“You know what I think?”

The man’s breath was a foul mix of ale, vomit and baccy. He had cornered Naela in the narrow passage leading to the Mesic Inn’s kitchen and pinned her against a wall with his large obese frame. The coarse fabric of his tunic, drenched in weeks, maybe more, of sweat and the grime of his trade, pushed up against her breasts. He shifted his hips and she felt his building excitement.

Naela wanted to gag, but controlled herself; careful not to inhale, as the very air itself appeared contaminated with his filth.

“I think you’re a Sareen,” he said. “And I think you’re going to be very nice to me now, because if you don’t I’m going to tell Tigel—and everybody else. And then you’ll have to be nice to them all.”

He leaned closer, so that even in the dim light she could make out his oleaginous features; the over-ripe nose with its gaping pores, a broad lipless gash of mouth, deep-set eyes, a film of greasy perspiration over bulging, wattled cheeks. He burped, sending trails of nauseating stench wafting into her nostrils.

Too long! She’d stayed too long! In a small town like Port Ster, where everybody knew too much of everybody else’s business, hiding was so much more difficult than in a city.

Why didn’t you go to Sacrael, stupid girl?

A large hand settled on one breast and squeezed; another slipped around her buttocks and pushed her to him. He uttered a deep groan.

Naela hated violence. She was a Sareen! A healer!

Still, here was a situation which left her with few options. An odd, unsettling emotion rose from a dark corner of her soul.

“Wait!” she whispered, wriggling her breasts against his groping paw with what she hoped was an implied promise. “Give me room.”

The mouth twisted into a grin as he released his pressure. Naela made as if to sink down on her knees, eliciting a grunt of anticipatory satisfaction. He backed off against the opposite wall; his hands released her and went to lift his tunic.

Naela wasted no time. Her knee went up between his legs with force and precision. The man uttered a dismal exclamation of pain and dismay. His hands went to his crotch as he doubled over. Naela, with an anger that shocked her, jerked up her knee again, felt the ridge of his nose crush.

He howled in pain.

Nimbly she stepped aside, evading his grasp. His moans followed as she ran our of the hallway, into the bar, pushed her way through the surprised patrons toward the door and finally gained the freedom of the street, now dank and drizzly with the rains that had come earlier in the day.

Quick! The big oaf would alert everybody within moments. Already she fancied she could her his voice through the door. Soon everybody would know that she was a Sareen, and then life would become very difficult indeed.

She looked around desperately, glanced up the three-storey façade of the Mesic Inn. Up there was a tiny room, which she rented from Tigel, who probably thought she was a whore that would sooner or later show her true colors and use the room for ‘business’—which would have meant a slice of the profits for him. A big slice, if what she knew of Tigel was anything to go by.

Naela made a vexed sound. So close and yet out of her reach. Up there were almost all her meager possessions; what she had taken with her from the farm when Barch…

The sudden anger flared again, dampening the effect of her despair.

He had a right!

No, he didn’t!

Nobody who claims to love you has a ‘right’ to do this.

Curse Barch! Maybe she should have let him to die!

Don’t even think that!

A few curious passersby eyed her as she stood there, hesitating. She knew none of them by name, though at least one of the faces was familiar. Ignoring them all she picked up her skirt so it wouldn’t trip her and hurried away from there, taking a right turn into Sinola Alley, which was dark, and she thought she could duck into doorways in order to avoid being seen, though if they came through here with torches she would be trapped.

Her sandals were noisy and hampered her. She stopped, pulled them off and, holding them in her hand, ran away as fast as she could.

Where to? She had to get out of Port Ster and preferably now! But how? Stints wouldn’t leave the town before daybreak. All the stables would be closed, including Kopel’s, where she had stabled her most valuable possession, a grey dappled mare called Celeste, who had been with her since even before she’d married Barch.

Anger again! And now she knew what had driven her to the basically gratuitous action of breaking her attacker’s nose.

It is unworthy and wrong!

She knew that, but so what? One got tired of running; tired of pretending, hiding, lying; of knowing that sooner or later one would have to move on, because somebody would find out and then…

She needed Celeste and she needed her now!

Hurry!

Quite without a plan she ran trough the streets. She had to get to Kopel’s before the news. Only then could she hope to escape.

And what would she tell Koppel’s hostler? How could she reason with him? He would be suspicious. Of course he would be suspicious! But at least he slept in a loft above the stable, and he was young and impressionable and she was almost one hundred and sixty years old.

Surely you can beguile a young man?

