Blood Indigo Page 21

  She pirouetted again to face Otter. “Where I come from, playmates have to show they can win each other, not just show off.”

  Hooking her toe beneath the fallen spear, she popped it up into her hands and leapt forwards, light as Wind.

  Her blessing-name, after all, was Graceful Dancer.

  NAŠOBOK TURNED his attention back to the dancers, a triumphant hiss escaping as the crowd parted, allowing him another glimpse of Hare and Bear. The latter was still hanging onto both spears for all he was worth, but the former kept dodging and feinting, wearing him down. Bear, irritated past good sense, let go of one spear to grab at his opponent’s arm. Unlike his own—another sign he was unfamiliar with Dance—Hare’s arm was oiled slick. A slight twist enabled Hare’s escape. Hare dropped to his haunches and darted sideways, finally taking up his spear.

  The bear oških cursed and lifted his own spear. Point down, as if for the kill.

  “Ai, watch him!” Našobok shouted, coming up to a crouch.

  The dangerous turn to their scuffle was nearly lost amidst the mêlée, but Hare either heard the warning or sensed his danger. Diving sideways, he hit the ground rolling and regained his feet even as the spear point impacted where he had previously been. The bear oških staggered forwards, caught off balance. Hare spun in one swift, agile move with a vicious snarl, swinging his spear.

  Two swift steps forwards, and spear blades clinked and hung. Another sideways jerk, and the bear oških’s spear went flying.

  Unweaponed meant out of the running, by any rules. The hareKin oških cocked his dark head and retreated a few steps, lowering his spear.

  Bear charged.

  “Blood him!” Našobok shouted.

  “Treacherous as Matwau!” another growled. Others, seeing the byplay, echoed disapproval with sharp calls and sharper gestures.

  The slighter oških leapt out of his opponent’s way as if evading a bull’s blind charge. And like a bull, the bearKin oških tottered to a stop and turned about, charged again.

  This time, he snatched a spear from another’s hands. That oških, finding his palms unceremoniously emptied, gave a shrill and outraged cry. It was echoed by Našobok and quite a few others, all becoming aware of the smaller, grim battle going on amidst the sporting one.

  “If they don’t know the limits they shouldn’t be in Dance!” Našobok spat, furious. “Blood is one thing, to go for guts is another altogether! Where’s—?”

  Finally! Sarinak had taken notice. Arms upraised—I hold no weapon, I do not Dance—he plunged into the packed circuit. Several drums faltered. Even those dancers who hadn’t seen the trouble felt the difference in the beat. They slowed, uncertain.

  But there was nothing Sarinak could do, truly nothing to be done other than what the hareKin oških did next. After a startled and frozen heartbeat of shock at what was bearing down on him, Hare swung his spear upward in defence.

  The two spears clapped and clattered, the greater bulk of attack almost shoving the slighter oških off his feet. If he’d braced the impact would have felled him; instead both instinct and skill kicked in, well-tutored muscles allowing a sideways spin. When the next angry swing came, he was ready.

  With a tip of spear, the clumsy strike was parried, and returned with several rapid—and capable—blows. The stolen spear went flying. The bearKin oških let out a yowl as the butt end of the spear rapped his arm, then his solar plexus. When that didn’t take him down, the spear butt arced again, whacking him upside his head.

  Bear was flung with a heavy grunt onto his backside.

  Našobok whistled approval. Even more a coup, to take someone down with no edge at all. Over half the watchers joined his approval, calling and whistling and stomping. Some of the dancers—they hadn’t seen the fight—leapt higher, sure the accolades were for them. Their renewed energy alternately obscured and revealed what was going on. But it was obvious Hare wasn’t wasting any opportunity. Putting a foot to his opponent’s throat, he leaned over with a snarl and angled the spear, point downward, next to his foot.

  Again, not by the rules, yet considering what provocation had been given? Piss on me, will you? Našobok thought with a grin, sorry when Sarinak moved in. After giving several orders—to no effect—Sarinak ended up grabbing the Hare oških by his thick, black-chestnut mane and hauling him backwards.

