Kevin sagged against his cold forge, only now breaking into a sweat. “By all that’s holy, man,” he told Petro earnestly, “your timing couldn’t have been better! You saved me from a beatin’, and that’s for damn sure!”
“Something more than a beating,” the jippo replied slowly, “or I misread that one. I do not think we will sell any of our beasts there, no. But”—he grinned suddenly—“we lied, I fear. We did not bring the pony—we brought our other wares.”
“You needed six men to carry a bit of copperwork?” Kevin asked incredulously, firmly telling himself that he would not begin laughing hysterically out of relief.
“Oh no—but I was not of a mind to carry back horseshoes for every beast in our herd by myself! I am rom baro, not packmule!”
Kevin began iaughing after all, laughing until his sides hurt.
Out of gratitude for their timely appearance, he let them drive a harder bargain with him than he normally would have allowed, trading shoes and nails for their whole equipage for about three pounds of brass and copper trinkets and a set of copper pots he knew Keegan would lust after the moment she saw them. And a very pretty little set of copper jewelery to brighten her spirit; she was beginning to show, and subject to bouts of depression in which she was certain her pregnancy made her ugly in his eyes. This bit of frippery might help remind her that she was anything but. He agreed to come by and look at the pony as soon as he finished a delivery of his own. He was going to take no chances of Howard’s return; he was going to deliver that sword himself, now, and straight into Robert’s palsied hands!
“So if that one comes, see that he gets no beast nor thing of ours,” Petro concluded. “Chali, you speak to the horses. Most like, he will want the king stallion, if any.”
Chali nodded. We could say Bakro is none of ours— that he’s a wild one that follows our mares.
Petro grinned approval. “Ha, a good idea! That way nothing of blame comes on us. For the rest—we wish to leave only Pika, is that not so?”
The others gathered about him in the shade of his vurdon murmured agreement. They had done well enough with their copper and brass jewelery, ornaments and pots—and with the odd hen or vegetable or sack of grain that had found a mysterious way into a Rom kettle or a vurdon.
“Well then, let us see what we can do to make them unattractive.”
Within the half hour the Rom horses, mules and donkeys little resembled the sleek beasts that had come to the call of their two-legged allies. Coats were dirty, with patches that looked suspiciously like mange; hocks were poulticed, and looked swollen; several of the wise old mares were ostentatiously practicing their limps, and there wasn’t a hide of an attractive color among them.
And anyone touching them would be kicked at, or nearly bitten—the horses were not minded to have their two-legged brothers punished for their actions. Narrowed eyes and laid-back ears gave the lie to the hilarity within. No one really knowledgeable about horses would want to come near this lot.
And just in time, for Howard Thomson rode into the camp on an oversized, dun-colored dullard of a gelding only a few moments after the tools of their deceptions had been cleaned up and put away. Chali briefly touched the beast’s mind to see if it was being mistreated, only to find it nearly as stupid as one of the mongrels that infested the village.
He surveyed the copper trinkets with scorn and the sorry herd of horses with disdain. Then his eye lit upon the king stallion.
“You there—trader—” He waved his hand at the proud bay stallion, who looked back at this arrogant two-legs with the same disdain. “How much for that beast there?”
“The noble prince must forgive us,” Petro fawned, while Chali was glad, for once, of her muteness; she did not have to choke on her giggles as some of the others were doing. “But that one is none of ours. He is a wild one; he follows our mares, which we permit in hopes of foals like him.”
“Out of nags like those? You hope for a miracle, man!” Howard laughed, as close to being in good humor as Petro had yet seen him, “Well, since he’s
none of yours, you won’t mind if my men take him.”
Hours later, their beasts were ready to founder, the king stallion was still frisking like a colt, and none of them had come any closer to roping him than they had been when they started. The Rom were nearly bursting, trying to contain their laughter, and Howard was purple again.
Finally he called off the futile hunt, wrenched at the head of his foolish gelding, and spurred it back down the road to town—
And the suppressed laughter died, as little Ami’s youngest brother toddled into the path of the lumbering monster, and Howard grinned and spurred the gelding at him—hard.
Kevin was nearly to the traders’ camp when he saw the baby wander into the path of Howard’s horse— and his heart nearly stopped when he saw the look on the Heir’s face as he dug his spurs savagely into his gelding’s flanks.
The smith didn’t even think—he just moved. He frequently fooled folk into thinking he was slow and clumsy because of his size; now he threw himself at the child with every bit of speed and agility he possessed.
He snatched the toddler, curled protectively around it, and turned his dive into a frantic roll. As if everything had been slowed by a magic spell, he saw the horse charging at him and every move horse and rider made. Howard sawed savagely at the gelding’s mouth, trying to keep it on the path. But the gelding shied despite the bite of the bit; foam flecks showered from its lips, and the foam was spotted with blood at the corners of its mouth. It half reared, and managed to avoid the smith and his precious burden by a hair— one hoof barely scraped Kevin’s leg—then the beast was past, thundering wildly toward town.
Kevin didn’t get back home until after dark—and he was not entirely steady on his feet. The stuff the Rom drank was a bit more potent than the beer and wine from the tavern, or even his own home brew. Pacing along beside him, lending a supporting shoulder and triumphantly groomed to within an inch of his life and adorned with red ribbons, was the pony, Pika.
Pika was a gift—Romano wouldn’t accept a single clipped coin for him. Kevin was on a first-name basis with all of the Rom now, even had mastered a bit of their tongue. Not surprising, that—seeing as they’d sworn brotherhood with him.
He’d eaten and drunk with them, heard their tales, listened to their wild, blood-stirring music—felt as if he’d come home for the first time. Rom, that was what they called themselves, not “jippos,”—and o phral, which meant “the people,” sort of. They danced for him—and he didn’t wonder that they wouldn’t sing or dance before outsiders. It would be far too easy for a dullard gajo to get the wrong idea from some of those dances— the women and girls danced with the freedom of the wind and the wildness of the storm—and to too many men, “wild” and “free” meant “loose.” Kevin had just been entranced by a way of life he’d never dreamed existed.
Pika rolled a not-unsympathetic eye at him as he stumbled, and leaned in a little closer to him. Funny about the Rom and their horses—you’d swear they could read each other’s minds. They had an affinity that was bordering on witchcraft.
Like that poor little mute child, Chali. Kevin had seen with his own eyes how wild the maverick stallion had been—at least when Howard and his men had been chasing it. But he’d also seen Chali walk up to him, pull his forelock, and hop aboard his bare back as if he were no more than a gentle, middle-aged pony like Pika. And then watched the two of them pull some trick-riding stunts that damn near pulled the eyes out of his sockets. It was riding he’d remember for a long time, and he was right glad he’d seen it.