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Chapter 4

When the evenly spaced stone pillars marking the border between Orrick and Atlia came into view, Kelyn turned southeast to skirt the border, paralleling the faint trade road that ran that same course. She had learned her lesson about spending too much time in towns—for now—and had discovered that if she approached with plenty of field-dressed game in hand, she could sell her bounty, treat herself to a good meal, and move on with a few more coins in her purse and a trinket or two in her satchel.

The outlands.

The lands themselves were no real problem; easy to learn the ways of, and easy to adapt to for one used to harsh Keturan climes. The people, now . . .

Ketura, with its seldom-breeding women—another decision of its god—left women to fill the roles that best helped them to survive. Hunter, fighter, gatherer, weaver, healer . . . as they chose and were able. But these outlands—Orrick's, at least—were fertile ones, and the men and women lived within closely defined roles.

Kelyn fit in neither. But she didn't worry overmuch for their judgment of her. Instead she stuffed her winter boots in the satchel to travel barefoot despite the disdain it garnered; disdain, after all, didn't stop them from trading for her game. She practiced the changing dialect of the language, and was relieved to learn that the basic language itself changed little until one entered the Hurstian lands beyond Atlia—or returned to Ketura.

And every morning, she found high ground. Staff in hand, the snow panther fur rippling at her shoulders and the cloak belling gently away from her legs, Kelyn stood tall, unconcerned that the rising sun limned her with light and painted her for all the world to see. She'd met nothing in this land worth hiding from. She dangled the trouble dowser high in the air, waiting for it to do something other than sway in the warming breeze, and not sure what that would be when it finally happened.

Maybe, she decided after a double handful of days, she used the needle incorrectly, or missed its subtle signs, for surely in these outer lands of men like Busted Balls and Gort, there was trouble to be found on a regular basis. Or maybe it wasn't worth anything anyway, and she should just follow her own nose for trouble and see if it led to her father.

She needn't have concerned herself. On a morning of drizzling spring rain, with the cloak's fur sticking up in spiky wet patches and her hand grateful for the leather grip on her staff, Kelyn blinked water from her lashes to double check what she thought she saw—what she did see. The needle strained away from her, pulling her south. Across the border and into Atlia's unknown ways. Kelyn tucked the needle away and shouldered the satchel, heading into trouble with a light in her eyes and a grin on her face.

As the drizzle ceased, she struck pony tracks in the rain-soft grasses, fresh and wide-spaced, and she lengthened her own stride to match, the satchel bouncing on her shoulders, the staff skimming the grass. The undulating ground rose before her, turning harder—Atlia's land—the grass sparser, as she crested the top of a hill and stopped short, surveying the scene laid out before her—the pony, down, and two panicked children frantically tugging at it. Coming in from a slightly different angle from Kelyn, hidden from them by the sweep of the low hills, a rider cantered at them, his pace leisurely, his manner assured.

The children—a boy and a girl—gave up on their boldly spotted pony and started to run—and then, realizing the futility of it, dove back for the pony, putting it between the rider and themselves. Split up! Kelyn thought at them, but of course they weren't doing it, and wouldn't. Kelyn shed her cloak and pack in one swift movement and charged down the hill behind the children, the noise of her approach lost in the nearing hoofbeats. The man saw her; he leaned over his mount's neck and urged it forward, and it became a race, fleet bare feet flying downhill against four pounding hooves.

Kelyn got there first. She leapt over children and pony both, startling shrieks from the children and avoiding the pony's thrashing legs, and straightened into guard before them.

The rider pulled his horse up short, a wary but unconcerned eye on the staff. "These are mine," he said, spitting the words out in harsh syllables; he held a coil of rope in the hand with the reins, a whip in the other.

"They don't look like they want to be yours." Kelyn gave the staff a lazy turn, a promise of action.

"He's a—" one of the children cried in a thin voice, but the name he used for the rider wasn't a word that Kelyn knew. Her face must have shown it, for the man rested his hand against his saddle pommel, and regarded her with less hostility.

