball out of my mouth and put it in the barrel, followed by the paper. That will keep the minie ball from coming out, and I ram the ball and paper down the barrel. It’s faster reloading this way.”

It was only when planning the rifle and cartridges that Mark realized how little he knew about the Frangel military. There had been no sign of it in Tregallon, but he’d noticed individuals and groups of uniformed men in Kaledon and Brawsea. However, the only time he saw formal military units was one morning as they broke camp on the way to Kaledon. Several hundred troops rode three abreast past their camp. Now he wondered whether cartridges were in use or if the troops still had to pour powder from a powder horn or a similar device.

“As soon as we can, I’ll take both rifles into the countryside to test them far enough from the ranch, so no one hears them firing. I’ll zero in both rifles and learn the exact amount of powder you should use for the cartridges.”

“I’m going along to watch,” said Maghen. “You said these rifles would be more accurate than muskets and would penetrate more, but I want to see it.”

The next Godsday, Maghen feigned not feeling well when the monthly caravan went for the Nurburt Cathedral service. The three Kaldwels rode two horses six miles from the ranch to a small canyon whose bottom Mark used as a test range. After the first shot, Alys jumped and began crying. She was quickly soothed by Maghen and became acclimated when her mother made it a game, and they clapped hands before and after each shot.

After an hour of firing, Mark was satisfied, which was fortunate because his shoulder ached from the multiple recoils. Even though he had greater strength than on Earth, the heavy weapons challenged him to hold them steady after ten shots per rifle.

“I’m pleased,” said Mark, while cleaning one rifle and teaching Maghen the same process—at her insistence. “Lustor really is a master gunsmith. The two rifles are closer to being identical than I thought possible with Anyar technology and no proper vernier calipers.”

“Technology? Vernier calipers? What are those?”

“Oh . . . just words describing how to measure small distances accurately. The important thing is that no matter how he did it, Lustor did a great job. Both rifles are reliably accurate for hitting a two-foot target out to four hundred yards.”

He started to say he thought he could hit something the size of a destrex at six hundred yards but caught himself before he reminded Maghen how big the creatures were. He also didn’t mention that fouling of the barrels from the black powder became noticeable by the tenth shot, and he didn’t know how many more shots could be taken before each rifle became inoperable.

He consoled himself that the rifles only had to fire a few times to kill a destrex. It wasn’t like he was fighting a war. The time would come when he would remember that consolation.

Whether it was the day of firearms practice, Mark and Maghen’s realization that the destrex hunt was really going to happen, or some other factor, both of them were energized, and they made love three times that evening and night. The first two times were in full view of two-year-old Alys. The toddler watched the first time, then ignored them during the second round, except for glancing at her parents’ bed when Maghen cried out in climax.

It had taken Mark some time to accept the Anyar attitude that sex didn’t have to be hidden from young children until they began speaking in full sentences, an ability Alys was near achieving. Even then, the reason for privacy was more to avoid awkward moments with a child describing to anyone listening what their parents did at night.

CHAPTER 25

DESTREX SOLO

Keeslyn Toodman shook his head to go along with a facial expression that conveyed his lack of confidence in Mark’s plan.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Mark. I’ve never heard of anyone hunting destrex alone for long before getting himself killed. I won’t try to dissuade you because you’ve obviously planned this for some time, and you’ve gotten those rifles. I seldom use my own rifle, but I’d like to try yours someday. As for being gone for two sixdays, as long as work is caught up before and after you go, it’s all right with me. And yes, you can use the extra horses and wagon, as long as we don’t need them while you’re gone.”

It took Mark four days to reach the nearest destrex country. Despite his assurances to Maghen, he understood the risk he was taking. During the last year, he had queried anyone he could find who knew anything about destrex hunting, their habits, and where to find them. They were more abundant farther south and southwest, but at least for first hunt he opted to start as close to Nurburt as possible. If his many sources of secondhand information were correct, the two varieties of destrex, oklands and ormals, didn’t favor the same terrain. In addition, despite their larger size, everyone he spoke with considered oklands the less dangerous—a relative evaluation that made Mark firm in avoiding ormal territory. The oklands also had the advantage that their skinned hides didn’t fade with time, which meant their hides brought higher prices.

Another thing he learned was that the okland destrex tended to lurk around water holes in regions that lacked flowing water sources. They waited for prey to come to them. Mark found a ravine where he set up camp, then went looking for a candidate waterhole the next morning. A mile from his camp, he found a likely spot. About three hundred yards from a waterhole rose a hillock with a clear view of the hole. At the crest, he cut away enough brush so that he could rest a rifle barrel on the notch of a bush’s trunk and a main branch. After firing, he could step back two paces to reload and not be visible from the waterhole.

He then waited, watching the waterhole but also constantly checking his rear. There was no reason to think a destrex would obligingly approach from only one direction. His position gave him an overview of the terrain behind him, so even if a destrex was the same height as the vegetation, he should see it coming. In theory.

Less than an hour after he began to watch, a dozen dolerters walked out of the brush and drank. What Mark assumed was the male leader kept turning its head in all directions, looking out for danger. The animals resembled a larger version of the pronghorn antelopes common to parts of Colorado. Later, a lone lombar ambled to the water, drank for several minutes, and wandered off. An hour later, four other grazing animals, ones he hadn’t seen before, raced to the water, drank quickly, and dashed off. Hairs rose on Mark’s arms and back.

Those were awfully skittish, he whispered. Do they know something I don’t?

The answer came a minute later. A destrex walked out of the brush on the right side of the waterhole. The creature’s camouflage so closely matched the vegetation that from Mark’s distance, his eyes didn’t pick up the destrex until it was three-quarters exposed.

Mark cast a nervous eye to his rear.

Well, shit. I’m reevaluating future positions. And now I know I’m not going ormal hunting if their camouflage is even better than this monster’s.

He discarded his assumption that his elevated position would let him see any destrex coming up behind him. Now, visions of one of the predators walking right up to him competed with his need to focus on the target. This time, the destrex wouldn’t be protecting a fresh kill, so Mark needed to make the first shot incapacitating, if not a quick kill. He had already decided to ignore the hunter’s code his father had drilled into him—never leave a wounded animal. In this case, with no other humans nearby to be at risk, he wouldn’t be following a wounded predator into brush that the animal’s camouflage let it mimic.

The destrex sniffed the ground, likely catching scent of the prey that had recently visited the water. It went to the water, drank briefly, and stood, nostrils up as if checking the air for more scent.

Mark followed it with the rifle, waiting for a good shot. When he and Rocky had skinned the other destrex, Mark remembering thinking the internal organs looked similar to Earth animals’, whether because they were descended from transplantations or they originated on Anyar, he didn’t know.

He wasn’t confident enough with the rifles to start off with a head shot. He waited for the animal to either show a profile for a shot to where a heart should be or shift to a front-on stance where he would aim for the chest and hope the ball hit something vital internally.

A minute passed. Two. Four. The animal turned quickly to face away from Mark, the movement too fast and the hoped-for angles for firing too fleeting.

Shit! It’s going to just walk away, Mark thought.

The destrex reached the brush, then stopped as if hearing something. Its head turned almost 180 degrees toward Mark’s position. The only vulnerable spot exposed was the neck just under the head. Mark decided he needed to take the best shot he had or watch it disappear. He froze every muscle, except those of his trigger finger.

BOOM!

The destrex whirled, dropped its head, but made no sound. Without taking his eyes off the animal, Mark set the rifle down and picked up its sibling propped up within reach. The destrex staggered, obviously in distress, and presented the profile Mark wanted.

BOOM!

Mark couldn’t see the hit, but the destrex stumbled, took three steps, and collapsed. Mark couldn’t tell whether the animal was still breathing, so he waited ten minutes. Despite focusing his eyes, he detected no movement.

BOOM!

This time he aimed at the head. He thought he saw a hit on the jaw. He reloaded and slowly walked forward. At one hundred yards, he didn’t think it was breathing. At fifty yards, he fired a fourth time, hitting the destrex between the eyes. It didn’t move.

He reloaded.

“Well, if you ain’t dead, and I get out of this alive, I’m going to give up destrex hunting until I have a tank.”

He waited five more minutes before deciding the animal was dead. He didn’t know which shot had been fatal. When he walked around the carcass, he decided there was no reason to worry about firing too many times.

With the most dangerous part over, the hardest task came next. He retrieved Secretariat and galloped back to his camp to collect gear and two horses. He already had experience in skinning a destrex, although the first time Rocky and he had done the bloody work together. This time, he began alone, with the need to finish before other predators arrived. The latter worry resulted in him finishing the job in only a slighter longer time than previously. Taking the advice of the Nurburt trader, he cut the hide halfway between the leg pairs, instead of along the back, but that still ruined some of the value. He then headed back to camp with half a destrex hide on each of the two wagon horses. They were not enthused about having the destrex odor on their backs.

Even though the sun’s position showed several hours of good light left, he felt exhausted from skinning, rotating the carcass, and wrestling to load the hide onto the horses. Unfortunately, Mark needed to do more work before resting. At the camp, he scraped and salted the hide, then hung it to dry over some brush.

The hunt had gone as hoped, to his relief. There had always been the possibility he’d waste time and their savings. On the trip south, doubts had preyed on his mind about whether the entire endeavor would work and if he had accurately evaluated the danger. Now his mood was buoyant. The hunt had been successful, and the rifles had worked as hoped, resulting in a destrex hide he didn’t have to share with partners.

He slept until daylight, then loaded the hide halves onto the wagon, packed up the camp, and started back to the ranch. It was a long trip for a single hide, but it was worth it. This successful venture encouraged him that future hunts should also be profitable.

His solo hunt reinforced his recognition of the dangers of hunting alone and the difficulty of skinning and processing the hides. He briefly considered asking Rocky to join him in future destrex hunts. Mark knew from experience that the man would stand his ground. Two men meant splitting hides or coin and introduced the chance a partner might fail to keep the hunts secret. No. Mark decided to continue hunting alone.

Instead of going first to the ranch, he went to Nurburt. No formal banks existed in Frangel, but larger towns, such as Nurburt, often had a business that housed whatever a customer wanted to store—for a price. The Nurburt facility was just short of a fortress, and the onsite proprietors remained heavily armed at all hours. Mark estimated the bin would hold three hides. As soon as his rented bin filled, he would make another trip to Landylbury, this time to sell hides.

When Mark rode into the ranch’s cluster of buildings, the first person to see him was Tylmar.

“Hello, Mark. We wondered when you’d show up. Some of the men thought you wouldn’t come back because hunting destrex alone is insane. But I told them they needed more faith. If anyone could do it, it would be you.”

Mark almost fell out of the saddle.

“What—!” Mark stared at Tylmar, startled. “Why do you think I was destrex hunting?”

“I don’t know. Word’s been going around. I forget where I heard it.”

Maghen? thought Mark. Did she tell someone?

“Uh . . . I need to get home. Talk to you later.”

Someone else must have seen him coming because Maghen waited at their cottage door, holding Alys on her hip and looking relieved.

“Maghen, Tylmar said—”

She ran to him, the child bouncing on her hip. Alys laughed at the game she thought they were playing. After a hug and a kiss, Maghen leaned back and looked into Mark’s eyes.

“I don’t know how word got out. I suspect Leesta did it. Keeslyn could have told her, and she told someone else accidentally or on purpose, not fully realizing we wanted it kept secret.”

He sighed. “Well, it’s out. There’s nothing to be done, but I may have to go back hunting sooner than I planned before word spreads and men start asking me questions or trying to follow me.”

Her faced lit up. “You got a hide?” She looked around. “Where is it?”

“In Nurburt. I thought it would be safer than keeping it here. I took it there before coming home. As soon I have two more hides, I’ll take them to Landylbury. I don’t want them lying around Nurburt, even if they’re supposedly in a secure place. They’re worth so much, there are bound to be men tempted to take them.”

“You’ll be gone so long! We’ll miss you—plus, what will Keeslyn say?”

“I’ll talk with him. I think he’ll agree, as long as I travel when work around the ranch is at its lowest. There’s a couple of times a year when he could manage to do without me. Of course, it’ll mean I’ll be gone for a good part of a month each time I travel to Landylbury.”

“Anyone else, Mark, and I wouldn’t agree,” said Toodman. “I’ll trust you don’t let the work suffer for your absences. I’m glad the first hunt went well. Just don’t start getting careless if you feel pressure to hunt as much as you can before other hunters catch on to your methods.”

A month passed before Mark got away for another hunt. This time, luck seemed absent. Once he got to destrex country, a sixday went by without him spotting one of the predators. He wondered whether the damn things migrated, hibernated, or turned into giant toadstools. He gave himself three more days before he’d head home. On the second day, a stampede of hundreds of lombars swept him and Secretariat along with them until they were able to disengage after a half mile.

“Well, Secretariat, now we know you can keep up with a lombar herd. What’d you say? That’s something you didn’t need to know? I agree, but what do you think the odds are that a destrex spooked them? Yeah, yeah, we’ll be careful not to surprise it.”

Surprising the animal or being surprised turned out not to be the problem. Mark heard the roaring by the time he returned to where the herd had swept them up. Finding the destrex only required following the noise to where two destrex challenged each other over a lombar carcass.

He staked Secretariat and crept toward the uproar. When the ground began sloping, he came in view of a small waterhole. Which destrex had made the kill wasn’t discernible, but the two animals performed a ritual threat display. Mark recalled nature shows on TV about animals attempting to settle disputes without serious fighting—it being a species survival advantage to not kill or injure others of your own kind. Whether the same held true on Anyar, Mark didn’t know, but he admitted the roaring, the stamping of front feet, and the color changes that swept over the two destrex’s bodies were impressive.

“This is interesting,” he murmured. “Two targets. I wonder if I shoot one, will the other hang around long enough for me to shoot him, too? Nah . . . what would I do trying to skin two hides before scavengers or other destrex showed up?”

The range was shorter than the last hunt, this time less than two hundred yards. He figured it was close enough to try a head shot.  What he wouldn’t do was switch targets. He’d pick one and stick to it. No way would he risk having two wounded destrex this close.

BOOM!

The destrex on the right jerked its head to one side, stiffened on all four legs, and took off running not directly at Mark, but if it kept going it would pass within twenty yards.

Oh, shit!

Mark dropped the first rifle, picked up the second one, and brought the barrel in line with the moving destrex when its front legs collapsed, and it nose-dived into the ground forty yards from him. He shot it again to be sure, then waited almost an hour for the second destrex to feed on the lombar carcass before ambling off. Mark skinned the dead destrex while keeping a nervous watch, in case the live destrex returned.

Another two months passed, and he went on a third successful hunt Mark had three hides, his goal for making a trip to Landylbury, but he worried Toodman would balk at him being gone again for so long. A suggestion by Maghen solved the problem.

“A good idea, dear,” said Mark. “Toodman agreed that I can be gone long enough to make another trip to Landylbury to sell hides. In return, I’ll bring back goods for the ranch that I can buy far cheaper than in Nurburt. He’s making a list of the ranch’s needs for the next five to six months. He also suggested I make the same offer to neighboring ranches if I think I’ll have room.

“He’s giving me an older wagon that’s sitting under a hay pile in the north barn. The wagon is in generally good shape—just needs some minor maintenance I should be able to do in a few hours. He says the savings from goods I bring back from Landylbury will more than pay for it.”

“I don’t like the idea of you traveling alone with the three hides,” said Maghen. “They’re awfully tempting. Just be sure you keep them covered. How much do you think you’ll get for them?”

“I can’t be sure, but certainly much more than I could get in Nurburt. If it’s like any other market, it will depend on the current demand for destrex leather and what the supply is. Too bad we couldn’t do the tanning ourselves. The price would be higher, but we don’t have the equipment and facilities.”

Three days later, Mark headed north-northeast, back to Landylbury. He’d hidden the three hides under two feet of straw—at least for the first half of the trip until a windstorm distributed the straw over several square miles. Mark then spent most of a day cutting enough tree branch sections to provide a layer of camouflage that lasted until Landylbury. There, he found a trader who seemed honest, as far as he could evaluate. The three hides sold for twenty-four large gold coins—roughly equivalent to $30,000, by Mark’s estimation. Compared to the coin flow from the safety pins and the springs and to his vision of where his introductions of Earth technology should lead, the destrex payment seemed puny. Yet . . . he felt encouraged at the good start toward acquiring land for his and Maghen’s future home.

By the time he returned with a wagon weighted down with Landylbury goods, he’d been gone five sixdays.

The next Anyar year filled with routine ranch work, more destrex hunts, and watching Alys grow. Toodman continued transferring more supervisory duties to Mark and said the future foreman’s role would be his if he decided not to start his own ranch. Mark thanked him but told Toodman their plan remained the same.

Alys talked to anyone, whether people listened or not. Mark and Maghen agreed to try to postpone another child for at least a year. There being no barrier method available, they relied on Maghen’s monthly cycle and her confidence she understood how it synchronized with Anyar’s two moons. During her fertile periods, they abstained from intercourse or engaged in alternate sexual activities.

Another Harvest Festival came. Mark declined Fenon Lorwell’s entreaties to participate in weightlifting and wrestling, citing his promise to Maghen to accompany her to all the exhibits she favored. Both Lorwell brothers wore a skeptical expression, but they accepted his lame excuse.

At mid-day, Erlon Lorwell chanced upon them and mentioned a man whose name Mark didn’t recognize.

“Maghen,” said Erlon, “I just saw Sloffland. First time I’ve seen him in two years or more. I came to warn you. Are you sure you don’t want me and Fenon to threaten him?”

Maghen morphed from merry to visibly angry after hearing her brother’s words, her face red and mouth tight.

“Who’s this Sloffland?” asked Mark.

Erlon looked uneasy. “Uh . . . that’s something Maghen needs to explain.” He looked expectantly at his sister.

“I didn’t tell you about him, Mark. Sloffland . . . Gerlyn Sloffland and I were involved for a short time. He’s one of the reasons I went to work for the Toodmans. When I told him I didn’t want to have anything more to do with him, he wouldn’t stop pestering me. It got bad enough I feared Erlon or Fenon would kill him, so to keep the peace I moved to the Toodman ranch. Keeslyn and my father are old friends. I didn’t tell Father all the truth about why I left. I said I wanted a chance to meet different men. He and Mother worried I’d never marry, so he accepted my excuse. I haven’t seen Gerlyn since then. When you and I were at the same festival the first time, I stayed with my family until I was fairly certain Gerlyn didn’t attend. I hoped he’d moved out of the area.”

Mark turned to Erlon. “You say you’ve seen this Sloffland?”

“Yes, over by the krykor exhibits. His family raises them on a ranch northeast of here. Maghen made Fenon and me promise not to do anything to him, but when I saw him, I thought I should warn Maghen.”

Mark looked at the two Lorwell siblings. Erlon looked frustrated, Fenon’s jaw was clenched, and Maghen’s earlier good mood was gone.

“This seems like a problem that needs to be gotten rid of,” said Mark. “Show me this Sloffland, Erlon.”

“Now, Mark, I asked my brothers not to make trouble, and I don’t want you to either. The Sloffland family is important around Nurburt, and I handled the problem before.”

“Sorry, Maghen,” Mark said, briefly hugging her, “but you only delayed handling it. It’s time to do it permanently. There won’t be any trouble.”

Erlon grinned and led on, a worried Maghen trailing along. Mark held Alys until they got to the krykor area, where he gave the child to her mother.

Erlon scanned the area. “Ah, there he is,” and led them to a strikingly handsome man in his mid-twenties. He was an inch shorter than Mark and well built. Mark instantly, and he knew foolishly, felt jealous that this man had been with his wife.

Sloffland noticed them when they came to within ten feet, his eyes widening on seeing Maghen. His mouth curled in a leer and his lips began to form words, until Mark’s fist flattened them against his teeth. Sloffland’s body hit the ground.

Mark jerked him erect, gripped the man’s fastened coat, lifted his feet off the ground, and carried him twenty feet to slam him against the wall of a barn.

Sloffland struggled, until Mark rammed his forehead into Sloffland’s nose. It bled profusely.

“Listen carefully, you pile of shit. Pay attention. My name is Mark Kaldwel. Maghen is my wife. If you ever bother her again, if I ever hear of you saying a word or anything about her, or if I even suspect you’re thinking about saying things about her, you will regret it for the rest of your life. Mark Kaldwel. Don’t forget the name. Ask around about my name. Ask around and think very carefully about whether you want me to come looking for you.”

Mark turned, still holding Sloffland off the ground, and threw him over a three-foot rail fence into a krykor pen. He landed on the backs of a cluster of the animals.

Mark whirled around to see the laughing Lorwell brothers and Maghen fighting opposite urges to either frown or grin in delight.

“See,” said Mark. “I told you there wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“There still may be,” said Maghen. “He’s a mean man with a nasty temper.”

“You two go on,” said Erlon. “I’ll stay to be sure Sloffland finds out about Mark’s visit to the festival two years ago and how he’s a man who goes destrex hunting alone.”

Maghen’s mood returned to its earlier state, though Mark caught her looking around every few minutes for the first hour, probably checking for Sloffland. When they met Fenon later, he updated them.

“Erlon tells me Sloffland suddenly left for urgent business back at the family’s ranch and was last seen riding north.”

They enjoyed the rest of the festival without incident.

Mark made two more trips to Landylbury, each time with three hides. Their stash of gold coins grew enough to make Mark uneasy about hiding it all in their cottage. He transferred a third to the storage bin he used in Nurburt for hides, and he buried another third two miles from the ranch. He then covered the small hole with a rock that he believed only he could move.

Rumors of a man who hunted destrex alone spread within fifty miles of Nurburt. Mark deflected inquiries about how he survived. He created a story that portrayed him as both extraordinarily lucky and stupid at the same time. One extended family, the Ostyns, pressed him hard for answers, provoking a brawl in a pub. Mark first knocked out one of the men and then fought two others to mutual exhaustion. The result was a respectful truce. It had been all he could do to avoid serious injury to himself, while trying not to kill one of the Ostyns, despite pulling his punches.

Mark and Maghen celebrated Alys’s second birthday with a party and allowed her to eat all the honeyed cakes she wanted. She consumed the final one witnessed by an audience of amazed adults. Alys finally wound down and fell asleep in her small bed, next to her parents’ larger one.

Mark sat with Maghen on the cottage’s porch.

“When will you go to Landylbury, Mark? I assume it’s soon because you have three hides.”

He patted her leg. “I appreciate how patient you’ve been. We could have started our own ranch months ago, but I wanted to wait until we had enough coin. I didn’t want us to struggle by making the move too early. The piece of land I have in mind is larger than you imagined we would begin with. It’s both beautiful and well located—about equally distant from your family, Nurburt, and here. We have enough friends on the ranch that it would be a shame to lose contact with them.”

“You’re still thinking of giving our new ranch a name? It seems odd. Here it’s the Toodman Ranch. Why would Keeslyn and Leesta need to give land and buildings a name?”

“It’s not necessary, but it’s something commonly done where I come from. I’ll never see my original people again, but I still miss things about them and my homeland. The land we’ll buy reminds me of where I came from.”

Maghen shrugged and laughed. “Oh, I don’t mind if we call our land Colorado or Ponderosa, whenever you make up your mind. When people ask, I’ll just say it’s your idea and go ask him.”

“Good solution,” Mark said and kissed her. They were still deciding on which brand to use on their horses and cattle. Maghen favored using the letter “K” for Kaldwel, while Mark wanted two “M’s,” though he hadn’t come up with a simple design he liked.

“And no changing the subject,” she said. “When will you leave for Landylbury?”

“Not for a while. I’m going to do one more hunt and try to get two hides this time. I’ll have to bring extra horses, so I’ll take more time. But whether I get one or two hides, this will be the last hunt. We’ll have enough coin then to buy the land, build a house, a barn, fencing, and begin stocking with more animals than we originally planned. It’ll also let us hire more workers before we start having income from the ranch.”

Maghen clutched Mark and gave him a smacking kiss. “Oh, Mark, I can’t wait. I know you wanted to wait a little longer to give us a better start, but I would have rushed to do it sooner and likely regretted it later. Now I can begin seriously thinking about what we’ll need, even if it’s still early. And as soon as we know when a house will be ready, I want to try having another child. I keep telling you your house plan doesn’t provide enough rooms for all the children I want.”

“Don’t worry about that. The design provides for a way to expand a wing with bedrooms.”

He stroked her cheek. “Speaking of bedrooms, Alys should be sound asleep, and we won’t wake her if we practice making babies.”

Two months later, Mark left for Landylbury.

CHAPTER 26

AN UNFORESEEN DANGER

Mark Kaldwel pushed open the swinging doors of the Wasted Zernik pub. Sounds of patrons talking and a small group of musicians at the opposite end of the large room washed over him. It wasn’t the dregs of Landylbury’s pub options but was distant enough from the commercial section of the city that he believed it minimized his being recognized by any Brawsea guild members who happened to be in Landylbury. Not that there had been any sign he was still being sought since fleeing Brawsea, the Frangel capital, after things turned bad. Nevertheless, why take risks when he didn’t have to?

He looked around for an empty table, though the large crowd argued against success. It wasn’t that he was naturally unsocial, but he strove to leave as small a memory footprint as possible in Landylbury. Tonight, the attempt failed.

“Kaldwel, just saw you come in,” called a gruff voice behind him, above the general din of patrons. A hand rested on his shoulder. “Come join me and my cousins. We’re a stein ahead of you.”

The Ostyns were a family of ranchers and hunters thirty miles from the Toodman ranch. They were amiable sorts and held no animus about the fight he’d had with them. However, he would have been more pleased to spend a pub evening with them in Nurburt than in Landylbury, where he strove for anonymity. Sighing, he followed the burly Vernyn Ostyn to a table and ordered a stein of ale.

“Vernyn told us you came to Landylbury to sell hides, instead of Brawsea or Kaledon,” said the older cousin whose name Mark forgot. “He figured it must be because of better prices, and it was! Almost half again as much as we got the one time we went to the capital. The drinks are on us tonight!”

Mark knew the Ostyns sold destrex hides whenever the family needed coin—normally, one or two hides at a time. He had no intention of telling them how many he had sold that day.

The negotiation over the price for the five destrex hides had been as long and annoying as usual. Still, he knew he had gotten a fair price. He’d been selling to this particular boot maker for a year, following less-than-satisfactory experiences with other trade shops. The hides were highly prized for footwear by men in the upper levels of Frangel society. The cost of destrex boots was well beyond the budget of common citizens. Any hides that weren’t used within Frangel went to lucrative export markets.

The Ostyns hunted in teams of three or four men, the usual number to be reasonably safe in bringing down one of the armored terrors. That there were any destrex left alive was due to the distressingly high mortality rate of hunters attempting to collect the hides. The creatures were annoyingly clever enough to avoid any snare, pit, or other trap sufficient to hold them. They had an even more disturbing habit of turning on hunters whose musket balls had failed to sufficiently penetrate their armor-like hide. The Ostyn family, along with other hunters, believed that Mark either had a secret or was insane, the only two conceivable motives for anyone hunting destrex alone.

Mark studiously hid from other hunters the rifled muskets he’d had made in Landylbury. The city was far enough from hunting terrain that he could usually avoid attracting attention from other hunters. The 90-caliber weapons were almost twice the weight of an average hunter’s musket, had three times the effective range, and fired minie balls hand-made by Mark. It took a man of his size, 6-foot, 3 inches, and 240 pounds, by Earth measures, to handle the weight and the recoil.

His stein arrived just as the younger Ostyn cousin seemed about to probe how many hides Mark had sold. When the female server asked whether the others wanted another stein, Mark hurriedly switched topics the instant she left.

“Did you hear there’s been a zernik outbreak near White Mountain? A bad one, from what I hear. A pack of twenty or thirty hit a settlement.” The town of ten thousand was in south Frangel, not far from the tree line, and existed only because of mining and trapping.

“No,” said Vernyn. “White Mountain, you say? I imagine the people there are sweeping the countryside. Can’t let the damn things get a foothold and start breeding. How did they get all the way from Tekleum?”

“No one seems to know how and where they got over the Urstyl Mountains. Then they had to travel unnoticed across southern Frangel nearly to White Mountain.” The narrow chain of mountains that bisected Drilmar north to south was a formidable barrier, yet a steady trickle of zerniks migrated from their normal range in western Drilmar.

“Why don’t the Tekleumese and the Rumpasians exterminate the damn things?” asked Vernyn.

As Mark had intended, the conversation moved away from his hunting success. He only half-listened to the three Ostyns during the next hour. He contributed enough to seem involved, while his mind drifted to getting home. Suddenly, something caught his attention. It was as if someone had said something that didn’t quite reach his consciousness, but he knew it was there. He looked around the full pub, his eyes and ears searching for what he might have missed. Nothing.

“Excuse me, men, I thought I caught a glimpse of someone I need to see. I’ll be back if I can’t find him.”

He picked up his stein and meandered among the tables, jostling men and a few women. He heard complaints about bosses, jobs, wives, and the latest news from elsewhere in Frangel.

As he finished his second circuit of the room and was about to reclaim his seat with the Ostyns, he caught his breath and felt a surge of adrenaline. A knot of eight or nine men stood talking. Most were dressed as local workmen, but two of the men were out of place, with clothing more common in higher-class pubs closer to the city center.

“No, can’t say as I’ve ever heard of a land called ‘Amerika,’” said a man in work clothes. He turned to the men on his left. “Any of you heard of the place?”

Head shakes and words confirmed their ignorance.

“How about you?” asked a voice to Mark’s right. He didn’t respond. A hand gripped his shoulder. “You. I asked if the word Amerika means anything to you?”

Mark shook himself out of his momentary stupor and looked at the more hard-bitten of the two out-of-place men. The man’s eyes focused on Mark, and all the other men stared their way.

“I . . . ,” he stuttered. “I may have heard the word somewhere, but I’m not sure where.”

His mind cried out with an urge to grab the man and shake an answer out of him. How could he know about a place on Earth? Calm yourself, Mark thought. Maybe it’s just some similar pronunciation.

The first man pulled the bigger man’s arm off Mark’s shoulder, shaking his head. “Pardon my friend here, but we’ve been looking for information about Amerika, and Lurkyn simply got excited that someone else has heard of the place. But what about you? How is it you’ve heard of Amerika?”

Mark warred with himself. After years of hiding who he was and where he had come from, to be hit unexpectedly with a connection to home was almost overwhelming. He needed time to think.

“I’d have to try to remember where I heard about it,” he said. “My mind’s a little addled from the ale. Maybe I can remember more tomorrow morning. We could meet after I’ve had a chance to think on it.”

“Where are you staying?” asked the smaller of the two men. “We could meet you there.”

“Uh . . . I forget the name. It’s an inn east of here. Why don’t we meet back here at seven bells tomorrow? They have bread and cheese, and I’ll eat while we talk, then leave for home.” As much as Mark wanted to hear what the men knew, something about them bothered him. He was still skittish after his experience with the guilds.

“In fact, I think I’ve had enough ale for this evening, so I’ll head over to where I’m staying. I’ll see you here tomorrow.”

As he made his way through the throng to the main door, he glanced back to see the two men in animated conversation. The big man was obviously unhappy, as the other man seemingly tried to placate him. Outside, Mark hurried to the nearest corner, turned it, and quickly circled the block. If the men were following, he hoped he’d led them in the wrong direction. By the time he was halfway to the inn, he was chastising himself for being paranoid. He didn’t know whether the word that interested the two men was his America, but he would be bitter if it was and he’d lost an opportunity by worrying too much. However, to be safe, he stopped twice and waited in the shadows to watch for the two men from the pub. Finally, he was satisfied he hadn’t been followed. He had all but convinced himself that he’d only heard what his imagination wanted to hear.

He nodded to the night man at the inn’s front counter and the second man sitting to one side. Both were visibly armed, and there was only the one entrance to the building. It wasn’t a safe situation in the event of a fire, but Mark risked it for a one- or two-night stay in Landylbury. He figured it was a reasonable trade for securing the large bags of silver coins in his room.

He climbed the wooden stairs to the second-floor hallway, used a key to unlock the sturdy door to his room, undressed, and lay down. After pulling the thin cover over himself, he fell asleep quickly. A knife sheath lay under the folded blanket he used as a pillow.

He had always been quick to both fall asleep and wake up at strange noises. He didn’t know what he’d heard, but he awoke to shadows moving toward the bed in the small room.

“What—?” exclaimed a voice, after its owner pulled back the bed’s blanket to reveal wadded clothing.

Mark couldn’t justify why he’d needed to sleep on the floor that night. Using extra blankets, he’d made a bed in a corner, partly shielded if the hallway door opened.

“Get some light,” ordered another voice. Someone opened the door wider to let in faint illumination from a candle in the hallway.

Mark leaped to his feet the instant he made out three men, two carrying clubs and the third a coil of rope. Hunter’s knife in his right hand, he threw a blanket at one of the men holding a club.

“Damn!”

“Get him!”

The second man with a club swung at Mark’s head and missed.

“Don’t kill him, you idiot! They’ll only pay if he’s alive!”

The words made the man hesitate long enough for Mark to move inside another swing of the club. A straight arm to the throat staggered the man, and Mark slashed at the arm holding the club. He recognized the larger of the two men from the pub.

He didn’t want to kill anyone, and his qualms almost cost him. As the injured man fell back into the hallway, a blow from the second assailant holding a club glanced off Mark’s head and hit between his neck and shoulder. Only thick muscle prevented a broken shoulder or collarbone, but he went to his knees, his left arm numb.

“Hit him again! The other arm! They don’t need to work.”

Mark saw the club rise for another blow, and he stabbed the wielder inside his thigh, aiming for the main artery.

“Agh!” cried the man, stepping back into the doorway light, still on his feet. Mark’s left arm was useless, but the rest of his body was intact, and the adrenaline rush made him feel powerful. He leaped to his feet and thrust his knife into the man’s abdomen. Still the attacker didn’t go down. It took a second jab to the belly and one to the exposed throat before the man fell.

Mark whirled on the leader, who had turned to flee. He slammed into the man with his shoulder, still grasping the knife with that arm. The man crashed into a wall and collapsed. Mark jumped to one side. He turned, anticipating an attack from the man he’d first wounded, only to see his back disappear down the hall. Mark pressed his senseless arm to his side.

He sagged onto the bed, gasping and pulling in as much air as his lungs could manage. He stayed seated for a minute until his breath and heart rate quit racing. The smaller man hadn’t stirred, still slumped against the wall. Mark’s arm hurt more now than initially, but he could move his fingers.

I’ll have a hell of a bruise tomorrow, and I expect it’ll be stiff for a few days, but I don’t think anything is broken. Now, what the hell was that all about? The guilds? But what would be the connection with a word sounding like “America”?

Re-sheathing the knife and lighting the whale oil lantern took some effort. The light confirmed one man was dead, and the unconscious man was the smaller of the two from the pub. Mark pulled him into a sitting position on the floor, his back to the wall. A cup of water thrown in his face yielded sputtering and groans before the leader opened his eyes.

Mark pulled his knife again and held it in front of the man’s frightened eyes.

“You’re going to tell me what’s your interest in me,” said Mark in a tone conveying certainty. “Who are you?”

The man shook his head. Whether it was to clear his head or refuse to answer, Mark didn’t know and didn’t care. He slammed the hilt of his knife into the man’s nose. The crack of broken cartilage was following by a bloody stream.

“Let’s try this again. What’s your name?”

“Ar . . . arg . . . arg . . . ,” burbled out of a blood-filled mouth.

Mark cut a piece out of the man’s shirt and held it to the broken nose, tilting the head back for about a minute. Then he pulled the head to face forward and let the man hold the cloth on his nose.

“Once more. What’s your name?”

“K . . . Kros . . . Kroswyn,” the man said, his voice barely audible through the cloth.

“Who are you? Why did you attack me?”

“C . . . Coin. Not kill you. Paying for you alive.”

“Paying? Is it the guilds?”

“Guilds?” replied Kroswyn, whose eyes and brow showed surprise. “Why would the guilds want you? It was some Narthani at the port.”

Mark sat back on his heels. Narthani? Why would the Narthani care anything about him? He knew of them and how people feared that the Narthon Empire might someday cast eyes on Drilmar. However, the conflicts between Narthon and neighboring peoples on Melosia, the largest continent, had been stalemated for a long time. He had the sense after listening to people talk that the Narthon threat had faded in Frangelese minds in recent years.

He leaned to within a foot of Kroswyn and held his knife point inches away from the man’s eye.

“Why would the Narthani be interested in me?”

“All I know is that they’re offering bags of coin for information on anyone knowing about a place called Amerika with people called Amerikans and a man named Yozef Kolsko. They’ve been spreading the word at ports in Frangel and, from what I hear, in other realms, too. We’re not to kill you or injure you severely,” Kroswyn added hurriedly, “just deliver you to them.”

Mark sat back on his haunches again, stunned. America! Americans! He had assumed he would spend the rest of his life with no one knowing where he had come from and having no one to reminisce with about home. The first year had been hard. Then, once he’d accepted his fate as much as he could, he had worked to create a life here in Frangel. That hadn’t gone well, but once he’d moved to central Frangel, away from major cities, he had become content with his life. Not happy, he admitted to himself in moments when he allowed reflection, but content. He loved his wife and child, and his livelihood provided well for them and seemed to bode well for the future. Yet he never had any doubt that this was not a life he would have chosen for himself.

Now . . . were there others? If they were also castaways, he could talk to them about things he otherwise dared not speak of.

“What is it about this Amerika and the Kolsko man that interests the Narthani? I don’t think I’ve ever met a Narthani, so why are they so interested in me and this Amerika?”

“They’ve never told any details to me or anyone else I’ve talked to. The only other thing I know is I overheard two Narthani say something about a place called Caedellium. I had to ask around to find out where it was. It’s some shitty little island northwest of Landolin. That’s all I know.”

“Landolin? Christ!” Mark cursed. “That’s on the other side of the world.”

He had spoken in English, and Kroswyn looked blank at the unknown language. Mark knew where Landolin was from maps he’d studied in Tregallon and one he’d bought in Kaledon. Yet he had never heard of an island named Caedellium. He now mentally juggled distances.

If this Caedellium is west of Landolin, that puts this island about twelve to thirteen thousand miles from here in a straight line. More with travel. Shit! Why couldn’t it have been near Drilmar or at least Fuomon or one of the Harrasedic states? Isn’t anything on this damn planet going to be easy?

“Why are they interested in this, what did you call it . . . Cudelum?”

“Caedellium. Who knows why the cursed Narthani are involved with them? It’s not near Narthon. That’s all I know, I swear.”

Mark’s thoughts roiled over what he’d just heard. He needed to know more about Caedellium. Why were the Narthani so interested in the island? What was their intent for him? Did any of this relate to the guild’s search for him? He sensed that Kroswyn was a dead end. The man was obviously, and justifiably, afraid of what Mark might do to him. From what he’d heard about the Narthani—and their willingness to pay handsomely for delivery of his person—he realized that he needed to get his ass out of Landylbury. Yet he ached to learn more about this Caedellium and the man named Yozef Kolsko.

At a loss for how to satisfy the conflicting paths forward, he opted for security. He needed to get out of the city and back home. There, he would have time to plan what to do next. Time might be short. The man he’d cut had fled. Mark didn’t think the wound serious, so the man might be summoning help while Mark sat thinking. Worse, the assailant might go straight to any Narthani in the port city. They could show up with twenty men, and Mark would be at their mercy, facing a future that might not include freedom or ever seeing his family again.

“Don’t move, or I’ll gut you,” said Mark, once more showing the knife blade.

Kroswyn nodded. Mark cut strips of fabric from the clothing of the dead man, then used them to tie Kroswyn’s legs and arms and gag him.

“I’ll let you live, but if I ever see you again, I won’t be so kind. Do you understand?”

Kroswyn nodded, his relief obvious.

Mark quickly packed his gear. He stood in the doorway for several seconds, looking at the body and the trussed man. He mentally checked whether he’d left anything that might trace him home and wondered if it might be best to kill Kroswyn as a loose end. As he started down the hall, the two men from the lobby thundered up the staircase, pistols in hands. They stopped when they recognized him and lowered their weapons.

“What’s happened?” yelled one of the men.

“I was attacked in my room by three men,” said Mark.

“Must be the three that just checked in for a room,” said the man from the front counter. “Something didn’t seem right. They didn’t have baggage. One of them ran out, dripping blood. Where are the other two?”

“One’s dead, and the other’s tied up in my room. I’m getting out. Is that going to be a problem?” asked Mark, not sure of the protocol for leaving dead bodies.

The two men looked at each other before the counter man sighed. “Damn. This doesn’t do our reputation any good. We’ll clean up the mess if you agree not to tell anyone what happened.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. I’m leaving Landylbury and don’t know if I’ll ever be back.”

Mark walked past the two men, then stopped and turned.

“I left one of them tied up. I told him I’d let him live if he talked to me. He did, so I’d appreciate it if you keep my word.”

He didn’t wait for an answer and hurried down the hall, then out the front door. He headed to the stable where his horses and wagon awaited.

“Yes, yes! Stop banging on my door. You’ll wake my wife, and she’ll bitch at me for the next sixday!”

Mark stopped pounding the door and waited for the stable owner to unlock and open it.

The owner recognized him. “What couldn’t wait until tomor—”

“Sorry, but something urgent came up, and I need to leave Landylbury.”

The grizzled man sighed. “All right. Give me a minute to dress, and I’ll be out to help hitch the horses to your wagon.”

“That’s something I need to talk with you about. I don’t really need the wagon anymore, but I do need three riding horses. Good ones. I’ll trade you my wagon and its horse team.”

The owner’s eyes narrowed. No one came to his home in the middle of the night wanting to swap a solid wagon and two strong draft horses for riding horses unless there was a reason that could play to his benefit.

“I’ll have to check the wagon and horses again, but you’ll need a saddle and other gear. You’d have to add six hundred soldors.”

The dickering on price commenced and continued after the owner threw on a coat and they walked to the stable. Mark didn’t have time for the endless arguing over prices that seemed ingrained in the Frangelese. He gave the man silver coins worth five hundred soldors. The tack was used but in good shape. The horses were adequate—they only needed to survive to get him home.

An hour later, Mark knocked on another door. The night was still an hour from first light. Minyn Lustor wasn’t as annoyed as the stable owner had been, but he was surprised.

“Kaldwel? Haven’t seen you for months, and why come calling this early?”

“Sorry, Lustor, I need to make some purchases, and it can’t wait for your normal hours. Can you open your shop? It’ll be worth your while.”

“Well . . . sure. Meet me at the front door.”

Mark walked from the rear of the building, where Lustor lived in an adjoining house, and waited at the street door of the firearms shop. Heavy bars over windows and a similarly barred door were set into timbered walls. No one broke into the shop easily. Lustor once recounted that the few who did try had met an unpleasant fate from the heavily armed owner and his sons, none of whom had any compunction against shooting intruders.

With a clang of metal, the door swung open. Luster turned to light the lanterns. One of his sons stood aside, holding a double-barreled musket shotgun. He and Mark nodded to each other. Then, satisfied that his father’s customer was who he claimed to be, the son disappeared into the dark workroom behind the now illuminated displays.

“I won’t ask why the urgency,” said Lustor. “I expect it’s trouble and not something I want to know about.”

Mark ignored the statement. “I need a number of firearms—to start with, two of those double-barreled shotguns like your son brandished, plus shot packets and powder. Also, four pistols that would stop a man but that a woman could handle. They should use the same caliber shot. And that double-barreled pistol you showed me last time I was here and tried to sell me. I didn’t need it then, but I do now. Is it still for sale, and do you have more than one?”

Lustor called out to his son, presumably still in back, to bring out the shotguns. He then pointed to a display case of pistols. “Pick out your single-shot pistols. The others are locked away. They’re still hard to make, so they’re expensive. I have two ready to sell.”

“Can we work out an agreement? The shotguns and pistols for the remaining time of our agreement on the rifles you made for me?”

Thirty minutes later, the shotguns, pistols, shot, and powder were wrapped in waterproof leather and tied on the two horses he wasn’t riding. The weight was compensated for when Lustor swapped silver coins for gold. Mark usually took payment for hides in bulkier silver, which was less conspicuous to spend than gold. Now, Mark’s fear of drawing attention with gold coin was less important than ease of transport and concealment.

He rode at a steady but unhurried pace until mid-day. He estimated he’d covered thirty miles from Landylbury to the top of an escarpment. There, he sat watching the road behind him. The horses were tied next to a spring. He’d fed them a portion of grain from the sacks the stable owner had provided. Pausing would let him observe whether anyone was in pursuit. He still wondered whether he should have killed the leader of the three men who’d tried to capture him.

An hour passed. Two hours. Traffic on the road had slackened the farther he got from the city, but at thirty miles there were occasional wagons and riders: farmers bringing goods to sell or returning home, single or multiple riders traveling for whatever reason, freight wagons loaded or empty, heading in both directions.

“Well, we’d better get going,” he said to the horses thirty feet away. “Nothing so far. We’ll stop again tomorrow when we get to the top of the Balgorn Pass to check for anyone following.”

He’d always had the habit of talking to horses, first on his family’s ranch and then in Frangel. At home, it was a point of laughter within the family. Here, it was just the oddity of a man speaking to empty space in a foreign language.

After giving each horse another double handful of grain, he saddled a different horse this time and tied the packs on the other two. Before mounting, he took one last look north toward the city . . . and stopped. A cluster of horses had just come into view about a mile distant. It took five minutes before he got a count of twelve riders and three pack animals. At fifteen minutes, he believed a large rider had one arm in a sling and a smaller rider had something covering the middle of his face, as if they’d suffered a wounded arm and a nose injury. He didn’t believe in coincidence. It had to be the two men from the night before, and now with ten comrades.

I should have killed them, he thought, bitterly. Definitely the one I let go. He talked like the leader.

There was no way they’d tracked him, not on the roads and through multiple forks. They had to have found out his name and where he lived from someone at the pub. Maybe the Ostyns. Maybe another patron he’d spoken with on previous visits. It didn’t matter from whom. They were coming for him—meaning whatever price the Narthani were willing to pay was significant.

If he’d had one of his “doomsters,” the name he’d given the destrex rifles, he’d be tempted to discourage them. With its longer range and striking power greater than anything they’d carry, he could pick them off out of their range. A couple of men with fist-sized holes all the way through their bodies might stop them, but maybe not. Enough gold could overcome any hesitation, and even if these men turned back, there could always be more later.

He briefly considered ambushing the party, perhaps with help from Toodman and friends, but that would put them in danger during the ambush and from later Narthani agents. Even with the doomsters, the help of other men, and picking a spot to trap his pursuers, he couldn’t be sure of getting them all after endangering people he cared about. What had happened in northern Frangel still weighed on him.

That left the problem of what to do. He couldn’t turn such men back forever, and there was no safe haven at home. If the Narthani wanted him badly enough, they might send hundreds after him. He felt angry and bitter. After all that had happened in the first years, he thought he’d settled into what the rest of his life would be. And now this. He would have to move again. No, not just move, but run. Run away from Narthani agents. Where to? Could it be in Frangel? He’d already moved south, away from the major cities. He needed to go where he might not be known, maybe far into the south where few people lived—for good reason. No, he would have to leave Frangel entirely. For the first time since hearing the word Amerika, he acknowledged the nagging thought he’d tried to suppress. He had to get to “Caedellium” and find out what was there.

Time for a leisurely pace was over. He transferred all the packs to his own horse and one of the others. The third horse would travel light and be the least tired when he needed it. If the opportunity occurred, he would look to buy fresh horses on the way. He had to get home as fast as possible. The riders were an hour behind him because climbing the road up the escarpment was slow going with its winding switchbacks. He would push the horses and rest as little as possible. If he was lucky, he would cover the 340 miles back home a full day ahead of the ten men—perhaps two days, if all went well.

Maghen Kaldwel had spent the afternoon with friends—Leesta Toodman and four workers’ wives—preserving what Mark insisted on calling figs, instead of the nurster fruit’s correct name. She could never get a satisfactory answer for why he had to use a different name. It was just one more unexplained trait she had come to accept, a minor annoyance in exchange for such a fine husband.

As she walked from the ranch owner’s house to her family’s cottage, she shifted two-year-old Alys to her other arm. She noticed that she’d missed cleaning off a spot of nurster juice from her elbow. The preserves would be shared by all the ranch’s families.

“Mama. ’Orses,” called her daughter, who hadn’t mastered all sounds yet. Maghen looked behind to check what Alys saw. She raised a hand to shade her eyes from the sun. It was a rider pulling a single packhorse. A rider whose shape looked familiar.

After the initial shock of hearing her husband describe the events in Landylbury, Maghen astounded Mark by immediately turning to sort through their possessions. He hadn’t fully appreciated until now the way she accepted in life what was and didn’t demand what she wanted.

He had argued with himself and then discussed with her the option of him leaving alone. In no scenario was he convinced that she would be safer without him. If the Narthani found him gone, they might take his family as hostages, and the chances that they’d see one another again would become vanishingly small. If rumors were true, the Narthani might ship them to Narthon and a fate that could not be contemplated.

Just as dangerous was the likelihood that once his name was known to the Narthani, the guilds would hear of his location. He had to assume they would send men to kill him. Then there was the phony murder and robbery he was supposedly charged with. There was no choice—he had to flee.

“I said it before, but I’m so sorry, Maghen. Neither you nor Alys deserves to lose your home and the future we thought we had.”

Her eyes were moist. “From what you described, Mark, it’s nothing you could have prevented. I, too, thought we were safe here from the guilds, but for whatever reason, the Narthani are after you, and we have to leave. And don’t say anything again about you going without us. You’re my husband, and we’re a family. Even if we don’t know whether we’ll be safe from the Narthani, our place is still together.”

“Damnation, Mark. It’s not fair for any of us,” argued the ranch owner after Mark apprised him of the Narthani. “I’d hoped to convince you to become foreman and maybe come on as a partner with the ranch, instead of starting your own. Eventually, you could buy me out since none of our children want ranch life. Plus, we’ll all miss you and Maghen. But you’re right. If they want you that bad, for whatever reason, even if we drove them off now, they’d come back with more men or when we weren’t looking for them. We’re too remote and the local authority too weak to help us. It’ll gall me the rest of my life that I couldn’t stop all this from happening.”

“I do have a favor to ask,” said Mark. “We’ll have to leave on horses to make good speed and so that we’ll have the option of riding where wagons can’t. I left my own wagon in Landylbury, and the horses I arrived with are done in. We’ll need six horses, two each to ride, carry what we’ll take with us, and as extras.”

“Choose any you want. You know them all. It’s the least I can do. Be sure to also pick out a basic farrier kit: nails, shoes, hammer, file, chisel. It’s extra weight, but you won’t always be near a blacksmith. And don’t worry about us here. When those assholes get here and we tell them we don’t know where you went, there’ll be enough of us here to discourage them from doing anything. It’ll force them to go looking for your trail and give you time to lose them.”

“I hope you’re right,” Mark said, “but my gut feeling is that they’ll be persistent. I don’t know how much the Narthani are paying, but it must be impressive. As for not telling anyone where we went, I’ll think of something for you to say. I don’t want them to assume you know where we are and that you aren’t cooperating.”

They’d gotten four hours’ sleep, then loaded up the horses.

It was only twelve hours after Mark had arrived home when the Kaldwel family said their last goodbyes to people at the ranch. Mark was flummoxed when Leesta Toodman and Tylmar both hugged him. He had expected Maghen’s leaving to be bitter, but more men and women than he expected seemed emotional at his leaving.

“We’ll stop at Maghen’s family’s farm on the way,” Mark had told the ranch owner. “It’ll be a quick stop to see her family and let them know we’re leaving. Maghen will tell them why and that we can’t say if we’ll ever see them again. Then we’ll continue on to Nurburt and farther east. If the Narthani or their agents or whoever they are show up here, you can tell them the direction we’re headed. You don’t need to know more than that, but we’ll be watching to see if they follow us. If not, and if I’ve been an alarmist for no reason, then maybe we’ll come back here in a few sixdays or a month. Otherwise, we’ll try to disappear.”

They rode away from the ranch, then reined in their horses at the top of a rise. Mark turned to look past his wife, riding with Alys, and four pack horses. The ranch and their cottage would likely vanish from their lives forever when they started down the opposite slope.

Mark’s last goodbye before leaving the Toodman ranch took place at a nearby pasture. Secretariat trotted over when Mark whistled and hand-fed him several of the fig-like fruits.

“Sorry, boy, but you can’t go on this trip. There will be ocean legs, and I doubt they have cabins for horses. Anyway, you might get seasick—I know I did my first time on a ship. You’ll be better off staying here.”

Mark stroked the side of Seabiscuit’s head and fondled an ear. “Keeslyn and Tylmar will take good care of you. You won’t have to work or carry anyone again. You can live out your life safe and well-fed, not like some of the times you spent with me.”

With a final pat, Mark turned and walked away, embarrassed that his eyes weren’t dry.

Come on, man. It’s just a horse, he told himself. Yet he was leaving the last living link he had to his time in Tregallon and his drift south.

Maghen waited on her horse, Alys sitting in front of her. “He’ll be fine, Mark.”

“I know. It’s just that we’ve been through so much together. Let’s go.”

He mounted, and they headed east. Mark never looked back, not wanting his last memory to be of Secretariat watching them leave forever.

The stop at the Lorwell farm was far more wrenching for Maghen. The family’s surprise at seeing the unexpected guests turned to disbelief, then arguments about how the family members could provide protection. Their feelings morphed into anger and finally sorrow.

Maghen’s brothers, Erlon and Fenon, declared the family would join Mark and fight off any pursuers.

“I appreciate the offer,” said Mark. “But think about it. You both have families. Even if we won such a fight, there could be casualties in the family. Your children could be without a father. We could always lose, which would be worse. And even if we won, who’s to say the Narthani won’t send more? Maybe twice as many men. Maybe four times. We just don’t know exactly how badly they want me.”

“I hate to admit it,” said Hurmon Lorwell, “but if what Mark says is accurate, I don’t see any other way out. I’ve heard a lot about the Narthani. Tura, you remember when my brother and his wife visited us last year.” Hurmon turned to Mark and Maghen. “He lives halfway to Brawsea and buys and drives livestock to market there, so he’s been to Brawsea every two or three years. He told me stories of how there’s more Narthani in that area the last few years and rumors of them having a level of influence with the royal court. I don’t know the details.

