And perhaps Chief Djimmi Marshul might give luck a little assistance. He certainly owed it to his own honor, to Karee, to the memory of Behtee—and to the son he had let slip through his fingers.

“My son. The next time we speak, you will learn who you are and what you might be. And I will ask your forgiveness, for not telling you this time.”

Sacred Sun, grant that there is a next time, and I will go content to Wind.

Aloud and in his mind, Djimmi repeated those words three times. Then he rose and summoned messengers, to bring the warriors together for planning the next battle against the Zhampayunsburkers.

Seek a Clan Sword

by Paul Edwards

PAUL EDWARDS started his writing career off with a bang, by winning a first place award in the Writers of the Future Contest with his fourth short story. He has decided that he wants to be a barbarian when he grows up.

The polished cabochons gleamed in their gold settings, drawing attention to the fat fingers which twirled the stem of the goblet, raising tides of dark wine against the faceted glass. Lord Omphalos, the greatest of the Ehleen merchant princes of the burgeoning city of Santalu, sniffed the small fragrant cloud with a slightly flared right nostril before moistening his tongue with the sharp and musty fluid.

“Yes, yes, the little green statuettes are quite nice. Truly the work of the Ice Dwellers of the far north, you say? Humph.”

“Yes, yer lordship. I seen plenty of fakes in my day, but these’re the straight goods. From a Horseclans singer they are; the most widely traveled men in the world.” Bilijo MacCray, a plains trader, browned and wiry, stood on the patterned marble tiles before his parcels, his simulation of respect flawless. He found it hard to pretend that the fat Ehleen, reclining in his carved walnut chair before the red velvet hangings, had one tittle of importance more than any other bag of money he might slit to empty into his own coffers.

“Hmm, yes, yes, I suppose. But the brocades. If I were to purchase all four bolts, then I suppose we could consider a drop in the price? Say from ten ounces apiece to eight.”

Bilijo smiled, looked down. “So you can jack up the price? Well, that’s your bizness. I might consider nine, if you was to be takin’ the barbarian embroidery.” He stooped to pick up a saddle blanket, covered with intricate geometric designs favored by the Horseclans. “It’s rare to find such a big one. The work is p’tic’ly fine. Lookit these spirals here.” He took a step forward. Omphalos’ bodyguards frowned, and the clerks around the great man muttered to themselves. Scribes hastily scribbled the changing terms of the negotiations.

Nikomedes, Omphalos’ first son, stepped down from the dais to look at the object in Bilijo’s hands. He extended his slender, pink fingers to the surface and gently stroked it. “No bloodstains on it, I see.” “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Senhor MacCray,” Nikomedes said, “everyone knows that you trade the edge of your sword for at least half of your acquisitions. No one, you may be sure, would wish to sleep beneath the effluvia of a dead person, no matter how pretty the coverlet.” A few other Ehleen youngsters tittered.

Bilijo MacCray looked at the fat little dandy. No one would ever deny Omphalos’ paternity. Resisting the urge to backhand the nasty youth, and mindful of the sale he had almost concluded, Bilijo smiled, revealing a few broken but clean teeth, and said, “When you’ve faced the arrows of the barbarians and the claws of the meat-eaters that hunt the plains, then you can talk to me. But until then, sonny, you watch yer manners or I’ll give you a public lesson that even yer old man there would approve of. Now git.”

“You can’t talk that way to me, you ignorant oaf! I’m just as brave as you are!” He turned to look at his father, who merely blinked, hiding his amusement. “Who are you to come into this house and teach me manners?”

“I ain’t teachin’ you nothin’. But if you come to my house, I promise you some teachin’ yer not likely to ferget.” Bilijo dismissed the boy with a glare and turned back to Omphalos. “Now, back to bizness, yer lordship—•”

Nikomedes reddened with embarrassment and rage, all the more since his younger brother, Ugarios, was grinning from the old man’s side. Just because he’d actually raced a horse in the arena, he strutted in the favor of his father. Nikomedes shouted, “How dare you pretend your bravery, bartering for bits of cloth and stealing children in their sleep? I can do at least as well as that!”

Bilijo began to tire of sporting with the rich loudmouth. “Then why don’t you go out on the plains and bring back one of their swords, if yer so hot?”

“Well then, I will! I’ll bring back one of their sabers and throw it in your face! I swear I will! On my father’s name I swear it!”

Instant silence. The legend that the barbarians never parted with their weapons under any circumstances had never been disproved. Omphalos knitted his brows but declined to intervene. Nikomedes was so impulsive! He was hardly fit to take the reins of a business that three generations of work had so laboriously built.

Ugarios glanced at his father, pleased to read the disapproval there. He leaned forward from the dais to goad his older brother. “Yes, Niko! MacCray only lives on the plains, while your Santalu sophistication has certainly made you the better man!”

Nikomedes wheeled around to shout at his brother: “You stay out of this! I don’t need to prove myself to you, but I will, by every god in heaven, I swear to you I will!”

“You’re rather free with swearing this and swearing that,” Ugarios called. “Big words don’t mean a thing, brother, without a little action to back them—”

“I don’t need you to teach me the value of my word.” Nikomedes reached into his vestment and withdrew a small locket. “Before you all, I swear on the grave of my mother that I will go the plains and return with a Horseclans sword, just as I’ve said.”

At these words, Omphalos leaned forward, jowls aquiver, and every voice hushed to hear the old man speak. “You know, if you persist in this, and fail, I could deny you your birthright and cast you out. And I might, if you invoke Amadora’s shade for your arrogant boasting!”

“I don’t care! I won’t suffer the insolence of this ignorant—I won’t be insulted in my own home!”

“You bring back a Horseclans saber, sonny, an’ you can have this blanket to go with it.” Bilijo chuckled, relishing this condescension. “Too bad they never sell ‘em. And I wouldn’t go tryin’ to steal one, neither, not if you value your right hand.”

“We’ll see about that!” Nikomedes cried, and stormed out of the hall.

“The plains will teach him all the lessons he needs to learn, Father,” Ugarios said.

“Hmm. We shall see.” Omphalos sipped another small draft of wine. Nikomedes could only fail his oath, to become an object of scorn and ridicule forever. So impulsive. This whole unpleasant affair might not be too inconvenient, after all. “In the meantime, son, pay attention. Now then, MacCray. You mentioned some herbs?”

Within minutes, Nikomedes’ purposeful stride had degenerated into fretful stumbling. Should he see to his horse first, or have his provisions packed? What about maps, guides, money, trade goods? Indecision finally paralyzed him. Perhaps it was better to lose face than lose life. Hot with shame, he turned toward Omphalos’ reception hall, colliding with Marisue MacCray, the trader’s daughter.

“Excuse me,” he muttered and started to push past her.

“Niko, you look terrible! What is it?” The young woman touched his arm and brought Nikomedes’ impulsive rush to a halt.

He remembered all the funny tales he had regaled the girl with, throwing his money around at the inns and taverns of Santalu, and felt like even more of a fool than before. It was hard to meet the friendship and concern in her eyes.