LITMIR.BIZ

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skull just behind her left ear – or so it seemed. A spirit voice, then. She crouched on the bank and listened.

       Witchwoman, please hear me.

      ‘I do hear you.’ Ammadin spoke aloud. ‘Can you hear me?’

       Please hear me. Please help me. I be Water Woman.

      The voice disintegrated into a long hiss and crackle, then faded away. Ammadin sat back onto her heels.

      ‘Her children? Does she mean the pearls?’

      It was possible that spirits were trying to be born into this world, and that the eggs were their means of taking on bodies. The theory struck her as clumsy. Questions, more questions, and the cold bite of doubt – the spirit’s voice made them urgent.

      ‘Water Woman!’ she called out. ‘Water Woman, can you hear me?’

      No answer came, not even the hissing. Ammadin got up, rubbing her arms, chilly with gooseflesh still. She decided that she would supervise Zayn’s vision quest, then start looking for another spirit rider to tend her comnee. The questions would give her no peace until she tried to answer them. Besides, if she left on a quest of her own, her absence would keep Palindor from Zayn’s throat. But the trouble came too fast, flaring up like a spark in dry grass when she returned to camp. Most of the wagons stood packed and ready to move out, but the men were still breaking down the last few tents and stowing a few last pieces of gear where they could find room. Ammadin was putting her bedroll into a wagon when she heard someone shout in alarm. As she ran towards the sound, she saw Dallador and Grenidor grabbing Palindor by the arms and hauling him back. Zayn faced him, his hands on his hips. Just as Ammadin reached them, Apanador ran up. She stepped back and let him settle this men’s matter.

      ‘And what’s all this?’ Apanador growled. ‘How did it start?’

      ‘Over something really stupid,’ Dallador said. ‘Palindor said Zayn shoved him when they were loading the wagon.’

      ‘I won’t have this kind of trouble in the comnee.’ Apanador looked back and forth at Palindor and Zayn. ‘I can see that we need to do some hard talking.’

      Palindor’s handsome face twisted. He shook free of the restraining hands, but he sheathed his knife.

      ‘I’m willing to settle this once and for all,’ Zayn said. ‘Let’s have our fight but with bare hands. The one who loses leaves the comnee.’

      Apanador turned Palindor’s way and raised an eyebrow.

      ‘I’ll agree to that,’ Palindor said. ‘But you won’t have a horse and a sabre on your side, Kazrak.’

      Zayn merely smiled.

      The entire comnee came to witness the fight, held on a stretch of ground where the horses had cropped the grass down to good footing. Palindor handed his long knife and Zayn his Kazrak dagger over to Apanador. Ammadin was furious with both men; no matter what the rest of the comnee might think, she knew they were fighting over her like studs over a mare in heat. Apanador left the two standing about three feet apart and carried the weapons back to the waiting comnee.

      ‘Very well,’ the chief called out. ‘Begin.’

      They dropped to a fighting crouch and began to circle round each other, hands raised, eyes narrowed. Zayn kept his hands open, not in fists, and moved as smoothly as a cat. They feinted in, testing each other, dancing back fast; then Palindor charged, swinging both fists. Zayn ducked, feinted, dodged, then landed a solid punch. The comnee shouted as Palindor staggered back with his mouth bleeding. Zayn closed in and landed a quick series of blows. When Palindor tried to dodge, his foot slipped, and he went down to one knee. Zayn waited as Palindor got up, gasping for breath, his face so dark with rage and blood that he looked like a demon.

      The fall taught Palindor something. This time, he feinted in cautiously, keeping his hands low, aiming for Zayn’s stomach, not his head. Zayn danced in, slapped him across the face, and danced back before Palindor could hit in return. With a howl of rage, Palindor charged. Zayn let him close, then struck with half-closed hands, punching him in the face, blocking Palindor’s every blow while Palindor struggled and fought, swaying where he stood but still game. Suddenly Ammadin realized that Zayn could kill him with his bare hands if he wanted. She ran to Apanador and grabbed his arm.

      ‘Stop it! It’s gone far enough.’

      With a nod of agreement, Apanador trotted out and yelled at them to stop. When Zayn stepped back at the order, Palindor threw one last punch. Zayn grabbed his wrist and swung him around, pulling him back against his chest with Palindor’s arm twisted in his grip. Palindor dropped to his knees and bit his lower lip so hard that it bled again.

      ‘He said stop.’ Zayn let him go with a shove.

      Gasping for breath, rubbing his arm, Palindor refused to look up when Apanador walked over.

      ‘All right, saddle your horse,’ Apanador said. ‘Ride out.’

      Palindor nodded, then staggered off, heading for the wagons to retrieve the few things he owned. For a few minutes Zayn stood alone, rubbing his bloody, swelling knuckles, until Orador brought him some herb paste to treat them. Together they went back to loading the wagons as if nothing had happened.

      Ammadin waited until Palindor was ready to ride. When he led his bay gelding out, loaded with saddlebags, she joined him at the edge of the camp. He refused to look at her, merely twisted his reins round and round his bruised fingers while the horse snorted and tossed its head.

      ‘Find a woman who wants you,’ she said. ‘You’re too good a man to demean yourself this way.’

      Palindor shrugged and twisted the leather tight. ‘When he betrays you, remember that I love you.’

      He turned away and swung into the saddle. Ammadin watched him till he rode out of sight, a tiny figure, disappearing into the purple grasslands like a stone dropping into the sea.

      When they were still some two days’ ride away from the Great River, Warkannan and his men came across another Tribal camp, an unusually small comnee led by a chief named Sammador. They rode in, dismounted, and found themselves in the middle of a swarm of young children, who stared at them silently with solemn eyes.

      ‘Where are your fathers?’ Warkannan said in Hirl-Onglay. ‘Hunting?’

      The children said nothing. From one of the tents someone shouted; from another an older girl crawled out. When she called, the camp came alive, and adults surrounded the Kazraks. The girl, or young woman, really – Warkannan judged her to be fifteen or so – hooked her thumbs into the waist of her saurskin trousers and stood off to one side, staring at Tareev and Arkazo with undisguised interest.

      Warkannan addressed himself to the young chief. After the usual greetings, Warkannan asked if anyone knew a Kazrak travelling with a spirit rider to the south. Luck favoured him. Sammador’s comnee had travelled to the Blosk horse fair, and they gave him names: Zayn was the Kazrak, and Ammadin, who rode with old Apanador’s comnee, the spirit rider. With this information, however, came ominous news.

      ‘Ammadin is a really powerful woman,’ Sammador told him. ‘All the other spirit riders say so.’

      ‘Really? Well, I’ll count myself honoured if I ever meet her.’

      ‘Good, good.’ Sammador glanced around at his people. ‘But I’m forgetting my manners. Will you join our camp for the night?’

      ‘Thanks, but no,’ Warkannan said. ‘I was hoping to make a few more miles before sunset.’

      With a wave of his arm, Warkannan gathered up his men, mounted, and led them back out into the grass. When they’d gone about a mile, he stopped his small caravan; the other men guided their horses up to his.

      ‘Listen,’ Warkannan said. ‘We’re going to have to plan Zayn’s death carefully. If we kill the servant of a witchwoman, the Tribes will take it as an insult, and they’ll be crying for our blood. The

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