The wall was of yellowish brick thick with flecks that glistened in the sunlight-amethyst crystals, Cray guessed, turned yellow by kiln firing. The town gate stood open, its doors of massive logs lashed together pushed to either side. Inside, he could see people moving about their daytime tasks, men with bundles on their backs, women with baskets on their arms, dirty children trailing after them with striped and spotted dogs trotting at their heels. The path he followed became the main street of the town, broadening after it passed through the gate, and twisting and turning among the close-packed houses until it reached the open space that lay at the heart of the town. Here, Cray found almost nothing offered for sale-it was late in the day for marketing-but he did find a knot of gossiping people whom he approached to ask where he might purchase some wool. They looked him up and down, but without any fear, and when, in answer to their queries, he had gestured vaguely upriver to the supposed source of his travels, they directed him to a house down a side street. He thanked them, and they smiled at him, and they stared curiously as he walked away.

The house they sent him to had a door and a win-dow open to the warm weather. As he neared it, he began to hear the faint familiar hum of a spinning wheel. He looked in the window and saw a woman of middle years, plump and rosy-checked, spinning gray wool into fine and even gray thread. Several full bob-bins stood on a rack beside her, and the one on the wheel itself was filling steadily as he watched.

"Good morrow!" he called to her, and when she looked up, he smiled his friendliest smile. "I'm told that I can purchase a bit of wool here."

She looked at him with an open mouth, and then she rose and dusted her hands on her apron and hur-ried to the window. As had the gossipers, she looked him up and down, took in the knapsack and his plain clothing. Then she answered his smile with a small one of her own. "Yes, we have wool here.

What would you want to purchase itwith? "

"I have a little silver," said Cray.

"Silver? We don't see much of that around here."

"Will you accept it?"

Her expression was doubtful. "How much wool would you want?" "Only as much as I can carry comfortably. But if the person I wish to show it to finds its quality suitable, I'll be back for more."

Her expression took on a tinge of indignation. "Our wool is very fine here, suitable for anything you might wish."

"Then you will sell me some?"

"Yes. Yes, of course. Come in and we'll see how much you require."

Inside, he found that the room containing the spin-ning wheel also served as bedroom and kitchen, with a double bed at one end and a hearth, table, and cook-ing implements at the other. Beside the wheel stood a bin containing some of the same loose gray wool that was being spun.

The woman went to the rack of full bobbins and took down three; they filled the crook of her arm. "Will this be enough?"

Cray shook his head. "No, I want the unspun wool, not the finished yarn."

"Just the wool?"

"Yes. The lady prefers to spin it herself."

"Very well." She looked down at the bin, but there was only a small amount left there, no more than a double handful. Then she went to a door at the back of the room, near the bed, and opened it. Through the doorway, Cray could see bin upon bin of gray wool, washed and combed and carded, ready for spinning, and a whole wall full of bobbins already filled and waiting for weaving. The woman bent over the nearest bin and scooped out an overflowing armload to bring back to Cray.

"Perhaps this will suit you?" she said.

"Yes. Very much so." He felt of the wool, rubbing it between his fingers. It was definitely not sheep's wool in either appearance or texture, but it seemed to make a soft yet sturdy cloth, judging from the clothing of the townspeople. He pulled a silver piece from his pouch and held it out to the woman.

She stared at the coin for a moment before taking it, and when she did take it, she went to the window and peered at it carefully. Then she tasted it. "Is this a king's likeness on this coin?"

"I don't know," he said, though he did know; he had even met the king. But a land where the rivers ran with gemstones was far, far from that lord's domain, and Cray preferred not to try to explain how he had come by the coin. "I picked it up in my travels upriver. It looks old, doesn't it?"

The woman shrugged, turning it over and over in her hands. "It is thin," she said.

"Will it be enough?"

The woman smiled and then she laughed. "This is more silver than I've seen in many a year. I don't know what I'll do with it. Perhaps hang it on a thong about my neck. I haven't much use for silver. But it is a pretty thing, isn't it?" It was a simple silver coin, kept bright by passage from hand to hand since it was minted. Cray had several more just like it in his pouch.

