The town they’d called home for the past few weeks was only a small one, and Bai didn’t have far to go to reach his caravan, set a quarter-mile or so away from the town walls. They were usually encouraged to spread out a little too, and he was well aware that while many of the poselenech looked down their noses at his people, they were careful not to express too much disapproval whilst the caravans were supplying an extra layer of defence.

Bai grimaced at that thought as he loped along a narrow street, paved with neat, flat cobbles and lined with buildings three or four storeys high. The higher floors jutted from the lower walls and made him fear for his head: they looked like they’d topple at any moment, and bury him under a pile of plaster and timber. He kept to the middle of the street; not that he had any choice, since stalls lined the sides. The Tethiri weren’t the only nomadic traders: the port had a constant flow of sea-traffic. He would never have come so far off the Cherndorozh otherwise.

Koth and his wife Siris swerved off their course and fell into step beside him, several tribesfolk with them, all in high spirits with bright eyes and flushed faces. Their clothes, like most of the Tethiri, were vibrant and stiff with embroidery, a stark contrast to the more sombre attire of the townsfolk. Siris held aloft a paper bag of fresh apple fritters, thick with crystallised sugar. He took one, nodding his thanks.

Koth poked his shoulder. ‘What are you still hanging around here for, Bai penvarzhavoy? You said two hours, yes?’

‘I did. Two hours, and no more!’

‘Hah! Think we can do it?’

‘Of course, we can! Be a shame to leave the market though. Why the hurry, Bai penvarzhavoy?’ Siris tucked her bag of fritters away and elbowed Koth into giving her the last of his handful of toasted nuts, which he did with a long-suffering sigh. ‘I wanted to buy amber beads and a paper of butter-twists yet!’

‘There are butter-twists at every water-hole from here to the bloody Marwaithyr, woman! Even you can’t eat that many!’

‘Would you like to wager on that, old man?’

‘My cousin needs my help if he doesn’t want to be saddled with a rough Norther wife before the year’s out,’ said Bai, heading off a full-blown scrap. ‘And I said two hours, so move, will you! Siris, I will buy you a full silver Moon’s worth of butter-twists when we get to Silverheim!

‘See, this is why people follow him and take no notice of you,’ Siris smirked at her husband, who gave another long-suffering sigh and rolled his eyes. She held out her hand for more toasted nuts.

‘He does not have the sun blazing from his arse bright enough to get us all moving in only two hours,’ Koth rumbled, irritated. ‘Not even a demon could do that.’

‘I’m no demon, and I say two. Get this lot back to the camp and on the move or by all the old gods I’ll whip every last one of you myself!’ He grinned at the look of horror on his tribesmen’s faces, though Koth only scratched his chin and Siris chewed nuts with the look of one who didn’t believe a word her war-rider ever said.

‘You’ll do it anyway, so why pretend you won’t?’ he prompted, fingering the hilt of one of his knives.

Koth spat a curse on the ground and put his boot into the calves of three young men, snarling at them to move, then dragged his wife in the direction of the caravan.

Bai followed on, enjoying himself. The sudden disappearance of the Tethiri caravan two weeks early would put the wind up the poselenech: it was just a pity they couldn’t go in the middle of the night. That would have been fun. His grin grew wider as he imagined the faces of the townsfolk on discovering the ‘van was gone.

He shouted a farewell to the gatekeepers as they left the town, and once out on the plain again, he turned for a final wave to the watchers on the gate-tower wall. He knew every one of them by name, and trusted them more than he trusted any of the rest of the townspeople. The men on the walls were honest men, and the only poselenech Bai allowed inside his camp.

In the end, they were on their way in four hours. A Tethiri caravan on the move was a fantastic, colourful sight. The tribe dyed their fine-spun wool in all the hues of land, sea, and sky, and rendered their coats rigid with embroidered birds, animals, leaves and flowers, all interwoven with never-ending knotwork. Here and there hints of gold or silver thread caught the sun; pearl buttons shimmered, hat-rims blazed crimson and ochre and russet; copper bridle bells glittered as they danced and tinkled on harnesses of woven grasses, leather, or silk. Riders, hair streaming behind them as they cantered up and down the line of caravans, cried out the lyrical, rhythmic call to move out, beating large tin bells as they went.

