“Mound People are so… obvious,” Palatan drawled.
“You always have been a torment.”
“But the gaming’s half the fun.” Palatan leaned over and nipped Našobok’s ear.
“You’ll sink your reputation,” Našobok warned. It didn’t stop him from leaning into the caress.
“For a mangy outlier, you fret overmuch. D’you truly think I crawled and crafted and fought for my rights as Alekšu so I could lose sleep over what a lot of over-tall fishKin eaters think of my choices?”
It was Našobok’s turn to laugh. Several people nearby glared at him; it merely made him laugh harder, while Palatan leaned back and radiated innocence.
Other dancers quickly began pairing up, sparring in Spear Dance’s elaborate teaching and mimicry of conflict.
One tall, well-muscled oških leapt in the air in front of them, crouched down with his spear raised and gave Palatan a direct look through a stoatKin mask.
“Seems this oških likes his partners experienced as well as pretty,” Našobok hissed, not at all quietly. “Maybe obvious isn’t so bad, eh?”
The dancer’s eyes flickered from Palatan to Našobok, then to the blanket they both sat on; with a sudden, knowing grin and a conceding gesture to Našobok, he moved away.
This time Našobok burst out laughing. “See what happens when you sit a wyrhling on your blanket? Too bad, he was definitely your type.”
Palatan slid an amused gaze sideways. “K’šo. My type is seated beside me.”
“But that one’s prettier. Bendy and lively as stoatKin, I’ll wager.” Našobok waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Younger.”
“That one,” Palatan leaned closer, wafted a breath across Našobok’s ear, “doesn’t know how to make me howl between the furs.”
Našobok quirked a smile, closed his eyes as hard, slender fingers stroked at his nape. “I love it when you make blanket talk.”
“As much as you love the Spear Dance? I have to admit, watching all these stags click their horns can be—”
“Provoking? Frustrating?” Našobok grinned wider, turned his gaze back to the dancing. “But it’s a sight to behold, eh? And soon the fems will have a Dance and you’ll have twice the provocation! Quite a shame, Alekšu, how you’ve gone all respectable and have too many councils thisDark to even contemplate easing that frustration until nextSun’s rising.”
“I can contemplate entirely too much, there just isn’t a lot to be done about it.”
“And”—it was Našobok’s turn to slide eyes Palatan’s way—“sneaking away for a quick go against a tree is out of the question?”
“Spawn.” Palatan smacked Našobok on the head again. “Now who’s the torment? We’d just get interrupted again. Watch the Dancing and quit baiting me.”
“I’m baiting you?” Našobok grabbed Palatan’s hand, laced their fingers tight and held them against the ground. “You’re too free with those hands, my beloved, and all because I’m just getting back some of my own… Ai, look at the way that one moves.”
Palatan followed the gaze, smirked. “Our young Šaákfo has rejoined Dance.”
Našobok made the discovery at the same time, lips quirking. “Hunh. I wonder what he looks like beneath his mask.” Eyes narrowing, he leaned forwards. “Mm. The rest of him is rather nice, eh?”
“A bit scrawny amidst all these Mound People,” Palatan teased.
“Lithe, I’d say. Graceful. Bendy.” Našobok nudged Palatan. “My type, that.”
A chuckle. “Keep dreaming, wyrh-chieftain.”
“Hunh. I must be dreaming, all right. The oških keeps looking at me.” Našobok glanced Palatan’s direction. “Am I? Or is he?”
Palatan was also peering at the oških, a frown quirking his brow.
“Pal, you look as though you’ve seen—”
A familiar, deadly sound, between a hiss and a thump, made Našobok start back and bump into Palatan’s arm propped up behind him. He looked up. Blinked. Ran his eyes from the be-ribboned spear stuck in the ground between his knees to the taut, bowed muscles of the arm still holding the spear. Then trailed his eyes upward.
Dark hair all wild about the mask, eyes glinting from shadow. A full lower lip dropped, just this side of sulky, showing a hint of teeth as the oških panted in quick rasps. The drum of his heart, throbbing amidst the cords of his neck beneath a taut, angled jaw. Upper arms and pectorals quivering, holding the spear. And the rest of that willowy body, slick with oil and sweat, thin streaks of moisture runnelling down from the freckles on his belly—freckles!—and into the sparse fur disappearing beneath his clout.
“I think the oških wants something.” Palatan drawled, soft, with a nudge at Našobok.
Mask-shadowed eyes blinked, slid over to Palatan, and widened slightly. Muscles tensed further; it almost looked like retreat. Before Našobok could fully consider what he was doing, impulse had taken over. He grabbed the spear just above its feathered obsidian point.
Those gleaming eyes returned back to his, held. Našobok softened his grip on the spear, slid his fingers up and down, was rewarded as the oških actually quivered. His breathing caught then escaped him in a low growl.
An answering growl purled in the back of Našobok’s throat. Belatedly he realised Palatan’s hand was resting between his shoulder blades, giving him a slight push.
“I think you want something too,” Palatan murmured. “Go on, then. Teach the oških how wyrhling Dance.”
12 - Trickster
Tokela couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe he’d actually done it, actually flung the spear down and dared Našobok to take it.
Couldn’t believe Našobok had taken it.
Still couldn’t believe, even when those broad hands gripped the spear to let Tokela haul Našobok to his feet. Believed even less when Našobok toed off his boots and shucked from longcoat and tunic.
The surrounding watchers had fallen into murmurs and a strange, sullen hush. Tokela knew, with the sensitivity of one constantly and inexplicably going afoul of Normal, that somehow he’d done yet another unacceptable thing.
Whatever it was, he didn’t care. Našobok had taken the spear.
Našobok followed him—followed!—into the circuit.
It was a good thing Tokela hadn’t paid attention to the
