He raised his knife in a wild threatening gesture. The stranger moved tentatively toward his hip again, and Kesley quickly relaxed. He lowered his knife, but continued to glare bitterly at the stranger.
"A thousand pardons, young friend." The newcomer's voice was deep and resonant, and somehow oily-sounding. "I had no idea the wolf was yours. I merely acted out of reflex. I understand it's customary for farmers to kill wolves on sight. Believe me, I thought I was helping you."
The stranger was dressed in courtly robes that contrasted sharply with Kesley's simple farmer's muslin. He wore a flowing cape of red trimmed with yellow gilt, a short stiff beard stained red to match, and a royal blue tunic. He was tall and powerful looking, with wide-set black eyes and heavy, brooding eyebrows that ran in a solid bar across his forehead.
"I don't care if you are from the court," Kesley snapped. "That wolf was mine. I chased it up from the fields—and to have some city bastard step out of nowhere and ruin my kill for me just as I'm—"
"Dale!"
The sharp voice belonged to Loren Harker, Kesley's farming partner, a veteran fieldsman, tall and angular, face dried by the sun and skin brown and tough. He appeared from the farmhouse door and stood next to the stranger.
Kesley realized he had spoken foolishly. "I'm—sorry," he said, his voice unrepentant. "It's just that it boiled me to see—dammit, you had no business doing that!"
"I understand," the stranger said calmly. "It was a mistake on my part. Please accept my apologies."
"Accepted," Kesley muttered. Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Say, what kind of tax-collector are you, anyway? You're the first man out of Duke Winslow's court who ever said anything but 'Give me'."
"Tax-collector? Why call me that?"