Blood Indigo Read online

  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 to sit on his blanket. And who, by the by, introduced me to tangling at a tender age.”

  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 into groups, obscuring any view of the tussle. One oških, an older one from the look of him, spun past Našobok and Palatan and halted several lengths away, preening and brandishing his spear for an admiring group of fems.

  “Hunh!” Našobok rumbled, diverted. “Isn’t that Anahli with those older fems?”

  Palatan looked over, scowled. “I told Aylaniś she’d do well to keep an eye on our eldest. Anahli’s too precocious, and you well know things are stricter here.”

  A’io, Našobok knew. Yet Anahli openly flirted, encouraging the dancer.

  “Give her to me,” Našobok entreated. “Just a half of Brother Moon’s journey. I’ll tie her to Ilhukaia’s prow on rough main; if she’s anything like her sire she’ll be sick in two heartbeats and that’ll bend her stiff neck.”

  Palatan gave Našobok a sour look. Našobok hid a rather sadistic grin behind a cough as Palatan rose, bodytalk promising dire circumstances for a wayward daughter.

  ANAHLI WASN’T used to being bored at any Drum circuit. But thisnow, seated oh-so-proper beside the oških fem a’Naišwyrh? Her body craved movement, her feet twitching to the drums, the beads of her finest moccasins flashing in the last bits of Sun. She was unused to sitting for this long at a stretch.

  First it had been the ahlóssa dances. Then the elders. Then the tiniest Dancers—all right, they had been adorable, all garbed in their best. But after that had come more ahlóssa, and a spouse’s turn, and… when were the oških ever going to Dance?

  It wasn’t the way it was done in duskLands. But she wasn’t of duskLands in thisnow, was she? Bound of their hearth for a summering. And while her companions certainly seemed willing to wait forever, sitting so patient and prim, Anahli was ready to chuck her finery, strip down, and go find a good, rough game of stickball. Something!

  And finally. A low, growling beat she recognised!

  Only when she leapt up, ready to join, Čayku grabbed the fringe of Anahli’s leggings, as wide-eyed and insistent as the rest of their cohort of gaily garbed fems: Spear Dance was for oških, a’io, but males only.

  Males only? Truly? All right then, gendered rituals held common across thisLand… but. This particular Dance was Anahli’s favourite! At home, anyway.

  Obediently, she sat back down, pretending a smooth at the blush-coloured blanket spread between Čayku and another who’d proven a skilled and limber playmate, Bimih.

  Sarinak strode into the Circuit’s midst to relinquish his armload of weaponry.

  “Fems do such things in duskLands?” Čayku tilted her head.

  “Of course they do,” Anahli said, glum, pulling her knees to her chest.

  A rash of giggles rose behind her, from the third row of oških fems. These younger ones tailed Čayku and Bimih—and thusly Anahli—hanging on their every word and gesture like foals to a nursing dam. Anahli scowled into her knees. If the males pouring from the weapons den were strutting and preening like woodcocks, the fems had gathered together close as a bunch of broody hens. Those occupying the coveted front row in front of Anahli guarded it like hawkKin. All old enough to openly consort with opposites, they’d left off commenting on the parade of dancers to throw speculative, critical glances Anahli’s way.

  Čayku, however, showed no such censure. Her eyes lit with admiration, she leaned closer to Anahli. “You mean you’ve actually Danced the Spear?”

  Another shrug; thisSun looked to be longer still if they weren’t to Dance until the males were done.

  “Which spear do you mean, Čayku?” This from the eldest in their row, who smiled as her talk inspired another rash of giggles from the younglings behind. Plump and pretty, dressed to display her wealth, her fancy skirts were laid out just so, her beaded boot-tips peeping out to shimmer in the slatting rays of Sun’s setting. Tilting her chin towards an otter-masked oških, she lifted an eyebrow and said, “I fancy his, truth be known.”

  “Covered with beads?”

  “Sliding belly-down along River?”

  More laughter, though the eldest fem didn’t seem amused.

  “I fancy both spears on that one,” Anahli riposted, just to hear the little ripple of dismay from the young “hens”. “Tell me, have none of you Danced a weapon?”

  “Of course!” Another spoke up, defensive. “But not spears. We use staves.”

  Well, that was something, at least.

  Anahli spared a longing wish for the past Summerings, where she had been raiding with her sire during First Running, and neither of them required to attend. Only now he was Alekšu. Now they had to attend, and she’d been handed over to her aunt for… “taming”.

  “DuskLands’ ways sound intriguing.” Čayku had a sincere grin quirking her lips, which eased Anahli’s heart.

  But her words came clipped; she couldn’t help it. “All oških who can wield a spear without accidentally stabbing someone can join duskLand’s Spear Dance.”

  “Ai’ye,” Bimih murmured, appreciative. “I think I’d rather be in duskLands.”

  “Not me!” another vowed.

  “Nor me!”

  It was echoed by most of the fems. Unfortunately.

  Otter stuck his spear in the ground and leapt up to twirl around it thrice. Anahli whistled encouragement. It drew his attention—and the irritation of the eldest fem.

  “Huhn! You’re not old enough to be looking his way despite your bold talk! Just because you’re eldest of Aylaniś horse-chieftain, and new spice to the stew—”

  Čayku hissed disapproval. The eldest turned away to flip her unbound, blunt-cut hair over one beaded shoulder, trying to regain Otter’s attention. Anahli slid her eyes sidelong at Čayku and smirked.

  But Otter seemed more interested in new spice than familiar wealth. He tossed his spear into the air, twirled twice and caught it, s
miling at Anahli all the while. That smile niggled, as did the smoky eyes behind the otterKin half-mask. A common enough hue towards dawnLands, but combined with the smile, Anahli recognised the youth who met her eyes so boldly as she’d first arrived. She returned his smile, raised it by several whistles of appreciation as he turned to answer another male’s challenge.

  The fancy fem was fuming. Her playmate glared, made a gesture plain as plain: Crawl back to your cradleboard, little horsetalker, we’ve real business here!

  “Anahli,” Bihmi protested, “you’re courting trouble.”

  “There are plenty of ways to Dance a spear that won’t have you gravid before your time, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I mean that it’s not allowed!”

  “Even a horsetalker should know that!” another warned.

  Even a horsetalker. It flowered mutiny at the base of Anahli’s spine. Leaning forwards, she met Otter’s eyes, making silent promises as she flipped one braid over her shoulder.

  “Anahli!” Čayku, this time.

  Anahli should have let it go there. Instead she stood up and gave a pirouette that took her to the front of their little group, the fringes of her long tunic belling out.

  Otter swung the butt end of his spear towards her. She stood firm, didn’t so much as flinch. Sure enough, the spear halted just before reaching her solar plexus. His grin growing wider, Otter turned and delivered a flurry of blows to his newest attacker. The other oških gave as good as he got, but gave way, a cry of frustration escaping as his spear flew out of his hands—and out of the game.

  The spear fell with a clatter and rolled, bumped Anahli’s toes. She turned, eyebrows lifting suggestively at her playmates. Čayku’s face was a mix of admiration and disbelief; Bimih merely the latter. The others stared in wide-eyed astonishment.

  It was then Anahli saw her sire, heading her way with a mighty frown across his brow. Frustration, anger…

  A’io, me too, she thought, and smiled. Though it was likely more a snarl, come to think of it.