Surely…

The alley with no name was one of many winding between the buildings surrounding the harbor: a shortcut she would normally have avoided at night. Many an intoxicated sailor ambled aimlessly between taverns of heading back to his ship, and there were always those willing to take advantage of such easy prey. Port Ster's astunos were too small in number and often too lazy to curb such larceny, which often turned into violent robbery and left many a sailor lying in a bloody mess on the filthy ground. The new rule in Keaen had not yet made its effect felt around here, even though Port Ster's corrupt old mayor had as of recent been replaced by a new one. It would take a while to make things better; they had been allowed to degenerate for so long, and the rot sat deep and would take much effort and determination to remove.

Naela hesitated only a moment and plunged into the alley. The reek of vomit and cloacal decay enveloped her as she ran, her bare feet splashing through muck and puddles left behind by recent rains. She forced down her revulsion and hurried to the other end; reached it without having been touched.

She stopped before she ventured into Danfur Lane, peered right and left into the murk, saw no one and started running off to her right, faster now, hearing nothing but the slapping of her feet on the muddy ground and her rhythmic breathing, which was becoming heavier with every breath she took.

Suddenly she stopped and stood there, panting heavily.

What if they were waiting for her? Too many people knew where she stabled Celeste.

But she had taken the shortest path possible and run all the way. By the time...

Naela made a vexed sound and started running again.

She emerged into the expanse of the docks. Most of the ships attached to the jetties were dark hulks, their masts silhouetted by the glow of Janus, swaying slowly in the winds from the Limpic Ocean. At the far northern end of the harbor’s crescent there was activity: a three-master whose quirky rigging betrayed its origins: Fontaine, far across the vast oceans, on the other side of the world, where few from the Valley had had any prompting to go. Beside the ship stood a queue of stints with the tall, humped canvas tops of the Cedrean Carriage Associative. A stream of figures moved forth and back between ship and carriages under the illumination of a string of lanterns suspended between ship and a tall post on the wharf.

Naela turned right and hurried along the docks, passed two drunken sailors trying to support each other as they tumbled toward a nearby vessel. They hailed her in voices dull and slurred by drink. She ignored them, hurried on and presently arrived before the wide double-door of Kopel's Stable. They were locked tight and no light showed in the windows above her. Behind the doors she could hear the sounds of horses stirring: hooves clunking against wood, jerky snorts; the horses senses that something was out of the ordinary was up.

Naela looked around the docks. The two sailors were drifting off at an erratic path towards a large two-masted schooner. Naela returned her attention to the locked doors when she heard the sound of running footfall. She looked around, saw two dark figures head for the sailors.

Naela opened her mouth to shout a warning, then bit down on it. What could she do that would make a difference?

She forced herself to turn to the door and banged her fist against it.

From a distance behind her came muffled outcries, curses, more shouts, an exclamation of pain. Naela didn't look and instead banged on the door again. As if in response came a neighing sound, followed by a snort. She wondered if it was Celeste, who sensed her mistress.

Wake up, you oaf!

She stood undecided. In the stint depot a hundred paces further along the row of dock front buildings nobody appeared to be asleep. The entrance doors were wide open and even as she watched two grooms wheeled a stint, then fetched four horses and maneuvered them into position.

With an impatient fist she banged on the door again.

“What do you want?” The voice was young and grumpy.

She looked up at the head poking out of a window above her.

“I need my horse.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Now!”

“It’s the middle of the night! Where would you want to go in the darkness, with all the night creatures just lying in wait for you?”

“I just…”

“There she is!” The shout came from her right; faint, but the words were clear enough.

Naela looked around in sudden panic. Four dark shapes were heading in her direction.

“What have you done?” came the voice from above her.

“Nothing! Please just let me have Celeste.”

But she knew that it was already too late. Even if the youth decided to open the door immediately it would be too late. Celeste was lost to her. Something else she loved gone from her life. This was as it had always been. Sometimes she wondered how she could love anything at all, if losing it was the inevitable fate.

She turned away, hitched up her skirt and ran as fast as her legs would carry her; past the stint being readied, past the grooms watching her in perplexity; past two more building lying dark and silent; into another narrow slimy alley…

… where a hulking shape blocked her path and foul breath washed over her as two arms with muscles hard as tika wood gripped her.

“What’s this?”

More foul breath, making her gag. She tried to knee him in the groin, but he twisted away and laughed.

“Ha! Try that again and I’ll teach you how to behave as a whore should.”

“I’m no whore!” she managed to get out.

