Harric stood in the market in the back of his grain cart, bag of tricks at his feet, as the first emigrant train poured through the south gate of Gallows Ferry. Its herd of peasants led the procession, staring and stunned from the terrifying journey up the Hanging Road across the face of the cliffs. Plainly they found Gallows Ferry no more comforting than the road had been; it must have seemed to them a mere hanging village crowded onto a wide ledge on the road.

A family at the front of the procession halted when the road plunged into the morning gloom of the Crack behind the inn. It must have reminded them of the treacherous canyons they had traversed in the scablands, only this one was artificial, made by the back of the inn on one side and the cliff face on the other. By the expressions on this family's faces, however, it was clear they'd prefer the dangers of sand cats and scorpions in the scablands to what they saw ahead in the Crack: an alley lined with frontier hucksters and peddlers in a kind of hawker's gauntlet.

A bolder family shouldered past the bewildered family, faces set, to be swallowed by the gloom, and as they trudged between the first stalls, the gauntlet of hawkers erupted.

"Fresh butter! Queen's prices!"

"Mend your shoes! Hard roads ahead!"

"Witches on the road! Protect your children! Get your witch glass here!"

To that Harric added his cry of, "Feed grain! Buy now! No grazing left on the road!"

His cart stood right in the middle of the market, with its nose tucked under the back porch of the inn. The rest of the merchants had been so delighted to see him alive that morning that they'd given him the prime spot, at the foot of the inn's back porch. Not only did the porch jut into the road, pinching the traffic and forcing passersby to slow in front of his cart, but the porch also made it the most entertaining place in the Crack. By midday, revelers crowded the porch to watch the drama of passing emigrants like hecklers at a stage play. Best of all, he was safe from Lyla's former master there, as the lord couldn't act against him in such a public place.

Harric studied the mass of peasants as they slid by, a stinking brown river, ripe with unwashed bodies and last night's garlic. Dozens of families trudged in this caravan. Likely a whole village being transplanted to the Free Lands. But these were not free-peasants. Each bore a blot of orange paint in their hair, marking them the property of a West Isle lord.

Harric's jaw tightened. Among the families walked a giant and giantess who were clearly the product of some ancient Westie breeding project. He'd seen the sort before: pinched skulls with unnaturally huge mouths and tiny eyes too close together. The giant's eyes stayed fixed on the mud, as if ashamed to meet a gaze; the giantess held his hand staunchly and glared at everyone she passed.

"Welcome to the Not-so-Free Lands," Harric muttered. He understood the reasons why the Queen had welcomed Westies to settle the north, but he hated that political necessity. If he could achieve his Proof that day at the expense of every Westie lord that passed, it would bring an added sweetness to the day.

Soon a mounted lord emerged through the gate, attended by two retainers. Orange accents in their clothing and trappings declared the lord to be a gentleman of low rank and master of the orange-marked slaves. At the sight of him, Harric felt a spark of anxiety in his belly. His death might come with any such lord. "Flesh and blood from the court," she had pronounced in her latest doom. Though few actual courtiers came through, many visited the court for one reason or another, so that left a lot of possibilities. His death could come in the form of an unwanted duel from a drunken lord or from a simple fall on his neck when a courtier's carriage jostled his cart. How could he defend against that?

He closed his eyes and concentrated on slowing his breathing to calm his heart. Block out the fear, or you'll make a mistake and fulfill her stupid doom for her. Just relax and enjoy the game of cons.

Harric opened his eyes and studied his first mark. The lord was no older than Harric, and he didn't look terribly bright. Witch charms hung in abundance around the man's neck, which marked him as superstitious as the peasants he led, and Harric was relieved to note that he carried himself with none of the easy confidence of one well-traveled or educated in court. The lord wore haughtiness as armor: his glance a sneer, his laugh too loud, as one ill at ease off his own estate.

And yet the sight of his first easy mark opened a gulf of dread in Harric's gut, as if he were the one out of place.

A simple Bait and Switch will do, he decided. Nothing fancy. Play it safe.

He lifted a large but wilted paint-flower from his bag of tricks. The edges of the crimson petals overflowed both hands as he held the flower to his nose and tested its scent. Pungent. Not unpleasant. Still strong enough to drive off flies, and its familiar scent gave him a swell of confidence as he raised it above his head.He laid it carefully on his crown so the fringe of petals drooped below his brow like a bowl-cut jester's wig, and stood waiting for the lord.

"Well I'll be a horse's pizzle," said a voice behind him. "You live!"

