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and get our reckoning taken care of. After that, they confiscate everything we own except what we’re wearing.”
    Tarma snorted a little with contempt, which obviously surprised Kethry.
    “I thought you’d throw a fit over the notion of someone taking Kessira.”
    “I’d rather like to see them try. You’ve never seen her with a stranger. She’s not a battle-steed, but nobody lays a finger on her without my permission. Let a stranger put one hand on her rein and he’ll come away with a bloody stump. And while he’s opening his mouth to yell about it, she’ll be off down the street, headed for the nearest gate. If I were hurt and gave her the command to run for it, she’d carry me to the closest exit she could remember without any direction from me. And if she couldn’t find one, she might well make one. No, I’ve no fear of anyone confiscating her. One touch, and they wouldn’t want her. Besides, I have something I can leave in pledge—I’d rather not lose it, but it’s better than causing a scene.”
    Tarma took off her leather glove, reached into the bottom of her saddlebag and felt for a knobby, silk-wrapped bundle. She brought the palm-sized package out and unwrapped it carefully, uncovering to the brilliant sunlight an amber necklace. It was made of round beads alternating with carved claws or teeth; it glowed on the brown silk draped over her hand like an ornament of hardened sun-beams.
    “Osberg wore that!”
    “He stole it from me. I took it back off his dead body. It was the last thing Dharin gave me. Our pledge-gift. I never found the knife I gave him.”
    Kethry said nothing; Tarma regarded the necklace with a stony-cold expression that belied the ache in her heart, then rewrapped it and stowed it away. “As I said, I’d rather not lose it, but losing it’s better than causing a riot. Now how do we find work?”
    “We’d be safest going to a Hiring Hall. They charge employers a fee to find people with special talents.”
    “Well, that’s us.”
    “Of course, that’s money we won’t see. We could get better fees if we went out looking on our own, but it would probably take longer.”
    “Hiring Hall; better the safe course.”
    “I agree, but they’re sure to notice at the gate that my accent is native. Would you mind doing the talking?”
    Tarma managed a quirk of the lips that approximated a half-smile. “All right, I’ll do all the talking at the gate. Look stupid and sweet, and let them think you’re my lover. Unless that could get us in trouble.”
    Kethry shook her head. “No, there’s enough of that in Mornedealth. Virtually anything is allowed provided you’re ready to pay for it.”
    “And they call this civilization! Vai datha; let’s get on with it.”
    They turned their beasts once more onto the road, and within a candlemark were under scrutiny of the sentries on the walls. Tarma allowed a lazy, sardonic smile to cross her face. One thing she had to give them; these guards were well disciplined. No catcalls, no hails, no propositions to Kethry—just a steady, measuring regard that weighed them and judged them unthreatening for the moment. These “soft, city-bred” guards were quite impressive.
    The Stranger’s Gate was wide enough for three wagons to pass within, side by side, and had an ironwork portcullis as well as a pair of massive bleached-wood doors, all three now standing open. They clattered under the wall, through a wooden-walled tunnel about three horse-lengths deep. When they reached the other entrance, they found themselves stopped by a chain stretched across the inner side of the gate. One of the men standing sentry approached them and asked them (with short words, but courteous) to follow him to a tiny office built right into the wall. There was always a Gate Guard on duty here; the man behind the desk was, by the insignia pinned to his brown leather tunic, a captain. Kethry had told her partner as they approached the walls that those posted as