"Fyss, am I right?"

The man looked at me with a knowing and sympathetic look. I immediately frowned, but couldn't decide whether to ask him to repeat what I had heard, or to stab him on the spot and run away. Whether the fur trader was working for the Leafies or was interested in the Lemis bounty, I couldn't understand why he would decide to reveal himself in public. Seeing my horrified look, the man hesitated, then laughed loudly, and the laughter spread to the whole table. "So what, you shouldn't take it like that. We serve everyone here," said the innkeeper more seriously, as if he was afraid I would leave. The amuban trader nodded without taking her eyes off me. Soon all the players expressed their assent in one way or another. "We have nothing against you. On the contrary," said the younger of the two brothers. I pinched myself under the table to make sure I wasn't dreaming, but the pain was followed only by the staggering numbness of panic and the suspicion of being ambushed. I stared at them all, one after the other, livid and wary. Then the furrier, whose laughter was beginning to sound hollow, because the atmosphere was deteriorating noticeably, slapped me on the back. "Excuse me, friend, I didn't mean to upset you. And for all I know, you're maybe less Fyss than Highlander?"

When I realized my mistake, color immediately returned to my cheeks and I laughed nervously, which brought back the compromised hilarity of the table. I could also see relief in the eyes of a few people, including the owner of the place, who had thought I was going to cast a bad spell. So I decided to pretend that my confusion was a joke, rolling my eyes even more exaggeratedly. "I'm Fyss, yes. Well, half Chaig, half Peygen, if that means anything to you," I lied to the furrier when the laughter died down. "I was doing business with the clans, before all this shit with Brown-Horn. I haven't seen a Fyss in three or four years now. The world has turned upside down." He uttered that last sentence in a broken but understandable clanic before turning his gaze on the younger of the two brothers. "You see, Gostav, that's what I was telling you." The latter had a charitable mimic. "Look at the triangle they made on him. They're selling them to the Carmians now, those bastards." The scribe raised a curious eyebrow. "Oh, so that's what this mark is," he said soberly, noticing my scar.

"It's terrible what's been going on in Brown-Horn," the woman whose green eyes had turned sad told me, and she seemed sincere. "I don't mind things being a little boorish on the wild frontier, but still, these people claim to be of the ancient Sarp." "Well, it's not really them," the elder Gostav said. "It's typical of the League, really. We know who's pulling the strings. And in Franlake they won't stop there, believe me. It's no secret that their primate... what's his name again...?" "Vovic," completed the elder. "Yes, that's right, Vovic Vair," continued the first. "Well, he's not much more than a puppet with debts, everyone knows that. And this so-called Council, in Brown-Horn, you don't have to be very smart to understand that it's the same thing." The furrier nodded while the other was still talking, and my heart filled with apprehension. I usually avoided thinking about Dera and the clans, because the rumors I had heard were all pointing in the same direction. The old families were selling the "tainted" to the slavers.

"Note," said the scribe, "Hill's doing the same thing, and with Brownians to boot." No one picked up on his comment, except the furrier who spat gruffly, "Brownian or Fyss, we look the same in the dark. I'll tell you, scribbler, I don't like Hill, and it seems to me that letting the Carmians in through the back door as they do is garbage, but you have to compare the comparable. What's happening in Brown-Horn is a disgrace. You don't just give away men like they were cattle." The scribe looked down and murmured his agreement. "I've heard that the situation has settled down recently," said the youngest of the cartwrights. The amuban merchant agreed: "My sister's husband went there by the river just after last winter. He told me that business is picking up a bit, even though a lot of people were dumped along the way. There was a lot of trouble the first few years, but now..." The furrier snorted disdainfully and slapped me hard on the back. "It settled down, it settled down, depends on who you are, eh! I'm sure my friend Talker here won't disagree with me."

The eyes turned to me and I bit my lip. I didn't know what to make of it, except that these strangers were expecting me to give them gossip that I couldn't provide. It would probably have been safer for me to make something up, but I also figured that if I wanted to get more information (which, to be honest, was only half the truth), I would have to lay my cards on the table, and I was afraid of getting confused with explanations I hadn't had time to prepare properly. "I wasn't in Brown-Horn when Bard died, and I haven't been there since," I finally told them. "I don't really know what's going on there, or even what happened. I was captured in Ac-Pass fighting for Wadd. I owe my mark to Hill."

