"Just so," Apad gave back cheerfully. "This land is like a worn shoe; there is nothing better to wear. But we shall make our own shoes." Perkar was wondering if Apad were joking about his name, which meant simply "shoe," but decided not to ask. People were often sensitive about their names.

"How I shall work!" Apad went on. "I will bet all of you now—bet you a fine steer—that I will clear more of my land in my lifetime than any of you!"

Eruka tossed back his straw-blond hair and glanced back over his shoulder at them. "Apad bets you a steer he doesn't even own."

"Yet," Apad said, waggling a finger at his friend.

"Hmm," Eruka replied.

"Eruka fears to take me up on the bet," Apad confided to Perkar—loudly.

Eruka shrugged. "Clearing land is hard work. I'll be happy enough to clear what I need."

"Or have your wife clear it," Apad said, an exaggerated sneer that was plainly meant good-naturedly—as opposed to as a deadly insult.

The Kapaka—up ahead with Ngangata and Atti, the older man with the thick red braids—cleared his throat. "It's a fine thing to plan," he cautioned. "Remember only that the Forest Lord may or may not give his word."

"Of course, of course," Apad replied. He winked at Perkar.

"You, Atti, will you take my bet?"

The braided man turned only slightly in his saddle. He had a habit of gazing all about him, all of the time—he never settled on looking at a single thing. "A useless sort of bet," he replied. "If we judge how much we have cleared by the end of our lives, what use will the winner have for a steer?"

"Well, fine, we can change the wager a bit. Let us say, then, whichever of us has the most pasture by the age of fifty."

Atti snorted. "That gives you many more years of chopping trees than I would have. Thirty to my ten. I might still win, though, against your soft valley hands."

Apad hooted. "We shall see, wild man from the hills! Will you use a broken stone to chop those trees, like your Alwat friends?"

Perkar saw the frown cross Atti's face before he turned forward again. Ngangata—had the jab actually been aimed at him?—reacted not at all. Eruka, though, shot Apad a cautioning look.

They don't like the halfbreed, either, Perkar realized. Only Atti speaks to him. And with his wild braids and strange accent, he is like a wild man himself. Something about that satisfied Perkar immensely. He had disliked Ngangata from the moment he met those insolent black eyes and that soft, rude tongue. He had also felt guilty about it—his father and the Kapaka clearly disap-proved of such an attitude. But Apad and Eruka already knew the Alwa-Man, and if they did not like him either, there must be ample justification for feeling that way.

Still, that last remark by Apad had chilled the conversation; apparently there were things that one should be cautious of joking about.

After a moment, though, the Kapaka broke the uneven stuttering of hoofbeats. "Sing us something, Eruka. Something for traveling."

"Ah, hmm," Eruka mused, and in a moment he hummed a note and began. He had a clear, fine tenor, wavering wildly on the final notes of phrases, an old style and difficult to do well. Eruka did it well.

Up to the hoof I come

Lifting it up, taking it on

Here is what I said I would do

When the new people and their horses come

But never did I promise

Never did I swear to them

That I would not have my fun

Not make them ache where their butts meet the saddle

Not make them wish for a woman and a bed

I will have my own fun…

Apad chimed in now and then, on words like "fun" and "woman," and he was a very bad singer. His "quavering" sounded more like a child bawling or an injured man crying for help. It made the song all that much more amusing, and Perkar felt himself smiling, broadly and unreservedly, for the first time in years. He was on the road, on the way out, to a world rich in Piraku, a world that suddenly had possibilities he had never dared imagine.

But for the rest of the day, imagine he did. And when they left his father's lands, crossed into the wilderness where no axe had been, his thoughts were not on goddesses, or mothers, or any such sorrow, but on the gait of his horse and the sound of boisterous voices.

The sun westered soon enough—the day seemed to fly by. The woods were as open as the inside of a hall, trees like wide-spaced pillars, leaves like the shingled roof of his father's house. Red dusty sunlight leaked through the roof, however, gathered here and there beneath the trees, as if swept into little piles. The birdsong had changed to an evening tune, and the little black frogs that lived in the thick leaf-litter of the open forest floor began throating their own weird melodies.

"We should travel faster," the Kapaka told them. "We can reach the damakuta of Bangaka before nightfall, I think. What do you say, Perkar?"

"We would really have to ride," Perkar said.

"Good enough," the king agreed, and he urged his red and brown piebald into a trot. The others followed. Soon enough they burst from the forest into rolling pasture; a few indignant cows ran from them as they fell into full gallop. The sky opened up, a tapestry, heavy purple clouds woven into an iron-gray sky. The clouds smelled wet, and far on the horizon crimson lightning silently lit one up, the glowing heart of an enormous ghost. The sky and the field were spacious, but the sounds of the travelers stayed close to them, as if the thudding of hooves and their voices feared to stray far into the coming night. They galloped on, and Perkar felt part of Mang, part of the great four-legged beast. He had heard that the Mang tribes believed that a horse and rider who died together lived on as one creature, half man, half horse. It seemed a wonderful dream.

Now the clouds were gray, and the heavens black, and the stars not hidden by thunderheads shone steady. The moon, red as a fire god's eye, rose, half lidded, sleepy.

So it was dark when at last they saw the watchfires of the damakuta, when the men came out to greet them.

Perkar knew Bangaka and his sons well enough; indeed, one of the women he had been urged to consider for marriage was a niece of Bangaka's and lived at his damakuta. Perkar resolved to avoid her, if possible. Bangaka himself met them at the gate; he was an old man, his back a bit stooped, hair as white and thin as thistledown. He had an old-age vagueness about his eyes that made Perkar uneasy. He had eight sons, but only the youngest three still lived with him.

There was not much celebration—the hour was late, and Bangaka had not been expecting visitors. The king retired with the old man, to discuss Piraku and so forth—but the rest of them were offered the barn, an open fire, and warm flasks of woti.

"Well," Apad commented. "The hospitality here is not of your father's quality, Perkar, but it will do." He gazed reflectively at the little knot of serving girls, peeking and giggling from behind an outbuilding. "Sit here, Perkar. Have some woti."

Perkar hesitated. "First I shall rub down Mang and Kutasapal," he said. "Then I will gladly join you."

"Let the wild men take care of that," Apad said.

"What?"

"We will brush down the horses," Ngangata remarked shortly.

"You aren't wearing a servant's livery," Perkar said. "I can rub down my own steeds."

Atti walked over to join the half Alwa. His braids were like rust in the firelight. Ngangata was frightening; his eyes were caves, holes sunken into his head deep, deep. His wide mouth looked less amusing now and more dangerous.

"Let them do it," Eruka called from across the fire. "They enjoy it."

Perkar tried to hold Ngangata's gaze, but there was nothing to hold, only blackness. Finally he shrugged and joined the other two at the fire.