Dragon's Teeth Read online

  But then, not a great deal had survived the Evil Days. Those trees, for instance, showed signs of having once been a purposeful planting, but so many generations had passed since the Evil Days they were now as wild as any forest.

  Chali headed, not for the camp, but for the unpicketed string of horses grazing beyond. She wanted to sound out Pika. If he was willing to stay here, this Mayor Kevin would have his gentle old pony for his son, and cheap at the price. Chali knew Pika would guard any child in his charge with all the care he would give one of his own foals. Pika was a stallion, but Chali would have trusted a tiny baby to his care.

  Petro trusted her judgment in matters of finding their horses homes; a few months ago she had allowed him to sell one of their saddlebred stallions and a clutch of mares to mutual satisfaction on the part of horses, Rom, and buyers. Then it had been a series of sales of mules and donkeys to folk who wound up treating them with good sense and more consideration than they gave to their own well-being. And in Five Points she had similarly placed an aging mare Petro had raised from a filly, and when Chali had helped the rom baro strain his meager dook to bid her farewell, Lisa had been nearly incoherent with gratitude for the fine stable, the good feeding, the easy work.

  Horses were bred into Chali’s blood, for like the rest of this kumpania, she was of the Lowara natsiyi—and the Lowara were the Horsedealers. Mostly, anyway, though there had been some Kalderash, or Coppersmiths, among them in the first years. By now the Kalderash blood was spread thinly through the whole kumpania. Once or twice in each generation there were artificers, but most of rom baro Petro’s people danced to Lowara music.

  She called to Pika without even thinking his name, and the middle-aged pony separated himself from a knot of his friends and ambled to her side. He rubbed his chestnut nose against her vest and tickled her cheek with his whiskers. His thoughts were full of the hope of apples.

  No apples, greedy pig! Do you like this place? Would you want to stay?

  He stopped teasing her and stood considering, breeze blowing wisps of mane and forelock into his eyes and sunlight picking out the white hairs on his nose. She scratched behind his ears, letting him take his own time about it.

  The grass is good, he said, finally. The Gaje horses are not ill-treated. And my bones ache on cold winter mornings, lately. A warm stable would be pleasant.

  The blacksmith has a small son—she let him see the picture she had stolen from the qajo’s mind, of a blond-haired, sturdily built bundle of energy. The gajo seems kind.

  The horses here like him, came the surprising answer. He fits the shoe to the hoof, not the hoof to the shoe. I think I will stay. Do not sell me cheaply.

  If Chali could have laughed aloud, she would have. Pika had been Romano’s in the rearing—and he shared more than a little with that canny trader. I will tell Romano—not that I need to. And don’t forget, prala, if you are unhappy—

  Ha! the pony snorted with contempt. If I am unhappy, I shall not leave so much as a hair behind me!

  Chali fished a breadcrust out of her pocket and gave it to him, then strolled in the direction of Romano’s vurdon. When this kumpania had found itself gifted with dook, with more draban than they ever dreamed existed, it had not surprised them that they could speak with their horses; Lowara Rom had practically been able to do that before. But draban had granted them advantages they had never dared hope for—

  Lowara had been good at horsestealing; now only the Horseclans could better them at it. All they needed to do was to sell one of their four-legged brothers into the hands of the one they wished to . . . relieve of the burdens of wealth. All the Lowara horses knew how to lift latches, unbar gates, or find the weak spot in any fence. And Lowara horses were as glib at persuasion as any of their two-legged friends. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the Lowara would return to the kumpania trailing a string of converts.

  And if the kumpania came across horses that were being mistreated . . .

  Chali’s jaw tightened. That was what had set the Chosen at their throats.

  She remembered that day and night, remembered it far too well. Remembered the pain of the galled beasts that had nearly driven her insane; remembered how she and Toby had gone to act as decoys while her mother and father freed the animals from their stifling barn.

  Remembered the anger and fear, the terror in the night, and the madness of the poor horse that had been literally goaded into running her and Toby down.

