The dawn broke, and all turned out well in the Bedoua camp. The men and women crept cautiously from their tents, and shepherds led the rumidonts from their covered corral. A heavy dew upon the sand made it stick to feet in great clumps. No sign of atrocity could be seen, but that did not mean disaster didn’t loom nearby: Dungo arose and stretched, well rested for a day’s talking.

“You see? Have we not been kind to you, and saved you from sure death?” he began as the Melics tried to stretch the kinks out of their backs. Sunrise had awakened Artur, and now he thanked the missing stars to finally get up from his cot. The blankets woven of rumidont wool offered more plush comfort than the furs he generally slept upon, but he much preferred the dusky odor of his own bed to the sickeningly sweet fragrance of rumidont. Moss and Skree nuzzling about in the tent didn’t help things any.

Dungo immediately took up his toy hippus and inspected all its workings as he spoke. “Yes, you will be very glad that you did not meet with Wolven last night, and you will find the next month very enjoyable here, until the full moon again shows its face. The Bedoua have many great wonders to show you, but none to compare with this very fine example of art. It appears nearly alive! But we have glass, and poisons, and weavings we must show you, for certainly you have no such things. A strange thought about the arts of the Bedoua, which I have only just now thought of: They are beautiful, but it hides their danger. Except for the weavings. But the glass and poisons, they can be very dangerous, dangerous like Wolven. And our cheese, you have sampled our wonderful cheese, perhaps we can arrange a trade, milk and cheese for that wonderful concoction. What did you call it? Hoo-nay? No? Oh, honey! Yes, the Bedoua would love to trade with you for hoo-nay. Where does it come from?” His throat clicked joyfully.

“From bees,” offered Theodoric as he stuffed his meager belongings into his knapsack.

“Bees?” Dungo looked horrified. “From bugs? How can that be?”

“Yes, bee,” said Theodoric, willing to risk a joke nobody but his fellows would understand.

“What a disgusting idea. The pests fly into the meadow lands, sting people, then fly away. They make us grateful that they hate the desert! How does one go about to milk a bee? No matter, I cannot deny that the serum tastes magical. We must talk, we must come to some agreement, to get the wonderful hoo- — bee milk from you. Today I will show you all the wonderful gifts and skills of the Bedoua, and then we can negotiate trade, to get a beautiful vat of bee milk. The Bedoua can show you many things, even you Melics of the trees, that you will love to have for your own. Secrets of making we cannot share with you, but the items themselves, you will feast your eyes upon them in joy and never guess how we make them. Even you, Rufoux, your fondness for fire burns hot, yet you would never know the glass is burned out of the sand. But we have time for that, much time for delicious conversation! You must stay as our guests, and you will be welcome to remain as long as you like.”

“You have hit just the point,” said Artur, really out of context. “We must leave right away.”

“Really?” Dungo looked hurt. “Why?”

“The girl lies ill from her injuries. She needs healing quickly.”

“The who?” asked Dungo.

“The Rufoux girl we told you about last night,” said Theodoric. “She suffers severely and requires care that we cannot give. You said you would send Bedoua healing.”

“Yes! Oh, yes! Is she as bad as that? Well, it can’t be helped, I suppose. Yes, Krait and Humus will go with you. Humus knows the secrets of roots and bark, and he can help the girl, I am sure. Then you will return, and you will bring great vats of bee milk, and we will talk. Yes, we will talk much at that time.”

Theodoric rolled his eyes, and Artur nearly made a rude comment before Picta accidentally stepped on his toe. Dungo’s aide Krait guided Aachen through the camp to Humus, and he listened attentively to Andreia’s symptoms. Reunited with Kylie, Artur sharpened her blade on blocks of hard cheese, part of a generous breakfast that also included wonderfully coarse bread and hot milk with herbs (and extra honey for Dungo.) Then at last the little band struck out for the Rufoux camp accompanied by Krait and Humus, along with his brothers Ingle and Mistral.

“Overall, that went better than expected,” remarked Theodoric.

“Can we have quiet, please?” groused Artur, and Picta mocked him behind his back.

***

In the days of Artur’s absence, Wyllem rallied the Rufoux to prepare the defenses of the camp. He drew a perimeter for the stockade, and helped select a stand of trees for cutting. Always cautious, Wyllem thought it wise to cut trees nearest the Rufoux fields; that way, if all went well, land would already be cleared to expand their planting, if they wished.

Pepin arrived back in the Rufoux camp with Charelingia and Melic woodsmen soon after Theodoric and the others had left on their journey. The line of men marched into camp with huge axes strapped to their backs, singing in deep harmony to Pepin’s bright reed-playing. They all wore their traditional light armor and helmets, except Charelingia, who had chosen a frock of loosely woven vines, hanging from one shoulder, that showed her pale skin underneath.

“We have chosen the stand by the fields to begin cutting,” Wyllem told Pepin.

“Fine. You will want to strip the trunks of their branches and line them  up beside the Alluvia,” replied Pepin.

“Why would we do that? We need the logs here in camp,” said Wyllem.

“Soon will the river’s flood be, correct? The ant is mighty to carry, but the pitcher will fill his nest,” said Pepin.

“That may be true, I’m sure, but don’t we still need the logs in the camp?”

“The sweat of the brow is not as powerful as the rush of the current.”

“What are you trying to say?”

Frustrated, Pepin suddenly sprang up into a tree, sat on a low branch and withdrew into his head. He folded his arms and hunched over, and Wyllem stared as he went into something of a trance. Pepin began murmuring under his breath: “He does not understand, and I cannot make him understand. Why have you made the Rufoux thus? But he cannot help the way he is made. He has been accustomed to brute force all his life.” Pepin was in consultation with his god.

“But how can it not be clear, even to Rufoux? He does not have the mind of a Melic, for I did not make him that way. You must make him see, Drueed, for I am unable. He does not hear the word of Melic wisdom. You must make him see, Melic, you must speak words he understands. The river soon will flood, and water will float the logs. Yes, I know, and certainly he knows as well. Why can I not make him put the two together? Because you have not really tried. Your pride in your intellect has stopped you. Does the fault lay at my feet, then, Drueed? Yes, you must speak so he can hear you, not to keep him ignorant. You say the truth. Yes, you have sought his help, but you refuse to help him in turn, because of your arrogance. Yes, Drueed, I see. Give me the words to tell him the river will lift the logs off the ground where they lay and take them to the camp. You know the words, Melic, that the river will lift the logs off the ground where they lay and take them to the camp. You must make him understand, Melic.”

Wyllem watched this one-man conversation develop with not a little alarm. Pepin’s face seemed to take different expressions as the exchange went from side to side. He seemed not to realize Wyllem still stood there, until suddenly he fell silent and looked up.

“What if,” Wyllem said testily, as though unsure he should say anything, “we left the logs where they lay and let the flood waters float them to camp?”

“I said that already,” said Pepin, drained.

As night began to fall, Rufoux sentries changed shifts in the forest as a new guard went out to watch for Aoten attack. So far the giants had not realized the Rufoux grains had simply been moved into their village. The line of exhausted men trudged toward their huts past the exhausted line of Melics, headed back to their enclave in the branches for the night. All retreated from the Rufoux village except for Pepin, still planning the stockade walls with Wyllem, and Charelingia. She swayed through the camp, casting sidelong glances to every man, challenging every woman with her beguiling eyes.