"We don't use silver among ourselves," said the woman. "You must be from a city, where everything is bought with coins."

"I've visited a few larger towns than this in my travels through the years," Cray admitted.

"Take the wool, then. I've spun many a bobbin of yarn in my day, and I deserve a bit of jewelry for my efforts. Here, I've an old apron I can wrap it up in for you. You can tie it to your pack and leave your hands free for leaning on that great staff you carry." She took the apron down from its peg by the hearth and wrapped it about the wool, crushing the package down as small as possible. Then she bound it with yarn from one of her bobbins.

As she was finishing the tying, a man came to the street door of her house and called a greeting. "Come in," she said over her shoulder.

He was a tall man with a hard stride, his heavy boots pounding loudly on the wooden floor. He had a short beard, grizzled and gray, and a face sunburned by outdoor labor. His expression was wary, the first wary face Cray had seen in the town. Instead of addressing the woman, who obviously knew him, he spoke to Cray: "So you're the traveler, are you?"

Cray bowed to him. "Good morrow."

"I'm the mayor of this town," said the man. "Rinveer is my name, and it is my business to know what goes on here." He eyed the bundle that the woman had made. "I see you'll be taking some of our wool with you on your journey."

"It seems to be very fine wool," said Cray.

Rinveer reached out to feel of a small tuft that protruded from the wrapping. "Yes, this is quite fine. I am surprised that Rominda has given you some of our highest-quality wool. We have so little of it. This was a bad year, unfortunately, and we haven't much that is of such excellence. A bad year. A number of our animals sickened and did not produce as they should have; a few even died. A bad year indeed."

Cray murmured sympathetically. "Well, perhaps next year will be better."

The mayor shook his head. "Pasturage becomes worse every year. It isn't what it was when I was a boy, I can tell you. The animals don't fatten up the way they used to, and the wool shows it, too. No, I don't expect next year to be much better. If you want more wool of this quality in the future, you'd best go somewhere else, where the weather and the fodder are better."

Cray gazed at the man thoughtfully, remembering the animals he had seen from the air, their fat bodies, their wool hanging almost down to the ground. Both pasturage and animals looked more than adequate to him. And then there was all that wool in the back room of this very cottage, surely the most recent shear-ing, and though he had not examined it closely, he thought it probably belied the mayor's words.

Why, he wondered, was the man lying to him when the woman had seemed willing enough to give him as much wool as he could carry?

"What a shame," said Cray, "for truly I have seen little wool of this quality in my travels. I think that once she has examined it, my lady might well be interested in obtaining more." "And who would your lady be, sir?" asked the mayor.

Cray decided to offer the truth rather than invent a tale that might trip him up later. "She is Delivev Ormoru of Castle Spinweb. Perhaps you've heard of her?"

Rinveer shook his head. "Is this Spinweb far from here?"

"Very far," said Cray. "I couldn't begin to tell you how far I have traveled to come to this place."

The mayor stared at him, a puzzled expression on his face. "You travel far looking for wool?"

Cray smiled. "No. I travel far for my own pleasure, to see new sights and meet new people. But if I happen to notice something interesting along the way, I stop to look more closely. In this case, since my lady is partial to spinning and weaving, and I encountered this wool, I thought to take some home to her.

If she likes it well enough, she'll reward me, I can tell you, and she'll send for more, either by myself or some other servant."

"She is a wealthy lady?"

"Comfortably so."

Cray could see the conflicting attitudes at war on the man's face-doubt, hope, suspicion, greed. He wanted to say yes, come back; Cray sensed that strongly. But something kept him from it.

"She would pay in silver," said Cray. "Or, if you wish, in some form of barter. She is a tapestry maker of considerable renown, and her silk embroidery is excellent. Some arrangement could be made, I'm sure."

The woman, who had stood silent while the men talked at cross purposes, now fingered Cray's sleeve.

"This wool," she said. "It is not like ours."

"Oh?" said the mayor, and he bent close to Cray, peering at the fabric of his collar. "No, it is not. Where did you get it?"