  It was just as well that she had been comatose when the “Chosen of God” had burned her parents at the stake—that might well have driven her completely mad.

  That anger made her sight mist with red, and she fought it down, lest she broadcast it to the herd. When she had it under control again, she scuffed her way slowly through the dusty, flattened grass, willing it out of her and into the ground. She was so intent on controlling herself that it was not until she had come within touching distance of Romano’s brightly painted vurdon that she dared to look up from the earth.

  Romano had an audience of children, all gathered about him where he sat on the tail of his wooden wagon. She tucked up against the worn side of it, and waited in the shade without drawing attention to herself, for he was telling them the story of the Evil Days.

  “So old Simza, the drabarni, she spoke to the rom baro of her fear, and a little of what she had seen. Giorgi was her son, and he had dook enough that he believed her.”

  “Why shouldn’t he have believed her?” tiny Ami wanted to know.

  “Because in those days draban was weak, and even the o phral did not always believe in it. We were different, even among Rom. We were one of the smallest and least of kumpania then; one of the last to leave the old ways—perhaps that is why Simza saw what she saw. Perhaps the steel carriages the Rom had taken to, and the stone buildings they lived in, would not let draban through.”

  “Steel carriages? Rom chal, how would such a thing move? What horse could pull it?” That was Tomy, skeptical as always.

  “I do not know—I only know that the memories were passed from Simza to Yanni, to Tibo, to Melalo, and so on down to me. If you would see, look.”

  As he had to Chali when she was small, as he did to every child, Romano the Storyteller opened his mind to the children, and they saw, with their dook, the dim visions of what had been. And wondered.

  “Well, though there were those who laughed at him, and others of his own kumpania that left to join those who would keep to the cities of the Gaje, there were enough of them convinced to hold to the kumpania. They gave over their Gaje ways and returned to the old wooden vurdon, pulled by horses, practicing their old trades of horsebreeding and metal work, staying strictly away from the cities. And the irony is that it was the Gaje who made this possible, for they had become mad with fascination for the ancient days and had begun creating festivals that the Yanfi kumpania followed about.”

  Again came the dim sights—half-remembered music, laughter, people in wilder garments than ever the Rom sported.

  “Like now?” asked one of the girls. “Like markets and trade-days?”

  “No, not like now; these were special things, just for amusement, not really for trade. I am not certain I understand it; they were all a little mad in those times. Well, then the Evil Days came . . .”

  Fire, and red death; thunder and fear—more people than Chali had ever seen alive, fleeing mindlessly the wreckage of their cities and their lives.

  “But the kumpania was safely traveling out in the countryside, with nothing needed that they could not make themselves. Some others of the Rom remembered us and lived to reach us; Kalderash, mostly.”

  “And we were safe from Gaje and their mad ways?”

  “When have the Rom ever been safe?” he scoffed. “No, if anything, we were in more danger yet. The Gaje wanted our horses, our vurdon, and Gaje law was not there to protect us. And there was disease, terrible disease that killed more folk than the Night of Fire had. One sickly gajo could have killed us all. N
o, we hid at first, traveling only by night and keeping off the roads, living where man had fled or died out.”

  These memories were clearer, perhaps because they were so much closer to the way the kumpania lived now. Hard years, though, and fear-filled—until the Rom learned again the weapons they had forgotten. The bow. The knife. And learned to use weapons they had never known like the sharp hooves of their four-legged brothers.

  “We lived that way until the old weapons were all exhausted. Then it was safe to travel openly, and to trade; we began traveling as we do now—and now life is easier. For true God made the Gaje to live so that we might borrow from them what we need. And that is the tale.”

  Chali watched with her dook as Romano reached out with his mind to all the children seated about him; and found what he had been looking for. Chali felt his exultation; of all the children to whom Romano had given his memories and his stories, there was one in whose mind the memories were still as clear as they were when they had come from Romano’s. Tomy had the draban of the Storyteller; Romano had found his successor.

  Chali decided that it was wiser not to disturb them for now, and slipped away so quietly that they never knew she had been there.

