"Medjhah," Yoseh said. "That's the mudha-el-bal." Though that battle cry wasstill heard in the canyons of the Khadatqa Mountains, here even Dartars weredenied it.

"And we should go cut them down, Yoseh?" his brother asked. Medjhah was an oldQushmarrah hand after a year in service. "Eight of us meting out capitalpunishment to kids amongst a couple thousand of their relatives? If theferrenghi want them punished, let them see to it themselves. Let them bear thehatred."

Their elder brother Nogah, who was the captain of their little company, turnedin his saddle, said, "Well spoken, Medjhah. Yoseh, we're not here to die forthe ferrenghi. We're here to take their wages."

Yoseh grunted. Ahead, one of the children had gone to the side of the street to talk to a crone seated on a mat. Old people lined the street on both sides, some on mats, some seated on steps, some trying to hawk, some just watchingthe parade of life. It was a miracle they did not get trampled.

The crone pointed. The boy looked, saw Yoseh and his companions. His eyesbugged. He yipped and dashed into the crowd.

"You see?" Medjhah said. "The streets of Qushmarrah are free of heresy andsedition."

The others laughed. Yoseh did not. As the youngest he was always the brunt oftheir humor. He looked at the old woman. She looked back, her face as empty asa statue's. But he could sense the angry hatred within, like the lakes ofmolten rock simmering deep within the holy mountain Khared Dun. Sometimes thegod in the mountain became angry enough to spew fiery destruction upon anyoneunfortunate enough to be nearby. The crone reminded him of the holy mountain.

That old woman had lost somebody at Dak-es-Souetta.

He felt the heat climb his cheeks. He tore his gaze from the old woman andcalled up all his Dartar contempt for city dwellers. But the embarrassmentcontinued to mount. He had forgotten what he was. Now all these sessile goatflops would see a Dartar betraying his feelings.