The dark man was as pale as Karee had ever seen him. Blood trickled from his mouth, and he coughed more when he tried to speak.

“My own fault—standing like—a Sun-forsaken—tent. I—can you—?”

“Ride in peace, friend Djilz.” Karee’s sword thrust swiftly, and Djilz went to Wind. She knelt beside him for a moment, until all sense of life had left the hand she was holding. Then she turned to look at the senseless mindspeaker.

Capturing you cost us a good warrior and me a fine lover, dirt-scratcher. You had better be worth such a price.

* * *

The thoughts around Djoh awakened him before the sounds. They also told him as much about where he was—in a camp of the Horseclans. He hardly needed to discover that his hands and feet were bound to know that he was a prisoner in that camp.

He listened to both the thoughts and the sounds for a while, for lack of anything better to do. He’d taught himself the art of counting men and animals from their thoughts in the first years after he saved Blue Springs and no longer needed to hide his “witch power.” He didn’t know what the riders called his ability, but doubted he had much to lose by using it. What these people did with captives, the ashes of Two Tanks said clearly.

“You didn’t knock out your brains after all!” came a voice in both ears and mind. The lips and mind belonged to a young blond woman sitting by the entrance to the tent. Djoh didn’t know anything about the mind beyond that one thought, but the lips were definitely full and comely.

Blue eyes flared wide as Djoh completed that thought. The young woman rose in a single lithe motion and stood beside the straw-stuffed pallet where Djoh lay.

“Or did you?” she asked. “In your position, I wouldn’t be stripping my guard, even in my mind.”

“I think any guard in charge of you would gladly strip himself, with no prompting,” Djoh said. Marthuh had liked such pretty speeches, back in the early years of their marriage when everything had been good and seemed likely to stay that way.

“What troubles you?” the woman asked. “You seem sad. Or is your arm paining you? We put it back in the socket, and your head was hardly hurt at all.”

“I am well enough, I suppose.” He tried to sit up, realized that was a mistake, then decided that he was somewhat hungry and incredibly thirsty.

That request produced a cup of water and a plate of fresh berries with a piece of smoked meat in the middle. “Not too much of the meat—and what is your name. Dirtman?”

“Is that what you call us? Well, I think I will not say or think what we call you after Two Tanks.”

“That was war!”

“Not as we understand it, here among the farms and towns.”

“We shall not agree, I think,” the woman said. She hesitated, then said, “My name is Karee, of Clan Marshul.”

“I am Djoh the Carpenter, son of Peetuh, of Blue Springs.”

Djoh discovered that he was so hungry it was hard to eat slowly, with small bites. He wanted two or three platefuls the size of the one Karee held.

Gradually he realized that this was one of the best meals he’d eaten in years. Was it really the food, or was it that for the first time he was being fed as if someone wanted to see him eat? Marthuh had never been the best cook even when she was trying to please him. Now she slapped food down before him with an “Eat this or starve, I don’t care which” air.

“You are sad again,” Karee said. “What is it that troubles you?”

“I don’t owe you people my life story!” Djoh snapped. “If you can read my mind, do it. Otherwise leave me in peace.”

Karee jumped as if he’d slapped her. “You will tell us anything we want to know, whether you owe it or not! When the questioning begins, you will beg to tell us.”

“And when will that be?” Djoh asked. “I should like to know if I can expect to die under torture, or be whipped to death by your tongue before then?”

The reply was a slap that made Djoh shake his head afterward, to be sure it was still attached to his shoulders. Since he had nothing to lose—

“Karee, I prefer to see you as I did in the battle, a warrior. I think you want to be remembered that way too, not as one who beats helpless prisoners.”

For a moment he thought he was going to get another slap. Then she swallowed. “You—curse you, did you read that in my mind?”

“I need no—mindspeak—to tell one who loves honor from one who does not.” All I need was to remember Oskah or Marthuh—gods forgive her!—and watch you.

Karee looked away for a moment, but was almost smiling when she turned back to him. “Then if I show honor by not slapping you again, will you show honor by telling me what makes you sad?”

“It is remembering someone I once knew and loved. She looked somewhat like you.”

“Is she dead?”

“She is—it is as if she was dead.”

Again Karee turned away. This time she did not turn back, but rose and strode out.

Now what did I say? I’ll gladly take a few more slaps, if she’ll just come back and help me go to the jakes!

The hot iron slid between Djoh’s left great toe and its neighbor. The hiss and reek of searing flesh reached Djimmi Marshul even where he stood, at a dignified distance from the pit where Djoh was being questioned.

No sound from Djoh reached Djimmi. Nor did any smell, save that of the sweat pouring down his naked body. Djimmi was surprised that the Blue Springs carpenter had not even fouled himself since the questioning began.

“What is the strength of Blue Springs, in men and weapons?” the man with the iron asked. It was the tenth time at least he’d asked. Djoh’s body showed the signs of his refusal to answer the previous nine times.

The Dirtman’s lips were bitten bloody, but he managed to shape them into a wry smile. “Surely you are asking me what you already know? I have more respect for your scouts than you do. They have ridden far and fast, and I have seen other prisoners brought in.”

Once more Djimmi reached for Djoh’s thoughts and found only pain, a trifle of fear, and no trace of the knowledge the clan needed. Djoh was a member of the Blue Springs militia; it was hard to believe that he knew so little. The Dirtmen might call mindspeak “witch power,” but they had trusted this mindspeaker with a post among their scouts.

Rather, one of their chiefs had trusted him. Those who rode with Djoh had not trusted so much, and paid the final price for folly in battle.

So Djoh not only had the mindspeak but, perhaps without knowing it, the power to hide his thoughts from other mindspeakers. That was a power that few even among the Kindred had. Djimmi had it, but only a half-score of others among Clan Marshul.

For considerably more than the tenth time, Djimmi wondered how a Dirtman came to have such mindspeak. His musings ended as Karee Marshul walked up to stand beside him.

“What has he said?”

“Nothing that he did not tell you that first day. Unless he told you other things, during the ten days you nursed him?”

Unmistakably, Karee was flushing. “He told me only that he had once fought river pirates with the help of a prairiecat. He was a hero for a time, but they distrusted his mindspeak in Blue Springs. Even his wife turned away from him, in time.”

“Then he must not have had a woman for quite a while. Did you think of that?”

Karee’s flush this time was anger. “Suppose he’d had the strength? What could that have done?” “Perhaps loosened his tongue better than the irons and what else awaits him,” Djimmi snapped. “You have not hesitated to use the power of your loins over other men for smaller purposes. Why not this Djoh?” Karee’s hand was on her saber hilt, not resting lightly but gripping so tightly the knuckles were turning white. Djimmi realized that he had gone beyond wisdom, even for a chief. Sacred Sun did not shine warmly on chiefs who insulted proven warriors. Karee would have been that had she had three arms, two heads, and purple scales like some of the creatures unleashed on the land after the Wasting.