Bai rode at the head of the column, occasionally glancing at the fifty or so men of the rhón, the patrol scattered along the caravan, whistling to their dogs and supposedly herding the sheep, which cantered indignantly ahead of the riders’ switches, anywhichway, bleating and rolling wild eyes. Another rhón took care of the horses, visible to the caravan only by the plume of dust behind them on the road.

Lute rode up alongside him, his woven grass fly-whip swishing back and forth, Bai’s large grey caravan dogs at his side along with his own. The flies weren’t so much a problem now that the warmth of a late summer had cooled to Autumn, but they still managed to plague the horses. A road as black with dung as the Cherndorozh was a pox to ride on without fringes and fly-whips. Lute had pulled up his bright-printed silk scarf tight over his nose, and only his eyes, glittering with bright fire and topped with slender black brows, showed over the top of it. His blue coat-hem tinkled faintly with the music of a hundred tiny silver bells. Amber beads glinted in his hair, scraped roughly into a leather thong high on his head. He was comely and outlandish at the same time, the epitome of the devilish Tethiri that poselenech mothers terrified their wayward daughters with. Or warned them against. There was more than one song sung about the stealing of a lord’s daughter by a Tethiri devil; more than one song about a farmer’s wife running off with a caravan. The Tethiri did not sing those songs.

‘What did you do with the merchant?’ Bai asked him as they settled to a leisurely trot side by side. ‘Did you find more bad cloth?’

Lute’s eyes crinkled pleasingly. ‘Three more bolts of it, and one of mouldy velvet. Black with mould. He wanted six silver Moons for one length of that! I threw his left hand to my dogs.’ He flung his arm wide with a laugh, mimicking the action with a flippant flick of his wrist.

Bai chuckled. The trade road was a source of pride among the Tethiri, and they could allow no-one to sully it. The five major towns along the road to Silverheim also prided themselves on the quality of the markets, and relied on the Tethiri caravans to police it. But now and then, a swindler or con-artist turned up, and needed to be swiftly dealt with. ‘Good. Folk must know we are trustworthy to trade with – and all who come to our markets. I trust you made a spectacle of it?’

Lute’s eyes turned serious again, and he turned away to stare between his horse’s ears. He gave a nervous shudder, setting his brass bells shaking. ‘I had an audience, yes.’

Something in his tone made Bai’s eyes sharpen. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘It means, Bai penvarzhavoy, that a noblewoman from Bornak saw me. I took steps to reassure her that this is expected behaviour, and very much our way, but I’m not certain she was convinced.’

‘You mean she thinks we’re barbaric?’ Bai’s eyes narrowed further as he stared behind them, into the sun. ‘Should that concern me more than usual? Do the folk from Bornak not think that already?’

‘They probably do.’ Lute, his bells still jangling, fished in his leather pommel bag. He brought out a small painted porcelain jar of dried apple slices soaked in sticky ginger syrup, a treasure bought from a shop in the town. He fished one out, pulled his scarf down to pop it into his mouth, and passed the jar to Bai. ‘This one seemed fascinated with me, however. I did not speak to her, before you ask. But I think…’ He trailed off, leaving his thoughts unspoken.

Bai’s heart sank. He had seen such a look himself that morning – the look of blind admiration, as if he were something exotic to be slavered over, or shown off. He was no stranger to such looks. There were people who fell in love with the idea of the Tethiri and romanticised both the folk and the lifestyle. They had a word for such people – it was crude and contemptuous. He muttered it under his breath, and spat in the dust.

Lute laughed.

Bai spat again, still disgusted. ‘I am pleased you find amusement in that. You say you didn’t speak. Did she say much?’

‘Not a word,’ said Lute. ‘Just stared. She looked like she wanted to inspect my teeth and touch my hair. I felt like a prize ram. What is it about us? Har’ran bochonye!’

He rolled the R long and hard, displaying his derision. ‘Just as well we’re leaving now. Not before time, is it?’

