Wings of Omen

A FISH WITH FEATHERS IS OUT OF HIS DEPTH by Robert Lynn Asprin

"You there! Back to the Maze! There be no easy targets on the wharves!"

Monkel, head of the clan Setmur, turned in astonishment to look for his comrade. A moment ago, the Old Man had been walking quietly by his side. Now, he was six paces behind, shouting angrily down a narrow alley between two of the buildings that lined the edge of Sanctuary's wharves.

"And don't come back!" the Old Man finished, kicking dirt toward the alley dramatically. "The last bravo we caught got cut up for bait. Hear me? Don't come back!"

Now Monkel was at his side, craning his neck to peer down the alley. The gap was littered with barrels and crates, and shrouded with shadows in the dim light of early evening. Still, there was some light... but Monkel could see nothing unusual. No figures, not even a glimpse of furtive movement greeted his unblinking gaze. If nothing else, though, Monkel had learned to trust his friend's judgment in detecting danger in this strange new town.

"Makes me mad to see trash like that on our wharf," the Old Man muttered, resuming their walk. "That's the trouble with money, though. As soon as you get a little extra, it draws scum who want to take it away from you."

"I saw nothing. Was someone there?"

"Two of them. Armed," the Old Man said flatly. "I tell you again, you'd best leam to use those funny eyes of yours if you're going to stay alive in this town."

Monkel ignored the warning, as he did the friendly jibe at his eyes.

"Two of them? But what would you have done if they had answered your challenge and attacked you?"

A flashing glitter appeared as the Old Man twirled the dagger he had been palming.

"Gutted them and sold 'em at the stall." He winked, dropping the weapon back into its belt scabbard.

"Buthfoofthem..."

The Old Man shrugged.

"I've faced worse odds before. Most people in this town have. That kind isn't big on fair fights. Besides, there are two of us."

Monkel was suddenly aware of his own knife, still undrawn in its belt scabbard. The Old Man had insisted that he buy it and wear it at all times. It was not the sort of knife used by men working nets and lines, but a vicious little fighting knife designed for slipping between ribs or slashing at an extended hand or fist. In its own way, it was as fine a tool as a fishing knife, but Monkel hadn't even drawn it.

A wave of fear broke over the little Beysib as he suddenly realized how close he had just been to being embroiled in a knife-fight. The fear intensified as the knowledge settled on him that, had the fight occurred, it would have been over before he could have reacted. Whether he was alive or not at the end would have depended entirely on the Old Man's skill.

The Old Man seemed to read his thoughts, and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Don't worry," he said. "What's important is the spotting, not the fighting. It's like fishing: If you can't figure out where they are, you can't catch 'em."

"But if they attacked..."

"Show 'em your back and they'll attack. Once you spot 'em, they won't. They're looking for a victim, not a fight. If you're sober and facing them, they'll fade back and go looking for easier pickings. Thieves... or assassins. They're all the same. Just keep your eyes open and you'll be safe. You and yours."

Monkel slowly shook his head, not in disagreement, but in bewilderment. Not a year of his life had gone by without the passing of a friend, relation, or acquaintance into the shadow realms. Death wore many faces for those who challenged the sea for a livelihood: a sudden storm, an uncharted sandbar or reef, the attack of a nameless monster from the deep, or even just a careless moment leading to an accident. The head of clan Setmur had seen them all before reaching manhood, much less assuming his current position of leadership, and he thought he was accustomed to the shadow of death which haunted those of his profession. "We pay for the catch in blood," was an idiom he had used as often as he had heard it.

Violent death, however, the act of murder or assassination, was new to him. The casualness with which the people of this new land fought or defended themselves was beyond his comprehension. That was what frightened him the most; not the violence, but his newfound friends' easy acceptance of it. They no more questioned or challenged the existence of random violence than they did the tides or sunset. It was a constant in this Old Man's world... a world that was now his own as well.

