Dragon's Teeth (22 page)

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.