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the news. Arthur looked at Lance.
    “Well done, my boy,” he said reassuringly. “Thou hast a gift with children.”
    Lance blushed and looked down. “Oh, uh, thanks.”
    In silence, always alert for potential trouble, Arthur spurred Llamrei on into a different neighborhood that looked similar to the last, but peopled with African-Americans, rather than Latinos or Caucasians. Lance attempted to explain about the races and how some of them liked to be called.
    “Art not all of these people we encounter ‘Americans’?” he asked as they trotted slowly down a dark and gloomy street.
    “Yeah, I guess,” replied Lance. “They just—” He paused, uncertain how to continue. “They just want to separate themselves out, I guess, so, you know, every group gets to feel special. I don’t know how to explain it.”
    Arthur glanced at the boy and smiled. “I doth believe thou just did explain it, Lance,” he said. “Alas, ’twould seem humanity hath not changed in all these centuries. When I didst first achieve the High Kingship of Britain by pulling Excalibur from the stone, the initial dilemma I faced was to unite the various warring groups. The Gaels didst hate the Galls who didst hate the Normans, and warfare ruled the land.”
    “What did you do, Arthur?” Lance asked, finding himself really interested in the answer.
    Arthur stopped Llamrei and turned to look at the boy. Lance’s eyes were wide with curiosity. “I didst do then what we shalt attempt to do now—I gave them all a purpose in life other than hating one another.” He smiled and turned around, spurring Llamrei on down the street.
    Lance considered this response, having been given a vague blueprint of Arthur’s overall intent. He suddenly realized that the man had not yet told him how that intent was to be realized.
    As though reading his mind, Arthur said, “All in good time, lad.”
    Arthur paused his mount at a shadowy intersection, keeping her within the darkness of a nonfunctioning street light. They watched as women, obviously prostitutes, strutted seductively up and down the street in their short skirts and stiletto heels, signaling to passing cars their intentions.
    Young men and teen boys lurked in the shadows here and there, waiting. Cars would pull up, and one of the young men would approach. Money was handed out the window in exchange for some kind of package. The cars quickly vanished into the night. After a couple of these exchanges, Arthur glanced at Lance quizzically.
    “I’ll explain later,” Lance whispered. “Don’t want ’em to see us.”
    Arthur nodded and then noticed a woman and a boy of about twelve meeting in front of a shabby, run-down single-story house with a dead front lawn and a battered shopping cart in the driveway. The boy handed his mother some change from his dirty pants pocket. The mother counted the money, frowned, and then slapped the boy hard across the face, almost knocking him to the ground.
    “This is all you got, you little shit!” she hollered, loud enough for the drug dealers and prostitutes to take notice. “Get yer ass back out there and get me some real money or else no supper!” The young boy, hand to the cheek that was slapped, backed away from his mother and turned to run down the street. The prostitutes laughed and returned their attention to lighting each other’s cigarettes.
    Before Arthur could react, the young boy had run straight in their direction. Lance touched Arthur’s shoulder nervously. “Let’s go,” he whispered, “before he sees us.”
    But it was too late. The boy rushed into their shadowed hollow and stopped short upon seeing the horse and her riders. Afraid he would call out, Lance hurriedly said, “It’s okay, kid. We won’t hurt you.”
    The boy looked anxiously up at man and boy, both with long hair, both dressed strangely, and then fixed his eyes on the horse. Gazing up at Arthur, the boy saw him smile kindly, and broke into a wide grin. “Wow,” he