A horseman coming alone, with seeming consummate confidence, from the northeast Aurvesh? A man of weapons. He kept his mount pacing easily, while his calm gaze remained on the two men before Fulcris. He never glanced at Fulcris at all.

An experienced man of weapons, Fulcris thought.

"Just interested," the quiet voice said equably. "No blow's been struck but his arm just started leaking. Got yourself a man with a recent wound, hmm. Two of you. You calling him opponent or quarry?"

Abder of the green tunic said, "Huh?"

Homespun said, "Listen, you-"

And then he had to back a couple of paces, because the big-dun colored horse paced right in between him and Fulcris. Fulcris was on the horse's left. The mounted man stared down at homespun. Abder tried to be unobtrusive about backing two more paces.

"Came here to ask a favor. You with the caravan?"

The two men exchanged a look, homespun having to turn a little because his companion had backed farther away. Homespun looked back up at the interfering newcomer.

"Naw. He is."

"Mind if I tock with him, then?" He had said "talk," but part of his accent was that the aw sound came out as short o.

Abder moved away from his companion. His arm hung straight down; the one with the sword in it. Homespun exchanged stares with the nosy newcomer a while, then glanced at Abder. He was surprised to see that the latter was several paces behind him and well to his right.

"Huh! Leaving me alone, huh, Ab?"

"Pardon us," the mounted man said, "while we lock." On Fulcris's side the newcomer's left hand moved in a little waving gesture.

When the dun horse began pacing forward again, between Fulcris and his accosters, Fulcris paced too. He noticed that the newcomer never so much as glanced at him. They took about twenty steps without anyone's saying a word. By that time, the other two were well behind them. The newcomer leaned back to swing a big-thighed leg over the pommel of his saddle, which was molded in the shape of a turtle's head. He dropped to the ground a foot from Fulcris. Surprisingly blue eyes looked into the very brown ones of the caravaner. They were about the same height. The traveler was bigger.

"You a caravan guard?"

"Aye. Those two-"

"Mean on strong drink. You took a wound a few days ago?"

"Aye. You just-"

"I could sure use some wotter, and your arm could use something."

Not much for talking, Fulcris thought, and nodded. "Right. Just over here."

"Uh. Wait here. Jaunt."

Fulcris assumed that was the name of the big man's horse. He tried not to talk as they walked toward his old tent of faded blue and dull yellow stripes, but just now that was impossible.

"I started with the caravan in Twand. Those two joined us in Aurvesh. Just a little trouble the first night, and me'n another guard had to forbid them anything stronger'n water. Caravan stopped here to break up; sort ourselves out. You know. They went right on into Sanctuary last night lookin' for what we kept from them. They obviously had some more this mom-ing."

"Urn."

Sure not a talker, Fulcris mused. "Oh-name's Fulcris."

"Strick."

Guess that's his name, Fulcris thought. And didn't this man speak quietly and in an unusually matter-of-fact voice, no matter what he was saying or talking about! "The arm's not bad, but it could've made a difference. Thanks, Strick. Here."

His gesture indicated the interior of his tent; the flap was open and fastened back.

Strick glanced back to see the two men, swords sheathed, heading toward the city's wall. He nodded. "Saw it all. Noticed the arm." Ducking his head, he entered.

"Uh-huh. You notice a lot, don't you."

"Only one of 'em was dangerous. I never glanced at the other. He cot that: contempt. When I called, you kept your eyes right on them. You know what you're doing, Fulcris. Might want to be careful, in Sanctuary."

"Cot" was "caught," Fulcris realized. "You too! They don't like either of us, now. Here you go." Fulcris started to pass Strick the cloth-wrapped water skin, then changed his mind. He decanted cool water into the tin cup he had carried for years. The cup showed it. "You didn't think I was a 'mean-lookin' criminal'?"

Strick shrugged. He drank, uttered the predictable "ahh," and drank some more. "I wanted to interrupt and that was something to say. Didn't want to come galloping and embarrass you. Let's see about that arm."

"It's all right."

"Wouldn't have started leaking if it was all right. Clotted now. Hmm." Strick had pushed up the other man's sleeve and bent a little closer to peer at the wound. "Spear cut. Not one of those two?"

"No. Little trouble just this side of Aurvesh, four days ago. Six idiots thought we looked attackable and played bandit. Two of them got away. One of the dead ones gave me this. It's all right."

"Looks all right. Give me some wine, though, so I can give you a sting."

After Strick had re-reopened the wound and treated it with wine-it stung-he rearranged and re-tied the bandage. "It will be fine in two days," he said with casual confidence. "Won't leave a scar, either."

More like another week, and there will be a scar, Fulcris mused, but certainly didn't say it. Instead: "Saying 'thanks' is getting to be a habit. What about putting some of that wine on the inside?"

"I wouldn't mind."

Fulcris filled the tin cup. Noticing that Strick asked no questions, he decided to emulate that, though naturally he wondered where the big fellow was from and why he'd come here. From how far, alone? He even managed not to volunteer his own business. After a couple of minutes he remembered: "Oh. You mentioned a favor."

Strick looked at him, lowering his cup. The lines around his eyes, Fulcris thought, put the big man up in his thirties. Maybe forty, depending upon how much of his life he'd spent traveling. Fulcris was thirty-eight, but years of escorting caravans had lined his face so much that he could pass for forty-nine or fifty.

"I'd like to leave my horse here, along with the shield and saddle-sword." His eyes gazed straight into Fulcris's and his moustache writhed in a smile it concealed. "Don't want to ride into a town looking like a dangerous man of weapons."

"Who rode here alone, from... someplace that gave you an accent I can't place."

Strick shrugged. "True. Will you name me a charge for keeping my horse for a few days?"

"You looking for work as a-for weapon work? There's a mere camp not too far from here, and another in the city."

"No, that's not what I want to do. You know a few things about this town."

"Just a few," Fulcris said, thinking that the man was not telling the truth but that he even lied well, in that same matter-of-fact way. "You leam things from people you pass on the road, and I listened, up in Aurvesh. This town's had a real mess in the past year or so. Fire, flood, a war among witches trying to take over and the Stepsons-mercenaries under someone named Tempus who has sort of taken over 'defense' and peace-keeping; and all the while the town's really been taken over by some odd invaders from oversea. The Empire's not as strong as it was."

"Ranke?"

"Right."

"So I heard. Odd invaders?" Even "odd" sounded odd; this man's short o was extremely short.

"Freaks, or half-humans, or something. Guess we'll find out. Listen, you know I'm not going to charge you to take care of your gear and horse for a few days. But here's a thought, unless you're in a hurry. A man and a couple of women are riding into town later, and they've already asked my caravan master if he'd give them an escort. He asked me. Sure; that trio's rich!" Fulcris flashed a smile and noticed that the other man only nodded. "Anyhow, if you care to rest here while I see to a few things I have to do, the five of us can ride in together. You'll be a lot less noticeable-people will take you for another from the caravan."