"Be quiet," said Da.

"Very good advice," said the guard.

Da reached into his purse and withdrew the coins. "The Council's going to hear about this."

"Give them my regards."

Da picked up the reins and flicked Iron Boy on.

Smoke from a multitude of chimneys trailed into the sky, the wind blowing it like a sooty smear toward the sea.

Talen hated the Fir-Noy. But he was beginning to hate some of the members of his own race. The smith and his wife. They had tainted all the rest of them. Brought down a load of grief. He was happy the smith died. He deserved it. His wickedness was treachery, a stab in everyone's back. He thought about what Da was doing with the hatchlings. That was treachery too. Couldn't Da see that?

The farther they traveled, the houses became taller and more closely placed. More and more were made of brick and stone. Yet, between roofs, Talen caught glimpses of the temple on its hill and the seven statues for the coming Festival of Gifts. At the end of the festival, the community would pull down the statue for Regret, tie it to a boat, and send it out to sea. And while it burned upon the water, thousands would sing the hymn of defiance along the shorelines. This same ritual would be repeated by the other clans in their cities, but none would match the festival held here in Whitecliff.

Of course, this year it would not be the same. Usually, the reigning Divine would bestow gifts during the festival, including healings for man and beast. The festival was one of the regular times for people to offer the days of their life up for the good of all by letting the Divine draw quantities of their Fire. It was also during the festival that common men were raised to the ranks of the dreadmen. But none of that would happen this year.

Talen took his eyes from the temple and looked up the road. They were almost upon the lodgers field. Not all of the merchants could afford to raise a booth or tent in the central square. Those slots went to many of the permanent families who held homes in the city itself. But there were three other spots in the city where merchants paid to set up their business. This was the largest of those, a ten-acre field filled with tents of all colors-blue-and-white trimmed with yellow, scarlet-and-black, green-and-blue-each with pennants above them declaring who they were and what they sold.

"Look," Nettle said and pointed. "The Kish."

Talen looked and saw the black-and-white tent of the Kish bowmaster. He was surprised that merchant was here. In the last four years of Bone Face raids, many merchants had become wary of sending ships to the New Lands. And now with the Sleth, it was a wonder those who did come would stay. Kish bows were the finest made. They were small and powerful, made of wood, sinew, and bone. He could have the finest bow for sale along with a few dozen bundles of arrows; all he had to do was turn those hatchlings in.

Talen watched a merchant's guard chase two boys away from a wagon, and then, with a jolt of the wagon, the road turned from a humped dirt affair with weeds growing in the middle to a flat cobblestone street.

What a fine arrangement for the rich to be able to step out of their houses in the middle of a rain and not muddy their boots.

Up ahead, people thronged the way. In front of them a man led an ass laden with bundles of dried hemp. To the side a young woman wearing a yellow hat pointed to a clay prayer disk laying on a holy man's table. Each disk was engraved with some type of boon-the holy man would write your name on the disk in ink, then you could hang it on the wooden statue in front of the temple and let the fires carry your request to the ears of the Creators.

A young boy carrying a yoke of water across his shoulders cut in front of the wagon, followed by a girl in a pale blue dress selling candles that hung from a pole fitted with a double cross.

Da halted Iron Boy. When the two had passed, he flicked the reins again. A few minutes later, Da turned off the busy street, following the lane that led to Master Farkin's. Farkin's house stood three stories high and had half a dozen smoking chimneys. Talen wondered how it would be to have a hearth in almost every room. A lot of work or money in firewood, that's what it would be. Perhaps that woodsman was on his way here.

A servant stood outside the door. Da went inside to see what price he could get for the pelts they had brought.

While Talen waited on the back of the wagon, two carriages rolled by, their curtains drawn. When Da came back out, he had Talen and Nettle help him carry the pelts down an alley into a yard in the back of the house.

Master Farkin was, according to Da, one of the few merchants who bargained a fair price with every man, regardless of clan.

While they were making the exchange, Master Farkin said, "Have you heard the news about the Envoy?"

"Mokad has sent an Envoy?"

"Not only an Envoy, but a Skir Master. The message just came today. We're saved."

"Is he here to stay?" asked Da.

