It was Desmon's first solo Crossing. He wasn't sure when Jymke would show, but he couldn't imagine making the trek with anyone else leading the way. He had plans that went beyond Packing and Tracing. He'd waited years to Cross with Jymke, and if things went his way, he would never have to Cross with anyone else.

His Group consisted of five Top-Siders. They arrived just two days ago, and the women, the boy, and one of the men wore loose slacks and shirts of soft, light cotton with travel-worn boots. The women wore brightly colored scarves around their necks. The second man wore a dark gray business suit that looked like silk and sported a hat set at a jaunty angle.

Unfortunately, it didn't appear that they possessed a single set of Duster clothing between them. Desmon was certain Jymke would cover all of that. His uncle always did before.

"Shouldn't he be here by now?"

He rested dark blue eyes on the frowning woman. She was becoming annoyed with the heat, the flies, and the lack of manufactured air. Desmon could relate. It was unusually quiet and still. He wondered at the empty feel of the hostel, but decided Jymke would answer his questions when he arrived.

"Tracers aren't dogs," Desmon explained patiently. "They come if they can, when they're asked to. It's not an easy trip, and Jymke has to make sure his Dusters are cared for along the way. He might be here today, or he might not arrive for another two weeks. It just depends on which route he takes."

She muttered, snapping open an ornate silk fan. "This is just barbaric. Don't these people know how to properly host paying customers?"
"Yes, ma'am, they're well aware of it." Myron Lyle, Desmon's retiring uncle, sprawled comfortably before the cold fireplace, gave the woman a bland smile. "It seems we may have caught them in an off week."

She blinked cornflower blue eyes at Myron in surprise.

Before Desmon could comment, the door swung open and the earthy, unmistakable scent of Duster reached him. His eyes quickly adjusted enough to make out the tall man striding fluidly across the floor toward him. Desmon was so happy to see him, he couldn't speak, so he stood, fighting back a huge grin.

"Desmon," Jymke's tone was low and welcoming, and his wide, dark eyes shimmered with violet sparks within the shadow of his hood.

Desmon remembered to breathe and smiled. "Jymke. You came."

A shorter, more compact Tracer stepped around Jymke, and a smile lit his face. His dark eyes exploded with violet flames.

"Myr-r-r-ron," he warbled happily and opened his arms.

"Jylke!" Desmon's uncle and Jymke's met and embraced.

Desmon and Jymke shared an indulgent smile as the older Tracer stroked the other man's graying chestnut hair.

Jymke pushed back the Duster-hide hood, revealing milk-white skin and those huge midnight-dark eyes with a pinpoint of violet pupil that expanded into an upright oval in the dimmed room. He carried a long, slender staff, hooked at the top and curved at the bottom.

"You Called me."

"You-" Desmon stuttered to silence as the hood fell to his shoulders. Jymke's hair, which Desmon recalled falling like a blood-red river down his back, was hacked off, just touching his narrow, triangular ears now. "What...what did they do to you?"

Jylke lifted his head and frowned. "Oh, yes. That." The violet flames in his eyes faded.

Jymke's dark eyes grew sad, and the sparks dimmed. "I am exiled from the Clan," he whispered.

Desmon's legs gave out in shock, and he was very glad his chair was still behind him. Jymke sank into a chair beside him, turning so he faced the stunned Packer.

"Why?" Desmon managed to croak, then shook his head. "Wait." Desmon held up a hand. "Don't answer that. I shouldn't ask."

Humor lit Jymke's face, though his eyes remained sad. "For you, Desmon, I would answer. You have always been a true friend."

"A better question, then," Desmon shuffled the shock aside for a moment. "Why is Jylke with you?"

Jymke had always been close to his uncle and had spent most of his childhood training to be a Tracer as well, but they rarely worked together.

Jymke tugged off the tough Duster-hide gloves and tucked them inside a pocket of his huge overcoat. Everything he wore was made of Duster-hide, even his open-toed boots. It was one of the very few materials that endured Down There.

A smile danced across Jymke's lips. "He wishes to retire in peace, with Myron at his side."

Desmon nodded. "Uncle Myron handed over the business last month. This is my first Crossing. I guess they planned it some time ago."

Desmon expected to inherit Lyle Packing Interests, but didn't expect Myron to retire so soon. He thought he would have time to gain more experience on his own, but he figured his uncle believed he was ready. Desmon spent over half his life following Myron from one end of the Wastes to the other, and almost every Crossing was led by Jylke, training Jymke along the way.

Jymke nodded and switched to the language the Tracers developed in the decades of their exile Down There. They had a pidgin tongue they used with Packers, but very few highly trusted Packer families were taught the Tracers' tribal tongue.

The Lyles were among those highly trusted families.

"Uncle has passed all to me," Jymke revealed. "The herds, his Traces, all."

"I'm sure the headman had something to say about that," Desmon remarked.

Jymke crossed his ankles. "Not so much, but his son had many objections. He wanted a tithing of the herd, a release of Jylke's Traces."

"Is he nuts?" Desmon cried. "He didn't earn that, you did."