It was the expression of a man who knew he could afford to be reasonable, because he expected to get his way in the end. And he looked like a man used to getting his own way, for his horse was sleek and his clothing—leather and well-tailored cloth—hardly worn. Finely made gloves protected his hands from rope and rein, and a well-oiled scabbard rode his hip.

"Slaver," she said, repeating the word. "And what is that? What are you?"

"I sell goods," he said, as if it were no matter. "The children are mine; I saw them first. Find your own if you want them."

Kelyn shifted uneasily. There was more going on here than she understood, and his casual attitude worried her. "The children belong to themselves."

"He'll take us away!" the other child said—a girl's voice, frightened into thinness. "He'll sell us!"

Sell them? Kelyn narrowed her eyes. The man only smiled at her, unpleasant—and satisfied. Not pushing her; happy enough to drag this out. "There are others," she said with sudden perception.

Agreeably, he said, "Not far behind." He hefted the whip, as if judging where best to apply its lash. "We'll be glad enough to take three instead of two. You, now—you're as much a prize as both children together. So if you're thinking of running, I wouldn't bother. I'll round them up later—after I've got you."

You alone would be worth twice the distance they rode, Rika had said to her, and Kelyn hadn't understood. Now, suddenly, she did. She spat at the horse's feet, startling it. "Then come and get me," she told the rider. "Before I get you."

"Kill him!" the boy child shouted.

"Take his horse!" the girl said, more sensibly.

Yes, the horse. With the horse, all three of them could get away from the slaver's friends. Kelyn showed her teeth at the man and whirled the staff in a complicated figure-eight pattern, perfected by years of practice and many barked shins.

He shook his head and lifted the reins, and Kelyn saw that he simply meant to dance out of her reach until his friends arrived. Instantly she darted forward, bringing the stout ironwood down across the horse's nose with a carefully measured blow and taking both horse and man—and children—by complete surprise.

"Don't hit the horse!" the girl screamed at her, while the creature struggled to deal with both its pain and the sudden haul on the reins as its rider tried to force it out of reach. It reared, and the man cursed—another word Kelyn didn't know, though she thought she'd learned all of those—and though Kelyn dodged out of the way of those hooves, she couldn't avoid the lash that came down on her shoulder, splitting her tunic and skin alike. The horse skittered sideways, leaving Kelyn behind despite her desperate lunge to close on it. The lash wrapped around her staff, yanking it from her grasp.

If he expected it to slow her down, he was wrong; while he jerked the whip to free it of her staff, she closed the ground between them, coming up hard against the horse's side when, still fighting the reins, it abruptly reversed its movement. She lost all the air in her lungs with a grunt, but not her purpose—digging her fingers around the man's arm and scabbard belt, she dragged him down with her as she fell.

He landed on top of her and tried to roll away, clawing for the knife on his belt, but she went with him; they tumbled and grappled and then suddenly he was sitting on top of her, his hands pinning her arms by her head and his hips wisely and quickly lowering to sit on hers, where the kick she'd already been aiming couldn't land on his most vulnerable parts. There, he grinned at her. "Nothing like a little hands-on check of the merchandise," he said, and ground his hips into hers most suggestively.

Kelyn smiled back. Before it could make him wary, she gave a quick buck of her hips and twisted beneath him, making no effort to free her arms but letting them twine and cross where they were as she flipped to her belly and kicked up and back with limber fury, stunning him with a boot between the shoulders and another, as he jerked in reaction, on the back of his neck.

And then suddenly she had help, for as she yanked herself free of his grip, the children fell upon him, and she snatched the boy's thin arm just before it rammed a knife into the man's chest. Wresting the small knife away, she jammed it up the man's nose, stopping just short of ripping through his nostril. Dazed as he was, he instantly froze, recognizing the cold sharp steel even in that totally unexpected place.