"Nobody knows. There was no word of his coming until the birds arrived today. But it bodes well. We can, at the very least, hope for a hunt."

"Creators be blessed," Da said, smooth as cream. But Talen knew he didn't mean a word of that.

"And look at this one," Master Farkin said of Talen. "I would suspect that the girls would find much to admire there."

"If they do," said Talen, "they have a funny way of showing it."

"Oh?"

"They tend to run away," said Nettle.

Master Farkin chuckled. He asked after Captain Argoth, told them he needed more mink, suggested they avoid the Dog Street tailors, then bid them goodbye.

Da asked Talen and Nettle to join him up on the seat. When they'd pulled out into the road, Da said, "Kindness, boys. It's irresistible. Don't you think?"

"Some people are immune to it," said Nettle.

"I don't know," said Da. "Sometimes kindness can even renew the hate-salted field of a man's heart."

"But people won't see kindness if they don't trust you," said Talen. He was thinking of the lies they'd told the bailiff. The small lie Da had just told Master Farkin. What if Master Farkin discovered Da's treachery? And that's what it was, legally. How much kindness would he show then?

Da ignored his comment and asked, "How does your arm feel?"

The question annoyed Talen. "It feels fine," he said. Then he realized it felt more than fine. His whole body felt rested and fresh, like he'd just woken up from a long and lovely sleep.

"Good," said Da. "A little more patience, son. And we'll have our chat. You're almost ready."

"You talk as if you're waiting for a loaf of dough to rise before you put it in the oven."

"That's not a bad analogy."

What in the Six was he talking about? "I don't know that I want to be a loaf of bread."

"I don't know that I want to wait for my father," said Nettle. "I'd like to get it straight from you, Uncle."

"We'll see," said Da. "But Master Farkin's news has changed things a bit. I don't want you to wait for me. You must not. Deliver the goods we have left and take a message back to River. Tell her the news of the Envoy. Then tell her to prepare the garden for a frost."

"But we're weeks away from a turn in the seasons."

"You want to be trusted?" asked Da. "Then do this thing."

The way Da said that made Talen think there was more to the message than he supposed. "I'll take it."

"Tell her not to delay," said Da. They threaded their way through the street up to the fortress. At one point, Talen heard a woman singing to the sound of a lyre and found the sound was coming from an open window one level up on the other side of the street. He was at such an angle that he could see in the window. It wasn't a woman at all, but a girl. A tall Mokaddian girl who watched him as she sang.

When they came to the intersection that ended the street they'd been traveling and started the one to the fortress, Da stopped the wagon. He reached under the seat and retrieved the Hog, then opened his purse and gave Talen a number of coins.

"Do not wait for me. They might keep me for an hour or seven. So get the supplies and make the visit to the widow Lees. Now tell me the list."

Talen recited all the things they needed. When he finished, Da said, "Don't pay the smith one grain more than fifteen measures for the maul."

Talen didn't know how they'd fare without one of them wearing the token of the Council. "Are you sure you don't want us to wait?"

"You'll be all right," said Da. "You've got Nettle with you." Then he handed Talen five more coppers. "Purchase some honey; we'll let your sister eat her own poison."

"I'm just thinking that it's not safe for you to travel back through the wood at night," said Talen.

"I'll be fine," said Da. "Finish your business and go directly home. Remember, not everyone here is like the guard at the gate." Then he put the Hog over one shoulder and walked up the road to the fortress.

Talen took the reins. That was all fine for Da to say, him and his Hog and the Council's sash about his chest. But Talen had nothing more than a whittling knife. Then Talen realized that maybe Da was trying to tell him that he trusted him. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more sure he was of Da's intentions. Talen appreciated the thought, but Da could have chosen a better time to make his point.

Talen looked up at the sun. It was past noon. He would have to hurry to make it home before nightfall. And if he didn't?

Well, he would. So he didn't need the answer to that question.

SNAKE GAMES.