Hurried footfall at the entry to the alley. Her pursuers peered into the darkness of the narrow passage.

“There she is,” one of them said.

“But not alone.”

“Go away!” Naela’s captor grunted. He spun her around and out of sight of the three. She felt her face pressed against him, right near his left armpit. She tried to hold her breath but the stench wafted in through her nose; she choked and sputtered, heaved uncontrollably.

“She’s a Sareen,” one of her pursuers called. “She’s ours.”

Naela’s abdomen twisted, jerked, heaved. A gush of vomit filled her mouth and poured over her captor.

“You filthy…” he shouted and shoved her away from him.

Naela gasped for breath, but she was free.

Her captor, realizing what he’d done, reached for her again; but now, with a force born out of desperation, she clenched her right hand into a fist and slammed it into his face—and broke another nose.

He made a gurgling sound; his hands flew to his face to his injured proboscis. Naela turned and fled. The shouts of her latest victim and her other three pursuers mingled behind her, but she didn’t look back, but focused on running and not losing her footing as she raced across treacherous, slippery filth and finally gained the freedom of a lane whose name she didn’t know. Without thinking she turned left, because that was the direction to the Fort Tachwyn Road, and if she knew one thing at all, it was that she needed to get out of the town. In the open country monsters roamed, but she was a Sareen and they wouldn’t hurt her.

As she ran she reflected on the bitter irony that, apart from other Sareens, those least likely to do her harm were the wild creatures from the Myrmidic Woods, who tore ordinary people from limb to limb.

Does that mean that I, too, am a wild beast?

Sobbing, the world around her blurring through her tears, she ran, and the few that saw her might have wondered who she was and what caused her such distress; but nobody stopped to ask, and if they had she would have ignored them and continued to run.

Presently she reached the town limits, defined by a ten-foot wall that ringed Port Ster. A massive tika gate now sealed off access to the Fort Tachwyn Road. Already several stints were lined up, ready for when it was going to be opened at daybreak. Many of the drivers lay on their seats, sleeping; the horses stood still, waiting; they knew the routine and had been through it many times. Naela stopped and considered the situation. No way was she going to be able to leave the town. The gate area, like the tops of the rampart was lit with flickering torches and lanterns to discourage the elecs from approaching too closely. The guards patrolling the gate would question her, and her fate would be sealed. The edicts emerging from Castle Keaen regarding Sareens had been clear and concise; the penalties for harming Sareens in any way were harsh. But this was Port Ster; the new law was taking hold only gradually and chances were that the wall guards themselves might ignore it, knowing that everybody else would as well. Only a short time ago it was perfectly legitimate to have any kind of sport with Sareens. Why was it suddenly forbidden? What right did the Keaen have to interfere with a custom as old as time? Why protect these freaks: barren whores who made men lust after them until they went crazy?

Naela shrank back into a dark nook and considered the line of stints. The last one in the line, a Cedrean Carriage Associative wagon, was only about twenty paces from her. It’s open back beckoned. Surely, somewhere in between the bales and barrels she could discern from where she was hiding there could be a space for her!

She was about to step out of the nook and rush to the stint when she heard the hurried footfall. She pressed herself even deeper into the nook. Three men came into the light of the lanterns and stopped at the stint she’d thought to use as a hiding place. They peered inside the back. One of them heaved himself into it. The noise he made woke the driver who gave a coarse shout and forced him to jump off.

The three started arguing with the driver, gesticulating wildly. Finally the driver reached over and picked up a stout staff, brandishing it in front of their faces.

The three went of to the next stint. The driver looked after them with a belligerent air.

Naela, her heart beating in her throat stepped out of the nook and rushed to the stint. She was halfway there when the driver turned and saw her.

She froze. For the space of a few heartbeats they stared at each other. Then the driver lowered his staff, twitched his head toward the stint, turned away and sat down again.

Naela hurried to the stint and pulled herself up into the back. She looked around the bales, boxes and barrels stacked as high as she was tall. There were small spaces here and there, but what if the cargo slipped?

“Keep to the canvas,” came a voice, “and come up to the front. You can hide underneath the seat.”

If he had wanted to give me away he would have done so already.

Or maybe he was hoping for return favors. It wouldn’t be the first time. There was always a price. Always.

What choice do I have?

She crept along the side, between cargo and canvas, until she reached the of the wagon. She saw him sitting high up on his seat, heavy-set with a massive grey beard and a bald pate.

“Just get under there,” he said lowly, without turning.

“Thank you,” she whispered and did as instructed.

