"There's a fine line between con man and horse thief," Gershwin said, grinning broadly, "and I think this is crossing it."

Feivel laughed. "It's a really thick line, and yes, this is."

Gershwin smirked and glanced down the row of stalls. He had chosen a stormy grey roan stallion, high-strung and half-crazy. Faivish was unbolting a blood bay gelding that was built like a wall.

"A man can hope," Gershwin mused and unbridled the stallion.

"Why must you always choose the crazy ones?"

His grin slid into a smirk in reply. "Someone told me once that life without danger is like a whorehouse without the whores."

Feivel snorted. "Come on," he said. "The ferrier and grooms'll get wise soon."

Gershwin let the stallion sniff at him critically, and then he swung onto the horse's back, pulling the signal whistle between his teeth. The stallion danced uncomfortably, and Gershwin let out a sharp reply with the whistle. Behind him, he heard Feivel do the same to reassure the gelding.

The stallion danced backwards, and Gershwin held his balance by locking his knees hard against the horse's ribs. It was years of practice come to a very practical end.

The horses surged forward, and Feivel took the gate before them at break-neck speed. The gelding cleared it easily, horse and rider ducking into the space as one, trusting each other as if they had been trained together for years. It was their own culture, their own skills taught to them as Tribesmen. The men of the Those Who Stayed could never master these same skills, and all the Tribesmen knew it.

Gershwin spurned the stallion forward, and he, too, shot between the gate and the ceiling easily, his coat striking the ceiling after they had passed safely.

The feathered rings danced by his ears with every step of the horse beneath him. He turned back to see the grooms and ferriers shouting angrily and shaking rakes and fists and hammers at them.

Gershwin winked and whislted a kiss to them before taking off after Feivel, who was charging out the gates.

He held tightly, free again at last with the beast of his people pounding hard earth to dust beneath them. The wind kicked through his long red hair, the horse's grey mane, his feathered earrings, his long coat. This was why his people had remained free of the Those Who Stayed. This was freedom, the thrill of a wild horse beneath him; this was power; this was sex. This, a horse beneath him and a whistle in his teeth, was all that he would ever need.

He let out a victorious, high-reaching whistle as they feld the town and stormed the open plain before them. Ahead of him, Feivel whistled back a warning.

Gershwin whistled the stallion on, guiding it with the tones and chirps of the whistle, as much as with his own will. He could never explain it to one of the Those Who Stayed, nor would he want to. It was the pride of his people, their ability to tame any horse immediately, and though it was an archaic link to their shamanistic culture, it was still extremely useful.

He untangled his fingers from the stallion's mane and drew the sword at his hip. Feivel dropped back to pace them, his sword also free, a vicious, bloodthirsty smile on his lips. The little silver signal whistle was pressed between his teeth as well.

Gershwin narrowed his eyes in consideration. He hated taking lives, but if the situation was going to call for it, then so be it. He'd rather kill than be killed any day. It was an easy, sane choice.

Feivel let out a triumphant whistle, and Gershwin followed his lead. The town watch was hurrying after them, and they felt the guards' horses fill the air behind them. In answer, they led them on, letting them think they had the two of them on the run.

Without warning, the four creatures, two men and two horses, turned as one entity, and charged. They whistled their horses into the fray of eight guards coming to apprehend them, riding low on the horses' bare backs, swords extended, fingers twisted in manes.

Directing the sound masterfully, Feivel drove the eight horses before them into a panic. They bucked, screamed, stomped, and reared, absolutely refusing to obey their masters. One rider was thrown and trampled. Two others were dragged, tangled n their stirrups and saddles. A fourth met the wrong end of a fellow watchman's sword.

Gershwin exchanged blows several times to keep himself alive, but it was Feivel whose blade glistened afterwards with blood. Within minutes, the eight men sent to catch them were dead or dying on the ground. They whistled their horses to a stop, and the two beasts began to graze placidly.

Gershwin whistled to the guards' horses, the sound echoing across the plains of the frontier. In reply, each of the horses hurried to him. Feivel checked their saddle bags before keeping only a few items and discarding the rest. Gershwin cut off the horses' bridles and saddles while Feivel worked, and they left behind the blankets, the food, and the whiskey. There was no market for such where they were going.

They tossed the remaining saddlebags, the ones full of supplies they could use or sell, over their own shoulders, and they exchanged a bright chirp of whistling. Feivel laughed around the whistle in his teeth, and Gershwin waved him on.

Together, they whistled to all ten horses. As one body, the ten horses followed their sound, loyal and free.

Faline nodded as Camphor finished his story. "Well. That's certainly a bizarre thing going on there. You ever find out what happened to all those people in the temple or tomb or whatever it was?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I can only guess they're dead. But I'd really rather hope they're not."

*Waste of good flesh,* Quetz hissed.

"Will you stop ominousing the poor man, Quetzalcoatl!?" Faline demanded, and the dragon didn't look very ashamed, but he certainly felt that way in her brain.

Camphor shifted uncomfortably, and Faline watched him for a while. He couldn't be as old as he claimed. He said he was nearly thirty-six, but he looked barely a day over twenty-six. Ten years were completely missing from his face, and aside from the scars on his right hand, scars that looked like they should have completely severed his fingers from his hand, there was no indication that he might possibly be that old.

"You're not telling me something," she told him and shrugged. "It's no matter to me what secret you choose to keep. But if you're in trouble, I'd like to help you."

"I'm not in trouble."

"You sound like you are."

He considered her with a stoney expression. "It's nothing. I'm sorry to bother you." He stood, and he started to walk away.

"Wait!" Faline called after him. He didn't stop.

He didn't stop, that is, until Quetz lurked right in front of him and made forward advancement almost impossible. *She said wait. You'd do well to listen.*

Camphor turned a little and cocked his head to the side. He looked drained, exhausted, like some power had left him. He had been very animated during the last few hours while he told his story. It was as if Fate, which he swore was pushing him on, had left him finally, and he was again himself. He looked dog-tired.

"Stay here for the night. We'll go with you for your things in the morning."

He considered her again for a long moment. "I'd really rather not," he said, and slipped passed Quetz into the darkness.

*Well. He was certainly pleasant.*

"Shush, Quetz. Let's turn the fire down and get some sleep."