The Old Man's comment about assassins was not lost on Monkel. Too many Beysib were being killed-so many that not even the most callous citizen of Sanctuary could pretend it was random violence. Someone, or perhaps a group of someones, was actively hunting the immigrants. Clan Burek was being hit harder than his own clan Setmur, and the theories to explain this oddity were many: the Burek were richer and drew more attention from the local cutthroats; they were more inclined to venture into the town at night than the fisher-folk of clan Setmur; and their arrogance and pride made them more susceptible to being lured into fights against the Beysa's orders. While Monkel acknowledged these reasons and agreed with them to a limited extent, he felt there were also other factors to be considered. His lessons from the Old Man in basic street survival, which he had, in turn, passed on to his clan, had much to do with Setmur's low casualty rate. And perhaps most important was the local fishing community's acceptance of the clan, a phenomenon Monkel had grown to appreciate more" and more as time wore on. As a result of his appreciation, he had privately decided to expand his duties as clan head to include doing everything in his power to further the friendships between his people and the locals, whether it involved endorsing a boat-building project or simply accompanying the Old Man on his weekly visit to the Wine Barrel, as he was doing tonight.

The Wine Barrel had changed, even during Monkel's brief time in town. Much of the new money in Sanctuary was being tunneled into its only readily expandable food source-the waterfront. The fishing community was enjoying an unprecedented affluence, and it was only to be expected that a portion of that wealth would be spent at their favorite gathering point and tavern, the Wine Barrel.

Once a rickety wharfside dive, the Wine Barrel had been upgraded to near respectability. Chairs purchased secondhand from a bordello had replaced the mismatched benches and crates that once adorned the place, and years of grime were beginning to give way to a once-a-month, top-to-bottom scrubbing; still, some of the old traditions remained.

As Monkel followed the Old Man into the tavern, he noted several of his clansmen scattered through the room, all sitting with other Beysib, but there unchallenged nonetheless. There was one table, however, none of them sat at... in fact, no Sanctuary fishermen sat at without an invitation. That was the table that exploded with noise upon their entrance.

"It's about time. Old Man!"

"We already drank your share. You'll have to order more."

"Hey, Monkel. Can't you get the Old Man to walk any faster? The streets are dangerous to those who dawdle."

Sitting at their table were the elite of Sanctuary's fishing community, the senior captains of which the Old Man was the unofficial leader. It was no different from the other tables, but because they sat there, the service was quicker and their drinks arrived in portions noticeably larger than those served at other tables.

Of all the Beysib, Monkel was the only one accepted as an equal at the captains' table, partially because of his status as head of the Setmur clan, but mostly because the Old Man said he was welcome.

Prior to their relocation to Sanctuary, a Beysib scout ship had picked up the Old Man and his son Hort and fetched them back to the Beysa's court for interrogation. Once it became apparent that the Old Man would not willingly yield any useful information about their planned destination, the majority of the court had turned their attention to Hort, who was both more talkative and more knowledgeable about the politics and citizenry of Sanctuary. Only Monkel had continued dealing with the Old Man, plying him with specific questions only a fisherman would ask: questions about tides and reefs, the feeding patterns and nature of the native fish. The Old Man recognized them as the questions of a working man as opposed to those asked by the military or the politicians, and began to trade information for information. Their mutual respect had grown into a cautious friendship, and Monkel had made a point of protecting the Old Man from the curiosity and jibes of his own countrymen. Now they were in Sanctuary, and the Old Man was returning the favor by helping Monkel and his clan settle into their new home.

The next round of drinks arrived, and Monkel started to reach for his purse. The Old Man caught his eye with a glare of stem disapproval, but the Beysib merely smiled and withdrew a small coin barely large enough to pay for his own refreshment. Though poor by comparison with the royal Burek clan, the Setmurs were still substantially wealthier than their Sanctuary-raised counterparts. Soon after his arrival in town, the Old Man had warned Monkel against needless displays of money... such as buying a round of drinks for the captains' table. Rather than a gesture of endearing generosity, he had been told, such a move would be interpreted as an attempt to flaunt his financial superiority, hindering rather than advancing his acceptance by the local fisherfolk. Normally a bit tight-fisted by nature, Monkel had no difficulty following this advice, though the Old Man still tended to fret at him about it from time to time.

