Dragon's Teeth

by Mercedes Lackey

  In those more innocent times, no one raised the objection that all that long-term radiation would probably render the population sterile rather than producing beneficial mutations; the concept of Nuclear Winter hadn’t even occurred to anyone. But the possibility of a Third World/First Nuclear War was very real.

  One of the obsessions of the more devoted of Horseclans fans was to try and figure out just what the real place-names and proper names were of the locations and characters; Robert had some formula by which he took English names and places, distorted and then phonetically respelled them. Some of them I never could figure out.

  At any rate, it occurred to me that there was another, highly mobile ethnic group that could have survived Robert’s WWIII by being outside the cities; the gypsies, who would have strenuously resisted being absorbed into the Horseclans as they have strenuously resisted being absorbed into every other culture they have come into contact with.

  The Enemy of My Enemy

  Mercedes Lackey

  The fierce heat radiating from the forge was enough to deaden the senses all by itself, never mind the creaking and moaning of the bellows and the steady tap-tapping of Kevin’s youngest apprentice out in the yard working at his assigned horseshoe. The stoutly built stone shell was pure hell to work in from May to October; you could open windows and doors to the fullest, but heat soon built up to the point where thought ceased, the mind went numb, and the world narrowed to the task at hand.

  But Kevin Floyd was used to it, and he was alive enough to what was going on about him that he sensed someone had entered his smithy, although he dared not interrupt his work to see who it was. This was a commissioned piece—and one that could cost him dearly if he did a less-than-perfect job of completing it. Even under the best of circumstances the tempering of a swordblade was always a touchy bit of business. The threat of his overlord’s wrath—and the implied loss of his shop—did not make it less so.

  So he dismissed the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck, and went on with the work stolidly. For the moment he would ignore the visitor as he ignored the heat, the noise, and the stink of scorched leather and many long summers’ worth of sweat—horse-sweat and man-sweat—that permeated the forge. Only when the blade was safely quenched and lying on the anvil for the next step did he turn to see who his visitor was.

  He almost overlooked her entirely, she was so small, and was tucked up so invisibly in the shadowy corner where he kept oddments of harness and a pile of leather scraps. Dark, nearly black eyes peered up shyly at him from under a tangled mop of curling black hair as she perched atop his heap of leather bits, hugging her thin knees to her chest. Kevin didn’t recognize her.

  That, since he knew every man, woman and child in Northfork by name, was cause for certain alarm.

  He made one step toward her. She shrank back into the darkness of the corner, eyes going wide with fright. He sighed. “Kid, I ain’t gonna hurt you—”

  She looked terrified. Unfortunately, Kevin frequently had that effect on children, much as he liked them. He looked like a red-faced, hairy ogre, and his voice, rough and harsh from years of smoke and shouting over the forge-noise, didn’t improve the impression he made. He tried again.

  “Where you from, huh? Who’s your kin?”

  She stared at him, mouth set. He couldn’t tell if it was from fear or stubbornness, but was beginning to suspect the latter. So he persisted, and when she made an abortive attempt to flee, shot out an arm to bar her way. He continued to question her, more harshly now, but she just shook her head at him, frantically, and plastered herself against the wall. She was either too scared now to answer, or wouldn’t talk out of pure cussedness.

  “Jack,” he finally shouted in exasperation, calling for his helper, who was around the corner outside the forge, manning the bellows. “Leave it for a minute and c’mere.”

  A brawny adolescent sauntered in the door from the back, scratching at his mouse-colored hair. “What—” he began.

  “Where’s this come from?” Kevin demanded. “She ain’t one of ours, an’ I misdoubt she came with the King.”

  Jack snorted derision. “King, my left—”

  Kevin shared his derision, but cautioned—“When he’s here, you call him what he wants. No matter he’s King of only about as far as he can see, he’s paid for mercs enough to pound you inta the ground like a tent-peg if you make him mad. Or there’s worse he could do. What the hell good is my journeyman gonna be with only one hand?”

