Cru and Malgon appeared, carrying baskets of feed between them, Artcois and Bredei laden with more behind. They deposited the goods by the pack animals and hurried back for the second load, all aware of the time and the need to depart. Padrec felt the tension in Dorelei as they worked quickly to load the ponies.

"Need not haste so," he eased. "None staring at us now."

"Be thy first trading, Padrec." Dorelei went on hitching and tying with quick, sharp twists of her fingers. "A do watch always."

"I think it's gone well."

"Will say that when fhain is well gone." Dorelei mentally ticked off her people, wishing them finished and visible. She breathed easier when Cru and Malgon secured their last load to the pack saddles and freer yet when Artcois and Bredei and Neniane were waiting by her side. Only two missing. "Guenloie and Drust? They went for the oil."

Padrec pointed across the village common. "In that storehouse."

"With that tallfolk?" Dorelei demanded.

Cru read her unease and added his own. "That Taixali who laid Blackbar athwart the gate. Did nae like it, but was Naiton's wish."

Hearing it, Malgon started to move. One look between Padrec and Cru and they were abreast of Guenloie's husband as he strode toward the storehouse, Cru subtly brushing Malgon's hand from the hilt of his knife. Padrec was in the lead when the cry rose from inside the storehouse—Guenloie's voice, high and shrill, edged with fear. The door burst open and Drust literally fell out of the house with the Taixali youth after him, knife in hand. Even as the Taixali lunged, Drust rolled cat-quick out of the way and up, knife on guard, circling. Padrec broke into a run, seeing the whole miserable

sense of it: the Taixali blood-striped as Drust, Guenloie terrified in the doorway. And now other villagers left off their business, running, eager to see what happened, what would happen.

"Cru, take Drust," Padrec snapped. 'Til take the boy."

"Will do that myself," Malgon hissed.

"No, you won't." Padrec pushed him aside. He and Cru didn't pause at the edge of the fight. Agile Cru slipped behind Drust and pinned his arms as Padrec lunged in front of the Taixali knife that froze its forward thrust a bare inch from his own gut. "Put it up!"

The young man was cut across the chest; not badly, but pride demanded retribution beyond the wound in Drust's arm. "Get out of my way."

Padrec didn't move. "I do only as your own elder would. Put it up, boy."

The youth deliberately placed the edge of the knife against Padrec's throat just under his left ear. "I am no boy to you or any Roman."

His heart pounded so hard, Padrec found it difficult to keep his voice steady. He concentrated all the will into that. "You tried us like a boy at the gate and no better now, testing other's courage where you are not sure of your own. Put up your knife before your women laugh at you."

There was a larger crowd around them now, the women sibilant, pointing at Guenloie in the doorway.

"She's to blame."

"She did it."

"Did what?" one reasonable voice piped, quite lost in the tide of accusation.

"The whore, she's to blame. They're all alike."

The circle began to shrink tighter around them—then quite suddenly the crowd washed to either side like wake from the prow of a swift keel as Naiton plowed through, beefy and choleric. "Now, what is this? What is this?"

In the face of Naiton's unquestionable authority, the

youth faltered and whined. ' 'He cut me, Elder. See how he did cut me."

"And you him, and over what?" Naiton jabbed a scornful finger at Guenloie. "That? What happened?"

Cowed, sickened at the blood streaming down Drust's arm, Guenloie could only stammer and choke into silence. Naiton read it as confirmation of his quick suspicion.

"Didn't he pay you enough, whore?"

"Was nae that!" Drust raged from the prison of Cru's arms. "Did try to take Guenloie's circlet and—and touch her. Nae, see Guenloie's face where a did strike her."

True enough. The girl's cheek was bruised from a blow with some force behind it, but that meant little to Naiton, who kicked or cuffed stupid women a dozen times a day. "Only that? Here, give me that knife until you grow, halfling."

The young Taixali handed it over meekly. Naiton turned on Dorelei, towering over the tiny woman. "Out, Faerie."

She didn't move. "Will have our oil."

"What, what?"

"Oil, there in the house. Did pay gold weight for it."

Naiton tossed the order to the crowd. "Someone go fetch their oil. The trading's done. You have your goods. When you have more need and more gold, you can come back. But now take the other whore and get out."

Less of a bully than too used to his word being law, Naiton was surprised when the tiny woman didn't budge. He'd thought earlier her eyes were a queer kind of gray, but not true. They were black now, huge, no whites to them at all, and unswerving from his. The intensity might have unsettled a more sensitive man. She seemed to be sifting through the essence of him to find his center.

1 'We are both leaders, Naiton, and should not bleat at each other like small bairn."