“Anyway, the Narthani have a reputation of being ruthless and relentless. If they’re willing to pay as much for Mark as that man in Landylbury indicated, there’s no reason to think they’ll stop until they succeed. They are probably also able to spread around enough coin to make it unsafe for us to depend on local authorities.”

Tura Lorwell quit listening and picked up Alys tightly enough to elicit protests from the child. “I’ll never see or hold you again, little angel! It breaks my heart!”

She turned to her husband. “Hurmon, it’s terrible for Mark, but maybe it’s best if he goes on alone and leaves Maghen and Alys with us.”

Mark shook his head, but Maghen answered. “We’re a family and we belong together, no matter what happens. And what if Alys and I stayed? Who’s to say the Narthani don’t also want me? Maybe they think that whatever reason they want Mark for also applies to me, either for information I have or to hold Alys and me as hostages to help capture Mark. No, there’s no choice. We go together.”

Mark didn’t add that for him, another impetus was to get to Caedellium. He didn’t know what he would have done if the Narthani were not after him. Considering the distance to the island, the life he thought he had, and for the sake of Maghen and Alys, his inertia to stay would have been formidable. A part of him, half-guiltily, was relieved not to have to make a wrenching decision.

Another half hour of words and tears followed before Mark and family were once again on the road to Nurburt. Mark intended to leave numerous witnesses to his family’s passing through Nurburt and heading east toward the Madyrna border. Once clear of Nurburt, they would circle the town and stop in a place with a view of the road the pursuers would have to use to follow them. Then they’d wait. He held out a small hope that they would see no one, but if the two men from Landylbury and the ten others were on their trail, then the family would continue and push hard west, sticking to open country and bypassing the ranch twenty miles south. From that point, they would steer west toward to the sea, then north. They would look for passage to Novaryn, the smallest and most mercantile of the Drilmar dominions. If Mark hadn’t been worried the guilds would follow him there, he would have attempted to move to the Novaryn capitol, Baeraton. He didn’t have a specific plan once they were in Novaryn. He’d heard the language was different from Frangelese but similar enough to make oneself understood with effort.

They needed to lose the men—whatever combination of Frangelese and Narthani they were. If they picked up his family’s trail, he’d first whittle them down with the doomsters. If that failed, and the numbers got low enough, he had other options. Maghen was a good shot, and with their collection of firearms, he would look for an ambush site to trap the remaining men as a last resort.

As for what happened next, they might still be in danger if word had spread and agents of the Narthani waited for them elsewhere. They had all the coin they’d saved to buy land of their own and from the last five destrex hides. It was enough for food and lodging for many months, along with sea passages, as required. Wherever they went, they needed to keep moving to reach someplace safe before the coin ran out. Whatever happened and however long it took, he would protect his family and find a way, somehow, to get to Caedellium.

CHAPTER 27

STAND AND FIGHT

They reached Nurburt at mid-afternoon and slowly made their way to the center of town, exchanging words with anyone they recognized. Mark wanted people to have a clear memory of their coming to Nurburt and then heading east. At the main square, they stopped to purchase food, even though they had been well supplied at the ranch.

“All three Kaldwels and packed like you’re on a trip. What’s the occasion?” said a man selling dry sausage and meat in a small shop. Mark couldn’t remember his name.

“Just visiting some relatives not far east of here, Umton,” said Maghen, who seemed to know everyone’s name. “We decided we wanted to bring along a little more food in case bad weather makes us hole up somewhere.”

The shopkeeper skeptically eyed the amount they had picked out. “Well, you may have stocked up too much, but who am I to complain?”

Two more shops and one temporary stall yielded a small whetstone for sharpening edges, a blanket, extra flints for starting fires, and more memories of customers buying items better suited for long trips than visits to nearby relatives.

The sun was two fingers above the western horizon when they left Nurburt. Their exit was similar to their slow entrance, and they acknowledged anyone who was familiar or even seemed familiar. Two miles outside Nurburt, they turned south and moved into a trot for a half-mile into a flat area of meager vegetation with no ranches or farms. Then they turned west. Mark wanted to cover as much ground as possible. If he’d been alone, he would have continued into the dark, but he worried that Maghen wasn’t as good at riding horses. Both of them were also distracted by changing off carrying Alys. When even their light-adjusted eyes became unable to recognize what was directly in front of the horses, they stopped and dry-camped. They staked the horses and slept on the ground without a fire. The novelty of the day had energized Alys, but the cool night air encouraged her to snuggle between her parents. The three fell asleep within minutes.

“Already?” groaned Maghen, when Mark shook her the next morning. The sun was still hours from its appearance.

“We need to move quickly to get into position,” said Mark. “If we’re going to check whether anyone is following, we can’t afford to miss them heading to Nurburt.”

“How long will we wait, and what if they don’t come?” asked Maghen. “Maybe they’ll give up when they realize we aren’t at the ranch. If they follow us to Nurburt, they might continue all the way to Madyrna.”

“Even then, they might return to Nurburt and the ranch,” said Mark. “It depends how determined they are and how much the Narthani are offering for me. We’ve talked about this. No matter what happens, it’ll be months before we can consider returning to the ranch, and then only when there are signs they’ve given up and left southern Frangel.

“If we see them heading to Nurburt, we’ll continue on west past the ranch. Then we’ll wait again to confirm whether they were fooled into thinking we’re headed east. If that happens, we still need to worry that they’ll eventually return to the ranch. We can hope that doesn’t happen and we might be able to return. But if they are still on our trail, no matter how they did it, then there’s a point of no return, and we’ll know for certain that we need to keep going.”

Mark already had the horses saddled and packed. Maghen picked up the still drowsing child, and Mark helped them onto her horse, then he stowed the cloth they slept on. Two hours later, they reached a grove of trees on a short mesa overlooking the road to Nurburt. While Maghen set up camp and attended the horses, Mark went to the edge of the mesa and settled in with a view of the road. Maghen took his place when Mark needed to relieve himself or stretch his legs. At dark, he returned to find Maghen and Alys sitting at a fire hidden from the road. From now on, it would be concealed fires at night and none during the day when smoke could be seen.

They ate a meal of sausage and bread. Alys ate the bread insides but not the hard crust. Maghen cut up tiny pieces of sausage Alys could mouth and swallow—reluctantly at first, but more easily as she found she could swallow the pieces.

The next day passed slowly. Alys found running under the horses to be endless fun, though her mother kept a sharp eye in case any of the animals became annoyed or too rambunctious. Maghen prepared a hot meal as the sun set. She fought against hope that their flight would prove unnecessary. That forlorn hope vanished when she saw Mark’s face illuminated by the campfire as he returned from the observation position.

“It’s them. They just passed, heading toward Nurburt. Twelve of them. They’re pushing their horses, so I think they want to reach Nurburt tonight. Even in the dark, there’s enough moonlight and the road is wide enough they should make it. But they can’t question people until sunrise about seeing us pass through.

“I recognized the two men who attacked me in Landylbury. I assume it’s them because both have bandages, one on his nose and the other on an arm. I’m also sure the four beardless ones are Narthani. I’ve heard they think beards are a sign of barbarism. The other six men are probably other Frangelese hired to help capture me.”

“Then it’s on to the next place you mentioned,” said Maghen. “There’s still hope they won’t figure out we’ve circled back.”

“It’s possible,” said Mark, not believing it. But he saw no reason, yet, to dash her hopes of returning to the area where she’d lived her whole life.

In the next two days, they used small roads twenty miles south that paralleled their route to Nurburt. Mark didn’t say anything when he knew they passed as close as they were going to get to Nurburt, Maghen’s family, and the Toodman ranch. Thirty miles later, they came upon a larger road heading west. Mark knew they were well ahead of the pursuers, so they didn’t push their horses too much, in case they needed an unexpected reserve of energy. By the time they reached the next observation point, Maghen had ridden a longer distance in less time than in her entire previous life. Saddle sores threatened, and Mark applied an ointment from Tura Lorwell, who had foreseen the problem. Under other circumstances, Maghen lying naked from the waist down and her legs spread would have elicited a different response from Mark, instead of sympathy and care in applying the ointment. And Maghen’s moans of pleasure merely expressed relief from the soothing ointment and Mark’s gentle hands.

Alys was a different problem. Her interest in the novelty of travel had faded. She had been cranky all day, whining, asking for a stuffed animal left behind, and repeating, “Go home?”

Other traffic on the road diminished the farther they got from Nurburt and the ranch. They acknowledged the few wagons and riders they passed with minimal interchanges. They followed a river valley and stopped where the river branched. The smaller fork came from the north and flowed over a quarter mile of a rock base with no obvious way to parallel the fork. On a previous visit to the area, a local hunter had showed Mark a single-horse track around the cascades to a parallel east/west valley. After taking the track, they camped on a ridge overlooking the main valley and the road heading west.

“This is a good spot,” said Mark. “We’ll wait here. If they continue on, there’s nowhere to cross into this valley for another hundred miles. On the other hand, if they somehow suspect where we left the main road and come up by the cascades, I know another track where we can return to the main road. It’s narrower, and we’ll have to be careful, but they’d never find it. Either way, we’ll have big jump on them and a good chance of losing them.”

The next day at first light, Mark sat in position to view the road. He expected that even if the Narthani realized the Kaldwels had doubled back from Nurburt and they picked up the family’s trail, it would be a day or two before they arrived.

The sun hung directly overhead at mid-day when Mark, disbelieving, saw the first rider appear a mile away on the road east.

Maybe it’s just some local, Mark thought when no others appeared. That hope vanished when the man stopped, turned in his saddle, and looked behind him. Seconds later, a line of horsemen appeared. Mark counted. Five, seven, eight, nine. Hope faded. Twelve.

“Fuck, fuck, FUCK,” he hissed. “How did you follow so fast? Don’t you guys ever sleep or shit?”

Any lingering hope that the number was a coincidence vanished when Mark saw beardless faces and bandages on two of the men.

“Damn all you Narthani pricks to whatever hell you believe in!”

He hustled back to their camp two hundred yards away and walked behind a rock formation with a spring flowing down the slope. Alys cried, “Papa!” and ran to him. He picked her up and walked over to Maghen.

“It’s them, isn’t it? I can see by your face.”

He nodded and handed her Alys. “They’ll be coming to the fork soon. I’ll go back, and we’ll see which way they go. Go ahead and start breaking camp and getting the horses ready. I’ll return as soon as I can.” He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed, hoping to reassure her.

Back at the lookout position, he saw the twelve riders approach the river fork. They followed the main branch for about two hundred yards, then stopped. The first man he’d seen got off his horse and led it forward, the others trailing thirty or forty yards behind. The man kept his head down, swinging it slowly back and forth.

“Oh, shit! He’s a tracker!”

It had never occurred to Mark there would be tracking specialists, like out of a Western movie. An unpleasant movie clip flashed to his consciousness: Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The two outlaws were pursued by experts who included an Indian tracker calling himself Lord Baltimore. Unable to lose the pursuers and desperate, the two outlaws jumped off a cliff into a raging river as their only hope of escape. He couldn’t envision his family duplicating the movie.

“He must suspect something,” Mark mumbled to the nearby rocks. “Maybe no recent hoof prints. Hell, maybe he’s half bloodhound and doesn’t smell us anymore.” How didn’t make any difference.

The man walked back to the others and talked to one of the Narthani. Then the other eleven dismounted and sat in place, while the tracker left his horse and walked back to the river’s fork. Mark didn’t doubt he was checking whether they had left the main road.

“He can’t track over the rock,” Mark whispered, hoping.

The tracker stopped where Mark had led his family onto shallow sloping solid rock with an inch or so of water flowing down it. They had stayed on the rock until near the last cascade and then went into a creek entering the fork. Another three hundred yards and they’d left the creek bed and rode on grass until they moved into their observation position. Mark held his breath as the man leaned down, as if inspecting some telltale sign of the quarry’s passing. Mark sighed when the man walked back to the others.

“Maybe he didn’t find anything.”

The tracker and the presumed leader of the party talked for two or three minutes. Then the leader waved his arms at the resting men, who got back on their horses.

“Okay, so which way are you going?” Mark said under his breath.

The twelve men mounted again and started out . . . continuing west on the road.

Mark sighed, and every muscle relaxed from the tension.

“They didn’t find where we left the road,” he whispered again to the wind. “For a moment I thought we had left some signs on the ground, but I guess not. We need to move. The road up to here is traveled enough that our hoof prints are mixed with those of other horses. But if the damn tracker is good enough, he might be able to recognize specific prints and eventually realize ours are missing.”

The next two days they moved from first to last light, never pushing the horses at more than a trot and alternately riding and walking. Both evenings, they quickly built a concealed fire near water. Maghen used their one pot to make a “sort of” stew from a mixture of dried meat and vegetables. They slept by the fire, leaving the stew pot covered and to be eaten cold when they awoke.

Every time they topped a hill or ended on an open stretch of land, Mark paused to look behind. He couldn’t shake an itch he felt. Either the men had lost their trail, or they would backtrack to the fork and catch up. He hoped that if he didn’t see the men for another two or three days, his family might be free of pursuers.

They didn’t make it to those days.

The sun was at its zenith the next day when they crested a ridgeline. Trees had given way to rock surfaces the last few hundred yards, and Mark could see over the tops of trees into the valley behind them. As usual, he paused to look back.

A hundred of them could be in the valley, and I wouldn’t know it, he thought. Too many trees in the valley floor.

He shifted the reins to turn his mount and start it downslope when a tiny flash caught his eye. He turned back. Could it be sunlight reflecting off water? A random flash in his vision, something he might experience in his peripheral vision if he moved his eyes too fast at night? The sun was still high in the sky.

He strained, focusing on the approximate area where he’d seen the flash. The more he concentrated, the closer objects seemed.

“What is it, Mark? Do you see something?”

“Maybe nothing. I thought I saw a reflection from the sun, but—”

Another flash. In almost the same spot. Then another, but, estimating as best he could, the position of the second flash must have been a hundred yards from the first one.

“Shit! I’m seeing more reflections from the sun.”

Maghen didn’t speak, but he glanced her way and saw her drawn expression.

He kept scrutinizing the trees. The intervals varied from a few seconds to a minute or more, but the flashes continued, and their positions changed, unmistakably moving along the Kaldwels’ route.

He looked at Maghen. “It’s them,” he said woodenly. “It has to be. Who else would be following the same route we took? The spacing of the flashes indicates several of them. It must be the sun reflecting off metal. I only saw the flashes because we’re higher than them and above the trees.”

“How far behind are they?” asked Maghen. She clutched a slumbering Alys, who had dozed off when they left the trees and moved into unfiltered sunlight.

He knew she meant in time, not distance.

“We had to wind around on this slope a lot, so I’d say from where they are to the beginning of the slope, then up it, maybe two and a half hours. Possibly three if we’re lucky. But when they get closer, at some point they’ll recognize how close they are, and they might speed up.”

“What can we do?”

He looked down into the next valley. “From here on, there’s not going to be any rock surface to hide our tracks. We’ll be on the ground and grass the whole time. If they really have a tracker and he’s as good as we must assume he is, he’ll have no trouble following us. From here, we can see that a good-sized stream runs through the next the valley ahead. Our only chance to lose them again is to find forks in the route and hope they take the wrong ones.”

He knew Maghen wasn’t fooled.

“Time is running out, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer directly. “We’ll push the horses down to the stream and follow it until we find a fork.”

Mark needed time to think about what to do next, and they had to maintain enough distance from the pursuers to retain their options. They alternated between galloping for ten minutes and dropping to a trot for ten minutes, then repeating. After two hours, they stopped for ten minutes at a stream to allow the horses to drink and rest.

The faster downward slope added distance from their pursuers. They paralleled the watercourse for three miles downstream before coming to a smaller stream that merged with the one they were following. Mark hesitated. Which way to go—continue on the main branch or take the smaller merging watercourse? He tried to put himself in the tracker’s boots. If Mark were the follower, which way would he suspect the pursued had taken?

“Maghen, I can’t be sure, but let’s assume they’ll think we took the small stream and not the larger one. I’m only guessing, but we can’t outrun them. I think our only chance is for me to ambush them and hope enough of them are shot to discourage the others from continuing.”

“You mean we will ambush them,” said Maghen, her face pale but her voice firm.

“Can you do that? Can you shoot and kill men?”

“At best, they intend to take my husband from me and use me and Alys to make you do whatever they want. At worst, they might kill us all. I’ll shoot every one of the bastards if I can.”

Mark smiled, despite their situation. “That’s my girl. We’ll take the larger stream, as long as it doesn’t get too deep and slow us down too much. They’ll have to follow by staying in the stream because it looks like the trees along the main stream beyond the fork are too thick for anyone to easily climb the banks. We’ll have advantages, and we’ll need them. We’ll look for a spot where they can’t ride directly up the bank where we’ll be waiting. The water will slow them down, and it’ll be hard for them to fire back, control their horses, and respond to the ambush.

“Our other advantage is that they seem to want me alive—at least, that’s what the man in Landylbury said. He shouted at the other men not to kill me. That’s got to make them hesitate to fire at us.”

Mark didn’t add the qualification that his assumptions weren’t certain or how the pursuers’ priorities could change once they were under fire.

He suppressed urging the horses to go faster—they would only tire, working against the water, and the pursuers would have the same issue. About two miles from the fork, the bank on their left varied from eight to twelve feet high. It was covered with brush and boulders that might have rolled down from the hill the stream curled around. The opposite bank was only three to five feet high, but the brush was just as thick.

“This is it,” said Mark. “We’ll have them in as good a position as I think we can find. When they come, we’ll shoot at the leading ones and hope the trailers pull back. What we don’t want is for them to split up, with some behind us along the stream and other ones ahead to block us from moving. This is also a good spot because the stream behind us runs almost straight for several hundred yards, so we’ll see them coming.”

In another hundred yards, they found a place where the bank had caved into the stream, forming a ramp. They led the horses up to the higher bank’s top, then parallel to the stream for another fifty yards.

“We’ll leave the horses here. I’ll go back, find positions for us to wait, and take all the firearms there. You settle Alys. Then change the riding gear to the fresher horses and tie the others to trees. If it comes time to flee, we’ll leave the packhorses and ride hard with only the two riding horses.”

Maghen nodded and dismounted. She set Alys down on the ground and handed her both of her stuffed animals.

“Be a good girl, baby, and play with Abba and Milo. Mama and Papa have work to do.” Alys took the animals, hugged them to her, and watched her parents with wide eyes. She had been quiet the last two days, as if, even at her age, sensing things and fearing the unknown.

Mark gave his wife a quick hug. “I’ll take the horse with most of the firearms and then bring it back.”

Mark took the horse’s lead rope and returned to the stream to set up for the ambush. He didn’t have time for an exhaustive search for the best spot. He quickly chose one where they both could hide behind a cluster of boulders measuring two to seven feet in diameter.

Maghen’s position would be closest to the horses, in case things went to shit. He would stay to delay the Narthani, while she and Alys fled to the forest-covered hills and mountains to their south. How they might survive, Mark didn’t know, but he would do everything he could to give his family a chance. Even if they killed or captured him, wounded or not, his family might escape.

In Maghen’s position, he left both double-barreled shotguns and the four smaller pistols. He picked his position twenty yards farther downstream. There he left the two rifles, a common smoothbore musket, and both double-barreled pistols. That gave them fifteen shots, eight from Maghen and seven from him. The rifles were overkill for the distances, but any hit would put a man out of action. Ironically, the rifles were the easiest to reload. He didn’t know whether there would be time to reload, but if there was, he could step behind a large boulder to do it.

He checked the positions and glanced down the stream. No sign of men and horses. He ran back to Maghen, pulling the packhorse behind him. His wife knelt, saying soothing words to Alys. The two riding horses were stripped of all extra weight, except for a single water bag on one horse. The other horses stood hobbled and tied to trees. He handed the reins of the packhorse to Maghen.

“It’s set up. You’ll have the two shotguns and four smaller pistols. I’ll have the rest. The powder and shot are also there, though I don’t know if we’ll have time to reload. If you’ve fired all your rounds, look to me for what to do. I’d probably yell either to reload or run back to Alys. Then the two of you take one of the horses and head into the forest to the south.”

He looked at his daughter, engrossed in watching a large Anyarian insect-like creature. “Do you think Alys will be quiet if we’re both gone?”

“I don’t know, Mark. She’s gotten so quiet it worries me, but that could be a good thing for today. I’ll feed her and rock her for a few minutes, so maybe she’ll fall asleep.”

“If they hear her before we’re ready to fire, we’ll just have to fire early. Keep your eyes on me and fire only when I signal. If they’re too far away for you to aim at the riders, go for the horses. Even a minor hit should put them out of control.

“Assuming they don’t detect us, we’ll be hidden where you can see me. Just watch me. If I signal with a fist pointed in the direction of the stream, then start shooting. Concentrate on the lead man first, then work along the line of riders.”

Mark made Maghen repeat his instructions. She did, word for word.

“All right. I’ll go back and watch for them. As soon as I see them, I’ll run back for you.”

Mark estimated that just over an hour had passed when the first rider came into view. It wasn’t the tracker or one of the Narthani. It was the large man Mark had wounded in Landylbury. The second rider was a Narthani, the third rider a beardless youth—almost certainly a Frangelese. The fourth—Narthani. The fifth and sixth—Frangelese. He waited, expecting six more riders. When a fifty-yard gap opened from the sixth rider to where they first appeared, Mark ran to get Maghen. She saw him coming from forty yards away. He waved for her to come, turned, and raced back to the stream bank.

Maghen went to where Alys had been sleeping on a blanket laid between boulders. Two wide eyes on a small face stared back at her.

“Alys, baby, Mama has to go for a little bit. You may hear some noise, but Mama and Papa want you to stay here very quiet and protect Abba and Milo. Can you do that?”

Alys nodded, eyes wide, face pale. She hugged the two stuffed animals closer with one arm before drawing her special blanket to cover her friends and herself.

Maghen wanted to hug her and tell her everything was all right, but the words stuck in her throat. With a sob, she ran to follow Mark. When she reached the stream, he waited at her position.

He put one arm across her shoulder and drew her head close, then whispered in her ear. “They’re about a hundred and fifty yards away and coming as fast as they can in the water. There’s only six of them and one packhorse. They must have split up to follow both forks. Remember, shotguns first. Target the first man and move down their line as they fall. I’ll start in the middle. Maghen, this is a better chance than I’d hoped for. If we shoot these six, the others might turn back. Try to be calm and make every shot count.” He squeezed her hard and scurried on hands and knees to his position.

She saw him pick up the smoothbore musket. At this distance, the inaccuracy of smoothbores was not an issue. He nodded to her and turned away to peer around a boulder and through the brush.

Mark could see only twenty yards toward the six pursuers, but he heard their horses and occasional words he couldn’t make out.

They must not know they’re getting close, he thought. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be talking so loud.

He glanced and saw Maghen staring back at him. She crouched, gripping one of the shotguns.

When the first rider reached Mark, he confirmed it wasn’t the tracker. Then a Narthani passed without glancing toward the embankment. The third rider was a teenage boy, and Mark decided to change his first target from the third rider to the Narthani in the fourth position.

Mark edged a half step to his right to clear the boulder when he rose to fire. He looked at Maghen and made the fist-forward gesture toward the stream. From here on, there was no coordination, only shooting. He hoped Maghen was doing the same and that both of them hit something.

When they stood to fire, they had clear firing lanes, except for a few twigs and small branches Mark hoped they would miss.

Boom! Mark’s smoothbore ball hit the fourth rider in the side of his chest and knocked him off his horse.

THUND! came from Mark’s left—a shotgun.

He dropped the smoothbore and grabbed a rifle. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw the third horse rear on its hind legs, throwing the rider. Mark hurriedly cocked the rifle and swung the barrel toward the Narthani in the fifth position. The man had his musket off his back and was bringing to bear on Mark when the sling caught on part of the saddle.

THUND! Maghen’s second barrel blasted from the first shotgun.

The Narthani’s second of delay gave Mark time to align and fire.

BOOM! The Narthani catapulted away as if a rope had jerked him out of the saddle, to land twenty feet distant.

A musket ball hit a rock near Mark, throwing shards on his face but missing his eyes.

THUND! went Maghen’s second shotgun, but Mark couldn’t check on his wife. The sixth man, having fired his musket, wheeled his horse and whipped it as he fled. Mark picked up the second rifle.

When Mark took aim, the man had leaned forward and to the left, to present as small a target as possible. Mark lowered his aim to the top of the horse’s back and the bottom of the man’s butt in the saddle. Either hit would stop him.

BOOM!

The horse’s rear legs collapsed, and its body twisted right before rider and mount disappeared momentarily in a fountain of water.

Mark grabbed both of the double-barreled pistols and spun to look for the first three men.

THUND! roared Maghen’s last shotgun barrel.

One horse was down, thrashing in the water, and the other two ran west, away from the firing. The first man lay face-down in the water. The second plowed through the water, trying to reach the other bank and trailing blood, one arm limp at his side. The teenage boy sat in two-foot-deep water, a gash on his forehead, and crying.

Mark glanced at Maghen. “Are you all right?” he shouted.

She nodded, then dropped the shotgun and leaned forward on the boulder to steady herself.

“Pick up two pistols and watch out while I deal with them.”

“Mark, I shot a horse.”

“What?”

“My first shot at the lead man. I missed him and hit the horse.”

He stared, groping for how he was supposed to respond.

“And I killed a man. The second one. He didn’t even know I was there, and I didn’t know his name or anything.”

She stared blankly.

“Maghen! Deal with it later! We have to finish them and move!”

She stiffened and picked up two of the smaller pistols, then followed him. He slid down the bank and into the water, while holding his two pistols high.

“Keep your pistols out of the water,” he called over his shoulder.

Mark was closest to the boy, but he appeared unarmed and in shock. Mark bypassed him to catch up with the larger Frangelese man from Landylbury trying to scramble with one arm up a four-foot bank. The man could still be dangerous, so Mark shot the hand grasping a root in the bank. The man yelled and fell back into the water. Mark flipped him around and stuck a pistol under his nose.

“WHY ARE THE NARTHANI AFTER ME!?” he demanded.

The man spit at him.

Mark used the pistol’s second barrel to shoot him in a knee. The man screamed and almost fainted as Mark shook him.

“I’ve can keep shooting pieces of you away until you answer.”

“I’m dead anyway, so why should I answer?”

The man’s voice was chilling in its fatalism and conviction. It flashed on Mark that there was nothing he could do to the man in the time they had to make him talk. He put the expended pistol in his belt, pulled the second one, and shot the man in the forehead.

Shit! he thought. I should have used my knife. There’s still two of them alive, and I’m down to one shot.

Maghen read his mind and held out one of her pistols. “Here. Take mine. I’ll watch this live one while you check on the other.”

Mark glanced at the youth sitting in the water. He didn’t look dangerous, but Mark hesitated to leave Maghen alone with him. He briefly considered just killing him now, but he’d have to use his knife, something that seemed too personal for a victim this young.  Mark put off the decision.

“Don’t get too close to him, and shoot if he tries anything. We need some answers, and I’ll question him when I return.”

As he cautiously approached the sixth man and horse, a body floated past him. Downstream, two other bodies were already fifty yards or more away. All three headed in the direction the six men had come from and from where the other six would come when they eventually realized their quarry must have taken the other fork.

Mark was ten yards from the horse and the man when he realized caution wasn’t needed. The man had gotten trapped under his horse and drowned. The man’s bandaged nose identified him as the leader in the Landylbury attack.

However, the horse was still alive. Mark’s rifle ball had shattered its backbone, and a foreleg had broken when it collapsed. Its only movement was thrusting its nostrils from the water searching for air, only for the head to submerge again. The animal would die soon, but Mark couldn’t leave it. The man’s musket wasn’t in sight, and even if it had been, the powder was soaked.

Mark glanced back at Maghen. She stood ten feet from the last living pursuer. The boy hadn’t moved. Mark recoiled at using his knife to put the horse out of its misery, so he held Maghen’s pistol behind an ear and fired. He didn’t fail to notice more regret at shooting the horse than killing the men. He sighed but didn’t dwell on the thought and turned back to Maghen.

This time, he took a longer look at the boy. He was even younger than Mark had thought.

“His name is Awton,” said Maghen. “He’s fourteen years old and only came because his father threatened to beat him if he didn’t. He says his father thought the hunt would help make a man of him.”

Mark looked again at the boy.

I’ll bet if he wasn’t sitting in water, we’d know he’s pissed himself, thought Mark.

He knew what Maghen was thinking.

He shook his head. “If we leave him, he may join the other six, and then we’ll have seven still after us.”

“Please, ser, I just want to go home.”

Maghen put a hand on Mark’s forearm. “The father was the last man, the one you just checked on. I think the boy may be glad he’s dead, and he just wants to go home to his mother.”

Mark knew the smart thing to do was kill the boy . . . but he couldn’t. The adrenaline surge had drained away, and the carnage was already enough.

He grabbed the boy’s closed jacket and jerked him upright. “Who are you people, and why are you chasing us?”

“I only know what I overheard,” pleaded the youth. “The leaders are Narthani, and they hired my father and several other men in Landylbury to help find and capture you.”

“What did you hear the Narthani say about why they want me?”

“I didn’t hear anything about that, ser. I did hear the leader say he was glad you ran, so they didn’t have to fight any family and local people who would help defend you. He said they’d have had to send for more men if that had happened. I also heard them say to be sure at least either your wife or daughter stayed alive so they could use them to force you to cooperate.”

Mark’s pulse pounded, but he somehow felt cold. The boy’s words confirmed that Mark’s decision to flee had been right and that the Narthani’s rumored ruthlessness was real.

“How many Narthani are there? I counted four.”

“Yes, ser. Four Narthani. The clean-shaven ones. Then there were seven of us hired to help and the man from a Brawsea guild.”

“Guild? From Brawsea? How are the Narthani and a Brawsea guild connected?”

“I don’t know, ser. The four Narthani and the guild man kept to themselves most of the time.”

“Keep watching him,” said Mark to Maghen. He waded to where the last of the pursuers’ horses stood trembling.

“Whoa, boy,” said Mark in English. “Everything’s okay now.” He kept talking quietly until he got close enough to grip the dangling reins and stroke the animal’s neck. “There, there. Let’s go meet your owner.”

The horse docilely allowed itself to be led to Maghen and the boy. Mark also looked to see whether any pursuers’ muskets or pistols had survived the water. None had.

“Get up,” ordered Mark, staying six feet away. Boy or not, he could be acting.

“I don’t know if this was your horse, but it is now. Go home. If you want to live, stay away from the other six men. If they keep after us, we’ll kill them like we did these others. My advice is stay alert and try not to let them see you. Now go. I can still shoot you if you try anything.”

The boy rose, trembling, his clothes soaked, and mounted the horse.

“Thank you, ser. I’ll say a prayer of thanks for your mercy at every service I go to for the rest of my life.” The boy straightened in the saddle. “And she might not admit it, but I think Mother will say another prayer that Father didn’t come back.”

“Well,” said Mark, as they watched the boy ride away, “at least something positive comes from this.”

“Thank you, Mark, for not killing him.”

“I hope I don’t regret it, but I just couldn’t. If he had been shooting at us, it would be different, but once the shooting ended, he wasn’t much more than a frightened child.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Maghen. “Alys!” She plowed through the water, scrambled up the slope in the back, and raced away. When she reached the temporary camp, a blanket covering a lump lay where she had last seen her daughter.

“Alys,” she called.

A little hand snuck out, gripped a blanket edge, then pulled it until part of a small head and one eye peeked out. “Mama?”

When Mark caught up, he was carrying most of their firearms, except for the two shotguns.

“I’m going back for the shotguns and see whether there’s anything on the two dead horses we can use. You need to start reloading these firearms.”

“Bad men, Papa?”

“No, Alys. No bad men.” He patted her cheek. “Mama has to work, but we’ll be riding again soon.”

Mark returned ten minutes later with a saddlebag stuffed with dried meat and hard bread.

“It’s maybe four or five days’ worth. Nothing else worth taking. Their pack animal was too far downstream from where they came from for me to think about catching it. Let’s finish up and get moving. There’s enough light. I’d like to be out of this valley before dark. They’re not going to follow us at night. I want to find a place where they have to travel over open ground with no way to circle around us.”

He stopped talking, but Maghen could sense there was something else.

“And?” she asked.

“You heard the boy. It’s not just the Narthani after us. The Brawsea guilds are somehow involved. I don’t know how, but it confirms we can’t go back, no matter what happens with the men following us. I’m sorry, Maghen.”

A tear had run down her left cheek, even before she’d asked her single-word question. She had already known what he was going to say.

CHAPTER 28

KEEP MOVING

They followed the stream another half-mile until the flanking land widened enough that they could leave the water. They continued riding on grass and through scattered groves of tall trees. An escarpment had formed the southern wall of the valley, sheer sides merging into rock and debris-covered lower slopes.

Mark reined in. “There,” he said, pointing to a cleft, the only break they could see in the rock barrier. “Once we’re on top, they’ll be coming at us uphill, over open ground with no vegetation. And there aren’t that many rocks big enough for protection.”

“Couldn’t we be trapped? We don’t know what’s on the other side.”

“No, but it’s a necessary risk. Look. You can see a couple of peaks on the other side, but by the color it looks like they’re a good distance away. I doubt we’ll find a better spot. It also means we can rest ourselves and the horses. We’ll stay and wait for at least a couple of days. Maybe the last six men will quit after they find out what happened to the others.”

They watered the horses and filled water bags from springs at the base of the escarpment. There was only half an hour of light left when they stopped fifty yards on the reverse slope at the top of the cleft. They camped within a cluster of boulders. Mark then returned to the tree line and brought back enough fallen tree limbs for Maghen to build a cooking fire, unseen from the valley below.

Alys had clung to her mother ever since they’d left the ambush site. When Mark returned from gathering wood, he took Alys from her mother so Maghen could cook. Alys briefly protested, then put both arms around Mark’s neck and held on tight. He carried her in that position while he checked the horses. He laid out the single ground cover and blankets on which the three of them slept touching each night—Alys in the middle.

As soon as they ate, Mark went to view their back trail. It was dark. The two moons of Anyar were in a dark phase and wouldn’t be visible for another three nights. They had also lucked out that the River of Stars, the Anyar version of the Milky Way, was out of season. With only starlight, Mark didn’t think riders would risk climbing the rock debris slope when they didn’t know what was in front of them.

“Get some sleep,” Mark told Maghen, as he climbed under the blanket with them. “I’ll check every couple of hours, but I think we’re safe until dawn tomorrow.”

He hoped he was right.

Three times during the night, he rose to walk to the vantage point. There, he cupped his ears and strained his eyes for any sign of the other six men. Their encampment was shielded from the morning sun. At dawn, he let his wife and daughter sleep as long as they could. He walked over the ridge top and down to sit between two boulders. There, he watched the valley.

A marmot-like animal chittered at him from thirty feet away. Mark had a moment to wonder whether it was an Anyar- or Earth-evolved creature. Small brown birds flew up and down the slope, doing what he didn’t know. A morning haze that hid the valley floor slowly dissipated under the sun’s rays. A whiff of wood smoke suggested Maghen was awake and cooking.

The suggestion became reality when she appeared, holding something in the folds of a cloth. She knelt and uncovered four steaming biscuits.

“Sorry, Mark. No honey. I’ve saved a little starter, but no more biscuits until we buy some flour at a town or village. No sign of anyone following us?”

“No,” he said, breaking open a biscuit and letting the fresh aroma waft over his nose. “The view is beautiful from here. I just wish we could see it some other time and under other circumstances.”

“I’ll get back to Alys before she decides to explore. Thanks for letting us both sleep. She seems more animated this morning. I was afraid after yesterday she’d be even more withdrawn than she’s been, but children are resilient.”

She gave her husband a quick peck and left the three remaining biscuits.

The marmot returned after having disappeared into a rock crevasse when Maghen approached. The chittering resumed. Mark broke off a piece of the harder bottom of a biscuit and tossed it at his companion. After first jumping back, the marmot approached the tidbit by fits and starts. After a few sniffs, it picked up the morsel with both front paws and sat on its haunches to munch. The chittering started again, this time from a closer perch.

“That’s it, you little beggar. You can’t yell at me and then expect me to feed you.”

His remonstration fell on two small deaf ears. Suddenly, the animal sat upright, looked downslope, and scurried away.

Mark felt the hairs on his neck stand up. He looked down. A line of six horses had left the trees and meandered along the same route the Kaldwels had used. He cursed himself for paying attention to a dumb animal, instead of keeping a constant eye peeled for their pursuers. The six men were now only five or six hundred yards away. The tracker led the other five men by forty or fifty yards, alternately looking down at the ground and up the slope.

“I hope you’re not suspicious,” said Mark in a mumble intended for the tracker. “I tried not to be TOO obvious leaving a trail even I could follow.”

A flaw in Mark’s plan was if they somehow knew his intent and simply sat below and waited him and Maghen out. In two days, three at the most, a lack of water would make his family’s situation desperate.

Staying out of the line of sight, Mark made his way back to their camp. “They’re here.”

Maghen just nodded. She hadn’t dared to hope the men would abandon the chase.

“Pack up. I’ll see if I can stop them from following or make them turn back. But if they persist and are trying to work their way around us, we’ll ride hard down this side of the ridge. It should gain us a couple of hours because they won’t know we’ve left, and they should be cautious after seeing the range of the rifles.”

He picked up both rifles and a cartridge bag and scrambled back to a firing position he’d picked out that morning.

At four hundred yards, Mark sighted on the tracker, still leading the other five by about fifty yards. His first instinct was to first try for the man most likely to keep the others on the scent.

But is that the best first choice? Mark pondered. It’s the Narthani who are driving this. Two of the four are already gone. If I can shoot the other two, why would the Frangelese keep coming?

He moved the sights to the third man: clean shaven, as was the fourth man. He squinted. The tracker was wiry, maybe with graying hair. If Mark bypassed the tracker and went for the first Narthani, the tracker would be closer but still be out-ranged by the destrex rifles.

He decided. The two Narthani first, then the tracker, if possible. The next decision was when to fire. On level ground, four hundred yards would be doable, but the downward trajectory of the minie ball added uncertainty. Then he realized he could hedge his chances. As the men wound their way up, men and horses passed in front of those behind. Mark sighted at the first Narthani and waited until he was nearly aligned with his fellow countryman. At three hundred yards they overlapped in his sights.

BOOM!

The second Narthani flew backward when the ball hit him high in the right side of his chest. It was as if the other riders exploded, whipping their horses and scattering in all directions. Mark kept his eyes on the first Narthani and ignored the others, as he laid down the first rifle and picked up the second.

His next quarry was moving across the slope to the right, a moving target. Mark first sighted on the rider, but there was too much movement to keep his aim accurate, so he switched to the horses.

BOOM!

The horse collapsed, and the rider was thrown forward. Mark’s hope that the fall would kill or injure the last Narthani was dashed when the man went into a forward roll, rose to his feet, and ran for cover.

“Goddamn!” cursed Mark. “Is this guy some kind of circus performer besides being a Narthani asshole? He’s even still holding onto his musket.”

Mark’s focus was shattered when rock fragments peppered his face, just missing his eyes.

“What the fuck!” he shouted and ducked behind a boulder. He wiped his face. A small amount of blood came off on his hand, along with bits of rock.

“There’s no way to make that shot with a musket!”

It had to be the tracker. He had a rifle.

Mark hurriedly reloaded both rifles. He no longer could assume he outranged the others, but whoever had the rifle had to reload.

Movie scenes flashed through his mind. What did the hero do in this situation? Without exposing any part of himself, he laid a rifle on the rock he was using as a barrel rest. Then he put his slouch hat on the end of a ramrod and held it just above the barrel.

Seconds later the hat was snatched away, followed by the sound of a long gun firing from below.

Gotcha!

Hoping the man had only one rifle, Mark jumped behind his rifle and searched for targets. The only clear one he could see was a man riding downhill. Evidently, he’d had enough evidence of Mark’s rifles and decided that discretion and getting his ass home were the best strategies.

The man was at almost six hundred yards when Mark fired at him anyway—and missed.

“Shit! I wasted the shot!”

His eyes looked for a closer target while he traded rifles. A puff of smoke and a musket sound identified the location of another man about three hundred yards away and trying to crawl closer.

“Must be a musket because nothing came close.”

Part of the man was momentarily visible as he crept between rocks and humps in the slope, then disappeared. Mark sighted where he expected the man to reappear, ever mindful that the tracker was reloading.

“Ten seconds, then duck.”

At “thousand and six,” something of a different color appeared along the sight, and Mark fired.

BOOM!

Three things happened almost but not quite simultaneously: Mark ducked, a buzz zipped through the space Mark’s head had just occupied, and down the slope a man screamed.

Mark peeked around the rock. The man crawling in the open was the one he’d fired at. Mark had hit the man, but he wasn’t dead. That left three men still engaged—the tracker, the last Narthani, and another one—presumably, a Frangelese.

Mark reloaded.

“Hey! You men below. I don’t want to kill any more of you, but I will if I have to. I swear I won’t fire again if you just leave and don’t follow me.”

“Hello there, friend,” a voice called back. “That’s some rifle you have there. What in God’s name do you use such a cannon for?”

“Hunting destrex.”

“Damn! Really? If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have come along on this fiasco. Serves me right for being too greedy, but the Narthani offered me too much to turn down.”

Another voice, angry, came from below.

“Oh, that’s just our employers. Well, I guess employer, just one, since you shot the other three. Thanks for bypassing me and going for them first.”

More shouting from the same angry man. Mark could only understand a few words, then realized it must be the last Narthani speaking Frangelese with a bad accent.

“While I’d rather not shoot you,” Mark called down, “I’ll willingly shoot any Narthani.”

More angry shouting.

“How can we trust you not to shoot?” yelled the tracker.

“You must have figured out I have two of the rifles. We’ll both fire our rifles. You’ll have time to get out of range. If you can’t get far enough away, you can take cover until I reload and fire again.”

More angry shouting, followed by what sounded like a pistol shot.

“Seems like a reasonable way out of this,” the tracker called out. “Our employer is no longer a factor. You and me have the only rifles. Tell me when you’re ready. You fire one of your rifles, I’ll fire mine, then you your other one. After your second shot, I’ll get my ass farther downhill and under cover before you reload, and we’ll repeat until I think we’re far enough away. I’ll have to help my cousin. He’ll live, but he’s going to wear a hell of a scar down his back the rest of his life. Your cannon missed by an inch taking out his whole backbone. We’ll also have to collect a couple of our horses, but they galloped back the way we came.”

Mark looked down to the tree line. The sixth rider had fled downhill when Mark started shooting. He was visible well out of range and in possession of four horses.

“I’m impressed your horses didn’t keep running.”

“Oh, they’re well trained. One of the things our family is known for. Another is blood vendettas. You and I are both lucky our six took the wrong fork. All my family members are in this group, and you only wounded one of us.”

I suppose that meant if I’d taken out the tracker first, the three relatives would have kept coming, thought Mark, even with all the Narthani dead. As good as his position was, Mark knew that dangerous and determined men could have eventually flanked his family’s location.

It took half an hour for the three Frangelese to retreat in stages and rejoin the fourth. Then, mounted, the tracker raised a hand and waved, and they disappeared into the trees. Mark waved back, waited half an hour to be safe, then went to tell Maghen the results.

“Are they really gone?” she asked, her face teetering between hope and fear.

“I think so. I would assume they were to be partly or completely paid after they caught us. Not that I’m going to check, but I’ll bet the Narthani carried the payment. I never thought to check for coin on the first two we killed. The tracker and his relatives likely took all the coin from the four dead Narthani, so why risk keeping after us?”

“But will there be more Narthani after us?”

“It’s possible, but they would have to know where we are or are heading. That doesn’t seem likely, although we still need to keep moving and be careful when we get to ports. Those would be the only places where the Narthani or word of us might exist.”

During the next two days, they crossed a series of ridgelines running north/south. Mark looked behind them at every ridge crest for any sign of followers. Nothing.

Then they got to the top of another ridgeline, this one lower than the others. Before them was a plain stretching to the horizon.

“Look, Mark. See the curve in the river?” Maghen pointed southwest. “That looks like smoke from different sources.”

Mark found it. “Looks like seven or eight miles away. It may be my imagination, but I think I can make out structures. They’d have to be bigger than just farm or ranch homes for us to see them at this distance.”

“A town,” said Maghen wistfully. “People with normal lives. No one chasing them. I know we can’t linger, but it’ll feel good to see other people.”

“Those not chasing us,” groused Mark.

Mark had missed the longing in her voice but regretted his words when her momentarily pleased expression faded.

“We’ll stop for the night in a couple more days,” he said, hoping to give her something to look forward to, “if we can find an inn or a family I can pay to take us in. I want to put a little more distance behind us . . . just in case.” He didn’t need to elaborate.

An hour later, they came upon a dirt road and the first farm. A man walking through a wheat field stopped to stare at them. Mark still carried one of the destrex rifles, and Maghen had a double-barreled shotgun slung on her back.

“I think it may be the guns, Mark. Both the rifle and the shotgun are unusual.”

Mark thought for a moment. “You’re right, but we’ll just let anyone who’s curious wonder about us. At least, until we’re closer to the sea.”

They passed more farms, wheat fields, what looked to Mark like fields of plants similar to soybeans, a few small clusters of cattle, and a village of perhaps a hundred inhabitants. They didn’t pause or engage the few villagers who stared at them as they passed.

At mid-day, they came to the source of the smoke—a town Mark estimated had at least a thousand people. The small central plaza had a score of stalls, several of which sold combinations of fruits, vegetables, and dried meats. Maghen looked so longingly at the displays that he relented.

It won’t hurt if we stay long enough for her to browse the stalls and shops lining the plaza, he thought.

Two hours later they left the town, their stomachs full of fresh bread slathered in butter. Their food supply had been replenished with flour, dried fruits, sausage, small bags of various spices, several different fruits, and a roasted something the size and rough shape of a chicken. The latter had been offered for sale by a shopkeeper discerning they might be tempted to part with more coin than the cooked creature was likely worth. Mark also queried people for information on the distance to the sea.

The only problem in their stop arose when Alys encountered other children and tried to explain with her limited vocabulary about bad men and guns firing.

“Don’t mind her,” Mark told the older children. “She loves making up stories.” He scooped Alys up, and she waved goodbye at the other children, unaware of her father’s dismay or his urging them to discount her words.

After they left the town, the road improved, and wagon and horse traffic increased daily. It took another sixday before Mark smelled what he’d been anticipating. They had just passed another village, one of a dozen since entering flat country. He reined in his horse, stood in the stirrups, and sniffed.

“Do you smell that?”

“Smell what?” asked Maghen as she shifted Alys’s position in front of her.

“Close your eyes and take deep breaths.”

“Here, you take Alys for a while. She’s about to fall asleep.”

Maghen handed their daughter to him and did as he’d suggested. She closed her eyes and raised her head slightly, as if to taste the air.

“Well, I smell something strange, but I don’t know what it is.”

“Salt sea air. We must be close to the coast.”

“The sea! Oh, Mark! I’ve never seen it. I can’t imagine what it’s like to see water going on forever.”

The smell got stronger during the next two hours. They passed a one-horse cart that smelled of fish shortly before the road emerged from dense forest and curled around a hill. From there, they could see the ocean.

“Oh, my. Oh, my,” said Maghen. “You described it, and I imagined it, but seeing is something else. And there’s a town and ships. Is it one of those we’ll take to Novaryn?”

“That’s what I’ll find out. The town is named Munwurth, according to people we’ve talked to. They say it’s mainly here because of fishing, which sounds right because I don’t see any large vessels anchored offshore. They must be fishing boats. I’ll query whether one is willing to take us to Novaryn. I certainly hope so since the alternative is to go south around the Timbar Sea until we reach the Tekleum border. By my estimate, we’d have twelve hundred miles on horseback, instead of a six-hundred-mile sea voyage. We’d also be much farther south, where it’s much colder, and then would have to cross the Urstyl Mountains. I hear that’s not something to try if you don’t have to.”

The road wound down to the shore a mile or so to Munwurth. The sun hung just above the western ocean horizon when the road began to parallel a beach and low surf. They crossed a wooden bridge with no rail over a small stream.

“Let’s stop and camp for the night,” said Mark. “Any closer to Munwurth, and we might be on someone’s property. Maybe tomorrow night we can find an inn, but I want to wait until morning before entering the town.”

“Maybe we can go ‘walking in the surf,’ as you’ve described.”

Mark smiled. “I’m sure we can. Let’s go among the dunes and set up camp. We’ll have fresh water from the stream, and it looks like enough grass to keep the horses happy for the time being.”

“What are dunes?”

“Sand. Like you’ve seen along rivers and streams, although this may have a different feel. Here, there gets to be so much of it that it forms these mounds you see. They’re called dunes.”

An hour later, Mark sat on a driftwood log and watched Maghen and Alys chase each other through ankle-deep incoming and outgoing waves. Squeals of delight from Alys and Maghen almost made him feel like crying. It reminded him too starkly of the contrast with what they had been through the last sixdays. He felt as if he’d failed them, no matter how often he tried to tell himself what had happened wasn’t his fault.

He didn’t know how the Narthani and the guilds had connected, but it must have been their mutual interest once his name became known to both groups. Mark rued that he had gone back to using his real name, instead of keeping Kris Kolumbus. At least, he could have avoided guild involvement.

Maghen waved at him to join in. He took off his boots, rolled up his pant legs, and for the next twenty minutes impersonated an ogre chasing two helpless damsels fleeing for their lives and honor. His growls and hand-shaped claws failed to suppress the giggles and laughs of his intended victims.

Later, they dried off, changed into dry clothes, and sat near a driftwood fire. They ate cheese and fruit bought at the last village. They slept with the surf sounds and the night calls of birds that weren’t quite seagulls. When Mark woke up the next morning, he had a few moments of disorientation, as if he were back on Earth.

“Papa, Papa, go play water?” brought him back to reality.

He groaned. “Just a few more minutes of sleep, baby.”

“No, Papa, now. Go play water.”

“Maybe Mama will take you.”

“Guess again, Papa! You go with her, and I’ll fix something to eat.”

Mark thought about leaving Maghen and Alys to relax in the dune’s shelter, but he didn’t want to let them out of his sight. He didn’t expect trouble in the town, but he carried two pistols under his cloak. Maghen had a third. They left the long guns wrapped and out of sight.

When they entered Munwurth, they went straight to the harbor.

“I want to see if getting a boat across to Novaryn is possible. After that, we can make plans.”

They wove their way through narrow streets, skirting the center of town. At the harbor, seven fishing boats lay moored at piers, with another dozen boats anchored nearby. They saw several of the moored boats unloading hauls of fish—at least, that’s what Mark thought to call creatures with larger scales than on Earth and in a kaleidoscope of colors.

“Ugh!” said Maghen. “It doesn’t smell as good when you’re this close.”

“Phewy, Papa,” added Alys. “Stinky. Somebody go potty.”

“It’s the harbor,” said Mark. “They always smell worse. You’ll get used to it, but I need to find ships’ captains to talk with.”

The first two captains he ran down dismissed the idea of sailing to Novaryn, and Mark never got to dickering on a price. The third captain was interested.

“Why do you want to go to Novaryn from here?”

“It’s personal family matters we need to settle with relatives.”

“Relatives in Dawlber?” the captain asked.

“Uh . . . Dawlber?”

“That’s the closest Novaryn port. If you need to get to northern Novaryn, you’ll have to go by land after Dawlber. Cost you eight large golds to take you and your family to Dawlber.”

“Eight—?” He did the calculation conversion. Ten thousand dollars! he thought in astonishment. Put it where the sun don’t shine!

Mark struggled to speak calmly. “That seems excessive. I think something like two golds is reasonable.” He hoped they were bargaining.

The captain snorted. “It’s eight. No one wants to cross the Timbar Sea from Munwurth to Dawlber with their family unless there’s something they’re running from. I might be the only captain willing to do it, so it’s eight.”

Mark didn’t respond, just turned and walked away.

“Don’t wait too long to come back. The price might go up, the more desperate I think you are.”

Two more captains proved of no help. One flat refused, and the other asked too many questions and made Mark nervous. The last moored boat was evidently finished unloading because the crew was flushing debris off the deck using buckets of seawater. Mark caught the attention of the man doing most of the yelling and giving orders.

“Dawlber? Why would you want to go there? Oh . . . never mind. Not my business. I’ve planned on fishing the waters closer to southern Novaryn than usual our next trip, so it won’t be much a diversion to go to Dawlber first. Cost you four large golds.”

Mark sensed the captain might come down if they bargained, but he wasn’t in the mood.

“All right,” said Mark. “Two golds when we leave the harbor and the other two when we arrive at Dawlber. When do we leave?”

“Be three or four days. Crew needs some time at home or wherever they want. Plus, there’s a few repairs to do and resupply for the trip. Tell me now or tomorrow where you’re staying, and I’ll send word when we sail.”

Mark’s step was more spritely than before when he returned to Maghen and Alys, waiting in sight on the dock.

“We have a ship,” he announced. “Leaves in three or four days, so let’s find an inn.”

They luxuriated the next few days: two hot meals a day, along with a hot bath and sleeping as long as any of them wanted. When awake and wanting to leave the inn, they walked the town and spent at least one hour-long session a day at the beach, so Alys could play.

Mark also sold the horses, though they kept the saddles and other riding gear. They threw away any garments showing too much wear, bought new clothes, and boarded the ship with enough food for the trip.

The first two days after they left Munwurth were grim. Maghen became seasick less than a mile from the harbor. On those days, she could only keep water down. Mark grew worried enough that he considered having the captain return to Munwurth. When he mentioned it to Maghen on the third morning, she demurred.

“Hold off. I may be a little better. I even feel like trying to eat some bread.” By evening, she was ravenous, the seasickness gone.

Mark had a milder case, as had happened every time he went to sea in the U.S. Navy. His mild nausea was gone by the second day. Alys was their outlier. Not only did the motion of the ship not bother her, she thought it was part of a game.

The seas were gentle, with enough wind to fill the sails but not enough to create more than three-foot swells. As a result, they reached the Novaryn port of Dawlber in eight days. Mark paid the captain the final two large golds, and the crew helped unload the Kaldwels’ belongings on the dock. The ship returned to sea immediately.

“No reason for us to hang around,” said the captain. “We’re fully provisioned, and there are fish waiting to be caught. Good luck with whatever reason you had to get out of Frangel.”

Alys waved goodbye to the captain. He tousled her hair and returned the wave before reboarding.