Harric looked back to see one of the middle-aged yeomen who had been drinking and playing cards on the porch for the past two days. He and his mates had bought Harric drinks while they played a complex drinking game that took its cues from the market: when the tinker clanged his pots, someone drank; when a horse pissed, another drank; when Harric sold an ass-lily to a Westie, everyone drained their cups. A pulse of dread in Harric. The man and his comrades knew too much of Harric's games. In the last few days he'd openly shown off some of his cons to the immense amusement of the revelers. Since he was going to die anyway, why not have a little fun? But now that he'd decided on his Proof, he wished he hadn't so freely discarded his cover. The yeomen were on his side, but they were normally raging drunk by noon, and to them it was all a game; if they were indiscrete around the wrong person - Rudy, for instance, or some aggrieved Westie lord - Harric could be hung as a thief.

"Heard a hell of a racket last night upstairs. Figured they'd come for ye, but the fog so thick no one could see their hand in front of their face. Broke our hearts," he said, laying a hand to his breast, "weren't nothing we could do. But you live! No one expected that."

Harric forced a smile. "It's a little awkward. But it isn't over yet. Not till sunset."

The yeoman raised one of Mags's tall wine cups to his lips. "Me and the boys did our best to make certain there wouldn't be a drop of your wine left, like you said. The cup you see before you is the last." He sipped it as if husbanding the last of a very fine vintage. "You gonna throw another party tonight?"

Harric nodded, anxiously aware that the orange lord was floating near in the river of peasants. "If I live past sunset, you can expect one twice as big." He said it with a note of finality, but the yeoman leaned over the porch rail and beckoned to Harric with a conspiratorial grin. "You gonna sell an ass-lily to this orange-blood Westie? Me and the boys love that! No Westie ever cared much for bastards or for bastard freedom in the north."

"And we don't care much for Westies bringing slaves to the Free Lands."

"I'll drink to that."

The orange lord reined in before Harric's cart and stared at Harric's head ornament with barely restrained contempt.

"Would Your Lordship care to buy grain?" said Harric, returning his gaze as if it were perfectly normal to wear a drooping flower on one's head in Gallows Ferry.

"Bastard, there is a plant on your head."

"Yes, Your Lordship. As you can see, it keeps the flies off nicely."

The lord's mirth transformed to interest. "A paint flower! I thought them rare in the north."

"Your lordship is wise in the ways of plants."

The lord's eyes flashed to the green and black of Harric's bastard belt. Scorn and envy glinted in his gaze. "I must have that flower, bastard. You will sell it for five silver queens."

"Ten queens, Your Lordship. I set my own price for things that are mine. On this Isle, a bastard is free."

He never tired of saying those words to Westies.

The lord flushed, but hid his irritation behind a clipped laugh. "Ten queens, then. Worth twenty to be rid of the flies on this stinking road. Every slave in the Isles has shit on it."

One of the grooms paid, and Harric produced a bud as big as his hand from the bottom of his bag of cons. It looked very much like a paint-flower might look when closed, and since ass-lilies grew only in the north, the man would see no difference.

The lord lifted it to his nose and recoiled. "It's the very crack of a hog!"

The yeoman choked and coughed behind Harric. Wine had shot from his nose.

The lord studied him, eyes narrowed, as the yeoman sputtered apologies.

"The scent changes when it opens," Harric explained. "That's when it repels the flies. Just keep it in the sun on your hat till then, and soak it in water each night so it outlasts the week."

The lord examined it, skeptically. "The petals are brown. Paint flowers are red."

"They turn red once they open, my lord."

"No. I'll take the one on your head."

Harric brightened. "Same price, of course." He leaned forward so the petals fell away from his forehead. Gently slipping the edge of his hand beneath them, he lifted it free of his head. One of the petals fell off, but he scooped it up and placed it on top with a flourish. "There you are, Your Lordship. Not as fresh, but treat it kindly, and it should last a good couple days."

The lord frowned. Without Harric's hair to support the petals, they drooped like the head of a threadbare mop. "How dare you offer me such rubbish," he said, waving off the tired flower. He tossed the fresh bud back to Harric. "I will take the bud. Give me a pin for it."

Harric made a show of suppressing his disappointment. "But this flower is already open, Your Lordship - "

"Do you take me for a fool?"

"Yes," the yeoman muttered.

"No, Your Lordship," said Harric, as one of the lord's retainers shot the yeoman a look. The lord's eyes caught the retainer's look and followed his glare to the yeoman, but Harric quickly handed up the bud with a pin, diverting his attention. The next moment the lord rode off with it wagging on his hat.

Harric breathed a sigh of relief, and kicked himself for letting the yeoman see too much the day before.

The yeoman laughed until he wept. "Every fly in the country will find him when it opens. It'll be a week before he knows he's been had."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," said Harric, and his look of blank innocence made the man laugh even harder. The laughter was good. It kept the anxiety at bay.

One down. Nineteen to go.

With luck, the yeoman would pass out before he blew Harric's cover.

*************************************

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