"You little ..." Half angry, half amused at the mite

of her: barely more than a child and presuming to be his equal. He was holding the confiscated knife; lifting it inadvertently, he saw Dorelei flinch slightly and make a furtive sign. Naiton grinned.

"Afraid of it, aren't you? You know our magic is stronger than yours. See?" His hand darted out and laid the flat of the black blade against her bare arm. Dorelei jerked visibly, recoiling.

"Out, woman. And take the rest with you. Out!" Naiton pushed through the crowd and strode away.

"Whores," someone muttered.

"Get the Faerie out of here."

"They will curse the bairn. Nae, keep the bairn from them."

The Taixali women were in an ugly mood. Cru caught Padrec's eye and jerked his head toward Guenloie. Pad-rec reached the girl as the first stones flew. A sharp pebble caught Guenloie just under the eye. Padrec covered her with his back, but he recognized the thrower— the slatternly woman who'd brought her baby for Faerie magic. Lord keep me from the temptation to hate them.

Now that real danger was passed, the women needed to vent their spleen and frustration on a safe target. They began to throw bigger stones. Padrec gasped as one struck his shoulder, bruising it to the bone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Neniane dart in, scoop up the amphora of oil and scurry away to her pony.

"Cru, get Dorelei out of here! Guenloie, come. Come, now ..."

Covering the shaking girl with his body, Padrec moved as quickly as he could toward the horses. Guenloie's mouth quivered, but it was set. She would not let these people see her pain or shame. Then they were by the ponies, and Drust moved to cover Guenloie on the other side. She mewed sickly at the blood seeping from his arm with no sign of slowing.

"Blackbar knife, husband," she said in a crushed little voice. "Will not heal."

"Nae, nae. Will."

Dorelei stared down coldly at her cousin, holding her arm where the knife had touched it. "Did tell thee, Guenloie," she said in a voice full of terminal judgment. "Did warn thee."

Padrec just stared at her: Dorelei was blaming her cousin as much as the Taixali, but there was no time to consider right or wrong. Some of the younger boys were drifting closer, like purposeful jackals. "Go ahead," he said. "We'll follow. There, Guenloie, will be well. Come now, come."

The Taixali boys edged even closer, excited, eager for their share in the rout.

"Ha!"

One of them ran forward at Dorelei, brandishing a bright-painted arrow with a broad iron head. "Here, Faerie. Good. Take it. Take—"

Dorelei's gaze turned on him almost languidly. The boy froze. His arm, brandishing the arrow, faltered to his side.

"Thee would not," Dorelei murmured in a lulling tone like a caress. "Thee will not." She turned her pony and rode through the gate with Cru after her, the rest of fhain following. Seeing to Drust and Dorelei, Padrec was the last to flip the reins over his horse's ears. He didn't see the boy steal behind him until the inane giggle insulted his ears.

"Ha, Faerie. Look: iron. Magic. Iron."

Padrec turned with a surge of irritation. "Yes?"

Again the silly, pattering laugh from the boy, with the others snickering behind him. "Iron. Take it, Faerie. Take it."

"If you insist." Padrec grasped the arrow, pointedly kissed the iron head, broke the shaft in neat halves, and returned the feathered end with poisonous courtesy. "No, you see, it won't always work. She's stronger than you, and I'm Catholic." He mounted and held up the arrow. 'The blessing of my God on you." And may He spare you the sorrow of age and pardon my wish.

The stockade gate thudded shut behind him as he can-

tered after the forlorn trio of Drust, Malgon, and Guen-loie, whose distracted concern was torn between the wound of one husband and the disgust of the other.

"Did naught, Malgon," she protested tearfully. "Only bargained for oil."

"True," Drust sputtered. "A tried to touch her like Guenloie was one of a's own pig-women." He broke off, fumbling at the wound across his arm. "Do lack word for such men."

"Could offer one but will not." Padrec gave his attention to Guenloie. Her shame and confusion broke forth in a fresh flood of tears.

"Why dost Dorelei speak so? Did naught."

None of them knew why, but later for that. Drust still bled.

"Will nae stop," Guenloie quavered over the wound. "Was made of Blackbar. Was cursed."

Then Malgon pointed suddenly. "Padrec! Throw't away."

In the confusion, Padrec had forgotten to discard the iron arrowhead. He galloped out a few paces from them and hurled it as far as he could, hearing it clink against a rock. Guenloie gathered a few broad leaves from plants on the heath and deftly folded them into a makeshift bandage over a handful of moss, while Drust glared at the stockade palings. Padrec's heart went out to him— only fifteen, wounded and humiliated, needing very much to be a man in front of his brother-husband and the wife who worked over his arm with all the love in her hands, fighting back tears of rage so close to the surface.