Bai shuddered. Not good. Yes, just as well they were on their way. Usually, such fascinations never ended well. And it was always the Tethiri who got the worst of the trouble. He’d had to intervene in too many accusations of rape or robbery, when a tribesman refused to let one of the poselenech women ‘saddle his horse’. One was too many. He’d learned to spot the signs and head off any situations that would be damaging, but he couldn’t get them all.

He twisted in his saddle, checking back along the long line of caravans again. Besides the caravans, there were merchant wagons, scout and rhón riders, and even some walkers. These walked a little way away from the main line, and to the head, avoiding the dust.

‘Do you think she had any intention of following us?’

‘I don’t know.’ Lute glanced back. ‘Who can tell? She might have done, but we checked the wagons.’

‘Hmm.’ Bai couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Had they picked up a stowaway or two? It had happened before. They were usually discovered at first night’s camp, and sent back the way they’d come. Non-Tethiri were always welcome to join them, but there was a difference between those with a genuine respect for them and the life they led, and those who thought they were something straight out of a Southern bardic romance, mysterious and exotic. Those were not welcome.

The caravan ground to a halt near sunset, taking up a couple of miles of sheep-cropped turf by the Cherndorozh. Bai sent out orders, and in a short time, each wagon and caravan had been thoroughly searched.

The two women who had been routed out of one of the silk wagons stood side by side before him now, Lute, Koth and Siris at their backs. Siris looked like she wanted to strangle the pair. Lute looked as though someone had pissed in his porridge. Koth just stared into the distance, chewing a strip of dried fruit, one of his children on his hip and the youngest slung onto his back. The tiny girl had tangled both little fists in her father’s thick brown hair and was squalling furiously into his shoulder. Koth took no notice. He and Siris had brought twelve bairns into the world and seen three out, and this latest little one could do nothing to faze them.

Amid the rowdy chaos that was the Tethiri preparing to bed down for the night, Bai looked the stowaways over. He recognised one of them as the young noblewoman who had almost run into him in the market that morning. The other was middle-aged, pale and ruined, poorly dressed and too thin. One eye was swollen and livid, the other missing. He decided that the Tethiri insult of sheep-shagger could not be applied to her, and nodded at Lute, who took her arm and led her in the direction of the women’s caravans.

Then he dismissed Siris too, and stood staring at the noblewoman, unsmiling and unfriendly. He needed to be very careful not to encourage either of them in their fantasies of joining a Tethiri caravan.

The noblewoman looked fearful. Then she drew herself up to her full height. She still reached no taller than his chin. ‘What’s your name?’

Bai’s lips twitched at that. So, she’s not easily cowed.

He briefly considered telling her his full name, decided it would serve no purpose other than to intimidate her or reinforce her silly romantic notions, then went ahead and gave it to her anyway. His name was a matter of pride, since he had little else besides it, his sword, and the loyalty of his people.

‘Bai mab’Murn y’Dalli Vechersér y’Moreithin,’ he said, enunciating each vowel and syllable carefully, his voice flat with disapproval of her.

Instead of looking intimidated, she repeated his name to herself, as carefully as he had done. Then she said, ‘Bai, son of Murne and Dalla, evening-star of Moreithin?’

‘Yes,’ he said, surprised. ‘You speak Tethiri?’

‘I’ve studied it. Enough to get by, I think.’

Bai immediately switched from her language to his. ‘Give me your name, then.’

She hesitated. Then she said, her accent thick and hesitant, ‘I…am Sanna.’

‘If I were a suspicious man, I’d call that a lie.’ He folded his arms. ‘You’ll be sent back the way you came regardless of what you call yourself, poselenech, so I won’t press you further on the matter, but…’

‘No! No, don’t send me back! Please. I won’t go back.’

Her eyes were wide with fear at his threat. He hadn’t come across that before. Usually, stowaways went back to their homes, grumbling and unrepentant but also unresisting, knowing they’d been rumbled.

She fumbled in her belt-purse and drew out a handful of coins. Gold flashed among them. She held out a shaking hand. ‘I can pay for…for m-my keep.’