In the space underneath the seat she found a primitive bedstead of a few blankets. She lay down upon them and took a deep breath.

Safe?

Maybe. Just maybe.

“Go to sleep, lass,” the driver said lowly. “It’ll be a few hours before the dawn yet.”

She heard the boards of the seat creak above her as he lay down.

There was a moment’s silence.

“They said you’re a Sareen.”

She sighed. “It’s true enough.”

“Someone should tell these louts that there’s a new law in the land. Armist of Keaen doesn’t look favorably upon those who molest your kind—and I heard that Caitlan of Tinagel almost killed a man who threw a rock that hurt his lover, who’s a Sareen as well.”

Ailin…

One of the lucky ones—who found the One to complete her. Something that was not ever likely to happen to her. She simply wasn’t a good-enough person, while Ailin was sweet and gentle, and she would never become violent, no matter what the circumstances.

The sound of a siccant chuckle above her.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she whispered.

“Don’t fret over it,” he grumbled. “I despise their kind. You can’t help being what you are. None of us can. As long as you don’t harm anyone, why should anybody want to harm you? And now go to sleep.”

There was silence, and soon his breathing became steady and shallow.

It was then that she knew that she was safe, and the realization brought tears of relief to her eyes. Then exhaustion claimed her; and when she woke the wagon was rumbling through the gate and out onto the Fort Tachwyn Road.

“Don’t show your face!” the driver told her when he sensed her rise behind him. “The Associative doesn’t look kindly upon those who take on passengers without fare.”

Naela crouched down and held onto the seat for balance. Another stint traveled maybe a hundred paces ahead of them, and there was another one ahead of that one. More came into sight, strung out like beads, as the road straightened.

“You must be hungry,” the driver said, turning his head to glance at her. His ruddy, freckled face twisted into a smile, which was so naturally kind that Naela couldn’t help but relax.

She nodded mutely.

“Under the seat, in a bag,” he said, winked and returned his attention to the road.

Naela found the canvas bag and inside a loaf of bread, cheese and sausages. She helped herself to just a small bit of everything, feeling guilty even about the little she ate. The driver also handed her a small water-sack from beside him, which she accepted gratefully.

“Going to Cedrea?”

“No!” she snapped. Almost instantly she regretted her tone.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should not have spoken like this. But…”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “But to Cedrea we go.”

No! Too many people there knew her. Within hours Poltz would know, who was Barch’s brother and knew her for what she was. He’d always made little secret of his dislike for and suspicion of her—though through the mask she’d thought to discern the covetous glint in his eyes, like she saw it in all their eyes.

I’m running out of places to hide.

“I cannot go to Cedrea.”

He shrugged. “Then we’ll have to get you off this wagon before the junction. I would be good if nobody saw you.” He grimaced. “Let me think about it.”

He glanced sideways at her half-hidden figure. In some ways he reminded her of Barch; a simple man with simple needs, simple thoughts, simple ethics, and no desire to probe the dark depths and labyrinths of his emotions and motivations. Barch also had had a certain kindly air about him, which may have been why she thought that maybe…

But Barch also had had the glint in his eyes. This man, whose name she didn’t even know; what about him?

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Domaï.”

“Well, Domaï, I thank you for your kindness, but I cannot go to Cedrea. If there is place I can jump of without anybody seeing me, just let me know.”

“But you…”

“I’ll be all right; thanks to you and your kindness.”

“Where will you go? How will you get there?”

She shrugged. “I’ll find a way.”

He considered her for another moment, then shook his head and turned to watch the road ahead. She knew what he was thinking; his kindness mingled with the exasperation of a basically decent person with the best of intentions and willingness to help, who came up against someone who, though apparently in need of help, rejected it. There was an arrogance about those of good intentions, a presumption that they knew best what those less fortunate than themselves needed. Naela could sense it in Domaï, in his rigid posture of disapproval of her insistence to go her own way, and to minimize the obligation she had incurred through his help.

Well, she owed him; owed him a lot.

She reached out and touched his arm. He jerked slightly, then relaxed.

“Thank you for your kindness,” she said, “but Cedrea is not safe for me.”

“I could…”

“You have done much; more than I can ever repay you for. Please do not endanger yourself any further. I will live and I will find a way. I always do.”

He muttered something she couldn’t quite make out, but she guessed.

“Sometimes it is luck,” she admitted. “Sometimes it is good people like you who step in when all hope seem lost. But somehow it always seems to work out.”

