Niko stammered, finally found words. “Bilijo MacCray,” he said. “You didn’t believe I’d actually come out here like I promised.”

“I don’t give a shit whether you fulfill yer oath er not! But you ain’t cornin’ out here, tradin’ with these horsefuckers, cuttin’ me out! And you ain’t pryin’ any more o’ my trade secrets outa my girl, hear?”

“You know I’d never come out here more than once!”

“Shuddup.” In a single movement he released the shirt, drew back his fist, punched Niko squarely in the face. He looked at the ground, where the Ehleen boy clutched at his bleeding nose.

“I ought to kill you, but you ain’t worth the trouble. This here barbarian kid is mine, hear? I figure a big one like this’ll go for eighty, mebbe even a hundred golds in them Eh-leen pig-cities back east. Then I ain’t never cornin’ back. So I ain’t got no problem ’bout leavin’ you fer cat food if you don’t do what yer told. So get up!” He kicked Niko in the ribs. “Get that blanket there an’ pile all the barbarian’s stuff in it. Now! And when yer done with that, kid, you can go on back to that barbarian camp and tell ’em what’s happened, an’ they’ll have you dancing on a sharp stick up yer hole so fast yer head’ll spin!”

Niko shook helplessly before the vicious power of the man, unable to conceive of stopping him. Terrified, he watched for a moment as Bilijo bent over the limp body and began wrapping a stout rope around his legs. Then he slowly began to pile the small weapons and clan fetishes which Wessli had brought on the small cloak.

Something made him look up, and in the dim red glow of the embers he saw Wessli’s eyes. Bilijo was busy with his victim’s ankles, and didn’t see the clan boy signal desperately. The sword! Niko saw in the staring eyes. Take the sword!

I’m no fighter! Niko’s mind screamed. I’ve never even held a sword in my hands! But there was no time if he was to help his friend. His hands reached into the dark, finding the hilt of Wessli’s weapon without seeing or searching. The blade slid from the scabbard without a sound.

“Whatcha doin’, ya Ehleen punk? Get to work!” the big man hollered over his shoulder.

He’ll see me in a second! I can’t!

In a single movement, Niko gripped the hilt in two hands, lifted it over his head, and brought it down where Bilijo’s neck should have been. The keen edge grated against the skull, and Bilijo leaped up with a scream.

It was the moment Wessli needed to pull himself to his feet, as Bilijo, with a roar of rage, whirled on Niko.

The boy stumbled back, tripped over a root, and landed on his back. The trader snatched a dagger from his belt and with a gigantic, hungry grin went forward.

Something massive punched his back, and, losing his balance, he pitched forward. Niko jerked the sword up, but despite all his strength, Bilijo’s weight slammed the pommel hard against his chest. The big man’s fall seemed to take four or five seconds as he emitted a long groan. The knife fell against Niko’s shoulder, pushed into the flesh by Bilijo’s flaccid bulk. Niko cried out as his attacker twitched and gulped; a torrent of steaming blood poured out of Bilijo’s mouth to splash in'his victim’s face and run into the grass and stones of the forest floor, where its shine faded into huge clots.

Absolute silence returned. Niko felt the weight of Bilijo MacCray on top of him, crushing the hilt of Wessli’s sword into his breastbone. There was sharp pain in his shoulder, warm gore all over his face and chest. Silence.

“Niko, Niko! Are you all right?”

“I think so. I can’t move.”

“You’ve got to! I’m tied up!”

It took a few moments, but at last Niko was able to get his arms beneath Bilijo and push him off. He pulled himself to his feet, ignoring his wound where the knife had fallen free, and looked at the man who had tried to kill him.

Two feet of reddened steel protruded from the center of Bilijo MacCray’s back.

A slash of a knife and Wessli’s bonds were gone. A search of the body turned up the keys to the manacles.

Wessli stretched himself, rubbed the purple swelling on the side of his head. “You saved my life,” he said.

Niko shook his head. It was a little hard to breathe. “You saved my life. I could never have beaten him if you hadn’t told me to take up your sword, if you hadn’t hit him when he was coming at me.”

“But you did it. If it wasn’t for you, he would have sold me at Santalu. Your arm!”

The blood had trickled to the elbow. In a flash Wessli had pressed it and bound it. In a moment he had the fire built up, and they lay beside it until the sun came. Niko seemed much weaker, so Wessli wrapped their belongings and helped his friend back down the path until the messages from his mind were heard by the horses, who raced along the trails to find them and carry them home.

“I should have followed them. I deserve to be expelled from the clan.”

Coopuh looked at the flattened ears of the huge feline. He hadn’t eaten in four days; the Clan leader could almost see the ribs furrowing his pelt. “Stripes, for the last time, I told you to stay! There’s no fault, no blame. I tell you now, you must eat. If not, I’ll have Yellow Fang try to convince you.”

“You know I would never lift claw against the cat chief.”

“Of course.” He waited for the huge animal to slink away before turning back to the tent where the Ehleen boy was at last regaining his strength.

The wound had reddened and drained, and now the fever that had left him weak and confused for two days had abated. His appetite had increased; it was clear that he would survive. Coopuh looked down at the pale young man, his black hair matted. Lana, the girl who had teased him a week ago, cleaned the stale sweat from his face with a cool cloth.

“You look awake.”

Niko lifted his eyelids, an effort. “I can think clearly, today—I think.” He tried to prop himseif up on one elbow. “They’ve told me I was raving for a few days.” “The fever disturbed you, but all that is over.” Coopuh sat on the ground. “We all owe you a debt of

gratitude. Wessli made it clear that your actions prevented him from a life in slavery.”

The events had lasted for only a minute or two, so long ago. Niko tried to remember the blurred details. “He is too modest. Bound hand and foot, he attacked the slaver, threw him upon the sword. Did he tel! you that?”

“Yes.” He waited, but Niko couldn’t think of anything to say. “You have already become well known. The leaders of two other clans have sent small gifts, and the promise of friendship here in our lands. That alone is worth more than any gold. And someday you will hear the song which the bards have already made in your honor.”

“I am not a trader,” Niko said slowly. “Or at least, this is my first attempt at it. All I ask of you is a fair bargain when we each bring out our wares.”

“If you knew us better, you would be able to take that for granted. But you don’t—-therefore there is no offense given or taken. It shall be as you request.” The clan leader rose and left the tent.

“Is he always so formal?” Niko asked.

Lana dipped the cloth in a bowl of water and twisted it dry. “Oh, no,” she said, laying it against his head. “Only with people he respects.”

Two days later, Clan Coopuh gathered at the center of the camp as Nikomedes of Santalu unstrapped the parcels which he had brought and spread the contents out. The men and women came forward to lift the knives in their hands and feel the balance, run their fingers over the finely woven stuff, lift the silver trinkets to the sun and see them shine. After a while they began to bring their own artistry to show: intricate embroideries of a thousand complex interlocking spirals, similar designs worked in thin, supple leathers, odd totemic amulets of feathers and semiprecious stones.

They brought no metalwork of their own. Niko looked at some of the pieces and began to haggle, seeing the nature of the game and enjoying it completely. But the one thing he craved was not there.