A.

s Talen drove the wagon, watching the faces of those they passed, he became sure of this fact: sooner or later some overvigilant Mokaddian would see Talen and decide he didn't belong in this city. Someone would decide he needed to be taught a lesson. It was common for such lessons to be delivered in the form of a thrown object-rotten food, dog turds, the ever-handy rock. But Talen didn't think he'd get off so easy this time. So he watched where he drove the wagon, but he kept his attention on the corners of streets, on odd windows, and sudden intersections.

Having Nettle along should dissuade some from molesting him. But while there were many even-headed Mokaddians like Master Farkin, there were others who were not.

He stopped at two houses to purchase harness rings and forty feet of tight hemp rope, keeping an eye out the whole time, but the owners of neither house would let him in. Nor would they allow Nettle in his stead. At the third house Talen sat back at the wagon like a servant and sent Nettle to the door as his master. Only then were they able to obtain the goods.

When Nettle came back, he asked, "What have I got to do to get something to eat?"

"I've got people giving me the eye and all you can think about is your stomach?"

"What?" asked Nettle. "I can't get hungry?"

Talen shook his head. But after stopping at the honey-crafter's, Nettle walked over to a new baker's house to buy a small meal.

Talen waited again in the wagon. A group of men only a few yards down the road talked among themselves and kept looking up the lane at him.

He didn't dare look at them directly, but it didn't matter. They reached some conclusion and all turned to face his direction.

At that moment Nettle exited the baker's, holding something folded up in the bottom of his tunic.

Talen was only too happy to release the brake and flick the reins and start Iron Boy. Nettle shouted, but Talen didn't pull back.

Nettle caught up to the wagon, holding his tunic with one hand, then jumped in and sat beside Talen on the wagon seat.

"What are you doing?" asked Nettle.

Talen glanced back, knowing the men would be following, but they hadn't. They stood watching him and Nettle go.

"One of these days," said Talen, "your stomach is going to get me killed."

Nettle followed Talen's gaze. "Goh, those dogs weren't about to do anything but bark. Besides, look what I got." Nettle let his tunic down.

In it lay a disgusting half loaf of bread pudding and a dozen ginger cookies. "Am I good to you or what?" asked Nettle.

The cookies were one of Talen's favorites, but now wasn't a time to think of food. He glanced back once more. The men had not dispersed nor turned back to talking among themselves.

"Lords and lice," Talen said.

Nettle took a fat, moist bite of his pudding. "I don't think they like you."

"Really," Talen said. "What gave you that idea? We've got to get out of here."

"Act natural," said Nettle. "Here, have a bite." He held up his pudding. It had currants and cashews mixed in with a good helping of something green and shaggy. The whole thing was held together by a wiggling gelatin that reminded Talen of animal birthings.

"I think I'd like to focus on the matter at hand."

"What you want to do is distract yourself because if you spook, those men will spook. Now take a bite."

Nettle had a point. Talen waved off the bread pudding mess, took one of the ginger cookies, and bit into it. It was baked with sugar, and while it crunched on the outside, the inside was soft and just about melted in his mouth. Any other situation and he'd swear he'd visited the gardens of the righteous.

Talen glanced over at Nettle, who promptly showed him the contents of his mouth.

"I hope you gag," said Talen. "And when folks ask how you died, I'll tell them you did it eating pig food."

Nettle laughed. "No, you won't. You'll remember I used it to save your life. And then you'll eat it the rest of your days."

"Being sickened by animal birthings is hardly a rescue," said Talen.

"It's a distraction," said Nettle. "And it worked, didn't it?"

It had, but Talen wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.

They crossed a small bridge spanning a muddy canal and then turned onto Fuller's Lane.

Down the lane two young men circled a large black rat snake. It was as long as Talen's leg and as thick as his wrist.

Talen tensed. He didn't have to see their faces to know who they were. It was Fabbis and that lazy-eyed Sabin with his head shaved and dyed with temple henna.

So much for disgusting mouthfuls of bread pudding. Suddenly Talen's cookies didn't taste so good anymore. He took a drink of water from a goat's bladder to wash them down.

"Fancy pants," Nettle said.

Fabbis wore a pair of finely woven scarlet-and-yellow trousers. The worth of the fabric covering that moron's sweaty bum alone was more than everything Talen had put together.

Talen turned his head, not wanting to make eye contact with Fabbis.