The cheap wine favored by the other captains was distasteful to Monkel, who was used to the more delicate, subtle texture of Beysib beverages, but he drank it anyway to avoid appearing overly critical of the tastes of his new-found friends. In a compromise with his own palate, he merely sipped cautiously at one glass while listening to the fishermen gossip.

The Sanctuary fishermen were a close-knit community, caring little for the affairs of the "city folk," and it showed in their conversations. From discussions with his clansmen who had more contact with clan Burek, Monkel had obtained a wealth of rumors speculating on whether or not the Rankan Emperor was dead and the effect it would have on Prince Kadakithis, currently the object of their own Beysa's affection. None of this was even mentioned at the captains' table... their conversation, instead, centered on the movements of various schools of fish, and occasionally touched on the unpredictable winds and storms which seemed to spring from nowhere to threaten the fishing fleet even at anchor. There was also still talk about the solar eclipse, though Monkel's assurances that such phenomena were not unheard of in the chronicles of the Beysib Empire had kept the fishing community from joining the town's panic at the time.

Monkel entered into the "fish" discussions wholeheartedly enough, particularly those concerning the deep-water species he was familiar with, but remained silent during the "storm" speculations. He had his own opinions, of course, but was more than reluctant to voice them, even here. There was a stink of sorcery over the harbor these days, but Monkel had been raised a fisherman by fisherfolk. He knew better than to stir their superstitious nature unnecessarily; He was lost in these thoughts when he suddenly noticed the conversation had stopped... in fact, all talk in the tavern had stopped as the assembled fishermen stared at the front door. Since he was sitting with his back to that door, Monkel had to turn in his seat to see what it was they were looking at.

It was Uralai of clan Burek, resplendent in her guards' uniform as she nervously surveyed the Wine Barrel's interior. She caught sight of Monkel as he turned, and strode through the silent tables to where he sat.

"Monkel Setmur," she said formally, "the Beysa wishes to see you in the morning for a report on the progress of the new boat."

Monkel started to reply, but the Old Man cut him off.

"Tell the Beysa we'll see her tomorrow afternoon."

Uralai's eyes glazed for a moment, which Monkel saw at once as a sign of anger, a signal the Sanctuary fisherman would not recognize. He hastened to intervene before things got out of hand.

"We will be taking our boats out before first light tomorrow. Assuming the Beysa is not planning an early audience, we'll have to see her in the afternoon after the boats are back at the docks."

"... Unless she wishes to reimburse us for a day's catch," the Old Man added with a smile.

Uralai bit her lower lip thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded once in a sharp, abrupt movement.

"Very well, I will so inform the Beysa."

With that, she spun on her heel and headed for the door.

"Wait a moment!"

Monkel rose and started after her, overtaking her just inside the entry way.

"What is it. Lord Setmur?"

"You can't... you shouldn't be walking these streets alone at night. It's dangerous."

"I was told to find you, and this is where you are. It left me little choice if I was to carry out my assignment."

"Perhaps... if I walked you back to the palace."

Uralai arched one graceful eyebrow, and Monkel flushed at her unspoken barb. She carried her two swords crisscrossed over her back and was trained in their use, while Monkel had only his knife.

"Please don't misunderstand me," he stammered. "I was not meaning to imply a supremacy at fighting. It's just that we of Setmur have found that many confrontations can be avoided when we travel in twos after dark."

"And after you see me to the palace? Then you must return through those same streets alone. No, Monkel Setmur. While I appreciate your concern, of the two of us I think I am better suited to survive an unaccompanied journey."

With that, she headed out into the night, leaving him to return to his drink.

"You shouldn't let yourself be bullied that way," the Old Man chided as Monkel resumed his seat. "You were ready to give up a day's fishing just so we could see the Beysa, weren't you?"

"I think the original summons was for me alone," Monkel growled, his mind still on Uralai.

"Of course it was. That's why I thought I'd better deal myself in. You're a good man, Monkel, but too honest for your own good. There are a few items in our expenses that will require a fast wit and a glib tongue to justify."

"Have you been cheating the Beysa?" Monkel said, attentive once more. "That's a fine way to treat a visitor to your shores. Would you do the same thing to your own Prince-Governor?"