  Jack twisted his face in a grimace of distaste. He looked about as intelligent as a brick wall, but his sleepy blue eyes hid the fact that he missed very little. HRH King Robert the Third of Trihtown had not impressed him. “Shit. Ah hell; King, then. Naw, she ain’t with his bunch. I reckon that youngun’ came with them trader jippos this mornin’. She’s got that look.”

  “What jippos?” Kevin demanded. “Nobody told me about no jippos—”

  “Thass cause you was in here, poundin’ away at His Highass’ sword when they rode in. It’s them same bunch as was in Five Point last month. Ain’t no wants posted on ’em, so I figgered they was safe to let be for a bit.”

  “Aw hell—” Kevin glanced at the waiting blade, then at the door, torn by duty and duty. There hadn’t been any news about traders from Five Points, and bad news usually traveled faster than good—but—dammit, he had responsibility. As the duly appointed Mayor, it was his job to cast his eye over any strangers to Northfork, apprise them of the town laws, see that they knew troublemakers got short shrift. And he knew damn well what Willum Innkeeper would have to say about his dealing with them so tardily as it was—pissant fool kept toadying up to King Robert, trying to get himself appointed Mayor.

  Dammit, he thought furiously. I didn’t want the damn job, but I’ll be sheep-dipped if I’ll let that suckass take it away from me with his rumor-mongering and back-stabbing. Hell, I have to go deal with these jippos, and quick, or he’ll be on my case again—

  On the other hand, to leave King Robert’s sword three-quarters finished—

  Fortunately, before he could make up his mind, his dilemma was solved for him.

  A thin, wiry man, as dark as the child, appeared almost magically, hardly more than a shadow in the doorway; a man so lean he barely blocked the strong sunlight. He could have been handsome but for the black eyepatch and the ugly keloid scar that marred the right half of his face. For the rest, he was obviously no native of any town in King Robert’s territory; he wore soft riding boots, baggy pants of a wild scarlet, embroidered shirt and vest of blue and black, and a scarlet scarf around his neck that matched the pants. Kevin was surprised he hadn’t scared every horse in town with an outfit like that.

  “Your pardon—” the man said, with so thick an accent that Kevin could hardly understand him “—but I believe something of ours has strayed here, and was too frightened to leave.”

  Before Kevin could reply, he had turned with the swift suddenness of a lizard and held out his hand to the girl, beckoning her to his side. She flitted to him with the same lithe grace he had displayed, and half-hid behind him. Kevin saw now that she wasn’t as young as he’d thought; in late adolescence—it was her slight build and lack of height that had given him the impression that she was a child.

  “I sent Chali aseeing where there be the smithy,” the man continued, keeping his one eye on Kevin and his arm about the girl’s shoulders. “For we were atold to seek the Townman there. And dear she loves the forgework, so she stayed to be awatching. She meant no harm, God’s truth.”

  “Well neither did I,” Kevin protested. “I was just trying to ask her some questions, an’ she wouldn’t answer me. I’m the Mayor here, I gotta know about strangers—”

  “Again, your pardon,” the man interrupted, “but she could not give answers. Chali has been mute for long since—show, mouse—”

  At the man’s urging the girl lifted the curls away from her left temple to show the unmistakable scar of a hoofmark.

 
Aw, hellfire. Big man, Kevin, bullying a little cripple. Kevin felt about as high as a horseshoe nail. “Shit,” he said awkwardly. “Look, I’m sorry—hell, how was I to know?”

  Now the man smiled, a wide flash of pearly white teeth in his dark face. “You could not. Petro, I am. I lead the Rom.”

  “Kevin Floyd; I’m Mayor here.”

  The men shook hands; Kevin noticed that this Petro’s grip was as firm as his own. The girl had relaxed noticeably since her clansman’s arrival, and now smiled brightly at Kevin, another flash of white against dusky skin. She was dressed much the same as her leader, but in colors far more muted; Kevin was grateful, as he wasn’t sure how much more of that screaming scarlet his eyes could take.