"Be good," Kelyn told him, and then turned a sensible eye on the boy's frustration. "I need the shirt," she said. "He's ruined mine."

She did indeed, she decided, like the feel of fine cloth against her skin. She shrugged into the leather vest that went over it, swiftly searching the pockets and divesting herself of the man's sniffing tin, a disgustingly used piece of the thinnest leather she'd ever seen, and a yellowed tooth strung on a cracking thong. Suspecting the last to be magic of some sort, she used the butt of his knife—also now hers—to grind it into powder, ignoring his inarticulate grunt of protest.

He might have been more articulate had he not been tied and gagged, the skin on his hairy chest goose-pimpling in the resumed drizzle, but the boy had knotted him up well, and Kelyn doubted he'd free himself no matter how long it took his friends to arrive. Kelyn adjusted his wide leather belt around her hips, trying to decide if she wanted to bother with it, and finally rammed the knife home in its ornate sheath; she could always sell it if she chose. Her own lighter belt and sheath, she arranged over it.

Behind her, the boy, crying silent tears, slit his pony's throat; the creature had stepped in a hole and snapped its leg, and the boy had refused to let Kelyn see to its disposal. The girl, who was crying even harder, had nonetheless grimly set herself to the task of catching the horse and tying Kelyn's satchel to the saddle.

Kelyn discovered a hook on the side of the belt, and scooped up the whip, coiling it and settling it into place. Perhaps she could teach herself its use.

When she looked up, the girl was in the saddle and the boy stood by the horse's nose, waiting for Kelyn to mount up. From his expression—resentment and calculation—she had the feeling he'd fought with and overcome the impulse to climb up and leave her where she was; the three of them on the horse certainly might slow the animal enough to jeopardize their escape. But he waited, adjusting the bridle so the noseband didn't fall on the rising lump from Kelyn's blow, and muttering something to his crying sister that made her straighten and wipe her wrist across her nose. They were ragged children, and thin, but strong and attractive, their hair and skin and eyes all shades of golden brown. And both were covered with enough clothing to protect them from the rain—a shapeless dress for her, with skirts full enough to allow her to ride astride, and calf-length trousers for him, both topped with patched but serviceable short-waisted jackets.

Without any plan other than that of escaping the slaver's friends—and disregarding her severe disinclination to put herself on the back of a horse for the first time—Kelyn reached for the stirrup.

The horse had other ideas. As her foot jammed at the wooden stirrup, he jumped aside; she landed on her rump on the hard ground. "Ketura's balls," she muttered. "It wasn't personal. Stand still." But some part of her was greatly relieved when a second attempt brought the same results.

The boy shook his head. "He's not going to allow it, mistress."

Mistress. Kelyn snorted, and let the frippery pass; the girl gave a nervous look in the direction they'd run from, clearly expecting to see slavers at any moment. "Get up," Kelyn told the boy, and at his hesitation, asked, "You can ride this horse, yes?"

He reacted as though stung by the greatest insult. "Of course!"

"Ride, then. I'll run. Do you have people? Take me to them."

He took a moment to process her staccato of directives, then grabbed the saddle and pulled himself up. "We won't leave you behind."

A generous statement, considering he'd clearly already pondered doing just that, but his determined expression was convincing enough. Kelyn's fingers settled into their familiar depressions in the padded grip of the staff, and she started them off, settling into a strong pace that surprised the children but didn't leave them behind for long. As they settled in beside her, bouncing generously but without concern at the horse's fast trot, Kelyn's stomach grumbled. She hoped that wherever they were headed, she would find breakfast.

As the rain stopped for good, the children led her to a copse of stunted trees, following the shallow creek they had run across soon after leaving the slaver behind. Atlia, she had heard, was a stingy god, and so far his land proved it. The grasses were sparse, and the very same oaks that populated Orrick's land—when they somehow managed to get a roothold—grew to only half the size, their leaves just breaking out when Orrick's trees already held bright spring foliage. Even the creek was stingy, a trickle over a rocky creek bed that was lined with short, tangled nettles on either side. It made Kelyn long for Ketura, where the living was hard but the harsh beauty of the mountains made her feel alive inside.