"My lady acquired it," said Cray, standing very still while they examined the cloth. "I receive all my cloth-ing from her, of course."

Rinveer looked up into Cray's face. "I've never seen wool quite like this."

"Its source is far from here. My lady trades widely for her fibers. She is a very particular person."

The man rocked back on his heels. "Then perhaps ... perhaps you have not been sent here by Lord Olerat?"

"I don't know any such person," said Cray.

"And you haven't come from Castle Vale?"

"I come from Spinweb and nowhere else, sir."

"And you aren't one of Lord Olerat's tax gatherers?" Cray looked at the very serious expression on his face and then broke into a soft chuckle. "Ah, I see.

You think I'm here to spy on your harvest in order to collect heavy taxes. No, no, not at all, good sir.

Be-lieve me, I am a traveler, and I have no connection whatever with your taxes and your lord. I was merely suggesting an honest exchange of goods. Your taxes are your own concern, not mine."

Rinveer smiled tentatively. "Then ... perhaps we can make an exchange of some sort. Next year. Not this year, no. The wool is poor this year. But next year ... perhaps."

Cray decided to let the matter go at that. If next year's wool actually turned out to be finer than this year's, he guessed his mother would be quite pleased. In the time between now and then, Mayor Rinveer would have an opportunity to send his own spies to the castle of Lord Olerat and determine that the trav-eler who had taken away a sample of this year's wool was not a tax gatherer.

"Then next year," Cray said, "I will attempt to return, or, failing that, to send another servant from Spinweb, in the hopes that your harvest will be bounti-ful and of high quality. And perhaps my lady Delivev will offer an exchange that will benefit both you and her." He tucked the packet of wool under one arm and then bowed to the mayor and to the woman Rominda. "Now I must be on my way, for while the sun stands above the horizon, I travel."

As he turned toward the door, Rinveer plucked at his sleeve. "A moment only," the man said when Cray looked back at him. "We have told you our names, but what is yours?"

"Cray."

"Ah. Well, perhaps we shall see you again next year, Cray of Spinweb."

Cray smiled and passed through the doorway and started down the street. He had gone no more than a dozen paces, though, when he heard the woman's voice.

"Master Cray!"

He halted and half turned. "Yes?"

She and the mayor were standing in the doorway.

She glanced at the mayor before speaking again. "Don't you want to tie that bundle to your pack? I could help you do it."

He shook his head. "I can carry it like this for now, thank you. Fare you well, good lady." He went on, smiling to himself, sure that she had called him at the mayor's command, just to find out if he answered to the name he had given. He wondered if Lord Olerat laid such a heavy burden on these people that they feared to expose the quality of their wool to him, or if they were simply too greedy to pay him his due.

Rather than go back to the square, Cray took a meandering route to the wall and then followed that to the gate. In this way he was able to explore a large part of the town and to observe a number of artisans at work-the smith, the wheelwright, the potter, the tinker. He saw much that was familiar among these men; at one time or another, he had himself attempted most of the work he saw them engaged in, though for sorcerous, rather than ordinary purposes. With the smith, especially, he felt a kinship, and he stopped there for the longest time, to watch molten metal being poured into a mold. The smith, sweating and grimy, seemed hardly to notice him. The sun was riding low in the western sky when Cray left the town at last, retracing his steps upriver toward the grove of trees. He was perhaps halfway there when Regneniel spoke, its deep voice emanating from the pack, but so softly that no one three paces away could have heard it.

"Five men are following you."

Cray whirled to face them, his staff held out in both hands, held awkwardly because of the bundle under his arm. The men were spread out upon the path a dozen paces behind him, and they carried shorter staves than he, cudgels, really, and one of them had a drawn dagger. That was the mayor.

"What is this?" cried Cray, backing up warily.

"Your mistake, Cray of Spinweb, or whoever you really are," said the mayor, "was to go back the way you came. Toward Castle Vale. You think no one saw you enter our town?" He was advancing steadily, in front of the others.

