Palatan laughed. “Behave, you! I’ll have our lovely Hawk join us here and then you will be in the middle of more than you bargained for.”
“My favourite place, between you and Aylaniś.” Našobok’s couldn’t help his wistful tone as he peered sideways at Palatan. “You’re not the only one being thwarted, you know.”
“There is always a place for you on my blanket,” Palatan murmured, eyes casting down until his lashes were another smoked smudge upon his tattooed cheekbones. “Getting you to stay there longer than three heartbeats is the problem.”
“I’m here thisnow,” Našobok said, also soft. “Do you truly think this unNamed one came merely to watch oških Dance?”
Palatan slid his gaze upward and tilted his head.
A shrill whistle made them both start and look up. On the Dancing Ground the milling oških parted, giving respectful way for a figure resplendent in Forest-coloured tunic and leather leggings. He wore Mound-chieftain’s turquoise head wrap, and a wide, woven sash in jewelled tones girded his waist.
“Here we go,” Našobok murmured, and tossed his hair from his face. “I tell you, you’ll rue giving me this place of honour.”
Palatan’s response was to simply move closer, a heated, guarding presence. Našobok tucked a smile against one cheek.
Sarinak’s bare, muscular arms cradled a large collection of spears. His gaze, dark as oiled Smoke, swept the watchers, taking meticulous note of everyone, everything. Sure enough, it narrowed as he beheld his outcast once-brother seated in such prominence. Našobok peered back, unresponsive. But a grin threatened his lips as, beside him, Palatan gave a small growl and tensed.
It never failed. Palatan would go all wild-eyed horsetalker and then Našobok would get… distracted.
Sarinak scowled. He didn’t show any throat, but his eyes flickered sideways. It lasted scarcely a heartbeat, and no doubt Sarinak could claim his own distraction: the sudden, loud cries from watchers and dancers both, persuasion for Dance to begin.
Našobok cocked his head, peered at Palatan whose hackles were still raised. Ai, but the slighter ones were most dangerous, little question. “When again,” Našobok murmured, “will you have a chance to work out some of that aggression on my very willing body?”
Palatan turned twisted brows upon Našobok, incredulous. Then laughed, hard.
The dancers kept their distance from each other, all the while watching Mound-chieftain and eagerly pacing, circling. Any breath now, the signal would be given, and they’d run to snatch up their spears, all decorated with gifts from a relative, or a playmate’s favour, or—for those who had earned them—beribboned tokens signifying their skill at games or the hunt.
“Here we go, then,” Našobok said again, but eager. A good tussle was guaranteed in Spear Dance, whether a oških took a spear not his own, by accident or a-purpose, or had his flung aside in the same fashion.
Palatan was watching him. “You miss it.”
“Perhaps” Našobok shrugged. “Occasionally. You?”
“I still have my chances.” Palatan elbowed him. “Those of duskLands never shrug off the sparring-play. We’ve not River to sustain us; we can’t afford to allow our adults to soften.”
An old spar in itself, that, which Našobok answered with a rude gesture. Palatan gave a soft laugh and leaned his chin on Našobok’s shoulder.
Surrounded by the waiting oških, Sarinak laid the spears on the ground, backed from the hardened circuit and lifted his arms.
Silence.
“Not that you’re soft,” Palatan murmured with a grin. “Probably not anywhere, considering how close you watch.”
Našobok grinned.
Sarinak dropped his arms.
Shouts rose up the walls of the Bowl. The dancers dove for their weapons. A mere smattering of heartbeats later, the first scuffle had broken out.
A tall, skinny oških wearing a silver’s fishKin mask, so dark he seemed a shadow against the waning light, rammed up against another wearing a mask of beaverKin. The latter shoved back, but the fish-masked oških’s oiled hide was Beaver’s undoing; he literally slid off and went skidding into another. This, of course, meant another scrap. Silver snatched his spear to a good-natured cry from the audience—him being first was an omen fitting to lastSun’s good work. Hefting it with a long, victorious cry, he leapt and spun, landing in a crouch. First capture meant first preference in partners, and every dancer coveted a wide choice.
Others were quickly grabbing up their spears, tussling and sparring for preferred places.
“I do so love Spear Dance, have I mentioned it?” Našobok sighed, and Palatan grinned against his shoulder.
“Several times. I take it back, you are soft.”
“Hunh! What’s soft about fancying the sight of well-oiled males? If you think… hunh! That one’s not from here.” Našobok broke from happy lechery. “Speaking of soft…”
The oških Našobok indicated stood burly enough to match his mask of bearKin, but indeed bore a paunchy, unfit look. He stepped well enough, albeit slow; he possessed more flesh than muscle, and wielded the two spears with more bravado than any true skill.
“MidLander, I’ll wager,” Našobok said, “They don’t know one end from the next of any weapon longer than a knife—ai’ye, this should be good.”
Another dancer, much slighter and wearing the mask of hareKin, stalked up to the bear-masked dancer and grabbed for what was obviously his spear. Bear puffed up and held on.
“I’ll wager that one’s a’Šaákfo,” Palatan muttered. “He even wears the honour mask. But he’s Marked a’Naišwyrh.”
The youth with the hareKin mask was indeed rangy as any duskLander, his dark hair shimmering copper in Fire’s light… and indeed bore the vermilion wyrh tree of their hosts across his right shoulder blade and ribs.
He also knew how to handle a spear. The larger oških proved his unfamiliarity with the spear, giving one an ill-timed heave and swing. Quick as an avatar of the mask he sported, the hareKin oških loosed his hold, ducked, and recaptured the spear’s haft, using it to regain his feet.
“That’s the way,” Našobok murmured, then leaned forwards on his arms and shouted, “Now take it from him!”
The other dancers clustered, vying for position and beginning to merge
