“That speckle won’t amount to much if it doesn’t learn to go in for the kill,” Jeirran observed to Teiriol.

“There wasn’t much blood,” complained Teiriol, dissatisfied. Movement on the far side caught his eye. “Look there, Jeir, those two are Mountain blood or I’m a lowlander. Mother can’t say it’s only the muddy feet who like this kind of thing, can she?”

“They’re dressed like lowlanders.” Jeirran frowned.

“They could be easterners, three-parts true blood maybe, from some kin that had a daughter marry out.” He stared and got a challenging gaze back from the shorter of the two.

“I’d rather deal with our own, even with mixed blood,” said Teiriol urgently. “Would they take our pelts?”

“Depends what they’re trading for,” Jeirran replied slowly.

“Where did they go?” Teiriol looked around but the moment had passed. The two were gone.

“No matter.” Jeirran surveyed the room. His eyes returned to a handful of men on cushioned chairs set against the far wall. A small but respectful distance held steady between them and the close-packed crowd. Jeirran ignored the noisy contest beneath him as a couple of newcomers spoke to one of the seated men, handing over coin to receive a folded and sealed parchment, departing without so much as a glance in the direction of the cock-pit. “We want to fall into conversation over that way.” Jeirran nodded his head meaningfully.

He stepped back from the rail and Teiriol reluctantly followed him, looking backward as he did so. Jeirran stopped abruptly and Teiriol trod heavily on his heels. “What is it?”

“See that fat son of his grandfather over there?” Jeirran’s lip curled. “That’s the pig’s pizzle who took up me and Keisyl at the fairground yesterday.”

Teiriol looked at the man whose back was turned toward them. “And the others?”

Jeirran looked casually around before nodding slowly. “Yes, they’re all here, wasting our coin on birds better off in the pot.”

Teiriol laid a warning hand on Jeirran’s arm. “If we’re going to replace that coin, we need to sell those pelts, for all that we owe those scum a debt,” he pointed out reluctantly.

“True enough,” Jeirran turned his attention again to the hard-faced men sitting against the far wall and then to the heavy-set entourage drinking their ale with watchful faces by the way out. “Let’s see what that cloak carrier has to say for himself.”

The man in question, burly arms folded over a substantial gut, looked at the two Mountain Men with an unspoken question as they halted in front of him.

“Will you share a drink with us?” Jeirran offered his flagon. The man wordlessly held out a battered pewter tankard and Jeirran poured a generous measure. “Where might we find an honest businessman hereabouts?”

The big man looked contemptuously down at the pair of them.

“A man who prefers to deal direct, none of this nonsense over guild considerations and fair fees,” Jeirran explained genially. “We don’t do things that way in the uplands, you see.”

“What’s your business?” Interest sparked in the man’s hard eyes.

“Furs, pelts, better than half the stock on the stalls at the fair,” Jeirran raised his chin in unconscious defiance.

“Talk to Harquas, that gentleman.”

A heavy-set, silver-haired man with a crooked nose and sharp eyes turned his head toward them. “You want me for something?”

Jeirran stepped forward boldly, Teiriol rather more hesitant at his shoulder. “Good day to you. Your colleague suggests that you might be interested in mountain pelts.”

“I might, at that.” The man Harquas relaxed but his eyes were acute beneath bushy brows. He wore slate gray broadcloth, conservatively cut, bulk suggesting muscles relaxing into fat as he left enforcement of his dealings to younger men. “Are you looking for a regular trade or a one-off deal?”

“For the moment, just the one transaction,” replied Jeirran cautiously.

Harquas pursed narrow lips thoughtfully. “You’d be the two Mountain Men I’ve heard tell of, then, trying to sell your goods at the fair without paying your dues?” He nodded to someone.

“Where we come from, men only take a profit from work they’ve had a share in,” Jeirran said stiffly.

A mirthless smile curved Harquas’ bloodless mouth. He turned his head slightly as a potman came and whispered in his ear. “Excuse me.” Harquas leaned sideways in his chair to the man next to him, another thick-set type missing the forefinger on his near side hand and with a wicked scar running the length of his jawbone, as if some attempt to cut his throat had come in just a little too high. Harquas hid his words behind a raised hand. Jeirran folded his arms with a cold air of confidence. Teiriol’s attempt to copy this was rather less successful, as he realized he now had three villainous-looking men breathing heavily down his neck, all topping him by more than head and shoulders. Harquas nodded as his companion murmured something, shooting Jeirran a suspicious glance. “Well, friend,” Harquas smiled at Jeirran with all the warmth of a pig on a butcher’s hook. “I’m in something of a fix here. You seem like an honest man to me but Lehrer tells me you got taken up by the Southgate Watch at the fair. I can see for myself that Vigo and a couple of other nailers have been wasting their coin on these cocks since just after midday. If I were a suspicious man, I could think you getting taken up to the assize were just a ploy. Suppose I strike a deal with you, am I going to find guildsmen kicking in the door to my warehouse and you identifying the furs you sold me to some nosy Justiciar?”

The three men at Teiriol’s rear stirred with a creak of leather and the soft rasp of metal as one rubbed at a brass-knuckled glove.

“If that’s what you think, we won’t waste any more of your time.” Jeirran was unmoved. “There’ll be other people I can trade with in a city this size. I’m not interested in your guilds and your rules and your Watchmen,” he continued, not concealing his contempt. “I just want to sell my furs for a decent price and get back to my own affairs in the uplands.”

Harquas raised an eyebrow. “That’s very plain talk for a man outnumbered and out of his way. Am I supposed to be impressed?”

“I don’t give a donkey’s hangdown if you’re impressed or not.” Jeirran shrugged. “Are you buying?”

Harquas exchanged a glance with his neighbor, who in turn looked beyond Jeirran for some signal. Whatever he saw satisfied Lehrer, his scarred face nodding to Harquas.

“If you’re prepared to do something to establish your good faith, I’ll buy from you,” said Harquas slowly. “If some misfortune lands on Vigo and his little gang, then I can be sure they’re not nosing around my business, do you see? If you were to be that mishap, then I’d know you weren’t hand in glove with them, wouldn’t I?”

“Why should we do your dirty work for you?” Jeirran ignored the rumble of annoyance behind him.

“Do you want to sell your furs or not?” inquired Harquas with silky menace.

“You want us to kill them?” asked Jeirran baldly.

Harquas frowned. “A dead Watchman gets the Justiciary unduly stirred up, in my experience. But they have to accept that every so often a nailer takes on a man just that bit too strong in his drink and gets a beating.”

“That’s the price of doing business with you?”

Harquas nodded. “Tell me where you’re lodging and if I hear the right word I’ll send someone to look over your stock at noon tomorrow.”

Jeirran shook his head. “We’ll meet at the market square, by the fountain.” He turned and glared up at the bull-necked man blocking his way.

“Let our friend pass, Teg,” said Harquas smoothly. “We’ll talk tomorrow, Jeirran.”

Teiriol followed Jeirran out of the cock-pit and back to the rowdy tavern. Jeirran’s eyes flickered from side to side until he saw Vigo, the Watchman, plump red face glistening with uncomplicated delight as he cradled a tangle-haired girl on his knee. Her unlaced bodice showed off heavy breasts to any who cared to look while Vigo hitched up her skirts to reveal bare and grubby legs beneath her tattered petticoats.