"In a minute," the Old Man smiled, and the others at the table joined in the laughter. In Sanctuary, even honest folk had an eye open for anyone with more money than business sense.

Of all the assembled captains, only Haron held herself apart from the laughter. She peered thoughtfully at the young Beysib for several moments, then laid a hand softly on his knee and leaned forward.

"You care for that one, don't you?" she said softly.

Monkel was surprised at her perception. Haron was only a few years younger than the Old Man, and her age-softened features combined with her mannish attitudes had made her almost indistinguishable from the male captains at the table. She watched for and saw different things than the others though.. .like Monkel's reactions to Uralai. He hesitated then gave a small nod of agreement.

"Hear that, boys?!" Haron crowed, slapping her palm loudly on the tabletop. "Our Monkel's in love! That should settle the question of whether or not he's as normal as the rest of you!"

The head of the clan Setmur was shocked and embarrassed by the outburst, but it was too late to do anything to prevent it. In a moment he was the center of attention, being alternately congratulated and teased by the captains.

"Is she any good in bed?" Terci said with a wink... a gesture Monkel had never been sure how to interpret.

"You'll have to bring her down here some night. We'd all like to meet her."

"Fool," Haron scoffed, dealing the speaker a good-natured cuff. "Can't you see anything? She was just here. That little guard with the big tits. It was as clear as seabirds circling over a school of feeding fish."

Writhing under the cross-examination, Monkel deliberately avoided looking at the other Setmur clansmen in the room. He knew they would be staring at him in amazement and/or disgust. Sex was a private subject among the Beysib, seldom discussed and never bantered about publicly.

The Old Man eyed Monkel in quiet speculation.

"A guard from the royal clan Burek?" he said.

Monkel nodded silently.

"What does that mean?" Omat interrupted, half rising and leaning across the table to join their exchange.

"It means Monkel has about as much chance of winning her as you would have of sparking Prince Kittycat's courtesans," the Old Man informed him.

"How do you figure that?" Haron demanded. "They're both Beysib, aren't they? Monkel here's as good a man as any I've met. No one at this table knows the sea as he does. Why shouldn't he have her if he wants her?"

Though warmed by the compliment, Monkel had to shake his head.

"You don't understand. Things are different for us. If she had not been on my boat for the pilgrimage, we would never have met. I couldn't..."

"It's not that different at all," the Old Man grunted. "She's richer and used to hobnobbing with royalty. Marrying a fisherman would be a real come-down."

Monkel surpressed a start as Haron hawked noisily and spat on the floor. Of all the local customs, this was the hardest for him to accept. Among the Beysib, a woman's saliva was more often than not poisonous.

"That's a lot of bird dung. Old Man," she announced. "Just goes to show how little you know about what a woman looks for in a man. Ignore these wharf-rats, Monkel. Tell me, what does she think?"

Monkel gulped half of his drink, then kept staring into the glass, avoiding her gaze.

"I... I don't know. I've never told her how I feel."

"Well, tell her, then. Or, better yet, show her. Give her a present... flowers or something."

"Rowers," Omat sneered, waving his one hand. "The woman's a guard. What would she want with flowers? What would you do if a man gave you flowers, Haron?"

"Well, what do you suggest for a gift? A sword? Maybe a brace of throwing daggers?"

"I don't know. But it should be something she couldn't or wouldn't get herself."

The argument raged on for hours, until Monkel lost it in the memory-deceiving depths of his fourth or fifth glass of wine. Only two points remained in his mind: he should not discount the possibility of marrying Uralai until he knew her thoughts on the matter, and that he should announce his interest with a gift... an impressive gift.

"Are you ill. Lord Setmur? Or didn't the fleet go out today?"

Startled, Monkel spun about in his crouch to find Hakiem standing less than an arm's length behind him. He recognized the Beysa's local adviser from his visits to court, but had never realized the oldster could move so quietly. Of course, Hakiem was a product of Sanctuary's alleys.

"I didn't mean to unsettle you," Hakiem said, noting the Beysib's alarm. "You really shouldn't sit with your back to the mouth of an alley. It can draw the attention of those more bloodthirsty or greedy than curious."