Not that she necessarily believed it herself; but she knew the words would take the hurt away, and they did. He shook his head and shrugged.

“Just a bit further down the road the trees are close and there’s a sharp bend. They can’t see us from the stint behind, so if you get off then…”

“Just tell me when.”

Now she crouched among the undergrowth and watched the caravan of stints rumble past her. When the last one has passed she dared to step back out onto the road. She considered the coins in her hand, which Domaï had pressed upon her.

More guilt?

Not this time. Domaï would never know, but he had received more than the kiss she planted on his cheek before jumping off the wagon. As she touched his arm she had sensed the wrong thing within him. She hadn’t known what it was; disease or injury. Whatever it might have been, it was no more—and this was her payment to Domaï; the only one in her power to give—save sexual gratification, which was what almost all men sought from her, but which she was unwilling to provide.

The handful of coins would be enough to pay for the trip to Sacrael, if she chose to forego the purchase of food, drink and lodgment.

And once she got to Sacrael, what?

There was Zygie, of course, who was a Sister and had been a friend for many years. She owned her own tavern and probably would until the day something happened to expose her. Zygie was older than herself—about Ailin’s age—and though not the oldest of their loose sisterhood, she was so much wiser than Naela to the ways of living unrecognized among those who did not understand.

Naela hadn’t met up with a Sister for a long time. Wherever they were hiding, they did it better than herself. Maybe thirty to forty years ago, when Naela had been but a child, they seemed to be everywhere, but that was before the Magices of the Isle started making life difficult by going out of their way to remind folks that Sareens were everywhere and that they were freaks to be despised. And now, where were they? It was so terribly lonely now…

Maybe Zygie could help. Or maybe things would change for the better, now that Armist had gone to the Isle, the Magices were just a bad memory and the edict was slowly gaining power, in the wake of the young Keaen’s spreading influence.

Naela started walking north. She last lost her sandals during her flight in Port Ster, and the soles of her bare feet felt every stone in her path. The morning though was fresh, the air crisp and Caravella was rising into a sky devoid of clouds. She was free and, though the loss of Celeste pained her, it could have been much worse.

And I look terrible!

Her skirt and blouse were torn and soiled, and even in the open air she could still smell the filth from the alleys and her vomit. Domaï had either sniffed too much glith, which deadened one’s sense of smell, or else he had been tactful beyond measure.

She came to a wooden bridge across a broad creek, which ran strong with the runoff from the recent rains. Naela stopped and peered into the water. Then she left the road and walked along the banks until the trees hid her from the road. The creek swirled around a rocky outcrop here, behind which it formed a pool where the water swirled in erratic eddies, but the main flow was diverted well away. Naela hesitated and looked around again. The road was well out of sight. Satisfied, she pulled off her filthy clothes and stepped into the water.

Cold!

Naela bit her teeth together and waded in further until she reached the pool’s deepest spot where the water reached halfway up her thighs. She took a deep breath, crouched down as far as she could and started washing herself.

A rumbling noise grew in the distance. Naela rose and stood, shivering. The noise grew; horses’ hooves and the wheels of a stint thundered over the bridge; then the sounds faded into the distance. Naela bestirred herself again and went back to the bank to pick up her clothes. She wrinkled her nose at their disgusting stench, threw on the thin woolen waist-long shift that served her as an undergarment and took skirt and blouse back to the water, where she did her best to wash them out as well as she could.

Caravella shone unimpeded upon the rocky outcrop, and so Naela scrambled to the top and spread her garments over the warming stone. She made herself as comfortable as possible and presently, with Caravella warming her, fell into a light, uneasy slumber, interrupted by the occasional noises of carriages and horses rumbling over the wooden bridge just around the bend.

Finally she roused herself, dressed in her now-dry clothes, snuck back to the bridge and hid herself behind the twisted trunk of a nearby noquo.

She had no occasion to become impatient. A two-horse stint that had seen better days came rumbling along the road, its axles creaking from overloading, inadequate lubrication and age. It stopped at the bridge. The driver climbed off his perch and procured two wooden buckets from the back, then clambered down the shallow embankment to the creek and proceeded to fill them with water.

Quick and silent as a slitherbird Naela stepped out from behind her tree and heaved herself into the back of the wagon. She found herself confronted by a load of daka wool bundles, stacked two high, and several small barrels. She found a spot, out of sight of the driver and close enough to the rear of the wagon to be able to get out of there without delay or being noticed if it proved necessary.

From outside came the sounds of the driver returning and the horses slurping water. Presently the man came around the back, threw in the buckets and remounted his seat. With a creak and groan the wagon started moving again.