“Well, what did you think of your first sea voyage?” asked Mark.

“It was tolerable once I decided I wasn’t going to die from puking my insides out,” said Maghen. “I was almost angry at Alys. It may have been one of the best times she’s had. I was scared about her falling overboard until that crewman made a harness for her that tied around my waist. I certainly got tired of standing with her on the front of the deck, letting spray hit us, but it kept her quiet and calm.”

“Well, we’re here,” said Mark. “We can’t carry all our things, so you stay on the dock while I look for transportation. We’ll find an inn, and tomorrow I’ll start talking with people about the best way to keep moving west. Maybe we’ll hire a guide to lead us as far as possible. That assumes I’m able to find people who can understand me. The captain says the language here is similar enough that we should have no problem, but we’ll see.”

Something like Spanish and Italian, Mark thought. He’d heard that speakers of those two languages could get by in the other country, but “getting by” was chancy when trying to find one’s way in a strange country with unknown dangers.

“What’s your ultimate destination?” asked a snaggle-toothed man. Mark had been referred to him as someone familiar with Tekleum, the next realm west of Novaryn. The man also spoke enough Frangelese to avoid the struggle Mark had had with other contacts. The two languages were similar, but Mark estimated he could understand only half of what other men told him.

Mark hadn’t intended to share their destination.

“Not that I need to know why you’re going wherever it is, but it changes the route. I couldn’t advise without knowing more.”

“We’re going to Ganolar,” said Mark, referring to the continent to the west. That much information didn’t reveal Caedellium as their ultimate destination.

“Then Heliom is where you’d best try to look for a ship.”

Mark didn’t reveal that he’d never heard of the city.

“Looking at a map, most people would think going straight west from here is best. But that’s not the way I would go if I were heading into Rumpas on the other side of Tekleum. The damn Tekleumese hate the Novarynese, and you’ll sound like one of us to anyone you meet once you cross the border. No, I’d go south to skirt around the Unrul Sea, then west to the Rumpas border and on to Heliom. Of course, the zerniks are more of a problem on the southern route, but you could run into them wherever you go in Tekleum.”

Mark remembered using zerniks as a topic diversion with the Ostyns in Landylbury when he’d made the mistake of responding to the word Amerika. The dog-size pack predators reminded him of a Tasmanian devil he’d seen in a Sydney zoo.

“But that’s me,” said the man. “You say you’re traveling with a wife and a child. I wouldn’t recommend any route in Tekleum, but if you’re determined, maybe straight west is best. It will avoid the worst of the zernik range and is a few hundred miles shorter.”

“What would it take to get past the border and through Tekleum to Rumpas?” asked Mark.

“You’ll need someone to get you over the border. Not me, of course. But as it happens, I’ve a cousin who knows the paths that avoid border guards and villages near the border. You’d have to pay him, but he should be able to get you at least fifty miles into Tekleum. After that, you’d be on your own. Be warned that the Tekleumese are generally morose and suspicious. If I were you, I’d move as fast as I could. Don’t talk to anyone and prove you’re a foreigner.”

“Can you introduce me to your cousin?” asked Mark.

“I don’t see a choice,” Mark said to Maghen two hours later. “This man, Nunstel, may be some kind of smuggler. He’ll guide us to the border and then into Tekleum far enough so the local people will be less suspicious that we’re from Novaryn. After that, we’ll make a dash for Rumpas about five hundred miles farther. With luck, we could make the next border in three sixdays.”

“What about food and water?” asked Maghen.

“Nunstel says water is not a problem—plenty of streams and lakes. Food is different. We’ll have to carry as much as we can, and I’ll have to hunt if we run short. There’s supposed to be game animals the zerniks like to hunt, and we’ll have to carefully pick campsites—the zerniks aren’t much for rocky ground or climbing. According to Nunstel, the damn things are less common than farther south. Those you run into are either solitary or in smaller groups than they used to be, but we’ll be cautious.”

“Will we be blind again once we reach Tekleum?” asked Maghen. “Not knowing what the country is like?”

“I’m afraid so, for the last half of Tekleum,” Mark said. “Nunstel claims to be familiar with the countryside for another couple hundred miles beyond where he leaves us, although it’s more what he’s heard from locals, rather than his own experience. He’ll tell us what he knows. He’s already indicated there are no major mountain ranges unless we stray too far south.

“Nunstel will also help me buy horses and supplies tomorrow, and we’ll leave the next morning. That gives us two more nights here in the inn. Nunstel says he knows of inns and homes of people where we can sleep until we cross into Tekleum. After that, we’ll be sleeping outside again until we get to Heliom.

“We won’t worry about traveling as far as possible each day. We’ll want ourselves and the horses to be as fresh as possible until we enter Tekleum. After that, we’ll push as hard as we and the horses can take it, until we cross the next border into Rumpas. Word is, the people there are less antagonistic to foreigners.”

“How are we for coin?” asked Maghen.

“I won’t lie to you. We’re spending it faster than I’d like. Oh, there’s still plenty left—I’m only comparing how much we’ve spent with how far we have to go. We knew we might have to look for work at some point. Once we leave Novaryn, we won’t be able to speak the local languages. My Suvalu will probably only work in port cities, so that’s where we’ll have to find work.”

Nunstel’s description of the terrain proved accurate. They took eight days to reach the border, sleeping indoors and having hot meals in the evenings and the mornings. The rolling countryside had many farms. They passed fields of crops and fenced pastures with horses, cattle, and what looked like different breeds of the sheep-size krykors Mark was familiar with in Frangel.

He was startled when, on their fourth day from Dawlber, he glanced at Maghen and saw tears on her cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, drawing alongside her horse.

She angrily wiped a hand across both cheeks. “I’m all right. It’s just that traveling like this, I can almost fool myself that we’re going on a trip to visit distant relatives or maybe coming with you to Landylbury. Things I’d look forward to. Maybe it’s too quiet after what we’ve been through. Before, there was so much to worry about—leaving home, watching for the men chasing us, the fights, and all the rest. Compared to then, these last few days have given me time to fully understand I’ll never see my family again.”

Fresh tears appeared. He shifted his reins to the hand of the arm holding Alys and reached to take Maghen’s hand. “You’ve been incredibly brave. Not many people, men or women, could have held up as well as you, after having all this dumped on you like a mountain. I’ll always feel guilty that you and Alys got torn from your home and put in danger.”

She grimaced. “No, dearest, the saints tell us that fault lies with intent. How can you be at fault when we don’t know why the Narthani are so interested in you? You’re taking responsibility for keeping us all safe. I confess there were moments, the first sixday, when I was angry with you. Then I’d change from one moment to the next with being angry at the world, God, the Narthani, and back to you. But the uncertainty is gone. It’s unreasonable to be angry at the world. It just the way it is. Being angry at God is blasphemous, and I know it doesn’t fall to you. That leaves the Narthani.”

She stiffened in the saddle. “I’m all right. Here. Let me take Alys for a while. It’ll help my mood to hold her and concentrate on something other than myself.”

Mark transferred a smiling child to her mother. Being handed from horse to horse was a favorite game of hers. Mark watched his wife settle Alys in front of her on the saddle. He didn’t argue with Maghen’s understanding of the relationship of guilt to fault. Not that he couldn’t have debated the points, but guilt remained for reasons he couldn’t share.

He had lied to her about how he’d come to Frangel. The reasons for not telling her were obvious and rational, which didn’t detract from the fact that he’d lied. He had also lied to her by omission about his entire reason for leaving their home. His worry about the Narthani was real, as was the knowledge that the guilds had learned of his whereabouts. He knew leaving was the right decision. Yet he couldn’t be sure how the urge to find out what waited at Caedellium might have influenced him.

CHAPTER 29

TEKLEUM

They crossed the Novaryn/Tekleum border wearing clothes and headgear that Nunstel said would let them pass for typical Tekleumese. At the last Novaryn village, in addition to the clothes, they bought as much food and grain as the horses could carry. It was a delicate balance—more weight slowed the horses, but feed reduced the time they needed to graze. To help, they added another packhorse and replaced a sorrel when Mark noticed the horse favoring its right foreleg. For the next five days, humans and horses were fed from Nunstel’s packhorse. They traveled almost a hundred miles farther in Tekleum than planned—on the condition that their guide got to keep the extra horse.

“Good luck to you,” said Nunstel on the morning of his leaving. He rode away without looking back.

Mark shook his head. “That’s one of the longest sentences he’s spoken since we crossed the border.”

Maghen chuckled. “I’m satisfied he got us here without trouble. I wouldn’t have minded if he didn’t say another word but got us to Rumpas.”

“You’re right, and let’s get moving. We’ll follow his advice and stick to the roads as much as possible so we can cover ground faster. He says the Tekleumese are not that friendly, even to each other, so if we don’t acknowledge people we pass, maybe they won’t suspect anything.”

Mark estimated they’d covered forty miles before stopping at dusk to camp a mile past a shabby-looking village. Nunstel’s opinion of the Tekleumese was accurate. They passed scores of wagons, riders, and walkers near villages, but they avoided eye contact and only twice did anyone say anything to them. Both times they ignored the speaker, only one of whom persisted and ended up sputtering what Mark figured were local curses.

On the second day, they slowed the pace, covering about thirty miles. Mark worried about the horses tiring under their loads.

“It’ll get better as we use up the grain,” he said. “Our best time will probably be when we’re almost out. After that, we’ll slow again to let the horses graze.”

Mark had memorized the major features from a map of Drilmar, and each day he tried to visualize where they were. “I think we’re a third of the way between Novaryn and Rumpas. We’re making good time. If all goes well, we’ll reach the next border in two sixdays or less, assuming nothing goes wrong.”

Something went wrong. They were three days from the Rumpas border when disaster nearly struck. Mark had noticed that grazing wildlife in Frangel often tolerated a human presence, as long as it was just out of reasonable musket range.

They weren’t short yet of food, but when antelope-like animals strayed within range of his rifles, he grabbed the opportunity to treat his family. He took down a male at three hundred yards. They stopped early to dress the carcass. Mark cobbled together a frame, cut the meat into strips, and hung it above a big-enough fire to roast one haunch and smoke another overnight.

They sat by the fire and shaved off slices as the meat cooked, ending up with fuller stomachs than since leaving the ranch. As they slept, Mark woke every couple of hours to rotate the meat strips and tend the fire, maintaining a constant source of heat and smoke.

He’d always had an internal alarm clock, which was why he felt momentarily disoriented to wake up only a few minutes after going back to sleep—it wasn’t time to tend the fire and the meat again. He lay wondering what part of the night it was. He thought the stars were in the same position as when he’d awakened previously.

A loud snort came from one of the horses staked nearby. Then another. Other vocalizations began, along with a stamping of hooves on the ground. He sat up and listened. There was something else besides the horses. A hissing sound, as if from a teakettle letting off steam. He put on his boots and stood. The strange sound was closer and merged into what sounded like a gargle. In the dim light he could see the horses bumping against one another, as if trying to cluster against danger.

He shook his wife. “Maghen, get up. Something is out there.”

“What—”

Mark went to their stacked gear and unwrapped a weapons bundle. He stuck one of the double-barreled pistols in his belt and picked up a rifle and a shotgun.

He handed the shotgun to Maghen. “Here. Watch out for Alys. I’m going to the horses.”

The fire was still burning from the last wood he’d added. Keeping an eye on the darkness, he put several more pieces of wood on the fire. He had walked three paces toward the horses when a form flashed out of the darkness and landed on the back of the horse he’d been riding. As if materializing out of thin air, another form attached to a hind leg of a packhorse.

The horses kicked into the darkness. Mark thought he saw one form go flying away with a screeching version of the hissing sound. Yet the creatures’ otherwise silence lent an eerie cast to the attack. The light from the fire shining on plunging horses and slashing forms created a strobe-like effect. He couldn’t tell how many of them there were, as forms dashed in and out of the firelight.

Mark fired at the creature on top of his horse.

BOOM.

He didn’t know where he’d hit it, but it vanished into the night.

The packhorse with the form attached to a leg fell to the ground.

THRUM.

Maghen’s scream and a shotgun blast from behind him made him whirl. A zernik had a mouthful of blanket and was trying to pull it away with Alys caught in the folds. THRUM.

Maghen fired the second barrel—not at the zernik clamped onto the blanket but at another one coming to join the first.

Mark tossed the rifle at the zernik threatening Alys and drew the pistol. He cocked the hammer as he aimed. The instant the barrel aligned at the target only twenty feet away, he fired.

Boom.

In the firelight, he saw dark blood gush in a spray. But instead of the zernik dropping dead, it went into a frenzy. Its head blurred, shaking back and forth, legs jerked independently, and a muted hissing joined the now awake Alys’s screams.

Boom.

Mark fired the second barrel of his pistol. The zernik jumped off the ground and collapsed, the blanket still in the animal’s jaws. Maghen tried to pull Alys out from the tangled blanket. When she failed to free Alys quickly enough, she frantically hit the head of the dead zernik with the stock of her shotgun, yelling like a banshee.

Mark raced to the unwrapped weapons bundle, grabbed the other double-barreled pistol and two of the smaller, single-shot pistols, and ran back to Maghen.

“Stop, Maghen! It’s dead! Take the pistols!”

She ignored him as he shouted at her a second time. When she ignored him again, he shoved the two small pistols in his right hand under the opposite arm and grabbed the expended shotgun from Maghen. She turned to him, her eyes wide, a furious look on her face.

“Here!” He thrust the pistols at her. “Take these and guard Alys. I have to go to the horses.”

Her expression cleared. She gulped, grabbed the pistols, and assumed a stance over Alys, who was still screaming.

Mark turned to the horses, still agitated but now alone. The zernik that had attacked the pack animal was gone, but the damage was done. Even with only distant firelight, he could see that the horse was finished. A rear leg was gruesomely savaged, and a piece of hide was ripped loose on its side, blood flowing from deep gashes. He led the suffering animal, hobbling on three legs, a hundred yards away and ended its agony with a pistol shot behind an ear.

He returned to the other horses and talked in as soothing a voice as the adrenaline still roaring through his body would allow. Gradually, they calmed down, as he touched each one. He kept his eyes on the darkness and strained to hear more of the eerie hissing that he now knew came from zerniks.

Nothing. No hissing. Only the sounds of wind in nearby foliage, the horses’ vocalizations and hoof scuffles as they came down from their agitation, and the crying of Maghen and Alys.

He wanted to go to his family, but the rational part of his mind made him reload all the weapons first. By the time he’d finished, Maghen sat on the ground hugging and murmuring to her quietly sobbing child.

“There, there, baby girl. It’s all right. Mama and Papa are here. The bad things are gone. They won’t hurt you.” Over and over, Maghen said the same words.

Mark wanted to kill more zerniks, but they had apparently decided that even with their fanatical mode of predation, they had encountered something fiercer than themselves.

With nothing else to do at the moment, Mark walked a circuit: from his family, around the fire, to the horses, around them again, and back to his family. Perhaps fifteen minutes passed. Maybe thirty. He didn’t know. Finally, he approached his family. Maghen’s stricken face stared up at him.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take, Mark. When will it end? We almost lost Alys to these creatures.”

He knelt and held them both for an hour before Alys fell asleep and Maghen stopped trembling. “You go ahead and get some sleep,” he said. “I’ll stay awake and stand guard.”

She didn’t speak but lay down where they had been sleeping.

“Mark . . . can you get the blanket?”

It was fifteen feet away and still ensnared in the zernik’s jaws. Mark couldn’t pry the jaws open, so he used his knife to cut away enough of the blanket to free the rest. He spread it over Maghen and Alys. They were both asleep.

He moved the surviving horses closer to the fire, then pulled the zerniks’ bodies away to be out of sight in the morning. By the time he finished, the eastern sky was beginning to lighten. They were now short a pack animal, so the remaining horses would have to carry everything until they could buy another horse. He estimated they were within a hundred miles of the border. He weighed that distance against what they might have to abandon to lighten the loads. With every item he evaluated, he thought of reasons why they needed it.

No. We’ll just have to go slower with the horses carrying more. Plus, Maghen and I will walk more than before.

When it was light enough to work, he began saddling and loading the three horses. He was nearly finished when Maghen groaned, then sat up sharply.

“My God. I was waking up and suddenly remembered the zerniks and panicked that they were still here.”

Alys stirred, and Mark knelt beside them.

“There was no other sign of them while you were asleep. I think they learned we weren’t a party to attack.”

He put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Maghen, but I don’t know what else we could have done not to be attacked.”

She sighed. “It’s just that . . . Mark . . . this is all so hard. It was difficult enough to leave our home and my family, but I didn’t have any idea what else we would have to go through.”

“You know we can’t go back,” he said. “We’re almost out of Tekleum. Just another few days. I’ve heard Rumpas keeps the zerniks under better control. We also expect that dealing with the people there will be easier than with the Tekleumese.”

“I know, but we’ve still got so far to go,” she moaned.

“Yes, and I can’t say what lies ahead. All we can do is deal with today, and today we need to move to get out of this damn country.”

Alys wiggled and sat up. “I’m hungry. Go potty.”

Maghen looked at Mark. “Trust the children to tell us what’s important at the moment and not worry too much about the future.” She looked around. “I don’t see the dead zerniks. I assume you dragged them away. Tell me where not to go with Alys.”

“Anyplace is alright where you can see the horses. I’ll finish loading, and we’ll start off as soon as you’re back. We’ll eat while we travel.”

“I’m sorry, Mark, if I feel a bit desperate right now.”

“Nonsense. I think you’re marvelously brave. Many people would have fallen apart by now.”

When they started off again, the pace was slower—with Mark and Maghen walking more to spare the horses. Alys mainly rode, in between spells of running or being carried. Three days later, the road they followed passed through a patch of forest. Before they left the trees, Mark saw what he assumed was a border post. Three armed men sat near a hut alongside the road.

“I think this is the border,” he said to Maghen. “We’ll go back a half mile and move through these woods to go around the guards.”

“If it is the border, can we stop and rest for a day or two?” asked Maghen. “We’ve walked so much, my feet ache terribly, one boot is falling apart, and I feel like I’m taking a good part of Tekleum’s dirt with me.”

“We’ll stop, but I’m afraid it’ll be in a day or two. I want to be well past the border before we risk interaction with any Rumpasians.”

Two hours later, they experienced the first confirmation that they’d left Tekleum behind. A wagon loaded with straw passed in the opposite direction. The driver cheerfully spoke to them in a new language, then acted annoyed when they didn’t respond. By the time they passed each other, the man was mumbling what Mark would have bet were comments on their rudeness.

Maghen muffled a laugh with her hand. “That’s more than all the people we passed in Tekleum said to us.”

As the miles passed, they encountered more people, some of whom tried to converse and others who were intent on their own business. Mark noticed the increased frequency of farms, as they passed two villages the next day.

“Are we far enough to stop?” asked Maghen, in a voice as close to pleading as he’d ever heard from his wife.

“The next one. I promise,” he said. That promise would be fulfilled sooner than he’d imagined. An hour later, they topped a rise to look down at a wide river valley with a settlement large enough to be rated a small town. The river was at least a hundred yards across, the largest watercourse they had seen on their travels. Flights of different-shaped ducks flew along the river and swam on its surface. Poled barges moved downstream near the bank closest to them, while horses on the opposite bank pulled similar barges upstream.

“Oh, Mark. It looks almost normal! I’m sure there are differences, but looking at it from here, we could almost be back in Frangel.”

“I hope I’m not being too optimistic, but those barges going downstream are loaded with something. Their destination has to be a large town or even a city, and if we’re lucky it’ll be Heliom.”

“So, we just follow the river, then?”

“Better. We might be able to get a ride on a boat all the way to Heliom. I hope that’s not a fantasy, but we’re due for some luck.”

Traffic increased, and the road widened until two wagons could pass each other without having to slow or pull to one side. Farms gave way to houses on one to three acres, then houses packed together, and finally shops surrounding what seemed to be a church, a cathedral, a mosque, or a structure housing whatever religion was practiced there.

They continued to the docks on the river. There, Maghen, armed with two concealed pistols, watched Alys and the horses. Mark roamed around, looking for someone who spoke Suvalu. After an hour of failing to do so, he returned to his family. An elderly woman stood next to Maghen.

“Her name is Trilkorn or Trulkorm or something like that. I can hardly understand the sounds, much less any meanings. However, I think she figured we might be looking for a place to stay if we can pay.”

They could and did. The woman introduced them to her husband, they thought, and after twenty minutes of pantomime, they had a small room on a second floor, directions to an ambient-temperature bath, and a small corral for the three horses. It cost two large silver coins and garnered some puzzlement from the owners at the strange coinage. For another large silver, they got a hot meal of something that evening, with a promise of food the next morning. Whatever was in the stew was great—meaning palatable, hot, and lots of it.

The next morning, Mark once again left Maghen, armed, with Alys and the horses. He went back to the dock. This time he persisted until he located men who seemed to be owners or captains of barges. At the third docked barge, he found a man who understood what he wanted. Mark hustled back to their hosts’ house with news that the barges did indeed go to Heliom. However, the barge willing to take passengers was leaving in two hours.

“I know it’s a rush,” said Mark, “but this barge will take us to Heliom. I think it’s worth the risk to sell everything we can as quickly as we can and get to the dock.”

“How far is it to Heliom from here?” asked Maghen.

“I think about three to four hundred miles if I understood the barge’s owner.”

She hugged Mark and laughed. “Oh, God. I think I’d consider coupling with him to avoid riding or walking anymore.”

“I think we can reserve any lying with men to me,” he responded jocularly. “In fact, maybe we’ll have more chances and more energy between here and Heliom.”

Maghen laughed and elbowed him in the ribs.

Mark mock-swatted at her head, then turned to business. “You sort through what we’ll take with us. I’ll go talk to the owner of the house to see if they’ll buy our horses and other riding gear. I’m sure we won’t get a fair price because time is short, but I’ll settle for anything I can get.”

In the end, Mark estimated that the horses and the gear fetched only a third of their value. Yet the new owner accompanied them to the dock with the horses so they didn’t have to walk and transport more possessions than they could carry. Among the wrapped parcels were their weapons and sacks of coin. The payment for the horses and the gear was in Rumpas coins, which Mark kept in a small pouch inside his pants.

There were no cabins on the barge. The owner directed Mark to a section of the deck behind bales of something stacked at mid-barge. There, they piled their possessions in what would be their home for the next five days. A crew of six used long poles to keep the barge from hitting banks and sandbars. It reminded Mark of old reruns of Disney’s Davy Crockett show on TV and reading Huckleberry Finn. By the second day, Mark was fidgety and took up an extra pole to stand by when added oomph was needed. The captain accepted the help but never offered to return any of the coin Mark had paid for passage.

Alys, under the initial supervision of her parents, took advantage of relatively more space to roam than on a horse—meaning she tirelessly ran around the bales and waved and talked to the crew. Even the captain became tolerant and conversed with her, although neither of them nor anyone else knew what information was exchanged.

When they arrived at Heliom two hours before sunset, they saw the largest town since they’d left Nurburt. Mark hugged Maghen. “It’s one more step, dearest. I can’t say how many more there will be, and nothing will make up for what you’ve left behind. All I can do is promise to do everything I can to get us to Caedellium and then make the best life I can for us. For now, let’s find the Rumpas version of an inn.”

CHAPTER 30

SHIP WEST

“I don’t like staying in this room alone with Alys, even with these.” Maghen nervously fingered one of the three loaded pistols lying on a shelf out of Alys’s reach. “I don’t know anyone here, I can’t speak the language, and what do I do if something happens to you?”

“I know, dear, but you’ll be fine. I won’t be gone long, and there’s nothing we’ve seen in Rumpas that makes me worry. It’s too late to check the ships directly, but I’ll stop at a few taverns to see if I hear anyone speaking Suvalu. If I do hear the language, maybe I can get a sense of which ships are in the harbor and how far and in what direction they sail.”

Mark sympathized, but it never occurred to him to think of his wife as helpless. If he’d needed any evidence after their three years together, confirmation came from numerous examples during their trek from Frangel to Heliom.

“I don’t like it either, but I’ll be in places where having you and Alys along would distract me. Plus, you wouldn’t understand any conversation that happens because I’ll use Suvalu. Also, I’ll be mixing with men, some of whom I’d rather keep you and Alys away from. You’re safer here. Keep the pistols nearby, and don’t let anyone in, except me. On the way out, I’ll tell the inn’s owner that you are frightened of being alone and will shoot anyone who tries to come into our room without me. It’s encouraging he speaks a little Suvalu. That should mean there are other speakers here in Heliom.”

“Which is exactly what I’ll do,” said Maghen. The hint of a tremor faded from her voice, to be replaced by steel. He didn’t doubt she would do just that. He wanted to smile, but she’d ask what he was grinning about. That would only delay him further from trying to find a ship sailing on a plausible route to Caedellium. Which route, he had no definite plan. He’d listen to sailors, buy rounds, and cautiously probe any leads. Speaking only Suvalu would limit his options. The trade language was widespread but not universally known by every sailor. Communicating by gestures was difficult for routine shop purchases and next to impossible for arranging long sea voyages.

He hugged Maghen and patted Alys’s head without distracting her from whatever game or story was ongoing with her two cloth dolls. He checked his clothing and the concealed pistol and two knives, walked into the hall, then stopped to listen as Maghen latched the door from the inside.

As promised, he stopped at the entrance foyer of the inn and talked to a man who was either the owner or a worker. After five minutes, Mark hoped the owner understood not to disturb the agitated, armed woman in the last room on the second floor. Outside, he paused to take in the setting. The inn sat three blocks from the harbor, far enough away to avoid casual contact with whatever happened along the first block lined with taverns and brothels. Although the harbor wasn’t a major port, it didn’t take that many ships’ crews to create a frothy environment.

From three blocks away, he could easily hear the sounds typical of any Anyar port. He walked toward the bustle, reflexively pulling his coat closed against the drizzle that had started as soon as they came within sight of Heliom. The sun had set, so the only light shone from scattered uncurtained windows. A man going in the other direction brushed against him, and Mark’s right hand moved to the knife handle slanted diagonally on his left side belt. The man grunted something Mark didn’t understand and kept moving.

Relax, he told himself. If there’s going to be trouble, it’ll come from my asking questions or maybe later on the way back to the inn.

On the second block, he passed several taverns with a clientele a step up from the men he assumed he needed to find. As expected, the taverns lining the waterfront were filled with men shabbier, dirtier, more disreputable, and, in some cases, more dangerous and/or more desperate looking. Mark couldn’t read the local writing but followed three thuggish men into a tavern. There, as soon as he crossed the threshold, he was slapped in the face with a mélange of odors from unwashed men, stale beer, the remains of vomit, and what he hoped were traces of unidentified spices.

Fifty or sixty men milled around several parallel counters. There were no tables, chairs, or female customers or employees. Two older men wove among the customers to take orders or return with large metal cups, suds overtopping the sides. Mark wove his way slowly around the room, listening for snatches of conversations, hoping to hear Suvalu. He paused at a group of four men vociferously arguing in the trade language. He did his best to look innocuous during the three or four minutes it took him to figure out that the men were from two or more of the Harrasedic peoples and were arguing about which brothel to visit after they finished drinking. They seemed to be acquainted with several nearby establishments, and they were sailing home on the next tide. It was the wrong direction—northeast, instead of west toward Rustal, as Mark intended.

He finished his tour and moved on. The next tavern was a complete bust; he couldn’t make out a single word of Suvalu. The following stop was promising. He was inundated with Suvalu conversations as soon as he walked in. It was an embarrassment of riches; his Suvalu was fairly good, but the dozens of voices overlaid on one another, and his ears had trouble sorting them out. He found a spot between two groups at one of the parallel counters and ordered a beer when a server passed by. He sipped slowly while his brain isolated one conversation. They were Rumpasians from different parts of the nation and evidently used the trade language because their various regional dialects were almost incomprehensible by everyone in the group. The grouping to his right was more promising—a business transaction was being discussed among two Rumpasians and two men from Sirukor. This large island sat in the middle of the Throat, the ocean separating the northern and southern continents of Anyar.

Sirukor lay northwest, but traveling there would put his family closer to Narthon, which made him uneasy. Besides, he didn’t know anything about the island. For all he knew, they were associated with the Narthani. He moved on.

By the sixth tavern, discouragement had him thinking of alternative plans if they couldn’t find a ship to carry them to Rustal from Heliom. The next stop was the smallest and darkest establishment yet. Thirty to thirty-five men crowded elbow to elbow. The advantage was that Mark could be back to back with men and listen without being noticeable. He’d nursed four beers so far this evening, drinking the equivalent of one beer in total. He ordered a fifth and slowly circulated. Halfway around the room, he came upon four men at a table—two were dressed similar to other Rumpasians he’d seen, but the other two wore more leather than was typical. He sat at a nearby table, pretended to focus elsewhere, and tuned out the other voices to listen to the four men. It took him several minutes to pick out only the two voices of the men doing all the talking.

A mid- to late-forties man with grizzled hair and beard and dressed in leather clothing snarled. “You were supposed to supply three hundred muskets, plus shot and powder, Hirkon.”

“I said I’d do the best I could, Gulgit, and the best I could do is one hundred and eighty-three. If the muskets aren’t available, what do you expect me to do? I know it’s not what we agreed on, but I procured more powder and shot in compensation.”

Gulgit turned to his companion and said something in a new language for Mark. However, he thought he caught the word Rustal. Whatever the companion said, the man named Gulgit calmed down and turned again to the Rumpasians.

“Is there any chance you could find more muskets if we delay sailing for Rustal?”

“I might find another fifty to a hundred if you can wait three sixdays, though I can’t guarantee it.”

Mark assumed the words from Gulgit’s mouth were curses. After another side conversation, Gulgit said, “No, we need to return. When do you think you might have another shipment ready?”

“At least three months, and better make it four so you or whoever comes doesn’t have to wait if it takes longer. I warned you, the authorities are getting political pressure from the Narthani to stop such smuggling. It’s getting harder to put together big shipments. I’ll be honest and say that one more shipment may be all I can do this year.”

The men continued talking, but Mark listened with only one ear.

Arms smuggling? The muskets are certainly not meant for the Narthani who control Rustal. I hear it hasn’t turned out to be a useful conquest.

That the men spoke so publicly surprised him. Weren’t they worried the referenced authorities would get word of the transaction? Maybe anything heard in a tavern was ignored. And maybe I didn’t understand as much as I thought I did, Mark conceded.

The meeting ended when the two Rumpasians walked away. The two suspected Rustalians shifted in their chairs as they prepared to stand. Mark stopped pretending to be focused elsewhere and moved quickly to sit at their table.

“You have a ship that is about to sail for Rustal?” asked Mark in Suvalu.

Both men froze. The one who hadn’t spoken moved a hand inside his coat.

Probably got a pistol or knife there, thought Mark.

“Listening when you shouldn’t can get a man killed,” said the man called Gulgit.

Mark ignored the threat and plunged ahead. “I need passage to Rustal for my family—two adults and a small child. I can pay well.”

Gulgit’s companion pushed aside his coat flap enough to show a pistol in his belt. “We’re leaving, and don’t follow us.”

Mark’s left hand darted across the table and gripped the wrist of the hand that went for the pistol. The man tried to pull away, but Mark didn’t budge an inch, holding the man in place.

“I’m not looking for trouble, and I don’t care anything about your business. I just need to get to Rustal. Name your price.”

Gulgit raised a hand but not his voice. “Calm, calm, both of you.” He looked around. “Are you alone?”

Mark nodded.

“Where are you from? Your Suvalu accent doesn’t sound Rumpasian.”

“Frangel.”

Gulgit’s eyebrows raised, and the other man quit trying to pull away.

“Frangel?” said Gulgit. “What’s someone from Frangel doing all the way over here and wanting to sail from this shitty little port to Rustal? Nobody wants to go to Rustal unless there’s a good reason—not since the Narthani invaded.”

“It’s personal business. All you have to know is I need passage for myself, my wife, and our child.”

“As a gesture of good will, why don’t you release my friend here?”

“I will, but your friend needs to be extremely careful after I do,” said Mark. A tone of palpable menace emphasized his warning. He released the hand, and the man lurched back in his chair. Gulgit raised an arm across the man’s chest.

“Relax, Abdyl. Our new friend here is interesting.” He turned to Mark.

“Look at this from our point of view. We don’t know you, so there’s no reason to trust you. If your problem requires you to leave Drilmar, that’s not our problem. I’ll admit enough coin could change my mind, but I doubt you have that much.

“Then I wonder if you realize the danger you would be putting your family in. The Narthani run regular patrols along the Rustal coast. Our ship is good, but if we’re stopped, we may have to fight it out. That’s assuming it’s a cutter that stops us. If it’s a sloop, they could just stand off and blow us out of the water.”

“It’s a risk we’re willing to take,” said Mark. “If it does come to a fight, I’ll be an asset. Not against cannon, of course, but I’ve got specially made muskets that can hit targets up to six hundred yards or more away. I assume a cannon exchange would be at about a hundred yards or less. I can discourage a smaller ship’s crew from coming too close.”

“Do you think we’re fools?” said Abdyl. “Nobody can hit a target with a musket at six hundred yards.”

“I didn’t speak correctly,” said Mark. “It’s a ninety-caliber rifle with shot hand-made by me. I assure you I can discourage anyone from coming too close if they don’t have sufficient protection.”

Gulgit’s expression showed both skepticism and curiosity. “If such a rifle exists, what would you use it for, except something heinous such as killing men from a great distance?”

“I have two of the rifles I’ve used in destrex hunting. I needed something that powerful and with that range if I was to hunt them alone.”

“Holy Spirits! You didn’t really hunt those nightmares alone!”

Mark just nodded.

Gulgit prided himself on his ability to judge the true nature of a man, though he had never had the audacity to say the same about any woman. He studied Mark’s face closely for any sign of dissembling—and saw none.

“Assuming for the moment you’re telling the truth, it still doesn’t explain why you need to get to Rustal. One obvious possibility is that somehow you work with or for the Narthani. Maybe you’re trying to learn about the resistance, and yes, there’s no reason to deny who we are because why else would we be interested in shipping weapons to Rustal? The Narthani have plenty of their own.

“Speaking of which,” said Gulgit, turning to Abdyl, “go finish getting the cargo to the ship. I’ll stay to talk with our new friend.”

The man nodded, gave Mark a dark look, and left the tavern.

The Rustalian leader turned back to Mark. “Now, you’ll need to say more before I talk to the ship’s captain and convince him to take you.”

The Rustalian’s stance put Mark in a quandary: Say nothing and miss the ship; then who knows when he would get another opportunity? Or say more and take the risk of being turned over to the Narthani.

He didn’t like either choice. Staying in a port city, even a minor one such as Heliom, was dangerous. If the Narthani had spread word of his family’s descriptions widely, it was only a matter of time before someone recognized them. However, if they could reach Ganolar and somehow pass safely to Sulako, their chances of being recognized would go down.

As for the danger of traveling to Narthani-controlled Rustal, Mark thought this might be the one possible location the Narthani would never believe the Kaldwels would chance. There might not even be alerts to watch for them in Rustal. Of course, if they were questioned, they needed a plausible story for why they came to Ganolar. They couldn’t hide their Frangel origin, so the weak story Mark had come up with so far involved a vendetta among criminal gangs in Brawsea. Not that they personally were involved in crimes, but the vendetta had transferred to all members of their family.

However, he couldn’t think of why Gulgit and his companions were smuggling arms into Rustal, other than reasons the Narthani wouldn’t like. His hunch was that he could be relatively honest with the Rustalian. If it were only himself, he would be less hesitant, but he decided the risk was necessary.

“We left Frangel because the Narthani are looking for me. Why, I don’t know, but I killed several of their paid agents, and they chased after us. I think I lost them after Novaryn, but I can’t be sure. We need to go where the Narthani can’t reach us. I figure the farther west, the better.”

“You must have some idea why they’re after you,” said Gulgit. “The Narthani don’t do anything without a reason.”

“Whatever the reason, one of their agents I questioned only knew the Narthani wanted me found and probably would take me to Narthon. I don’t know what would happen then or why they want me so bad. I couldn’t risk disappearing into Narthon and never seeing my family again.”

Gulgit obviously wasn’t convinced and stared back impassively.

He’s waiting for more, Mark thought. I need to tell him something else he’ll believe.

“Well, there was the little matter of my killing a Narthani official in Brawsea. I was developing new looms, and the Narthani wanted to buy the plans without sharing with the Frangelese. My understanding was, they wanted to harm the markets in eastern Anyar by damaging the textile industries. By the time they realized I wouldn’t sell, they probably thought I knew too much about their plans. One of the men who was sent to kill me said my wife and child would also be killed. I didn’t see any choice but to flee.”

Mark figured there were enough true elements that Gulgit would accept the false parts—he hoped.

“And you think Narthani-controlled Rustal is a safe place?” Gulgit asked sardonically.

Mark smiled. “If you were the Narthani, would you think to look for me in Rustal?”

Gulgit grunted. “Probably not, but it would take balls of steel to do it. Although if you really did hunt destrex alone, I suppose hiding in Rustal is not improbable.”

“Not hiding. Passing through.”

“It might not be that easy,” said Gulgit. “Where we’re going, there won’t be many Suvalu speakers and possibly none once you’re away from the coast. There’s not much need for a trade language mainly used in eastern Anyar. And what about your destination past Rustal. Sulako? Landolin? The Iraquiniks? Where do you want to end up?”

“I’ll worry about that later. Right now I need to get to Rustal.”

Gulgit smiled. “I admit I’m intrigued by you, but the Dancer is not my ship, so you’ll need to convince Captain Partinel. However, I warn you he won’t be interested in anything except coin.”

“I can pay our way,” Mark assured him.

“Don’t be so sure because you don’t know how much coin he’ll want. Anyway, if you want to talk with him, we should gather your family and baggage and go the harbor.”

“We?” asked Mark.

“Whatever happens, I can’t let you out of my sight before we sail. Just in case. You understand.”

Gulgit made a motion with his left hand, and two men dressed similarly to the Rustalian appeared from among the tavern’s customers milling about. Both were rough-looking, though not as big as Mark.

I was careless, thought Mark, and didn’t consider that there might be more than two men.

“If you want to try to convince the captain,” said Gulgit, “my friends and I will help you take your things to the ship. If the captain turns you down, you’ll stay with us until we sail, and then you’re free.”

Mark hadn’t figured on the Rustalian’s cautionary measures, but he wasn’t surprised. Three against one weren’t good odds, though he thought it would be a near thing for him to handle all three. He also wasn’t pleased with putting Maghen and Alys in danger, though he grudgingly admitted it probably was no worse than what they had already experienced and might well experience in the future before they got to Caedellium—if they got there.

Mark’s hesitation didn’t go unnoticed.

“Or you could go straight to the ship, and if passage is agreed to, my friends could go and help your family get to the harbor.”

“Not a good idea because I told my wife to shoot anyone other than me trying to enter our room. We’ll go there first, so I can talk to her.”

Mark and Gulgit walked side by side to the inn four blocks away. The smuggler’s two associates followed a step behind. The innkeeper raised an eyebrow at the four men but didn’t comment.

They stopped in the hallway.

“I’ll go in and tell her the plan and ease any worries. It should only take a few minutes. We have a few bags here. The rest is at the stable behind the inn. I’ll sell our horses before we go.”

Inside the room, Maghen’s eyes widened when Mark rapped on the door and announced there were three men with him. Gulgit chuckled when she opened the door with a pistol in one hand and a second tucked under her arm. She quickly transferred the second pistol to her other hand.

“Does this mean you think you’ve found a ship?” she asked after closing the door, leaving the three strange men in the hall.

“Possibly, if I can convince the captain to take us. These men are using the ship to smuggle arms into Rustal. I don’t know if they’re part of a continuing fight against the Narthani or are simply arms tradesmen. Either way, it’s the only possibility I could find. They plan on staying close to us until they leave, now that I know what they’re doing. I realize we already paid for the room, but we can’t let this chance get away. Let’s gather up everything. The men outside will accompany us to the ship. Just in case, keep your pistols handy, along with the knife tied to your leg.”

When Mark opened the door, Gulgit was talking with one man. Gulgit anticipated Mark’s question.

“I sent the other man to fetch a cart. It’ll make it easier for you to get to the ship. If the captain refuses you, after we leave you can use the cart to come back here or go somewhere else.”

Mark carried two bags, Maghen had Alys, and the other two men lugged one bag each outside. There, what looked like a large rickshaw awaited them. It held all their belongings, the heaviest of which were the two wrapped doomsters, shotguns, powder, and shot. Mark deliberately unwrapped the rifles to confirm his story to Gulgit. When added to the obvious weapons carried by Mark and Maghen, Gulgit commented, “Maybe I should hire the two of you to protect our shipment. Now I’m really beginning to believe you came all the way from Frangel and used to hunt destrex by yourself.”

Mark suppressed a smile. “You’ll need to wait for me to see if the innkeeper will buy our horses.”

“You’re leaving already? You just paid me for the night a couple of hours ago.”

“Yes, but plans change. We may be leaving Heliom sooner than expected. Since we’ve paid for the room, hold it tonight, in case we come back. Either way, we need to sell our horses. Would you be interested in buying them or do you know someone who might?”

“Hmmm . . . I’ll have to look at them.”

After a close inspection, the innkeeper paid Mark what he figured was likely half the animals’ value. All their other possessions were on the cart where and Maghen, Alys, and the Rumpasian men waited. Minutes later, they reached the harbor. Gulgit’s ship was moored to one of the smaller piers at the north end of the docks. Mark was dismayed at the small size of the ship.

“Are you sure this thing can sail across open waters? I’ve heard the Throat is known for treacherous seas, and I assume the passage to Rustal will be similar.”

“The conditions at sea are seasonal. We aren’t quite into the rougher season, which is one reason I was so incensed at the men at the tavern. We won’t be able to make another trip for three to four months, at least not in a caraculon,” Gulgit said, motioning to the two-masted, low-slung ship.

“However, don’t let what you see above the water line fool you. This caraculon is specially made to appear more like a coastal vessel, rather than a ship for deep water. The keel is deeper than a common caraculon, and the ribbing and hull are reinforced. A word of warning—don’t say anything that Captain Partinel considers an insult to the ship. I think he loves it more than he does his wife and children.”

Twelve hours later, Mark stood on the Dancer’s aft rail and watched the Heliom harbor disappear below the horizon. Maghen stood silent by his side, Alys asleep on her shoulder. He had been primed to argue that his presence on the ship would be useful, in case they had to fight through Narthani patrols off the Rustal coast. He never got to use his arguments. Gulgit had spoken with Captain Partinel in a language Mark didn’t recognize. The captain’s first response had been harsh, whatever the words were. Mark assumed he had rejected taking on any more passengers. Gulgit replied to the captain, and a back and forth continued for several minutes. Finally, Gulgit turned to Mark.

“I assume you can tell the captain was not inclined to take you on. The best I could do is get him to agree if you paid his price, which unfortunately is quite high.”

“How high?”

Gulgit relayed the fare the captain demanded.

“Shit!” Mark responded to Gulgit’s answer. They could just barely cover the amount with all their remaining coin, but it would leave them with little for food and shelter once they reached Rustal. He translated for Maghen. Her response was pragmatic.

“What choice do we have, Mark? We can’t go back to Frangel, and we probably need to be off Drilmar entirely. We’ll get to Rustal and will just have to find work until we can save enough to keep going farther, even if that takes months.”

Now, as he watched the wake of the Dancer, he tried to put aside worries he had no control over. The decision had been made. He had to look forward to whatever was next. He squeezed Maghen’s shoulder and nodded to midship. They wove their way around gear and the crew to a forward hatch, climbed down a narrow ladder to a hallway just wide enough for him to pass through, and went into their cabin.

To call their berth a cabin was a misnomer because it would have been considered a closet in many houses Mark had lived in. Three hammocks crisscrossed at different heights from the walls, with their baggage covering most of the floor and piled along two walls. A bucket was provided for urinating and defecating—to be emptied over the side, as Gulgit explained.

Hanging from hooks on the ceiling were bags of food. The captain had been displeased when Mark met his price but had begrudgingly kept the deal—he had assumed the price would be too high. Once assured they had passage, Maghen, accompanied by Gulgit, had used most of their remaining coin to buy food that would keep for the three to four sixdays the voyage was predicted to take. Then, after they arrived in Rustal, they would have to scramble to find work that didn’t require speaking Rustalian.

The first morning after sailing from Heliom, Mark woke to the gentle swinging of his hammock. He looked down over the side to check Maghen’s and Alys’s hammocks. His daughter was held by her mother, and both were asleep, Maghen faintly snoring. All three had had trouble falling asleep. Neither his wife nor daughter had been on deep water before the Timbar Sea crossing, and those waters had been unseasonably calm, according to the fishing boat’s owner. This passage would be different. The constant rolling from eight-foot seas unsettled Alys. The motion was far stronger than during the Timbar crossing that she’d enjoyed. The new experience might have been worse, but during the first hours Maghen held Alys and unconsciously swayed to counter the ship’s motion, damping the effect for the child. It also served to focus Maghen’s attention on her child and thereby diverted her from her own feelings.

Neither Mark nor Maghen exhibited symptoms of seasickness, as they had in the first days on the Timbar Sea.

Is it the elements Hal said they gave me? Mark wondered. The AI only talked about disease, but could dampening seasickness be a side effect? If it is, it’s one more positive. I just wish Hal had been more thorough in explaining what I could expect. That’s assuming Hal and the aliens knew all the side effects. I shouldn’t take for granted that they’re capable of anything just because their technology is so much more advanced than Earth’s.

The family settled quickly into a routine in their tiny cabin. They became accustomed to the chamber pot’s odor even after it had been emptied and rinsed with seawater. They ate on deck if the weather permitted. They walked around the deck for exercise when the weather and the crews’ work allowed it. And they rested or slept in the hammocks. Alys caused a problem only when she got bored playing with the toys left from the few they’d started with. A trip to the deck usually brought back her good humor, and several of the deck hands played peek-a-boo with her when the captain wasn’t looking.

One morning at sunrise, a sixday from Rumpas, the first mate knocked on their cabin door.

“Word from the captain. Rough weather coming, so best if you stay below deck for your own safety and keep out of the crew’s way.”

They never saw what the sea looked like because they followed that advice. Yet neither Mark nor Maghen slept for twenty-four hours because the hammocks swung so fiercely. They took turns holding Alys, safe in their sheltering arms.

CHAPTER 31

INTERCEPTED

When the seas calmed, the two adult Kaldwels joined Alys in a deep sleep. Mark woke up first, carefully dismounted from his hammock, donned his boots, and went on deck. The storm had passed, but the seas were rougher than the Timbar Sea during their first voyage. The wind blew whitecaps off the tops of waves the ship plowed through. It wasn’t quite raining, but the wave spray and a moderate fog limited visibility to a few hundred yards.

Crewmen moved around the deck. Mark’s only previous experience with sailing before Timbar was a one-week tour on a training ship after his first year at the Naval Academy. Still, he knew enough to recognize the constant tending of sails. He didn’t understand the language being used, but he watched for half an hour and began to get the gist of commands connected to tasks involving ropes and canvas.

Captain Partinel came from somewhere aft and spoke with two crewmen toward the prow. Once he’d accepted he had passengers, Partinel warmed to Mark. Gulgit overheard him tell one of the ship’s officers that Mark was strangely naïve about sailing vessels but still asked insightful questions.

Mark waited until the men left for whatever tasks had been under discussion, and he approached the ship’s master.

“Good morning, Captain Partinel,” Mark said in Suvalu.

The man glanced at Mark, nodded, and returned to looking into the mist.

“How long do you think the passage will take?” Mark asked.

“All depends,” said Partinel without looking back. “The winds are against us in this direction, so we’ll be tacking most of the way. I’ve sailed these waters for years. The weather is going to be in our favor with moderate to strong winds, but from here on, we’ll pay a price with rougher seas until we get within a few hundred miles of Rustal. Then the coast and mountains provide a degree of protection. Once we’re within sight, we’ll parallel the coast until we reach Orano.”

“Have you been stopped by the Narthani before, Captain?”

“Twice stopped by Narthani cutters, but I still have my head. One time, I knew the ship’s captain. He was a Rustalian who had pledged to the Narthani but had no love for them. He inspected our cargo personally and passed us on after I paid him more than we were being paid for our cargo. The other time we were running empty—something I’d cursed at the time but which turned in our favor.”

“How are the cutters armed? I note you don’t have cannon.”

“It’s not practical. We can outrun most ships. The Dancer may not look it, but she’s fast. A cutter’s cannon aren’t that much of a threat, as long as we can maneuver. If a slope or frigate corners us, no cannon we could carry would help.”

Mark remembered Gulgit’s admonition about the captain’s feelings for his ship.

“I’ve noticed how she cuts through the water,” said Mark. “Is this a common design, or is it your own? I would think others would copy the Dancer.”

Partinel smirked. “Almost no one ever sees what she can really do. When we approach harbors or pass other ships, I have a specially designed feature that creates drag, so we slow down while keeping full sails.”

For the next four sixdays, they alternated between sailing northwest and southwest, as Partinel worked with the prevailing winds. Mark happened to be on deck when he overheard the captain talking to Gulgit in Suvalu.

“We just passed Cape Harbor. I hate being this close to the shore so far from our destination, but the winds dictated it. We’ve a good seven hundred miles to go. I’ll turn us a little farther south at first light tomorrow, then parallel the coast about a hundred miles offshore. Then hope the Narthani patrols aren’t out that far.

“That last series of squalls we plowed through cracked the bowsprit. We’ve done the best we can to repair it, but we can’t use all three jib sails. One is all I can risk, which means we’re slower than we should be, and I can’t guarantee we can outrun a Narthani cutter.”

Mark didn’t tell Maghen what Partinel had said. There was nothing she could do, so why disturb her? He didn’t notice her sharp look when he unwrapped the two doomster rifles and cleaned them—a habit he unconsciously reverted to whenever he was worried.

A sixday later, they were only three days’ sailing from their destination, according to Gulgit. All three Kaldwels were on deck taking in mid-morning fresh air and getting whatever exercise they could by walking on the ship’s deck.

A crewman at the top of the main mast shouted something. Mark’s pulse quickened at the commotion the cry created. Crewmen rushed about, and Gulgit came barreling up a hold and dashed over to where Captain Partinel stood at an aft rail, looking northeast.

“Maghen, take Alys below to our cabin. I’ll see what’s happening and come tell you.”

“Oh, Mark, we’ve come so close to land! What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”

The truth was, he didn’t know, but from Partinel’s previous worry, Mark was afraid the lookout had seen a Narthani patrol.

Gulgit saw him coming and stepped away from the captain shouting orders.

“Narthani?” Mark questioned.

A grim nod was the initial answer, as Gulgit kept watching the horizon. “The lookout says a cutter has a heading parallel to the coast. Partinel is going to turn south and try to put more separation between us before the cutter spots us. After all the weather we’ve had so far, today has to be the day the sky’s clear and winds moderate,” Gulgit said in disgust.

“If we were heading the other direction, there’s always the chance we might dump the muskets and powder overboard and claim to just be a small trader who is headed to Drilmar to find a cargo. Unfortunately, no Narthani officer who’s not totally stupid would believe a ship heading to Rustal would be empty. He’d assume we were smugglers with a cargo we didn’t want them to see. The best we could hope for is they’d capture us and take us to a major port to imprison us. Worst case is they just execute all of us and dump our bodies overboard.

“I’m Rustalian, so I’ve got no convincing story for why I’m sneaking back into Rustal. As a Frangelese, you and your family might survive if you came up with a plausible story for why you’re on the Dancer.”

Mark’s expression conveyed his lack of confidence in that tactic.

“Yeah,” said Gulgit. “I wouldn’t lay any odds on that working either.”

Mark wondered whether the Narthani running patrols had been warned to be on the lookout for him. If yes, no story he concocted would help.

Because the Narthani ship wasn’t yet visible from the deck, Mark figured it would be an hour or more before they knew if the captain’s tactic had worked. He went below to their small cabin.

“What is it, Mark?”

“They think a Narthani ship is patrolling between us and the Rustal coast. Partinel is turning us south before we’re spotted.”

“But you said the Dancer is faster than any patrol might be.”

“That’s what Gulgit told me, but there was some damage in the storm we went through. The crew repaired as much as possible, but they can’t raise all the sails. If the Narthani spot us, we might not be able to outrun them.”

“What can we do?”

“Nothing right now. It’ll be a while before we know whether turning south works. If it doesn’t, it’ll be many hours before the Narthani ship can catch up, and Partinel will do everything he can to elude them until dark. I know waiting is hard, but there’s nothing we can do. We’ll stay out of the crew’s way, but you and Alys can go back on deck.”

Three hours later, a grim Gulgit came to where Mark was holding Alys near the bow. Maghen stood next to him with her arm through his.

“It’s confirmed. They spotted us and are closing the distance, according to the lookout. We should see the tops of their sails any time now from the deck. Partinel hopes to stay far enough ahead of them until darkness when he can change heading and lose them.”

The hours crept by. Mark wasn’t the only one scanning the horizons for signs of clouds, to no avail. The Narthani ship’s topsails first appeared, then more as the ship closed the distance.

Another four hours passed, and it was dark before they knew the captain had failed.

“Curse all the Gods, if they exist,” Partinel spit out to Gulgit and Mark. He called out to gather his crew near the ship’s wheel. Lanterns lit the deck, there being no reason to hide with the Narthani cutter a thousand yards to their starboard. Once the crew assembled, the captain spoke to them in Rumpasian.

Gulgit whispered a translation for Mark. “They came up on us faster than he’d hoped, and with clear skies and first one moon, then the other up tonight, they’ll be able to follow us until tomorrow. That’s when they’ll order us to heave to. Evidently, the Narthani captain doesn’t want to risk maneuvers or boarding at night. With the weather so much in their favor, he’s decided to wait for morning.”

“How is the cutter armed?” asked Mark.

“That’s the only place we’ve had a little luck. She’s one of their smaller cutters with a crew of sixty or so and six 9-pounder cannon, three to a side. Their captain is assuming he can stand off and put holes in us until we heave to or sink, but he’ll be in for a surprise. Dancer’s hull looks decrepit, but Partinel keeps it looking that way deliberately. Behind two outer inches of balmer wood is a foot of creolin timbers. The lumber is a bitch to work with but is almost as strong as poor-quality iron. The cutter’s 9-pounders will shred the outer layer, but it will take hundreds of hits to breach the creolin. The main mast is also made of creolin for the first twenty feet, in case a ship tries to cripple the Dancer’s ability to maneuver.”