The scribe raised his eyes. "Ah, you see," he exclaimed, pointing at me. "Hill's the problem." The fur trader crossed his arms as thick as my thighs and glared at him. "It's a wonder whose side you're on, Berno. Think about who you're talking to." The scribe gave me an embarrassed and also a little fearful glance, as if he had just remembered that I looked like a fighter. He had large, light-colored eyes, a beautiful oiled beard and his hair cut short, and I had no doubt that he must have been popular with the women in the villages he passed through. The man finally raised his hands in protest.

"That's not it," he continued briskly. "I know they've mistreated people in Brown-Horn, but I know about the past, too." With these words he threw a few glances around and lowered his voice, "It's just that, it sounds good, that story about the Council. Sarp used to work like that, without primates, and we did the same for a while, after the Long Night. With all these wars, I just wonder if it wouldn't be different, if everyone had a say, if the lands didn't belong to just a few." There was a silence, then the furrier laughed loudly and both brothers did the same. "But my dear Berno," roared the colossus, "do you think it's scribes and peddlers who sit on the Council of Brown-Horn?" The scribe blushed violently and shook his head. "That's not what I'm saying, but..."

"But what?" interrupted the older brother. "You know the names. Soak, Borbay, Lemis, Estu and all the others. Are they people like us?" I raised my head, my mouth twisted with disgust. "Estu?" I asked, and the question left my lips in the form of a snort. "Ganav Estu?" "Yes, that's him," the wheelwright answered. "He was exiled by the primate for selling children or something, but for a rich guy like him, you know, exile doesn't mean much. Bard Govon would have been better off hanging him. He went to hide in Franlake to conspire, and came back when the old families started their maneuvers. He got a hero's welcome there, I've been told. He was able to sell other children, I can tell you that. There were cages on Brown's Wharf, I saw them with my own eyes."

I nodded slowly and methodically emptied my tumbler under the voracious scrutiny of the others, their faces splashed with the shadow of the large chandelier that hung in the middle of the room. My every reaction was watched by the assembly, captured, then savored. I found it obscene, but I couldn't really blame them. I let the drink flow down my throat, conjuring up the memory of my abduction by the smugglers who worked for Ganav Estu. My whole story had started there, if I thought about it, my kidnapping and the murder of Tom Minnow, who had not wanted to take part in the trafficking of clan children. I remembered the fateful creaking of the boat hold in which I had awakened after being drugged with mad-care. The impossible stiffness of the bonds. The panic of being trapped like cattle in a wooden prison. I also thought of Robin, suddenly finding myself singularly stupid for having imagined at the time the person responsible for his disappearance wandering in rags in the forests of the High-Lands. I was curious too, curious as to why Captain Nad had taken a different path, when he could probably have found refuge in Franlake.

"How many were sold?" I asked after a long silence. The furrier shrugged and answered my question with another. "Who can tell? At first, they mostly went after the half-bloods in the city, the ones who had fought for Bard. There were a lot of them at the end, when the soldiers switched sides. I lost all my suppliers overnight. So how many, I don't know, but the last time I was there there were still a lot of empty houses in the lower town. Then it was the turn of the Basin. Some Fysses fought, others were captured, but most of them fled. I was told that there were still some manhunters who roamed the woods, but they didn't catch many people and didn't dare to venture too far into the forest. There were some driven hunts the first year, but then the source dried up, so to speak."

I nodded, full of hatred and bitterness. When I had heard of Bard's death and the old families' takeover, it had been in the fall, when the Basin clans were preparing to winter in the High-Lands. I hoped that Rue had had time to take his family with him before the events the furrier had just described took place, but I couldn't be sure of anything. And even if there had been others left, those who were no longer leaving, such as the old men, or the wounded. Frieze the merchant. Vaug, Dera's brother. The hardest part, in truth, was not knowing.

