Page 57

To my mind, the look said, “That’s where you long-pigs belong. One day you’ll all be caged and numbered and bred for slaughter.”

Or maybe it was just a bland, ordinary glance and prejudice skewed my eye.

How are we to learn anything of the world when we remain mysteries to ourselves?

I listened to the insects of this strange land buzz and sing in the night.

I listened for the sound of goblin-feet shuffling toward the cart.

Sleep was long in coming.

In the morning, Bazl called a free-talk, or moot, in which several matters relevant to the company were to be decided, not least of which the question of what to do with Galva and myself, and our worldly goods. As our fate was on the docket, we were again brought in bondage to the ring around last night’s fire, which had now gone ash, to witness events. Figs were passed out, and hard bread, and some kind of lukewarm tea with a likable bitterness that made you want another sip. Where these karks got so much food was beyond me, but they ate well, and no question.

Galva’s beautiful, priceless shield had been hung up on a pole like some kind of flag or standard, and many were the Egalitarians whose looks at it suggested they would like to have it for their own.

Some words were spoken in Wostran by this one and that one, and then a vote was taken, Bazl himself using a nub of charcoal to make tally on a swatch of tree bark.

Now he turned to me and spoke in Galtish.

“The company have decided, by vote of twenty-three to nineteen, with one abstention, that Foxfoot and the Spanth warrior are, by reason of her great skill at arms, and his not seeming to be a cunt, invited to join the Free Traders of the Fig and Dagger, provided they will swear to serve in brotherhood with us for three years, three months, and three days.”

“One abstention? Who didn’t vote?”

“Brat.”

“The goblin?”

“She never votes, she does not believe in it.”

“Do we have an alternative to joining?” I asked, knowing I wasn’t going to like the answer.

“Of course!” Bazl said, adjusting the false nose, which he did often. “If you refuse our offer to join us in equalness and brigandage, we shall sell you and your goods at market.”

He motioned at Galva now, and it was clear he wanted me to translate.

Looking at her, I knew there was no way in any hell that she would agree to join the Free Wankers of the Twig and Berries for three months, let alone three years and more. Not with her queen and sometime lover across the mountains wanting Galva’s sword. But I had to tell her something.

She nodded at me as if to say, “Hurry up and tell me,” perhaps smelling the smoke of the alchemist’s shop between my ears busily transmuting hard truth to pleasant lie.

“They want us to join them,” I said to her in Holtish.

“How long?” she said.

I was warming up to say, “For as long as all parties agree,” when Szymnal and his fifty-odd words of Holtish stuck his cock in the lard.

“Three years! Three months! And three days!” he said, quite pleased with himself to be useful. I was struggling for something more benign to tell her when the Wostran said “Must swear!”

“No,” Galva said, shaking her head violently in case anyone failed to understand her. A gasp went up from the moot.

“They’ll sell us in chains to the gods know who or what, you mad Spanth.” I then added, as quickly and quietly as I could manage, “Just tell them you’ll swear, and then we’ll see.”

“I am not so free with my oaths as that.”

“But…”

“Tell them.”

I saw Szymnal looking at me with the attention of a dog watching sausages, and I saw no way out of it. In Galtish, I said, “She is already sworn to serve her queen across the mountains and must return there. Is there a price for which we may buy our freedom?”