The goldsmith shrugged narrow shoulders. "The worth of an article is what someone will pay. I have no market for such a fine trinket. I will give a single gold piece, no more."

Tamas snatched the pearl and strode angrily away. And so it went all day. Tamas offered the pearl to everyone who he thought might pay a good price, but met no success.

Late in the afternoon, tired, hungry and seething with repressed anger, he returned to the Red Lobster Inn, where he ate a pork pasty and drank a mug of beer. At a nearby table four men gambled at dice. Tamas went to watch the play and when one of the men departed, the others invited him to join their game. "You seem a prosperous lad; here's your chance to enrich yourself even further at our expense!"

Tamas hesitated, since he knew little of dice or gaming. He thrust his hands into his pockets and touched the green pearl, which sent a pulse of reckless confidence coursing along his nerves.

"Certainly!" Tamas cried out. "Why not?" He slid into the vacant seat. "You must explain your game to me, since I lack experience at such sport."

The other men at the table laughed jovially. "All the better for you!" said one. "Beginner's luck is the rule!"

Another said: "The first thing to remember is that if you win your count, you must not forget to collect your wager. Secondly, and even more important from our point of view, if you lose, you must pay! Is that clear?"

"Absolutely!" said Tamas.

"Then, just as a gentlemanly courtesy, show us the colour of your money."

Tamas brought the green pearl from his pocket. "Here is a gem worth twenty gold pieces; this is my surety! I have no smaller moneys."

The other players looked at the pearl in perplexity. One of them said: "It may be worth exactly as you claim, but how do you expect to gamble on that basis?"

"Very simply. If I win, I win and nothing more need be said. If I lose, I lose until I am in debt to the amount of twenty gold pieces, whereupon I give up my pearl and depart in poverty."

"All very well," said another of the gamblers. "Still, twenty gold pieces is a goodly sum. Suppose I were to win a single gold piece and thereupon had enough of the game; what then?"

"Is it not absolutely clear?" demanded Tamas peevishly. "You then give me nineteen gold pieces, take the pearl and depart with your gains."

"But I lack the nineteen gold pieces!"

The third gambler cried out: "Come, let us play the game! No doubt matters will sort themselves out!"

"Not yet!" cried the cautious gambler. He turned to Tamas. "The pearl is useless in this game; have you no smaller coins?"

A red-haired red-bearded man wearing the varnished hat and striped trousers of a seaman came forward. He picked up the green pearl and scrutinized it with care. "A rare gem, of perfect luster and remarkable colour! Where did you find this marvel?"

Tamas had no intention of telling everything he knew. "I am a fisherman from Mynault, and we bring ashore all manner of marine treasure, especially after a storm."

"It is a fine jewel," said the cautious gambler. "Still, in this game you must play with coins."

"Come then!" cried the others. "Put out your stakes; let the game begin!"

Tamas grudgingly laid down ten coppers, which he had been reserving for the night's supper and lodging.

The game proceeded and Tamas's luck was good. First copper, then silver coins rose before him in stacks of gratifying height; he began to play for ever higher stakes, deriving assurance from the green pearl which rested among his winnings.

One of the gamblers abandoned the game in disgust. "Never have I seen such turns of the dice! I cannot defeat both Tamas and the goddess Fortunate!"

The red-bearded seaman, who named himself Flary, decided to join the game. "It is probably a lost cause, but I too will challenge this wild fisherman from Mynault."

The game proceeded once again. Flary, an expert gambler, secretly introduced a pair of weighted dice into the game, and seizing an appropriate opportunity, placed a wager of ten gold pieces on the board. He called out: "Fisherman, can you meet such a wager?"

"My pearl is security!" responded Tamas. "Start the game!"

Flary cast down the dice and once more, to Flary's great perplexity, Tamas had won the stakes.

Tamas laughed at Flary's discomfiture. "That is all for tonight. I have gambled long and hard, and my winnings will buy me a fine new boat. My thanks to you all for a profitable evening."

Flary pulled at his beard and squinted sidelong as Tamas counted his money. As if on sudden inspiration Flary swooped down upon the table and pretended to inspect the dice. "As I suspected! Such luck is unnatural! These are weighted dice! We have been robbed!"

There was sudden silence, then an outburst of fury. Tamas was seized, dragged out to the yard behind the tavern and there beaten black and blue. Flary meanwhile retrieved his dice, his gold pieces and also possessed himself of the green pearl.

Well pleased with the night's work, he departed the tavern and went his way.

IV

THE SKYRE. A LONG BIGHT OF PROTECTED WATER, separated North Ulfland from the ancient Duchy of Per Aquila, now Godelia, realm of the Celts.* Two towns of very different character looked at each other across the Skyre: Xounges, at the tip of a stony peninsula, and Dun Cruighre, Godelia's principal port.

*See Glossary I

In Xounges, behind impregnable defenses, Gax, the aged king of North Ulfland, maintained the semblance of a court. The Ska, who effectively controlled Gax's kingdom, tolerated his shadowy pretensions only because an attempt to storm the town would cost far more Ska blood than they were willing to spend. When old Gax died, the Ska would take the town through intrigue or bribery: whichever best served practicality.

Viewed from the Skyre, Xounges showed an intricate pattern of gray stone and black shadow, under roofs of mouldering brown tile. In total contrast, Dun Cruighre spread back from the docks in an untidy clutter of warehouses, hostleries, bams, shipwright's shops, taverns and inns, thatched cottages and an occasional two-story stone manse. The heart of Dun Cruighre was its noisy and sometimes raucous square, often the scene of impromptu horse-races, for the Celts were great ones at contention of any sort.

Dun Cruighre was enlivened by much coming and going, with constant sea-traffic to and from Ireland and Britain. A Christian monastery, the Brotherhood of Saint Bac, boasted a dozen famous relics and attracted pilgrims by the hundreds. Ships from far lands lay alongside the docks, and traders set up booths to display their imports: silk and cotton from Persia; jade, cinnabar and malachite from various lands; perfumed waxes and palm-oil soap from Egypt; Byzantine glass and Rimini faience—all to be exchanged for Celtic gold, silver or tin.

The inns of Dun Cruighre ranged in quality from fair to good: somewhat better, in fact, than might have been expected, for which the itinerant priests and monks could be thanked, since their tastes were demanding and their pouches tended to chink loud with coin. The most reputable tavern of Dun Cruighre was the Blue Ox, which offered private chambers to the wealthy and straw pallets in a loft to the penurious. In the common room, fowl constantly turned on a spit, and bread came fresh from the oven; travellers often declared that a plump roast pullet, stuffed with onions and parsley, with fresh bread and butter, and a pint or two of the Blue Ox ale made as good a meal as could be had anywhere in the Elder Isles. On fine days service was provided at tables in front of the inn, where patrons could eat and drink and watch the events of the square, which in this boisterous town never lacked for interest.

Halfway through one such fine morning a person of portly habit, wearing a brown cassock, came to sit at one of the Blue Ox's outside tables. His face was confident and clever, with round alert eyes, a short nose, and an expression of genial optimism. With nimble white fingers and an earnest snapping of small white teeth he devoured first a roast pullet, then a dozen honey-cakes, meanwhile drinking grandly of mead from a pewter mug. His cassock, if judged by its cut and the excellence of its weave, suggested a clerical connection, but the gentleman had thrown back his hood and where once his pate had been shaved clean, a crop of brown hair now once again was evident.