I took a deep breath. A strange atmosphere had fallen over the room. The youngest of the cartwright brothers filled my empty cup, under the sympathetic eye of the amuban. The innkeeper seemed more bored by the discussion than anything else and soon, pretending to have things to do, he slipped away discreetly in the direction of the kitchen. "Don't you have family there?" the furrier asked me at last, with a strange voice. My hand brushed against Dera's tattoo, which was hidden under my doublet. "Yes," I answered simply. "Are you on your way to find them?" the merchant asked. I shook my head. "I wouldn't know where to start," I said. "Besides, I've already been a slave. Once was enough." There was a new silence as the guests sought refuge in the contents of their mugs.

The colossus drummed his fingers on the table, then cleared his throat. "If you ever change your mind, I know that the Highlander tribes have welcomed some of them," he said. "And others have crossed the Horned mountains to settle in Riga. There are also some who must have gone south, but that's the territory of the pone households, and only the gods know what happens there." "Some soldiers passed through Brican last moon," announced Gostav in a clear voice, "I ate with them at an inn and they swore to me that there were pone female warriors fighting for Southy, in Red-Volc. A wine merchant who traveled with them assured me they were telling the truth." "No kidding?" sniffed the furrier, incredulous. "Now that's something I'd like to see, broads fighting like men." The merchant smiled and straightened up, and the heavy cloak that had hovered over the table dissipated at the prospect of changing the topic.

"I saw two Neridian women arguing on the docks in Sand-Port once," she said. "They drew their swords and it was going so fast I couldn't follow the blades with my eyes. Even the guard hesitated to intervene to separate them. I was told they were probably buccaneers." The scribe chuckled. "I saw two drunken whores fighting in White-Wood, it was less of a spectacle," he announced in a scornful tone. "No matter how we slice it, war's still a man's business." The two brothers shared a laugh, but the furrier shrugged his shoulders. "I guess that Southy has a different opinion. If they're paying them, they must know their job. I remember there were female hunters among the Fysses who were better shots than the men." He then turned to me. "You, as a soldier, have you ever seen any broads who carried swords?" I nodded while staring at the scribe.

"For a few days I was with a warrior from the Val country named Gerda and in my opinion she could have gutted every man in this room with one hand tied behind her back," I replied. "I fought with a younger one named Katja. She tied a bow that would have been hard for you to string, friend. Everyone knows that Pones learn war as soon as they can stand, and all the clan warriors I knew took them very seriously. If half of what I've heard about them is true, then it wouldn't surprise me if they were capable of sending a brownian scribe to the mat before they were old enough to have their first bleeding." There was a slightly tensed hesitation, and then the furrier let out a loud, contagious laugh that the others followed, the scribe included. "I'll stick to gambling, then," the scribe grinned a little foolishly, and added a coin to the pot.

I brought my tumbler to my lips as Gostav rolled the dice again. My table companions were talking about the military merit of women, while I was pondering what I knew about the Pones, mostly from my time with Frieze, the chaig merchant. The clans rarely ventured to the Rain coast, because the matriarchs were considered unpredictable and the Pones had a reputation for being fiercely territorial. That they would fight Wolf-Bay wasn't surprising, since skirmishes had always broken out between the female warriors of the households and the primacy on the wooded lands west of the remains of the Dead-Wall. Nevertheless, the news that Gostav reported was curious, since to my knowledge, never before had the matriarchs wanted to parley with the brownian primates, let alone serve as their lance holders. Frieze had told me that they treated the men even worse than the Brownians treated their women, as breeding tools and nothing more, and that they killed some of their male children. I didn't know if this was true, but I figured there must be some strange things going on in the west for such an alliance to take place. Eventually I gave up on my ramblings, because I had enough to think about and the clan trail must have been cold for a long time anyway.

I went to bed after a few unsuccessful throws of the dice, and my companions of the evening nodded at me courteously one after the other. I was thinking of asking for some news about Spinel, to add to the information I had gleaned from Gorwill, but fatigue got the better of me before I could find a way to bring up the subject without implying that I was planning to go there: I had decided that caution was in order - especially since the furrier had scared the hell out of me when I thought he was calling me by name - and, even if some of what I had told them about myself was false, I felt that they already knew more than enough about me. Despite the worry and snoring of the two ragmen who shared the room with me, I still managed to catch up on the sleep that had eluded me on the boat. The next day, I bought some supplies from the innkeeper, dried fish and a loaf of his bread, and took the road to the capital. The latter was the only paved one in the canton, and I walked only one hour before turning north on the clay and wood road that led to Spinel.