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I awoke to the sounds of chattering and shrieking children. I knew I would go to hell, I thought. The rational fact that I could think slowly crept into operational cognizance. Light flooded my vision as I cracked my eyelids. I was in a partial clearing of trees, tall trees, and there was a hut of some type over my head. A fire crackled merrily as its small licks of flame consumed twigs. Those same warmed a pot of bubbling, delicious food. There was another presence near me, I could tell, but not what manner of being it was. The children were humans, I could tell. I could even understand their dialect. I must have been swept quite a distance downstream if I could so easily understand these little rats.

"Glad am I to see you aware," came a silky, albeit aged voice. So, it was an old woman that was tasked with his care. Damn, he thought, why couldn’t there have been beautiful naked handmaidens and of course, he was in hell.

"I am sorry to disappoint you with my presence, makhti," laughed the old woman. "I could throw you back into the arms of the Drun."

I slowly slid my head around so that I could see her. Indeed she looked old, but her pale gold hair was lustrous and was interwoven with grey. Her clothing spoke of Gypsy origin, but without the ebullient coloring. Her wrinkled skin, tanned, was lightly complected beneath. A mental note clicked in my head. The children, dressed in finer attire, were far darker than this one.

"You are a slave?" I asked, already pretty sure.

"You are not stupid," she grated. "Perhaps you will live longer then."

I did not exactly track that. "Why, makhti? I am no warrior, woman," I muttered. I picked up my left arm - it resisted every inch of the way. It was still bruised - badly. My right arm was swaddled in wrapping and had a pair of flat shingles tied tightly around it. "How badly was it broken, shava?" I laughed at the rejoinder. If she could call me warrior, I could call her an angel. "Is anything else wrong with me?" I chuckled as I took physical stock of my body.

"Your sense of humor is lacking. But otherwise you are very healthy. The arm is not broken, but it was damaged. It will heal in a few days. If you live that long." The woman got off her small stool and stirred the pot, finally taking it off the flame and setting it on a rock to cool. "The D’Shan of this Caravan does not intend to keep you, unless you show some worthiness. He meets with the D’Shan of another ’Van at this moment. He will sell you, I think."

Instead of being upset, I’m sure that would come later, my philosophical nature was piqued. "How will he sell that which does not belong to him? I will pay him with - certain items - if it becomes a serious matter." Somehow, I had the feeling that the situation did not match my cool assertion. I did not know how I knew, but I did.

"You do not even believe yourself," chuckled the old woman. "Do not let your humor play upon your lips, makhti, or the D’Shan will cut it from you. The D’Shan has your belongings, and they are his now. You do not even have the clothes we found you in." The old woman grabbed my chin and her blue-eyed gaze captured my attention. "This D’Shan is not as brutal as the one he speaks with, but his power is absolute. And he applies violence ruthlessly if he perceives a threat to his reputation. Keep your head about you - be warned, and be useful," her eyes softened as she stroked the hair from my brow. "Your life depends on it."

I had eaten the whole bowl of stew and begun to take stock of my situation. My madho would say to bend in the wind that was buffeting me. I could hear the very words; but that was him. It was not my way to bend so far, I would snap first. My pride was far too great. Even so, I did not end up here just to get dead. When the D’Shan’s guards came for me, I was prepared. Sort of. One wore a white blouse, his black hair nicely contrasting the look. The second one, who was younger, wore a soft rose-yellow blouse of similar cut. His light blond hair was fine and cut very short at the temples but grew long in the back. His features were fine as well, and he walked with a lean grace. Neither man wore beards, but both (according to their ability) wore long mustaches.

When I started to rise, the first guard kicked my feet out and would have kicked me in the head again if I had not gotten my good forearm up. I achieved my knees without a word and waited. The guard attempted another kick, but I was prepared this time. With barely a thought, I let the booted foot approach. When I could feel the wave of air in front of it, I grabbed his heel and just helped the momentum along, taking care to move my favorite head. I stood up in as fluid a motion as possible, taking the heel with me. The guard ended up falling heavily on his back. His partner, eyes wide in surprise did not intervene, but did draw his slightly curved blade.

The first man, dressed in leather breeches and matching brown boots, wore a white silk shirt that left lots of room for movement. Unfortunately for him, it also gave me a handhold when he got too close again. This time he had drawn a knife.