"I... I stayed ashore today."

"I can see the truth in that. You are here and the boats are gone."

Hakiem's weathered face split in a sudden smile.

"Forgive me. I'm prying into matters which are none of my business. I was a tale-smith before your Beysa invited me to join her court, and old habits die hard. My storyteller's instincts say that when the head of the Setmur fishing clan remains ashore while his boats work the fishing ground, there is a tale lurking somewhere nearby."

Monkel regarded his visitor with skeptical eyes.

"Has word of my absence been reported to the palace? Did the Beysa send you to inquire after my health, or did you really come all this way in search of a story?"

The ex-talespinner nodded approvingly.

"Information for information. A fair trade. I see you are rapidly learning the ways of our town. No, I didn't come looking for a story, though in the past I've walked further on that quest. I am here on my own in attempt to insure with my presence that the Beysa is not overcharged too outrageously for the boat you're building."

He quickly held up a hand, stopping Monkel's protests before they could begin.

"I am not accusing you specifically. Lord Setmur, though we both know the expenses you reported to the Empress yesterday were inflated. I expected it would happen when I recommended your project to the Beysa, and so far the exaggerated charges are well within acceptable limits. Since you are usually out with the fleet, you have no way of knowing that I visit the wharf every day to create the illusion that work and expenses are being monitored. I like to think it will help my countrymen to keep their greed in check, thus avoiding the scandal of an audit or the challenge which would certainly result if they were left to find the upper limits on their own."

Monkel dropped his eyes in embarrassment and bewilderment. Along with random violence, he still had difficulty comprehending the easy way graft was accepted, if not anticipated in Sanctuary.

"My encounter with you today is a chance meeting spurred by my own curiosity upon seeing you ashore at this hour, nothing more," Hakiem finished. "Now for your half of the bargain. What, besides illness, could keep you from the fleet? I trust you have not chosen a wharfside back-alley for a sick-bed."

In response, Monkel held up a small stick with a length of fishing line wrapped around it.

Hakiem frowned for a moment, then followed the line with his eyes as it extended down the alley. A fine fishing net was hanging there as if for drying, and scattered on the ground under it were pieces of bread and fruit.

"It looks asif..." Hakiem fixed Monkel with a puzzled stare. "Fishing for birds? For this you abandoned your duties with the fleet?"

"It will be a gift... for a lady. I thought it would impress her more than something I had simply purchased."

"But aren't the beyarl sacred to your people?"

"Yes, but I was hoping to catch..."

Monkel's voice trailed off, but Hakiem had heard enough to finish the thought.

"... one of Sanctuary's birds." The oldster seemed vaguely troubled. "There is no law against it, probably because no one has thought to try it before. Are you sure. Lord Setmur, that such an undertaking is wise? Wild things are usually best left wild."

Monkel laughed. "That's a strange thing to say to someone who makes his living pulling creatures from the sea."

"Catching and killing for food is one thing. Trying to tame..."

Hakiem broke off speaking and laid a hand on Monkel's arm. Monkel looked, and jerked his line in almost the same instant, a reflex not unlike setting a hook.

A piercing scream and a flutter of wings announced his success as a dark bundle of feathers struggled vainly to escape the net's folds.

"Got it!" Monkel exclaimed, rising to his feet. "My thanks, Lord Adviser: your alertness has speeded my success."

Hakiem shook his head as he turned to go.

"Do not thank me yet," he said darkly. "This tale's not over, if it has even begun yet. I only hope its conclusion is to your liking."

Monkel heard none of this, for with the urgency of youth, he was already moving to secure his prize... or rather, what he felt sure would be the means to his prize.

As the days stretched into weeks, Monkel had more than one occasion to question his choice of gift for Uralai. The bird staunchly refused to be tamed.

Closer examination of his catch had shown a bird unlike any Monkel could recall having seen, though admittedly he had spent little time studying land-birds. It was roughly the size of a raven, though its vaguely hooked beak would lead some to think of it as a hawk, and black as the sea at night. Dominating its features was a pair of bright yellow eyes which seemed at once soul-piercing with their analytic coldness, and smoldering with an ill-repressed fury that one normally only sees in a death match with a blood enemy.