"It is valued knowledge," Jylke put in, taking a chair near them. Myron balanced on the arm of the chair, and the older Tracer laid an arm around his waist. "He tried to tithe the bulls, but they would not follow him."

"I wouldn't think so," Desmon frowned. "Has he even attempted the Truth?"

"He did attempt it." Jymke's face grew grave. "He failed and carries the shame of this. He thought to reclaim somewhat by holding part of Jylke's herd and his Traces."

Desmon waited while Jymke opened his coat to reveal the Duster-skin coveralls he wore.

"He failed to draw the bulls, and thus the heifers," Jymke explained. "He challenged me."

Shocked again, Desmon gaped. "He is nuts! Jylke trained you. Hylit is no match for you."

Desmon remembered Hylit as a mean, surly boy. His hatred of Jymke was deeply rooted in envy. Despite being the Headman's only son, he never managed to shine as brightly as Jymke.

"Indeed," Jylke growled, crimson flashes leaping in his eyes.

"Alas, he refused to accept with honor satisfied," Jymke sighed and winced as he added softly, "I killed him."

"Oh, Jym, I'm so sorry!"

Bringing about death was a horrible experience for a Tracer. They were sensitive to the forces that sustained life. Killing another creature was as traumatic as throwing a child into the deep end of a pool of sharks.

Jymke swallowed. "There was no honor for him. I tried to give him Truth," he added in obvious pain, "but he would not have it. The headman was inconsolable. I was banished."

Desmon shook his head at the Top-Sider in the suit trying to get close. The man had no idea what they were talking about, of course. Desmon didn't care what he wanted right now. His timing was off.

"The herds followed you." He waited for Jymke's nod. "And, without Clan, how do you manage?" The questions had to be asked, but it was a simple formality for Desmon.

He knew he would never Cross with anyone else, but he was responsible for this Group until they got to the other side.

"With my herds and hounds," Jymke said grimly. "Alone. Until Jylke found me wandering and delivered your Call."

The words sent a shaft of pain through Desmon. Two dominant Tracers on one Passage was too many, but support from the Clan was crucial to every Tracer's tenuous grip on sanity. He pushed it aside for later.

"I've come to seek Passage," Desmon stated formally, "for myself and these, who would Cross."

Jymke considered him for a moment, and the sadness faded from his eyes. He turned to the Top-Sider, who tried to intrude on them.

Jymke studied him, tilting his head slowly to the side. Finally, he lifted his gaze to the Top-Sider's face. Desmon saw the man swallow hard as Jymke's Tracer eyes took him in. It didn't help that Jylke was giving him an equally piercing once-over.

"What do you bring?" Jymke asked formally.

The idiot grinned widely and came closer, offering a hand. "Hello there, my name is Jason Gray." He eventually dropped his arm awkwardly when Jymke didn't even glance at it.

Clearing his throat, he continued, "I represent the interests of Mrs. Colleen Fontaine there. Her husband has passed and left her a substantial Claim on the other side. This is her sister, Elizabeth Irons. Their brother, Travis Waters, and Liz's son, Kurt-"

"What do you bring?"

Jason blinked when Jymke quietly interrupted him.

"He doesn't care who you are," Desmon sighed. "That's irrelevant to whether he'll take you Across. Show him what you brought."

Frustrated, Jason turned to a small chest on a table and used a key to unlock it. They watched the man scoop up a handful of shining coins.

"Fifty thousand gold," Jason announced smugly.

Desmon closed his eyes and shook his head. The dumbass was so proud of himself, it hurt to bear witness. He chanced a look at Jymke and found his usually animated face a mask. He was deeply offended, and rightfully so. Jylke shared a long look with Myron.

"Do they not listen?" Jylke asked with a frown.

"People will do what they want, no matter what they're told," Myron sighed.

"And what do you bring, Desmon?" Jymke asked, turning catlike eyes his way.

Desmon reached under his chair and pulled out a larger chest, this one made of raw Duster hide and bone. Jymke nodded as he loosened the straps and flipped it open.

"I knew your herds would continue to grow," Desmon explained, "so I got these for you."

Pleasure lit Jymke's dark eyes as Desmon unrolled a Duster skin. Arranged inside individual slots were tools for grooming and caring for the tough hides and sensitive skin of the versatile creatures. There were curved clippers to trim their hooves with a selection of files and picks for the horns, teeth, and claws.

Desmon handed Jymke the first set to examine and took another from the chest. "Here I have blades suitable for skinning and butchering. There are five of each. Each I Offer to you, in thanks for answering my Call."

Jymke nodded, admiring the polished bone handles and stiff Duster-whiskers of the brushes. The blades were made from claws, sharpened to a dangerously keen edge, accompanied by a whetstone, to maintain that edge. Everything was sourced from the Wastes; otherwise, it would be of no use to the Tracer.

"I am pleased, Desmon," Jymke murmured, rolling the bundles up and tying them securely.

He packed everything back into the chest and lifted it. With a bow and his staff balanced in the crook of one arm, he glided away, leaving Desmon happy he'd thought of the gift.

"What about the gold?" Jason asked his receding back, bewildered.