For the second time that night, Eithne found herself lost in the maze of tents and booths.

Damn it all! I should have taken that left turn!

The fairground was a slovenly camp, gear scattered around smoky fires made of boards. The air stank of cheap ôl, overloaded sewers, and the wind off the stockyards and the river. Aisles of tents filled the pasture. Jugglers and trinket-sellers and artists made their carnival amid a host of sit-down drink sellers and pastry-makers.

As she rounded a bend, Eithne spotted a circle of brightly painted wagons. The strange, hypnotic, almost sensual music of unseen stringed instruments floated from their midst. The aroma of oddly spiced meats drifted to her nose, an unwelcome reminder of the last fortnight’s journey with little better than trail rations.

A large family, or so they seemed, dressed in exotic, brightly colored clothing, were seated around a roaring campfire, laughing and drinking.

Then a small, caped figure with a long, dangling hood pointed at her. Abruptly, all activity stopped, and whispers of, “Alyon,” went around the fire.

A large, burly man approached, followed by another, younger man. His son, judging by the resemblance. Behind them came another man, shorter and smaller, but not less daunting.

The leader eyed her up and down, taking in her steel-ringed mail and trail-stained leathers, the unadorned short sword that hung from her girdle, and the dagger still in her hand, with its dark yellow schorl. “What do ye want?”

“Lady Eithne? Is that you?”

A brown-robed form, head shorn from temple to temple, with hair long and braided from crown to shoulder, rose from amid the crowd around the fire.

Dumbfounded, she blinked at him. “Acolyte Adarc?”

The man in front of her scowled and grunted again, “What do ye want?” He wore a thick, hard leather vest and put a fist around the hilt of the long sword at his hip.

Adarc bumbled from his place by the fire, holding his robes to his knees. “Kerron! Kerron! All’s well! She’s with us!” From the crowd emerged more faces she recognized; the merchant’s apprentice and his big, Foreigner bodyguard, and a thin man in Droma tartans.

The scowl didn’t leave the leader’s face. “She don’t look like no drymyn…”

Eithne blinked at the man. “Kerron?” She knew that name…

Of course! The tinker we met on the trail. Eowain had helped him with his wagons, and he’d camped overnight with the Droma-men just a few days earlier. She put her empty left hand open to her chest. “It’s me. Lady Eithne of Dolgallu.”

His eyes squinted at her. “The arlodhes of the myghtern Eowain?”

Adarc stumbled up beside him. “Aye, it’s alright, Kerron. Sure and she’s a friend. Kowethes. Ta shiu toiggal, nagh vel shiu?”

He grunted at the acolyte. “Of course, I understand.” He knocked his head with the heel of his hand. “I’m not gocki.” Then his scowl broke into a wide grin. “Vanis karven a'gas dynnergh! Come, ye must drink with us!”

Ignoring the long dagger in her hand, he embraced her as an old friend, and ushered her by the shoulders to his fire.

The seven men of the Vanis family gathered around the fire welcomed her with a mug of tart cider and friendly slaps on the back. Six or seven children, including the little girl in the liripipe hood, roamed the camp in various states of filth and undress. Eithne could see no women among them, but curtains on the windows of the house-wagons flicked aside from time to time and revealed candle-lit shadows. They keep the women in their wagons?

Adarc and Corentin were soon beside her. The acolyte’s face was pale with worry, while the merchant’s was alight with curiosity.

“My lady? What’re you doing abroad? Sure and I thought you were at the temple in the hill?”

She gulped at the cider gratefully and told them all she’d seen and done.

Kerron and his men listened with great interest, and gabbled among themselves when she spoke of the kings of the Fiatach tribes, and the unknown fate of Eowain, still away under the hill.

No sooner had she finished than the sound of booted feet, shouts, and jingling mail rose above the general din of the surrounding market. The tinkers’ dogs— a giant, brindle-faced beast, and lurchers descended from sight-hounds and sheepdogs—all started to bark.

Kerron scowled at her. “This myghtern Ardgar, yer hanter-kosin, he’d want ye back?”

“Aye,” muttered Eithne. She rose and put her hands to the hilts of her weapons. “I suspect he would.”

Kerron put his hand to hers, shook his head. “No, me arlodhes.” He flicked a hand to the girl in the liripipe hood. “Talwyn will show ye away from here. They will not follow.” He kissed her on both cheeks. “Ye’re kowethes to the Vanis!”

The little girl grinned as if inviting her to play in some grand child’s game. “Come wit’ me, teg arlodhes. I show ye!”

Adarc tugged at Eithne’s sleeve. “Come, my lady. Follow the girl.”

The little girl led Eithne to one of the house-wagons, and ducked under it. “Come on!”

Adarc dropped down and followed after her. “Sure and it’s safe, my lady.”

Corentin rolled eyes at Eithne. “Doubtful,” he muttered. “But better than arrested being.” He ducked down as well, and his Foreigner lumbered after him.

The lean man in the Droma tartan knuckled his forelock. “Tommalt, of Eowain’s own scouts, mum. We’ll see you safe away.”

More shouts rose over the din, and the crash and bang of tents and booths being searched.

Eithne gritted her teeth. This is hardly dignified, running like this. But she scrambled under the wagon and away again into the night.