She paced the horse until she spotted the wagons within the trees, and then fell back; the children forged ahead and soon an outcry from the camp told her they'd been spotted. Breathing deeply but easily, she shook out her arms from the run—but stopped walking outright when she saw the number of people who poured out from the copse to surround the children, all of them talking and gesturing, pointing at the horse, asking questions. In return the boy pointed at her, and as one, everyone from the camp turned to look at Kelyn. Their sudden silence was as overwhelming as their gabble of questions.

Well. Here she was, and there was nowhere else to go; while she had already learned enough not to presume on her welcome, she doubted that she was in any immediate danger from these people. She resumed her approach, wishing she hadn't handed her staff to the girl along the run, or that she'd gotten it back before they moved ahead. She did a quick mental tally of the weapons she carried—familiar and unfamiliar—took note of the fact that none of them carried a long blade, and decided that she was safe enough. Right up to the group she walked, long confident strides—careful, now more than ever, not to take one of her stumbles—that carried her to the edge of it but no closer.

The boy said something in a quick, tongue-rolling language, and then spoke so Kelyn could understand. "This one saved us. Without her, Darada and I would be gone to slavers."

She was sure he'd said as much before her arrival, but the words seemed to be a signal of sorts, for suddenly the group boiled around her, touching her on the arms, the back, her hair . . . they, like the children, were a spare people, and Kelyn topped all but the tallest of the men. Though she found their close attention bewildering, it fell short of threatening. She stood for them until someone clasped a hand on her whip-lacerated shoulder. Ketura's balls! Hissing, she batted the hand aside.

Again, the silence was instant, until the girl spoke quickly in their language; understanding crossed their faces—handsome faces, she thought, with deep gold hair that matched their browned complexions in a mildly startling fashion, and rounded features—rounded noses, rounded cheeks and chins—completely unlike the flatter Keturan planes Kelyn was used to seeing, or her own mix of her mother's aquiline lines and her father's Keturan features. One of the older women stepped forward and patted her arm with unnerving familiarity. "Come," she said. "I'll care for your wound."

They drew her into the copse, where she discovered that they had managed to conceal an entire camp—wagons, fire circles, a number of goats and chickens, cats that waited until she was nearly upon them and then trotted off with great purpose, right across her path . . . there was even a herd of horses on the other side of the copse, spread out to graze on the poor pasture, their bell mare hobbled in the middle of them.

It was, she concluded, more like a traveling village than a caravan, and she soon found herself sitting in the center of it, her satchel and staff by her side, the children merged into the group, the horse turned out with the others. Her seat—a leather hammock slung between two side pieces—wobbled beneath her, eliciting grins from those who still gathered around her.

There were fewer of them now; most had gone about their business. Those who remained seemed to have some purpose—an older man who received deference from all the others, the older woman who had spoken to her and now sat beside her, a young woman of Kelyn's age who brought a shallow pan of water and an intricately woven wicker basket to set at the healer's feet, the couple whom Kelyn had pegged as the children's parents, another babe clutching at their legs. . . .

It was naught to Kelyn if they stayed. She shrugged out of the vest, pulling the long shirt free of the knife belts and crossing her arms to grab the hem and pull the shirt over her head—

"Oh, no," the older woman said, hasty words. "The shirt is large; I'm certain it will pull down over your wound."

Kelyn glanced around at their shock, and at the men's carefully averted eyes, and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "There's nothing new there," she said, nonetheless pulling the shirt ties loose so she could peel the blood-striped material from her shoulder without choking herself.

The healer gave a matter-of-fact mutter and set to work. She sponged the wound clean and salved it, and Kelyn expected that to be the end of it, but a gesture from the woman stayed her hand when she would have eased the shirt back into place. With the young woman watching, the healer laid precise strips of a soft, limp leaf along the oozing welt. She rested her fingertips on it, and nodded to the young woman, who moved up behind Kelyn to do the same; they joined hands, palm to palm, fingers laced.

