Up the cage had come, up, up, rising up to Fionnmachair.  Within it, two eyes were shut; one was open... unblinking....

At his stall the Tanner had the plump man where he wanted him, picking over the trays with a petulant, supercilious expression.  But the prospective customer evidently thought no more of Taskvaig's material than he had of the pelts presented by the Tanner's rival.  Shaking his head, he started to turn away.  Taskvaig reached after him, sweating freely, ignoring the chatter of idling youth nearby.

"Feel the texture of this leather, sir; tough, but pliable, last a lifetime...."

"...But Khassam claims sisterhood for Ranza's daughter..."

The Tanner, cut off, regarded the loudmouthed youth with mounting irritation.  The boy paid his glare no attention.  The Tanner tried to pick up his pitch again before he lost the plump man to the crowds.  But the sharp voice cut right through.  The Tanner turned to regard the loudmouthed group with hands on hips and fire in his eyes.  The door into the cage-shaft hall was to his left.  But he had no reason to be aware of it.

"Ranza was pregnant with Aurum's daughter when she was kidnapped before Cormac drove out the horde.  Now Khassam claims a precedence here on her behalf!"

The red-haired youth in mottled suede was incredulous.

"Pretext, what do you think?" demanded a crop-headed companion.

"Just another of many," grunted a rake-thin boy in shabby green vest and trousers.  "He also flies the Jerezid banner and claims he will liberate Phadraig's Uncleansl"

"Of course, the Witchgoddess will save us, as She did before!"

The fourth youth's voice was derisive. Roguishly, he looked around for approval.  Taskvaig felt his blood about to boil; the plump citizen on the other side of the stall was a study in contempt, pudgy beringed fingers curled on a tray.  The argument grew more animated, attracted more attention.  "Cundrun," interrupted the youth in suede,  greatly ironic.  "You forget Khassam's armies of men and unmen assembled in the Metal Forests!  You forget there is no Company Chatachain!  You forget that Patrick Cormac is..."

"Keep your voice down, fool!" hissed the shaven one, anxious.

"...And what will the Witchgoddess do about the eala?" continued the red-haired mocker.  But he lowered his voice.  "It is prophesied that Phadraig's last days will be attended by giant metal swans roaring from the sky with the voices of angry hounds...."  He laughed, raised his head and saw the Tanner's wrath, and called out impudently, "How would you like to by in one of the eala, Tanner, up there in the demon sky, just like the ancients did...?"

"Go!" shouted Taskvaig, his whiskers bristling.  "Go and tell Council what to do!  Your inane jabbering drives my customers away.  You waste my time, and the Wind is almost due!"

The rake-thin boy gaped with theatrical astonishment.  And the one in suede jeered.  "There's no customers for vermined pelts like those!  And it would be an insult to an Unclean to be made to wear your leather.  Why should we stop speaking for your bad temper?"

The Tanner started around the side of his stall in a fury.  Heads turned and eyes lit up at neighboring stalls.  "I'm going to give you the hiding you deserve!" howled Taskvaig, flinging a hairy fist which the youth dodged easily, laughing.  But then the boy stumbled and his red head slammed into the plump man's chest, taking them both to the ground.  The citizen pulled himself up rapidly, dusting himself off as he did, mouth pursed into an angry dimple.  The Tanner rounded on the cornered youth, murder in his eyes.  The redhead was dazed by the collision; his friends were edging through the crowd, ready to rush the Tanner and hold him off -

A woman screamed.