The Woman Who Rides Like a Man by Tamora Pierce Page B

and I killed him. I can't leave the tribe without a shaman, can I? Since I have no intention of being killed by the first rival who comes long, or of staying here forever, I picked three apprentices. It's not my fault that two of them are girls; but they are, and the tribe has to treat them with respect if they're ever to be good shamans. And no, I couldn't have chosen just Ishak. What if something happens to him? All three have to be trained anyway, and Bazhir custom—it's easier to break the King's law back home than it is to flout Bazhir custom, have you noticed?—Bazhir custom says I have to train them. Besides, having only one shaman when you can have three is silly."
    Coram sat heavily and accepted the brandy she poured for him. His broad tanned face was wrinkled with concern. "Lass, ye're settin' these poor folk on their ears," he said wearily. "They haven't changed in centuries, and ye're forcin' them to accept things yer own people can't accept—not easily."
    "But don't you see? To the Bazhir, I'm a legend. They take things from me they wouldn't take from anyone else. I don't ask them to change for stupid reasons. They know having three shamans might make the difference to their survival. Even the women are beginning to accept the girls. At least, Mari Fahrar is."
    Coram drained his cup and shook his head when she offered refill. "I'm worried for ye," he confessed. "I hate seein' ye a stranger always. "Ye're an odd lass, but ye're like my own kin, and I want ye t'be happy."
    Alanna put Faithful down and hugged her friend. "I don't feel like a stranger here," she confessed as she wiped her eyes. "It seems to me that I've known these people for a long time—all my life, perhaps. I don't always agree with them, but they make sense to me."
    Gruffly, touched by her affection, he asked, "Do ye commune with the Voice of the Tribes at sunset, then? All the way t'the city Hakim made us stop every night while he stared into the fire." He shuddered as he finished unpacking his saddlebags. "'Twas spooky."
    Alanna lifted Faithful up again, putting him on her shoulder. "That's one thing I don't do," she said ruefully. "It's too much like letting Ali Mukhtab have part of me. I don't want anyone to have a part of me, not yet, anyway."
    "Not even Prince Jonathan?" Coram asked shrewdly. Alanna blushed a deep red, and he chuckled. "He said t'tell ye he'd be seein' ye soon, somethin' about receivin' instruction from Ali Mukhtab. Oh, I've letters for ye, from Lord Thom and Sir Myles." For a moment the burly man struggled with himself; then he gave in. "There's another letter for ye as well." He drew it from beneath his jerkin, handing it to her reluctantly. "I should've burned it when he handed it to me. I'd hoped ye knew better than to still be consortin' with the likes of him."
    "George!" Alanna said gleefully. "Is he all right? Has he been—well, safe?"
    "He's flourishin', that one," Coram snapped. "And when are ye goin' t'give over befriendin' a rogue like him?"
    Alanna grinned impishly. "When you stop drinking." She laughed as he swore, and returned home to read her letters.
    George's missive was short, but its contents made her blush. She knew her old friend loved her, and she loved him in a more-than-friendly way, but Jonathan had always been first. George knew it and understood, but his words told her that he continued to hope.
    Myles's letter was long and chatty, giving her the news of everyone at Court, nobles and servants. More than any other high-born person Alanna knew, Myles made friends with everyone, not just his social equals. He was able to tell her about Cook and Stefan the hostler with as much detail as he gave to the King and Jonathan. Only when she reread his letter did she notice that he said nothing about Thom.
    Thom's own letter more than made up for Myles's omission:
    Dear Alanna,
    Coram tells me you've been adopted by a bunch of uncivilized desertmen. How odd of you! He tells me now you're a 'man of the