  He gave the man a quick rundown of the rules; Petro nodded acceptance. “What of your faiths?” he asked, when Kevin had finished. “Are there things we must or must not be adoing? Is there Church about?”

  Kevin caught the flash of a gold cross at the man’s throat. Well, hey—no wonder he said “Church” like it was poison. A fellow Christer—not like those damn Ehleen priests. This was a simple one-barred cross, not the Ehleen two-barred. “Live and let be” was a Christer’s motto; “a godly man converts by example, not words nor force”—which might well be why there were so few of them. Kevin and his family were one of only three Christer families in town, and Christer traders weren’t that common, either. “Nothing much,” he replied. “King Robert, he didn’t go in for religion last I heard. So, what’s your business here?”

  “We live, what else?” Petro answered matter-of-factly. “We have livestock for trading. Horses, mules, donkeys—also metalwork.”

  “Don’t know as I care for that last,” Kevin said dubiously, scratching his sweaty beard.

  “Na, na, not ironwork,” the trader protested. “Light metals. Copper, brass—ornament, mostly. A few kettles, pans.”

  “Now that sounds a bit more like! Tell you—you got conshos, harness-studs, that kinda thing? You willin’ to work a swap for shoein’?”

  “The shoes, not the shoeing. Our beasts prefer the hands they know.”

  “Done.” Kevin grinned. He was good enough at tools or weaponwork, but had no talent at ornament, and knew it. He could make good use of a stock of pretty bits for harnesses and the like. Only one frippery could he make, and that was more by accident than anything else. And since these people were fellow Christers and he was short a peace-offering—He usually had one in his apron pocket; he felt around among the horseshoe nails until his hand encountered a shape that wasn’t a nail, and pulled it out.

  “Here, missy—” he said apologetically. “Little somethin’ fer scarin’ you.”

  The girl took the cross made of flawed horseshoe nails into strong, supple fingers, with a flash of delight in her expressive eyes.

  “Hah! A generous apology!” Petro grinned. “And you cannot know how well comes the fit.”

  “How so?”

  “It is said of my people, when the Christ was to be killed, His enemies meant to silence Him lest He rouse His followers against them. The evil ones made four nails—the fourth for His heart. But one of the Rom was there, and stole the fourth nail. So God blessed us in gratitude to awander wherever we would.”

  “Well, hey.” Kevin returned the grin, and a thought occurred to him. Ehrik was getting about the right size to learn riding. “Say, you got any ponies, maybe a liddle horse gettin’ on an’ gentle? I’m lookin’ for somethin’ like that for m’boy.”

  The jippo regarded him thoughtfully. “I think, perhaps yes.”

  “Then you just may see me later on when I finish this.”

  Chali skipped to keep up with the wiry man as they headed down the dusty street toward the tsera of their kumpania. The town, of gray wood-and-stone buildings enclosed inside its shaggy log palisade depressed her and made her feel trapped—she was glad to be heading out to where the kumpania had made their camp. Her eyes were flashing at Petro with the only laughter she could show. You did not tell him the rest of the tale, Elder Brother, she mindspoke. The part that tells how the good God then granted us the right to steal whatever we needed to live.

  “There is such a thing as telling more truth than a man wishes to hear,” Petro replied. “Especially to Gaje.”

  Huh. But not all Gaje. I have heard a different tale from you every time we come to a new holding. You tell us to always tell the whole of the truth to the Horseclans folk, no matter how bitter.

  “They are not Gaje. They are not o phral, either, but they are not Gaje. I do not know what they are, but one does not lie to them.”

  But why the rule? We have not seen Horseclans since before I can remember, she objected.

  “They are like the Wind they call upon—they go where they will. But they have the dook. So it is wise to be prepared for meeting them at all times.”

  I would like to see them, one day.

  He regarded her out of the corner of his eye. “If I am still rom baro, you will be hidden if we meet them. If I am not, I hope you will be wise and hide yourself. They have dook, I tell you—and I am not certain that I wish them to know that we also have it.”