"Look, I don’t want to hurt you, so why don’t -" I never got to finish because I could feel his attack beginning. He dropped lower as he darted into my area of influence. I did not strike him, merely grabbed his wrist, twisted the joint the wrong way, and as the knife fell, let him pass by - in the air. He landed heavily. I stooped quickly and retrieved the knife. It was of superior craftsmanship, but badly weighted for my hand and skill. I handed it hilt first to the second man. His look of astonishment grew even more pronounced. He carefully took it from my outstretched arm. The broken one I had tucked protectively at my side. The first man had regained his feet, I could hear his boot soles instead of cloth on the bare earth. I turned to him and held out my good hand in a sign of surrender. I guess I had so angered him - by embarrassing him, I guess - that he just charged me. In his carriage I could see that he had some skill at least with his hands. I saw also that it was a grappler’s skill, and not the same as I had adopted. I merely sidestepped him this time. He turned, aware that I had avoided him purposely. Bits of twig and dirt soiled his once beautiful shirt. He was panting - and so livid that he was not thinking clearly.

Shava, as I had started calling her, stood and said something in a dialect that I did not fully understand. The man’s lip curled as he took a step toward her. He drew a second blade from behind his belt, returning the guttural tongue. I glanced at the blond man, but he merely watched the scene unfold.

I moved to transpose myself between them, but knew I could not make it. I kicked the spindly support pole for the hut and it collapsed in front of the enraged man, and a shriek from Shava told me she had been trapped inside. I could see a handful of men pushing through the gaggle of women that had gathered. All bore bare steel. In front of me, the man turned and smiled. For some reason, nerves I guess, I smiled back.

"I will now cut your spleen out, slave," he began to move forward.

I waited, and a peace fell over me. Strange, that cessation of extraneous input you get when you really need to concentrate. As he approached, my stance appeared and told me what it was going to do. I was powerless to do anything else - even if there had been time to think about it. I went from Horse stance to a one-handed Swirling Dust into Serpent Striking, to Dog Shaking Leg, and up into Shodak-Mai. I had enough presence of mind to pull the spinning leg kick. When I re-focused in real-time, I saw the man lying unconscious on the ground. His knife was at my feet, and the dirty smudge on the outside of the man’s knee told me that the swift kick to that area had been on target. It would hurt for a few days, but it was not crippling. Shava poked her head from the collapsed hut. Her eyes sparkled when she took in the crumpled man’s breathing. I re-oriented on the blond. He was smiling as he put his blade away. He tossed the first man’s blade into the dirt near where he lay.

"Shiza! Zhura!" Two tall women, both with unattractive scowls, materialized at the man’s command. They each carried long bows. By the look of their musculature, I figured an arrow from either would be life-ending. The taller of the two was an ice-eyed brunette who wore a tantalizing light blue blouse tied close to her forearms. A leather quiver-strap brought my focus to the healthy amount of - musculature - in her torso. A silk sash of cerulean adorned her hips, hugging tight over a set of black leathers and over-the-knee boots. The other woman had black hair and deceptively soft brown eyes. Her doublet-like shirt and tunic combo was black over purple. Her Quiver was an opulent show of leather tooling. "Keep eyes on him while we go to see the D’Shan. His icy gaze turned on Shava. "You. Mugha. You follow. The D’Shan does not tolerate his slaves berating his guardsmen. The graceful man motioned for Mugha and I to follow him. The frowning archers formed up behind us, each had an arrow knocked on half-bent bows.

"I guess-" I felt the blow coming and bent my head to take some of the force off of it. Even so, it nearly dropped me. I slowly took in a deep breath, bleeding the pain away with mantric thoughts.

"You will be silent, dog," hissed one of the two behind me. Whether it was Shiza or Zhura I did not know. "You will not speak again unless it is to ask the D’Shan if you will have the privilege." I nodded, and kept my blinkin’ mouf shut.

"When we arrive, slaves," murmured the blond man, "you will be brought before the D’Shan. He is recently out of conference with Lakash, and has decreed a night of feasting. He now sits with Malachi, D’Shan of the Messuti." He seemed to expect me to be overjoyed that he had shared this with me. He scowled and kept moving. I had never heard of a meeting of three Caravans, but my knowledge of the Gypsy life was limited.

"Perhaps we will dine on dog," said one of the amazons behind me.

