The lowForest oških shot the others a quelling frown, returned his attention to Tokela. “You’re the one whose parents were taken by River?”
Tokela nodded, resigned.
The lowForest oških made a gesture—reverence and regret—then directed another frown to those about them. He made a shooing gesture, which was obeyed, not without a few more circumspect looks in Tokela’s direction. “Don’t mind them,” the oških said. “Naisgwyr’uq has strange ideas sometimes. Only our dams matter—they choose who sires us, a’io?”
This didn’t ease anything, but it was, at least, not censure.
The oških leaned on his spear and extended his hand to Tokela; cradled in it was a pot of grease. “Here. You’ll be glad of this in Dance. I’m called Akumeh.”
“I’m called Tokela.”
Akumeh grinned. “I remember you from the silver run lastSun. The ahlóssa who swam like otterKin! No longer ahlóssa, though—your Change has graced you well. I almost didn’t recognise you.”
Tokela blinked, surprised.
“One who swims like otterKin”—Akumeh nudged Tokela with the blunt end of his spear, then gave a negligent tap to the Otter mask hanging at his own hip—“would surely be lithe in other ways.” He gave a sudden, charming smile, juddering Tokela all the way to his bare toes. “Maybe we’ll make a Dance, you and I. It’d be an honour, to be your first. I could teach you a few things. I’ve been told I’m skilled.” He leaned closer. “You want better than that overfed midLander. Or a bunch of superstitious k’šo.”
“I… you do me honour.” Tokela, heart suddenly racing, couldn’t help but smile through his newly loosened forelock. Akumeh’s dark eyes widened; his lips moved as if about to say something.
A sharp whistle sounded through the weapons cache.
“There’ll be time, soon enough.” Akumeh shrugged and grinned. “For now, we go.” He jerked his head to the exit as the other oških began milling there. “Time to give over our spears. Dance well, Tokela.”
Tokela watched him saunter away, bemused, then followed. He kept his distance behind the others, felt his heart sink as he saw Sarinak waiting in the gathering dusk of the doorway. And Sarinak spent time in letting the young males through, making sure each was eligible to participate and had a proper weapon.
Tokela bit his lip, hesitated, then tucked his chin. This was his right. Even Sarinak would not gainsay that.
Surely he couldn’t?
Nevertheless, Tokela pulled the mask over his face before he reached the door.
He should have known better than to even try. Sarinak might seem ponderous, but in truth he missed very little. He grasped Tokela’s spear then paused, holding it between them, eyes narrowing. Tokela’s own gaze flattened into indigo stone; his lips quivered with the slightest suggestion of a snarl. This, of course, did not deter Sarinak. He reached out, tilted up the mask. His eyebrows climbed upward to the charms upon his headwrap as he saw the new Marks on his hearthson’s cheekbones.
“Hunh,” he said, then shrugged and snapped the mask back down. Adding the spear to the ones he already held, he jerked his head towards the door and the circuit beyond.
Tokela didn’t hesitate. Hardly believing what had just happened, he darted out the door. Did mere indigo make this much difference?
He could only hope Našobok thought so.
“AI, BUT I adore Spear Dance.”
Našobok was just settling into comfort on Palatan’s wide, ivory-and-indigo blanket as the drums changed. The River-quadrant circle had begun a deep, growling rhythm recognised by every male whelped a’Naišwyrh. Added to the gathering dusk, a full belly, a beloved companion—as well as the skin of tulapaiś he and that companion were steadily depleting? All was well.
More than well. The wide, grassy clearing was lit by Sun’s last rays, and the tongues of Fire that leapt merrily in Ša’s place of honour, raked bare and sown with ash by many such festivals. A group of masked dancers were infiltrating the dancing space, herding the previous revellers outside the circuit’s boundaries. Clad in clouts and all their finery, hair unbound to fall behind their half masks, they had already started dancing: all male, all unespoused, mostly oških.
Palatan, already seated comfortably beside him, chuckled and took a drink. “You just like watching the Spear Dancers.”
“Very much so.” Našobok grinned. “Better yet to Dance one, but if the mangy old outlier were to dare step a toe in the circuit?—the scandal!” His grin went wide. “Might be worth it. And if it came to the looking, I don’t see you covering your eyes, oathbrother.”
“Mm.” A glint of canines, grimace and grin both, then Palatan took another swig from the skin. “Unfortunately, the time comes when I’ll have to look more for my daughters’ interests than my own.”
Našobok gave a yelp of laughter. “Now that would put a twist in their clouts, did Yeka steal away with a budding playmate… Yai!” This as Palatan cuffed him, hard.
“K’šo!”
The closest of their fellow watchers chuckled; it was hard to be offended by even unlikely companions during First Running. Though several had earlier expressed displeasure over an outlier seated in such a coveted spot.
Našobok rubbed at his head and told Palatan, mocking-meek, “I suppose I should count myself lucky, after all, how one as exalted as you allows me to share his blanket.”
Palatan snorted and shook his head, setting the beads in his braided sidelock to chatter, then passed the tulapaiś.
Našobok took a long, noisy gulp and wiped his mouth with a sigh. “No whinging, now. You’re the one sired all those bairns.”
“Or so my spouse assures me. I love my offspring,” Palatan added, if less than convincing.
Našobok snickered. “Aylaniś is intent you get them, anyway.”
“K’šo,” Palatan accused again, grinning. “Watch the oških and contemplate poking one of them for a change.”
“I can poke more than the one. I’m never averse to a tangle.”
“Ai, promises! Already I’m thwarted past reason and here you think I can take more than one of you?”
“There is only one of me,” Našobok boasted. “It’s just as well there’s only one bendy horsetalker who invited me
