Despite his problematic relationship with Inhya—though she would have said they had none—Našobok had to admit a grudging admiration for his brother’s spouse. The only sound Inhya made as she trod towards them was the slight jingle of bells hemming her colourful woven layers of hipscarves and kirtles. She’d the grace of the spear fishers a’Naišwyrh, and her Earth-hued eyes, matched by tawny threads running through her turquoise headwrap, missed nothing. Including beside whom her younger brother stood. An irate spark leapt to life in those eyes; as she tucked her chin, the beads decorating her headscarf batted at a jaw clenching tense.
Našobok crossed his arms, returned her glare with a tiny cock of head and a ghost of a smirk. Inhya might be deaf and blind to what Power had won her brother Alekšu’s sacred horns, but her heart was solid as Earth. Inhya loved the boundaries of custom, hated with a passion anything to challenge it. Even now, she could scarce believe Našobok was staring her down.
A hard elbow to the ribs nearly made Našobok yip; it did make him drop his eyes. “Yuškammanukfila ikšo!” Palatan hissed into his ear, hard fingers sliding up to grip at the base of Našobok’s skull. “You take entirely too much pleasure in baiting my sister.”
Denying it was pointless. Našobok did, however, point out, “I’m not too much a thickwit to rut you. Thwarted, a’io. But you’re going to get more than you bargained for if you insist on clutching my nape.” He slid his eyes to meet Palatan’s. “In front of that same sister, I might add.”
Palatan gave Našobok’s nape-hairs a sharp tug. “K’šo,” was his correction, removing the “rut” but keeping—albeit shortened—the “thickwit”. To deny the grin quirking at his lips was also pointless; instead Palatan leaned closer, whispered, “Better at your neck than where I’d rather have my hands about now.”
“You have never played fair.”
Našobok felt, rather than saw, Palatan’s shrug. “Then keep your talk at the back of your tongue and save that tongue for something better.” A slight push. “Go, cheeky outlier. Don’t make old Grass Weaver enter alone.”
Indeed, the yakhling chieftain was approaching Inhya. She moved with some deliberation, clad in her brightest with all her wealth displayed: bangles of copper and silver around her throat, ankles, and feet; dried grasses further lengthening a headful of white braids.
First in/last out was the unspoken rule for those who held low—or no—status. A group of the lower-ranking leaders milled, new-come to their duties and therefore keen to appear conscientious. They were not, however, so impatient as to make the mistake of going before any outcast.
“I’m looking forwards to your revenge,” Palatan furthered, leaning into Našobok one more time then stepping away to greet another chieftain. As if he’d just mentioned Sun’s rising and not what he was hoping Našobok would do to him when they got against each other and naked.
Našobok took a very deep breath, held it as he walked forwards, let it out as he greeted the two females with hand to heart, head and outward. “Yakh-chieftain. Hearth-chieftain.”
Inhya’s return greeting was composed, formal. Našobok offered Grass Weaver his outstretched arm, which she accepted with a wordless nod.
She waited to speak until he’d escorted her through the entry and into the long tunnel leading to the great dens. “You’ve a good heart, Našobok.”
“You’re wise to not say so before my once-brother’s spouse.”
Grass Weaver’s lined face stretched into a wide smile. “I’m wise enough to take a supportive hand when it’s offered—and to know honour when I see it.”
“Hunh. Don’t say that too loudly; you’ll sink my reputation.”
“And better these mastiffs a’Naišwyrh shouldn’t realise this old doe is weak in her right hind.” The slight limp was all the more noticeable as he held her arm.
“The blood swelling again?”
“A kindly Matwau called it by some name sounding more of spat phlegm than any truename of what plagues me. He tried to foist all sorts of advice and outLand potions on me, but I know my body better than any Round Eyes. I ate too many sweets at the last gathering, is all. Everything has a price, wyrh-chieftain.”
How well they both knew.
“Those tight-bound to Land and Law will be glad of what other talk I gleaned from the Matwau,” Grass Weaver continued. “Open Council hasn’t come too soon.”
“Hunh. I too have outLand information to share.”
The clay floor cushioning their steps was well swept, covered here and there with mats of sedge, many of those laden with food and drink. Extra blankets lay, here and there, in neat folds, though most chieftains would wear their own, extra finery mixed with practicality. Fire burned in the midst of this circle, in Ša’s great cob-clay hearth where Ša was well respected, never allowed to die. All had a place near the cleansing flames thisSun; none would have the chance to feel slighted by pride of place or have a chance to complain they’d been seated where they couldn’t be heard. Even the light ochre and cream wash upon the sandstone walls bid the light reflect, bring any dark feelings into illumination.
Aylaniś knelt at the hearth, settling a few more logs.
“Meddler,” Našobok fondly accused.
“I hear that from my spouse enough, lovemate.” Her tone changed from light chide to respectful concern, “I’ve extra blankets there for you, grandmother.”
“If that is meddling, then I accept,” Grass Weaver remarked.
“Things are different in duskLands.” Aylaniś slid her eyes over to Našobok. “We lie down with all sorts, there.”
“Not enough of late.” Našobok let out a heavy sigh.
“And whose fault is that, outlier?”
Grass Weaver chuckled. “You’d sooner hamstring Wind, horsetalker.”
“Hamstrung he’s of little use.” Aylaniś shrugged. “But an occasional thorn in his foot might nail that foot to one place for more than a