"The day is waning," said Cray. "I dawdled in your town too long, watching the smith, and now I've de-cided that yonder grove would be a fine place to spend the night. Better than lying out in the open downriver."

The mayor halted, but only until the rest of the men caught up with him. Then they all came on. "Try a better tale than that, O traveler."

"It is the truth," Cray said mildly.

"Oh, yes. As true as the one about traveling the world for the pleasure of it, with nothing more than a pack on your back. As true as the one about your mistress in a faraway castle, that none of us has ever heard of. Either you lie smoothly or you are mad. Either way, we shall do what we must this day."

Cray continued to back off. "I have done you no harm, and I mean to do you none. Leave me now, and I will forget this happened."

"You will do us no harm," said the mayor, and he lunged for Cray.

Years had passed since Cray had done any hand-to-hand fighting, but though the skills he had learned as a youth had faded, they were not entirely gone. Letting the bundle of wool drop away, he brought the lower end of his staff up and rammed it into Rinveer's belly. Then he slammed its upper end into the side of the next man's head. And then he leaped away from the fray and sprinted into the field of half-grown grain that lay beside the path, the three remaining men close at his heels.

"Let me fly you away from here!" came Regneniel's voice.

"No!" shouted Cray as he tore through the parallel rows of waist-high grain. All about him, the stalks began to wave wildly, as if the mild summer breeze had changed in a moment to storm, though the sky was clear and cloudless. Between him and his pursu-ers, they stiffened suddenly, no longer mere plant stems that bent before a man's sweeping arms; now they were strong as steel rods. They whipped against the townsmen's legs, tearing at their trews, tripping them up and sending them sprawling between the rows. And when the fallen men tried to rise, the grain stalks bent over them like cage bars, trapping them firmly against the ground. Cray could hear the men crying out behind him, first in confusion and then in fear. He came to a halt some distance from them and turned. The men themselves, lying pinned to the ground, were not visible, but their positions were clearly marked by the gaps in that sea of standing grain. Cray walked toward them slowly, stopping beside the nearest. He was thoroughly trapped, even his cudgel overlain with crisscrossed stalks. Even so, he was struggling frantically, babbling in terror.

Cray kicked him in the shoulder, not very hard, but hard enough to get his attention. "Be quiet!" he said.

The man seemed to swallow his words and half choke on them. He rolled his eyes to look at Cray; the stalks would not allow him to raise his head. "Who are you?" he gasped. "What have you done to us?"

Cray looked toward the path, where the two injured men were just staggering to their feet. One held his head, the other could not stand up straight. Cray caused the row of grain nearest them to become a rigid fence, its uprights too close together for them to pass. But they were making no attempt to do so.

The other two men, only a few paces from Cray, were quieting now, waiting, helpless, for their fate.

Cray bent to pull the cudgel from the nearest man; the stalks about it relaxed to release it, and so did the man's fingers. Cray hefted it in one hand, leaning on his own staff with the other. "So this is how you treat an innocent traveler," he said. He tossed the cudgel away and kicked the man again, a bit harder this time. "I could kill you, you know. I would be perfectly justified in killing you." He made the stalks that held the man tighten suddenly, and the man gasped but did not cry out. Cray knew he could barely breathe and, after a long moment, allowed the stalks to loosen once more. "Do you know what I am?"

he said harshly.

The townsman was panting. "My lord," he whispered.

"Louder," said Cray. "Loud enough for the others to hear."

"My lord!" wailed the man.

"I am a sorcerer," said Cray. "I came to you in peace and friendship, offering good silver for your wares. And what did I receive for my troubles?" Once again he kicked the man, and when he had done that he felt better, the bulk of his anger vented. "You are fortunate indeed that I don't much care for killing. Some sorcerers would not hesitate to wipe out the lot of you. But you-you'll only have a few bruises to show for your evil intentions."

"Thank you, my lord, thank you," the man babbled.

"Quiet," said Cray. "You'll tell all the rest of the town, I know, what happened to you here. And you'll remember, won't you, that Cray Ormoru of Spinweb isnot atax gatherer."