"Nik," Starling replied.

"I know no Nik," the man said. He opened the door and went into the house. Starling boldly followed him, and I trailed her with less confidence. My sword was at my hip. I put my hand closer to the hilt but not on it. I didn't want to provoke a challenge.

Inside the hut, a driftwood fire burned in the hearth. Most but not all of the smoke was going up the chimney. A boy and a spotted kid shared a pile of straw in one corner. He regarded us with wide blue eyes, but said nothing. Smoked hams and sides hung low from the rafters. The man carried the milk to a table where a woman was chopping up fat yellow roots. He set the bucket down beside her work and turned to us mildly.

"I think you've come to the wrong house. Try down the road a ways. Not the next house. That's where Pelf lives. But beyond, maybe."

"Thank you kindly. We shall." Starling smiled round at them all, and went to the door. "Coming, Tom?" she asked me. I nodded pleasantly at the folk and followed her. We left the house and walked up the lane. When we were well away I asked her, "Now what?"

"I'm not precisely sure. From what I overheard, I think we go to Pelf's house and ask for Nik."

"From what you overheard?"

"You don't think I have personal knowledge of smugglers, do you? I was in the public baths. Two women were talking as they bathed. Pilgrims on their way to the Mountains. One was saying it might be their last chance at a bath for a while, and the other was saying she didn't care as long as they finally got to leave Blue Lake. Then one told the other where they were supposed to meet the smugglers."

I said nothing. I suppose my expression said it all, for Starling asked me indignantly, "Do you have any better ideas? This will either work out or it won't."

"It may work out to us with our throats cut."

"Then go back to town and see if you can do better."

"I think if we did that, the man following us would decide we were certainly spies and do more than just follow us. Let us go on to Pelf, and see what comes of it. No, don't look back."

We returned to the road and walked to the next farmstead. The wind had become stronger and I tasted snow on it. If we did not find Nik soon, it was going to be a long, cold walk back to town.

Someone had once cared about this next farm. Once there had been a line of silver birches to either side of the drive. Now they were brittle scarecrows of trees, their branches long bare, bark peeling in the wind. A few survivors wept yellow coin leaves in the wind. Extensive pastures and fields had been fenced, but whatever stock they had held was long gone. The weedy fields went unplanted, the thistly pastures ungrazed. "What happened to this land?" I demanded as we walked past the desolation.

"Years of drought. Then, a summer of fire. Out beyond these farmsteads, the riverbanks used to be covered with open oak forests and grazing land. Here, these were dairy farms. But out there, smallholders ran their goats in the free pasturage, and their haragars scavenged under the oaks for acorns. I've heard it was magnificent hunting as well. Then came the fire. It burned for over a month they say, so that a man could scarcely breathe and the river ran black with ash. Not just the forests and wild meadows, but hayfields and homes were torched by the flying sparks. After the years of drought, the river was no more than a trickle of itself. There was nowhere to flee from the fire. And after the fire came more hot dry days. But the winds that blew carried dust now as well as ash. Smaller streams choked with it. It blew until the rains finally came that fall. All the water that folk had prayed for years came in one season. Floods of it. And when the water went down, well, you see what was left. Washed-out gravelly soil."

"I recall hearing something of the sort." It had been a conversation long ago. Someone… Chade?… had told me that the people held the King accountable for everything, even droughts and fires. It had meant little to me then, but to these farmers it must have seemed like the end of the world.

The house, too, spoke of a loving hand and better times. It was two stories, built of timber, but its paint was long faded. Shutters were closed tight over the windows in the upper story. There were two chimneys at either end of the house, but one was losing its stones. Smoke rose from the other one. A young girl stood before the door of the house. A fat gray pigeon perched on her hand and she was stroking it lightly. "Good day," she bid us in a pleasantly low voice as we approached. Her tunic was leather over a loose cream shirt of wool. She wore leather trousers as well, and boots. I put her age at about twelve, and knew she was some kin to the folk in the other house by her eyes and hair.

"Good day," Starling returned to her. "We are looking for Nik."

The girl shook her head. "You have come to the wrong house. There is no Nik here. This is Pelf's house. Perhaps you should seek farther down the road." She smiled at us, no more than puzzlement on her face.

Starling gave me an uncertain glance. I took her arm. "We have been given poor directions. Come, let us take ourselves back to town and try again." At that time I hoped no more than to get ourselves out of the situation.

"But…" she objected in confusion.

I had a sudden inspiration. "Shush. We were warned these are not people to take lightly. The bird must have gone astray, or a hawk taken it. There is nothing more to be done here today."

"A bird?" the girl piped suddenly.

"Only a pigeon. Good day to you." I put my arm about Starling and turned her firmly. "We did not mean to bother you."

"Whose pigeon?"

I let my eyes meet hers for a moment. "A friend of Nik's. Do not let it concern you. Come, Starling."

"Wait!" the girl said suddenly. "My brother is inside. Perhaps he knows this Nik."

"I would not wish to bother him," I assured her.

"No bother." The bird on her hand stretched out his wings as she gestured to the door with it. "Come inside out of the cold for a bit."

"It is a cold day," I conceded. I turned to confront the whittler just as he was emerging from the line of birches. "Perhaps we should all go inside."

"Perhaps." The girl grinned at my shadow's discomfiture.

Within the door was a bare entry hall. The fine inlaid wood of the floor was scuffed and had gone unoiled for some time. Lighter spaces on the walls showed where paintings and tapestries had once hung. A bare staircase led to the upper floor. There was no light save what came in the thick windows. Inside, there was no wind, but it was not much warmer. "Wait here," the girl told us, and entered a chamber to our right, closing the door firmly behind her. Starling stood a bit closer to me than I wished. The whittler watched us expressionlessly.

Starling took a breath. "Hush," I told her before she could speak. Instead, she took my arm. I made the excuse of stooping to adjust my boot. As I straightened, I turned and put her on my left side. She immediately took hold of that arm. It seemed a very long time before the door opened. A tall man, brown-haired and blue-eyed, came out. He was dressed like the girl in leathers. A very long knife hung at his belt. The girl came on his heels, looking petulant. He had rebuked her, then. He scowled at us and demanded, "What's this about?"

"My mistake, sir," I said immediately. "We were seeking one named Nik, and obviously we have come to the wrong house. Your pardon, sir."

He spoke reluctantly. "I've a friend with a cousin named Nik. I could give word of you to him, perhaps."

I squeezed Starling's hand for silence. "No, no, we wouldn't wish to trouble you. Unless you'd like to tell us where we could find Nik himself."

"I could take a message," he offered again. But it was not really an offer.