The plains ran for very little distance before driving into the foothills. The Sanctuary was far to hte South by now, and 'civilization', as much as it was, lay ahead. It was a border town in a tiny country nestled in mountain passes, the likes of which Gershwin had neither care nor inclination to hear.

It was too tight, too encroaching, just seeing the mountains on the horizon as they reached up to swallow the sky with their craggy teeth. But Fate willed it, and he

The reception he received as an outsider was mild enough, until the townspeople put two and two together. They saw his earrings. They saw his whistle. They saw his swords. They saw his bareback horse.

They drew the proper conclusions.

"Where are you going, boy?" the sheriff asked him.

Gershwin was sure to keep his hands visible and never once appear threatening. "I go where Fate guides me."

"She'd best guide you far away," the sheriff snarled.

Gershwin gave him an easy smile. "I won't be staying longer than it will take me to get supplies."

The sherriff relaxed some, and Gershwin went 'shopping.'

Feivel had insisted that Gershwin take most of the money in a vain attempt to keep him on the straight and narrow. But Gershwin had always had a knack, the kind that stirred up trouble for him and gave them the edge with which to steal horses from under the noses of elite stablehands.

Besides.

Money was best saved for situations that could not be stolen out of: Tolls on impassable highways, the purchase of expensive objects, extortion money to appease a few enemies that were not won over by his gentle smiles and empty promises.

Men were more difficult marks than women. A little flirting with women and he could steal their very skirts if he had need of them. This sometimes worked with men, but not usually. And it made Gershwin very uncomfortable.

'Shopping' today entailed actual purchase of things. He didn't want to be lynched unnecessarily. Fate had nothing to say to him about this, so he assumed it was a good thing.

He bought his supplies, and he bought extra pheasant feathers. His earrings would be ragged and spent soon. He would need to replace them.

The entire time he spent in the town, he felt the sheriff's eyes on him.

Gershwin was glad when he finally hit the road again.

Tem awoke where he'd fallen asleep -- somewhere soft and warm, a window nearby.

He was in the company of the foreigner who had rescued him from imminant difficulty sometime last night. From there, the foreigner took him to collect payment for something. Tem had smelled blood on him, as well as the grease from earlier that day.

Perhaps he hurt the man badly in saving me? Or perhaps he is a butcher?

Tem could only guess, because the dwelling held no clues.

He was on a nest of sorts containing countless thick, lush pillows, too fine to belong to a simple butcher. The air was perfumed, not with blood or sweat or animals, but with arromatic woods.

Tem sat up, puzzled, the sun stabbing straight into his eyes, but to no avail.

"True blind ye be bein', then," the foreigner said cheerfully from across the room. Tem turned towards him.

"You're not a butcher, are you," he said flatly.

The smile was audible in the other man's voice. "Butcherin's jus' be bein' a job."

Tem ran a hand appraisingly over one of the countless pillows he lay nestled in. "They must be very fine cattle," he said critically.

The foreigner laughed. "More's the like very insistantful buyers." He paused a moment, but the cheer was still there. "What they be callerin' ye, storyteller?"

"Templeton Raithcliff," he managed with an edge of defiance. "Of Midgradia."

The name must have struck a cord of memory. The foreigner's cheer left him and was replaced by curiosity. "From betwixtin' yon mount-passes?" he asked. He paused and made a critical sound. "Ye be soundin' much alike with them clove-hooved types, though never I'd been seein' his Royalful's Historian none. Ye'd be roun' 'bouts his age, guess my wager. An' t'would be much explainerin' how ye be knowin alla them stories so peculiarful."

"So you know of me."

"Knowin' ye well enoughful if'n ye are who ye be sayin' sos."

"Well then do enlighten me to my very well-informed butcher host."

The smile was back in the foreigner's voice. "Ye can be callerin' me GLeb. I be knowin' ye for some work I been findin'ing last years abouts. Was over in yon clove-hoof passes my own self just then."

"You're very well travelled for a butcher."

Gleb laughed heartilly.

"What?" Tem asked.

"I never been sayin' butcherin' was all I done," he said merrilly. Then, in a complete non-sequitor: "Be comin', Historian. I be fixening ye breakfast fittin' not for King, mayhaps, but for 'Isotiran certain enough."