That's the time for bathing. A bit of steam, a little oil on your skin to smooth it; that should be enough for any girl. You don't want to spoil her, do you?' Bror scratched energetically at the back of his neck.
Ibba poked her head from the hut to make a wry face at both men. 'Spoil her, Heckram, spoil her. Or you'll be sitting still, as Bror must now, while your poor wife picks the nits from your scalp. Get in here, you old gossip. Heckram has no time to stand and work his mouth today. He's a hut to build and a woman to claim. Get along, Heckram. And scrub the back of your neck well!'
He grinned his farewells as Ibba seized Bror's hand and tugged the old man, protesting, into his hut. He continued to smile as he made his way up the trail between the huts of the herdfolk to Ristin's hut. The mood was infectious. He was beginning to feel as a man should on the day he built his talvsit hut. Anticipatory and glad. He found he was singing softly, one of the long, almost wordless joiks of his people, timing his words to the squeak- crunch of the packed snow beneath his boots. The deep timbre of his voice made it little more than a pleasant rumble under his breath.
'So merry the bridegroom.'
The hard cold voice was like a dash of water in his face. Heckram had been looking at little more than the snowy path before him. As the too familiar voice broke his thoughts, he set the buckets down to either side of himself and casually rolled his shoulders to loosen the muscles. He glanced briefly at Joboam, who leaned against an upturned pulkor beside the path.
'Have you come to wish me luck in my joining with Elsa, Joboam?' he asked pleasantly.
'Would luck be enough, I wonder? It takes more than luck to keep a woman contented and at home. Remember, between now and the Cataclysm, she is still free to leave you without a word. Many's the woman who has joined a man, to find she didn't want to make the arrangement permanent.'
Joboam rose slowly and gave an elaborate stretch. The powerful muscles in his neck and shoulders cracked as he rolled them. Heckram lifted his chin to keep them eye to eye. Joboam was taller than he was, and broader, his muscular build coated with a layer of hard flesh. In contrast, Heckram appeared almost rangy. He'd often wondered which of them was stronger. As Joboam stepped offensively close to him, he wondered if today they'd find out.
'Elsa has said she'll be contented with me. Unlike some men, I'm inclined to believe women know with whom they'd want to mate.' Heckram's voice was low and pleasant.
He let his arms hang loose at his sides, waiting.
'It doesn't surprise me to hear you say that. There have always been men in this sita who have been contented to be ruled by their womenfolk, to live in their mothers' tents until women come to choose them.'
'Better than to live in my own tent and never be chosen at all,' Heckram agreed smoothly.
Joboam's eyes went a little narrower. Heckram felt his own breathing deepen, and then the swelling and tightening of his muscles. A deep patience rose within him. No haste to this game. It would never be said that he'd provoked the herdlord's man. A smile bowed his mouth as he waited for Joboam to make the first move. The moments passed, and Joboam's arms hung limp. A small knowing grew inside Heckram. Joboam would make more words at him, perhaps, but he wouldn't push the quarrel to blows.
Joboam was not anxious to find which of them was the stronger. Not yet, anyway.
Heckram's smile became a grin.
A small muscle jumped in the bigger man's cheek. 'Why be chosen by one woman when a man can choose any, or all?' he demanded suddenly, his voice too loud and harsh. Bluffing. 'The bitch in the heat of her season doesn't go to the slinking dog that whines for her, but is taken by the strongest male.'
'Joboam!'
Her voice was shrill, and both men jerked to it. Fey Kari, the herdlord's daughter, perched lightly on a nearby pulkor, looking like some airy bird. Her black hair sleeked smooth to the shape of her skull, pulled so tight that the strain of the braid pulled at her eyes. Her black eyes were raven bright, her lips too red, her teeth too white behind them. The fine bones of her face showed against her skin. 'Joboam!' she cawed again.
'What is it?' he asked grudgingly.