Naela moved out of her hiding place, closer to the rear, where she could see the road. She hoped that luck was on her side and the stint was headed for Fort Tachwyn—but if it was not and turned down the Center Road to Cedrea, she would have to jump off, and try to hike another ride.

She heaved a sigh of relief and leaned back against the canvas, when the stint passed the turnoff and continued heading toward Tachwyn.

There was a tense moment when they passed through Tachwyn’s massive tika gate and the guards questioned the driver. One of them briefly poked around in the back of the stint with a stick. Naela shrunk back as far as she could into a space between bales; the tip of the stick missed her by the breadth of a hair. Then they were allowed to pass and as the wagon rolled into the town Naela peered out from her hiding place, trying to gauge when the moment was right for jumping out. Too many eyes meant too many questions. But if she waited until the stint pulled into whatever depot it was destined for…

Naela grimaced and made a decision. She vaulted out over the board and came to a lithe, elastic landing on the cobblestoned street. She ignored the curious stares and strode off as if it were the most natural thing in the world that she should be doing this, looked around, tried to orient herself in a place she knew but hadn’t visited for a good many years.

Fort Tachwyn was a fortress encircled by a tall stone bulwark that no elec would ever climb; cramped, with narrow passages between dour stone-and-mortar buildings, whose tiny windows stared down on the people scurrying along between them. A one-hundred strong garrison of Keaenean troops guarded this part of Keaen from possible Tergan incursions, and provided a balance to the Tergan centuria stationed on the other end of the Marsh Road.

Naela considered her situation, then proceeded down a maze of alleys until she came upon a market, where she used a few of the coins Domaï had given her to purchase a short piece of rope and several tattered rags. She used all this to create something that, on first glance, might pass for a bundle of clothes as someone looking as disheveled as she did right now might take with them on a journey, such as that she was planning to undertake in the morning, when the stints left for Sacrael.

Having suitably equipped herself to look at least somewhat believable, she went to a depot and purchased herself a token for the journey. This left her with barely enough to buy some bread and cheese; not even enough to pay for a whist bug riddled bedstead.

But Caravella had already sunk from view, leaving the alleyways in deep shadow, and the night promised to be chilly. Naela pondered her alternatives and returned to the stint depot, where she accosted a hostler.

“I am on my way through and cannot afford bedding for the night,” she said meekly. “I wonder…” She nodded in the direction of the stables.

The hostler, a gaunt, middle-aged man shook his head. “You’ll frighten the horses.”

Naela inclined her head.

“Hear that?”

He shrugged. “That’s Tiffer. He’s a spirited one, but strong a good leader—once we get him to do what we want.”

Naela turned away and proceeded to the horse stalls. The hostler came after her. “What…”

She held up a hand and continued to the last stall in the row. A large head with eyes wide with intelligence peered at her as she approached, then nodded and whinnied loudly.

Naela stopped before the animal, which fell silent and butted her with its nose. She held out a hand so he could sniff her, and when he was done patted the side of his neck.

“There; that’s a good boy.”

She glanced around at the hostler.

“I used to sleep in horse stables before I could walk,” she told him.

He considered her for a few moments, stepped closer and inspected Tiffer, who eyed him indifferently, and then proceeded to rub his nose against Naela’s midriff.

“Isn’t that something?”

The hostler glanced around the stables. Near the entrance several men were starting to load the stints for the morning runs.

“I can’t let you sleep here,” he told her. “If Orgden knew…” He chuckled. “But if I turn around and walk away and you slip in there—“He turned away. “Just keep Tiffer quiet, and stop him from making a ruckus. If you can do that, how would anybody know?”

“Thank you,” she said as he walked away.

He shrugged and continued walking.

Naela patted Tiffer’s head. “There, there,” she whispered. She opened the door and slipped into the stall. Tiffer watched her curiously as she dropped her bundle in a corner.

“Now, if you lie down we both can get some sleep,” she told the horse.

Tiffer eyed her with his ear pricked forward.

Naela stroked his neck and he snorted softly with pleasure.

“How about it?” she whispered.

Tiffer nodded in an almost human fashion, backed away from the door, folded his legs under him and lay down on his side with his head on the layer of hay.

“That’s a good boy,” Naela said approvingly, knelt beside him and patted and stroked him. She stretched herself out and, with her head resting in against the stallions muscular neck, closed her eyes and eventually managed to ignore the noises from the depot and the stables and go to sleep.