Mystified, Kelyn watched without fear; even so, she couldn't help but jerk away when a sharp, painful tingle ran the length of the wound. Rika never did that. The woman ignored her frown, her accusing stare, and pulled the shirt up, tugging the ties closed to her satisfaction. She gave Kelyn a final pat on the knee as she rose and left, followed by the young woman.

"You're not used to healing magic," the older man said. "Leave the alchfeth where it is; it'll drop off in a day or two, when the wound is healed."

"It'll take longer than a day to heal this," Kelyn said with certainty.

The man made no attempt to convince her. "My name is Gergo. We owe you a great debt, more than any small healing can repay. We can offer you supplies, although our trading has been slow in this area, as ever. Or we can offer you some service. At the least, we insist on feasting you tonight. The slavers prey hard upon our people, and our children are precious to us; we will do what we can to show you so."

Kelyn shook her head. "I stopped that man because he needed to be stopped, not for any reward you might offer." But . . . feasting? Her stomach showed great interest, not listening to her mouth at all.

Gergo frowned, stiffening, while the couple exchanged an unreadable glance. Kelyn shifted in the hammock seat—carefully, but she almost tipped it anyway—not sure what she'd said wrong but quite sure she'd said it. Why couldn't everyone speak Keturan?

"If our goods are not to your liking, we will find some other way," Gergo said. "We have a number of handsome young men—"

Kelyn scowled. A beauty she wasn't, but to have such implication that she needed their pity— "I find my own men!" she snapped, disregarding the fact that she hadn't ever done so.

"Are our children not worth such a gift?" the father said, bristling.

Kelyn stood, facing him, reminding him of her height. I stopped the slaver. I can stop you.

A low chuckle broke the tension as the healer returned to them, shaking her head. "Can't I leave you for a minute, old man? Even a Trader king cannot rule the outside as he would his people. This one, I think, is so new to this land that she knows not of us at all. How can you expect her to know our ways?"

"There are no other ways," Gergo said, but if he did so with resentment, it was also without force, and he took a step back, as did the children's father.

The healer said, "I am Lenci. I would have your name, now, child. That is important to us."

"Kelyn," Kelyn said, still wary, one hand on the hilt of the slaver's big knife, ready for any quick reversal of her hosts' mood and annoyed enough to let it show.

Lenci gestured at the hammock seat. "Kelyn. Please sit. You must know that while a Trader will bargain with you for every advantage in the marketplace, we cannot abide being on the short end of gifting. You have made us a gift by saving the children. We do insist on returning it with a bigger one."

Kelyn looked at her a moment, and then eyed the parents, who seemed to be holding their breath. She didn't see how one could offer a bigger gift than saving someone's children for them, but she suspected that was not a thing to say out loud, and thus stopped herself just in time. Finally, she nodded. "I understand," she said, "but since it is not my way, perhaps you won't mind if I just think about it for a while."

"Say, during a feast?" Lenci suggested.

Kelyn nodded. "I am," she said, trying to play the role these people wanted of her, "very hungry."

"Food now," Gergo declared, "and the feast in its time. To judge from the growl of your stomach, you might not last long enough to put this feast together!" They all had a laugh at Kelyn's expense—for her stomach had indeed been grumbling, even through the tension of their short confrontation—and then Gergo pointed at the children's mother. "Gazi, it is your place to see to the gathering of things. And Tass, it is yours to clear a place for the dancing."

Dancing. Kelyn's heart fell. Her idea of dancing was of a drum-led charge of feet, vigorous and aggressive movements that she'd quickly learned had no place in Orrick's world and, she was certain, would have no place here. And she had the strong suspicion that in order to partake properly of this feast they insisted on giving her, she would have to dance. Then, her feet—learning new steps—would show how well they could stumble.

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