'Capiam requires you. Immediately. Twice he has sent to your hut, but neither time were you there. So he sent me to fetch you. Are you coming?'
'I come.' He spoke heavily. He turned challenging eyes on Heckram, waiting for him to speak. Heckram only grinned at the larger man. Kari hopped from her perch, her loose tunic of white fox swirling around her as she moved. She had lost weight again and the looseness of her clothing on her body contributed to her ethereal appearance.
She came over the snow to the men in short quick steps, coming too close to them both, all but touching them as she insinuated herself between them. She tilted her face up to Heckram.
'I wish you luck in your joining with Elsa,' Kari emphasized. Heckram wondered uneasily how long she had been listening to them. He tried to remember all he had said, and if any of it could be repeated to make mischief. Surely he would have noticed her perched there. Or had she used the white fox furs of her tunic as well as the snow fox himself did when he stalked his prey? Her eyes probed his deeply, 'I hope she realizes her good fortune. To not only know who she wishes to mate, but to have the joy of claiming him! Hurry on your way, Heckram, to make yourself ready for her, and to raise the walls of her home.'
Joboam had backed off a step or two as Kari spoke to Heckram. Now Kari turned back and clapped her hands sharply as if he were a recalcitrant puppy. 'And you! To Capiam, Joboam. Do not keep the herdlord waiting, after he has sent his own daughter to fetch you. Hurry now! Run!'
Joboam glared at them both, but as Kari barked the last word, he set off down the path at a grudging jog.
'Joboam!' Heckram called after him and, when the man glanced back, he said, 'I don't know much of dogs. But wolves mate for life. Remember it.'
'No one who hunts wolves should forget it,' Kari remarked, and her laughter was brittle as icicles in the cold air. She bit the sound off, sighed abruptly, and turned back to Heckram. 'I shall come to your betrothal tonight,' she announced suddenly and stared at him hard.
'You will be welcome, as will any of the herdfolk who honor us by coming,' he replied gravely.
For a moment longer she stood staring up at him, standing so close that her thrusting breasts nearly touched his ribs. 'You smell of butchering and reindeer. Go bathe yourself,' she advised him suddenly. She turned from him quickly and hurried away with her short, hopping steps, her white furs flapping around her like the wings of a crippled bird.
Heckram watched her as she wound her way between the huts and meat racks, never choosing the well trodden path between the rows of huts, but walking where no one else did. His heart was still beating strongly, the excitement of his near fight with Joboam flooding his veins but finding no outlet. He stooped once more for his buckets and hastened again for Ristin's hut.
In the hut at last, he put the water to heat in pots over the fire, set out a large basin, and then rummaged through his possessions for his father's razor. He poured a bit of warmed water into the basin, then stood looking at the implement in his hand. It was bronze, rare enough in this hut. The razor was almost the only bronze tool he possessed. There was a knife as well, one that had been his father's. A knife almost too precious to use. The traders said that far to the south now all tools were of bronze, and only the poor used flint anymore. But in Heckram's village, flint and bone were still the commonest materials used for tools. True, the flint tools were now polished and ground to resemble their bronze counterparts, but stone they still were, and far more brittle than the new metal. More and more bronze was finding its way north these days.
Heckram had seen the new bronze axe that Capiam had traded amber and white fox hides for. It was shaped just like Lasse's axe of polished flint, and its handle curved in the familiar curve of reindeer antler the herdfolk had always used for axe handles. But its head was bronze, and every bit but the actual cutting edge was etched with elaborate patterns. Despite its delicate beauty, it would take punishing use that would destroy Lasse's stone one. Perhaps he should think more of gathering amber lumps and hunting the thick white furs the southern traders valued and less of gathering up reindeer. But then he shook his head, the traditional measure of wealth too strongly ingrained to deny it.
The bronze razor had a bone grip carved with close–grained spirals. He damped his face and the blade, then scraped the edged tool over his skin. He ran his fingertips down his cheek, feeling with satisfaction the smoothness
