It bucked once more then lay very still. Sugar removed the snare noose from its leg. The hare felt dead. But she’d been tricked before. A number of years ago, before her moon-cycles had come upon her, she’d picked up a hare and carried it into the house and laid it on the cutting stone. The whole time it had lain in her hands like a limp rag, but the second she began to cut, it jumped up and knocked the knife right out of her hand. Then it flew off the table and bolted out the open door. And so she continued to press this hare.

Across the paddocks the Galsons’ dogs began to bark. They were joined by another group down by the miller’s.

The dogs would often bark this way when travelers passed through. Sugar looked up to see what was causing the commotion and saw a wide line of men on the far side of Galson’s paddocks.

The Mokaddians marched in battle order with bows and spears, their helmets gleaming in the early morning light. Those with spears also carried shields painted with a grotesque boar’s head circled by a ring of orange. It was the mark of the Fir-Noy clan.

It was not uncommon to see such things. All men, Mokaddian and Koramite, were required to regularly attend their clan musters. But something about this was not right.

She turned and saw another line coming up from the miller’s.

Then she realized: these men were converging, but not on the practice field. No, they seemed on a direct course for her house.

KING’S COLLAR



F

ear ran up Sugar’s back. Not only were these men converging, but none of them wore the armbands that distinguished friend from foe during the practice musters.

Sugar stood, trying to get a better view.

The hare that had lain beneath her bucked free of the smothering sack. It bolted down the row of peas, pushed through a hole she’d missed in their fence, and fled to the short hedgerow that grew along a portion of Galson’s paddock.

The men marched toward the house. She could see the intricate Mokaddian tattoos around their wrists and forearms. She could see beards and naked chins under their helmets, but they were too far away for their eyes to be anything but dark pits.

She ran to the back door and flung it open.

Mother bent at the hearth building up a cooking fire. She startled when Sugar rushed in. “Goh, you do that just to set my heart leaping in my throat, don’t you.”

“There are men dressed for battle in Galson’s field,” said Sugar. “Others down by the miller’s. Was there a muster today?”

Mother picked up the bowl the potter had thrown just for Cotton, Sugar’s infant brother who had been stolen the previous season. “I’m sure I would have heard something.”

At that moment Da opened the front door. As the days turned hotter, Da had taken to wearing as little as possible. He stood there bare-chested with the morning at his back.

“Purity,” he said to Mother, “this beard is going to be the death of me. I’m sick of the braids catching fire. I’m not going back to the smithy until it’s shaved off.”

Sugar saw that two of his braids were indeed singed.

“Ach,” Mother said, undoing the shutter latch, “they’re so handsome on you. Half the men in this village would give a finger for such a beard.”

“I don’t want their fingers,” said Da. “They can have the beard for free.” His massive back and arms glistened with the morning sweat.