“But they’ll just shift to the other masts, bowsprit, and sails,” said Mark.

“There’s that. It’ll take more time, but they’ll be close enough to get occasional hits, even with the motion of both ships.”

“What’s their normal procedure?” asked Mark. “Come right alongside or what?”

“There have been cases of smugglers with small cannon, so once we stop, the Narthani usually stand off a couple hundred yards and send a longboat over to the ship to be searched. If we refuse to let the search party board or fire at them, the ship will start firing after closing the range.”

“What if we force them to stay backed off?”

“Well, that would buy a lot more time, but how would we do that?”

“With my two rifles, I should be able to discourage them from getting too close. The ships are both moving, but the seas are calm enough that I can make it very uncomfortable for anyone exposed on their deck.”

Gulgit whirled and called out to Partinel. He stopped watching the Narthani ship and came over to them.

When Gulgit relayed what Mark had said, the captain chewed on strands of his beard for almost a minute, then turned to Mark.

“You’d have to fire from the lookout platform, so you’d have a downward angle on their deck,” said Partinel. “The closer they are, the better chances of your hitting the crews manning the cannon. Of course, that makes you a better target at the same time. Conversely, if they stay farther away so it’s harder for you to hit the crews, that makes it harder for them to hit you. You really think you can hit anything at a couple hundred yards, firing from our lookout platform to another ship?”

“I can’t guarantee how often I can hit one of their men, but I should be able to distract the gun crews. It would help if you could slow the Dancer’s motion.”

“But then the Narthani could close to us faster,” protested Gulgit.

“Wouldn’t make any difference at that point,” said Partinel. “Running at full speed is only relevant until they get up to us. After that, all I could do is maneuver to make it harder to board us. That wouldn’t do us much good if they’re pounding our rigging with shot. And even our creolin hull will eventually fail if they’re persistent enough.”

The captain tapped the railing with a fist while he thought.

“All right. I don’t see any downside to letting you try this, Kaldwel. If you can’t hit anything, we’re no worse off. I’ll have some crewmen rig up something to provide protection from musket balls when you’re on top of the mast.”

Partinel scanned the horizons. “Still no weather help. The damned Narthani will just keep firing until they do so much damage that we can’t maneuver. Our only chance is if you can force them to either break off the pursuit or come at us full speed to grapple and board us. I’d prefer the first possibility, but if it’s the second, we still have a chance. They’ve more men, but ours will give a good account of themselves. It would be nasty, as all boarding actions are, but we’d be more desperate.”

Mark assumed the boarding action would be similar to ones he’d seen in movies: men would fire muskets and pistols, then drop the firearms that couldn’t be reloaded in time and switch to swords, axes, and any other sharp weapons.

“If it comes to boarding,” said Mark, “We’ve got Gulgit’s cargo of muskets, powder, and shot.”

Partinel grasped Mark’s idea without elaboration. “Yes!” he exclaimed and turned to Gulgit. “We’ll open up your crates and load every musket. We’ll need to wait until they’ve tied to us, so they don’t back off. It’ll even up the sides before it turns into hand to hand.

“Gulgit, take three men and start loading your muskets. Let’s be sure each man has three or four. More will only get in the way. Before it gets light enough tomorrow morning for them to see what we’re doing, station the muskets out of sight on deck. We don’t need full sail crews because we’re only keeping pace with the Narthani. So everyone needs to sleep as much as they can.”

Maghen paled when he returned to the cabin and laid out the situation.

“You’ll be on top of the mast with the Narthani firing cannon at you! That’s insane, Mark!”

“You’re right. It is crazy. But we don’t see many options. We can still hope there will be a weather change or the Narthani captain breaks off pursuit for whatever reason. However, I think we have to plan that it will come to a fight.”

“If it does, then I don’t intend to sit here with Alys and pray,” Maghen said, determined. “We can lock her in the cabin, and I can handle firearms probably as well as many of the crew, maybe better than some.”

Mark didn’t know whether her voiced confidence was accurate. Yet she had proved herself during the ambush of the men who followed them from Landylbury and in fighting off the zernik pack. He was instinctively loathe to put his wife into a fight with firearms and blades, but anything that added to their defense increased their odds of surviving.

“I know, dear. When the time comes . . . if the time comes . . . I’ll want you positioned where you can use the shotguns and your pistols to help cover below deck. I’m so sorry I’ve gotten you and Alys into this and all the other situations we’ve been in.”

“The way of the world, Mark. You haven’t done anything deliberately to put us in danger. None of us knows God’s plans or how we fit into the world. All we can do is the best we can.”

Mark knew he needed sleep to be ready for the next morning—which would come in only six hours. Maghen fed a drowsy Alys and held her in a hammock, letting the sea rock the child to sleep and falling asleep herself. Mark watched both of them before forcing himself to relax and drift off.

Mark dreamed he was hunting destrex, and as a creature charged at him from thirty yards away, his doomster misfired. Pounding on their cabin door chased away the dream.

“Yes, yes,” he croaked when his voice worked.

“Captain says to wake you,” came a voice through the door. “Sun’ll be up in an hour, and it’s light enough to see your dick when you piss.”

“Thanks. I’ll be up in a minute.”

He swung upright to dismount his hammock and saw Maghen looking at him.

“I’ll check what’s happening on deck and be back,” he said. He put his boots on and shifted the wrapped-up doomsters to manipulate them into the corridor. There, he hefted them to his shoulders, went to the forward ladder, and climbed up through the open hatch. The crew moved through their duties as if nothing unusual was happening. He saw preparations the crew had carried out during the night, which had been concealed enough so the Narthani couldn’t see them. At the base of the starboard side were muskets covered by canvas. Two swivel guns lay beneath metal posts protruding from the starboard rail—he envisioned them being hefted by two men onto the posts and fired to rake the boarding parties. They were limited because the men would be too exposed to canister and musket fire for more than a few re-loadings.

The Narthani cutter lay on a parallel course a hundred yards to starboard.

“They came up alongside about thirty minutes ago,” said Gulgit, appearing from somewhere in the dim light. “Partinel figures in about an hour they’ll start whatever action their captain has decided on—probably firing one across our bow, then a salvo at us with his port cannon if we don’t heave to.

“The rest of the crew who aren’t yet awake are being roused. Partinel wants us to give the appearance of a normal crew shift at work until he gives the signal. The rest of the crew will be waiting below to boil up to the deck. Most of them have worked and fought together before, with you and I being the outsiders. Partinel’s assigned me to help you any way I can. You’ll want to get ready, so tell me what I can do.”

Mark looked up toward the top of the mast. “I need to climb up to figure out how to fire and not fall. Obviously, I can’t reload up there, so we’ll rig ropes to raise and lower my two rifles. Maghen knows how to load, but the rifles are heavy. Maybe you can help load and pass them up to me. I wish we had two more doomsters, but with these two, probably one shot a minute will be the best we can do.”

Mark laid the wrapped bundle on the deck, undid the leather ties, and rolled the contents open.

Gulgit whistled. “Worktal’s Ass! Never seen such muskets. Oh, no, rifles, I mean.”

He knelt and lifted one rifle off the deck and cursed. “Are you sure you’ll be able to hold, aim, and fire one of these from up there?” He pointed to the lookout platform.

“Well, we’ll find out, won’t we? While I’m climbing up to check, you find some appropriate-size rope to tie to the rifles where it won’t interfere with firing. And figure out where’s the best place for you to do the loading.”

Mark went to the mast and began climbing the metal rungs embedded in the timber. He estimated the alternatingly positioned rungs on each side were two feet apart. He counted them on the way up—thirty rungs to the platform at the top of the mast. It wasn’t until he reached the top that he realized there had been a modification since the previous day. The platform now had a wooden plank siding that faced starboard and half as wide on the sides fore and aft. He fingered the planks—about an inch thick and smooth. When he rapped the wood with his knuckles, it almost rang like metal, instead of thumping like wood.

“Creolin wood?” he muttered. “It must be.”

He felt along the edges and peered as close as he could in the dim light. The plank pieces extended the same distance above and below the platform. Wooden pegs were slotted diagonally in four places along each vertical corner.

“They must have drilled holes with hand augers. If it’s creolin wood and as hard as Partinel says, I wonder how long it took? Maybe all night.”

The one issue he hadn’t told Maghen about was that he imagined the Narthani firing grapeshot and canister at him. It might be sheer luck for a cannon ball to hit him, and he didn’t know whether the small cannon on the Narthani cutter could fire grapeshot, but they had to have canister. The odds of one or more musket balls from a canister round hitting him would rise from piss poor to an almost certainty. Now the question was, would the makeshift shield stop a canister ball?

He spent fifteen minutes trying out different positions. He imagined holding a doomster, timing the ship’s motion, and trying to keep himself from falling. It wouldn’t be easy.

“What do you think?” asked Gulgit when Mark returned to the deck.

“Hard but feasible,” Mark said with more certainty than he felt. “I’ll need a couple of eyehole spikes and a hammer to drive them into the mast, three or four eight-foot rope sections, and two lengths of rope to arrange for passing the rifles up and down.”

Gulgit yelled to two crewmen standing by. They ran off, and minutes later Mark once again climbed the mast. At the top, he used the short rope lengths to fasten a harness to anchor him to the mast. That way, he could handle the rifle exchange and firing without falling. Next, he pounded the spikes into opposite sides of the mast using the hammer. The two crewmen assigned to assist had followed him up the mast, each one pulling a length of rope strong enough for the weight of a doomster. Mark took each section, pushed an end through the eyehole on the tip of a spike, and handed it back to the men. They scampered down with each rope’s end.

The light had increased enough that men scurried to their tasks. Mark waved to Gulgit, who climbed down a newly hacked-out hatch near the base of the mast. Reloading couldn’t be done on the deck because of exposure to Narthani fire. It would happen below the deck and the rifles passed through the new hatch up and down the ropes. A tug would signal that a loaded rifle had been tied to a rope. When Mark tugged back, a rifle would be hoisted by Gulgit. It took only the first test for Mark to realize he’d have to use both hands to finish pulling the rifle to a firing position. This meant he had to trust the rope harness to hold him to the mast. Even with relatively calm seas, the sway of the mast top ranged up to twenty-five feet. At the end of each swing, he looked straight down at the deck or the sea. He suppressed his fear of falling as much as possible by remembering their lack of options and the consequences should the Narthani take the ship.

For the next fifteen minutes, he and Gulgit practiced hoisting a rifle; then he simulated firing, exchanging the empty rifle for the other, and repeating the action. After the tenth cycle, he waved for Gulgit to stop, untied himself, and climbed down.

Partinel waited for him. “Well, can you do it?”

“It’s hard, but I can fire the rifles. The question is still open on whether I can hit anything. If we had rough seas, it would be hopeless, but it will be better if you can keep the ship as steady as possible once the shooting starts.”

“I’ll try,” said the captain, “but I’m limited to how I can maneuver the ship. As long as they’re firing cannon at us, I’ll have to change headings to make it harder for them. There’s always the chance their captain will break off, though it’s unlikely. If you can’t suppress their cannon fire, our only chance may be for me to surprise them by turning in to their ship before they realize what’s happening. Then we’d grapple and fight it out man to man before they get organized. The same thing might happen if their captain decides you’re causing too many casualties and he turns into us. Again, we’d be back to fighting it out on both decks. What we can’t do is let them stand off and degrade our rigging enough to make us helpless. If we can’t lose them, it’ll be better to fight a boarding action.”

“Sounds like we’re looking at a fight, no matter what,” said Mark. “Then what are our chances?”

“If they do send a longboat first, we can reduce the odds, but they’ll still outnumber us. In that case, I’d say we’ve less than an even chance. If we do fight them off, it could be a bitter win because our casualties would be so bad we’d have trouble manning the ship.”

Mark was looking at Partinel when suddenly the captain’s face seemed to glow. The three men turned as one to witness the first arc of the sun peeking above the horizon.

“Won’t be long now,” said Gulgit. “We need to finish preparing. While you were testing out the crow’s nest, your wife showed me the loading procedure for your rifles. Not all that different from a musket. Your design is ingenious, making the shot a smaller diameter than the barrel. I’m assuming it works as she described, and that skirt around the shot expands after firing. Then it seals the gases as the shot exits the barrel.

“Partinel’s leaving me one crewman to help with the rifles.” Gulgit turned to a lank, grizzled man tanned to leather by the sea and the sun.

“Zandle here claims to have served in the Rumpas army in his younger years. He’s been in more than a few actions at sea. He’ll help. I think it’ll be more efficient to let me do the reloading and then help Zandle exchange rifles with you. Your wife can stand by in case there are problems, but three of us in that tight space is too crowded.”

“Show me,” said Mark. “I’ll watch you load both rifles to be sure you can do it as quickly as Maghen can.”

The three of them climbed down the newly cut opening to the below deck. Mark stood out of the way in a narrow hall and watched Gulgit load one rifle, then the other. He wasn’t as fast as Maghen for the first rifle but was noticeably faster for the second.

“All right,” said Mark. “I think you’ll speed up the more you do it, but Maghen will watch and see if you need more help. I think we’re about ready.”

CHAPTER 32

RIFLE AND MACE

Voices shouted from on deck. Mark and Gulgit climbed the ladder to find crewmen looking starboard. Several of them cursed, as they watched the Narthani pull in a towed longboat. Smoke billowed from the aftmost gun port, and a round shot splashed in front of the Dancer.

“There’s the answer,” said Partinel. “They want us to heave to. I’ll order the crew to furl the sails but not tie them down. It’ll take twenty minutes or so for the longboat to get near us. Once they’re close, we’ll rake them with swivel gunfire, then if possible we’ll drop the sails and try running again. They’ll start with the cannon as soon as we fire at the longboat. That leaves it to you, Kaldwel, to see what you can do. Get your ass to the top of the mast.”

Mark returned down to where Zandle remained with the rifles. Maghen, who had come to observe Gulgit’s loading the rifles, clutched at Mark.

“Is this it?” she asked in the tone of someone accepting the inevitable.

“Yes. How is Alys?”

“Still asleep,” said Maghen, “and I pray she stays that way and wakes to find us back to normal as if nothing happened.”

“I have to get ready. Partinel thinks it will start in about twenty minutes. If it comes to a boarding action, I’ll slide down one of the ropes to help repel the Narthani. You go back to Alys and shoot any Narthani who gets below deck.”

He turned to the crewman assigned to them. “Zandle, when I slide down from the platform, I’ll help defend the deck. Maghen can use pistols and a shotgun to shoot any Narthani who comes below deck.”

Mark grabbed Maghen in a fierce hug. “We’ll get through this,” he said into her ear. “It’s just one more fight before we can be safe.”

She gripped him back without speaking. He didn’t know whether she thought he believed his own words. He hoped so. He released her, checked the ropes tied to the two doomsters once again, and headed for the lookout platform.

They had decided not to send a rifle up until the Narthani closed the distance and the shooting started. They didn’t want to take a chance the Narthani would realize what Mark was doing. Thus, he fastened himself to the harness and watched the cutter. The longboat finished loading armed men and started toward the Dancer, both ships rocking slowly in place.

He counted. There were eight rowers in the longboat and one man at the stern with the rudder—presumably, an officer in charge of the inspection and likely the most junior and most expendable.

Mark glanced down. Four of Partinel’s men crawled along the deck, hidden by four-foot bulwarks. They stopped at the two swivel guns. One man in each two-man team set aside a piece of rope smoldering at one end—to fire their swivel. Other crewmen stood watching the Narthani or continued with their duties. Hidden from the Narthani were the positioned firearms and blades.

“Well, I wanted out of the navy because I didn’t like the sea,” Mark said to a circling sea bird. Then he grimaced. “I guess I had a premonition.”

The longboat was halfway between the two ships. Mark looked down at Gulgit, waiting for the swivel guns to fire before he started up the first rifle. He thought he caught a brief glimpse of Maghen’s face. He wasn’t a praying man, but it never hurt to be sure, in case someone was listening.

“Whatever happens, whoever you are, please help Maghen and Alys.” He didn’t mention himself; it seemed too hypocritical. Yet maybe by not including himself, if there were powers he didn’t believe in, maybe they would extend mercy to his family.

As the longboat drew closer, Mark speed-reviewed the last years: waking up on the alien spacecraft; Hal; awakening on Anyar; Ulwyn and Gwanel; leaf springs; speed looms; the guilds; fleeing Brawsea; meeting Maghen; hunting destrex; Alys’s birth; fleeing yet again, this time from the ranch; ambushing the pursuers; crossing the Timbar Sea; Tekleum and the zernik attack; reaching Heliom in Rumpas; and finally, securing passage on a ship that led to this moment. He hoped there would be more events for him to list later in his life.

He grew tense as the longboat got closer.

“Must be about there,” he mumbled. Movement near the bottom of his vision field drew his eyes to the deck. Four men hurriedly secured the two swivel guns to the mounting pegs. Other crewmen scurried around, doing exactly what he didn’t know. Shouting from the longboat confirmed that the man at the rudder, the only one facing the Dancer, saw what was happening.

One of the Dancer’s swivel guns fired. The cone of balls hit the left side of the longboat. Two rowers on that side slumped motionless, hit by several balls each. The rower in front of those two clasped a hand to the side of his neck and stopped rowing. The fourth rower turned his head to look at the men behind him. Pieces of splinters marked where balls had hit the longboat.

The Dancer’s second swivel fired seconds after the first. The rudder man was flung backward out of the boat. The first rower on the right side rose to his feet, then fell limp into the water. Two other rowers were hit. Both writhed, evidently wounded, though how badly Mark couldn’t see.

The rest of the Narthani crew on the cutter had been watching from their deck but now exploded into action. Mark waved at Gulgit below. One of the two ropes began running through the eye of the bolt. Mark’s head jerked back and forth, looking at the Narthani ship, then at the rifle zooming up so fast. He worried that it might slip out of the rope and be lost in the sea. Back and forth, back and forth.

He waved again at Gulgit to slow down, but the rifle barrel smashed against the bottom of the platform. He would need to wave earlier the next time. When he tried pulling the rifle up, Gulgit or Zandle was holding too much tension, and he couldn’t raise the rifle.

“Goddamn it!” Mark screamed.

From his vantage point, he saw agitated Narthani gun crews bustling around the three cannon on the cutter’s port side, facing the Dancer. He leaned out, held onto the rifle with his left hand, and waved to Gulgit with his right. Then he yanked as hard as he could on the rope holding the rifle firm against the eye-loop. The message got through, and the tension eased off. Mark pulled the rifle up onto the platform. At first, he let the barrel rest on the platform’s makeshift wall. The top of the mast swayed too much—he couldn’t hope to get good shots off using the protective wood as a fixed support. He would have to hold the rifle with his arms and body as best he could, moving to counteract the platform’s motion.

Three cannon barrels emerged from the Narthani gun ports. From his position atop the Dancer’s main mast, Mark could see Narthani gun crew members’ upper chests and heads, depending on each man’s station. The first cannon fired. They evidently had orders to fire as soon as possible and not wait for a three-gun salvo.

A small fountain of water gushed up ten feet from the Dancer to mark the impact point. The other two cannon fired, one after the other. One shot hit the hull with a thud. Mark glanced down. Splinters and pieces of the outer wooden layer flew outward. The third shot passed three feet over the deck and came within inches of decapitating one of Partinel’s men.

Mark waited a few seconds, as he tried to synch with the mast’s motion while lining up sights on the aft-most Narthani cannon’s crew.

This is insane, he thought. Why would anyone think I could hit a target a hundred yards away from the top of a mast!?

He wanted to wait to gauge the mast movement better, but he had no time. The Narthani crews fired a second time. Two shots hit the hull with the same effect as before. A third shot cut a rope holding a furled jib. Its back half came loose and fell, catching the wind.

Mark waited for one more sway of the mast, then fired. The heavy rifle kicked back, and he slipped partway off the platform before the harness stopped him. He missed seeing where the shot hit, but the Narthani crew’s number and activity remained the same.

Gulgit saw Mark drop the rifle over the side of the platform and furiously pulled with both hands on the rope. Mark could hear the friction as the rope sped through the spike’s eye-loop. Zandle was sending up the second rifle. It arrived at the platform before the first rifle was halfway down.

The Dancer’s two swivel guns fired at the Narthani cutter as fast as they could be reloaded—to no obvious effect that Mark could see.

Maybe they’re firing at the gun ports, thought Mark. An occasional lucky hit with a canister ball might slow the Narthani gun crews.

The second doomster arrived. Mark strained to hurriedly lift it into position; the rope added to the rifle’s weight. The total was more than most men could handle. Even for Mark, it took significant effort.

The cutter’s cannon fired again, this time with shots so close together they sounded like a ragged salvo.

The mast jerked, and the vibrations made aiming the doomster impossible.

Shit! They hit the mast!

An image flashed through his mind of the mast breaking, despite Partinel’s testimonial to the strength of creolin wood. If the mast fell, Mark doubted he could get free of the harness before the mast picked up too much speed for him to escape.

The thought pushed him toward panic, and he fired too quickly. Even from his distance, he saw a small eruption of splinters ten feet or more behind his target—a cannon’s crew chief. The Narthani remained unaware of shot whizzing over their heads. Their own cannon firing and the yelling among officers and crew overrode lesser sounds.

Mark forced himself to calm down when the first rifle arrived, reloaded. This time, he grabbed the rope with his left hand, pulled up three feet of rope, passed it to his right hand, and looped it over his shoulder, which then held the rope’s weight. He grasped the rifle with his left hand and lifted it into firing position. It was easier than before because of the slack in the rope. It was still difficult but doable.

The first Narthani cannon fired again, as the other two crews reloaded.

That gun crew must be faster than the other two, Mark thought.

He forced his breathing to slow and deepen. His body swayed in rhythm with the mast’s movements. A seagull-like bird passed through his view, unnoticed. The doomster’s sight alignment steadied, and he noticed a cyclic moment of hesitation before the sights misaligned. He didn’t have the luxury of squeezing the trigger gently, though he’d fired the doomster enough to know how much pressure he could apply without firing. When the next hesitation came and the sights aligned with the first cannon’s gun chief, his trigger finger applied the final pressure.

The heavy rifle kicked hard. He didn’t notice anything, except reacquiring the target. He was just in time to see the man catapulted backward across the deck until he hit the starboard wall. The other crewmembers stared at the pulverized body of their leader. From their agitated movements, Mark imagined their shock and attempt to understand what had just happened.

“Yes!” Mark exclaimed. He shoved aside a brief image of what doomster hits did to a destrex, extrapolated to a human body.

He dropped the expended rifle and waited for the reloaded second rifle. It was now halfway up to him. This time, he misjudged the hesitation of movement of the mast. The shot hit the hull inches below the second cannon’s crew.

The rifle reloading had yet to settle into a rhythm. He waited impatiently for the fifth shot. It was only a matter of time before someone on the other ship realized who was firing on them and from where.

The cutter was now less than a hundred yards away. The first cannon kept up its steady firing without a crew chief, though slower than before. Reverberations announced the hull hits. Mark heard the occasional sound of a shot flying unimpeded past the Dancer. A “whop” announced a shot punching a hole in the partly unfurled jib. Another rope was severed. Mark momentarily held his breath after each firing—waiting for another hit to the mast.

The Dancer suffered its first casualty when a Narthani shot hit one of the swivel guns and tore it from its mounting on the rail. The whirling three-foot barrel miraculously bypassed the two men manning the gun, only to crush the skull and chest of a crewman crouching on the other side of the deck.

Two more misses with the rifles, though both hit within a foot of where Mark had aimed. The second miss was off the rear end of a cannon barrel. Then someone on that crew realized the shot had come from an elevated position. The man looked up, saw Mark, and grabbed the other crewmembers. He pointed at the Dancer’s lookout platform.

“Fuck!” Mark yelled. He’d hoped to go unnoticed longer than that.

He grabbed the next rifle and aimed at the man who’d spotted him. It was a moment of revenge that made no sense. More Narthani pointed at him, so targeting a crewmember and not another crew leader was a dumb tactic—not that he was thinking smart at the moment.

The rifle recoiled, and Mark saw the target spin and be thrown to the deck. He couldn’t be sure at this distance, but he thought the man’s arm no longer remained connected to the body. Wherever the hit, the man was out of action.

A Narthani wearing a uniform and a braid ran among the gun crews.

Must be an officer telling them to get back to firing at the Dancer, thought Mark.

Sure enough, the cannon firings resumed. Half a dozen Narthani with muskets scampered up from a hatch and fired at Mark.

Mark suppressed the urge to duck every time smoke erupted from a musket. He told himself an unrifled musket from a rocking platform had almost no chance of hitting a moving target at this distance. However, “almost no chance” was not “no chance.”

He should have stayed focused on the gun crews, yet he couldn’t help but take a shot at the musketeers. He picked a man with two other men close beside him, figuring if he missed the target left or right, he had a good chance of hitting someone.

A fraction of a second after he fired, another round shot hit the mast. His gut tightened again as he waited a moment to feel more serious movement of the mast. Nothing.

When he reacquired the Narthani ship’s crew, one musket man lay crumpled against the port wall, and a second was rolling over and over on the middle of the deck. His shot must have struck one man a solid blow, with a lesser hit on a second man. However, it was debatable whether any hit from a 90-caliber minie ball could be “minor.”

There was no doubt that firing from the three Narthani cannon had slowed. The crews struggled to reload while minimizing exposure to Mark’s aim. By now, the gun crew members were exposing themselves for only a few seconds, whenever a step in the reloading process required them to rise above the gunwale or from behind their cannon. The next three doomster shots hit wood, but they hit close enough to cannon and crews to be noticed.

When Mark scored another hit, it was good luck for him and a catastrophe for another  Narthani gun crew member. He had poked his head above the rail just as the man Mark was targeting ducked back down. The doomster ball took off most of the man’s cranium. The impact momentarily left a neck, a jaw, and part of a face attached to a body for several seconds before it collapsed. Mark wondered briefly why the body had stood upright, instead of being flung backward, but the next loaded rifle banged the bottom of his platform.

Mark didn’t note how much time was passing or how often he’d fired at the Narthani gun crews. He knew he’d fired enough times to worry about the rifles fouling from the black powder. The issue didn’t arise with destrex hunting because the first few shots decided the outcome. Now, he would fire until the rifles or his body quit. His shoulder had moved from aching to painful to numbness from the recoils. He hoped to be alive the next day to suffer what would be severe bruising.

He gave up worrying about Narthani muskets, in favor of worrying about a single swivel gun. It was being positioned on the Narthani ship’s aft port rail. Although the 9-pounders seemed unable to be elevated to fire at him, a rail-mounted swivel gun could aim directly at him.

He switched from firing at cannon crews to the two Narthani who were getting the swivel gun into position. His first shot tore a large splinter from the top of the rail and impaled one of the Narthani. However, another man immediately took his place.

Before Mark received another loaded rifle, the swivel gun fired at him. He didn’t know where the thirty or so canister balls went, but it wasn’t near him.

He had closed his eyes when he squeezed against the creolin, then held his breath while waiting for the canister shot to arrive. When nothing happened, he opened his eyes to stare at a spider web near his face. He jerked back, his heart pounding even more than before. The dark pattern of lines in a section of creolin wood resembled a spider’s creation.

He couldn’t help himself and laughed. His phobia had appeared even while he was tied to the top of a ship’s swinging mast and shooting at men and being shot at like some carnival target. His reaction would have been farcical if the situation weren’t so deadly.

Now it was his turn to slow his firing because he had to keep one eye on the swivel gun. Depending on when the next loaded rifle arrived, he could get off one or two shots before he had to hide behind the protective creolin wood. Time passed—he didn’t know how much. He became lost in the rhythm of firing, his shoulder numb from the recoils.

Two more hits on Narthani crewman finally convinced their captain that standing off wasn’t working. Pounding at the Dancer resulted in no degradation of the Dancer’s structure and had cost him a slow but steady list of casualties.

Mark was so busy watching for the next rifle delivery, he didn’t initially notice the cutter unfurl a mainsail. It turned toward the Dancer, as the wind caught the sail. When he secured the rifle and peeked for a target, the Narthani ship had already closed to within sixty yards.

“Oh, shit!” he exclaimed. He took a snap shot that should have missed, but another Narthani gun crewman hurtled across the deck, hit in the upper chest.

The heavy, long-barreled doomsters would be useless in a boarding fight, so he dropped the fired rifle back off the platform. He donned a pair of leather gloves he’d stored on the platform for just such a situation. Then he pressed both boots together with a rope between them and slid down to the deck. The Narthani handling a swivel gun saw him start down and hurried to fire. Most of the balls passed over him, but one scored across the top of the muscle from his right neck to shoulder. The adrenaline titer in his blood was so high, he only casually noticed the burning.

However, the minor hit and the near misses caused him to slacken his grip. He accelerated downward and broke just before deck contact. Still, the landing was jarring, and he bit his lip as he fell face-forward.

“Not the most graceful descent from a main mast I ever witnessed, but it worked,” said Gulgit, his head and chest sticking up from the hatch.

The cutter came closer every second and was now forty yards away.

“Isn’t Partinel going to set some sails and try to stay away from the dammed Narthani?” asked Mark.

“Too late,” said Gulgit. “They’ll be alongside and grapples set before we get any speed. He’s decided to fight it out as we are. I agree. He’s positioned his men and told me that you and I should pick whatever spot you think you can do the most good. Your wife is reloading the last rifle. Get those and your other firearms ready. After both sides fire their last muskets and pistols, it’s going to be metal against metal. What do you have?”

“Only a couple of knives,” said Mark.

“Down the hall aft is an open weapons locker. Grab something you can use.” Gulgit gestured toward a sword hanging at his side.

Mark dove down the hatch to where Maghen had just finished loading a rifle. She propped it against the wall.

“Mark! You’re hurt!”

“It’s nothing. The Narthani captain has given up using his cannon to force Captain Partinel to heave to, so they’re closing to board us. I’m afraid it’s going to be a hand-to-hand battle.”

She clutched her throat, but her eyes burned with determination. “What do you want me to do?”

“Our compartment is the last one before the end of the hallway. The compartment next to ours is storage. Pull out some crates and form a barricade you can hide behind and protect Alys. I’ll leave you one of the shotguns and all four of the smaller pistols. They’ll give six shots, so be certain of your target and try not to shoot one of the Dancer’s crewmen. I’m going to a weapons locker to find something to fight with after all my guns are fired. I’ll bring you back something to use as a last resort.”

After a quick hug, he pushed her toward their compartment.

He raced in the opposite direction to where two crewmen pawed through an assortment of pistols and bladed weapons. He glanced at the pistols, but none were loaded, and he didn’t think he had time to find the right shot and load them. Looking at the blades discouraged him. The crewmen he’d seen all carried various swords, short-shaft spears, and sailors’ hatchets and axes. He had never handled a sword and would stand no chance against someone with experience. When he reached for a couple of the spears, he spotted an ugly-looking device partly hidden in the back of the locker.

He pulled out a rust-coated, three-foot metal rod with a leather grip on one end and a four-inch studded iron ball on the other end.

“Some kind of mace,” he said to no one. “At least, I know what to do with it. Bash ’em.”

He looked for something for Maghen and picked out two short spears. In her hallway position, she wouldn’t have room to swing anything, so stabbing weapons were best. He was about to return to her when a metal disc two feet in diameter rolled out of the locker. It was a shield—also rust covered—with two leather handles on one side, one having a larger loop than the other. He assumed the loop’s purpose was to slip an arm through it and grip the smaller loop with the left hand.

He had a flash image of himself in some Viking- or Roman-era movie. It wasn’t an encouraging image, but he grabbed the shield and ran back to where Maghen worked on the barricade. He set the two spears at the end of the hall’s corner, helped Maghen finish the barricade, and gave her another hug.

“I’ll see you when this is over,” he said as confidently as he could. He stuffed the two double-barreled pistols under his belt, added the other shotgun to his arsenal, and climbed the ladder to where Partinel, Gulgit, and the Dancer’s second-in-command huddled. He’d left the rifles after deciding they were too bulky to maneuver among crowded defenders and attackers.

“Can you actually swing that thing?” asked Partinel, pointing to the mace.

“Huh?” responded Mark, raising the mace effortlessly and doing a practice swing to one side.

“Merciful Gods!” exclaimed Partinel. “I can hardly lift it with both arms. I found it in the locker when I bought the ship, and the previous owner said it was here when he bought the ship. I keep thinking I’ll have some scholar look at to see if they can recognize where it came from, but I never got around to it.”

“Well, I’ve never used a sword or spear, so I figured there wasn’t much experience needed with this one—just bludgeon them with it.”

“Thirty yards!” yelled a Dancer crewman.

“This will be their last shots before tying to us,” shouted Partinel.” It’ll be canister, so everyone keep below the gunwale.”

He turned to Mark. “I’ve ordered the crew to hold their musket and pistol fire until the Narthani start boarding to make every shot count. They outnumber us two or three to one.”

The booming of the Narthani 9-pounders was followed by a two-foot square of the Dancer’s hull shattering into pieces and splinters. One of the latter skewed a crewman through his Adam’s apple, and the man fell backward, clawing at his throat. No one went to his aid. Mark knew the man was as good as dead but hadn’t given up the last grasp at life.

“Must of hit where previous shots weakened the creolin wood,” said Partinel.

They heard firing, and musket and canister balls buzzed overhead or impacted on wood but not on flesh. The captain peered quickly over the rail and then signaled everyone to move toward the bow of the ship.

“They’ll be alongside toward the stern,” said Partinel. “I’ve ordered everyone to move forward so we have unobstructed fire down the length of the deck.”

Mark and Gulgit bent low and followed Partinel. Ahead of them, the crew crouched behind a hastily thrown together line of crates and rope coils.

“Good thing the bulwark is as high as it is,” said Mark to Partinel. He rapped his knuckles against the side planking above the deck and below the gunwale. “Otherwise, we’d be too exposed, and they’d see better how you’ve set your crew.”

The captain grinned. “Couldn’t have told you why I added a foot to the bulwark three years ago. Just told people I had an intuition. Think I’ll listen to my intuition more in the future—assuming I have a future.”

An eighteen-inch, four-clawed grappling hook sailed over the gunwale at midship. The attached rope pulled taut. A second and third hook followed suit. Everyone was jolted to one side as the two hulls met. The first Narthani vaulted onto the deck, a pistol in one hand and a cutlass-type sword in the other. Momentary confusion flashed across his beardless face to see the apparently empty deck—he hadn’t yet looked toward the bow.

A wave of men followed the first Narthani. In seconds, more than a dozen boarders stood on the Dancer’s deck before one of them spotted the Dancer’s crew behind the short, crude barricade. He yelled a warning to the others.

“Fire!” yelled Partinel. Flashes and smoke came from twenty-five muskets. The volley flung many of the Narthani to the deck. Others staggered from minor hits, but more Narthani replaced the fallen as additional attackers climbed over the gunwale.

Mark held his fire, uncertain of what to do during boarding actions. He waited to see when his shotgun and two double-barreled pistols would be needed.

“Keep firing!” shouted Partinel. The crewmen used Gulgit’s musket cargo to keep up continuous fire until they’d expended all their muskets, sweeping more Narthani from the fight. Still, the flood of attackers poured onto the Dancer’s deck.

Now that the Narthani knew the location of the crew, the men didn’t need officers’ orders to know what to do. They fired their pistols at the partly protected Dancer’s crew.

A man next to Mark fell face-down, the top of his skull missing. Mark felt a pluck at his shirt and burning along his side as a pistol ball grazed him. Even over the yelling from both sides, he could hear other balls whizz by or thud into wood. Out of the corner of his eye, he knew other men had been hit.

The Narthani, pistols expended, dropped their empty firearms. They charged, blades raised and voices screaming.

Now was the moment for Mark. He fired one barrel of the shotgun, then turned a few degrees and fired the second barrel. The range was short, so the two cones of shot didn’t spread, but the Narthani charge staggered, as the careening bodies of men hit or tripped the followers.

Mark had set one pistol in front of him after cocking both hammers. He picked it up and Boom! Boom! He shot the first two Narthani who leaped over the tangle of bodies. He tossed the pistol over his shoulder and picked up the second one.

The Narthani wave recovered and had almost reached the Dancer’s crew. Boom! Boom! One more boarder fell. The other shot from the last double-barreled pistol somehow managed to pass through the mass of Narthani without hitting anyone. Then the two sides fought blade to blade.

Mark tossed aside the second pistol and picked up the rusty shield just in time to deflect a sword. The wielder of the sword didn’t live to try again. Mark’s mace hit the point of the Narthani’s skull and drove bone fragments deep into his brain.

The next minutes were a blur of yells, screams, slashes, stabs, bodies colliding, bodies falling to the deck, and blood. Blood everywhere.

From his position on the right end of the defending line, Mark was protected on his right side by the bulwark and on his left by Gulgit and the shield.

A Narthani with a ship’s short ax saw what happened to the swordsman and tried to stop his own momentum but was pushed forward by the press of men behind him. The man ducked his head away from Mark’s mace, but his left shoulder broke. The man collapsed from shock, further impeding the next Narthani.

Mark had a split second to glance to his left. The short barricade was no longer a factor, as crewman and Narthani intermingled over more bodies, some writhing, some still. He didn’t see Gulgit or Partinel.

Mark raised the mace for another blow, but he had no immediate target. No more Narthani were coming aboard, which told him they’d faced the entire boarding party. The Narthani who had been coming his way had seen the fate of the first two men he’d encountered. Instinctively, they had diverted to follow their comrades into the center of the melee. It was an understandable reaction to the large man causing such havoc with a weapon like they had never encountered. Yet it was a tactical mistake.

With no Narthani directly to his front, Mark turned 45 degrees to where a crewman battled a Narthani ax-bearer. The man never knew what killed him, as the mace hit behind his left ear.

Mark didn’t have time to withdraw for another overhand blow, as the next Narthani turned to him. Mark’s backhand mace swing missed the Narthani but brought the shield into position in time to block the man’s sword. Before the swordsman could recover, the mace stove in his chest, breaking the chest bone and shattering the cartilage connecting to six ribs.

Mark’s flanking attack relieved pressure on the adjacent crewmen. They began to roll up the flank of the Narthani attack. A Narthani officer saw what was happening. A bugle sounded.

The Narthani still standing immediately disengaged and fled back over the abutting gunwales. Grappling-hook ropes slackened, as someone on the cutter sliced them. The last Narthani had to leap across the growing gap between ships.

“Full sails!” came a cry. Mark recognized Partinel’s voice. The captain had survived.

“Aloft quick while they’re recovering on their side,” he yelled. “We need to get underway so I can maneuver.”

Mark raced to midship and jumped down the hatch near the main mast. Were Maghen and Alys all right? His eyes were adjusted to the sunlight, and he squinted to look down the passageway toward their small cabin.

“Mark?” came a voice in the dim light.

“Maghen,” he called out and ran, almost tripping over a body.

“Are you all right?” he cried out, grabbing her in a tight hug.

“Mmmmum . . . ,” was all he heard. Her face was buried against his chest. He relaxed enough for her to pull her head back.”

“I . . . I think I’m all right,” she stuttered. “They jumped down the hatch . . . I couldn’t be sure who it was . . . one of them yelled something that didn’t sound like Suvalu or the crew’s language . . . another one fought with Zandle, and I don’t know if he’s dead . . . I shot at the one running down the passageway . . . I was afraid for Alys . . . I hope he wasn’t one of the crew . . . all the fighting on deck, I didn’t know what was happening—”

“Hush, hush. Everything is all right, Maghen,” he said to stop her rambling. “The Narthani went back to their ship, and Partinel is raising sails and trying to get away before they recover. Hush, hush.”

Her swallow was more a gulp, and her breath came slower.

“Oh, Mark, the men I shot—they were Narthani, weren’t they?”

“Men?”

He looked back down the passageway. His eyes had adjusted enough that he could now make out two unmoving bodies—the one he’d tripped over and another he’d missed was lying against a wall. Both were Narthani, judging by their clothing and lack of beards.

“I fired the shotgun at the first one. Both barrels. I didn’t hold tight enough, and the barrel hit me in the head. I may have blacked out for a moment, then was awake again and saw the other man finish fighting Zandle and come at me. I missed him with the first two pistols but hit him with the third one. I only had one pistol left.”

He stroked her face. “You were marvelous, dear. They were Narthani. Now I need to go back on deck to find out what’s happening. You check on Alys, and I’ll be back when I know more.”

He hefted the first body in a fireman’s carry and climbed the ladder to the deck. He looked astern after tossing the body overboard. The cutter sat more than two hundred yards away, sails still furled.

Some of the Dancer’s crew worked the rigging, while others helped the wounded. Mark approached Partinel, who was watching the cutter. The captain seemed unscratched. Not so with Gulgit, also watching as he leaned against the rear gunwale, blood soaking one leg and splashed on his face.

“Is that it?” Mark asked. “Are they giving up?”

“Looks like it,” replied Gulgit. He shifted his body without putting more weight on his bloody leg and turned back to look at the Narthani ship.

“In that case, you need to sit or lie down and get that leg looked at,” Mark said.

“Others are more seriously injured,” said Gulgit, then he addressed Partinel.

“Well, Captain, are we getting away?”

“We’ll know for sure in the next ten to fifteen minutes.” He pointed to his crewmen struggling aloft with a canvas being whipped by the wind. “It looks like weather is moving in. I just wish the hell it had happened an hour ago.”

Mark looked around at the horizon. Sure enough, to their west was a bank of clouds, the forerunners of which were only a few miles away.

“Once we get under full sail, they’ll have the Evil One’s time catching us before dark. The one advantage they still have is that most of their wounded were aboard the Dancer, so they don’t have to divert attention from getting the ship underway. The fact that they show no signs of raising sail tells me their captain decided against a return engagement. Probably.”

Mark hadn’t noticed, but after Partinel’s words, he became aware that there were no Narthani bodies on the deck—dead or wounded. Gulgit watched the cutter but guessed Mark’s thoughts.

“Yeah, they’re over the side, both dead and wounded. We won’t spend time—”

He cut off the comment and pointed at the sea.

“There! That has to confirm it. They’ll not be after us.”

Mark and Partinel followed Gulgit’s finger. Another longboat was being lowered from the Narthani ship.

“The wounded,” said Partinel. “They must have spotted one or more still alive and are going to pick them up. They’ll also go back to retrieve the longboat we fired at. About half of its crew were alive.” The captain turned and rushed away, shouting commands. Gulgit translated.

“He’s ordering some of the crew down from the rigging to help with the wounded. Now that it seems certain the Narthani aren’t going to follow us, more attention can go to those who need medical care.”

“I’ll get Maghen. She and I can help. There’s also one last Narthani body. It’s below deck. I’ll bring it when I come back.”

Partinel gave six dead crewmen a brief ceremony with words in Rumpasian. Then the bodies, sealed in canvas with weights, slid into the sea.

The two Kaldwels assisted until all the Dancer’s crew had been treated, as much as could be done without a surgeon. Maghen was more experienced in treating injuries than Mark. Her mother had served as a medic equivalent where the family lived. Some of the crew’s wounds were gruesome. Stitching to close blade wounds was the most common treatment, and Mark helped hold down two men while the sewing was done. One of the men already sported a score or more significant scars, testaments to past fights.

It’s a good thing the indigenous microorganisms don’t fare well in terrestrial bodies, Mark thought. Hal said I wouldn’t get sick, but I assumed he meant from local diseases. I wonder if Hal’s creators knew humans and animals could be resistant to many of Anyar’s pathogens?

He’d noticed that horses and cattle seemed to rarely get infections—as confirmed by questions to local citizens. However, he’d seen a few cases of indigenous animals that weren’t resistant.

For the next two hours, Mark went between checking on Alys and helping out where he could. The first time he checked on her, the child was playing with Milo, a cloth-stuffed merkel toy of a mammal common on Drilmar. After that, he found her sleeping in one of the hammocks. When Maghen couldn’t help anymore with the wounded, she took over with their daughter. Mark sought out Partinel and found him checking on the wounded.

“Captain, I’m not familiar with sailing, but you’re short-crewed, and I’m willing to help where I can.”

Which is true, Mark thought. My one short cruise during an academy summer hardly qualifies me for this vessel, and tours on a destroyer and a carrier are even less useful.

“Anything can help,” said Partinel. “The men are doing their best, but there are limits. Come with me. Maybe Duligor can find things for you to do.”

The second-in-command was a dour, grizzled man with a burn scar on half of his face. They found him helping with a halyard in hoisting another sail. Mark didn’t need instructions to figure out what was needed. He was taller than the three men already on the rope, so he stepped in front of them, reached high, and joined in the cadence called out by Duligor. When the other men finished securing the halyard, Partinel told Duligor to find jobs for Mark.

“Big and strong as you obviously are, there’ll be plenty you can help with,” said Duligor, “though you’ll have to follow along with a crewman. For now, come with me. Later I might pass you off on someone else.”

For the next four hours, Mark provided muscle as needed to move, pull, or hold in place whatever was necessary and helped string safety ropes when they passed through a series of squalls and high seas. Twice, he climbed the rigging to help adjust sails, and he carried one more body to the deck. One of the wounded had died and was committed to the sea after another brief ceremony.

When Duligor told him to go eat and rest, Mark just sat in place on the deck. He was in good condition, but using muscles in unfamiliar motions and the residual effects of the battle suddenly hit him. He sat for several minutes, then stumbled to his feet, and climbed down the ladder. He made his way down the passageway to their cabin and fell asleep in his hammock without a word to Maghen.

***

A cloaked drone deployed by the AI in orbit passed over two sailing ships locked together at sea and with men engaged in combat. The drone had finished a gridded survey of the nearby continent and was headed for the next major landmass to the east in the planet’s lower hemisphere. The low-level AI of the drone considered whether the fight warranted more fly-bys and quickly decided against the diversion. Its current mission was to return to the next continent for a repeated survey of a portion of the landmass of particular interest to the supervisory AI to whom it fed data. Once finished, it would return to a speck of land to the far west of the planet’s land forms—an island over which it spent more than half of its time. On the last visit to the island, it had recorded a steam engine explosion from a small paddlewheel boat.

CHAPTER 33

WHAT NEXT?

Three days later, the Dancer tied off at an Orano pier. The moderate-size port lay on the southeastern coast of Rustal on the Ganolar continent. Farther west were the major realm of Sulako and the smaller ones of Buldor and Ilskin at the western tip of the continent.

Mark watched warily from the deck as Partinel met on the pier with a uniformed Narthani officer, accompanied by four musket-carrying soldiers. Gulgit noticed Mark’s nervous fingering of one of the double-barreled pistols in his belt.

“Relax. Partinel recognizes this particular Narthani. Some coin will change hands, and we’ll be cleared to unload our cargo. We’ll do it after dark to avoid other, less corrupt eyes.”

Mark let his hand move to the rail, just as a small bag passed surreptitiously from Partinel to the Narthani.

“There it goes,” said Gulgit. “I suggest you stay on board until the unloading in about five or six hours. There’s always a chance the Narthani spread word of you widely enough that someone will recognize you. In the meantime, Mark, I have something to ask. You don’t have to answer. I’ve never believed your story of why you had to leave Frangel—not that it matters now. But still, just for my own curiosity, why are you running from the Narthani?”

Mark had been waiting for the question. When they left Heliom, he was firm in his reasons to keep quiet. Now, after the voyage, the fight against the Narthani cutter, and his and Maghen’s aid with the wounded and manning the ship, he hoped he had an opening to get help for the next stage of their trek. He was in a foreign land of whose language and customs he was ignorant. Did Gulgit feel any obligation to him that might assist his family?

“I don’t know exactly,” he said. “I came originally from a land called ‘Amerika.’ How and why I got to Frangel is a mystery. It must have been by ship, but all I know is that I woke up on a beach in Frangel. I couldn’t find a way home, so I made a life there. Then, some months ago, I was attacked by men paid by the Narthani. The reason had to do with my knowledge of Amerika. The one man I questioned only knew that it had something to do with the island of Caedellium and a man there named Yozef Kolsko.”

“Kolsko!” exclaimed Gulgit. “What’s your connection to Yozef Kolsko?”

“You know this man?” Mark asked.

“Only small pieces of news and rumors floating around ports and pubs. Supposedly, the Narthani invaded Caedellium, and a man named Yozef Kolsko led the people there to inflict a major defeat on the Narthani. Again, I have no details, but if there are connections among Caedellium, Kolsko, Amerika, and you, then I can see why the Narthani might be interested. This part of Rustal is fairly remote from what’s happening elsewhere, but I wouldn’t tell anyone else about this.”

“I don’t plan to, but when I fled Frangel, I did it with the intention of reaching this Caedellium and finding out if Caedellium and Kolsko can somehow get me home again.”

Gulgit shook his head. “That’s a mighty long trip with a wife and child and across so many lands and seas. If I’d have been there when you made that decision, I’d have advised hiding somewhere in Frangel until the Narthani quit looking for you. However, obviously there’s no option to go back now.”

The arms smuggler stroked his beard as he eyed Mark with a raised eyebrow. “For whatever reason, the Narthani think you’re tied somehow to Caedellium. If the rumors are true and the Narthani were defeated there, that may be part of the reason the Narthani presence in Rustal has eased the last few months. Although they defeated us quickly when they invaded, I don’t believe it’s proved as valuable a conquest as they imagined it would be. Rustal has never been that rich a land, and our people can be stubborn and tough.

“One rumor is that the Narthani thought to use Rustal to invade Sulako to our west. That would have put them directly across the western part of the Throat and able to threaten the Iraquiniks. However, they might have found the Gongalor Mountains separating Rustal from Sulako too difficult to push through against the Sulakoan defenders. Maybe now they are content with hanging onto a foothold in Rustal for the foreseeable future. Although Narthon and Sulako are not formal antagonists, the relationship is frosty, especially after Sulako had prepared to enter the fight against Narthon’s takeover of Rustal. The plan was cut short when Rustal capitulated so quickly.

“The Rustal army surrendered, but the common people never accepted defeat. At first, the Narthani used widespread reprisals for rebellion, but a steady picking at isolated Narthani stations and units has continued. The Narthani have slowly pulled back into larger cities and the coasts. They’ve kept fewer men at garrisons on the Rustal interior, particularly the farther south you go. We’ve been gathering weapons for the day we think the Narthani forces in Rustal are reduced enough for a widespread uprising.”

Gulgit stopped stroking his beard and placed a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “I don’t know how your getting to Caedellium will help our cause, but we’ll be taking the arms to a secure location in central Rustal, well beyond where any Narthani patrols ventured the last year. You and your family are welcome to come with us. That will at least get you halfway to Sulako. I might have ideas on how you should proceed from there. Maybe one of our people from western Rustal could be persuaded to guide you to the border.”

It was as good an offer as Mark could have hoped for. At least, they would have a viable plan for the next stage in their journey.

“Oh, and Captain Partinel wants to speak with you.”

“About?”

Gulgit shrugged. “Didn’t say.”

Mark spotted Partinel on the pier, talking with two men. Mark went down the gangway and waited twenty feet away from the three men. When the two strangers walked away, the Dancer’s captain waved him closer.

“Kaldwel, I haven’t thanked you for helping us get away from the Narthani cutter. Without your ability to harass their cannon crews and your contribution to the boarding action, I doubt we would have survived. Despite the casualties and damage to the Dancer, it’s been a profitable voyage for me, the crew, and the families of those who died. I feel your contributions should be acknowledged. Since you weren’t signed on as crew to begin the voyage, by our customs I can’t give you a share. However, what I can do is return what you paid me to carry you and your family. I confess I told you an outrageous price, figuring that would get rid of you. I didn’t know how my inclination to turn you away could have been disastrous for the Dancer. Thanks again. Before you leave, come to my cabin, and I’ll return your gold.”

Four hours after sunset, a line of six wagons pulled up to the end of the pier where the Dancer was moored. Gulgit alerted Mark that unloading was expected to begin, and they should prepare to leave. Maghen carried Alys and one bag. Mark followed with a second bag and the waterproof leather–wrapped rifles. While they waited in the shadows of an adjacent warehouse, he made two more trips for the rest of their belongings. He stopped at Partinel’s cabin to collect the promised return of their passage coin. The captain was busy with papers at a desk. He reached into a drawer for the same leather sack Mark had given him in Heliom, handed it to him, and waved him off.

Then they waited. They hadn’t seen much of Orano as they approached; the countryside was flat, and most of the city was hidden behind two-story structures encircling the harbor. Maghen sat on their bags, holding a sleeping Alys and using her cloak to shield them both from the mist not blocked by the warehouse.

Mark was anxious. Too much had happened already since they’d left Nurburt, and once again, they found themselves on foreign soil. After they left Orano, Gulgit would be the only person they could speak with because the common Rustalians had no reason to learn Suvalu. Then there was the Narthani. Despite Gulgit’s assurances, the city was controlled, even if loosely, by the Narthani. Mark kept his pistols and the two shotguns primed and protected from the weather.

When the wagons arrived, Mark had a brief thought that he should help load the muskets, the shot, and the powder from the ship. He quickly dismissed the idea, not wanting to leave Maghen and Alys alone with their belongings, weapons, and coin.

He didn’t see Partinel again. Men with the wagons and the Dancer’s crew worked feverishly to transfer the cargo to wagons. They worked hard enough to make Mark wonder whether the crewmen shared Gulgit’s assurances. When the last crate was tied down on the sixth wagon, Gulgit guided them to the fourth wagon, where space had been left for them to stack their bags and sit on them. The arrangement wasn’t comfortable, but Mark was too anxious to leave the vicinity of Narthani soldiers to care. They’d adjust once they got into open country.

Gulgit climbed into the driver’s box of the first wagon. Whispers moved up and down the caravan, and light flicks of the reins got the horses moving. The narrow city streets and limited light lent a foreboding sense to their slow movement from the wharf. The wagon passed more warehouses and what appeared to be tenements and businesses, then finally approached one-story dwellings.

At last, thought Mark, when they came to the first open lots between structures, indicating the outskirts of Orano. Christ, it’s taken us almost as long to get out this dumpy city as the time I’ve needed to drive across Los Angeles.

The caravan’s slow pace in the city proper’s paved streets had both kept the wagons’ noise down and minimized jolts. By the time the paved streets gave way to gravel, the ride became rougher. This jolting only increased as the wagons sped up the pace once structures became scattered.