‘We expect folk to work for their keep,’ he said. He closed her fingers over the coins. ‘I don’t want your coin. I don’t want you. This life is not for the likes of you. You’re to go back, first light. I’ll assign two men to escort you.’

He turned on his heel, dismissing her, wanting his supper, but she darted forward and snatched at his sleeve.

‘How do I work for my keep, then?’

‘What?’

‘How do I work for my keep? If you won’t take payment, I must work, as you said. Tell me how. What should I do?’

He flung his hands wide. ‘You don’t look as if you know how to sew on so much as a button! Can you sew? Can you cook? Can you spin, dye and card wool? Can you carve? Can you birth lambs and foals or babes? Can you gather pats for the fires or help with the horses or weave fly-whips and tassels?’

She shook her head, dumb, ashamed. ‘I can sew,’ she offered, her green eyes wide with the fear it wouldn’t be enough.

He regretted his outburst. He rubbed his palm across his mouth and sighed. The smell of mutton sizzling in iron pans on the fires reminded him he hadn’t eaten since the morning. He didn’t want to stand and argue! He wanted a full bowl of soup, and his bed. He turned in the direction of his caravan, the door ajar, smoke curling from the stove chimney.

Damn it to hell.

‘Why won’t you go back?’

‘I…’ She hesitated, then licked her lips, her face pinched and wan. ‘My mother wants me married to the Beyli of Mortua’s youngest son.’

Bai considered that. He’d heard of that particular son, but had always supposed the rumours of his excesses to be exaggerated and fanciful. This girl swathed in flimsy silks and fine braid had heard those tales too, it seemed. And would rather run away with the landless Tethiri than marry such a man.

Lute appeared again. ‘The other woman is Lyr Blaed, would you believe. She was traded to Cartha as a steam-bath girl but escaped and is making her way back North.’

A steam-bath girl, at her age? Bai rolled his shoulders. ‘She had only to ask, and we’d have taken her to Silverheim. Why didn’t she ask? She must have known we’d take in Lyr Blaed! Never mind. I don’t care.’

He ran his hand through his hair and offered a silent plea to whichever god had decided to use him for their entertainment that day. And, hell, that mutton smelled good. It was mixed now with the sweet smell of frying honey-apple cakes. His mouth watered, his stomach rumbled, and he could feel his temper wearing thin.

‘And this one?’ Lute looked at Sanna with not a little judgement. ‘Don’t ask me to ride back with her. I will, if you ask it, but…’

‘Be quiet.’ Bai made up his mind. If he had to pay for it, he’d pay later. ‘She isn’t going back. Find her a place in the caravans and see that she’s fed – and clothe her properly! She can’t ride or walk in that get-up.’

Lute whistled in annoyance, showing the whites of his eyes, but obeyed, beckoning to Sanna to follow him.

Bai watched as Lute strode away, Sanna hurrying after him, struggling to keep up with his long-legged stride. She’d come with nothing; he decided she must have slipped away from the other woman and gone straight to the caravans. They could let her travel with them to Silverheim, and then he planned to hand her over to Queen Leiryn. As far as he knew, the Queen’s son was still unmarried and not promised to anyone, and the lad was a decent sort, if a little feckless. If Sanna was lucky, she might make a suitable match there.

Then again, he had doubts there too. Arianlach spent too much time around the Tethiri tents when they were there, getting under the feet of many of the horse-men – or getting drunk on their sweet-grass liquor. Bai didn’t think that finding a wife was anywhere near Arianlach’s list of priorities.

Perhaps one has been found for him, much as one has been found for my cousin.

I’m grateful there is no-one to find one for me!

But then, he did not need one. His children would not be heirs, and he'd trained Lute well enough for that anyway. But then, neither of them were princes. Sorrel and Arianlach were. But why, Bai wondered, had Arianlach not married? He was old enough; plenty old enough. And yet...no wife. 

 And my uncle and aunt want to send Ellazhán to him as a foster brother. What are they playing at?

 He gave up speculating and went in search of his supper.