  She nodded, thoughtfully. The Rom had not survived this long by giving away secrets. Do you think my dook is greater than theirs? Or that they would seek me out if they knew of it?

  “It could be. I know they value such gifts greatly. I am not minded to have you stolen from us for the sake of the children you could bear to one of them.”

  She clasped her hands behind her, eyes looking downward at the dusty, trampled grass as they passed through the open town gate. This was the first time Petro had ever said anything indicating that he thought her a woman and not a child. Most of the kumpania, including Petro’s wife Sara and their boy Tibo, treated her as an odd mixture of child and phuri dai. Granted, she was tiny; perhaps the same injury that had taken her voice had kept her small. But she was nearly sixteen winters—and still they reacted to her body as to that of a child’s, and to her mind as to that of a drabarni of sixty. As she frowned a little, she pondered Petro’s words, and concluded they were wise. Very wise. That the Rom possessed draban was not a thing to be bandied about. That her own dook was as strong as it was should rightly be kept secret as well.

  Yes, rom baro, I will do as you advise, she replied.

  Although he did not mindspeak her in return, she knew he had heard everything she had told him perfectly well. She had so much draban that any human and most beasts could hear her when she chose. Petro could hear and understand her perfectly, for though his mindspeech was not as strong as hers, he would have heard her even had he been mind-deaf.

  That he had no strong dook was not unusual; among the Rom, since the Evil Days, it was the women that tended to have more draban than the men. That was one reason why females had come to enjoy all the freedoms of a man since that time—when his wife could make a man feel every blow, he tended to be less inclined to beat her . . . when his own eyes burned with every tear his daughter shed, he was less inclined to sell her into a marriage with someone she feared or hated.

  And when she could blast you with her own pain, she tended to be safe from rape.

  As she skipped along beside Petro on the worn ruts that led out of the palisade gate and away from town, she was vaguely aware of every mind about her. She and everyone else in the kumpania had known for a very long time that her dook was growing stronger every year, perhaps to compensate for her muteness. Even the herd-guard horses, those wise old mares, had been impressed, and it took a great deal to impress them!

  Petro sighed, rubbing the back of his neck absently, and she could read his surface thoughts easily. That was an evil day, when ill-luck led us to the settlement of the Chosen. A day that ended with poor Chali senseless—her brother dead, and Chali’s parents captured and burned as witches. And every other able-bodied, weapons-handy member of the kumpania either wounded or too busy making sure the rest got away alive to avenge the fallen. She winced as gu
ilt flooded him as always.

  You gave your eye to save me, Elder Brother. That was more than enough.

  “I could have done more. I could have sent others with your mama and papa. I could have taken everyone away from that sty of pigs, that nest of—I will not call them Chosen of God. Chosen of o Beng perhaps—”

  And o Beng claims his own, Elder Brother. Are we not o phral? We have more patience than all the Gaje in the world. We will see the day when o Beng takes them. Chali was as certain of that as she was of the sun overhead and the grass beside the track.

  Petro’s only reply was another sigh. He had less faith than she. He changed the subject that was making him increasingly uncomfortable. “So, when you stopped being a frighted tawnie juva, did you touch the qajo, the Townsman’s heart? Should we sell him old Pika for his little son?”

  I think yes. He is a good one, for Gaje. Pika will like him; also, it is nearly fall, and another winter wandering would be hard on his bones.

  They had made their camp up against a stand of tangled woodland, and a good long way off from the palisaded town. The camp itself could only be seen from the top of the walls, not from the ground. That was the way the Rom liked things—they preferred to be apart from the Gaje.

  The tsera was within shouting distance by now, and Petro sent her off with a pat to her backside. The vurdon, those neatly built wooden wagons, were arranged in a precise circle under the wilderness of trees at the edge of the grasslands, with the common fire neatly laid in a pit in the center. Seven wagons, seven families—Chali shared Petro’s. Some thirty seven Rom in all—and for all they knew, the last Rom in the world, the only Rom to have survived the Evil Days.