Definitely going to arrange more cushioning, Mark thought. I just wish the idea of leaf springs had gotten to Rustal. The irony was not lost on Mark. Now he wished his innovation had spread farther, yet initially he’d worried that knowledge of the springs would spread before he’d made as much coin as possible from the introduction.

Constant jolts or not, they hadn’t slept since the night before docking. Mark and Maghen leaned on each other, Alys wedged between them, and the three of them dozed off and on until daybreak. Mark estimated they were ten miles outside Orano when the wagons pulled off the dirt road for a pit stop and a quick meal. They both used knives to harvest fronds from two- to three-foot fern-like plants similar to those common on Drilmar but heavier stemmed. They had laid a three-inch cushion of the fronds on top of their bags by the time the caravan started up again. It helped, though that was relative—Mark still wished he had leaf springs and cushions that didn’t occasionally poke you.

“We’ll make it thicker as soon as we can,” he said to Maghen, “and when we pass villages, maybe we can purchase something to serve as cushioning.”

With sunlight, they got their first views of the Rustal countryside. The same plant that they’d used for cushioning covered the ground and scattered conical-shaped plants that reminded Mark of short evergreens provided the only variation in flora. He estimated they were at the same approximate latitude as destrex-hunting territory in Frangel, but the base vegetation in Frangel was four- to six-feet high—providing ideal concealment for predators. Here, a destrex would be visible as soon as it raised itself off the ground. Mark wondered what the local predator was—not that he was eager to find out.

The mist in Orano had dissipated by the time they reached open country. By mid-day, though, a cloud bank had moved in from the south, and they passed through a series of snow flurries. Assuming the seasons were similar to those in Frangel, the weather should gradually get colder, with serious snows beginning within a few sixdays. Mark didn’t want to be in mid-Rustal when they left Gulgit and the caravan to make their way to Sulako and over the Gongalor Mountains during winter. Gulgit’s description of the mountain range separating Rustal from Sulako sounded too much like a combination of the Rockies and the Andes.

The light snow ended, and the skies broke to clear blue by late afternoon. They pushed on until dark to gain as much distance as possible from Orano. The flat land had turned into rolling hills, though the vegetation stayed the same. A cold meal was followed by sleep under the wagons. Mark cut more of the ferns, this time slicing away the branch of each frond, which made for softer cushioning. He spread the fronds under their wagon, then covered them with their two waterproof cloaks. With as little sleep as they’d had the previous day and the long hours on the road, they fell asleep immediately, Alys nestled between them.

“We’ll start making regular camp tomorrow,” Gulgit told them the next morning. “You’ve noticed we’ve hardly seen any signs of people the last five miles. It’ll be like this for another hundred miles. Right now, we’re on the edge of the tree line. Once we start angling more north, we’ll pass into ranch country. There, we’ll find an occasional village or town for supplies. As long as the weather cooperates, we should be at our destination in three sixdays.”

Gulgit had been uninformative about the “destination,” only that it was as far as he had committed to take them. The Rustalian ignored or deflected Mark’s few casual probes to gain a sense of whether they were headed for a city, an encampment of guerrilla fighters, or who knew what?

Rolling hill terrain continued for the next sixday as the road deteriorated, slowing their progress to 16 to 18 miles per day. The weather held, except for a half-hour snow squall that passed, heading east. Three times while cresting a hill, Mark saw herds of animals in the distance, but he couldn’t make out the details. When he called out to their driver for a description, the response was in Rustalian and left him as ignorant as before.

By the time they topped a hill, and Mark could see flat land ahead, instead of more hills, they had drifted far enough north that the conical trees had been joined by tall, fescue-like clumps six to ten feet high. These had a purple pigment, instead of chlorophyll or its Anyarian equivalent that lent most plants their green appearance. Another three days of travel and an occasional conical-shaped tree up to thirty feet tall gave more evidence that they’d moved into friendlier environs for plants.

Even with the weather cooperating, the road had turned into little more than two parallel tracks. Wagon wheels from infrequent traffic had worn the ground bare or stunted the sparse vegetation. Some days they hardly made twelve miles; then they would hit a section of better ground and make double that distance.

Mark and Maghen settled quickly into the caravan’s routine. They stopped a half hour before sunset to camp, and the teamsters built fires and let the horses graze before being hobbled for the night.

When the grain for the horses ran out, they allowed their animals to graze an extra hour in the morning. The grazing slowed the caravan but gave Mark and Maghen time to refresh the fern cushioning and let Alys run.

Whether from the battle at sea, the offer to help them on their trek, or just their time together, Mark found himself trusting Gulgit, who had relaxed once they left Orano. The Rustalian was also the only man Mark could talk with. Maghen, however, didn’t speak Suvalu, so Mark was the only adult she could converse with. Half of the evenings, Gulgit spent time at the fire nearest the Kaldwels’ wagon, and they came to trade more personal information. The Rustalian smuggler was a grandfather five times over, with another child expected while he was away from wherever his home was. He never identified the location of that home. Eventually, Alys became accustomed to him enough to include Gulgit in whatever game she thought she was playing, and the rough, scarred man usually cooperated.

One evening, at the end of their second sixday from Orano, Gulgit and Mark had walked fifty yards from the camp to urinate. Mark imagined his wife on Earth calling it a bit of male bonding. When they had finished and were walking back toward the fires, Gulgit made an offer.

“You know, Mark, if you and Maghen wanted to walk a ways from the camp for a little privacy, I could watch Alys for you. Maybe when she’s asleep.”

Mark walked five steps before the meaning of the offer sank in. “Uh . . . well . . .”

“The two of you are young and healthy enough, you should spend a little time to take care of your needs. The other men are wondering why you haven’t done it before. They can’t understand why a man and wife wouldn’t take advantage when we camp.”

“Uh . . . it’s an idea. I’ll talk with Maghen about Alys.”

In fact, Mark had been thinking similar thoughts, though without concluding how to account for watching Alys. He’d considered their camping away from the others but discarded the idea because of uncertainty about local wildlife. Draping cloth around the wagon they slept under and certain vocalizations by Maghen would be too obvious—in Mark’s opinion but not Maghen’s. In addition, Alys was on the cusp of the age when Frangel couples no longer ignored a child’s presence while they engaged in sex.

Mark broached the subject when Alys was asleep and they were lying with her between them. Maghen rejected the idea. The next day he caught her looking at Gulgit several times with a pensive expression. Three nights later, Gulgit, Mark, and Maghen were the only figures left around the nearest fire, with Alys already asleep twenty feet away. Up until then, they had voided separately, while the other stayed with Alys.

“Mark, I need to relieve myself. I thought I saw a shadow of some small animal out at the edge of the firelight. Come with me to look out for whatever it was. I’m sure Ser Gulgit can watch Alys for a few minutes.”

Mark turned to Gulgit. “Uh . . . Maghen and I need to relieve ourselves. Could you keep an eye on Alys for a short time?”

Gulgit nodded, then grinned and made a rude hand gesture once Maghen turned away to pick up her cloak. Mark followed her to a set of six-foot shrubs whose opposite side was shielded from view of the camp.

A section of the fern-like plants was lower than average, and she began stomping on them.

“Well, help me!” she hissed as she shrugged off her cloak. “We need a place to put this for us to lie on. We also need to hurry. I don’t want to be away from Alys too long, in case she wakes up.”

Mark didn’t need more urging. He joined in the fern stomp, helped lay out the cloak, and only lagged behind Maghen slightly in disrobing. The air was chill, but neither one noticed. It had been almost three sixdays since their last coupling, and before that, it had been sporadic since before Mark left for Landylbury to sell the destrex hides.

Seven minutes later, their sweat mingling, they lay entwined, gasping. When Maghen caught her breath, she laughed.

“When I said we needed to be quick, I didn’t think it would be that quick.”

Mark smothered his laughter in her hair and against the nape of her neck.

“We can make it last longer if we do this more often, now that Gulgit will watch Alys,” said Mark.

“I’ll hold you to it, but let’s get back. I’m sure Alys is fine, but still . . . ”

She released her arms’ and legs’ grasp of him. They dressed quickly, picked up her cloak, and returned to the fire where Gulgit sat.

“Didn’t take you long to relieve yourselves,” he said with a questioning tone and expression.

Maghen just harrumphed and went to check on Alys. Mark felt his face get warm, then he smiled and shrugged.

“When the urge for relief is strong enough, it doesn’t take long.”

Gulgit chuckled and left for his bedding under the lead wagon. When Mark lay next to Alys and Maghen, he expressed a worry.

“If we’re going to this more often, we need to be careful you don’t get pregnant. It’s hard enough as is without adding that. I’m sorry, but I didn’t think to check where you are in your cycle.”

She snorted. “Women don’t count on men to think of such things, not if they have any brains. We’re safe for another two sixdays before we need to be more careful. But you’re right. I don’t want to be carrying a child when we don’t even know if we’ll live for it to be born.”

Three nights later, they set out for a repeat engagement. They were twenty feet from the fire when a teamster near an adjacent fire made a remark that elicited laughter. Mark glanced back to see two men engaging in mock intercourse. The man on the ground wore a scarf on his head close to the color of Maghen’s hair.

Mark dropped the cloak he was carrying and walked toward the two men.

Gulgit yelled something in Rustalian. The laughter choked off like a switch, and the pantomimers jumped to their feet. Most of the men backed away out of Mark’s path. The man who’d been lying on his back fingered the hilt of a knife in its sheath. The other man shifted his feet as if preparing to run. When Mark was ten feet away, Gulgit jumped in front of him.

“Wait, Mark! They’re just idiots. They don’t mean anything by it. It’s something they’d do to each other and not think about it. They don’t know you or what customs you follow. Trust me, they heard the story about you when we fought the Narthani cutter. At least half of the men are afraid of you, and none would do anything they thought would anger you. Let me talk to them, and I’m sure they’ll apologize to you and Maghen.”

Mark still fumed but clenched his fists against his legs. “Just tell them what they did could be taken as a deadly insult by my people and to beware.”

Gulgit translated, though it was probably unnecessary, given the menace in Mark’s tone and expression.

“Don’t mind them, Mark,” said Maghen. “It isn’t worth the trouble. They’re only jealous of what you’ll be doing in the next few minutes.”

She laughed, and he relaxed and chided himself to maintain better control. He didn’t know the consequences if he’d injured or killed one of the men. He had Maghen and Alys to think of first. All those thoughts were meant to cool him down, but part of him still imagined smashing both men into the ground.

The next two sixdays passed with the same travel and camp routine. Twice, more snow hit, once enough to leave two inches overnight but not enough to slow the caravan. They weren’t so fortunate when a warmer front moved through, and heavy rain fell for two solid hours one mid-morning. They lost two days, waiting for a normally shallow stream to revert back from a raging river. Then they had to deal with deep mud on the road. When their pace picked up again, it took them four more days to reach an expansive settlement of thousands of people, covering a valley floor surrounded by hills and mesas.

“This is it,” said Gulgit. “People fleeing the Narthani occupation because they got into trouble or people wanting to fight the invaders. Every time I come here, the numbers grow, and this is not the only camp. If we had the weapons, we could arm a hundred thousand men. Maybe we couldn’t fight major battles against the Narthani because only a fool wouldn’t recognize their discipline and experience. But we could make their lives miserable and force them into the major cities.”

“Not exactly lush terrain,” Mark said.

“Which is why it was chosen. The region is sparsely populated, and the nearest Narthani outpost is almost two hundred miles away. It’s even farther from a garrison that would be a serious threat. We’d know they were coming in plenty of time to move or beat them back if there weren’t too many of them. So far, they haven’t rated us a high-enough priority to launch a major campaign. The signs are they won’t likely bother us here in the foreseeable future.”

“I don’t mean to sound pessimistic,” said Mark, “but is the resistance merely ruling over land no one wants and where no one lives? The Narthani might simply think it’s not worth their time and effort to worry about you.”

Gulgit grinned. “A thought that hasn’t gone unappreciated by me or most of our leaders. However, I wouldn’t go around voicing such negative opinions. Conditions here are hard, and when we carry out raids, there are always casualties. The hope is that we’re making a difference in keeping the resistance alive.”

One of the caravan drivers walked up to them. He didn’t speak, but his approach prompted Gulgit to say, “I’ll leave you while I report in and see to our cargo. Unload your belongings and wait here, I’ll send someone to take you to a tent where you can stay as long as you want. I’ll find you later.”

Mark and Maghen piled their belongings thirty yards off the road and sat for the next three hours. Then a man came and led them into an area with hundreds of small tents carefully laid out in rows. Communal outhouses and water barrels were distributed at regular intervals. They had food reserves and fed themselves, followed by Alys and Maghen falling asleep on the cloaks inside the tent.

Mark watched the people. Some moved among the tents, while others stayed near their tents. Most of their clothes could only be described as shabby, but everyone seemed warm enough for the climate. Whatever people’s circumstances, he sensed their feeling of commitment. He recalled news reports of refugee camps on Earth where the inhabitants projected hopelessness. But not here. Children played as children do. Adults willingly performed tasks as if they were routine. Men and women leaving or entering the area moved with a sense of purpose.

When Gulgit found their tent, Mark thought he detected a change in demeanor. Gulgit seemed to be weighing new information.

“All unloaded?” asked Mark.

“Oh, yes. No problem there. The wagons got emptied over two hours ago. What I’ve been doing for the last hour is talking with some of our leaders. They were appreciative of your role in getting us past the Narthani patrol. When I mentioned you were interested in a place called ‘Amerika,’ they passed over it. However, it got their attention when I told them about the Narthani chasing you for reasons you don’t understand. Then they got really interested when I mentioned there might be some connection between you and the man Yozef Kolsko. They’d heard details about the Narthani defeat when they tried to annex Caedellium, that island north-northwest of Landolin.

“Details are scarce, but the name Yozef Kolsko seems to be associated with whatever happened. Although none of us, including you, know what all this means, our leadership decided it has an interest in your reaching Caedellium. There’s not a lot we can do—Caedellium is a long way from here, and we don’t have access to ships that far west. However, the season prevents me from returning to Drilmar for more weapons shipments for several months. I’d normally wait here, helping where I can, but I suggested I’m dispensable enough here that I could help you get to Iskadon. It’s a trading port in Sulako. It’s about three hundred miles from the Rustal border, and to get there means crossing the Gongalor Mountains.”

Mark didn’t attempt to hide his sigh of relief. “Gulgit, I can’t tell you what good news that is. I’ve sat here wondering what was next for us. I’d envisioned getting enough provisions and starting west with no more than a hope about the next stage of our trip. I confess I felt a bit desperate, especially about Maghen and Alys.”

“Don’t be too optimistic yet,” said Gulgit. “The Gongalor Mountains are some of the highest on Anyar. The weather is turning, and if we don’t get over the mountains in the next three to four sixdays, the best passes will be blocked by ice and snow.

“One positive is that the border between Rustal and Sulako runs along the crest of the mountains and is usually manned only by watchmen. We can either bribe them, or we can force our way through. Once we’re in Sulako, we just have to be careful not to violate their customs and alert officialdom. I don’t know the route or speak Sulakoan, but a guide has been assigned to us, and he speaks the language. We’ll also be accompanied by two guards.

“Once we’re in Iskadon, Suvalu should be spoken enough that we can try to find you a ship heading west. I wouldn’t recommend trying to cross two thousand miles of Sulako on your own without knowing the language and the people.”

Mark had numerous questions, but one predominated. “When would we leave?”

“As soon as possible. Tomorrow, unless you don’t think your family will be ready for another trek. We’ll be going by horseback. I’m told much of the way doesn’t have roads, and we’ll need to cover as much ground as possible to get over the mountains before the way is impassable or we’re trapped. I’ve already arranged for twelve horses—six to ride, three for packs, and three extras.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to lighten your already meager belongings. I’ve taken the liberty of bargaining away one of your rifles in exchange for good horses. One of our raid leaders is interested in trying it, after I told him what you did with those monsters. You can keep the shotguns and the single-barreled pistols. The double-barreled ones are too unusual, and we want to minimize the attention we draw, especially after crossing into Sulako.”

“You know we’re carrying a fair amount of gold,” Mark said. “Will we be using some of that to pay for getting to Iskadon?”

“You may need every coin—there’s a long way to go after Iskadon. The problem is, you need to keep the coin hidden. We should be safe while in Rustal, but I hear bad stories about foreign men being separated from their coin in Sulako. I haven’t traveled there before, but Haldakit, our guide, is familiar with the route to Iskadon. He says we need to be cautious, especially in some areas. He claims to know which ones to avoid.”

“Well, we’ve learned to take each step at a time and not worry about the one after that. We’ll be ready whenever you are.”

“All right then, Mark. Rest the remainder of the day. We leave at dawn tomorrow.”

Maghen was stoic when Mark told her of his meeting with Gulgit. When he finished explaining, she sighed. “It is what it is, Mark. As much as I’d like to stay in one place and not be on a ship, wagon, or horse for at least a few days, if that’s what we have to do, then so be it. If we ever . . . when we get to Caedellium, I want you to promise me I don’t have to move more than a hundred feet for a month from someplace quiet and beautiful.”

He hugged her fiercely. He’d have told her what a trooper she was if she would have understood the reference.

“And Alys?” he asked. “She’s gotten quiet again since the fight on the Dancer.”

“I’m worried that all the travel will make her permanently unsettled. A child needs to know home is safe and always there—something she hasn’t had for the last few months.”

“I know, dear, and I wish it could have been different. All we can do is keep her close to us and try to make it better once we’re in Caedellium.”

He didn’t say the words, but both of them knew that, like her stumble, he could have said, “If we get to Caedellium.”

CHAPTER 34

IN THE SADDLE AGAIN

The Kaldwels were ready the next morning in front of their tent when Gulgit stopped, accompanied by three men and ten horses. Their guide, Haldakit ulu Kurban (Haldakit son of Kurban, in the Rustalian naming custom), was a wiry man of undeterminable age, as men can be who have spent their life outdoors and are seldom comfortable under a roof. Exposed skin was baked and wrinkled from the sun, but his eyes were alert, and he had a soft voice when he and Gulgit talked together in the singsong Rustalian language.

Gulgit smiled at Mark. “Haldakit says we should have gotten a couple of bigger horses for you. The other two men are Yusup and Tazeeb. None of the three speak Suvalu, but they’re all dependable.”

They left the resistance encampment with Mark carrying Alys. They had kept the harness they’d used to occasionally carry Alys on their backs during the ride from Frangel to Rumpas. It left their hands free. Later, the girl would ride in front of them or in the harness, depending on terrain and circumstances, as they took turns with her.

Though it was early in the misty morning, the tent area bustled with activity. No one seemed to take notice of their party. They passed through a second tent city, then a section of the valley with crude wooden structures.

“Some people have been here for over a year,” said Gulgit. “People tend to need the feel for a home, even if it’s made of thrown-together wood, rocks, and whatever is available.”

There was no defined end to the encampment. A mix of tents and structures ranging from lean-tos to cabins thinned out for a mile from the last formal living layout before they reached open country. The land turned even scrubbier than what they’d passed through after leaving Orano. It continued that way through flat terrain. They alternated riding at a walk, walking and leading the horses, and cantering twenty minutes each hour.

“We’ll push the horses as much as we can until we reach the Gongalor Mountains. Haldakit is worried about the weather. He thinks we can get to the most direct pass in time, but if snows beat us, we’ll have to detour hundreds of miles north, closer to the sea. The farther north we go, the more Narthani presence we’d run into.”

At mid-day, they stopped at a stream to water the horses and eat cured meat and dried fruit of some kind, while the horses grazed. Mark had observed that the Rustalian riders let their horses graze while traveling, as long as they didn’t fight against moving along at whatever pace the men set. Not that there was much vegetation for the animals to evidence interest in.

“Since we didn’t bring any grain,” said Mark, “I assume Haldakit thinks the horses can graze, but I don’t see much for them here.”

“This is my first time west of the encampment, but Haldakit says by tomorrow we’ll come to where the land begins to rise and there’s more fodder. He’s confident the horses will be fine with grazing while picketed when we stop for the night, during breaks, and along the way. Supposedly, we’ll soon pass through stream valleys with thick grass where we’ll occasionally let them graze for an hour or so.”

At mid-afternoon, the track they’d followed—it hardly qualified as a road—turned north-northwest. They left it to follow a game trail for several miles before it petered out, and they rode in open country. The sun was almost an hour below the horizon when they stopped and picketed the horses fifty yards away. Then they slept.

Their guide and guards took turns standing watch and tending the horses. They moved the pickets twice during the night, as the horses exhausted the grazing within reach.

By early afternoon the next day, the terrain changed from flat to rolling, and the sparse vegetation became thicker stands and occasional trees. The change continued the next five days, as they followed the same routine. Mark estimated they were covering thirty to thirty-five miles a day. He kept a close eye on his family’s horses and the others, but Haldakit seemed to know what he was doing. Their mounts appeared in as good a condition as when they’d left the encampment.

However, they lost one of the packhorses when it stepped into a hidden hole. The leg wasn’t broken, but the horse couldn’t keep up. Yusup and Tazeeb transferred its load to one of the spare horses. They left Haldakit alone with the lame horse, while the rest of the party moved a hundred yards away. Twenty minutes later, Haldakit yelled, the other two men went back, and for the next sixday they ate horsemeat three times a day. At first, Alys refused the novel meat as tasting bad and being too tough. Maghen solved the second issue by chewing the horsemeat enough for Alys to finish. Maghen and Mark agreed that once they got to Caedellium, they would never look at a horse again without remembering.

Only three times in the first sixday did they see other humans: a family living alongside the road in a crude sod house with mangy horses corralled nearby, a single rider who watched them from a hill several hundred yards away, and a twenty-man armed patrol. This alarmed Mark, until Gulgit rode out to meet them and returned to explain that they were resistance.

“The Narthani may be scarce this far south, but you can never be too careful. Although it’s easier to hide an encampment in this unpopulated region, it also doesn’t provide early warning if the Narthani decided to launch a campaign against us. We have patrols going out a hundred miles in all directions, except south. There’s nothing in that direction.”

Mark didn’t comment that if he’d been in charge, he wouldn’t have made any assumptions about what the Narthani could or couldn’t do. He also didn’t get an explanation of what the group of resistance men was doing well beyond the patrol range mentioned by Gulgit.

When they stopped early for the night on the tenth day, sparser ground cover had given way to thicker growth. Scattered groves of trees formed a thick-enough canopy that nothing grew under the center of the groves. Haldakit said they would take an easy day to let everyone rest—horses and humans. The valley they were in had abundant grazing and a meandering stream that all, horses and humans, could bathe in. They could also clean their clothes, which threatened to have a life of their own.

Tazeeb went off by himself, as they set up camp, and returned half an hour later with the gutted, skinned carcass of a pronghorn-size animal. Its roasted meat was the best thing Mark had ever tasted—at least, after days of horsemeat.

Maghen laughed. “After horsemeat, you would have said that about eating a destrex.” The notoriously foul-tasting source of destrex hides was usually eaten only under the direst of circumstances.

They slept until mid-morning the next day, then pushed hard to cover thirty miles. The rolling hills became larger, and genuine forest patches increased in frequency. On the late morning of the thirteenth day, they topped a hill and saw their main obstacle, the jagged, snow-covered peaks of the Gongalor Mountains. They reminded Mark of the Grand Tetons. However, while the main peaks of the Wyoming range were about thirty miles long, the Gongalors stretched the entire north/south length of the continent.

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Mark, standing in his saddle for a better look. “We must still be thirty or forty miles away, and look at that.”

“What is it, Mark?” asked Maghen. He had spoken in English.

“The mountains Gulgit told us about. I can see why he’s worried about us getting over them before it snows too much. These must be higher than the Andes.”

“The what?”

“Uh . . . some high mountains in my homeland. Very steep, like the ones we see. In fact, these mountains might even be taller.”

The next afternoon, Haldakit climbed a hill for a better look, while the rest of the party waited by a rushing stream of ice-cold water. After the guide returned and consulted with Gulgit, Mark was informed of a decision to be made.

“He says it’s chancy getting through the closest pass. If it was him alone, he thinks he could push hard and make it with no problem. However, he’s leaving it up to you because you have your family to worry about.”

“Is there a chance of getting stranded and being unable to go forward or back?” asked Mark.

“He says the most likely worst case is we find it too difficult to continue and we’d be forced to fall back out of the mountains. Then we’d have to go north, like I told you, to lower passes closer to the ocean. There, the risk of encountering Narthani increases. It might cost us the loss of two sixdays if we attempt the crossing effort here, then find we couldn’t do it, and have to return and head north.”

“Let me talk with Maghen.”

Mark went to where his wife watched a laughing Alys chase the planet’s version of dragonflies or butterflies—not either but something in between. He told her of Haldakit’s opinion and Gulgit’s laying out of options.

“If we weren’t with you, what would you do?”

“Head for the closest pass and make every effort to get over it before the snows,” he said without hesitation.

“Then that’s what we should do. If we go north for an easier pass, we come closer to the Narthani and lose time. If we try the closest pass and have to turn back for the northern passes, we come closer to the Narthani and lose time. If we try the closest pass and make it before the snows, then we’ve saved time and don’t come closer to the Narthani. What is there to decide?

“Mark, everything we do next has risks, just as there have been ever since we left the ranch. We’ve come through them enough times that maybe I’m inured to worrying about risks we can’t avoid. Let’s get over these mountains and on to the next stage as fast as we can.”

He crushed her in a hug. “No wonder I love you. I’ll tell Gulgit, and we’ll be on our way to those intimidating mountains, which have no chance against someone like you.”

For the next two days, their pace slowed as they climbed toward what looked like an impenetrable wall of peaks. Mark didn’t ask questions, but Gulgit saw his concern.

“I believe Haldakit knows where we’re going. Well . . . I hope he does. Not that we have much choice, except to turn north or go back to the encampment. He says another day and we’ll enter a cleft that cuts diagonally through the mountain range.”

Mark visualized the chain. I wonder if Rustal was part of a tectonic plate separate from Sulako, and the Gongalor Mountains were created when the plates crashed into each other over the last few million years?

He envisioned how the Himalayas had been formed by the Indian subcontinent hitting Asia and the Allegheny Mountains being a byproduct of a super-continent collision hundreds of millions of years ago. The Gongalor Peaks were so sharp, they must have been formed relatively recently and fast—in geological terms.

It was only when they entered the cleft and the upward slope looked to go on forever that Mark began to worry about altitude. The horses visibly labored to breathe, and he noticed it for himself when they walked the horses. His original estimate had been based on the appearance of the range as being similar to the Grant Tetons, which rose from a valley at 6,000 feet to the highest peak at 14,000 feet. There were similar altitude differences for Pike’s Peak in Colorado and the nearby city of Colorado Springs. He had been with a group that hiked the 8,000 feet to the top of Pike’s Peak, and he remembered how the last third of the climb had felt. He felt the same at the top of Pike’s Peak as he now did in the cleft.

The third morning after they entered the cleft, one of the horses dropped to the ground and couldn’t or wouldn’t rise back to its feet. The next morning, a second horse was dead, and two others appeared in serious trouble. To compound Mark’s worry, it began to snow. Four inches covered the ground within an hour, but it stopped as quickly as it had started. Yet although the sun appeared, the low temperature and much of the pass remaining in shadow prevented the snow from melting.

“How much farther to the top?” Mark asked Gulgit.

“If we could fly, Haldakit says only about ten miles. Unfortunately, we forgot our wings. He says it’s taking us this long because of how the pass cuts diagonally through the mountains, instead of being direct. If all goes well, we’ll start down late tomorrow.”

“A whole day for ten miles? I’m half afraid to ask, but that sounds like tomorrow will be a struggle.”

“He says it will be. It’s slow, hard to breathe, and we want to have the entire day to reach the top and start down. The other side is supposed to be steeper than this side. The advantage is that we’ll drop fast. If we can reach the top early enough, we can descend quickly to where breathing is easier.”

At mid-day, they came to a fork in the cleft. Without hesitation or looking back at the rest of their party, Haldakit took the narrower route. Mark was beginning to wonder whether their guide really knew what he was doing. The answer came when they rounded a mountain spur to reveal a panoramic view of the cleft twisting downward beneath jagged peaks.

“Blessed be,” said Gulgit. “I confess I was beginning to worry about Haldakit. He obviously knows these mountains. There’s no way we could just stumble on this route by ourselves—the curve in the cleft hides it until we get right here. Looks like we’ll reach the top in a couple more hours.”

“I haven’t asked, Gulgit, but there aren’t any Narthani border posts or patrols?”

“Not here. The Narthani don’t figure Sulako has any interest in stirring them up. Quite the opposite. What we hear is that Sulako is trying hard to stay neutral in any conflict involving Narthon. They’re fooling themselves that they can stay out of fighting indefinitely. If the Narthani conquer everyone else, Sulako will simply be the last victim. I suppose it’s natural to see your neighbors attacked and do nothing to help—hoping you’ll be safe as long as you don’t get involved.

“As for border posts, Haldakit says we’ll come to one on the Sulako side about halfway down the mountains. He assures me the post is small, five to eight men, and they can be bribed. Once we come to it, we’ll have weapons ready, in case Haldakit is wrong or there are new border guards. I hope there’s no trouble because we intend to come back the same way after we leave you in Iskadon. We don’t want alerts going out for a small group of Rustalians who attacked a border post.”

“Then I hope there are no problems, Gulgit. I hope you know how much I appreciate you, Haldakit, Yusup, and Tazeeb helping us reach Iskadon.”

“Uh . . . well . . . Haldakit and me are here to help you. But Yusup and Tazeeb are along for me. Our leaders agreed we were indebted to you to a degree because you helped us with the Narthani cutter. But they said I could come with Haldakit only if I had two guards, in case we ran into trouble. And to be honest, they don’t know you, so Yusup and Tazeeb are partly here to protect me from you.”

Mark laughed. “I suppose I see their point, but for whatever reason each of you four is here, I appreciate it.”

Rest stops increased, not to give people’s muscles a break, but to allow them to gulp air for ten to fifteen minutes before continuing. The trek they followed was a game trail for a mountain animal Haldakit described as having features similar to some species of goat or sheep. Where there was prey, there would also be predators. When Mark asked, Gulgit translated the answer and mentioned a creature with a name even he couldn’t pronounce. Haldakit said it seldom attacked humans and never a group the size of their party. Mark wasn’t reassured. He kept a shotgun at hand and Maghen and Alys close.

In the afternoon, Haldakit decided they hadn’t made good enough time to continue until the next morning, so they camped for the night. They had been in and out of clouds the last day and a half, but Mark knew they were surrounded by peaks thousands of feet higher. By now, he had revised his estimates of the altitude. He believed the peaks must be at least 20,000 feet, with the pass somewhere in the range of 15,000 feet or more.

It was a major effort for them to gather themselves the next morning. Of the three members of their family, Mark seemed to suffer the most from altitude sickness—enough so that for the first time since they’d started the climb, Maghen gathered their bedding and readied their horses. Meanwhile, Mark held Alys, who acted the least affected.

Must be her youth, thought Mark. Except for tiring faster when she plays, Alys might as well be back at the ranch. He had also come to the conclusion that he wasn’t a mountaineer. He rued that although he hadn’t cared for sea duty, it sounded more appealing all the time.

They didn’t stop to eat at mid-day. He wasn’t the only one feeling faint. They gulped in air, as their lungs tried to compensate for the lack of oxygen. Thus, he didn’t realize they had reached the border summit and started down until his horse stumbled and almost threw him. Startled, he looked around. The track was steeper than before but was going down and not up. He turned in his saddle to look behind them. The cloud layer was so dense, he could only see thirty or forty yards away.

CHAPTER 35

CLOSER

Mark’s elation at reaching the top of the pass warred with irritation that after the climb, he didn’t get to see the top. He consoled himself after realizing he wouldn’t have seen more than he currently did inside the clouds.

He knew he must have adrenaline pouring into his bloodstream. There was no logic to his feeling rejuvenated going down when the same altitude while going up made him feel sick and weak. But there it was. Four hours and four thousand feet lower, they camped by a snow-fed stream and built the biggest fire they’d had in sixdays. They ate their fill and slept until sun up the next day. At mid-morning, as they descended into a valley by following a track that intersected a road. In the middle of the valley floor were two huts, a corral with three horses, and a man dozing in a chair in front of one hut.

Must be two more men inside, thought Mark.

Haldakit rode ahead while the rest of the party waited a hundred yards away. Mark watched as the sleeping man woke and walked out to meet their guide after he dismounted. Their conversation lasted long enough for Mark to get nervous. He gripped the rifle he’d unwrapped upon seeing the border post. He breathed easier when Haldakit remounted and trotted back to them to speak with Gulgit.

“He says the leader of the Sulakoans is someone he’s dealt with before. The bribe was smaller than I expected, so we’re good to pass.”

When they rode past the post, three men stood and watched them. Mark picked up smatterings of speech he couldn’t understand. It had a harsher lilt than the softer Rustalian he’d heard since leaving Rumpas on Drilmar.

The next day, they bought four horses at a ranch near the base of the Sulako side of the Gongalor Mountains.

“Once we get to the flat lands tomorrow, Haldakit says there will be many places to buy fresh horses if we need to,” said Gulgit.

Farms became lusher. They passed fields with workers baling a version of hay, other workers in fields of a bush crop Mark didn’t recognize. Harvested wheat fields lay next to low, running plants with round orange globes that looked like melons or pumpkins. One afternoon they passed through steep terraced hills with trees growing fruit that resembled apples. The horses they saw were smaller than those Mark had encountered before, and the cattle had black-and-tan hides with various degrees of small spots. He saw and heard a few dogs and other animals that reminded him of goats. Twice, he saw small herds of water buffalo.

Settlements increased in number, then villages, and two days later they came to the first Sulako town. Haldakit estimated that it had a population of about three thousand. A central plaza was surrounded by two-story structures with shops on the bottom floors. Maghen had noticed people staring at their party the last few days, especially at her.

“Haldakit says Maghen stands out too much because of her hair and clothing. It’s not so noticeable with us men, but he thinks all of us should change to look less foreign.”

They stopped at a narrow street lined with small shops. An hour later they left, transformed. Maghen wore an ankle-length flowered skirt, a brown shirt, and leather sandals with thick straps. Her straw-colored hair was fashioned into a bun and covered by a green scarf. The four men wore baggy trousers tied at the waist and shirts that hung below their belts. Their beards were trimmed to more closely resemble the prominent chin whiskers and long sideburns worn by many Sulakoan men. From then on, if they wore coats or cloaks, they left them open so the clothes underneath were visible. It was the best they could do to impersonate Sulakoans.

On the way out of town, they stopped at the plaza and bought food at open markets and shops.

“I think the change in clothes is working,” said Maghen an hour after leaving the town. “No one seems to be paying us as much attention as before.”

Their guide had also emphasized that when Sulakoans were within hearing, Maghen should act deferential to her husband and not speak without appearing to respond to him.

“It’s not that Sulako women don’t have standing,” said Gulgit. “It’s just that Haldakit thinks the customs are different enough here that it’s safer for your family not to have Maghen violate some taboo she isn’t aware of.”

“I’d tell you to give her the news if the two of you spoke the same language,” said Mark. He imagined the response if Jocelyn (his Earth wife) was told she had to act subservient. However, Maghen took it without comment. Mark committed himself to ensuring that his wife knew the change in behavior was only temporary and only for the benefit of the Sulakoans.

The pattern of purchasing food continued in subsequent small towns, with Haldakit doing the talking. They bypassed the larger towns to avoid chances of being questioned by Sulako officials. Even so, it seemed as if explanations by Haldakit about the identity, purpose, and destination of their party were needed about every thirty to forty miles. Several times, coin passed from their guide to one or two Sulakoans. One tense encounter happened a day’s travel from Iskadon. What appeared to be a military patrol of ten armed men dressed alike came up behind them. The leader yelled something, and Haldakit turned back to meet them thirty yards away. Mark could hear voices go from questioning to angry, then back to calm. The leader said something that sounded like a curse, and the group rode hard toward Iskadon.

“What was that all about?” Mark asked Gulgit, after he stopped casually checking the positions of his shotgun and two pistols.

“Haldakit says it was just a young officer pretending to be more important than he was. Maybe to impress his men. Haldakit didn’t translate everything, but I think he told the officer to go fuck himself.”

Mark was glad he didn’t know what was being said. He decided not to relay Gulgit’s explanation to Maghen. When he told her it was nothing, her look of disbelief needed no elaboration.

Villages increased in frequency on the flat terrain, until the next one along the road was always within view. They saw more military, including a battalion-size cavalry unit that forced all other traffic off the road as it passed.

As they got closer to Iskadon, the separate villages gradually transitioned to what on Earth would be considered suburbs. Finally, they reached the outskirts of the port city of Iskadon.

Clusters of multistory wooden buildings gave way to brick. By the time they could see a square mile of taller buildings, some reminded Mark of cathedrals and mosques with minarets. Haldakit turned them from the city center toward the harbor a mile away.

“As he’s explained before, Haldakit knows where we can stay out of sight most of the time. I didn’t catch exactly who these people are, but I think they’re some distant relatives of his. He went into details with Sulako words and references I couldn’t catch. Important thing is, he trusts them. I don’t think we’re in any particular danger, but it’s best if all of us stay inside, except when we have to be out looking for your ship. As soon as we can, we’ll go to the harbor and ask around for any vessels heading west.”

“I noticed there were sections we passed through that looked much newer than other parts.” Mark said in a tone conveying a question.

“Never been here myself, but I’ve heard it’s because Iskadon became a major port only in the last twenty years. The old capital of Sulako was Bandapara on the north tip, sitting where the Throat narrows across from the Iraquinik Confederation. The Pamahan at the time was Tuontuk the Great, the ruler, emperor, or whatever title you’re familiar with. He named himself the Great, but it might turn out to be accurate. Supposedly, he decided that Bandapara was too exposed; there was no natural terrain to help them defend the city, in case of an invasion. So he moved the capital to Demarung, about three or four hundred miles west of here. There, the surrounding rivers, lakes, and canyons would make capturing the city a daunting undertaking.”

“Let me guess who he was worried about,” said Mark. “The Narthani.”

Gulgit nodded. “Of course, that meant the capital had no harbor. The Sulakoan rulers had kept external trade going through Bandapara, but Iskadon is about three hundred miles closer to the new capital. Now, Haldakit tells me trade is pretty evenly divided between Bandapara and Iskadon, with most of shipping trade between eastern Melosia and Drilmar going through Iskadon. The western trade from Landolin and Iraquinik goes through Bandapara.

“For your purposes, you’d have a much better chance of getting a ship toward Caedellium in Bandapara, but that’s another thousand miles by land. Plus, this is as far as Haldakit and I will go. But don’t worry, we’ll find you something going at least to Bandapara. Suvalu is spoken there enough that you can find another ship.”

They continued skirting the center of Iskadon, passing a quarter mile from the harbor. Mark could occasionally see ships’ masts through gaps between adjacent buildings or down the streets. He was beginning to wonder if their guide knew where he was going—until Haldakit stopped and knocked at a two-story building with only a single large door facing the street. A man opened the door. He had strikingly similar features to Haldakit’s, though he was a decade older. The two men hugged and kissed cheeks.

I guess that settles whether Haldakit’s contact is a relative or not, Mark thought. Either that or the hookup system here is pretty damn fast.

Haldakit led his horse through the gate, down a short corridor, and into a large courtyard. The rest of their party followed. The outside of the building might have looked unobtrusive, but the inside spoke of an economic status at odds with the neighborhood.

Haldakit, his kissing acquaintance, and Gulgit talked for several minutes while the rest of the traveling party waited, standing and holding the horses’ reins. Maghen let Alys run free, and girl played with a black puppy that had been lying under a pergola-like structure at the other end of the courtyard.

When the conversation broke up, Haldakit followed the other man inside. Gulgit came up to Mark.

“The other man is named Darstan Zardoz. If I understand correctly, Haldakit’s and Zardoz’s grandfathers were brothers.”

Second cousins? Mark wondered.

“Zardoz’s family changed their names to Sulakoan ones when they immigrated to Sulako. Darstan’s supposed to be a mid-level official for civil and religious enforcement.”

Great! A cop! Just what we need.

“It seems he’s pleased to see Haldakit, who’s been here several times but not for about five years. However, he’s not happy Haldakit brought us to his house. I get the sense he doesn’t personally care what our business is in Iskadon, as long as he’s not officially aware of it. This makes it awkward because we’re at his home. Haldakit got him calmed down and told him we’d be gone as soon as you find a ship. This may work out to your advantage because Zardoz obviously wants you gone as soon as possible.

“In the meantime, a servant will show us to a space above the stable. We’re not to come into the main house unless Zardoz invites us. Haldakit says customs here are that guests can only talk to women of a household if the husband allows it, which won’t happen for us. We talked about this before. Haldakit also advises that Sulakoans in cities are stricter about men talking to women they’re not related to without a husband or father’s permission. I don’t think that’s a problem because none of us speak Sulakoan, but be aware even of appearances. Not speaking the language also means we’d have a hard time explaining why we broke some law or custom.”

“If this Zardoz is so anxious to get rid of us, is he going to help us find a ship?”

“I think we have to go it alone to start with. It’s possible he’d help if we couldn’t succeed on our own, but I’d worry he’d eventually toss us out.”

“Any chance this could get dangerous?” Mark asked.

“Probably not from Zardoz because his relative is involved, but it’s a different nation with a culture I’m not familiar with. I suppose nothing can be ruled out—which means we need to find a ship for you as soon as possible. Fortunately, it’s a busy port. Even if none of the ships currently in the harbor are appropriate for you, one or more new ships come in almost every day.”

“All right,” said Mark, “when can we get started?”

“If you’re up to it, we can get your family settled above the stable. Yusup and Tazeeb will be here with them while we go to the harbor. Haldakit will come with us.”

The accommodations were definitely one-star to Mark, which means they were infinitely better than they had experienced during most of the previous months. The stable covered one side of the structure enclosing the courtyard. Adding their horses to those of the Zardoz family made for sharing stalls, but none of the horses seemed to mind. An outer stairway to the second floor of the stable led to a single space covering the entire floor. Mats were stacked in one corner, and wooden furniture, some broken, lay scattered around the space.

“Sorry, Maghen, I thought we’d have a little time in better conditions before getting on another ship.”

She smiled wanly and put a hand on his arm. “As long as we’re safe, I’ll settle for that. At least, it’s under a roof. You and Gulgit go find us a ship, and I’ll make this place a little more livable. I can get Yusup and Tazeeb to help move things around. One question, though. What about food, water, and voiding?”

Mark relayed the question to Gulgit, who left to check with Haldakit. When he returned, his expression combined embarrassment and humor.

“Water and food will be brought here twice a day by servants. As for voiding, the custom is it’s always done outside of the house. Something about maintaining cleanliness where you live. Next to the stable is a door with a symbol that looks like a leaf carved on it. It leads to an open area with no roof and the ground covered in sand and straw. This area is used by servants and slaves. You shit or piss anywhere you want, which I figure means where no one has preceded you recently. Buckets of sand and ash should be full for cleaning yourself afterward. Haldakit says this is common in the cities. In the country villages, people just do it right outside where they live.”

Mark relayed the information to Maghen. She took it without comment, then held Alys’s hand to lead her to the “facilities.”

“Let’s go,” Mark said to Gulgit, “and at least see what the harbor area is like.”

They returned to the courtyard. Haldakit was sitting under the pergola, talking to Zardoz. The second cousin’s sour expression on seeing his two guests was followed by comments to Haldakit that elicited a shrug. Their host went inside the ornate section of the structure where Mark assumed the Zardoz family lived.

The three men walked down the narrow street, weaving among people who moved in both directions. They passed stands with men and women selling food, clothing, and tools; horses ridden or being led; a small flock of goat-like mammals herded by a teenage boy; carts pulled by men or horses; and everywhere the smells of human and animal bodies, food aromas strange and familiar, and noise that assaulted the ears.

After two blocks, they came to an intersection and could see the harbor to the right. Another two blocks and they passed warehouses lining the harbor front.

“Haldakit says we’re standing near one end of the mooring area. He also says there’s no official listing of what ships are here, where they’re from, what they brought in their cargo, or what they’re interested in sailing away with. If we want that information, we’ll have to pay one of several men we’ll see wearing yellow pants. I asked, but he doesn’t know what the yellow stands for. The men are called bursapahts, whatever that means in Sulako. Their profession is to know as much as possible about every ship. I suggest we make one trip down the length of the harbor to get familiar with everything and watch for these bursapahts. On the way back, we can decide whether to check with one or more of them for information.”

As they walked, Mark took in the mélange of peoples. Even though Sulakoans predominated, from his time in Kaledon and Brawsea he could occasionally recognize people wearing attire from Fuomon, several Harrasedics, some from Novaryn, people whose origin he couldn’t guess, and three men with the belts and caps worn by most Frangel sailors. He stopped Gulgit and Haldakit to wait, while he edged in behind the three men.

Frangelese! he thought. They’re speaking Frangelese.

He quickly squelched the urge to say something, even if only to ask for some nonsensical directions or where they were from. For months, the only conversations he’d had were in Frangelese with Maghen and in Suvalu with Gulgit. English was becoming only a memory, but he hadn’t realized the sense of loneliness he’d felt when limited to conversing with so few people.

“Frangelese,” he explained to Gulgit. “I thought I recognized some of their dress. It was nice to hear a few familiar words, even if only listening to three sailors tell each other the Sulakoans had disgusting habits.”

They started walking again, only to stop a few steps later as a large wagon drawn by oxen and piled high with burlap-like bags established its own right of way. The wagon came from a three-masted ship with a crew whose dress he didn’t recognize. A red flag with crossed swords flew from the main mast. Gulgit anticipated Mark’s question.

“Best we don’t linger here. That’s a Narthani ship, according to the flag. I don’t know what the cargo was. It must be something in high demand, or else they have connections to high-ranking Sulakoans. Haldakit says they don’t allow many Narthani ships to dock, but this is the only Sulako port where any trade with Narthon is allowed. We’ll steer clear of any inquiries about this one.”

Mark had to steel himself not to keep looking over his shoulder as they continued. The next ship was another three-master but with a different design and flying the Fuomon flag.

“Yes,” said Gulgit. “Odd to see them moored next to each other—two ships from peoples who have been fighting for over a century. I wonder if the berths were coincidental, or someone assigned them on purpose for some reason.”

Sulakoans jostled them, along with men dressed as sailors or merchants from other realms, some of whom Gulgit recognized and others he didn’t.

“See the crew of that two-masted ship? I think they’re from the Iraquinik Confederation. Haldakit says you rarely see one here at Iskadon. Most of the trade between Sulako and the various Iraquinik states is through Bandapara, the old capital, or Pilaminta, another port city, this one in western Sulako.”

They passed what looked to Mark like a large Chinese junk. None of the three of them recognized the dress of the crew or the flag the ship flew. Then they came to a space with no ship before seeing a ship with one mast broken in half and the prow caved in. A crane on wooden wheels had been rolled alongside, and men were cutting away at the damaged hull.

“Probably got caught in a storm,” said Gulgit. “Looks like a Sulakoan ship. They might have hit something head-on.”

Then, another gap and one more three-masted ship, this one also Sulakoan. After that, the ship sizes decreased to a couple with two masts and a dozen or so smaller ships, most with a single mast.

“For the local coastal trade,” said Gulgit. “There are smaller ports both in this part of Sulako and across the gulf on the western shore of Rustal, although most of the Rustal trade died away after the Narthani invasion. I don’t think we want to investigate any of these. None of them would get you much farther west than partway to Bandapara. Let’s turn back and find one of the bursapahts. Haldakit says we should first exchange some of the coin you’re carrying for Sulakoan ones. It’ll draw less attention because nobody may have ever seen Frangelese coins.”

Their guide led them to an open-air stall manned by a white-haired individual. He sat at a table with several small scales and bottles of liquids. Three scarred, armed men stood on both sides of the stall and in front. Two iron chests flanked the old man.

“Five of your large gold coins should suffice for today,” said Gulgit. “The old man probably knows Suvalu, so try it on him. If that doesn’t work, Haldakit can translate. I suggest not saying where you got the coins. Just make up some story if he asks.”

When Mark walked up to the stall, the large man in front stopped him with a hand to his chest. The man’s other hand was on the hilt of a large knife. The two flanking men tensed and watched Mark closely. Words in Sulakoan and a gesture to the pistol in Mark’s belt were all the translation needed. He turned back to Gulgit and gave him the pistol and his knife, then walked back for a cursory pat-down and a gesture to proceed.

“I have some gold coins I’d like to exchange for Sulakoan coins,” he said in Suvalu.

A flicker of interest passed over the old man’s eyes. “Suvalu? And with an eastern accent, maybe from Drilmar. Where are you from?”

Mark’s surprise almost made him blurt out, “Frangel.” He hadn’t expected his origin to be so identifiable. He definitely didn’t want to identify himself as Frangelese, but he had to say something.

“Novaryn,” he replied, figuring the smallest of the Drilmar nations was the most mercantile and most likely to have traders this far from home. “I have some foreign coin I’d like to exchange for Sulakoan ones.

“Let’s see them.”

Mark reached into an inside pocket of his coat and pulled out five coins from the leather bag. He laid them on the table in front of the man, who glanced at them and raised an eyebrow.

“Frangelese? You said you’re from Novaryn.”

Shit, thought Mark.

“Lots of trade between Novaryn and Frangel, and we get coin from all over the eastern realms.”

The man shrugged and picked up the five coins. One at a time, he bit an edge.

Huh? thought Mark. I thought biting on gold coins to leave an indentation and confirm gold was only one of those movie myths. You learn something new every day.

“All right, they’re gold and definitely Frangelese. I can taste the difference from Novaryn gold. I’ll check the purity.”

He turned in his chair and placed one of the coins on a decorated ceramic plate. It reminded Mark of a set of trivets his grandmother had used. He then put minute drops of two different liquids on the upward face of the coin and leaned close to look at them.

“Yes. Frangelese coins are among the most consistent. I just wish all coins were so dependable. I’ll give you a hundred and forty dinats for each of the five coins. Would you want it all in gold or a mix of gold and silver?”

Mark turned to Gulgit and Haldakit. The two men briefly conferred, then Gulgit nodded affirmation to Mark and said, “Silver.”

“That’s fine, and I’ll take it in silver,” Mark said. He collected his seven hundred dinats in large silver coins.

“Let’s go find out about ships,” said Mark.

They stopped at the first bursapaht they came to, a scrawny middle-thirties man with a bright red shirt.

I guess the yellow pants aren’t enough for this guy, Mark thought. He wants to make sure he’s noticed.

Gulgit did the talking. “We’re looking for information on ships and where they’re planning to sail next.”

“Cost you fifty dinats to know about all the ships currently docked.”

Mark handed over five of the silver coins.

“All right, what information are you after?”

“A ship headed at least to Bandapara, farther if possible. One that will take passengers.”

“None. Cost you another fifty to know about ships anchored offshore and waiting for a berth.”

Mark didn’t want to dicker for each piece of information. “How about two hundred dinats for keeping us informed of all ships until we find one we can get passage on?” he asked. “Then, the day we leave, there’ll be another two hundred dinats.”

“Four hundred each, before and when you leave,” the old man said.

“Let’s go,” said Mark to Gulgit. “There are other bursapahts.”

“Well, since you look like strangers to Iskadon, and since I’m naturally wanting to help, I’m willing to make it three hundred and fifty each.”

“Two-fifty, and that’s my last word,” said Mark.

“What! Here I’m trying to give you a break, and you want to rob me!”

Mark turned and started walking. Gulgit and Haldakit followed a step behind.

“Wait! Wait! All right. You’re killing me, but two-fifty each it is.”

Mark returned to the bursapaht and counted out twenty-five of the coins.

“So, what about the ships waiting to dock? I need to go west, eventually farther than Bandapara.”

“Two possibilities. A Novaryn ship bringing in cloth from Novaryn and destrex hides from Frangel.”

Mark almost choked. Destrex hides! I wonder if any of them are the ones I sold in Landylbury?

“The captain intends to sell his entire cargo here at Iskadon, but if he can’t get the prices he wants, especially for the destrex hides, he’ll go on to Bandapara or farther west until he gets his price. I don’t have the number of destrex hides he’s got, but it must be a major shipment for him to come this far west and avoid the Narthani and pirates. Word is the bidding will start high because we haven’t had a good destrex shipment in several years.

“Then there’s a coastal freighter based in Bandapara. Nothing special about the cargo—the usual trade within Sulako. This particular ship only makes the Bandapara/Iskadon route, so it wouldn’t get you farther than Bandapara. For the other ship, the one from Novaryn, it all depends on if the captain sells the entire destrex cargo here, at Bandapara, or even goes on to Landolin or the Iraquiniks. Frankly, I wouldn’t count on either of those.”

The bursapaht didn’t need to be a sterling judge of human emotion to catch Mark’s disappointment.

“Not to worry, unless there’s a critical time factor in your finding a ship. There are more coming and going almost daily. It’s just a matter of time before a ship docks that you can use. Of course, I can’t predict when that will be, so you should be patient.

“This is my spot, so you can find me here almost every day. I leave it up to you if you want to check every day or not. My name is Tymaz Lasbani. If for some reason I’m not here and you need to find me, ask at the moneychanger just north of here—an older man who looks sour all the time. He’s my uncle and will know where I am.”

“He’s right, Mark,” said Gulgit, as they walked back to Haldakit’s relative’s house, “it would have been extraordinarily fortunate to find a ship on your first day here. As Lasbani said, there’ll be more ships.”

CHAPTER 36

THE SONG

They returned to Lasbani at noon the next day. No new candidate ships had arrived, but the Novaryn vessel was just being pulled into a berth by squat rowed craft serving as tugs.

“They’ll start selling as soon as they’re tied off and gangplanks are fastened,” said Lasbani. “We should know tomorrow how the selling is going.”

Gulgit was about to offer Mark more encouragement when they left the bursapaht, but Mark stopped him.

“Don’t worry, Gulgit. I’ve calmed down since yesterday, especially since talking with Maghen. I’m worried about her and Alys, and I just want to get where we’re going before something happens I can’t prevent. In many ways she’s been more accepting of what’s happened to us than I have, thank the gods.

“Anyway, I promised her that if nothing was going to happen today, I’d come back for her and Alys and take them around to the harbor area. Then Maghen can visit whatever shops she finds interesting. We can’t buy much because we still have so far to go, but I hope to find some little thing for her and maybe something for Alys. We lost most of the few toys we started off with.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” asked Gulgit.