When Monkel gave the bird the freedom of his quarters it began methodically breaking every item vaguely fragile and several he had thought beyond damage. When he packed the few remaining valuables away, the bird countered by leaving its droppings on his clothes and bedding and gouging and splintering his furniture with its beak.

As to Monkel himself, the bird's attitude varied. Sometimes it would flee in terror, crashing headlong into the wall in its efforts to escape, and at other times it would fly in his face, screaming its outrage while contesting his right to even enter the room. Mostly, it would play coy, letting him approach with outstretched hand only to flutter away to wait again on another perch... or better still, climb onto his hand momentarily, then use its beak in a slashing move to draw blood from his hand or face before taking to the air.

The bird thought it was terrific fun. The thoughts of Monkel himself, with an increasing number of scars and half-healed wounds adorning his features and appendages, are best left unrecorded save to note that he often found himself wondering if the bird was edible. At this point in their duel, simply killing it would have been an insufficient expression of his frustration.

The final breakthrough was triggered by a conversation with one of his clan members. Clan Setmur was growing more and more concerned about his attempts at bird taming. Not only was it leaving him in a perpetually foul mood, it was drawing unwanted attention to the wharf community. Whether his friends at the captains' table had let the news leak or if Hakiem was not as retired from storytelling as he claimed was inconsequential. What mattered was that it was now common knowledge on the streets of Sanctuary that one of the Beysib fishermen had caught a black bird and was trying to tame it. Curiosity seekers appeared in a surprising array of rank and status. Barflies and S'danzo seers, petty criminals and self-proclaimed emissaries of the crime-lord Jubal all were asking questions with varying degrees of subtlety regarding the bird and its trainer. Once, a dark mysterious woman reputedly never seen by the light of day was heard to make inquiries.

To one and all, clan Setmur claimed ignorance, but, as a normally quiet private people, they were distressed at this sudden notoriety. Having failed in their efforts to convince Monkel to abandon his task completely, they instead plied him with every bit of advice they could think of to bring his project to a successful and, above all, speedy conclusion.

Thus it was that Monkel was approached by Paratu, one of his cousins, as their ship approached Sanctuary after a day's fishing.

"Have you considered treating the bird like a person?" she said without preamble. "Perhaps it resents your attitude."

Monkel found himself smiling in spite of himself.

"Whatever led you to that idea?"

In response, Paratu gestured toward the city.

"I was recalling what you told us when we first arrived at this hellhole... about dealing with the residents of Sanctuary. You said we shouldn't think of them as animals. That if we treated them as people, they would respond as such and everyone would benefit. Well, your advice worked, and it occurred to me that, like the people, the bird is from the city. Maybe the same approach would work for you now."

"There's one problem with that, Paratu. The bird is an animal."

"So are the people," she said, staring at the town. "They respond to respect, and I frankly doubt you could find more than a handful that are any smarter than your bird."

Monkel had laughed openly then, but later gave the suggestion serious consideration.

Starting that very night, he began talking to the bird... not with the simple commands of a trainer, but open conversation as one would have with a close friend. He spoke of his previous life, of his fears in coming to this new land, and of his achievements thus far in his period of clan leadership. He told the bird of the elegance of the Beysa's court and of Uralai's beauty. Once he got started, talking to the bird became an easy habit, for, in truth, Monkel was a lonely man made lonelier by the pressures of leadership.

To his amazement, the bird responded almost immediately ... or, to be accurate, it stopped responding. Instead of flying in terror or slashing at his face, it would sit quietly on his hand, head cocked to one side as if hanging on his every word. Soon, he became bold enough to set the bird on his shoulder, where it was in easy reach of an ear and an eye. The bird never betrayed this trust. If anything, it seemed to glory in its new perch and would flutter quickly to Monkel's shoulder as soon as he entered the room.

After a week of this, Monkel tried taking it outside and, in a final test, would transfer it to other people's shoulders. Through it all, the bird remained well mannered and tolerant. Though suspicious of its sudden domesticity, Monkel decided it was time to make his presentation. If he waited much longer, he knew he would have grown too attached to the bird to give it up.

