One of the anonymous forms laid its spear on the ground and stepped forward, unwrapping its head covering as it neared them. From the quality of the voice which had spoken to them out of the fog Dhulyn expected an older woman, and she was right. Yaro was short and thickset, her dark brown hair liberally salted with gray. The gold-and-green colors of the Mercenary’s tattooed badge had faded, but were still clear enough to be recognized in the misted light.

These were not Yaro’s only tattoos, Dhulyn saw, her eyebrows raising in surprise. On the left side of the Cloudwoman’s face was a tattoo of two feathers, the second partially overlapping the first, like the feathers of the Racha bird it symbolized. These were so old and faded that only a sharp eye would see them. Much clearer, and obviously much more recent, was the complete set of seven feathers on the right side of her face.

Dhulyn’s lips formed a soundless whistle as, glancing around for the Racha bird itself, she touched her fingertips to her forehead to echo Yaro of Trevel’s Mercenary salute. What could possibly be the meaning of the Cloudwoman’s Racha tattoos?

She glanced at Parno, but her Partner’s face showed no expression. Rare as it was for a Mercenary Brother to live long enough to retire, Yaro of Trevel, once Yaro Hawkwing, had clearly not simply retired. She had left the Brotherhood and returned to her own Clan. Dhulyn would not have thought such a thing possible, and her teeth clenched as she forced herself to pay attention, and to show no sign of the chill that squeezed her heart.

“Brothers, I greet you,” the tattooed woman was saying. “We are Clan Trevel. And the land where you stand, and for many days’ travel around us, is also Clan Trevel.” Dhulyn nodded. Like Imrion’s Noble Houses, the Cloud People used the same words to identify both the relationship of blood and the relationship of land. The group of people surrounding her made gestures of assent, and a few murmured. Yaro glanced quickly to each side and the murmurs died down. Several of the group followed their leader’s example and, downing their weapons, began to unwrap their own coverings. They were mostly young people, Dhulyn saw, with only two others nearing Yaro’s age.

“We are on the Life Passage of our young people, or I would welcome you to the shelter of our homes. However, for the sake of our Brotherhood, if not the Tarkin’s treaty,” here her words called out a few grins, “we give you safe passage.”

“No tribute?” one young man blurted out. His astonishment was clear in the squeak of his voice.

Yaro turned to the youngster, staring at him long enough that his wide shoulders squirmed under her scrutiny. “Tribute?” she said. “These are still my Brothers. You’ll be asking me for tribute next, Clarys.” Several of the others smiled, their teeth flashing white. The young man shifted his gaze, silenced but not satisfied.

“What about her?” he said, pointing at Mar with his chin. “She’s no Brother of yours.” This time all the people of Clan Trevel turned to look at Mar.

“She is in our care, Brother.” Dhulyn spoke only to Yaro. “We ask that you extend your courtesy over her as well.”

“I am content.” Yaro nodded.

“Well, I am not. And I see no reason to be. They trespass. You say we must let your Brothers pass-well and good. But this person who hires them can pay us for her passage.”

“And if she has nothing of value?” Parno said.

“Let us see this for ourselves,” suggested a more reasonable voice.

Dhulyn stood still, eyes locked on the young man who had started the trouble. She knew the type. Not so much younger than Mar herself the way time was counted, ready to be a man among his people, as his presence on this Life Passage demonstrated-but still a child in many important ways. Tall, broad-shouldered, and with the long arms so helpful to a fighter. But a little sullenness around his pretty mouth. A little poutiness to the bottom lip, and a top lip too ready to curl. A boy who thought well of himself and thought others should do the same. Trouble, in other words.

Parno touched Mar on the shoulder and then stood back, sweeping a mocking bow in the direction of her pack. Mar tried to nod at him curtly, but trembling spoiled the girl’s performance. Once more Dhulyn watched as the little Dove untied her pack. Again the scanty belongings were exposed, looking even more meager and ordinary without the magical glow of firelight to give them life. Even the bowl, when her hands, slowed by reluctance, were able to uncover it, showed its colors dully in the foggy light.

“Why should we not take that bowl,” Clarys said immediately.

He ignored Mar’s cry of protest, but Dhulyn did not.

“It is the only thing of her family that she has,” Dhulyn said. “Would you take from her the symbol of her Clan?” She tried to sound as reasonable as she could. As much as it soured her mouth to let people under her protection be robbed, she disliked unnecessary killing-a sentiment many of her Brothers found ironic. “This comes from the mother of her mother’s mother, and is not hers to give away. It can bring no good to any who takes it from her by force.” The two older people in the group exchanged nods and murmurs of agreement.

But the boy Clarys also had his fellow, a stocky boy with a dark widow’s peak, to murmur in his ear.

“No good?” said Clarys mockingly, as Widow’s Peak nodded. “Why it would feed a family for a season, that bowl of no value.” More murmurs of agreement, but this time only from a handful of youngsters Dhulyn marked as the rest of Clarys’ admirers. If it came to a fight, would these others stand back? Dhulyn marked in her mind the position of the archer, and the three who still had spears in their hands.

And whose side would Yaro of Trevel be on?

Dhulyn turned to Mar. The girl stared fixedly at her prized possession. “Mar?” Dhulyn said, and waited until the girl looked at her. “How say you? Will you trade the bowl for your passage?”

“Is there some other way? Some of my other things? If I come to my House without it,” the girl said, tears filling both eyes and voice, “they may deny my claim.”

Dhulyn looked at Clarys, but the boy set his mouth firmly and folded his arms. “Idiots,” she said, under her breath. Time to put an end to this. She looked at Parno. The Lionsmane tilted his head to the right, as she’d know he would. The Wolfshead nodded.

“You are refused,” she said, looking directly at Clarys. “Thus far, this has cost you nothing but a wasted hour. I advise you to renounce your claim before it becomes more costly.”

“If she will not pay, then she is herself forfeit. We will take her.” Both Parno and Dhulyn moved to stand between Mar and the Clouds. Clarys stopped with his hands already reaching out for the girl.

A short, sharp silence as all waited. Dhulyn nodded again. “You’ll take nothing but my fist in your teeth,” she said evenly. “She is in our charge. Renounce your claim.”

Widow’s Peak nudged him and the young man cocked his head, his eyebrows raised. “Will you fight?” he challenged.

“I will.”

Several of the younger element in the group exchanged looks of triumph. The older ones looked on grim-faced, shaking their heads.

“Wait,” Yaro said, the authority of a Racha woman giving weight to her words. “Clarys, think what you do. This is a Mercenary Brother, not one of your cub pack. She has skills beyond what you can imagine.”

“No one can best me with sword or spear. You have said this yourself,” he said. “This is my Life Passage, my Hunt. This is the proof I choose.”

With her eyes shut, Yaro blew out a disgusted sigh. Not even a Racha woman could step between a young Cloud and his chosen Hunt.

Dhulyn shrugged. “First blood, then?” she said.

“No-” Clarys was silenced by Yaro’s upright hand.

“First blood is sufficient for a Passage Duel,” the older woman said.