Mark hesitated. The Rustalian had been more helpful than Mark could thank him for. Thus, he was tempted to say the family would be all right for a few hours out while away from Gulgit’s chaperoning. He discarded the temptation. Maghen was likely to be distracted, and having Gulgit along would provide a third set of eyes to watch Alys, in addition to helping Mark with Suvalu.

Maghen had been to Nurburt—a city of 20,000—many times but had never visited the larger cities in Frangel. They had planned on her coming along on one of his trips to Landylbury to sell destrex hides, but something had interfered each time: Maghen caring for an ailing mother, her pregnancy with Alys, or other reasons to put off the trip for “another time.” After fleeing, they had avoided larger towns—trying to be unobtrusive was the objective. Thus, Iskadon would be the largest city Maghen had ever visited, even if her opportunity to experience it was limited to near the harbor area. Mark expected her to be nervous at first, then enthralled at the diversity of so many people and the level of energy, so different from rural Frangel. After all they’d been through, he wanted to do something for her.

“Yes, Gulgit, I would appreciate that. At least, today. We may have to be here longer than I want, but I think we’ll become accustomed to this area soon enough to go without you in the future.”

They returned to Zardoz’s house to find Maghen and Alys dressed for walking and waiting in front of the stable.

“You didn’t find a ship?” she asked.

“Not today, but we’ve arranged for a man who keeps information on all ships to meet with us every day. I told you it wasn’t likely we’d find a ship the first day, but one can always hope. Having said that, I notice you and Alys are ready for that walk I promised if nothing developed. Tell me whether I’m mistaken, but you don’t seem all that sorry we didn’t find a ship.”

She put a hand to her mouth, laughed, and blushed slightly before answering.

“It must sound terrible and strange, but part of me was hoping there’d be no ship today. After all the travel and the chance to see Iskadon, I find myself so looking forward to just experiencing something new. I’m tired of feeling we’re on the edge of danger every second.”

He grabbed her in a tight embrace and swung her around, both of them laughing—he at the chance to bring her some pleasure after the strenuous, stressful months and her in relief that he didn’t consider her deranged.

“Gulgit will join us. We’ll find things to eat in the food stalls scattered all around the harbor area, so you can visit shops until you’re tired. Well . . . maybe that’s until Alys is tired. Let’s go.”

For the first half hour, Alys was carried, but she looked around, her little head swiveling as if trying to take in everything new all at once. Then, when she acquiesced to walking, she clung to her mother’s side, both hands full of skirt. Only when they stopped at a stand selling something similar to grapes and she stuffed herself full did she relax and start venturing afield. Even then, she never strayed more than a few feet from one parent. This was fortunate because in some sections of the harbor, they would have lost sight of her within twenty feet in the milling crowds.

Although Alys had temporarily eaten her fill, the three adults stopped at what resembled a one-person hot dog cart Mark had seen in multiple U.S. cities. Here, though, the single food item was more like a burrito stuffed with a mild-tasting white meat and vegetables of some kind. It required both hands to eat it. Because one of them had to hold onto Alys when she tired and Mark was the biggest, the duty fell to him.

After struggling with two tasks that needed a total of three hands, father and daughter worked out a protocol in which she helped hold the burrito to Mark’s mouth, and he pretended to be a predator snapping at food and growling at her. Although a productive strategy, it elicited stares and murmurs from passersby.

Signs that the harbor tour was ending were Alys dozing in Mark’s arms, scattered raindrops falling, and a darkening sky over the ocean that threatened a storm.

“I think we need to get Alys to a bed and all of us inside,” said Mark.

“That’s fine,” said Maghen. “I’ve seen enough for today, but I’d like to come back for a couple of pieces of clothing to take with us.”

Mark opened his mouth to ask what pieces of clothing when something caught his attention. He walked another dozen steps before stopping. He had the same odd feeling he’d had in the Landylbury pub when his subconscious had picked out the word Amerika from the din of dozens of conversations in a crowded room.

Maghen and Gulgit continued several steps before realizing Mark wasn’t with them.

“What is it, Mark?” asked Maghen.

He flexed a hand, fingers upward to indicate he was listening. Maghen came back to his side, her quizzical expression shared by Gulgit, who waited where he’d stopped.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled, more to himself than to his wife. “Here, hold Alys and stay with Gulgit. I’m going to walk back a ways. I shouldn’t be long.”

He wove his way among the throng about sixty yards without noticing anything. He had been nearer to the water than the buildings, so when he stopped to return to Maghen, he walked closer to the buildings. Halfway back, a teenage girl was taking fruit from baskets and stacking them on the tables of a seller’s stand. She was humming. Humming a tune. Humming a familiar tune. He stood listening for several minutes. It was repetitive. He counted the different notes. Twenty-four. At each note, she would place a fruit on the carefully constructed display.

Mark’s heart pounded, and he felt beads of sweat break out on his forehead despite the slight chill from the sea air. He edged closer to the stand. He could make out words, not that he understood the Sulakoan lyrics. It was a song with two sections. The tune of one section sounded vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t pinpoint how. Each time the section was repeated, the words were different, as if they composed verses in a song. It was during the second section that his heart seemed to beat harder. The words repeated each time, like a chorus separating verses.

When the chorus came again, he suddenly found himself humming. The next time he silently mouthed words. The third time he spoke words but so quietly that even someone standing next to him couldn’t have heard them—but he could hear through the resonance of his head’s bone and tissue.

“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Mark. Happy birthday to you.”

Momentary dizziness gave way to a giddy impulse to shout, as his doubts and suppressed hopes coalesced into certainty. His hearing the word America in Landylbury could have been a chance similarity in pronunciation of a place on Anyar, and his compulsion to get to Caedellium might be chasing a phantom. The same argument could be made that there were only so many possible melodies of twenty-four notes. If he listened hard enough and wanted to find something recognizable badly enough, eventually he would hear a melody he thought he knew. But that possibility dissipated when he finally recognized the first section of the tune the girl was humming and singing: “Let It Be” by the Beatles.

The incongruous juxtaposition of the original lyrics grated at first, but when he focused on the melody, he could see it working. Yet that wasn’t the point. Although a chance similarity of the melody was always possible, there was no way the pairing of the melodies of “Happy Birthday” and “Let It Be” was coincidental. Someone from Earth or at least with secondhand knowledge of English language songs had put the two melodies together. An intriguing possibility was that it was meant to be a message, like a flashing light or a siren demanding, “Hey! Stop! Look and listen! I’m from Earth! Is anyone else out there like me!?”

Someone grabbed Mark’s arm. He turned to find Maghen, still holding Alys, a concerned look on his wife’s face.

“What is it, Mark? I began to worry when you were gone so long. Gulgit and I have been trying to find you.”

He licked his lips, put a hand on her shoulder, and whispered in her ear.

“Listen to the song the girl at the fruit stand is singing to herself.”

Maghen looked at the girl, ten feet away, and turned her head so her left ear pointed to the girl. After the tune began to repeat, she looked back to Mark, an eyebrow raised to question what she was supposed to be hearing.

“It’s music from America. Where I came from. There’s no mistake.”

Her eyes widened. “Does that mean Amerika is on Ganolar? Maybe we can get there, instead of going all the way to Caedellium.”

“No, it must still be a long way away, but somehow music from Amerika has gotten to Sulako.”

“Then you have to ask her where she heard the song.”

“But what about Haldakit’s warning about talking to women?”

Maghen shook her head. “This is a market area, and I’ve seen women talking to men customers. Since the girl is the only person at this stall right now, it’s a reasonable assumption talking to her is acceptable in this setting.”

Mark walked up to the girl. She stopped stacking fruit and rattled off words.

Probably asking me if I want to buy something, he assumed.

He tried Suvalu. No luck. She said something in Sulakoan, then shook her head.

“We need Haldakit to translate,” said Mark. “Let’s go back to the house and see if he’s there.”

They spotted Gulgit standing on a crate, looking for them. Mark waved and explained his urgency to find Haldakit and return with him. The Rustalian shrugged his lack of understanding at Mark’s level of excitement, but he acquiesced. They quickly walked back to Zardoz’s house, only to find their guide absent.

Mark paced the courtyard for two hours before Haldakit returned. Gulgit explained to their guide that he was needed for translation, and they returned to the harbor.

The docks bustled as before, the brief rain having ended and the storm at sea not yet hitting land. Mark cursed when they arrived at the fruit stand, and, instead of the girl, an older woman was selling fruit to customers. Haldakit inquired about the girl. At first, the woman looked at them askance and was reticent to give any information. Only after Haldakit handed her a silver coin and explained that Mark wanted to know where the song came from that the girl was singing did the woman say the girl would be working the following morning.

The rest of the day and evening dragged for Mark. As much as he tried to pay attention to Maghen and Alys, he couldn’t keep his mind off the girl at the harbor and the implications of hearing Earth music on a Sulakoan dock.

The three men waited at the empty fruit stand the next morning when the older woman, a man, and the same girl arrived together with small carts loaded with fruits. Mark stood impatiently, as Haldakit talked with the three people longer than Mark thought they could possibly need to answer simple questions. He found out the reasons when Gulgit relayed what the guide had learned.

“They say the song is commonly known. The girl didn’t know where it came from, but the man said it probably originates from . . . well, I don’t know what you’d call it. Haldakit wasn’t clear. Sounds like a combination pub and performance site. Whatever it is, the place is famous and apparently unique in Iskadon. It’s become well known the last two years because of so much new music being performed there. The man said he’s been there several times, and the girl probably learned the song after hearing him sing it.”

“Where is this place?”

“On the other side of the main part of Iskadon, near where more important classes of people live.”

“I need to go there to see if I can find any information about how this music got to Sulako.”

“What? You know we need to stay as unnoticed as possible. Near the harbor, no one pays attention to strangers, but if we go into the section of Iskadon where the pub—or whatever it’s called—is, we risk drawing attention.”

“I know, but this is something I have to do. Sorry, there’ll be no talking me out of it. If I want to find out any information about my home, this may be the best chance I’ll ever have.”

Gulgit sighed. “This is not a good idea. Is the slight chance you’ll find out anything useful worth the risk to all of us, including your family?”

“Trust me, Gulgit, it’s not something I propose lightly. It’s just something I have to do.”

“Zardoz isn’t going to be happy if he hears about this. I’ll talk with Haldakit to see if he’ll avoid telling his relative we’re wandering around other parts of the city.”

“Haldakit agreed,” Mark later told Maghen. “He can’t do it tonight, so we’ll go tomorrow morning. I had to give him the rest of the silver coins I’d exchanged for. He said taking me anyplace other than the harbor area was more than he originally agreed to. I admit he’s right. I’ve come to trust him as much as I can anyone I can’t speak to in the same language.”

“I have to believe this is that important to you, Mark. I’m just nervous about all three of you being gone and Alys and me here by ourselves.”

“Yusup and Tazeeb will be here. Neither one will let anything happen to you, and I don’t foresee a problem with Zardoz. He may not want us here, but my understanding is that once he granted us hospitality, even if grudgingly, it’s a matter of honor.

“And yes, seeing if I can find out about this song is important to me. Uncertainty was the problem back in Frangel when I thought I’d heard the name of my nation. However, there’s no doubt that this song is from my home. Also, the fact that it’s a combination of two different songs makes me think there’s a person who deliberately put the two tunes into a single song as a signal to anyone else from our homeland. It’s even possible that person is here in Iskadon, and I can meet them.”

He could see his wife was still troubled.

“I know neither of us wants to be separated here, but is there something else troubling you? Something about my homeland?”

“It’s just . . . oh, I don’t know . . . I suppose it occurred to me you must still want to find a way home, despite your saying you never expect to return there. That was before we had to flee Frangel and began trying to find refuge in Caedellium. Have you started to think our eventual destination might be Amerika, instead of Caedellium?”

“Nothing has changed. I’ll never see home again, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss it. Not in every way, but wherever you grow up remains with you your whole life. I feel I have to investigate this. Maybe I’ll find out how I came to Frangel. Maybe I’ll find another person from Amerika. I don’t know what I’ll find out, but I can’t leave Iskadon without trying.”

Ever since he’d regained consciousness on the beach, he’d stuck to the simple story of a far-away home whose exact location he didn’t know. He said that he lacked details on how he’d gotten to Frangel. Most people accepted the story as within the realm of possibilities in the world they knew. None of the pins, springs, or weaving machines were innovations that needed more explanation of their origin than simply being a significant development of existing technology.

He’d wondered whether he’d ever tell Maghen or anyone else anything more. He didn’t see the need because it might risk getting reactions he couldn’t anticipate. However, that might change if he found another person from Earth. He didn’t know what they might have already revealed or might reveal after meeting Mark. What would he do if the other person said something to Maghen? Would he claim the other was lying or delusional? That might work if he were insistent. After all, wasn’t his explanation more plausible than aliens, spaceships, and another planet with technology likely to be attributed to magic or demons?

“Two more ships will dock that might have potential and one that doesn’t,” said Lasbani the next morning. They’d checked with him before heading to the Song of Irlan, the establishment whose name they’d learned from the man at the fruit stand. “One’s another Narthani, and I don’t believe you’ll be interested in that one. Besides . . . going north to Narthon doesn’t get you farther west, and most of the Narthani traffic west has been military from Narthon to whatever mischief they’re up to toward Landolin and the Iraquiniks.

“The most promising ship is Fuomi. There are indications it might be continuing on to Bandapara. However, they won’t dock until one of the Narthani ships leaves port. The authorities in Iskadon don’t like more than one ship from either Narthon or Fuomon in port at any time.

“The third ship is probably headed farther west than we can be sure of for the others. The problem is that it’s Buldorian. This one’s supposed to be a trader, but everyone knows any Buldorian ship is probably also a pirate whenever the opportunity occurs. I couldn’t find out what the Buldorian is carrying, which is unusual. My guess would be a cargo of slaves.

“The Buldorians have a cordial relationship with Sulako. They don’t raid our coasts or pirate our ships, and we provide another slave market, in case they have trouble with one or more of the Landolin kingdoms. Narthani meddling in Landolin has curtailed trading, so we’re seeing more Buldorians than in the past.

“Most people would say to stay away from getting transport on a Buldorian ship. I understand, given their reputation, but it all depends on how badly you want to leave Iskadon heading west.”

“Maybe not that bad,” said Mark. “We’ll check again with you tomorrow.”

“He’s right, Mark,” said Gulgit, as they left the harbor front and headed to the main part of Iskadon and the Song of Irlan. “It wasn’t common, but Buldorians used to raid as far east as Rumpas until the Narthani conquered Rustal. I’ve never dealt with them before, but the stories I’ve heard would make me use a Buldorian ship only as a last resort.”

“You’re probably right,” said Mark. “I’m just anxious to continue, and I know you must be anxious to return to Rustal. I’ve said several times how much I appreciate your help. If the time comes when you think you have to leave, I’ll understand. Now that I have a contact in Lasbani, we should be able to take care of ourselves, as long as Zardoz lets us use the top of his stable, and we mainly keep to the harbor where there are Suvalu speakers.”

“Well . . . let’s see how it goes for the next few days,” said Gulgit.

They walked from the harbor district into crowded streets meandering through two- and three-story buildings. The odors of so many crowds of people, horses, garbage, human waste, and strange foods created a blanket that would have felt suffocating seven years earlier. However, Mark had lived long enough in Kaledon and Brawsea to accept the conditions in the larger Anyar cities and treasure the atmospheric advantages of less urbanized places like Tregallon and the Toodman ranch.

As they walked, Mark made note of landmarks. There was always the chance he might become separated from Gulgit and Haldakit. He needed to be able to make his way back to Maghen and Alys on his own. An open garden area with an ornate building sporting a dome reminded him of a mosque. A burned-out block was being cleared of debris. A street crossed a bridge over a sluggishly moving stream with garbage floating on top. A block was lined with buildings painted yellow ochre. Shops bordered a cobblestone plaza with an inscripted spire in the middle. Several times, Haldakit stopped people to confirm they were headed in the right direction.

As the structures became more substantial, Haldakit said they were passing the main section of Iskadon but would avoid the government buildings. At mid-morning, two miles from the harbor, they came to a three-story building with inlaid tile so reflective of the sunlight that Mark reflexively shaded his eyes.

“This is it,” said Gulgit.

The building front was 200 feet across with a wide double door and no windows on the first floor. In contrast, the largest glass windows Mark had yet seen on Anyar lined both the second and the third floor. Banks of sixty-four 1-foot-square panes were mounted eight wide and high for each window. Some windows were being cleaned from the inside or the outside by young boys hanging from harnesses. The building matched the description given by the fruit seller at the harbor. A large sign hung to one side of the single door. It was in Sulakoan script, which none of the three of them could read, but Mark assumed it was the name of the tavern, music hall, or whatever the establishment was called—Song of Irlan.

With their arrival, Mark realized he hadn’t planned further than getting to where the hybrid song was played.

“Well, let’s go inside.”

As large and heavy as the door appeared, it swung open easily. They entered what resembled a theater foyer with ticket windows and signs with script. Several men walked through the room without looking at them before Haldakit stepped in front of a middle-aged man, forcing him to stop. Several back-and-forth exchanges and a hand pointing to an ornate series of doors led them into a large area divided into two sections. What they entered resembled a large tavern, with bars on two sides and tables covering the rest of the floor, except for an aisle. It led to what seemed to be a performance area with a stage against the far wall and several hundred chairs lined up in rows.

“Like the man told us—looks like a combination of tavern and performance hall,” said Gulgit. “Never seen them combined like this in Rustal, and Haldakit says it’s unusual in Sulako. What do you want to do next, Mark?”

Mark looked around. Obviously, no performance was underway now or evidently in the near future. The tavern section had perhaps twenty customers who talked or dozed, which only served to emphasize the empty tables. No alcoholic drinks were evident.

“Let’s be who we are—strangers to Iskadon who want to inquire about the Song of Irlan. Admitting ignorance usually dissuades suspicions.”

They wove their way around tables to one of the bars, where two men cleaned the woodwork and a third man did something with sheets of paper and a quill. The two men cleaning were barefoot, wore rough short tunic-like clothing, and had leather collars around their necks.

“Slaves,” said Gulgit, after he saw Mark staring at the men. “You must have noticed them at the harbor and on the way here.”

“I did,” said Mark, “but I guess I thought the collars were a custom, like some kind of jewelry.”

Haldakit got the third man’s attention and learned that he spoke Suvalu. Mark took over the questioning. After getting the admission of ignorance out of the way, he moved on to why they were there.

“At the harbor we heard someone singing a song and were told they heard it here, and that this is a place famous for its music.”

“That it is,” said the man. “You’ll hear music here you haven’t heard anyplace else. Of course, once it’s performed here, people remember and take it elsewhere, but there are always favorites repeated over and over, along with new music coming regularly.”

“Well, the song I heard at the harbor was memorable. Don’t remember the words, but the tune was something like this.” Mark gave a whistling rendition of “Happy Birthday to You.”

“Hah! Come tonight, and you’ll hear that one half-a-dozen times. Maybe not performed, but a customer will start it, and others will pick it up.”

“I don’t speak Sulakoan,” said Mark. “What are the words to the song?”

“I don’t know that it translates easily to match the music, but it celebrates friends drinking together and their fellowship.”

That figures, though Mark. If you want it repeated and to spread, make it something to reinforce men getting blasted together.

“Do you know where the song came from originally?” asked Mark.

“Right here. Efehda Halari’s slave Huthor is a marvel at creating new music. The Efehda blesses the gods regularly that he found her at the slave market three years ago. It shows how favored he is with the gods.”

“Efehda?” Mark questioned. “Sorry, but we’re visitors to Iskadon. What does Efehda mean?”

In Sulakoan, the man said something to Haldakit, who then spoke to Gulgit in Rustalian.

“Evidently, it’s an honorific term,” said Gulgit. “Halari is one of the richest men in Iskadon and has influential connections with the city’s and region’s authorities. He’s also the owner of this place.”

Mark turned back to the tavern worker. “And the music comes from one of Efehda’s slaves? One named Huthor? Do you know if this Huthor creates the music or learned it from elsewhere?”

“I wouldn’t know. No one speaks with Huthor without the Efehda’s permission, and I’m too lowly for that privilege. I just know she’s odd looking with those strange eyes. Some people wonder if she’s not some kind of demon. I don’t believe that. Why would a demon know such wonderful music?”

She? A woman. Strange eyes?

“Uh . . . yes. Does she come to the Song of Irlan often?”

The man snorted. “She can hardly leave. Efehda Halari keeps her close and living in the Efehda’s compound behind the Irlan. He’s always afraid someone might steal her. Of course, I’m not privy to such details, but rumor is that the Efehda has been offered as much as fifty thousand dinats for her, and he turned it down. Hard to imagine any slave worth that much, but if anyone is, it has to be Huthor. She might be the best-known slave in Iskadon. The Efehda often takes her with him when he rides in his carriage around the city. He says it reminds people to come to the Song of Irlan. Sometimes he has her sing a song at open-air markets or various gatherings to entice people to come and hear more.”

“Advertising, huh?” Mark said in English. When the man frowned, Mark added, “Just something from my native language. I was just impressed how clever it is of the Efehda to give people only a taste of Huthor’s music. Song of Irlan must be crowded during performances. By the way, I notice there aren’t many customers now. When does business increase?”

“Well, we aren’t serving spirits yet. The few people at the tables either have some business here or are meeting someone. The Efehda allows people to just come in before service, but once that begins, they have to be buying. Too bad no spirits are allowed to be sold in Sulako between the first appearance of the sun and sunset, or we might have people in here every hour of the day.”

“You know, I’d be interested in asking this Huthor where she’s from,” said Mark. “Do you think the Efehda would let me ask her?”

The man sneered. “As if that’s going to happen. You’re more likely to get a knife in your gut than get near her. The Efehda has her guarded as if she’s made of gold. Now that I think of it, she might as well be, the way her music brings in customers. Anyway, don’t even think about getting near her. See that alcove to the right of the stage?”

Mark turned and located what looked like a large box seat elevated fifteen feet above the floor.

“If the Efehda comes to watch and brings her with him, that’s where they sit. She never comes to the main floor.”

“Thanks for the information and advice. We may come back some evening. About what time would performances start?”

“As soon as the evening prayer calls end. This time of year it’ll be about an hour after sunset.”

Gulgit waited until they exited to the street before speaking.

“I’m almost afraid to ask what you’re thinking. You heard the man. Whoever this Huthor is, you’re not getting near her to ask questions.”

Mark didn’t say anything.

“Oh, shit!” said Gulgit. “You are thinking of doing something stupid!”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, and I’m not ignoring the risks, assuming it’s true how the man described this Huthor slave being guarded. For now, I need to think. One thing for sure. I have to come back to get sight of her and listen to the music. If, as I believe, she’s from my homeland, then I might recognize other tunes. Even if the right ship comes soon, it would be several days before it sailed again. I can’t wait to see if she shows up tonight—I’d be away from my family too long. I’m thinking to come tomorrow evening. This is more than I can ask of you and Haldakit, but I think I can make my way here and back to the harbor by myself.”

Gulgit grumbled something in Rustalian to Haldakit, who grunted a few times, then nodded.

“He’s willing to come again, but it’ll cost you two silver coins, and you buy all the spirits while we’re here.”

“We? That means you’ll come, too?”

“I will, but I have to tell you that I need to set a firm date to return to Rustal. Yusup and Tazeeb are threatening to return on their own, and there’s a chance Haldakit might go with them. I can’t be left stranded here, and the weather will only worsen for crossing the Gongalor Mountains. We won’t have your family along this time, but even so, there’s the risk of the same pass being blocked and our having to go farther north to cross back into Rustal—something I don’t want to do. I’ll give it three more days, and we’ll leave for Rustal on the morning of the fourth day.”

CHAPTER 37

A PASSAGE AND A RISK

“I’m going to talk to the Buldorian captain when they dock,” Mark said the next morning.

“Are you sure about that?” asked Gulgit. “You remember what Lasbani said about the Buldorians. He knows more about them than I do, but what he said matches the little I know.”

“They’re the only new ship that’s docked today, and I’ve nothing else to do,” said Mark. “No harm in talking to them. There’s also a good chance the captain speaks Suvalu. Anyway, I’ll just walk down to the harbor and check them out.”

Finding the Buldorian ship was not a problem. Its smoother lines and more gun ports than the other moored ships made it stand out like a yellow patch on a black cloak. Boxes and chests were being unloaded, but no sign of slaves, as Lasbani had suggested might be the cargo.

Hey, they do kind of look like pirates out of a Hollywood movie or TV show, thought Mark.

Most of the crew wore baggier pants and more colorful shirts than Mark had seen before. Facial hair was restricted to trimmed mustaches and beards, even for those who looked like common crewmen. Several wore head bandanas tied and hanging in the back.

All they need is a couple of eye patches and to go around saying, “Argh,” thought Mark.

A lean man in his late thirties with a hawkish nose was doing the most shouting. His attire was also the most garish.

Odds are, he’s the captain, Mark thought.

He moved near a gangplank being used by men carrying items off, then returning to the ship. When the presumed captain looked his way, Mark waved for attention.

“Do you speak Suvalu?”

“Well enough.”

“Are you the captain?”

“Yeah. Who wants to know?”

Mark hesitated to use his own name, then figured, What the hell?

“Name’s Kaldwel. What are you called?”

“Adalan. Adel Adalan. I’m captain of the Wicked Woman. What do you want to talk to me about?”

“I’m looking for ship’s passage west.”

The man looked at Mark as if not quite sure he’d heard right.

“West? What kind of destination is that? Bandapara? Landolin? The Iraquiniks? Or what? Nothing farther west than those until you go over the Great Ocean to Krinolin, which is faster getting to by going east.”

“It’s personal business that only concerns me,” said Mark. “I can pay for passage and am willing to work if necessary.”

The man waved in dismissal. “I don’t take passengers, and even if I did, there’s no plan where to go next until I get a cargo.”

“All right, thanks,” said Mark and turned to leave.

“Where are you from?” asked the captain. “Your Suvalu accent is odd.”

“Frangel.”

“That far? No wonder I didn’t recognize the accent. I’ve been as far as Rumpas, but not Frangel. You’re far from home. What brings you here?”

“As I said, personal matters.”

The captain shrugged and turned to yell at the men on deck.

“And good day to you, too,” said Mark in Frangelese.

The captain whirled. “I thought you said you were from Frangel?”

“Huh?”

“I understood some of what you said. Something about wishing me a good day. I know enough Caedelli to understand what you said.”

“Caedelli?” questioned Mark. “I was speaking Frangelese, not Caedelli. I thought you said you hadn’t been to Frangel, so how do you speak that language?”

“Wait,” said Adalan, holding up a hand. “Say what you did before in Frangelese.”

“I said, ‘And good day to you, too.’”

“Say something else.”

“Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country.”

Adalan shook his head. “No, I think I understood most of the words but not the meaning.”

Adalan called out something in Buldorian, and a crewman ran off. A minute later, he returned with a youth about ten or eleven years old.

Adalan addressed the boy in Buldorian.

The captain turned to Mark. “Start talking to him.”

“My name is Mark Kaldwel. I am four hundred years old, have three legs, and my hair is green.”

The boy raised an eyebrow, then spoke to Adalan for almost a minute. The captain smiled and continued speaking to Mark in Suvalu.

“Allyr is from Caedellium, where they speak Caedelli. He says he understands you, but you say crazy things, and your accent is terrible. I think that means that Caedelli and Frangelese are very close to each other, which is strange because the two peoples are on the opposite ends of Anyar. I’m sure there’s an interesting story worth hearing. However, it still doesn’t answer why you want to go west to some destination for a reason you seem loathe to reveal.”

Mark was stymied. He didn’t want to tell the Buldorian any more than necessary, but the connection between Frangel and Caedellium confused him.

“What do you know about the Narthani?” Mark asked.

Adalan spit into the water. “A scourge that may eventually rule all of Anyar, unless whatever god or gods there are intervene first. I’ve had dealings with them when it was to our advantage, but I wouldn’t trust one not to stick a knife in my back as soon as it pleased him. Unfortunately, my last association with them ended badly, although we profited greatly before we decided to sever our relationship with the assholes. Now, with the Narthani campaigning on Landolin, too many warships sail the Landolin waters for us to venture there unless we have a cursed good reason. And that, my friend, brings us back to where you’re headed and why my ship might take you.”

What Mark wanted to do was get the Caedelli boy alone, so he could pump him for information about Caedellium and a man named Yozef Kolsko. The ship’s captain seemed firm about not taking passengers. Mark needed to find a reason to change the man’s mind. Seconds passed as he ruminated. The captain started to turn away again. Mark made a leap of faith that the Buldorian’s dislike of the Narthani and some unspecified connection to Caedellium wouldn’t once again put him and his family in danger.

“I’m going to Caedellium,” Mark said.

Adalan whirled back. “Caedellium? Why would someone from Frangel want to travel to an island on the other side of the world?”

“I had to leave Frangel because the Narthani were looking for me. I don’t know why. All I know is that it has something to do with a man who may be living on Caedellium. His name is Yozef Kolsko.”

The Buldorian captain’s mouth dropped open a fraction, and his eyes widened.

Whoa, thought Mark. That got a response.

“Yozef Kolsko,” said Adalan slowly, as if wanting to be sure he enunciated correctly. “What do you know about him, and what is his connection to you?”

“I’m not sure there is a connection, only that it has something to do with the reason the Narthani are after me.”

“To kill you?” asked Adalan.

“No. I know for a fact that they don’t want to kill me, which I assume means they think I know something they want to get out of me. I have no idea why.”

Adalan looked at Gulgit, who had listened silently to the Suvalu exchange. “And what about you? Are you also from Frangel and trying to reach Caedellium?”

“Not me. I’m Rustalian and will head home as soon as Kaldwel gets passage west. Sooner the better.”

The Buldorian turned back to Mark. “I’ll admit I’m intrigued. A cousin of mine is an important person back in Buldor. He’ll want to meet you. I’m willing to take you as far as Tortut, our main city. After that, I couldn’t say anything more. However, my ship still needs more cargo. It takes coin to maintain a ship and pay the crew. Right now, we’re half full, and I can’t leave until I’m full up.”

“Do you have any idea how long that might be?” asked Mark.

“No way to estimate. Could be tomorrow, could be several sixdays. But whenever it is, I’ll leave as soon as possible. There’s no coin for sitting in a harbor.”

“I’ll talk with my companion here,” said Mark, “and come back to you in a few minutes.”

The captain waved them away and went back to yelling at his crew.

“What do you think, Gulgit? Would it be foolish to trust this Buldorian captain?”

“Of course, it is! Only an idiot would trust a Buldorian. My advice is to wait until you find another ship. I won’t be here, but Lasbani will help. Better to be safe, especially since you’ve got your family with you.”

Mark shook his head. “If only life were so simple. I didn’t say anything earlier when you wondered whether I was planning to do something stupid about Huthor. Well . . . I am.”

“You’ll try to talk to her despite the warnings, won’t you?” asked Gulgit.

“First, I’m going to confirm she’s from Amerika, as I am.”

“And how will you talk to her to confirm that?”

“I think I can do it without talking. Right now, I need to speak to the captain for a moment and then find a clothing shop that can do some fast work.”

Mark wasn’t sure about boarding the Buldorian ship without the captain’s permission, so he waited on the dock until Adalan came into view and spotted him.

“Yeah. Something else you want to say?”

“Could I come on board and talk with you privately?”

The Buldorian waved toward one of two gangplanks the crewmen were using. Mark followed a man with multiple visible scars and at least four knives of different sizes on his belt and tied to his right arm and left leg.

Adalan waited on the aftcastle. He didn’t speak when Mark approached.

“Captain, I appreciate your need for a full cargo before leaving. However, how much coin would it take to entice you to set sail before that?”

The Buldorian’s gaze seemed to make an effort to pierce Mark’s mind for more information.

“Just you?”

“At least three of us. Myself, my wife, and our child. Possibly a fourth person, but I can’t confirm that yet.”

“Well, I suppose the number doesn’t matter if you stay together in a space we can spare. However, you would need to compensate me for lost cargo contracts.”

“I understand,” said Mark, “but, on the other hand, you might be able to leave sooner than if you had to wait for more cargo. There’s a saying in my country that ‘Time is money.’ Time saved in leaving earlier would pay by making all the following voyages happen sooner.”

“Maybe, but that’s unknown. Let me think.” The captain’s eyes lost focus.

Well, he’s either making an honest estimate of what I’d have to pay, or he’s thinking of how to fleece me, thought Mark.

When Adalan looked at Mark again, he quoted a price in Sulakoan coinage. Mark did a quick conversion to Frangelese monetary units. It was almost three times the coins remaining from what they’d left the ranch with.

“That’s more than I have,” said Mark, his disappointment evident.

“How much more?”

“About three times,” said Mark, caught by momentary surprise at Adalan’s question.

Hmmm, Mark thought. Maybe telling him how much we have isn’t such a good idea. If Gulgit is right about these people, they’re not above pirating and robbing.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Adalan. “I’m so sure my cousin Mustafa Adalan will want to talk to you that I’m willing to take you on board if we can find another quarter cargo and you pay a third of what I told you passage would cost. There’s a merchant who seems interested in our transporting his goods to Bandapara. If that works out, I expect it will be approximately a quarter cargo. I should know in a day or two. If you’re willing to pay the passage, we can leave as soon as we finish loading. If not, you can come with us when we have a full cargo.”

“Agreed,” said Mark. “I’ll check with you every afternoon.”

Mark returned to Gulgit on the dock. “All right, let’s find a clothing shop.”

Three hours later, Mark was the owner of a reversible black cloak with new embroidery on both sides—the rush job made possible when he added enough coin to a shop’s countertop.

“What do you think?” Mark asked Gulgit, holding up one side of the cloak for inspection.

“And how is that going to help you find out if she’s from Amerika?” asked Gulgit, as he eyed the two golden arches connected at one end.

“Oh, if she’s from Amerika she will react.”

She’ll recognize the McDonald’s symbol unless she’s lived her life in a cave, thought Mark.

“But just in case, I’ll also let her see the other side.” He turned the cloak around to show three symbols Gulgit didn’t recognize but almost anyone from Earth would identify: “USA.”

“If you say so,” said Gulgit. “I suppose this means we’re going back to the theater?”

“I am, but I didn’t know if you’d want to go again.”

“Oh, I don’t want to go, but I’m curious to see how you’re going to communicate to the woman without talking to her. Don’t be offended, but I might not stay next to you, in case something goes wrong. Once we’re there, I don’t know who you are.”

Mark slapped Gulgit’s shoulder. “I need to tell Maghen where I’m going, so she doesn’t worry why I’m late getting back. We should be at the theater in time not to miss Huthor if she comes tonight.”

Haldakit changed his mind and opted not to join them, but Gulgit figured they didn’t need much Sulakoan to order drinks. The large hall was already crammed when they arrived after dark. They found two of the few remaining seats at tables with a clear view of the balcony, where Halari, Huthor, and the guards were supposed to sit if they attended.

Because Haldakit was not present to translate, the three other men at their table quickly realized that Mark and Gulgit didn’t speak Sulakoan and thereafter left them alone. An hour and two beers later, a series of musical numbers began from instrumental groups, soloists, and a quartet that Mark thought was amazingly similar to barbershop quartets—except the lyrics were in an unintelligible language.

He listened carefully for a familiar tune but was disappointed by each piece.

“Nothing you recognize?” asked Gulgit, after a short skit that included a song ending that brought laughing approval from the patrons.

“No. Nothing and no sign of Huthor appearing on the balcony—”

A loud chime rang over the bustle that had arisen after the last performance. Talking stopped as if a faucet had turned off, then murmuring slowly began. The chime rang again, and heads turned toward the balcony.

“Here we go,” said Mark, as figures appeared on the balcony—first came two men who oozed, “Don’t fuck with me.” Next entered an elaborately dressed man holding what appeared to be a thin chain attached to a collar around a young woman’s neck.

“Halari and Huthor,” Gulgit said into Mark’s ear. He nodded.

Halari raised both hands to acknowledge the audience, which broke into cheers. Holding the chain high, he gestured to the woman as if presenting her. She showed no response, just stared straight ahead.

Mark squinted his eyes, concentrating on the woman. Once again, he wondered what the aliens had done to make his eyesight better than he remembered in his previous life. By staring at a fixed point, it was as if he were focusing a camera. The first time he noticed the effect, he thought it was physical focusing, but later he wondered whether it was his brain processing images better. Whatever it was, he still couldn’t make out more details, other than the impression she was a young woman, probably in her twenties, with a small build and dark hair.

Suddenly, the balcony lit up. Mark swiveled his head and found that the light source was three sets of lanterns surrounded by mirrors, each apparatus serving as a crude spotlight. He turned back to the balcony and concentrated.

“Oh, my God!” he exclaimed.

She looked Asian. Mark tried to dampen his sudden rush of exuberance, as his memory searched for images of people he’d seen at the various harbors—where people from different parts of Anyar mixed in crowds. He’d seen a diversity of shapes and shades but none of Asian descent.

“What is it, Kaldwel?” asked Gulgit.

“I think she’s Chinese or maybe Korean or Japanese . . . hell . . . I don’t know,” he answered without thinking.

“She’s what?”

“Uh . . . maybe from different parts of Amerika.”

“Well, try your cloak, and see if she responds.”

Mark took the cloak off the back of his chair. He couldn’t just wave it around to catch Huthor’s attention. He reached to put a hand on the corner of Gulgit’s chair and draped the cloak over his outstretched arm until the double arches faced the balcony. He cursed when he had trouble arranging the cloth using one hand, and Gulgit helped. When it was as taut as they could make it so the symbol was clear, Mark looked back at Huthor.

CHAPTER 38

RECOGNITION

A hundred and fifty-nine feet away and fifteen feet above the main floor, Heather Chen stared placidly over the heads of the room full of patrons. It was a routine she had experienced hundreds of times previously. On cue, she would rise to stand at the balcony railing and sing or play the foralong, the mandolin-like stringed instrument characteristic of this culture. Some nights, Halari wouldn’t deign to let her entertain the audience. Other nights, he would let her perform for up to an hour. It was one of the few ways he knew to control her behavior. For those minutes, she came as close as she could to pretending she was still on Earth and sharing her music.

She didn’t know his mood tonight. They had come to an understanding within the first months since her life turned upside-down. She would create and perform music for him to make him richer than he already was. In return, Murkolar wouldn’t bring her to Halari’s bed at night, and she was given a degree of freedom, as long as she was accompanied by two guards.

On her good days, she told herself she was treated far better than most slaves. Her quarters, clothes, and food were better than all but the wealthiest citizens of Iskadon. She had a few almost friends among the other slaves and even a few of Halari’s servants, and there were times when the music let her pretend.

Then there were the bad days. For a time, she feared those days would become more frequent than she could bear, and in despair, she would look for a way out, such as jumping from the top floor of the tallest building she could reach. Those fears had subsided when she seemed to attain a degree of acceptance, and the frequency of bad days didn’t increase more than every other week—sixdays by the customs of Sulako.

The chain attaching her to Halari tugged slightly at her slave collar—the gilded one he made her wear in public. While at his home, she either wore a plain leather one or none if he was in a good mood or wanted to reward her for some reason. The chain was light, hardly more than something to hold charms on a bracelet. It was made of tiny silver links, except every fifth link was gold. He wanted everyone to admire the fact that he was wealthy and Huthor belonged to him.

A light hit her eyes, causing her to close them, grimace, and turn her head away. It was one of the spotlights in this theater/tavern. Other places where Halari had her perform either had no such added lights or they were less annoying. Occasionally, he took her to other sites or to the estates of powerful, rich Sulakoans. However, she performed here the most often because it was owned by Halari.

A second light source hit her, and then a third. Her eyes adjusted, and she opened them, looking away from the light sources—the best direction was down into the audience she would otherwise avoid looking at.

It was the usual throng. Mainly men because Sulakoan society placed women at home with their husbands, other family members, or their masters if they were slaves. However, she picked out scattered women’s faces. Some she recognized as accompanying men, probably from other realms on the planet—traders or other foreigners in Iskadon for some reason. They originated from places named Rustal, Jahmnor, and other countries whispered about by slaves and servants.

Her eyes roamed over the familiar—then froze. Her eyes widened, her breath caught, her throat tightened, and her grip on the chair’s arms made the wooden joints creak. She stared at a table on the other side of the room. A table with five men, two of whom stared back at her. One man had an arm on the adjacent chair, a coat or a cloak hanging from the arm. On the garment was a design . . . one so familiar and so alien. She felt her heart throbbing.

It’s just a chance similarity, she told herself. Two arching lines that connect.

One of the two men turned to the other.

“She sees it,” said Gulgit.

“Yes!” replied Mark with relief and vindication. “Now I’m positive she’s from Amerika, but let’s see the reaction to the other side of the cloak.”

Heather’s eyes never left the table. It was too far away to make out details, but both men were good-sized, especially the one who appeared to be younger. He held what she now recognized as a cloak as he gathered it.

Wait. What’s he doing? Are they leaving?

She fought the despair that threatened to wash over her. The first year in Sulako she couldn’t stop herself from looking for signs, any sign, that might indicate other survivors from the plane she had boarded in San Francisco. The aliens had refused to confirm whether there were other survivors or if they were to be cast onto this same planet. For a year, she had hoped, prayed, and finally thought she had abandoned the possibility. Until now? It would be agony if her hope were dashed again.

No. They aren’t leaving. They’re doing something with the cloak. Oh. He’s just turning it over, for some reason.

Her head spun. Only the chair’s back and her hands fastened to its arms kept her from collapsing.

“Oh, God,” she whispered.

Halari turned to her. “Are you ill, Huthor? You’re so pale. Do you need a healer?”

She took a deep breath and started to talk, but the words caught in her throat as if they were wedged there. She let one hand release the chair and covered her mouth to cough and clear her throat.

“No, Master, I’m fine. It’s only that the lights are so bright, they made me dizzy for a moment.”

“Well, if you’re ill, we can go.”

She wanted to scream, “No, no, not now!” Instead she said, “Really, Master, I’m fine. I’ve been looking forward to performing this evening. Haven’t I been obedient? Please, Master, let’s stay.”

She knew he relished her behaving subserviently, something she strove to ration when she wanted something badly or needed to placate his worst moods.

Halari’s smile was an expression she was too familiar with. She wanted to vomit.

“Yes, you have, Huthor,” he said, patting her on the shoulder with the same gesture he used on his dogs. “Very well, we’ll stay.”

“Thank you, Master,” she said, glancing away before any glimmer of her true feelings leaked into her expression.

When she looked back at the table, the cloak with the letters “USA” was still there, as were the two men. The owner of the cloak raised a hand to touch his beard. In the middle of a stroke, his fingers closed and the thumb pointed up. The “thumbs-up” gesture.

She forced herself to slow her breathing and relax her tense muscles.

Be calm, she thought. Think. Think. Whoever he is, he wants to communicate but must know how closely I’m guarded. What can I do?

She casually lifted her arm, as if to push hair out of her eyes. As her hand moved out of Halari’s sight, she returned the “thumbs-up.”

Oh, God. Please let him understand that I recognize where he’s from.

“She’s got you spotted,” said Gulgit. “Now what do you do?”

“I’ve got to let her know that I’m at least looking for ways to free her. First things first.”

Mark closed his fist near his chest, except for the index finger he pointed at himself. He then turned to point to the balcony and repeated the alternated directions twice more. Next, he flattened both hands and made a swiping motion, one hand over the other.

It took all of Heather’s willpower not to shout or even quiver. Him. Me. Leave.

I pray I’m not imagining it, but I think he’s gesturing that he and I leave. Escape.

She repeated the acknowledgment with a brush of her hair and a thumbs-up. He responded the same, then both of his hands moved to his abdomen, and he rotated them inches apart, as if winding thread on a spool.

Move along? She thought. He’s giving a “move along” gesture like you’d give someone who’s talking too much and not getting to the point or for someone to speed up whatever they’re doing. Does he mean he’s leaving? Talking about my escape? What?

Gulgit had watched Mark’s movements out of the corner of his eye. “I assume you’re using gestures someone from your homeland would understand. Do you think you’re getting across to her and about what?”

“I’m trying to tell her I want the two of us to get the hell out of here and prompting her for ideas. I know. How is she supposed to answer? I haven’t got that far, but sometimes it’s best not to expect to know everything and to let other people surprise you with their ingenuity.”

“Master, instead of performing tonight, I’ve suddenly gotten some ideas for new songs. If I don’t write down those ideas, they often are gone before I can record them. I don’t have any ink and paper with me, but surely someone here has them. I believe some of the ideas are very good, and I would hate to lose them.”

Halari frowned. “You have to perform so people can see us. Otherwise, why should I bother to appear?” He paused, about to accuse her of trying to avoid performing. Then he relented, knowing how much she looked forward to sharing her music.

He turned to one of the guards. “Chingoto. Go check if Lamalonee has ink and paper Huthor can use. Hurry. Don’t be gone long.”

Halari turned to Heather. “You can do your scribbling in your barbarian scratchings between singing and playing.”

“Thank you, Master.” You creepy asshole was unspoken.

“Look,” said Mark. “She’s signaling again. Maybe she’s got an idea. I hope so because I’m short of them. I guess we’ll just wait and see what happens.”

“There goes one of the guards,” said Gulgit.

Mark started wondering whether he could handle one guard. From this distance and the way he observed them moving, he didn’t relish dealing with both at the same time. Risking was one thing, but taking on these two together he put into the unacceptable category.

“There he is,” said Gulgit, nodding to the left corner of the main floor. The guard was talking with a man sitting behind a counter elevated from the surrounding tables. “I’ll bet that’s whoever is managing this place.

“What’s that he’s got?” asked Mark, when the guard headed back toward stairs he assumed led to the balcony.

“I can’t tell,” said Gulgit. “He’s holding his hands too low, and people are in the way.”

Less than a minute later, the guard reappeared in the elevated booth and leaned down to say something to Halari, who nodded. The guard then held out both hands to Huthor.

“She’s up to something,” said Mark, excited. “I think he gave her paper, and I’ll bet there’s also a quill and ink.”

“You may be right,” said Gulgit. “She looked this way once he handed it, or them, to her, and now she’s got her head down like she’s doing something in her lap.”

“Lamalonee signaled,” said Halari. “The other performers are about finished for now. You’ll have to play and sing, and then you can scribble more until it’s your turn again.”

Heather sat the sheets of paper, the ink jar, and the quill on the floor to one side. She picked up her foralong to check the tuning of the six strings.

“Shit.” murmured Mark. “I think it’s time for her to perform. She seems to be doing something with a stringed instrument.”

Gulgit grunted.

The spotlights darkened, except for one light shining on a man at an elevated podium. He stood up.

A bell sounded, and the crowd quieted. The man said something neither Mark nor Gulgit understood, presumably in Sulakoan, and then pointed to the balcony. The three spotlights once again focused on Huthor, who was now standing.

The crowd quieted as she began strumming the instrument. When she went into a melody, appreciative murmurs spread throughout the room. Then the room quieted again just as she began to sing. It took only a few bars for Mark to recognize it was the song he’d heard at the stall near the harbor. He began silently mouthing the words to “Let It Be” by the Beatles and smiled when the song’s refrain was “Happy Birthday.”

“Same song,” whispered Gulgit. Mark nodded, keeping his eyes on the woman.

Whatever lyrics she used were well known, and by the third verse, the audience was humming or singing quietly along. When she finished with a crescendo of chords and a loud final word, the listeners erupted in appreciation. She stood still until the noise abated, then began strumming again.

“A nice voice,” Gulgit said in Mark’s ear. “My wife used to sing before she died. I think this Huthor’s voice is better for smaller rooms, and she’s trying to be loud for this big one.”

Huthor was only on the second bar of the next song when Mark recognized it. He began humming loudly until he noticed nearby patrons looking at him—some frowning and some in puzzlement. He stopped before Gulgit gripped his arm.

“I don’t think the others have heard this one before, Mark. Don’t draw attention to us.”

Mark cursed silently. Keep your wits about you, dummy! Do nothing to draw attention.

A refrain reoccurred every line or two, and by the twentieth time, the crowd began joining in. This allowed Mark to participate, in English, without neighbors hearing him.

“Swing low, sweet chariot,

Coming for to carry me home.”

“What are the words in your language?” asked Gulgit.

“It’s originally related to religious worship, but the part that keeps repeating, in my language, is about coming home. It’s got to be a message to us, especially if you’re right and the others here have never heard it before. She must be signaling she wants out of here and wants to go home.”

Well, there’s nothing I can do about getting her back to Earth, thought Mark, and I’ll have to see if I can do anything to get her out of Sulako.

She continued with another song. This one Mark thought he recognized but couldn’t place; then another he drew a blank on. By the time the manager or impresario or whatever he was rose to speak, Mark estimated thirty minutes had passed. He thought he recognized the melodies to more than half of the songs or instrumentals.

Huthor gave a small bow to acknowledge the cheers and sat down.

“Is this the end of her performance?” asked Gulgit.

“I think not. Notice Halari and she aren’t leaving, and they haven’t brought on another performer. I’ll guess it’s a pause and will resume after a time.”

Heather leaned the foralong against the wall by her chair.

“I’ll go talk with some potential customers of our service,” said Halari. “Do your scribblings and be ready to perform again in about an hour. Lamalonee won’t call on you again until he sees I’m back.”

She watched Halari exit through the small balcony’s door, leaving the two guards staring impassively forward. Only then did she allow herself to sag, clutching herself and trembling.

I think he wants to help me escape. At least, I hope he does, and I’m not reading into all this. I also think he wants me to somehow give him ideas on how and where to do it, but what do I do?

Five minutes went by. The crowd below milled as they stretched their legs, talked to other patrons, left the room to relieve themselves in the outdoor voiding spaces, and ordered new drinks.

“All right, I can write a message, but how to get it to him?” she said aloud now that Halari was gone.

No one spoke English. She didn’t fear the guards noticing, but she had learned that Halari would demand to know what she said if he heard her speaking a foreign language. He also had the habit of querying her more than once on one of her foreign utterances and would punish her if the accounts didn’t match.

“I can’t deliver it to him, so I’ll have to drop it someplace where he can see and retrieve it. Wait . . . drop it. Maybe that’s it. I can write something and drop it over the railing onto the floor below. No one reads English, so it’s just what Halari calls it—scribblings.”

She checked the paper sheets. Six of them. She hadn’t seen Halari count the sheets, but he’d expect her to have used several of them.

“I’ll chance he doesn’t notice if I only have three sheets of writing. That means I have three pages to try to say . . . what? I’d like to start by asking if he’s really from Earth, and can he try to get me out of here? But it’ll be hard enough to get a single message to him. What’ll I write? It has to be simple to look like scribblings. Maybe adding some music staffs.”

She stared at the top sheet for several minutes, then wrote in large letters:

Always 2+ guards

Will kill to keep me

More guards home

Carriage main plaza

Every other day noon

2 guards

As a final touch, she randomly wrote music notes around the words.

Looking at the paper, she chewed her lower lip and prayed silently.

“Please, God. Let this find him and make sense. Let him find a way to get me out of this hell. I just want to go home.”

Images of her family flashed through her mind, along with a yearning to feel her mother’s embrace.

She next speed-wrote a page of words and crude music notations on a second page. The guards needed to see her doing what she’d told Halari. When finished, she took both sheets, let out what she hoped was a disgusted-sounding series of Sulakoan curses, wadded both pages into balls, and threw them over the railing.

CHAPTER 39

SO MUCH FOR CAREFUL PLANNING

“Mark!” Gulgit whispered urgently. He jabbed his companion with a sharp elbow. “She’s thrown two things off the balcony. They fluttered down as if they don’t weigh much. If you’re right about her getting paper and ink, I’ll bet they’re wads of paper. Maybe she’s trying to—”

The Rustalian hadn’t finished his suggestion before Mark was on his feet and weaving through the crowd. He rushed as much as he could without drawing attention.

When he reached the area of tables below the balcony, he slowed and pretended to be looking for someone. Men and a few women brushed against him. His size made it difficult for him to squeeze between some of the tables, and he drew more attention than he wanted, but there was no help for it.

If the paper wads had fallen on a table or on customers, people likely would have thrown them on the floor before or after opening them. Mark scanned the floor as unobtrusively as he could. He was about to give up when he caught a movement on the floor in the corner of his eye. It was a wad of paper being kicked unconsciously by foot after foot. He changed direction to follow the wad. Every time he was close, someone would kick it, and he’d have to locate it again. The chase was on.

Finally, it was kicked against the wall under the balcony. Mark hurried to stand directly over it and glanced slowly around. No one seemed to notice him more than any other detail on the main floor. He picked up the wad and again surveyed his surroundings. He then walked along the wall halfway around the room before turning to the wall and undoing the wad.

“Shit!”

On it were written lyrics to songs, two of which Mark was familiar with, plus crude music staffs and notes. He was about to drop it in disgust but stopped.

Maybe it’s some code or allusion she thinks I can figure out, he thought. For several minutes he stared at the page, oblivious that someone seeing him face the wall might wonder whether he was urinating.

When he gave up, he folded the page and put it in a pants pocket to check again later. He turned and immediately spotted a second wad—under a chair at a table of six men. He stood there thinking of ruses for reaching under the chair. Nothing elegant came to mind, so he went with the tried and true.

Approaching the table, he pretended to trip and fell face-forward, hitting the floor and bumping into the chair. Expletives erupted from the occupant, who jumped to his feet. Mark grabbed the wad as he rose to his full height, which was six inches taller than the annoyed patron. Mark glared down at the man and turned to walk away, tensely waiting for a response. None came.

He worried that his act had drawn attention, but glancing around indicated he was just another of the milling bodies in the crowded room.

“Did you get anything?” asked Gulgit when Mark sat down.

“I don’t know.” He leaned toward Gulgit. “I’ll wait a minute before finding out.”

Two minutes later, he didn’t think people were paying him more attention than to anyone else. When he looked at Huthor, only once did her gaze pass over their table, without stopping. Halari had returned and seemed to be talking to her.

Mark unclenched his hand in his lap and slowly unwadded the paper, his eyes never looking down. After smoothing the paper on his thigh, he read the words quickly. He looked up and turned to Gulgit, while he folded the paper and stuck it in the top of his boot.

“Time to go,” he said and draped the cloak over an arm. Then he rested both hands on the table top, momentarily forming a double thumbs-up signal after Huthor’s eyes caught his movements.