"Do not be so quick to wish this, Zhura, or you might end up doing just this," said the fair-haired guide. At least he tagged the names for me. The blue-eyed one behind and left was Zhura. I was planning a thousand retributions when Shava -or, Mugha, as it were - stumbled beside me. I knew she would get punished for the fall, already I sensed Zhura taking a long step. I reached out and grabbed Mugha with my good arm. I caught the back of her shift and took a handful of course cloth. I had lost much strength since I had begun my flight from the Grob hunters, because my muscles wobbled and jumped with the effort. Still, I kept her upright and walking. She shot me a glance of thanks and I let go.

The ’village’ turned out to be a large circle of wagons. Most were tall wooden affairs, painted and bedecked with canvas awnings. Tables were set up and people were perusing the wares, some engaged in heated haggling. It seemed at first to me that there was an air of festival about the place, but the serious looks of the armed men told that in reality there was an uneasy peace at best. The little band approached a huge red and blue tent pitched in the center of the encampments. The ring of armed men would have been ominous warning enough to stay away, but a man was strung up in a nearby tree as further - if gruesome - proof. The body wore ragged clothing. I thought he looked like a thief, but then, I was wearing no better:just some ratted out wool trousers and a moth-eaten shirt. Both were dingy brown. Not my best color. There was a central fire pit off to my right. Two chairs had been set at the head of an area that I was certain was for eating. As it was, woven rugs had been laid out and large bright cushions had been set about for the ease of the future diners. Curiously, more so because of its plain-ness, a simple wooden block had been set up at one end of the feasting area. It pulled at my curiosity, this simple two-foot square slab of wood. The blond man leading our little troop halted before a thickly muscled man who bore an air of command like an old cloak. Grizzled grey shot through a dark brown beard. Grey at his temples put him near to forty, best I could tell. His eyes searched, an eyebrow raised.

"Calchas is unconscious in the dirt, Morben," the blonde’s mouth twitched with the slightest show of satisfaction. "He tried his usual crap and the new acquisition bested him barehanded against steel." The pure joy now showed through and Morben’s gaze fell upon me direct. I would have to be more careful, or I was just so much meat. Morben’s gaze went to Mugha beside me.

"She is here to answer for mouthing off to Calchas," murmured the blond man. I had yet to hear him referred to by name, and that worried me. Usually it was either people of no import, or of great import, that were seldom referred to by name. This one didn’t strike me as unimportant at all.

"You may bring them to the D’Shan," rumbled the Captain of the Guard. At least I assumed that was who he was. The ’Vans did not field what I would call soldiers, but they had a high quotient of fighting men. Their trade pretty much demanded that they field a great number of fighters both for defense and for - acquisitions. The blond man led both Mugha and myself through a flap in the tent. I noticed Shiza and Zhura fell into step behind us, but left their missile weapons at the entrance. The inside of the pavilion was enormous. A pair of chairs had been set up and a table between them was covered with enough food that my stomach grumbled. I settled myself into the state of mind that I would keep my mouth shut. There really wasn’t any way for me to get out of this without severely hurting someone. Namely myself. Priceless rugs were laid down over the trampled grass of the clearing. Guards of two different ’Vans lined the walls. Plucking at instruments at the far side of the entrance, a trio of musicians quietly provided (I thought) rather pleasant background music. Filling the two opposing chairs were two rather imposing men. One was ruggedly handsome and dark-skinned. The black mustache melded with his pointed beard and was close-cropped. Strangely he wore his hair cleanly shaven on the sides, and very short on top as well. His frame spoke of musculature. His clothing and jewelry spoke of great wealth. When I looked at him, though, I could see that cruelty was common to him. The set of his mouth matched so many that I had crossed paths with. Too bad, I bet he was otherwise a man to be followed.

Across from him, and the man we were being led towards, was larger in the middle, but less severe in aspect. He was dressed in a voluminous orange silk wrap that over-emphasized his thickness. A girl, pretty and barely nubile sat at his feet below the raised chair. His fingers caressed her dark hair, her eyes were closed, and she rubbed against his hand with relish. I had seen many like him as well. Couldn’t blame him, though, I knew if he didn’t appear to use power, someone would get ideas and try and take it from him. However, I thought him likely to go harder on us than he might normally because he would not want to appear weak in front of his adversary.