  The scout for Clan Skaht slipped into the encampment with the evening breeze and went straight to the gathering about Chief’s fire. His prairiecat had long since reported their impending arrival, so the raidleaders had had ample time to gather to hear him.

  “Well, I have good news and bad news,” Daiv Mahrtun of Skaht announced, sinking wearily to the bare earth across the fire from his Chief. “The good news is that these Dirtmen look lazy and ripe for the picking—the bad news is that they’ve got traders with ’em, so the peace-banners are up. And I mean to tell you, they’re the weirdest damn traders I ever saw. Darker than any Ehleenee—dress like no clan I know—and—” He stopped, not certain of how much more he wanted to say—and if he’d be believed.

  Tohnee Skaht snorted in disgust, and spat into the fire. “Dammit anyway—if we break trade-peace—”

  “Word spreads fast,” agreed his cousin Jahn. “We may have trouble getting other traders to deal with us if we mount a raid while this lot’s got the peace-banners up.”

  There were nearly a dozen clustered about the firepit; men and a pair of women, old and young—but all of them were seasoned raiders, regardless of age. And all of them were profoundly disappointed by the results of Daiv’s scouting foray.

  “Which traders?” Tohnee asked after a long moment of thought. “Anybody mention a name or a clan you recognized?”

  Daiv shook his head emphatically. “I tell you, they’re not like any lot I’ve ever seen or heard tell of. They got painted wagons, and they ain’t the big tradewagons; more, they got whole families, not just the menfolk—and they’re Horsetraders.”

  Tohnee’s head snapped up. “Horse—”

  “Before you ask, I mindspoke their horses.” This was a perfect opening for the most disturbing of Daiv’s discoveries. “This oughta curl your hair. The horses wouldn’t talk to me. It wasn’t ’cause they couldn’t, and it wasn’t ’cause they was afraid to. It was like I was maybe an enemy—was surely an outsider, and maybe not to be trusted. Whoever, whatever these folks are, they got the same kind of alliance with their horses as we have with ours. And that’s plainly strange.”

  “Wind and sun—dammit Daiv, if I didn’t know you, I’d be tempted to call you a liar!” That was Dik Krooguh, whose jaw was hanging loose with total astonishment.

  “Do the traders mindspeak?” Tohnee asked at nearly the same instant.

  “I dunno,” Daiv replied, shaking his head, “I didn’t catch any of ’em at it, but that don’t mean much. My guess would be they do, but I can’t swear to it.”

  “I think maybe we need more facts—” interrupted Alis Skaht. “If they’ve got Horsebrothers, I’d be inclined to say they’re not likely to be a danger to us—but we can’t count on that. Tohnee?”

  “Mm,” he nodded. “Question is, how?”

  “I took some thought to that,” Daiv replied. “How about just mosey in openlike? Dahnah and I could come in like you’d sent us to trade with ’em.” Dahnah was Daiv’s twin sister; an archer with no peer in the clan, and a strong mindspeaker. “We could hang around for a couple of days without making ’em too suspicious. And a pair of Horseclan kids doin’ a little dickerin ain’t gonna make the Dirtmen too nervous. Not while the peace-banners are up.”

  Tohnee thought that over a while, as the fire cast weird shadows on his stony face. “You’ve got the sense to call for help if you end up needing it—and you’ve got Brighttooth and Stubtail backing you.”

  The two young prairiecats lounging at Daiv’s side purred agreement.

  “All right—it sounds a good enough plan to me,” Tohnee concluded, while the rest of the sobered clansfolk nodded, slowly. “You two go in at first morning light and see what you can find. And I know I don’t need to tell you to be careful, but I’m telling you anyway.”

  Howard Thomson, son of “King” Robert Thomson, was distinctly angered. His narrow face was flushed, always a bad sign, and he’d been drinking, which was worse. When Howard drank, he thought he owned the world. Trouble was, he was almost right, at least in this little corner of it. His two swarthy merc-bodyguards were between Kevin and the doors.

