The odds were long against his ever leaving this camp alive, but if he did he would not go back to his former life. That was no life for a man. Indeed, since divorce was as despised as infanticide in Blue Springs, it might be best for all if he never returned. Let them think him dead.

Who would care, in truth? Little Lilia would miss him, but he had been able to do little to protect her from her husband. Sooner or later her husband would drink himself into an early grave, and she would be a widow young enough to catch the eye of some better man. As for his older sister, Nee, she would rejoice at this cleansing of a stain on the family honor.

No, Blue Springs was no longer home, and besides, he’d given his word to Chief Djimmi not to run back and warn them. If by some chance the Horseclans freed him, he could doubtless contrive some way to disappear.

It was sheer chance that brought the boy with a splinter in his thigh to Djoh’s tent. A raiding party had just returned from Zhampayunsburk and all the other healers were busy. Even those whose task it was to aid the healers seemed to be in need of extra hands.

“It seems the Zhampayunsburk militia was well mounted and not easy to land into ambush,” Karee said. “Wd lost few dead, fewer still so badly hurt that they could not ride. Many have returned needing healing and some days’ rest before they draw bow or mount horse again.”

A pardon for Blue Springs, then? No, only a reprieve, unless the Sacred Caterpillars and the elders agree to pay tribute. Oskah’s tight purse alone would be enough to prevent that.

In the half-moon since he had given his word and become as much a guest as prisoner of the Horseclans, Djoh had learned much about Chief Djimmi’s plans. Had they not been the plans of one who might still burn Blue Springs and all in it, he would have honored the man’s wisdom in war.

The warriors who had crossed the river were the picked fighting men and women of Clan Marshul, scouting for the rest of the clan. Whether that clan was crossing the Great River to escape enemies, seek new lands, or itself scout for all the other clans was still a mystery. Djoh knew without being told that it was also a secret, one his new position still did not allow him to know.

In any case, Chief Djimmi did not wish to turn the land about him into a waste. Towns, villages, and individual farms were summoned to pay tribute, of food, iron, horses, or anything else the clan might need. Those who paid were mostly left in peace. (Chief Djimmi kept good order among his warriors.)

Those who refused felt the wrath of Clan Marshul as Two Tanks had done. That wrath was heavy. (When Chief Djimmi turned his warriors loose on a town, they left only ashes, rubble, corpses, and slaves.) From time to time, a village or town was also sacked and burned without warning, to remind all those in sight of the smoke to pay tribute quickly when their turn came.

Chief Djimmi had a reputation for seeing far ahead. He also had a reputation for an exceedingly short temper with folly or treachery.

Zhampayunsburk had shown neither. It lay well beyond the Eeleehnoyah River, and Djoh suspected it had been attacked simply to confuse the clans’ enemies. Where would they strike next? people would be asking.

What Djoh was asking was what he was supposed to do for this boy who’d suddenly appeared in his tent. He was one of the score or so of chosen boys who’d ridden with the war party as part of their initiation into manhood. Right now, the boy looked to Djoh like any other scared twelve-year-old away from his mother and in pain.

Why ask myself, when there’s surely at least one person who knows and will tell me? He turned to the men who’d brought the boy in.

“Will one of you go to Karee Marshul and ask her to come here if she is free?”

“Oh, Karee never charges!” said one with a ribald laugh. “Indeed, it’s as much as your manhood is worth to even hint that she does. She doesn’t have much humor. Of course, she has everything else—” “Including a tongue, which is more than you’ll have if you keep flapping it,” said the other bearer.

“Why should we obey a Dirtman’s orders?” “Because this Dirtman has been pardoned by Chief Djimmi. Also, because I will knock out all the teeth Karee doesn’t if you go on insulting two better warriors than yourself.”

“A Dirtman a warrior?” growled the first man, but he followed his comrade out of the tent. His receding thoughts held the message Clan Marshul is falling on evil days, when warriors are sent to do the bidding of captive Dirtmen.

Djoh sighed. The “once a Dirtman, always a Dirtman” faction was strong in the camp. Not so strong that he was in danger, but strong enough so that if he lost the protection of the “anyone with mindspeak and a warrior’s courage deserves honorable treatment” faction, his fate was certain.

His life would probably hang in the balance as long as Clan Marshul remained on this side of the river. What happened after that depended on whether they chose to return to the Plains or remain and carve out a territory. They would hardly return, leaving one who knew all their secrets behind them.

If they chose to stay, however . . . Djoh had to wonder. Those who thought he deserved honorable treatment had treated him better than most of the Blue Springers ever had, except in the few years after the battle with the pirates!

Was his destined home among these wild riders from the Plains?

Djoh found his hands shaking so badly at this thought that he sat on them to hide them from the boy. Except for the splinter, the boy seemed to have no worse than bruises. That splinter was going to be enough trouble, though. The boy didn’t need to see his would-be healer’s hands shaking into the bargain!

By the time his hands stopped shaking, Djoh heard a familiar footstep approaching the tent. He forced his mind and voice to be as steady as his hands.

“Karee, this splinter must come out soon, and the wound be cleansed. Do you have a sharp knife, or one that can be sharpened?”

“Is that sharp enough?” Karee said wearily, handing the knife to Djoh.

Djoh pressed the knife against the ball of his thumb. The skin parted at the lightest touch. He sucked the blood and nodded.

“Sun be praised!” Karee said. “If I’d had to take the whetstone to it again, I think I would have tested it on you somewhere else.”

Djoh seemed not to hear her. “Can the mindspeak put someone to sleep, so he feels no pain?”

“There are tales of those who can use it thus,” Karee said. “The Undying Milo is one.”

Djoh dropped the knife, then cursed as he picked it up. Karee noticed that his face had gone very white. Well, perhaps he’d realized how much he’d taken on himself, seeking to heal this boy.

“Did the knife lose its edge?” she asked.

“No—no. It’s sharp enough. All right, lad. You’d better bite on something—”

“Here.” Karee handed the leather sheath of her wrist dagger to the boy. He popped it into his mouth and managed to smile around it.

“What did they cure this with, Karee? Northhorse dung?”

His smile froze and sweat popped out on his forehead as Djoh slit the wound open. Blood poured out onto the pallet. Karee moved to hold the bandages ready as Djoh carefully lifted the splinter out, with hands he’d carefully washed in water as hot as they’d used for the bandages. He held the wound open with one hand while he gently sought stray bits of wood with the knife in the other.

Sometime during this seeking, the boy fainted. At last Djoh sat back on his haunches. Karee knelt beside him with the bandages ready, but he put an arm in front of her. Clearly without intent, his hand brushed her breasts. The gentle brushing could not have felt stronger had it fallen on her bare flesh.

“No, we leave the wound to bleed freely for a moment longer. Then all the evil that may come from horse dung will be washed out.”