Kirya said, “Ten boys. I choose them, and another three horses. Also, provisions for their trip. One year I work in servitude to you. Then you release me to return to my tribe.”

It was a desperate gamble.

The younger man laughed.

The older said, as swiftly as a snake striking, “Done. You hand yourself, of free choice, into our hands. Ten boys of your choosing, and three horses we release of our choosing, in exchange.”

“I serve in your tribe for one year only. No pursuit after the boys. No raid on them. They ride free to the grass.”

“Done, done,” said the old man, his gaze as hard as stones and his mouth pursed as if to keep secrets.

The younger man whistled as folk do at a narrow escape. Then he giggled, an odd sound coming from a grown man. He turned to bark orders at the fat man.

Commands shouted up and down the caravan brought the beast to a jerking halt. The six ranks of lads were chivvied out like so many baffled sheep, about sixty in all, and all but a handful having light hair and blue eyes, like hers. Kontas ducked out from the group and ran to her, and when a guard struck out after him, the old merchant called the man back. The boy was crying as he halted beside the piebald mare, but he grabbed the mare’s halter and, looking up at her hopefully, said,

“Are we going home, Kiri?”

“You are going home, Kontas. Now I need you to listen to me, very close and very hard. Any boys there were kind to you? Any were mean? Any who admitted they were orphans? Point them out to me.”

So many faces stared at her, confused, calculating, frightened, tearful, dejected. Some called, asking what was going on. Most remained silent, for those who were traded away by the tribes and handed over to foreigners knew by this token that no one wanted them, or that their own kin could not save them. To be marched into the demon lands was to be damned. You might as well already be dead.

Older boys might turn on Kontas, steal the horses, and run. Younger boys would be a burden to feed until they could do more work themselves. Did Mariya want nine more boys? How would she get them wives? Could Orphan mold them into a war band that could protect the Moroshya tribe?

Did it matter? For one year she would walk into demon land in servitude; she could churn their milk and grease their wagon’s axles and scrape their hides and carry buckets of their stinking night soil if indeed they bothered to keep clean. She could eat their leavings and sleep under a wagon instead of in a tent. In exchange, Kontas and nine boys would not lose their souls.

She searched the young faces who turned to look at her, a woman of the tribes like their own sisters and mothers and aunts and cousins. That one was scratch-eyed, that one was snot-nosed, and that youth had too much anger in the set of his shoulders and ugly fresh whip scars on his face to show he got into trouble frequently. There, a hopeful one, begging pitiably with his stare. There, two little blond boys holding hands, like brothers, looking helpless and frightened. Beside them, a bigger boy, maybe Kirya’s age, rested a protective hand on the shoulder of a younger one. The younger was an especially pretty child no older than Danya, one of the few with dark hair.