“Your father goaded me into daring a trip to the plains to bring back a Horseclans saber. I swore an oath on it. No, that’s not true. I brought it on myself. I—I don’t know if . .

“You’re very brave, Niko. I always knew it. You’ll give my father the comeuppance he needs.”

“You’d favor me over your own father?”

Marisue looked away. “He’s never been short with food or clothes, or getting me sums and letters, but sometimes, when he’s drunk, he ... I don’t want to talk about it.” She looked up to meet her friend’s curious gaze. “I’ve been on the plains, too, you know.”

Niko’s heart started pounding. What kind of a coward am I, he thought, if this little girl, years younger than I, can so blithely speak of her familiarity with the plains? How could I ever face even her if I back out now?

His hands began to shake as he realized that he was truly going to go through with it. He took her arm and steered her away from the reception hall, back through the corridors of the great villa toward the storerooms and offices. Perhaps she noticed the clamminess of his palms; it didn’t matter.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” he said.

She laughed, a comfortingly friendly sound instead of another piercing humiliation. Marisue seemed to have no doubts that Niko, city-bred and soft, could fulfill his impulsive oath. The young man allowed some of her confidence into his heart, and laughed with her. “Let’s see,” she said. “To begin with, you have to go upriver about three leagues, to a huge rock outcropping on the western side. One of their major trails terminates there. You’ll probably meet them in less than a week’s ride from the river, if you take the northern fork and head into the hills. . . .”

There was no fanfare at Niko’s departure four days later. Only Marisue accompanied him to the stables, where he clumsily hoisted his saddle onto one mare and the pack onto another. He pulled himself up, and taking the halter of the packhorse, entered the streets of Santalu with the young woman at his side. He had never thought that the noise and bustle, the smells of animal excreta and cleaned fish from the river, the smoke of innumerable small fires, and a thousand other vivid sensations of his city’s life would ever arouse longing or even affection. He breathed it all in, fearing that it might never comfortably envelop him ever again, but also strangely exhilarated by the real risk of his adventure. Soon they were at the docks, where experienced hands took charge of his beasts and his chattels.

Marisue embraced him. “Remember what I said: the barbarians respect only courage. If they think you’re afraid, they’ll despise you. And don’t be too forward; when it’s formal, don’t talk to anyone who hasn’t talked to you first. You’ll win that sword, Niko. I know you will.”

He smiled, trying to look as brave as she wanted him to be. “And if they don’t want to make the trade?”

“Just don’t plan too far in advance. We traders never do.” She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “Be safe, Niko. Come back to me.”

He looked at Marisue, saw that her cheeks were a shade flushed, thinking it was only the wind off the river on this cool day. Marisue had always been the little girl he’d dazzled, yet for the past four days, she had beert a serious little tutor, teaching him what she could of the plains and the strange brooding ways of the ferocious barbarians, the folk of the Horseclans. Suddenly what had seemed only precocity was revealed as the beginning of her adulthood. Niko saw that Marisue was no longer the wide-eyed girl whose entertainment had been his pleasant duty while their fathers conducted business. He leaned forward to brush her lips with his.

The mate called all hands, and Niko tore himself away to run up the gangplank. With a snap, the sail rippled into its lovely bulging form, and the ferry moved away from the dock, into the slow currents of the river. Niko stayed at the rail, watching Santalu recede into the south, until at last he was no longer able to see the figure of Marisue standing at the water’s edge, watching him head into the unknown.

The circle of Clan Coopuh’s yurts and tents had been erected to the east of a tall steep hill so that the afternoons would be cool and refreshing. Life had been so calm and uneventful that the elders were joking about the young men’s lack of opportunities for experience and plunder, which wasn’t funny for young heroes hot for a chance to earn a reputation. Babies were healthy, game was plentiful, the women were all getting along with one another. All the clan’s wounds from a few disastrous raids of several years ago had completely healed.

Two hours before dusk, Stripes, a newly mature prairiecat of three years old, returned from the east to the Coopuh encampment. He padded in, past the children throwing spears at targets, past the women busily scraping stretched hides, answering with a self-important low growl all the friendly greetings. He went straight to the Coopuh’s tent, and asked permission to enter. Coopuh’s welcoming thoughts returned.

Inside, Coopuh was honing his axe as Morguhn, his second wife, gave their infant son the breast. The sight gave the huge feline a moment of longing for his own days as a kitten, the warmth of his littermates, the affectionate coarseness of his mother’s tongue, before his importance as a scout of Clan Coopuh reasserted itself.

“We’re getting some visitors before nightfall,” he said with his mind. “One man and two horses. The two-legs has a strange mind; I couldn’t make it out at all.”

Coopuh loved Stripes. He knew he had to make this seem as important as possible to keep the youngster’s pride from deflating. “Well, then. You’ve done well to report it. Did you get a look at the two-legs?”

“Yes, sir, and I’m sure he didn’t see me. He seems very fearful. I think I would have terrified him, if I’d made my presence known. The four-legs were afraid, too, but I think they were picking up on him, not me.”

“Considering how fearsome you are, that’s probably true.” Stripes purred with contentment at the praise; Morguhn worked at not laughing. “So what did he look like?”

“Black hair, smooth cheeks, fairly pinkish skin. Fat. Not at all like any of the traders we know.”

True, thought Coopuh in the private spaces of his mind. Is this the first hint of some kind of territorial

challenge to the traders we’ve learned to deal with?

“Good work. I think it will be safe to receive him here in camp. You’re certain there’s only one?”

“I doubled back three miles. No men, no fires, no other tracks.”

“You are an outstanding cat. Go and eat; and be ready when the two-legs arrives. If he lies about anything you know for certain, we will deal with him appropriately.”

“Thank you, Coopuh.” Stripes turned to go, giving the baby a brief lick with his rough tongue before departing.

Morguhn chuckled aloud. “That’s the most pompous animal I’ve ever known. You really shouldn’t encourage him.”

“He’s all right,” answered Coopuh. “He’ll laugh at himself when he gets older. Little Hron certainly seems to enjoy the attentions of his cat brother.”

Morguhn shifted the child from one nipple to the other. “Not surprising. He’s learning to purr, too.”

1

The sun was no more than a thumb’s width above the horizon. Niko’s horses, terrified of the cats at first, accepted the soothing cascade of human and animal thoughts and contentedly munched the prairie grass in the company of the free horses of the Clan. Except for an occasional whinny and the gentle crackle of the fire, the only sounds in the camp of Clan Coopuh were the voices of Coopuh, the clan leader, and the visitor, Nikomedes of Santalu. The clanfolk stood in a long silent semicircle around the stranger. Firelight glinted from their jewelry, from their golden hair, and most of all, from their well-worn, polished weapons.