Finally one of the Tigerclaw children appeared to whisper a message to Turbull. The clan leader rose, bidding Albanon and the others an effusive farewell until evening, then directed Cariss to lead them away. She obeyed with a swiftness that felt less like obedience and more like a desire to have them away from her. Their passage back through the camp drew no less attention than before but was a good deal quicker.
The tent that had been prepared for them was close to the edge of the camp and somewhat smaller than the others belonging to the Tigerclaw. The bent wood poles were new, but the hides covering them were old and stale with years of smoke; a hole at the peak let in fresh air and light. Cariss saw them through the flap of the door, then left.
Tempest spoke before the door flap had even stopped swaying. “They know something. I don’t-”
“Shh,” hissed Belen. She twitched back the door just a bit and looked outside. Albanon could see over her shoulder as she peered around. Cariss and her warriors might want nothing to do with them, but many ordinary Tigerclaws lingered with curiosity. Belen let the door flap drop back into place. “This is a tent, not a cottage,” she whispered harshly. “Sounds will go right through the walls.”
“I thought the Tigerclaws valued hospitality,” said Uldane.
“Value, yes. Are stupid about it, no. Keep your voices down.”
“Just how do you know so much about the Tigerclaws, Belen?” asked Albanon. “I’ve lived in Fallcrest for seven years and I don’t remember Scargash sending emissaries.”
“You weren’t there all the time, were you? Moorin sent you off on errands.”
Albanon narrowed his eyes. “Even if the Tigerclaws did send emissaries, why would the Lord Warden have assigned one guard to escort them?”
Belen’s face tightened and she blew out her breath slowly. “Fine,” she said at last. She stepped to the center of the tent, farthest from the thin hide walls. “My mother was a Tigerclaw.”
“You have shifter blood?” Uldane said.
“No,” Belen told him. “My mother was one of the human class that the Tigerclaws call the Tamed. She met my father, a hunter, near Nenlast and fell in love. Her clan wouldn’t accept him, so they ran away. She was the one who taught me the ways of the tribe.”
“Why didn’t you just say so?” asked the halfling. “Cariss and Hurn might have treated us better from the beginning!”
“The Tigerclaws don’t look kindly on anyone who leaves the clan. They call them Riven and shun them-and that extends to their descendants.” Belen looked around at them. “Don’t tell anyone this. If the Tigerclaws find out, they might force us to leave.”
“That doesn’t sound like such a bad thing,” Roghar said.
“It would be. They wouldn’t be gentle about it.”
“I think we have more to gain by cooperating,” said Tempest. “Like Albanon said to Turbull, maybe the Tigerclaws can tell us more about what lies ahead.” She nodded to Albanon. “Good thinking.”
“I didn’t want it to seem like we were just giving in,” Albanon said.
Belen nodded. “Turbull will respect you more because of it.”
“It looked more like he was mocking me.”
“You showed cunning. Tigerclaws appreciate those who know when not to fight but who will still try to turn a situation to their advantage.”
“Belen,” said Roghar, “is it possible things have changed with the Tigerclaws since your mother’s day?”
“Not likely. Cetainly not so fast. The Tigerclaws place great importance on maintaining their traditions.”
She seemed almost proud, but Roghar’s suggestion dug into Albanon. “Turbull led his clan away from Scargash and the Winterbole Forest in the face of the Abyssal Plague. It sounds to me like he’s willing to break with tradition when he needs to.”
For a moment, Belen’s expression took on a shifterish ferocity. “Some traditions are inviolable. Turbull will respect you, just as he’ll respect the traditions of hospitality. If he didn’t want us here, he would have sent us on our way.”
“It’s why they want us here that worries me,” said Roghar.
“Turbull will deal fair with us,” Belen insisted. She gestured toward furs and blankets that had been heaped on a low sleeping platform. “We should rest. The Thornpads may not have much but they’ll put out all they do have to honor us as their guests. It’s important we don’t antagonize them.”
“Rest?” Uldane asked. “I wanted to look around. I’ve never had the chance to explore a Tigerclaw camp before.”
“Rest,” said Belen firmly. “We don’t leave the tent until Turbull sends for us.”
Uldane pouted. “He didn’t say anything about that.”
“He didn’t have to. Guests have duties to the host, too.”
Albanon glanced at Tempest and Roghar. One of the surest ways to be certain Uldane would try something was to tell him not to do it. Roghar wrinkled his snout. “I’ll sleep in front of the door.”
Uldane’s pout grew deeper. “I know what you’re trying to do,” he said. “But think about it. Isn’t it to our advantage to know everything we can about the camp in case we need to run? Nobody will see me. It’s practical.” He looked up with hope in his eyes as if expecting the argument to sway them.
“We should move the whole sleeping platform in front of the door,” said Tempest.
Albanon, Uldane reflected while he waited for the last watchful eyes to close, wasn’t the only one who knew how to turn a situation to his advantage without fighting. The way he saw it, if the Tigerclaws respected cunning, they’d love him.
The others hadn’t moved the sleeping platform after all, but Roghar was still stretched out in front of the door. Albanon and Tempest shared the broad platform, while Belen sat with her back propped against it. From where he lay across the tent, rolled in blankets as if sulking, Uldane watched through barely open eyes while the Fallcrest guard’s head nodded down to her chest. She jerked upright once, then her head fell again. He waited a little longer to be certain she was truly asleep, then made his move. Roghar might have thought he was being clever by blocking the door, but the thing with tents was that doorways were basically just a formality. The ground where Uldane had chosen to curl up dipped down in a little pocket. The hides that covered the tent were loose above it.
With a twist and a little wiggle-and a peek to be certain no Tigerclaws were paying attention to his side of the tent-he was under the hides and outside, leaving the bundled blankets behind like the empty cocoon of a newly emerged butterfly.
Uldane paused in the shadow of the tent. The camp was busy as the barbarians prepared for the feast Turbull had ordered. Anyone who had been idly watching the outsiders’ tent had been called away. From where he stood, the halfling could see some of the Tigerclaws dressing a variety of small game and setting the carcasses to grill over fires-the smell of sizzling meat was wonderful. He was tempted to try his luck at snatching a plump looking squirrel.
No, he told himself firmly. He wasn’t going to do anything that stupid. He had wanted to look around the camp and that’s what he was going to do. Eating could wait until the feast. Or until he found something more portable than a whole squirrel, at least. He turned the other way and darted to the cover of the next nearest tent.
Even in the crowded camp, evading notice was ridiculously easy. Boxes, baskets, and bales of goods provided shelter. Tall tufts of grass and weeds around the fringes of the big communal tents gave a slim halfling plenty of hiding places. There was so much activity that even if he did come across an alert Tigerclaw, Uldane had only to wait a few moments for a suitable distraction to present itself. He found the rhythm of the camp and grew bold. When he came across a row of fresh griddlecakes, he helped himself to one and savored its steaming sweetness as he slipped from cover to cover.