“Go—? Ah . . . you got something.” Gulgit rose from his chair the same time as Mark, and they maneuvered around people, chairs, and tables. A third of the way to the main door, a bell rang to indicate performances were about to resume. They fought against the counterflow of people returning to their chairs or pushing for better positions. Mark’s size worked for them, and Gulgit followed closely as Mark kept moving.

He resisted the temptation to look back at Huthor.

Be strong, he thought, as if hoping to project into her mind. I don’t promise, but I’ll see if there’s any way to grab you without getting both of us killed—especially me. I’ve got Maghen and Alys to think about. If I can’t do anything, please understand and forgive me.

Outside, Mark and Gulgit gratefully inhaled a breeze off the ocean, clearing their lungs from the odors of crowded humanity. The street was empty, a stark and refreshing contrast to the building’s inside.

“What is it?” asked Gulgit, curious at what made Mark leave so abruptly.

“Let’s walk away a bit, and I’ll tell you.”

Two streets later, Mark pulled Gulgit into an alleyway and watched for followers.

“All right. I just wanted to be sure. Let’s get on back to Zardoz’s house. It was a message from her—at least, the second paper. The first one had words to songs and music markings. The second paper had a short message. If I’m reading it right, she said Halari’s house has too many guards to try anything there, but every other day or so, he takes her in a carriage ride that goes by the main plaza. Two guards accompany them, I assume the same two we saw tonight.”

Mark left out Huthor’s warning that the guards would kill.

“You’re going to try to grab her, aren’t you?”

“If I can, yes, but only if it seems like a reasonable risk.”

“I think I know you well enough by now that I can’t argue you into changing your mind. I’m also afraid I can’t help you in this. Haldakit and I are already fixed on leaving, as I told you. Even if we weren’t, this is a step too far beyond any friendship or obligation to you.”

“I appreciate that, Gulgit. I’ll admit I’d like to have your help, but I understand and don’t hold it against you. You’ve already done more than I could ever reasonably have expected.”

The Rustalian shook his head. “Any idea how you’re going to do it alone? I’d suggest we could see if Haldakit could find some local criminal types to help, but you’d never be able to trust them not to turn you in to authorities or cut your throat.”

“No, I’ll do this alone. Exactly how is something I need to think over. We’ll be passing near the main plaza on the way back. I’ll want to walk around it a couple of times to study it.”

Heather saw the two men leave. She wasn’t sure, but the big man might have been reading one of her pages in his lap. Either that, or she hoped that’s what he was doing.

She sang and played another set before they returned to Halari’s house. It occupied an entire block and included stables for his horses and two carriages. His slave-trading business had made him wealthy well before he bought her from the elahew of a fishing village near where she had been found naked on a beach. The elahew was the mayor, the village chief, or whatever other title she associated with him, and he was the official authority put in place by the district capital through whatever system Sulako used, which she didn’t understand.

Her recollection of those first days was sketchy, her memory in patches as if she had been only semiconscious. She remembered being carried somewhere and lying on a floor mat with two or more women tending her. Men talking and arguing. Hands touching her. Moments of thinking the men were going to do more than touch. Being clothed and sitting in a wagon.

When she reconstructed her memories and learned some of the language, she discovered that the village elahew had thought her appearance exotic enough to interest the slave markets in the city of Iskadon, fifty miles from the village whose name she never knew. Once she was in Halari’s compound, her connection to the outside world, limited though it had been, ended. The excursions in Halari’s carriage and trips to performances were the only times she left the compound.

When she wrote the message to the man who must be a fellow castaway, she conveyed the only piece of information she knew about the city—that Halari ensured the carriage made several passes around the main plaza on every trip, even though the rest of the route varied.

That night, she lay on her mat for hours before falling asleep. Hope that she had long thought exhausted warred with fear that the man would disappear or fail in whatever he might try and that her despair would be unbearable.

Maghen sighed. “I understand your wanting to find someone from your homeland, Mark. And if you’re right, and she is from Amerika, where there is no slavery, then I’d want to free her, too. But I have to be honest. For me and Alys, it would be better for us to just leave. However, if we did that, I know you’d forever regret leaving Huthor . . . that’s her name? Promise me one thing, Mark. If you do try to grab her, promise it will only be when you’re sure you can do it without getting killed.”

“Dearest, my first priority is always you and Alys. You know I can’t give an absolute promise because things may happen that are beyond my control. However, I promise you I’ll be cautious and do my best not to leave you here alone in a strange land.”

“I got a final cargo contract late yesterday,” said Adalan the next morning when Mark checked with the Buldorian captain. “We’re loading now, and it will give me a full cargo. We could sail with the afternoon tide.”

Shit! thought Mark. I wanted to leave as soon as possible, but not this soon. What if Halari doesn’t take Huthor for the carriage ride this mid-day?

“Is that certain, Captain, or could you possibly delay sailing until tomorrow? There’s important business I might not be able to finish before this afternoon.”

“What kind of business? You’re a stranger to Sulako.”

“I told you there might be an additional person besides my family coming with us. It’s not certain they’ll be able to leave on such short notice.”

The Buldorian stared hard at Mark. “Just how important is it that this person come with you? Important enough for you to pay the coin I said it would take for me to leave with only a three-quarter cargo?”

Bastard’s going to try to hold me up, fumed Mark.

“It’s important, but now you have a full cargo, so you won’t have lost much by leaving a day later. I think a quarter of the coin you asked for would be fair.”

“I’m a ship’s captain, Kaldwel, not a priest, saint, or whatever. It’s not my responsibility to be fair. However, I want to be reasonable, so I’ll agree to three-quarters of the coin you implied you had. And no, before you come back with another offer, this is not a bargaining session. Three-quarters is my final offer.”

Well, it won’t leave us coinless, thought Mark, but we’ll almost certainly have to find work the rest of the way to Caedellium. Hell, maybe with Huthor along, she can help if her music is as well liked elsewhere as it seems to be in Iskadon.

“Agreed,” said Mark. “My family will be here, ready to sail this afternoon. Either I or my companion, Gulgit, will come to tell you if I want to delay sailing until tomorrow. However, if either today or tomorrow Gulgit tells you I won’t be coming—ever—then I’ll ask you to take my family with you to Buldor.”

Adalan made no effort to hide his surprise. “Without you? I can only assume this business has considerable risk. And what would your family do in Buldor without you?”

“I honestly don’t know,” said Mark. “My wife will have enough coin to live on for some time. She’s strong enough to find a place in your society. However, I need to ask you something that may offend you. I hope you’ll appreciate why I’m asking.” Mark paused, gathering his words.

The Buldorian raised an eyebrow and folded his arms, waiting for Mark to continue.

“Can you give me your word that if I don’t come back, you’ll honor our agreement and care for my family as much as you can?”

Adalan laughed—not the response Mark was expecting.

“Kaldwel . . . are you calling on my code of honor?”

“I guess I am.”

“Surely, you’ve heard of my people and have spoken to others here in Iskadon about their opinions of us. You’re not a stupid man.”

“They say you’re pirates, slavers, and assassins for hire, in addition to being unscrupulous and never to be trusted. However, a few told me that after you get past those characteristics, your code of honor requires you to fulfill an obligation once you swear to it, an obligation you don’t give easily.”

“And how would you know whether anything I say would require me to fulfill a code of honor?”

“I suppose I can’t be absolutely sure, but if such a code exists, I would think you won’t violate it if your crew hears you give the pledge.”

“You’re an interesting man, Kaldwel. I’m inclined to think it might be to Buldor’s benefit to help get you farther along on your quest to reach Caedellium.”

Adalan turned and yelled at his crew. Whatever he said in the Buldorian language, men stopped working and gathered in the center of the main deck. He spoke several names, Mark assumed, and three men stepped forward from the rest.

“These three of my crew speak Suvalu. I’ll speak to them so you’ll understand. They will then tell the rest of the crew what I said.”

Adalan leaned on the aftcastle railing.

“In my family’s name and honor, I declare I will see that this man’s family reaches Buldor safely. Once in Tortut, I will arrange for the family to be settled in living quarters and will look to find employment for the woman. After that, my obligation is fulfilled.”

One of the three crewmen spoke loudly to the others. Mark watched their faces, as curiosity turned to puzzlement or nods of approval. The speaker looked up to Adalan and rattled off something.

“Some of the crew are wondering why I would invoke my family honor for a foreigner. They don’t need to know why, only that it has been given. I’m sure that some of them might not care if I broke my word, but most would disapprove, and word would spread that Adel Adalan’s word is not to be trusted.”

Two hours later, Mark hugged Maghen and kissed the top of Alys’s head, while a crewman carried their possessions onto the Wicked Woman. Among the items he took with him were one of the double-barreled shotguns with the stock cut off to make it more concealable, two pistols, and his knife.

He didn’t want to kill anyone, and he would only try to grab Huthor if he thought he could do it without fatalities. But if he made the attempt and it went south, he’d do anything necessary to anyone who tried to stop him from getting back to the ship.

From the piers, he walked to the next parallel street. Waiting there was a one-horse rented cart driven by Gulgit and with Haldakit sitting on the cart’s bed.

“I hope I don’t regret this, Kaldwel,” said the Rustalian. “Part of me wishes I’d left yesterday, so I wouldn’t know how all this turns out.”

“It’s only two days until you said when you’d leave,” said Mark.“Maybe even earlier if everything works out today.”

“Hurumph!” Gulgit snorted. “If it was just you, I wouldn’t be doing even this much, but Maghen doesn’t deserve to be stranded alone, and I’m fond of Alys. Just remember, I’m only an onlooker to report back to Adalan if you won’t be returning. I’ll also keep an eye on Haldakit and the cart, but I’ll leave and walk back to the harbor if it looks like I might get directly involved. Whatever happens, Haldakit and I are leaving tomorrow afternoon, along with Yusup and Tazeeb. That’s assuming the other two haven’t already left for Rustal.”

Mark climbed up to sit beside Gulgit, who snapped the reins to urge the horse on. Underneath the seat were some typical items of Sulakoan women’s clothing and shoes Mark had bought at a nearby shop. He assumed Huthor would be dressed in clothes too expensive not to be noticed.

They arrived at the plaza at mid-morning. Mark didn’t know exactly when Halari would appear, if he did at all, and wanted to be early not to miss Huthor. It also gave him time for further daylight study of the plaza

Despite being named a plaza, the space more resembled a market because permanent stalls demarcated avenues running in a perpendicular grid work. Most of the avenues were too narrow for more than one wagon at a time, but two avenues would accommodate two wagons with room to spare. If Halari intended to have himself and Huthor on display, Mark figured he’d use the two wider paths.

Gulgit circled the plaza, until they decided on a wide alley where Haldakit and the cart would wait. It was a quarter mile from the center of the plaza and emptied onto a major roadway that passed near the harbor.

“Haldakit will stay with the cart, while I keep you in sight,” said Gulgit. He then told something to their guide and climbed off the cart, concealing the other double-barreled shotgun under his coat. Mark hadn’t asked questions when Gulgit cut both stocks off the two shotguns. He now noticed Mark’s questioning look.

“Never hurts to be ready for whatever happens.”

At the edge of the plaza, Gulgit said, “Here’s where I’ll start keeping you in sight. If I’m careful enough, even you won’t know I’m around. Good luck.”

“If I don’t see you again, thanks for everything, Gulgit,” said Mark and turned to walk away.

First, he circled the entire perimeter of the plaza, then systematically walked each avenue at least twice—four times for the two largest avenues. The entire time, his mind searched for inspiration—a plan giving him an advantage, however small. Finally, he admitted nothing was obvious. He was still stuck on how to grab Huthor without getting into a deadly fight.

He thought he might have glimpsed Gulgit a few times, but he studiously avoided trying to confirm it. By now, the market was in full operation. Every avenue was crowded with people, small hand-pulled carts, and a few horses and wagons. As the crowd grew, the noise level increased because people had to raise their voices to be heard.

An obelisk towered over the center of the square, and the intersecting widest avenues merged to an equally wide space encircling the obelisk. A series of steps surrounded the structure on all four sides. Mark sat halfway up the steps and thought. An hour passed. If Halari and Huthor were coming today, it would be soon.

He rose and climbed to the base of the obelisk. From there, he could see over the stalls and the people. Scores of men and a few women sat on the steps or walked up to what had to be a monument commemorating something. He brushed his fingers over Sulakoan words chiseled into the square base.

He couldn’t see a way around it—he didn’t have a plan. He would just watch for Halari’s carriage and hope some opportunity presented itself. If it didn’t, he would come back the next day after trying to think of something. There were two problems with that strategy: the added day wouldn’t guarantee he could come up with a plan he hadn’t thought of today, and the message from Huthor said they didn’t come every day. Mark had only two days for Huthor to be at the plaza. If she didn’t appear by the next day, he would leave on the Buldorian ship.

He slowly walked around the base of the obelisk, constantly surveying the plaza and watching for what might be Halari’s carriage. He counted the first circumnavigations but lost count around eleven. Every time he spotted a carriage or any wheeled vehicle that appeared to be a carriage from his vantage point, he watched it until he felt confident it wasn’t Halari’s.

An odd movement caught his eye. On the north edge of the plaza, four white frond- or feather-like objects moved along the tops of the stalls. When they came to an intersection with one of the narrower avenues, he got a glimpse of the objects as part of a gilded carriage.

That’s got to be them, Mark thought. Only someone wanting to be noticed would own something so garish. Halari wants everyone to know who he is.

As the carriage turned into one of the wider avenues, Mark got a better look at what was coming in his direction. Four horses with red-and-gold trappings pulled a long, low carriage. The driver and a guard with a short musket sat in an elevated forward box. Following the carriage rode the second guard, holding his mount’s reins in his left hand and his right hand propping a musket against his thigh.

Mark circled the obelisk to where he was mainly hidden from the carriage view but could peer around the stone to observe. The driver made no pretense of sharing the avenue. He rode down the middle and forced pedestrians, horses, and other wheeled vehicles to move to the side to let Halari pass.

What a dick, Mark thought, although I guess it probably confirms this Halari either is an important person or has influential friends. However, now what do I do?

He waited, hidden, as the carriage entered the roundabout, and he got a good look inside. Huthor and Halari sat side by side in the open-air passenger compartment. She again wore the silver-and-gold collar and chain. The carriage circled to the opposite side of the obelisk and started down another wide avenue. Once the carriage occupants and the mounted guard had their back to him, Mark followed, moving quickly.

The carriage created an open space behind it as it paraded down the avenue, but people and conveyances quickly began filling the vacuum—enough so that Mark had to quicken his pace to close with the carriage. Both guards looked right and left as if perusing for danger. The rear guard once looked over his shoulder to the rear. Mark tensed, ready to pull out the shotgun, but the man’s gaze passed over him without stopping.

He could see the top of Halari’s head but not Huthor’s.

She’s short, he thought, but I saw her from the obelisk.

The closer he got, the less he considered abandoning the attempt—not when another castaway was so close.

He stayed at the edge of the void left by the carriage until all the occupants and the trailing rider were looking forward. Breaking into a run, he whipped out the shotgun to hold in his right hand. He came up on the right rear of the mounted guard. Then he reached up, grabbed the elbow of the arm holding the musket, and jerked. With a yelp, the rider flew off the horse. He hit the ground with another yell, this one of pain. Mark didn’t know how badly the man was hurt, but he kicked him under the jaw—hard.

Halari’s head rose and turned to the rear. The seated guard swiveled around, saw Mark running forward, and rose to his feet. He scrambled to bring his musket around. He froze when he saw Mark twenty feet away, the double-barreled shotgun pointed at him and Mark shaking his head.

Please don’t be an asshole and try anything, Mark thought. Live to fight another day or whatever you do.

The guard opted for discretion and raised both arms, letting his musket drop to the ground.

Suddenly, Halari yelled something, and the driver snapped the reins. The horses jumped forward, unexpectedly for the surrendering guard. He fell out of the box, and a rear wheel rolled over his arm.

Ignoring the guard’s scream, Mark fired one of his shotgun barrels at the driver hunched in the box. Wood exploded off the back of the box. Yet it must have absorbed most or all of the pellets because the carriage picked up speed as the horses found their footing. Mark could see the driver’s arm flailing a whip at the horses’ backs.

“SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!” Mark yelled as he chased the carriage. Something was happening with Halari and Huthor—arms swung, Halari’s head bobbed up and down, and Huthor’s head appeared once and disappeared again.

People ran in all directions, as the carriage careened from side to side. Some were not agile enough, and Mark ran past and over bodies, a few motionless and others writhing.

He was falling behind. The carriage was almost at the end of the wide avenue. Once it turned the corner and got more separation, it and Huthor would be gone. He figured his only chance was a shot as the carriage turned ninety degrees to make the turn. But it would be a fleeting window, and if the driver were smart, he’d turn, almost touching the stalls to present the briefest profile.

As if on cue, the carriage drifted left, brushing against stalls’ awnings and running over more people—men, women, and children.

Twenty yards behind the carriage and almost thirty yards from the corner, Mark jumped onto a table of fruits, scattering them, to the owner’s outrage. The driver would be too small a target to risk hitting, so it had to be one of the horses.

The two lead horses swerved left into the turn, as Mark brought the shotgun up. There was no time to aim. He fired the second barrel as soon as the shotgun aligned with the horses.

He jumped off the table and ran. The carriage had continued, so he didn’t know whether he had hit anything or not. Most people sprang out of his way. A few did not and were knocked aside, which hardly slowed him. He turned the corner and leaped over a crouching woman holding a baby.

Thirty yards away sat the carriage, askew with a back wheel jammed between the front and rear wheels of a freight wagon. The left rear horse lay on the ground, its head swinging back and forth. The other horses pulled the reins and straps in all directions, shaking the carriage but not freeing it from the wagon.

Mark ran to the carriage. He dropped the expended shotgun and pulled out a pistol. There had to be armed men stationed around the market to keep the peace, men who would arrive at any moment after hearing shots and yelling.

The driver was missing. Halari clasped one hand to the other blood-soaked arm, his eyes wide and staring into Huthor’s face as she kneeled on his lap, a small knife to his throat. On the carriage floor lay a pistol next to the symbol of Huthor’s slavery—the gilded collar and chain.

“Huthor!” Mark yelled in English. “If you can understand me, we have to go!”

She looked at him, her eyes wild, then turned back to Halari.

“My name’s Heather!” she said, also in English. Spittle accompanied the last word and showered Halari’s face.

All lingering doubts fled from them both; they each knew the other was from Earth.

“Kill him or not,” said Mark, “I’m leaving.”

Seconds passed. Mark was about to grab her knife arm when her shoulders sagged, and she looked again at Mark, her eyes less wild.

“Leaving? I can really leave?” she said wonderingly.

He nodded.

“What about Halari?” she asked.

“I’ll knock him out so he can’t follow.”

She flushed, whirled back to her ex-master, and jerked the knife from his throat. She plunged the blade into his leg above the kneecap. Halari howled.

Mark grabbed her hand, pulled her out of the carriage, and began running. They wove around people and wagons, heading in the direction where Gulgit was supposed to be. As they passed a clothing stall, he grabbed a brown cloak and tossed a gold coin at the stall’s owner.

“Here,” he said to Heather, “drape this around you to hide your clothes. Your face is too famous, and the clothing marks you as a more important person than we want anyone to suspect.”

She threw the cloak around her shoulders and grabbed a scarf from the stall. “This will help. The gold coin would cover a whole wardrobe if we had time.”

It was the first time Mark had the opportunity and the time to evaluate whom he’d just freed. No doubt, she was of Asian ancestry with the epicanthic skin folds covering the inner corner of each eye. However, her English identified her as native-born American. She was short, not much more than five feet tall, and he guessed he was well over twice her weight.

By the time she finished with the scarf and the cloak, he could see her hands and shoulders trembling. Her face was paler than it had been.

“Keep hold of yourself,” he urged. “A wagon is waiting.” He grabbed her hand once again. “We won’t run again until we’re off the plaza completely. We don’t want to draw more attention.”

A small crowd had gathered around them but not too close. The people moved aside as Mark approached, and within half a minute they merged into the market throng. He couldn’t tell whether the talk and shouts he heard behind them were part of the normal market noise or if it had anything to do with their escape.

“What are the people saying?” he asked Heather without slowing. She didn’t answer, and he had to ask again.

“Most is normal,” she said, gasping, “but a few are wondering about the shots.”

He looked down and behind him. He was almost dragging her. Her face was red, and her mouth gaped in the struggle to draw in air. When they exited the plaza, Mark broke into a run for the alley where the cart and Haldakit were supposed to be waiting. When Heather almost fell, he swooped her up and continued running. Moments later, they reached the alley. There was no sign of Haldakit, Gulgit, or the cart.

Hoofbeats on the cobblestone alerted him that something was behind them. He hoisted her over his shoulder and reached for one of the pistols.

Suddenly, a voice shouted from behind Mark.

“Stop running, dammit,” yelled Gulgit. He sat in the cart with Haldakit, pulling up the horses.

Mark unceremoniously dumped Heather onto the cart’s bed and jumped on himself. “Haldakit was supposed to wait where we left him and the cart.”

“I ran to bring him closer when I saw you take off after Halari’s carriage.”

Mark didn’t comment further on how they could have easily missed each other. After all, they were together, which was all that mattered.

Gulgit said something to Haldakit in Rustalian, then turned his head toward Mark.

“I told him not to go too fast and draw attention.”

Mark looked at Heather. She was holding onto the edge of the bed with one hand and had a death grip on Mark’s coat with the other. Her eyes closed, and tears streaked her face.

“Huthor . . . uh . . . Heather. You were on the plane the aliens crashed into? The United flight?”

She opened her eyes and nodded but didn’t speak.

He needed her in the present and not inside her mind, in case something happened that required her to respond quickly.

“Where were you living? I’m from Berkeley.”

She mumbled something.

“Where?”

She cleared her throat. “San Mateo. My family lives in San Mateo.”

Her eyes seemed to focus, and she looked around. She let go of the bed’s edge and grabbed the front of his coat.

“Where are we going?! They’ll be after us. I should have killed him. I don’t know why I didn’t. He’s connected to important families and has connections to the city’s authority. I’ve seen and heard him with people who are obviously powerful.”

“Relax. I’ve got a way out of the city.”

“But we should go faster,” she said in desperation.

Mark shook his head. “Going faster will just draw attention. Here.” He reached under the cart’s seat and pulled out the clothing and the shoes he’d bought. “Change into these so you’ll be less noticeable.”

She stared at the clothes. “Do we have time to stop for me to change?”

“Who said anything about stopping?”

When she didn’t respond, he shook her gently. “It’ll be okay, but we can’t stop, and you need to be less conspicuous. Hurry and change yourself, or I’ll have to do it for you.”

She let go of his coat and slightly withdrew from him but took the clothes. She began untying bows on her elaborate dress. He looked partly away, keeping her in the edge of his vision, in case a sudden jolt of the wheels over cobblestones threatened to eject her from the cart.

A flash of color made him look back at Heather. She had thrown the garish dress onto the street and now wore the plain brown dress Mark had bought. She was putting on the shoes. Both the dress and the shoes looked a couple of sizes too big.

“Sorry,” said Mark, “you’re smaller than I thought.”

“Psst!” hissed Gulgit. “A group of mounted militia headed our way.”

Mark looked to see seven riders galloping toward them: a single lead rider and six more following, two abreast.

“Look away from them,” he said to Heather, then he did the same, while resting his hands on the grips of his two pistols.

Haldakit kept the cart’s pace but moved it closer to the buildings lining the street, in order to let the horsemen pass. No one spoke as the hoof beats grew louder. Then the militia passed, going in the opposite direction without pausing.

“Headed for the plaza and market is my guess,” said Gulgit. “Word’s gotten out that something happened, but the authorities likely don’t know any details. That’ll change in the next few minutes.”

Gulgit spoke to Haldakit, and the driver urged the horses on.

Heather crowded up closer to Mark and held onto his arm. “Where are we going? What if they send men after us? I can’t be recaptured.” Her voice had an edge of hysteria. “Halari said if I tried again, he’d cut off both my feet. ‘You don’t need them to sing and play,’” she said, mimicking the slaver’s voice.

Mark snarled. “You should have killed him. If I’d known he’d threatened that, I’d have killed him myself.”

“I can’t be taken again,” she said again. “I’d rather die. Promise me.”

“We’ll be gone before they can organize a thorough search,” said Mark. “There’s a ship waiting for us at the harbor. Once we’re cast off, they’ll never catch us, even if they know we’re on that particular ship.”

She gripped him tighter. “But if they do. Promise me they won’t take me alive.”

Now I know I should have killed the slimy motherfucker, thought Mark. Besides the threat to cut off her feet, what else must she have gone through to want to be dead before returning to Halari?

He put an arm around her and pulled her close. “I promise, Heather,” he whispered in her ear. “You won’t be taken alive.”

“What’s she saying?” asked Gulgit. “I assume you’re talking with her in your language.”

“She’s afraid of being recaptured alive,” Mark answered in Suvalu. “I promised her I wouldn’t let that happen.”

Gulgit nodded grimly, needing no further explanation of the promise’s meaning.

Twice more they passed armed men in clothing that Mark assumed signified military or the law enforcement equivalent. Neither time did the men pay them any attention.

“How can they respond so fast to what happened in the plaza?” Mark asked Gulgit.

“It might not be what you did, but a general alarm that something happened. Do you hear the horns?”

Mark cocked his head. Now that Gulgit had brought it to his attention, he could hear distant horns. The sounds came primarily from the direction of the main plaza, but other horns blared from other directions and various distances, judging by how loud or faint they were.

“That’s good news, then. We’ll be gone before they get organized.”

“Not if some of those signals are for the harbor to stop all ships from departing.”

“Shit!” said Mark. He hadn’t thought of that possibility. “Maybe we should forget being unobtrusive and race to the ship.”

“I think I agree,” said Gulgit, who then spoke to Haldakit.

The driver picked up the slender whip for the first time and snapped it onto the horses’ backs. The cart lurched forward with the sudden acceleration. Mark hung onto Heather to keep from losing her off the back of the cart.

People on foot scattered out of their way as Haldakit maneuvered around other wheeled conveyances. Curses and shouts followed them, but they paid no attention. A few minutes later, they turned a corner to see ships’ masts two blocks farther down the street they were on.

Mark pulled Heather close to speak into her ear.

“Heather. Listen. This is important. If anyone asks, you’re from a land called Amerika, which is where I’m also from. It’s on this planet, but you can’t say exactly where. You also don’t know how you came to be in Sulako. Never say anything about Earth or anything that would be out of place here. We’ll talk more later when there’s time, but don’t say anything more than what I just said until we talk.”

Gulgit turned in his seat. “Mark, I told Haldakit to drive right onto the pier and up to the ship. Other crews and maybe some officials will scream at us, but we’ll let you and Heather off. Haldakit and I will leave the cart and go back to Zardoz’s house to grab our horses and packs and be off.” He held out a hand. “Good luck to all of you, Mark. I hope someday we meet again, and you can tell me how the rest of your travel to Caedellium went.”

Mark gripped the man’s hand tightly. “And good fortune to you, Gulgit. May you get back safely to Rustal and drive the Narthani out of your land.”

As Gulgit had predicted, when the cart rolled onto the pier, workmen and crews shouted and made what Mark assumed were insulting gestures. Haldakit reined in a few feet from the Buldorian ship’s single gangplank. With a wave, Gulgit and Haldakit jumped off the cart and ran back down the pier.

CHAPTER 40

LEAVE NOW!

Mark rolled his feet over the edge of the cart’s bed and slid to the pier’s wood planking.

“Come,” he said and lifted Heather in his arms. He started up the gangplank. Only then did he look up at the Wicked Woman. Maghen stood holding Alys at the ship’s rail, palpable relief etched on her face.

Adalan appeared moments later, wearing a quizzical expression.

“Captain, we need to GO! NOW!” Mark called out as he rushed up the gangplank. He half-expected the Buldorian captain to start asking questions. Instead, Adalan turned and began shouting orders. As soon as Mark’s feet hit the deck, a half-dozen crewmen raced down the gangplank to pull the ship’s hawsers from around the iron bollards holding the vessel to the pier.

Mark set Heather down and was immediately embraced by Maghen.

She kissed him hard, then began rambling. “We started hearing all those horns, and the captain said things to me I didn’t understand since I don’t speak Buldorian or Suvalu, and the crew was running around doing things—oh—I don’t know—”

“Shh,” he said into her ear. “Everything is fine, and we’re getting out of here.”

“Hi, Papa,” said Alys, tugging at his beard. “Go water?”

“Yes, Alys, we’re going to sea again,” said Mark. He laughed at his daughter’s anticipation of the rolling deck she found endlessly amusing and envied how oblivious she was to events.

“Out of the damn way!” shouted Adalan as he rushed past them. Crewmen pulled the hawsers onto the deck and coiled them. Frenzied activity surrounded the Kaldwel family and Heather.

“Let’s go to the aftcastle,” Mark said to Maghen in Frangelese, “where we’re out of the way and can watch our departure from Iskadon.” He didn’t express his worry that there was still time for them to be stopped.

“Come,” he said to Heather in English. “We need to let the crew do their work. We’ll go to where you can see Iskadon disappear in the distance.” She mutely followed.

The next thirty minutes severely tested Mark’s ability to portray confidence and equanimity. He had no role in getting the ship underway and no options if the Sulakoans stopped the ship. He felt helpless. It flashed through his mind that he’d rather be fighting someone than standing with nothing to do except reassure others.

As soon as the crewmen released the last hawser, they raced back onto the ship. They pulled the gangplank aboard as the ship drifted slowly away from the pier. Adalan and other officers shouted; crewmen yanked on ropes and climbed the rigging. Mark only understood some of what they were doing.

At twenty yards from the pier, the first small sail unfurled.

“We’re lucky,” said Adalan. He paused briefly before climbing onto the aftcastle to man the wheel. “With this offshore breeze, we’ll catch the tide in another ten minutes or so. Otherwise, we’d have had to wait for the harbor tugs—which could have taken hours.”

“Was there any trouble getting her . . . Huthor, you said her name was?” asked Maghen.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” replied Mark, “but it worked out. She’s here, and we’re away from Iskadon.”

He didn’t see a reason to delve into details that might upset Maghen to no purpose. There was time later for a full description.

“I wonder if we’ll ever see Gulgit again, Mark.”

“Not likely. I thanked him several times for his help and wished him well in getting back to Rustal and fighting the Narthani.”

Maghen glanced at Heather, who stood six feet away at the railing. Her eyes roved the docks as if looking for danger.

“Mark, what’s wrong with her eyes?”

“Huh?”

“Her eyes. The eyelids are a little swollen, like from a sting, or is it something she was born with?”

“Oh . . . uh . . . it’s natural for people from a section of Amerika.”

“Well, that’s good, then. I’ve never seen anyone with eyes like that.”

His wife’s comment made Mark realize he hadn’t thought about the ethnic origin of humans transplanted from Earth by the aliens. He didn’t know how long ago it had happened. Were the same ethnic groups on Earth five, ten thousand years ago or whenever the aliens had snatched humans and dumped them here?

He searched his memory for differences in appearances that might be associated with specific ethnicities. There was less variation in skin tones than in America. The Frangelese were generally lighter-skinned than the Rustalians and the Sulakoans, and the few Harrasedics he’d seen had the darkest tones. However, he’d also noticed skin tone differences within each of the peoples he’d encountered.

Of course, he thought, I haven’t seen people from everywhere on Anyar. Still, I wonder if the aliens sampled from different places on Earth or just grabbed a convenient bag of humans.

A flash of white caught Mark’s eyes. Another sail was unfurled. He watched the crewmen in the rigging work with ropes, and he thought he felt a slight tilt to the deck.

Adalan, twenty feet away at the wheel, shouted in exultation. When Mark turned to look, the captain switched to Suvalu.

“Wind’s picking up, and the direction’s still in our favor. We’ll clear the Iskadon estuary in another fifteen minutes with the river, tide, and wind all pushing us right where we want to go.”

Mark translated into Frangelese for Maghen and English for Heather, who didn’t respond.

Alys wanted to get down from her mother’s arms and run on the deck, but Maghen told her she’d have to wait. The child frowned at her mother and held out her arms to her father.

“Papa?” Alys pleaded.

Maghen smiled and handed Alys to Mark. “She didn’t get her way with me, so she’s going to try again with you.”

“Down, Papa,” said Alys in her sweetest voice. “Go play.”

“Later, baby. We’re too close to the shore, and there are monsters in these waters. You can play later where the water is safer.”

Alys looked warily at the water moving past the hull, then cast a questioning eye at her father.

“That wasn’t what I had in mind when I gave her to you,” said Maghen.

“Papa pretend?” Alys asked Maghen.

“Yes, dear, Papa is pretending. There are no monsters in the water. But he’s right that you can play later when we’re farther over the water. Now, you stay with Papa and help him watch that the boat goes in the right direction.

“Okay.” Moments later she was asleep, head on Mark’s shoulder.

Twenty minutes from when they’d reached the ship, the Wicked Woman passed the last dock on the opposite side of the estuary. Another five minutes and they cleared the docks on the side they’d started from. Adalan called out, and more canvas unfurled. Mark felt the ship surge again and the deck tilt more.

Thirty minutes after leaving the dock, Adalan turned the wheel over to a crewman and approached Mark.

“That’s it. We’re clear. We’re in open water. I won’t ask if anyone might be chasing us, but even if they are, they couldn’t catch us now. The Wicked Woman can outrun and outmaneuver any non-Buldorian ship in these waters.”

“How long until we get to Tortut?”

“As always, it’ll depend on weather and anything else that might happen. Most of our cargo is for Bandapara, the old Sulako capital. There’s another port farther west—Pilaminta. It’s smaller but has expanded the last few years. The Sulakoans decided they didn’t want to depend on a single port, in case things got hot with the Narthani.

“When we dock at Bandapara, you and the women need to stay on board and out of sight. I don’t know what you got into in Iskadon. It’s not likely word of whatever happened gets to Bandapara before we do, but I don’t want to take the chance of running into problems. We won’t be stopping after Bandapara and will only take on new cargo meant for Tortut.”

Adalan saw something he didn’t like and strode off to shout at crewmen aloft. Moments later, he shouted even more, and a frenzy of activity commenced, setting a full spread of sail. By the time the crew finished, the ship was racing over the water, bow spray drenching the forward quarter of the main deck. Mark estimated a ten-degree tilt west to the deck.

“Adalan says we’re clear of the harbor, and he’s sure no other ship can catch us,” Mark said to Maghen.”

“I think you should tell Huthor the same thing. She’s hardly taken her eyes off the shore since we left. Another few minutes and we’ll lose sight of land completely, so reassure her.”

“Heather,” said Mark in English when he stepped next to her. “We’re safe now. No ship can catch us. You’re free.”

“Free?” she said, turning her head to look up at him, her hands still fixed on the gunwale. “You’re not lying? Halari really can’t catch us?”

“Halari? No. Neither he nor anyone else in Iskadon can catch us.”

Mark later said to Maghen that the best he way could describe it was that Heather crumpled. She sat on the planking as if in slow motion and broke into deep sobs, holding her bent knees with her face pressed to her thighs.

“What did you say to her?” demanded Maghen, her expression accusatory.

“Just that she was safe. Nothing that would make her break down.”

“Men!” said Maghen. She knelt by the small strange-looking woman and enveloped her in a hug. She rocked back and forth, saying, “There, there . . . you can’t understand me, but you’ll be all right . . . there, there.”

Alys woke and looked at the women. “Mama kissing an owie?”

“No,” said Mark. “Our new friend is crying, and Mama is helping her.”

“I can hug her,” offered Alys.

“That’s okay, baby. Mama will help her.”

After a few minutes, the sobbing subsided, and Maghen looked up. “I think it’s the relief of finally believing she’s free of whatever happened to her. I’ll take her to our cabin and put her in one of the hammocks. The cabin boy, Allyr, helped me set them up. I suspect Huthor didn’t sleep much last night, if at all.”

“Heather. Her name is Heather. Huthor is probably how they heard her name when she first gave it, and it stuck with her.”

When the crying stopped, Maghen helped Heather to her feet, then guided her down the stairs to the main deck and the ladder to below deck. It appeared to Mark like an adult helping a child—Maghen was a foot taller and nearly twice Heather’s weight.

He stayed on the aftcastle, talking with Alys, enjoying the sea air, and strangely relishing the washed-out feeling after hours of adrenaline.

When Maghen returned, the sun had set below the western horizon.

“She’s sleeping. I think the poor little thing was simply overcome by the idea that she might be free.”

“I hope I did right by putting her in danger,” said Mark. “Although she was a slave, it was a life where she knew what came next. She’s now leaping into the unknown by coming with us.”

“Pooh!” said Maghen. “I didn’t get the impression she resisted coming. You said her message and gestures showed she wanted out of Iskadon. Now that it worked out, I think you did the right thing, though I’d have thought differently if anything had happened to you.”

Alys decided it was Mama’s turn to hold her, and they stood together another half hour before going to their cabin. Mark was relieved that the room was slightly larger and much less damp than their cabin in the crossing from Rumpas to Rustal. Their baggage sat next to the three walls that didn’t have a door. Five hammocks crisscrossed the space, and although the little porthole’s covering was wooden, it could be opened to let air in. A small lantern hung from the ceiling, giving enough light for Maghen to pull bread and cheese from a bag.

“Allyr is going to be a godsend,” said Maghen. “Wherever he came from, the language is close enough to Frangelese that we understood each other. Oh . . . words for some things are completely different, and some of the same words are not pronounced the same, but they’re so close, we had no problem working through any misunderstandings.

“If he’s really from this Caedellium, we should try to talk with him as much as possible. I confess that even despite the problems I had with him, I can’t believe how much I enjoyed talking with someone else besides you and Alys. How long has it been since that happened? How many months? I hadn’t realized how lonely I felt.”

A rush of guilt washed over Mark. “I’m sorry, dearest. I never thought what it must be like for you. I’ve been able to speak Suvalu occasionally to at least one person ever since we crossed the border from Frangel.”

She waved away his apology. “I’m not complaining . . . well . . . I hope I’m not. You’re keeping us alive and dealing with all the details I couldn’t help with. I know I’ve done my part.”

“You’ve definitely, as you say, done your part, and I think you’re right about Allyr. I’ll look to speak with him tomorrow and will ask Adalan if the boy can spend time whenever he’s not working to help us learn Caedelli. I can offer to pay him a little, though our supply of coin is getting low.”

The next morning, Mark awoke in his hammock and glanced at the open porthole. Enough light came through to tell him the sun was an hour or less away. Maghen was still sleeping. Sometime during the night, Alys had transferred from her hammock to snuggle with her mother. His smile at seeing them changed to concern when he realized Heather’s hammock was empty. He slid to the floor and put on his boots, accidentally nudging the iron chamber pot in one corner. It sloshed. He had emptied it over the side after he, Maghen, and Alys had used it last night before going to sleep. None of them usually needed it in the middle of the night.

Must have been Heather, he thought. Good for her.

He realized his surprise was based on thinking of Heather as someone who’d just arrived from Earth. Yet whatever had happened to her must have included years of existing in a culture where she would have adjusted to things like chamber pots, voiding rooms, and relieving herself outdoors.

He climbed the ladder to the main deck where crewmen moved about. When he searched for Heather, he found her on the forecastle, facing forward. The seas were calmer than when they’d left Iskadon, resulting in the bow spray not reaching the main deck.

“Heather,” he said in a loud enough voice to get her attention but not startle her. Still, she jerked to look around.

“Oh, I guess I’m still skittish.”

“Completely understandable.”

There was enough light to see her smile.

“What a strange feeling. I don’t know what to say and how to start talking with you. It’s been so long since I spoke English, except to myself to keep from going insane when I first arrived here.”

“What if we start with our names? I’m Mark Caldwell. I was traveling for a business meeting at the Chicago airport. It was supposed to be a four-hour meeting, and I’d have been back on a flight to San Francisco and home the same night.”

“Heather Chen. I was supposed to change planes in Chicago for Boston. There, I was going to visit the New England Conservatory of Music. I needed to make a final decision on what school to attend the following year after I graduated from high school.”

“High— How old were you then, Heather?”

“Seventeen. Well . . . seventeen in a couple of weeks.”

She didn’t see him shake his head.

“I was six months past my forty-fifth birthday,” said Mark.

“Forty-five? You don’t look that old. I would guess mid to late thirties. Of course, maybe it’s the beard or that I have so much going through my mind that my thinking isn’t clear.”

“No. When I first looked into a mirror here, I appeared around thirty. Whatever the aliens did to me took maybe fifteen years off my looks.”

“Aliens? You didn’t give them any other name?”

“I used ‘Hal’ from the 2001 Space Odyssey. Hal was an AI, like the one that talked to us on the spaceship. I didn’t know what else to call them. They were aliens, and I had no idea what they looked like. ”

Heather chuckled. “I started off calling them orcs when I first woke up and was terrified. You know . . . Lord of the Rings. Then I also tried Hal like you did, but in the movie he was trying to kill the crew, so I switched to calling them eetees. You know. The movie ET. That alien was friendly, so I hoped the ones that grabbed us were the same.

“But you say you were forty-five. It’s those thingies the eetees put in us, I guess. They’re right that I haven’t been sick since arriving. And I’ve certainly seen humans here who seemed ill.”

“What about healing from injuries?” asked Mark.

She looked up sharply. “I take that question to mean you have that effect. It’s nothing the eetees mentioned. I wonder if they didn’t tell me or they don’t know. Anyway . . . yes, things heal fast. I wish I could say it’s a blessing, but it turned out to be a curse. Soon after Halari bought me, he beat me the first time he got mad at me. It surprised both of us when my bruises faded within hours, so he had me beaten again to check it out. Ever since then, he used it to control me once he realized bruises, cuts, and burns would fade, and I’d be the same as before.

“Once I understood enough Sulakoan, I heard him warn those men and woman beating me to be careful not to kill me or ‘damage’ me too bad. I learned to do what I had to, to stop them from hitting me. The healing turned out to be a prison of its own, a cell with invisible bars that were nonetheless confining. But that’s me. What about you? The same healing effect?”

“Yeah,” said Mark, “though my bruises took a day or more to disappear, depending on their severity. Even that effect waned a bit after I was stung and poisoned by a local scorpion-like creature. I still seem to heal faster than I remember, but not as fast as when I first arrived. I can’t say for sure the sting caused it, but it taught me that resistance to microbes didn’t apply to poisons.

“How about other effects?” he asked. “For me, I can’t tell if it’s the nanites the aliens gave me, but my memory is a little better, my eyesight resolves distant objects more than I used to be able to do, and I ‘feel’ stronger than before, though I’m roughly the same size.”

“Same size, huh?” said Heather. “Well, I was about to ask if they gave you human growth hormone. I always wanted a few more inches and was going to be pissed if you got HGH and not me. As for eyesight, I don’t notice anything different. The most notable change in me is sleeping less. I used to need a good eight hours, even nine, to feel rested. Now, five hours, and I feel the same as eight to nine hours before. Why would these thingies . . . nanites, you called them . . . do that?”

Mark shrugged. “Maybe they tailored them differently for us. Maybe they didn’t know about all the side effects. Maybe they made different batches. Maybe there are different side effects with different people? Who knows?”

Mark had a sudden thought. “Hey . . . something occurs to me. How long have you been here?”

“Not quite three years,” answered Heather. “That’s Earth years, assuming my estimation is right about the differences in year lengths.”

“Three!” said Mark, surprised. “I’ve been here almost seven years.”

Heather’s eyes widened. “What the—”

“Three and seven,” said Mark. “Why such a difference? Did the AI tell you anything about your injuries from the crash?”

“It said I needed ‘extensive repairs,’” said Heather. “I didn’t like the sound of that. A garage mechanic once told my father the same thing after he rolled his SUV.”

“That must be it,” said Mark. “The AI told me my injuries were relatively minor. Maybe yours were so bad it took more time to fix you.”

Heather shuddered. “Not sure I want to think about this. My imagination might bring up pictures I’d rather not see.”

“Well, that was just a thought. Hey . . . they’re aliens, so who the hell knows what they did, why they did it, and in what time frame?”

“But seven years? What have you been doing all that time, and how did you happen to be in Iskadon?”

Mark proceeded to give her an edited summary of his second life, skipping over some details. Still, the sketch took most of an hour.

“And there you have it. How I went from lying naked on a beach in Frangel to jumping on a Buldorian ship that left the Iskadon harbor yesterday.”

“You realize that as soon as I can communicate with her, I’m going to check out this cock-and-bull story with your wife. I assume she’s your wife or whatever, and the kid is yours.”

“She is and so is Alys.”

“Tell me you didn’t name your daughter after Alice in Wonderland.”

“At the time, it seemed appropriate.”

“So, you lived in this Frangel place until the last few months. You were a little skimpy on why you left. Which reminds me, just how far away is Frangel? I saw this planet from orbit but have never seen an actual map.”

A small puddle of seawater lay at the point of the forecastle where occasional spray made it over the bulwark. Mark dipped a forefinger into the water and drew a crude map on the wooden planking. He pointed to the lower right landmass.

“This is the Drilmar continent, and here’s Frangel.”

He next pointed to the Ganolar continent. “And here’s where Iskadon is. This ship is headed for a country call Buldor.”

“Jesus Christ! Mark. That’s like—”

She paused while she imagined a map of Earth. “Good lord! Like Spain to Tibet on horseback and several sea legs.”

“Tell me about it.”

“And with your wife. What’s her name again?”

“Maghen.”

“With Maghen and Alys. I’m more impressed with her coming all this way with the kid. You look like you could eat anything that got in your way. In her place, I might have dumped you and stayed put.”

“Believe me, that was an option. Maghen was firm that we belonged together, but if I’d thought she and Alys would be safer without me, I was willing to leave on my own.”

Heather shook her head. “Clearly, I’ll want to hear more details from both of you, but for now, where the hell are we going, and what do you expect to do once we arrive?”

“Adalan, this ship’s captain, says we’re stopping in a Sulakoan city named Bandapara to unload cargo. We’ll all stay hidden on board while this happens, just to be safe. From there, we’ll continue on to Tortut, which is the capital of Buldor.”

Mark redrew the world map that had begun to dry, and he pointed to the ship’s ultimate destination.

“After that, I don’t know exactly what we’ll do next, but here’s where I’m going.” He pointed to the island west of all the major landmasses. “This is Caedellium.”

“Then I guess I’m going there, too,” said Heather. “I’m going to attach myself to you like a barnacle to a wooden hull. No way I’m going back to being the only person I can speak English with and talk about Earth.”

“I guess I’m counting on your coming with us. Like you, I don’t want to lose the only other person I know of on this planet who’s from home. I thought I’d totally come to grips with a new life here on Anyar, but in only the few minutes we’ve been talking . . . well, I’ll just say I’d consider hauling you with us if you didn’t want to come.

“Then, of course, there’s the obvious. What would you do if you left us? The only language you speak here is Sulakoan, and I’m confident you don’t want to hang around Sulako. That would mean you’d be starting over from nothing—again.”

“Okay, so that’s settled,” said Heather, firmly. “I’m sticking to you. Oh . . . and I haven’t said it yet, but I’ll never be able to repay you for getting me away from Halari.”

“Well, you helped out by keeping him from shooting me while I was dealing with the guards.”

She grunted. “Now that we’ve sucked up to each other, why specifically are we going to this Caedellium? You said something about the men chasing you?”

“Like I said, my reaction to the word Amerika seemed to be the trigger, but then one of the men later mentioned there was also a connection to a man named Yozef Kolsko or something like that. I’ve never heard of anybody by that name. He said it involved the island of Caedellium, a place I’d never heard of. That’s all I know.”

“Pretty slim information on which to base crossing half the planet,” said Heather.

“Believe me, I’ve told myself that more times than I could count the last few months, but here we are.”

“So, how do we get to Caedellium from this . . . what . . . Tortut?”

Mark redrew the map again. “From Buldor, there are possible three routes, two of them by sea going around the continent of Landolin. The other is to sail from Buldor to Landolin, then cross the continent, bottom to top, and find another ship to Caedellium.”

“I don’t know about you,” said Heather, “but I vote for a single ocean trip, no matter how long. It’s got to take less time, and who knows what’s in this Landolin? Do you know anything about the peoples, the countries, or what goes on there?”

“Not a thing, and that’s why I also favor the single long sea voyage, as little as I’d look forward to it. However, I don’t see any way to make plans yet for what we’ll do after Tortut. I’ll be talking to the captain, Adalan, to pump him for information. He seems to think his cousin, a man named Mustafa Adalan, will be interested in meeting me. Once we get the lay of the land in Buldor, then maybe we can make some further decisions.

“In the meantime, there’s a cabin boy named Allyr on this ship. Adalan says he’s from Caedellium, and we’ve run into some luck there. Even though Frangel and Caedellium are on opposite sides of the landmasses in this hemisphere, the two languages are so close there has to be a past connection.

“Maghen has talked to the boy, and she believes she and I can learn to speak enough Caedelli to get by once we reach the island. We’re going to work on picking up as much of the Caedelli language as we can before we get to Tortut.”

“Count me in on that,” said Heather. “I’m pretty good with languages. We spoke Mandarin at home as much as English, and I took German and French in high school. Before you ask why, it was because of music. I wasn’t sure exactly which direction I was going, but both languages are important in classical music. I would have taken Italian in place of one of the other two, but my school didn’t offer it.”

“Okay,” said Mark. “I’ll speak to Adalan about the boy. However, that brings up another issue. I’ve never told anyone about where I come from. How about you?”

“Do I look insane!? It was bad enough that once I learned a little Sulakoan, I found out some people suspected me of being an evil demon, djinn, spook, or whatever, once they got a look at me. Let’s face it, it’s the eyes. I never saw anything like them in Iskadon. I wasn’t about to add to my problems by telling them, ‘Oh, by the way, I’m not from this planet. I came here on a spaceship controlled by bug-eyed-monsters. And let me tell you about airplanes, cell phones, and robots.’”

“What did you tell people?”

“I said I didn’t know where I’d come from. I didn’t think until later that the story might have fed the rumors. I should have made up something. You know, shipwreck, washed ashore, not knowing where home is, that sort of thing.”

Mark laughed. “That’s the same story I give people. Maybe I could have embellished it more, but most people accepted it without asking many questions. I suggest you decide on a story and stick to it. When you’ve decided what to say, tell it to me, and I’ll see if it sounds okay.”

“So, you haven’t told Maghen?”

“No, and I doubt I ever will. Why do it? It doesn’t help anything, and there’s the risk of it changing our relationship. After all, what if you had a boyfriend back in San Mateo, and he told you he was from another planet. The next thing he’d see and hear is the door slamming as you left.”

“Yeah . . . I guess so, but what if she somehow finds out on her own, and you didn’t tell her?”

“I’ll deal with that if it happens, which it shouldn’t because you’re the only other person who knows.”

Mark caught Adalan alone later that morning. The captain agreed to let Allyr tutor them in Caedelli, as long as it didn’t interfere with ship duties. When the boy was told of the agreement, he seemed eager enough that Mark was tempted not to mention paying him. He later relented under Maghen’s glare when she was apprised of the arrangement.

Bandapara lay a thousand sea miles from Iskadon. The Wicked Woman sailed north, then northwest, and finally due west, always staying within intermittent sight of the Sulako coast. Although Adalan was confident he could out-sail any ship they might encounter, the ocean between the Ganolar and Melosia continents had some dangerous waters. Narthani and the occasional Iraquinik warships could be encountered at any time, and Adalan didn’t want to take any chances.

The seas and the wind were kind, and they anchored a half-mile from the Bandapara harbor eight days after leaving Iskadon.

“The harbor can’t be sailed into,” said Adalan. “Too many treacherous rocks and too long a tradition of caution in allowing foreign ships to enter the harbor’s bay. They know we’re here, and as soon as they’re ready, several towboats will come and pull us into the dock. If things go well, we’ll only be here until tomorrow this time. You can come on deck after dark.”

Adalan never explained the delay, but it was first light of the third day before tugs towed the Wicked Woman outside of the Bandapara harbor. Once again, the captain ordered full sail.

They had two to three hours each day of Caedelli lessons with Allyr. By the second day of lessons, they knew his last name was Kardyl, and that he, his mother, and a sister had been taken captive during a raid on a Caedellium fishing village named Nollagen in the province of Seaborne. The boy had few memories of his life before the raid, but his mother had continued speaking Caedelli to him, in hopes that someday they would return home.

“Evidently, his mother and sister are slaves or something of Adalan’s family,” Mark told Maghen. “The boy expects to be declared free after a certain number of years’ service on an Adalan ship. I don’t know the exact relationships yet, but the extended Adalan family owns a number of ships, three of which are under our captain’s ‘authority’ or ‘ownership.’ It’s unclear how it all entwines. The man we’re going to meet, Mustafa Adalan, got rich off a series of raids on Caedellium, and it enhanced the family’s status.”

Maghen frowned. “Shouldn’t it worry us that the same people who raided the island are now the ones taking us to Buldor?”

Mark raised both hands to his waist, palms up. “Nothing we can do about it now. Maybe if I’d known the history earlier, I’d have made different plans. I might also not have been able to retrieve Heather. But that’s all irrelevant now because we’re here and not going anywhere. The only encouragement I can give you is that the captain acts nonchalant in talking about the raids.”

Mark didn’t say that it sounded like lines from the Godfather movies on how killings might be nothing personal, just business.

“How’s Heather coming along?” Mark asked.

“You said she told you she was good at languages, and it’s true. She works hard with Allyr and understands almost as much Caedelli as you and I, even thought she started with nothing. She’s still withdrawn but relaxes more when she’s playing with Alys. I think our daughter believes Heather is another child who’s a little older than she is.”

Maghen looked around. “I’m making sure she’s not within hearing. I’m surprised that she seems so helpless at ordinary tasks. When I wanted to make the clothing you bought her fit better, I showed her a needle and thread that Allyr found for us. She acted like she didn’t have any idea what to do with it, even though I’m sure she understood it was for her clothes.”

Mark suppressed a smile. I’ll bet the only tailoring she’s ever done is to go to a mall and buy new clothes when those she had didn’t fit, were out of style, or she wanted something new.

“Maybe she comes from a family so wealthy that she didn’t do such things,” said Mark.