  Just what I didn’t need, Kevin thought bleakly, taking care that nothing but respect showed on his face, a damn-fool touchy idiot with a brat’s disposition tryin’ to put me between a rock and a hard place.

  “I tell you, my father sent me expressly to fetch him that blade, boy.” Howard’s face was getting redder by the minute, matching his long, fiery hair. “You’d better hand it over now, before you find yourself lacking a hand.”

  I’ll just bet he sent you, Kevin growled to himself. Sure he did. You just decided to help yourself, more like—and leave me to explain to your father where his piece went, while you deny you ever saw me before.

  But his outwardly cool expression didn’t change as he replied, stolidly, “Your pardon, but His Highness gave me orders that I was to put it into no one’s hands but his. And he hasn’t sent me written word telling me any different.”

  Howard’s face enpurpled as Kevin obliquely reminded him that the Heir couldn’t read or write. Kevin waited for the inevitable lightning to fall. Better he should get beaten to a pulp than that King Robert’s wrath fall on Ehrik and Keegan, which it would if he gave in to Howard. What with Keegan being pregnant—better a beating. He tensed himself and waited for the order.

  Except that, just at the moment when Howard was actually beginning to splutter orders to his two merc-bodyguards to take the blacksmith apart, salvation, in the form of Petro and a half-dozen strapping jippos came strolling through the door to the smithy. They were technically unarmed, but the long knives at their waists were a reminder that this was only a technicality.

  “Sarishan, gajo,” he said cheerfully. “We have brought you your pony—”

  Only then did he seem to notice the Heir and his two bodyguards.

  “Why, what is this?” he asked with obviously feigned surprise. “Do we interrupt some business?”

  Howard growled something obscene—if he started something now he would be breaking trade-peace, and no trader would deal with him or his family again without an extortionate bond being posted. For one moment Kevin feared that his temper might get the better of him anyway, but then the young man pushed past the jippos at the door and stalked into the street, leaving his bodyguards to follow as they would.

  Kevin sagged against his cold forge, only now breaking into a sweat. “By all that’s holy, man,” he told Petro earnestly, “your timing couldn’t have been better! You saved me from a beatin’, and that’s for damn sure!”

  “Something more than a beating,” the jippo replied, slowly, “—or I misread that one. I do not think we will sell any of our beasts there, no. But—” he grinned suddenly “—we lied, I fear. We did not br
ing the pony—we brought our other wares.”

  “You needed six men to carry a bit of copperwork?” Kevin asked incredulously, firmly telling himself that he would not begin laughing hysterically out of relief.

  “Oh no—but I was not of a mind to carry back horseshoes for every beast in our herd by myself! I am rom baro, not a packmule!”

  Kevin began laughing after all, laughing until his sides hurt.

  Out of gratitude for their timely appearance, he let them drive a harder bargain with him than he normally would have allowed, trading shoes and nails for their whole equippage for about three pounds of brass and copper trinkets and a set of copper pots he knew Keegan would lust after the moment she saw them. And a very pretty little set of copper jewelry to brighten her spirit; she was beginning to show, and subject to bouts of depression in which she was certain her pregnancy made her ugly in his eyes. This bit of frippery might help remind her that she was anything but. He agreed to come by and look at the pony as soon as he finished a delivery of his own. He was going to take no chances on Howard’s return; he was going to deliver that sword himself, now, and straight into Robert’s palsied hands!

  “So if that one comes, see that he gets no beast nor thing of ours,” Petro concluded. “Chali, you speak to the horses. Most like, he will want the king stallion, if any.”

  Chali nodded. We could say Bakro is none of ours—that he’s a wild one that follows our mares.

  Petro grinned approval. “Ha, a good idea! That way nothing of blame comes on us. For the rest—we wish to leave only Pika, is that not so?” The others gathered about him in the shade of his vurdon murmured agreement. They had done well enough with their copper and brass jewelry, ornaments and pots and with the odd hen or vegetable or sack of grain that had found a mysterious way into a Rom kettle or a vurdon.