"You'll see. She's very beautiful, just like I told you."

The bird regarded Monkel with an expressionless yellow eye, ignoring the sweetmeat he was offering as a bribe.

With an inward sigh, the head of clan Setmur twisted in his chair to peer down the palace corridor once more, then resumed staring out the window.

He had considered presenting his gift to Uralai in the Beysa's court, but his confidence sagged and he decided to wait and catch her coming off duty. He still had lingering fears about the reliability of the bird's manners, and while a mishap while presenting it to Uralai would be embarrassing, the same slip in front of the Empress would be a disaster.

"You'll like it here," he murmured, more for his own reassurance than for the bird's. "It's definitely a step up from fighting for gutter scraps. I'll bet any bey art-those are our own holy birds-would envy the treatment you'll..."

A soft footstep reached his ear, and he looked again to see Uralai approaching. All of his fears and insecurities ascended to his throat in a tight knot, but he steeled himself and rose to meet her.

"Good evening, Uralai."

"Monkel Setmur. What a pleasant surprise." Her voice was nearly musical when it wasn't speaking for the Beysa. "And what a lovely bird."

Buoyed by her warm reception, Monkel hurriedly blurted his mission.

"The bird is a gift. I... want you to have it."

"Really? I didn't know they sold pet birds in this town."

Uralai was studying the bird as Monkel took it on his hand and extended it toward her.

"They don't," he said. "I caught it and tamed it myself."

"Why?"

Monkel was growing uneasy. When he had rehearsed giving the gift to Uralai, he had not anticipated a prolonged conversation, and his discomfort increased as the talk progressed.

"I wanted... I am an unsophisticated fisherman and, try as I might, I could think of no better way to express my admiration of you than with a gift."

"That wasn't what I meant," Uralai said, "though you have certainly achieved your goal. What I was trying to ask was why you chose this particular gift."

"The bird is native to our new homeland. Its spirit and the town's are one. If we are to survive here, we must also become one with that spirit. We must not cling to our old ways and customs, but rather be open to change and local ideas... such as your not being offended by the admiration of one from a lower clan."

"You speak quite well for an unsophisticated fisherman."

Uralai took the bird on her hand and moved it up to her shoulder. It hopped obediently onto its new perch. Monkel held his breath. A new awareness washed over him of how easily the bird could go for her eye.

"Your idea of becoming one with this miserable town is hard to accept. I will have to think about it further. However..."

She laid a soft hand on his arm.

"... accepting your admiration is not as new as you seem to think. Remember, you are the head of your clan, while within my own, my status is less..."

The bird turned and loosed a load of dung down the front of her uniform.

Monkel rolled his eyes heavenward and fervently wished he could expire on the spot.

"Don't worry." Uralai's laugh was only a little forced. "It's a wild thing, like this town. It doesn't know how to behave politely. It's a wonder it's as tame as it is. Tell me, how did you do it? Was it very difficult?"

"Well..."

Before Monkel could continue, the bird moved again. This time, it hopped onto Uralai's head where it repeated its earlier misdeed in sufficient quantity so as to dribble some onto her face.

"You did that on purpose!" Monkel exploded, grabbing for the feathered fiend. "I'll..."

The bird launched itself out the window and disappeared with a scream that was more triumphant than apologetic.

"Good riddance!" Monkel shouted. "I'm sorry, Uralai. If I had thought..."

Uralai was shaking with silent laughter as she wiped the droppings from her face and hair.

"Oh, Monkel," she said, using his name alone for the first time, "if you could have seen yourself. Maybe I should have accepted your escort the other night. You're becoming as violent as those people you drink with. Now, come. Walk with me and tell me about the taming of your departed gift."

It was more than an hour before Monkel took his leave and floated home on a headier wine than any served at the fisherman's tavern. The gift had succeeded beyond his wildest hopes in opening communication with Uralai. What was even better, with the bird gone, he no longer had to worry about having unwittingly visited misfortune upon her house.

The bird was waiting for him when he arrived home, and no amount of cursing or thrown rocks would entice it to leave.