Maghen shrugged. “I suppose that’s possible—not that I’ve ever met anyone like that. At first, I thought she expected me to do the altering. I wouldn’t have minded doing it, but not if she thought I should do it. But I’ll give her credit. Once she understood it was up to her, she kept pestering me to show her what to do. Allyr managed to find some extra crewmen’s clothes, and now Heather has two sets, so she can wash one while wearing the other.”

Two days later, the ship turned under reduced sail into a sheltered bay to anchor. “Storm is coming,” said Adalan. “They can be unpredictable and vicious this time of year. The signs aren’t clear, but I don’t want to be caught if the winds turn against us. There’s no better place to weather a storm between here and Tortut.”

The captain’s caution was justified, as they endured a full day of heavy winds and torrential rains. Mark’s imagination supplied him with visions of what the ocean was like away from the bay’s sheltering hills. During one daylight lull, he could see out past the mouth of the bay to waves and whitecaps high enough to make him appreciate the minimal jolting the anchored Wicked Woman endured.

When the storm abated, they raised sail and once again headed southwest. Six days later, Adalan announced that Tortut was in sight.

CHAPTER 41

MUSTAFA

The entrance to the Tortut harbor impressed Mark. It was daunting for anyone who thought of attacking the city by sea. The layout reminded him of Pearl Harbor, Hawaii: a narrow deep-water entrance opening into a multi-fingered bay. In this case, the entrance consisted of two 100-yard-wide channels separated by a rocky island 80 yards across. Both channels were guarded by three stone-block forts, one on each side of the entrance and a single large fort covering the entire island. Cannon faced the channels and the open sea. Sheer cliffs lined the outer coast as far as Mark could see before they entered the harbor. An assault on the forts by land would be difficult, and any unwelcome ship entering the harbor would be pounded to splinters.

That’s a reasonable assumption, thought Mark, until the first ironclad ship appears, and then it’ll just sail past the forts, take some dents from cannonballs, and proceed to pound the harbor facilities and sink any ship inside this bay.

By the time the Wicked Woman tied up at a pier, Mark had a good view of most of the city. The land rose steadily from the water to the surrounding craggy upthrusts he estimated were a mile to a mile and a half from the water.

I wonder if this bay is part of an old volcano or asteroid strike? he thought. Those ridges sure look like crater rims.

“Kind of monotonous architecture, isn’t it?” said Heather, who had arrived next to Mark without him noticing.

Mark had been thinking the same thing. Almost every building was constructed of beige-colored stone.

“Well, it could be a combination of no other material readily available and an accessible, plentiful source of stone to quarry. If I’m seeing right, looks like they add other colors with curtains and different-colored doors and shutters.”

“Why do you think this Mustafa guy wants to see us?” asked Heather.

“Can’t say. Adalan thinks we’ll meet him tomorrow. He says he’ll arrange a better place for us to spend the night than that storage locker.”

She laughed. “No offense, but I wouldn’t mind not turning my head at night and bumping into a foot. Also, you and Maghen snore like you’ve practiced it. About the time one of you stops, the other starts. I wonder if poor Alys even knows what it’s like to sleep without the accompaniment.”

Before Mark could retort, Allyr Kardyl appeared and spoke in Caedelli.

“Captain Adalan told me to guide you to his home. You’ll stay there until Galmater Mustafa Adalan can see you. The Galmater is not in Tortut right now but should be back in a day or two.”

“Galmater?” asked Mark. “Is that a title, a name, or what?”

“There’s no single ruler in Buldor, like in the Landolin kingdoms or Sulako and Ilskin. Here, a council of important men makes the major decisions. Captain Adalan’s cousin is Mustafa Adalan, and he’s a member of the council. Also, you should only bring clothing you expect to use in the next day or two.”

Mark turned to Heather and checked that she had understood the boy. She’d caught most of it.

“What does it mean?” she asked in English. “I don’t have any other possessions, but you guys will be leaving almost everything on the ship we came on. Does it indicate we’re going to be back on the same ship for another voyage?”

“No idea,” answered Mark. “Whatever the accommodations at Adalan’s home, they’ve got to be better than on this ship. Let’s go tell Maghen.”

He turned to Allyr. “We’ll be back on deck as soon as we gather the others and some clothes.”

When they returned to the deck, Allyr was waiting at dockside next to a two-horse wagon with wooden seating benches in the wagon bed. The three adults and Alys sat on the benches; Allyr settled next to the driver.

The wagon wound through city streets barely wide enough for two wagons abreast. Buildings were uniformly two-story, and small squares apparently served as market areas. Every few blocks were fountains with water bubbling up from unseen sources. Gutters with an inch or more of water flowing toward the ocean lined the edges of the streets. Twice, they passed people emptying chamber pots into the gutters, the contents flushed away by the flow.

“No wonder the city smells better than others I’ve been to,” said Mark. “I’ll bet somewhere at the bases of those ridges are natural year-round springs. It works because the entire city sits on this slope.”

“Tell me to change my mind if I ever have the chance to swim in the bay,” said Heather, practicing her Caedelli.

Allyr heard them and turned his torso to face behind him. “The water and waste go into an underground course just before the harbor. The course empties into the end of the bay near the northern channel we passed through. The ocean current runs southwest to northeast along this coast, so the waste is pushed out into the open ocean.”

“An impressive use of the natural environment,” Mark said in English to Heather. “I might have to raise my estimation of the Buldorians.”

“Is there any way to do this in houses not sitting on a slope?” asked Maghen. “It would be wonderful to have a home where the waste was taken away without people having to do it.”

Mark patted her. “Dearest, I promise that I’ll build us a house with that feature.”

Hell, thought Mark, that and anything else I can do to repay her still won’t balance what she’s put up with and how brave she’s been.

The farther they climbed from the harbor, the larger the houses were and the more often they had entryways wide enough for a wagon. Mark caught glimpses of courtyards of various sizes with people working, children playing, and animals tied or penned.

“Here we are,” announced Allyr, as they turned into a building more ornate than most. As soon as the wagon was inside the courtyard, Allyr jumped down and ran to embrace a woman with identical straw-colored hair. Moments later, a six-year-old girl joined the embrace.

“His family,” offered Maghen. “The mother is Serwina, and the sister is Onyla.”

They waited in the wagon until Allyr returned. “Come with me. I’ll show you where you’ll stay.” He led them to a door across the courtyard from what Mark assumed was the main house—he based his opinion on multiple windows and a balcony on the second floor.

An outer door led to a hall with doorways and stairs. Allyr opened the first hall door on the right, and they entered a Buldorian version of a two- or three-room apartment. A stove and a fireplace occupied one side of the first room. The furniture was made of plain but solid wood. Mark could see past an open curtain into a room with a bed frame and what appeared to be a mattress. In a corner of the main room was a small built-in room with a wooden door.

“That’s the washing and voiding room,” Allyr said matter-of-factly. “You refill the bucket in there every time you void or clean up. Water is in the cistern in the courtyard. There’s only one bed, but my mother will bring more bedding. You can figure out the sleeping arrangements. You’ll eat with the servants. I’ll come for you when it’s time. Captain Adalan says you’re to stay in these quarters, except when eating or in the courtyard, until it’s time to meet the Galmater.”

“Do you know where the meeting will be?” asked Mark.

“I assume in the Galmater’s home. It’s three houses from here.” After answering, Allyr left.

“A bed,” sighed Maghen. “At times these last months, I forgot they existed.”

“I’d fight you for a slot on that bed,” said Heather, “if you both weren’t so damn big. As bad as Sulako was, most of the time I had a comfortable bed. Sleeping on that ship was the worst sleeping accommodations I’ve ever had. My back may take weeks to recover. Sixdays, that is.”

As promised, Allyr’s mother brought a large pile of blankets, several towels, and two bars of an abrasive brown soap. Serwina Kardyl never spoke when Maghen tried to engage her.

The washing and voiding room contained what Mark assumed was a place for people to squat—an open slot in the floor with two-inch elevations on each side where feet could be placed. The slot passed under the wall.

Must empty into the street gutter, thought Mark, helped along by water in the bucket.

For the next hour, Mark arranged a bed for Heather and made numerous trips to the cistern to replenish water Maghen used to thoroughly clean herself and Alys. Then it was Heather’s turn, with Maghen passing fresh buckets to her. Finally, it was Mark’s turn, with Maghen bringing new buckets.

Maghen, with Heather’s help, used the same soap bars to clean a second set of clothes for everyone while Mark occupied Alys and talked with Allyr.

The boy fetched them for evening meal, and they sat with a dozen men, women, and children of various ages. The food was plentiful, though different from anything they had ever experienced. There was also a noticeable strain between the servants and the newcomers.

“I think they just don’t know who we are and why we’re here,” Maghen whispered.

The next morning, rested from the most comfortable sleep any of them had had since leaving Sulako and fed well again with the servants, they returned to their quarters. Mark estimated it was an hour later when Allyr knocked on their door. The Galmater was ready for them.

“I thought this guy wasn’t in town,” said Heather in English as Allyr led them onto the street.

Mark shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he hustled back when he heard we had arrived, and he couldn’t wait to meet the famous Huthor of Sulako.”

“My ass,” answered Heather.

Mark laughed and shook his head at Maghen’s questioning look.

No more than a minute’s walk from Adel Adalan’s house, Allyr turned into a courtyard twice the size of where they stayed. Several servants scurried around, including an older man who took charge of them after Allyr left. He led them into the main structure. They hadn’t been in the captain’s family’s residence, but this one reeked of wealth and status. Mark didn’t have time to fully examine the inside before they were guided into a room where a man sat at a small table, writing with a quill. He turned and stood when they entered the room.

The man was tall, perhaps an inch more than Mark. His large frame carried more weight than Mark’s, though he might have been leaner when he was younger. The scars on his face and one visible on a hand and wrist suggested a violent past. His hair was half gray, half black. The eyes were piercing and the demeanor calculating, as he surveyed their group. The only expression he evidenced was when his gaze paused briefly on Heather.

Well, shit, thought Mark. I thought the Wicked Woman’s crew looked like pirates. He may be dressed fancy, but all this guy needs to be the pirate captain is a colored bandana on his head and an eye patch, along with uttering a few “Aaarrrggghhhs” and “Shiver me timbers” and singing, “Yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum.”

“So, you’re the mysterious refugees my cousin picked up in Iskadon,” he said in Suvalu. “I’m Mustafa Adalan. Please seat yourselves.” He pointed to a cluster of chairs Mark assumed had been prepared for them.

Heather sat in the leftmost chair and Maghen in the middle, holding Alys. Mark waited until they’d seated themselves and then took the rightmost chair. Mustafa moved his chair to within ten feet and sat facing them before he addressed Mark.

“I’m told your name is Mark Kaldwel, and obviously you speak Suvalu.”

“Yes to both, Galmater.”

“You can call me Adalan, and I’ll call you Kaldwel. Do either of the women speak Suvalu?”

“No. Only me.”

“I don’t speak Caedelli or Frangelese—Adel tells me the two languages are very similar. Strange because their peoples are so far apart, but I’ve never heard Frangelese. So, you and I will talk in Suvalu, Kaldwel.”

“That’s fine. Let me tell the women what we’re doing.” Mark turned to Maghen and Heather. “Suvalu is the only language we can speak with this Mustafa Adalan, so he and I will talk, and I’ll tell you later what he said.”

Adalan had waited until Mark clued in his companions.

“My cousin told me what he knows of you, but he thinks there’s more to it. Tell me your story. The more detailed and honest the tale, the better.”

Mark didn’t hesitate. As soon as he sized up Mustafa Adalan’s appearance, added to what he’d gleaned from the Wicked Woman’s captain and Allyr Kardyl, he’d decided to risk telling all and hoping.

He started his tale with finding himself on a beach in Frangel, skipped to working on the ranch and his trip to Landylbury to sell hides—not seeing a reason to cover the first years and why he’d fled northern Frangel. Mustafa asked questions as Mark recounted the story.

“So, the Narthani were interested in you when they thought you knew something about a place called ‘Amerika.’ Well, what do you know about this place?”

“It’s my homeland. I and the small woman,” he said, pointing the Heather.

“Where is this ‘Amerika’?”

“I’m afraid I can’t point to it on an Anyar map. I’d never seen a complete map of Anyar before being cast away, so I don’t know the exact location of Amerika. I can only speculate it might be somewhere in the Great Ocean or lands beyond Krinolin.”

“Then how did you get to Frangel?”

“I was taken captive and put on a ship. We traveled a long time, but I never had a window. I can only speculate that either a storm wrecked the ship or my captors threw me overboard—I don’t know which. All I know is that I woke on a beach in Frangel with no knowledge of how to get home. I managed to live among the Frangelese until running afoul of the Narthani.”

“And your fellow Amerikan? The small woman?”

“Her story is very similar, except she was in Sulako.”

“Adel tells me there was some issue with her joining you on the Wicked Woman.”

“She was being held a slave and forced to work for her owner. I couldn’t leave her when we left for Buldor.”

“Were there fatalities in freeing her?” asked Mustafa.

“Not that I know of, although a few men suffered injuries.”

“That’s good. Adel tells me it’s doubtful the Sulakoans know how the woman got out of Iskadon, but we need to maintain reasonable relations with the Sulakoans. Since the Narthani turned their attention to Landolin, our ships are now forced to be more careful than before. I’m sure you’ve heard stories about Buldorian ships pirating, raiding, and smuggling. It’s all true. It’s been the custom of our people for centuries and the only way we can live because Buldor is so small and the land so poor for agriculture.

“Now, we risk encountering too many Narthani warships if we attempt coastal raids. Plus, there’s the occasional Fuomi, and even the Iraquiniks are starting to build more warships. Even if our people are better sailors, it makes our previous customs difficult to pursue. Our captains have taken to cargo handling, along with occasional smuggling.”

“I saw the impressive fortifications as we entered the harbor,” said Mark. “Some of the work seems new.”

Mustafa nodded. “We try to make Buldor as untasty a morsel as we can to discourage the Narthani from thinking they can absorb us. That’s another reason our ships have almost stopped raiding, especially around southern Landolin. We want to avoid antagonizing them. If we’re to eventually fall to the Narthani, we hope it will only be after they’ve conquered everyone else. And, naturally, we pray something stops them before that happens.”

“I’m afraid, Adalan, that I’m fairly ignorant about the Narthani and what’s going on in this part of Anyar. There didn’t seem to be much concern about them where I lived in Frangel.”

“That’s because Frangel is far from the center of the wars between Narthon and its neighbors. The Narthani think it’s their destiny to rule the entire planet. There is ongoing fighting between Narthon and the Fuomi, Iraquiniks, and Harrasedics. That brings me back to you and your fellow travelers. Do you know where Caedellium is located?”

“I’ve seen world maps, and I know Caedellium is northwest of Landolin.”

“It may be easier to talk over a map. Let’s you and I go to the table.”

Adalan rose and walked over to a cabinet.

Mark turned to Maghen and Heather and spoke to them in Frangelese and English. “He wants to show me things on a map.”

As soon as the two men leaned over a table with a spread-out map of Anyar’s landmasses, Adalan began pointing out features and realms.

“The map shows the approximate borders. They haven’t changed much, except for those bordering Narthon and its neighbors. Those fluctuate, depending on the results of battles. I don’t know what’s happening on Drilmar, but from what you and Adel tell me, you’ve heard little about Narthon and the wars. I suppose that’s not unexpected because until recently all the fighting stayed in Melosia, the largest continent. About eight years ago, the Narthani first moved out of Melosia by invading Rustal. They subjugated and still occupy that part of Ganolar, but it evidently proved a less desirable prize once they had it.

“It was a major shock to western Anyar when the Narthani occupied the island of Caedellium a few years ago. It’s too remote and unimportant for the strategy to have been anything other than a first move either toward Landolin, whose kingdoms are relatively rich, or to outflank the Iraquiniks. It turned out Landolin was the immediate target.”

Mustafa looked up from the map. “Here’s where it gets interesting, as far as concerns you, Kaldwel. The Caedelli rose up against the Narthani and, despite any reasonable expectations, defeated them and forced a withdrawal. Details about how the Caedelli accomplished this are sketchy, but from scattered reports and rumors that continue to leak out of the island, it seems that a man named Yozef Kolsko played an important role in the Narthani defeat.”

“Kolsko?”

“Yes, the other name that Adel says has caused you to attempt crossing most of the planet to get to Caedellium. As it happens, among the rumors is the persistent one that this Kolsko only arrived on Caedellium about six years ago and in an unusual manner. People found him naked on a beach, not knowing how he got there, and claiming to be from a place called Amerika.”

Mark stared, his mind whirling with the implications.

My God! Kolsko must be another survivor of the plane collision! Naked on a beach. Comes from Amerika.

“I think you can see my interest in your story, Kaldwel. I’ll also let you know that my cousin wasn’t completely honest with you. People in most of the major ports on Ganolar know of the Narthani’s interest in finding out information about Amerika and Yozef Kolsko. I expect you were exceedingly fortunate that you didn’t tell other people in Iskadon your story before you spoke with Adel. Or, if you did reveal your interest in Amerika, Caedellium, and Yozef Kolsko, it was to people who hadn’t yet heard of the Narthani interests.”

Mark felt a sheen of sweat on his forehead as he thought of how his family had slipped through the Narthani tentacles.

“We traveled mainly in the southern interiors and stayed away from towns as much as possible. When we traveled by ship, we used smaller, more southern ports until we got to Iskadon.”

Mustafa nodded. “Adel believes word about all of this might have only recently reached Iskadon, but he heard about the Narthani’s interests several times when he stopped in Bandapara on the way here.”

Mark stroked his beard as a question arose in his thoughts. “So . . . even assuming Heather, I, and this Kolsko are all from Amerika, why exactly are you so interested in us and Caedellium?”

Mustafa’s smile was an acknowledgment and not humor.

“We come to the crux of Buldor’s problem.” He leaned back over the map. “The Narthani confirmed that their original interest in Caedellium was as a base to attack Landolin, although they evidently decided to go straight to the eventual prize, instead of making a second attempt at Caedellium. They landed armies on Amalor, the island kingdom off eastern Landolin. The Amalorese were unprepared and fell easily. Now, the Narthani seem to have developed an alliance of some sort with Jahmnor, the largest and most southern Landolin kingdom. Rumors are that the Narthani and the Jahmnorese are planning to attack Panhan or Munjor, but we haven’t heard of major fighting as yet.

“Whatever is happening on Caedellium, it’s drawn the interest of other realms. The Fuomi are keeping a naval presence around the island, even though it’s far from Fuomon. We also know that several of the Landolin kingdoms and individual members of the Iraquinik Confederation established regular contacts with the Caedelli. I assume Adel’s cabin boy, Allyr, told you how the island’s people are organized?”

Mark shrugged. “Only what he knows from what his mother told him. There doesn’t seem to be a central authority over the entire island, but a number of independent clans, so it surprises me that they were able to win. The Narthani must be experienced in warfare if they’ve been fighting their neighbors for as long as I hear they have.”

“That’s where Kolsko seems to come into all this,” said Mustafa “He not only is supposed to have had a major role in defeating the Narthani, but he somehow managed to convince the clans to unite with him as the leader of the island.”

Well, fuck me, thought Mark. This Kolsko must be a real pistol if what Adalan says is accurate. This could be an amazing turn of luck. If Kolsko is also a castaway, he’s got to want to have other people from home to talk with. Hell, maybe he knows more about the aliens.

“Pardon, Adalan, but something is missing. If all this is true, is your interest in us only curiosity?”

“No. Buldor’s position is becoming more precarious each year.” He looked at the map. “Our ships used to roam freely around Landolin, north along most of the Iraquinik coast, and occasionally as far east as Rumpas. We raided enough to support our people, but not so much as to cause the other realms, singularly or together, to attack Buldor. I was leading a five-ship raiding party along the northern Landolin coast when the Narthani offered to help us raid Caedellium under their protection. One can only assume they didn’t want the Caedelli to blame them at the time. This arrangement worked well for us for over a year. By the time I decided we should return to Buldor, our ships were loaded with loot and captives for slave markets in Sulako.”

Mark kept his expression neutral, as the Buldorian calmly described plundering, killing, and enslaving. His previous elevated mood receded, as he reminded himself that his family’s and Heather’s position in Tortut was precarious and dependent on their host.

“As you can imagine, Kaldwel, our raids on Caedellium put us in a delicate situation. The Narthani now control land nearer to Buldor than I thought would happen in my lifetime. If they subjugate all of Landolin, Buldor and the rest of Ganolar are doomed. Even before that happens, they will strangle Buldor because our ships couldn’t even be merchant vessels without Narthani approval. And as fast as our ships are, and our sailors the best in the world, the sheer weight of numbers on the Narthani side would make armed resistance suicidal.

“The only hope I see for Buldor’s independent future is that the combination of the Landolins, the Iraquiniks, and the Fuomi can somehow stop Narthon’s intentions for the western part of Anyar. Unfortunately, I don’t have much confidence in miracles.

“What role Caedellium might play in all this, I can’t guess. But if the larger and more powerful realms are taking a strong interest in relations with the Caedelli, then I want Caedellium to at least not consider Buldor an enemy—which I realize is a difficult proposition, considering the raids we carried out on the island.

“However, our council has been looking for a way to make a gesture to the Caedelli—something that would remind them that we both face the same threat. Whether it will make any difference, our council can’t say, but we’ve decided the effort is simple enough that we’ll lose nothing by trying. What we’ve lacked is an opportunity for someone to convey the message.

“I was unclear what to do after talking with Adel, but now I’ve decided. He’ll take your party to Caedellium. If you and the small woman are from the same people as Kolsko, maybe it will ameliorate some of the animosity he feels toward Buldor.”

Mark wasn’t sure what to say. The idea that they might reach Caedellium with one final sea voyage and not have to travel overland was almost too good to be true.

“You’ll also take Allyr with you, along with his mother and sister. Adel took them into his service, instead of selling them to Sulakoan slave traders. You can ask my cousin why he did this if you’re curious. They’ve been well treated and are not the only Caedelli we captured in our raids who are still in Buldor. If at least neutral relations can be established between Buldor and Caedellium, I’m sure their return to Caedellium could be arranged.

“I only ask that you convey a message to Yozef Kolsko,” said Mustafa. “Tell him we don’t consider the Caedelli our enemies, that the raids were purely practical and without any ill feelings toward them. Given current circumstances, we regret the raids and would be willing to discuss compensation at some later time. Also tell him that we hope the Caedelli realize the greater danger of the Narthani, and that past history is sometimes forgotten for the future good.”

Good luck with that, thought Mark. He imagined the Caedelli wouldn’t be all that amenable to better relations with the Buldorians after the raids.

“Thank you, Galmater Adalan, for your generous offer. I gratefully accept for all of us, and I will give the message to Kolsko, along with my impression of your sincerity. I don’t know how the message will be received, but my people have the saying that ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’”

A little bullshit doesn’t hurt, thought Mark. If I do meet Kolsko, I’ll tell him I wouldn’t trust Mustafa Adalan as far as I could throw him. Well . . . maybe throw him on Earth. I could probably throw him a lot farther here. Still, it sounds like his argument is justified that the Narthani are the common overriding menace.

Four days later, they once again left a port and headed to the open sea. The Wicked Woman showed signs of fresh repairs, new ropes and sails, and every available space crammed with water barrels and provisions.

Mark stood next to Adel Adalan and waited quietly, while the captain watched the ship clear the harbor. The Buldorians hadn’t shared details of the proposed voyage, brushing off questions. Mark had given up asking by the third day. Now, they were half a mile out when Mark asked, “All right, we’re on the way. Can you share the plan for getting to Caedellium?”

Adel turned to Mark. “I don’t intend to make landfall until reaching Caedellium, unless forced to by storm damage or if we run out of food or water. We’ll skirt the Ilskin coast as far from Landolin as we can. The seas are much calmer between Landolin and Iraquinik, but there are too many warships in those waters where the Narthani made it a war zone.

“There are also Narthani ships south of Landolin, but nowhere near as many. I hope to circle west of Landolin, then sail north to Caedellium. Rumors are that a few Fuomi ships are around the island, but we can outrun those if we have to.”

The first leg of Adalan’s plan passed with two incidents. A Narthani frigate appeared out of a rain squall and signaled the Wicked Woman to heave to. Mark’s dismay at being caught after so many trials was allayed when Adalan demonstrated his ship’s speed, and the frigate gave up pursuing. Two days later, it was the captain’s turn to be concerned.

“They’re Ilskins,” said Adalan as two ships, each slightly smaller than the Wicked Woman, paralleled her course. “Their language is closer to Buldorian than anything else, so our peoples probably have a common origin, but relationships have always been strained. They do a little raiding, but they don’t usually bother a Buldorian ship. They’re probably evaluating whether we’re worth trying to capture.”

Adalan yelled at his crew, and the ship’s gun ports were opened and cannon run out. After another twenty tense minutes, the two Ilskin ships turned away.

Several eventless sixdays followed—to Mark’s satisfaction. He figured he’d had enough excitement for many lifetimes. A milestone, of sorts, was reached when the Wicked Woman turned north, and Mark estimated that they had already exceeded the sailing distance of their first three ocean legs. Sixdays of swift sailing were interspersed with holding their position when the winds shifted and one whole sixday of sitting in the doldrums. Twice, they sailed through huge herds of “whales,” the enormous Anyar fish or animal. Mark didn’t know how to classify them.

“The Great Ocean we’re on the edge of seems to have an endless supply of the things,” said Adalan, as he manned the wheel and managed to avoid most bumping encounters. “That’s fortunate because they’re the source of lantern oil for all of Anyar. Every realm has ships harvesting the oil.”

Only once were they caught in a major storm, and the ship ran with the wind for two days. When the storm abated, they were within sight of the Landolin coast. Adalan turned the ship back north to avoid local traffic.

More sixdays followed, and the travelers became almost numb from day after day of the same routine—with one exception. Caedelli lessons with Allyr continued, and the boy convinced his mother to join in. At first, her participation was minimal, as she sat without speaking. Then, one day, she corrected Allyr on a point of Caedelli grammar. The next day she commented half a dozen times. By the end of another sixday, she was leading the lessons and helping to watch Onya and Alys play together.

Now that a full-time instructor was available who had no other duties, the Caedelli lessons became intensive—something that markedly sped up learning, drew the Kardyl family closer to Mark’s party, and relieved the boredom of the voyage.

CHAPTER 42

AT SEA AGAIN

Captain’s Cabin, Wicked Woman, South of Caedellium

“We’re getting close,” Adalan said to Mark as he pulled out a map and laid it on a small table in the captain’s cabin. “Here’s a map of Caedellium we took on one of our raids on the island. I can’t read Caedelli, but Allyr tells me it shows the clan names and borders. I don’t know how old it is or if anything has changed, but it gives the basic structure of the island.”

Adalan leaned down and pointed with a forefinger. “We’re about two hundred miles south, somewhere off the map. If the wind holds, we should see land sometime tomorrow. As I told you, I want to put you off as fast as possible. I don’t intend to be confined to harbors or bays—I want as much sea room as possible because I don’t expect our presence will be welcome.

“As soon as we spot the island, we’ll back off and circle to here.” He pointed to a province connected to the rest of the island by a narrow isthmus. “Allyr tells me this is Nyvaks Province. There are no major ports on the north side of the island and little if any trade traffic, so the only ships we might encounter should be Fuomi. They’ve patrolled these waters ever since the Caedelli drove the Narthani off Caedellium. They don’t keep a major naval force at the island, but enough to discourage the Narthani and provide patrols out a few hundred miles. We’ll try to spot a village and have a longboat take you to within a few miles and drop you on the shore. Then we’ll be on our way back to Buldor.”

“Captain, there’s something your cousin told me I should ask you about if I was curious. When you captured the Kardyls, they weren’t sold to the slavers. The impression I got was they were servants in your household, not slaves.”

“It was Allyr who first caught my attention,” said Adalan. “When we got them on ship, the boy tried to protect his mother, even though he was only about five years old. I admired his courage, but it got me thinking. My wife miscarried before I left Buldor, and she had lost several earlier babies. I could tell Serwina was in early pregnancy. I had an instinct about the Kardyls, so I claimed the three of them for part of my share to keep the crew away from the mother. When I returned home, months later Serwina gave birth, and my wife and I adopted Serwina’s child as our own, so my wife would have a baby to care for. She insisted that Serwina and the other two children, Allyr and Onyla, stay as part of the household—which I was already considering because I’d become fond of Allyr.”

“So . . . Serwina left her other child back in Buldor when she came with us,” Mark said slowly.

Adalan frowned. “She doesn’t have another child. The one she gave birth to in Buldor is part of my family. Despite Mustafa’s idea to send the Kardyls home, they were still part of my household, so it was my final decision. I gave Serwina the choice of all or some of them going to Caedellium or staying in Buldor. She chose that all three would go.”

Christ, thought Mark. Serwina left her other child in Buldor. It must have been a wrenching decision, but I guess I can understand why she did it. The child probably didn’t even consider her the mother if it was raised by Adel’s wife.

Mark’s meeting with Adalan ended when they heard a commotion on deck. Mark didn’t know what the Buldorian crewman on top of the main mast said. Mark suspected it was something like, “Sail ho, off the port bow,” judging by how Adalan and several crewmen rushed to the port side and looked forward. The captain called out, and moments later Allyr came running to hand Adalan a telescope.

Mark stood next to Adalan and joined the men staring over the sea. The captain said something in Buldorian to two of his officers, then turned to Mark.

“He’s spotted a Fuomi sloop.”

“Is there going to be trouble?” asked Mark. The image of another sea battle prompted lingering dread after they’d gotten this close to their destination.

“I doubt it, but we’ll proceed with caution. We outgun any Fuomi sloop, but they’re good seamen. There’s always the unknown. We don’t know what their orders are or if their captain is too aggressive. However, this may work to my advantage. I’m not enthused about sailing too close to Caedellium—given our shared history. It was a few years ago, but I’m sure the islanders still place Buldor just behind Narthon on their list of enemies.

“We’ll hoist a parley flag and see if they’ll stand off a few hundred yards. I’ll send one of my officers who speaks Suvalu out in a longboat to meet them halfway. If it works out, you and the others will then transfer to the Fuomi ship for the last part of the voyage, and I can stay clear of the Caedellium coast.”

The seas were moderate, with four-foot swells, and Mark wasn’t keen on a longboat-to-longboat transfer of the women and children. Still, it was Adalan’s ship, and Mark understood the caution. He went below to tell the others what was happening.

“I can’t swim,” said Heather, after Mark told her of the plan.

Mark stared for a moment. He was concerned about Alys and Onyla, but he hadn’t considered the adults. He cursed. “There’s no option, but I don’t think there will be a problem. We’re already going to be careful because of the children.”

Serwina dismissed the problems. “All three of us swim well, and the water is warm, so, at worst, if any of us go overboard we’ll just tread water until we can be picked up. I’m more concerned about transferring between two longboats. I’m tempted to want to swim between them instead.”

Swim, hell, thought Mark. It’ll be tricky enough to do it all the same way. Besides, Heather can’t swim, and I ain’t putting Maghen and Alys in the water. We should be able to lash the boats together and just step across.

“Well,” he said, “let’s keep that as an option, but I don’t think it’ll be necessary.”

Maghen hadn’t commented on the update. When Mark raised a questioning eyebrow at her, she shook her head. “Oh . . . I know you won’t put us in danger, so I’m not worried.”

Well, I’m glad one of us isn’t, thought Mark.

When the two ships were a mile apart, Adalan hoisted the parley flag, then reduced sail and turned 45 degrees.

Interesting, thought Mark. A white flag here signifies the offer to talk, same as on Earth. I wonder whether it’s something ingrained in us or simply that solid white has no distinguishing markings and is considered neutral?

When the two ships were just out of cannon range, the Fuomi ship changed course to parallel the Wicked Woman. Both ships reduced to the minimum sail required to maintain their relative positions. One of Adalan’s officers and six crewmen rowed to meet a similar number of Fuomi. The two longboats floated thirty or forty yards apart. Two men, one in each longboat, stood and gesticulated, presumably discussing the reason a Buldorian ship was in Caedellium waters. The Fuomi boat rowed back to the sloop. Mark saw a man climb up the netting onto the ship, then back down after a few minutes. Twenty minutes later, the Buldorian officer finished reporting to Adalan.

“They’ve agreed to take on a group of Caedelli whom we’re returning home,” said Adalan. “You can decide whether you want to correct that information with their captain or wait until you land on Caedellium. I figure you all either speak fluent Caedelli or good enough to fool a Fuomi.

“I think they were puzzled by why Buldorians would be transporting Caedelli home. If there’s any problem, you can always tell them you have important messages for Yozef Kolsko. That should eliminate any issues. Get your people ready, Kaldwel. I want to do this quickly and head back out of these waters.”

Mark hustled to the cabin. The women had everything packed and organized. He carried Alys and led them up onto the deck. Crewmen helped them and their possessions into the longboat, and they rowed out to meet the waiting Fuomi. Mark’s worries were unfounded. The transfer went quickly after the two boats were lashed together.

When the two longboats released their connection, Mark once again had the feeling of being cast away. Earth to Anyar. Tregallon to Nurburt. Frangel to Rumpas. Rustal to Sulako, Sulako to Buldor, and now, hopefully, the end coming—Caedellium.

While still approaching the Fuomi ship, Mark saw evidence of more discipline and attention to appearances than on the Buldorian ship: newer canvas, a wooden hull with fewer nicks, and the crew in uniforms.

Where the net hung down the hull, longboat crewmen pulled the boat tight against the ship. They let Mark and the boat’s officer pass Alys and Onyla to two crewmen who had interlaced their legs in the net to leave their arms free. They, in turn, handed the children on to more crew on the deck. Heather followed, then Serwina, and Maghen climbed the netting with the crewmen’s assistance. Allyr disdainfully waved off any help and scrambled up the net, followed by Mark.

Last to be passed up were their belongings. These were dropped into a pile, and the four adults and three children stood next to it, while the longboat was raised back onto the deck and fastened down. Shouts came from various directions, and the crew scrambled into the rigging and began setting full sail. Finally, a man wearing insignia that suggested an officer approached them, accompanied by three crewmen.

The man said something Mark assumed was in the Fuomi language. He didn’t understand a word and looked to Heather and Serwina. Both shook their heads. The man spoke again, with the same result.

“I’m afraid none of us speak whatever languages you were using,” said Mark, “but I speak Suvalu and Caedelli.”

“I’m Captain Maakon,” said the man in Suvalu, looking only at Mark. “Who are you, and tell me again why I’m taking you to Caedellium?”

“My name is Mark Kaldwel.” He indicated the others, as he introduced them. “This is my wife, Maghen, and our daughter, Alys. Here is Serwina Kardyl and her children Onyla and Allyr. Sitting on our possessions is Heather Chen. We’re Caedelli and appreciate your taking us on board and to the island.”

“How is it that a Caedelli speaks Suvalu? There are few enough people on this part of Anyar who speak the trade language, and I wouldn’t expect any Caedelli to know it.”

“That’s a long story, Captain, and one that is better left until we can speak with someone in authority on Caedellium.”

“And I suppose I’ll get same answer if I ask what are Caedelli doing riding in a Buldorian ship?”

“I’m afraid so, Captain, with apologies and no disrespect intended.”

“You’ll have to give me a little more information so I can decide where to take you. It will either be to our flotilla’s base, so you can be asked the same questions by our commander and his officers, or we can take you to Preddi City to be turned over to Caedelli authorities.”

Mark had hoped to reveal as little as possible, but he didn’t want to chance getting tied up in a military bureaucracy—he’d had enough of that on Earth.

“It’s vitally important that we get to the Caedelli authorities, Captain. I especially need to meet with Yozef Kolsko to give him an important message from the Buldorian leadership.”

“The Paramount?” said Captain Maakon, on hearing something unexpected. “What business do you have with the Paramount?”

Then he grunted. “Don’t tell me. It’s only for the Paramount’s ears. Oh, well, I’ll let the Preddi hetman figure it out.”

Maakon called for a crewman, then told him something, and the man went below.

“Crewman Luminin will clear out a storage locker where you can put your belongings and keep the children. I don’t want them on deck. We’ll make straight for Preddi City and should arrive around mid-morning tomorrow. If you squeeze a little, I think all of you can lay out on the floor, but Luminin will see if we have a few extra hammocks.”

“I can hardly believe it, Mark,” said Maghen, when the Fuomi captain walked away. “After all these months and everything we went through, my mind is half afraid to accept that we’re actually going to do it—get to your Caedellium. Of course, now I wonder and worry what we’ll find there. From the maps you showed me, this is the end. There’s no place to go after this. That’s daunting if we find things on the island that make us not want to be there.”

He put an arm around her and pulled her tight against his side. “We’ve both talked to Serwina to get a sense of what we’ll find. The only problem is that she doesn’t know what changes have occurred during the islanders’ fight against the Narthani. Still, I’ve a good feeling that we’ll be able to find a place among the Caedelli. They have to have ranches, so I’ll be able to find work. It’ll be starting over again, but after what we’ve accomplished by getting here, I’ll never doubt we can’t deal with it.”

The four adults spent the remainder of the daylight hours taking turns being on deck and watching Alys and Onyla below deck. Allyr roamed the ship, freely inspecting every aspect of the Fuomi sloop. Within an hour, the crew had good-naturedly adopted him. Serwina had to all but drag him to their crowded cabin/closet when the last light of day faded.

A crewman brought them bread, dried meat, and water at twilight. It was the most uncomfortable night Mark’s family had spent on their long trek but also the shortest leg of the journey. Two hammocks were reserved for Serwina and Onyla in one and Maghen and Alys in the other. They accomplished elimination by using one of two semi-private alcoves on the deck and built into the aft hull. Which of the two they used depended on the direction of the wind. To overcome the awkwardness of using the “facility,” the three women took turns, themselves or helping a child, with Mark holding up a cloth screen, his back turned at the appropriate times. They managed to restrict their visits to once before sleep, once in the middle of the night, and in the morning, after Maghen draped their cloaks to provide more privacy.

At sunup the next morning, another crewman brought similar food as they’d eaten the previous night. An hour later, the lookout sighted land and sang out. Mark went to the forecastle, eager to finally see their destination. Maghen joined him minutes later, took one look at the distant coast, and went to relieve Serwina and Heather from watching Alys and Onyla below deck.

The two women reached the deck, and Serwina broke into tears when she saw land. Heather put an arm around her.

“I never thought I’d see home again,” Serwina said. “I gave up after the first year. After that, I only prayed for Allyr and Onyla, that I wouldn’t lose them entirely. Now that I’m here, I’m twisted. It’s a miracle to return, but I know my husband, Kort, was killed the night of the raid. He stayed behind to give the rest of us a chance to escape. He would have fought until they killed him, but I suppose there’s still a faint hope that somehow he survived.”

She paused as two crewmen passed by, then continued. “I keep forgetting that these men are Fuomi. On the last ship, I wondered every time I saw a Buldorian whether he might be the one who killed Kort.”

At first, Mark groped for something to say to comfort her, then settled for looking ahead.

“I’m sure the Preddi hetman will arrange for you to get to Seaborne Province, Serwina. It may take a few sixdays, but you will get home to the people you never expected to see again.”

She nodded and moved farther along the rail, deep in her own thoughts.

“Does she know that Adel Adalan was the leader of the raid?” asked Heather. “And it may well be that one or more of his crew killed her husband? Allyr told me he knows, but he hasn’t spoken of it to his mother.”

“I don’t know if Serwina is aware of that, and there’s no reason to ask her. What good would it do? And how about you? What are you feeling?”

“Scared. Hopeful. Lonely. Angry. Sad. Happy. You name it. Maybe not all at once, but I seem to cycle through every emotion and then repeat. I’m hoping it’s okay with you and Maghen that I stay fastened to your family. After being effectively alone for so long, I can’t imagine going back to not having someone I can be totally free with—at least occasionally.”

“Don’t worry about it. All three of us are in the same boat, as far as wondering what’s coming next. We’ll insist on staying near one another. A lot will depend on what happens when we meet this Yozef Kolsko. Despite what the Adalans told us, it may be too much to hope for that he’s another castaway. But who knows? After the last few years, I hesitate to say that anything is impossible.”

By mid-morning, they had coasts on both sides of the ship as they entered a bay. Another hour and a city appeared in the distance. Adalan’s estimate was only slightly off, and at mid-day they finished tying off on one of six long piers extending into the bay.

“These piers look new,” Mark said to Maakon. “Same with some of the buildings near the harbor and those two floating forts we passed.”

“No question the Caedelli are industrious,” said Maakon. “I’ve only been here a few months, but I understand that the islanders were on the bucolic side before the Narthani came. The war changed all that. Now, they act like they expect the Narthani back any time, and they’re making every effort to get ready. I’ve seen one of their army exercises, and it’s impressive. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’ve heard it said that in case of another invasion, they can put almost three hundred thousand armed people in the field, including tens of thousands of women. Many of those people may not be the best trained, but after what they did to a Narthani army, I wouldn’t want to bet against them. The one thing they lack is a navy. They’re just building their first sloop, and we’re helping train the men who will crew the ship.”

“Do they intend to develop a big enough navy to defend against another invasion?” Mark asked. He was thinking about European history and how, from the sixteenth century on, most of the best navies were of nations with strong maritime fleets and extensive trading economies. With Caedellium being relatively remote, he felt skeptical about what the island could support.

“I doubt it,” said Maakon. “My impression is they plan on being such a nasty target on land that the Narthani leave them alone. Personally, I think that strategy might work for a while, but if the Narthani conquer Landolin, they might then return to Caedellium, if only to erase the shame of being driven off by the islanders. It would be even worse for the Caedelli if the Iraquiniks also fell to Narthon, but who knows? Such things might never happen or could be too many years away to think about.”

At that moment, Maghen appeared from below deck, followed by the rest of their “Caedelli” party and crewmen who helped carry their belongings.

“Ah, here we go, Kaldwel. I’ll turn you people over to the harbor master, and he’ll probably take you to the hetman.”

Ten Miles West of Preddi City, Preddi Province, Island of Caedellium

Balwis Preddi was having a good day, according to his criterion that he wasn’t attending meetings or doing paperwork. This day seemed especially good with the weather a perfect temperature and only a few clouds in the sky. He sat on a horse he’d ridden nine miles to observe a training exercise for one of the Preddi Clan’s ready companies of dragoons.

“Not bad,” Balwis said to Captain Munmar Kellen. “Your company has markedly improved its coordination, although I notice the platoon in the right end of the position was slower than the other platoons in digging their position.”

Kellen smiled. “I put them at that end because the ground is harder there. I announced that the platoon to finish last would have guard duty tonight. Third platoon is mainly fresh recruits, though they’re plenty eager. I want them to believe they have a ways to go to match the other platoons, so I didn’t want them to come out first in any competition yet.”

Kellen, originally a Narthani officer who had been wounded in the Battle of Orosz City, was subsequently protected by a Farkesh clansman and hidden until his wounds healed. His experiences living among the islanders led him to remain on Caedellium when the rest of the Narthani left. Balwis, on Yozef Kolsko’s recommendation, had enlisted Kellen as a company commander.

“What’s next on your schedule today, Munmar?”

This time, Kellen’s smile was demonic. “Now they’ll fill all the holes back in. Wouldn’t want anyone or any animal to step in a hole and break a leg. Anyway, I like this setting for this exercise, although we might not be able to use it much longer. It’s getting harder to remember where all the previous holes were dug.

“After that, we’ll break for an early, quick mid-day meal. Then we’ll start drilling with the two 12-pounders to be sure every dragoon knows enough to fill the positions of gun crew members who might be casualties in a battle.”

“Could I prevail on you to switch and do the artillery drills first? I’d like to watch awhile before I return to Preddi City. I’d just as soon forgo watching holes being filled.”

“No problem, Hetman, I’ll . . . ” Kellen broke off, as a rider reined in twenty feet away.

The wiry rider was missing most of one arm and had enough pistols and blades attached to his body and saddle for three normal men.

“Wyfor, if there’s some emergency back in Preddi City, I don’t want to hear about it unless it involves my family,” said Balwis.

“All right, you may be late for evening meal with your family because you need to get your ass back to Preddi City. That’s according to Savronel, and who am I, a lowly chief magistrate, to question an adviser to the hetman? There. Your family’s involved.”

“Damn it! Can’t I be away from the clan’s headquarters for even half a day? What’s so important, and why did he send you?”

“Savronel didn’t send me. I volunteered. I wanted to be the one to see your face when you found out a Buldorian ship delivered a group of people claiming to be Caedelli and insisting they meet with Yozef. One of them is a man who Savronel says is not Caedelli, from his accent.”

“Buldorian! Right into Preddi City?”

“No. One of the Fuomi sloops encountered them heading this way. After a parley, the people claiming to be Caedelli were transferred to the sloop. I didn’t talk with the people, but Savronel seemed excited by something they said to him. That alone makes the day special. You know how creepy calm he usually is.”

Preddi Clan Headquarters, Preddi City

Savronel Storlini was waiting on the steps of the same building the Narthani had used for their headquarters. The ex-Narthani was from a people conquered by Narthon only a few generations earlier. He’d had so little allegiance to the Narthani that he had defected in time to give information and advice to Yozef Kolsko and the Caedellium War Council. After the war, he had served as a major adviser to the reborn Preddi Clan. It now consisted of Preddi Clan members who had survived the Narthani destruction of the clan, slaves brought to the island and freed after the fighting, and thousands of Narthani civilians and soldiers who had opted to remain, rather than return to Narthon. It was a mixture rife with potential for cultural clashes and vendettas still simmering below the surface.

“All right, Savronel, what’s going on?” said Balwis, after dismounting and handing his horse’s reins to an armed guard.

“Well, you were complaining yesterday about having to deal with the same problems day after day. I think God heard you. Wyfor must have briefed you. I have the people in one of the rooms on the second floor. Let’s go upstairs, and I’ll tell you about them before you meet our new guests.”

When they reached the second floor, Storlini motioned to a room two doors down from the hetman’s office. “They’re in there.” Two armed guards stood flanking the door. “Two more guards are inside.”

“Four guards? Wyfor said they were mainly women and children. Only one man.”

“The guards are my idea,” said Wyfor, standing behind Balwis. “I felt my skin crawl when I saw the man. I’m not totally confident even four guards can handle him if this is a trick of the Narthani. That’s why I’ll be going with you if you meet them.”

Balwis turned to look at Wyfor, who, despite being small and one-armed, was still one of the most dangerous men the hetman had ever met. He was native Caedelli but had spent decades off the island in places and doing things he still hadn’t told even people close to him. If Wyfor thought this new man was someone to be cautious around, Balwis wouldn’t question the opinion.

They passed through the outer room for aides and clerks and closed the door to the main office.

Storlini nervously rubbed his hands together. “There’s one man, three women, a boy about ten to twelve, and two children. One of the women is undoubtedly Caedelli, along with the boy and a girl about five years old. She says she’s from the Seaborne Clan and was captured on one of the Buldorian raids. I looked at some reports we had copies of, and her account matches a raid on the fishing village of Nollagen—possibly the first raid by the Buldorians. She says she served as a slave or servant for those years—she’s not clear on how to explain the way the Buldorians consider such people. I’ll be interested in talking with her further at a later time.

“One of the women is small and is definitely not from Caedellium. They tried to avoid having her speak, but it’s clear she’s just learning Caedelli. She has some facial features I’ve never seen before, except that many years ago someone told me of Krinolin crewmen with similar features.

“The real mystery comes in with the other two adults—the man and his wife. The man did most of the talking and says he and his wife are from Frangel. That’s not as far away as Krinolin, but not all that much closer. Both of them speak Caedelli, but with a strong accent that I don’t think originates from Caedellium. How that can be, I don’t know.

“I agree with Wyfor’s assessment that the man is someone to be extremely cautious around, but I sent for you right off because of what he claims. He very obviously used the word Amerika several times—as if testing whether it drew a reaction. I did my best not to respond.”

Wyfor laughed. “That means stone-face here didn’t twitch a muscle,” he said. “I’ve told him that sometimes having no response can be as revealing. That’s why I usually beat him at cards. He should have pretended ignorance and asked what ‘Amerika’ refers to instead of saying nothing.”

Storlini ignored Wyfor.

“The man says his name is Mark Kaldwel. He also mentioned he was curious about a man on Caedellium named Yozef Kolsko. I sense he doesn’t know Yozef personally and only has a vague idea he’s the Paramount. So . . . you can see why I sent for you.”

“Should I talk with him apart from the others?” asked Balwis.

“No,” said Storlini. “He seems protective of his family and companions, plus you might as well see them all at once.”

“All right, let’s do it.”

The two hall guards preceded them into the room with the waiting strangers. Balwis caught only part of the hubbub going on before the entrance of the guards quieted the room. It was as Storlini described: one man plus women and children. Most simply stared at Balwis, but the man stood.

Balwis then understood Wyfor’s reaction to the man. He was Balwis’s height, which was taller than most men. Balwis was also robust but found himself sensing the man was far stronger than himself, similar to the way Balwis felt around Carnigan Puvey. However, Carnigan was a known quantity and a friend. This man was an unknown, and Balwis could tell a similar assessment was going on in the opposite direction.

Wyfor pulled a chair to about fifteen feet from Mark. “Hetman.”

Balwis sat, and Wyfor placed himself halfway between the two men but out of line of sight.

Mark sat, aware of the precautions their new hosts were taking.

“Let’s see if I can summarize this,” said Balwis. “Some of you are real Caedelli who were taken captive by Buldorians, one of whose ships brought you all here to Caedellium. One of you is not Caedelli and speaks the language poorly. Two more . . . you and your wife, Kaldwel, speak a version of Caedelli, but you say you’re from Frangel on the other side of the world. You come here looking for a reaction to the word Amerika and show an interest in Yozef Kolsko. If I haven’t misunderstood, I think you need to elaborate.”

Mark smiled. Right to the point, he thought. No puffing himself up to be sure I appreciate he’s the leader of this province. I think I might come to like this guy.

“I and my family are from Frangel. We had to leave because the Narthani were after me. Why? I don’t know exactly, but it started with my recognition of the word Amerika. I later learned it also has something to do with this island and Yozef Kolsko.”

Mark motioned toward Heather and the Kardyls. “On our way here, Heather Chen joined us in Sulako, and Serwina and her children joined in Buldor. While we were in Buldor, a man named Mustafa Adalan gave me a message to give personally to Yozef Kolsko. I also have a personal reason to talk with Kolsko.”

Balwis shook his head. “I’m sure I’ll want to hear many more details, but I can tell you right off that I suspect there’s more to this tale than you’re telling. Frangel is a hell of a long way from here, so why would you come all this way based on just hearing a few words?”

“Besides staying out of the clutches of the Narthani, I needed to come here to find out why ‘Amerika’ is related to Caedellium and Yozef Kolsko. You see, Amerika is the name of the land I’m originally from, as is Heather Chen.”

CHAPTER 43

“WHAT THE—”

Paramount’s Office, Government Complex, Orosz City

Yozef Kolsko sighed as he looked at the stack of paper requiring his attention. He had worked on the pile for three hours in the morning, then had mid-day meal with Hetman Orosz. When he’d returned to the office, the pile of papers he’d made so much progress on during the morning had grown to its original height with the addition of reports arriving in mail packets and semaphore messages that always came in as soon as the light and weather permitted.

That’s one advantage of the semaphore over the telegraph, he thought. At least, nothing can come in at night. The telegraph project was progressing, but relaying and amplifying signals still limited the distance messages could be sent.

“I’ll be going now, Paramount,” said Toowin Kales, one of Yozef’s regular guards, aides, and any other role the four men filled wherever the Paramount went. “I’ll turn you over to Synton.”

The referenced disheveled-looking man lounged in a chair overlooking the mountains. “Go home, Toowin. Just remember you owe me for taking your shift. If I’d known it was going to be a day of Paramount paperwork, I’d have refused.”

Synton Ethlore was more at home outdoors, more so than any of the other three men who served as Yozef’s aides and bodyguards. Yozef attempted to schedule Synton’s tours to suit the man, but Toowin had unexpected personal issues needing attention.

That’s when Yozef noticed on the paper pile a folded sheet he recognized as a semaphore message—the seal broken.

He picked it up. “Did it come this way, or did you break the seal, Synton?”

“Disturb messages to the Paramount? Why would I do that?”

“What does it say?”

“Dammed if I know. Something from Balwis and a lot of nonsense.”

Synton’s incorrigible lack of respect for rank or status was matched by his dependability in difficult situations and Yozef’s belief in the man’s unquestioned loyalty to specific people—a few of whom included Yozef Kolsko and family.

“Although I didn’t read it,” said Synton indifferently, “according to Balwis, a Buldorian ship flying a parley flag got intercepted by a Fuomi sloop. Took a lot of nerve for a Buldorian to show up at Caedellium. Anyway, I guess it was transporting some man who says it’s important that he meet you. Balwis says the man claims he has a message from an important Buldorian to be given only to the Paramount. Balwis included a short message that this man, named Kaldwel, said you would understand. I hope you do because it’s just some garbled letters that don’t mean anything.”

Yozef unfolded the message and read. Balwis’s message matched Synton’s summary, though, for once, Synton was less earthy than Balwis’s wording.

Yozef listened to Synton while reading. His smile froze when he got to the part about the man who needed to meet with the Paramount.

“What the—”

Yozef jerked upright in his chair. He leaned to his right to let more window light hit the paper and read again.

“See what I mean?” said Synton. “The personal message to you is just gibberish.”

While Synton talked, Yozef mouthed, again and again, the words written in Caedelli script at the end of the message. Super boll. Gezus Kriste. Mak Donald. San Fransisko. Shikago. Demokrat. Republikan. Santa Klaus.

THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Olan Thorensen is a pen name. Olan is a long-time science fiction fan (emphasis on ‘long’) who has jumped into independent publication with all its pitfalls and unknowns. He thinks all colors go together: clash, what clash? A fan of Dilbert, Non Sequitur, Peanuts (even if old strips), and still think the end of The Far Side was a tragedy. In his youth, served in the US Special Forces (Vietnam:SOG). Has a Phd in Genetics, around 200 science publications as author and co-author, and is a Fellow of the American Association for the Advancement of Science (AAAS). Lives in the Blue Ridge country of Virginia. Thinks it’s totally cool someone can read his stories and enjoy them. Loves fireflies, thunderstorms, is eclectic in music, and thinks four seasons are better than one.

Please email comments to olanthorensen@gmail.com or through my web site at olanthorensen.com. I promise to read all emails, though I may not be able to answer personally every one.

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Cover by Damonza.com.

Editing by Patricia Waldygo.