  Našobok chuckled, merely to have it twist into a small oath as his view once more was blocked by dancers. Just as quickly, though, another gap opened up, revealing Sarinak looming over the hareKin oških with fierce talk and even fiercer gestures.

  A roar lifted from the other side of Circuit; some other dancer, no doubt. Sarinak peered across, and the most extraordinary expression claimed his face. Hare took the opportunity to lunge at his tormentor; Sarinak snatched his arm, gave him a shake. His next gesture was just as plain: ordering the treacherous Bear from Circuit.

  Bear shot a dark look towards his opponent—no less than a promise of revenge. Hare looked to be saying Bring it, k’šo—fists gripped tight to his spear, mouth quivering with a snarl as Sarinak repeated his command. Bear stomped off.

  Sarinak’s attention was still divided; with another shake of Hare’s arm, he released him and strode from the field, dodging dancers as he went. Hare watched him go. A quartet of older oških moved past him as he spun his spear and disappeared from view. Našobok gave a small huff.

  Another roar filled the far end of the grounds. People were standing up, trying to see. Again, chance parted the dancers, and Našobok beheld the cause.

  Anahli, who’d somehow managed to obtain a spear, pacing an astonished Otter, who kept backing away.

  The poor oških didn’t stand a chance. He likely more expected Anahli to bite him on the leg than enter Spear Dance and come at him. Instinct alone helped him field off the first two blows, but by the time he’d recovered, it was too late. His spear flew into the air, end over end, and landed point-down just inside the bounds.

  The oških males clotted together again, intent upon the drum and their own Dances.

  “Ai, Anahli,” Našobok groaned, and flopped back on Palatan’s blanket.

  Aylaniś was going to have a conniption.

  THE OTTER oških didn’t even try to dance. Not really, and it was over too quick, his spear flying, and the eyes behind the Otter mask clouded with puzzlement.

  Only then did Anahli notice the lull, small and tight about them, as if the drums had muted into distance. Caught her sire’s scent just before he grabbed her arms, swung her about, and growled into her face:

  “What is wrong with you?”

  Over his shoulder, she saw Aylaniś. And Inhya.

  And realised, frustration eking into dread, that she had, once again, landed herself in a basket of boiling water.

  “You’re a guest here! You owe a guest’s courtesies to ways not your own!” Each gritted phrase accompanied by a shake, Palatan whirled and started to drag her from the Circuit—like a ahlóssa, like a… a babe in a cradleboard! His talk stung even more, like clay-spitting wasps, and all the more because they carried wide within that tiny, sudden mote of stillness. “Here, of all places. You’ve only had your indigo four summerings! You well know you’ve not earned the rights to openly court opposites!”

  Surely humiliation urged her to snap back, more venom-and-clay. “Some would say I follow my sire’s footsteps, choosing to lie where I shouldn’t!”

  Palatan shoved her out of the Circuit and nearly into her dam’s arms… had Aylaniś’s arms been open and welcoming.

  They most definitely were not. Aylaniś held herself tight as stone, delivering her own barrage like a stinging slap. “Hihlyanahli. You are insolent. You humiliated that oških for no purpose.”

  Cornered, Anahli did the only thing she ever had: lash out. “Humiliated? If he can’t best me then he can’t. I am oških, trained by you, horse-chieftain, and by you, tyah a’Šaákfon! I am horsetalker, from duskLands where any proper Spear Dance is open to all who can defend their
spear!”

  Aylaniś smacked her hands together between them, stoppering the torrent. “You are not in your place! You’re here, in dawnLands, by the grace of hearth-chieftain a’Naišwyrh. To learn new ways, not insult them.”

  “Chogah says any ways that would keep a fem in scarves and skirts—”

  “That is a lie from one whose tongue curls and spits, and a’io, part of why you’re here.”

  “I’m here because you’ve brought me to be ‘tamed’ by Aunt Inhya! You’re hoping to drown my ‘insolence’ in River!”

  Anger had prompted it; disappointment and, she suddenly knew, the subtle poison Chogah had given her to sip. But it was too late to take them back.

  “That isn’t true,” Palatan whispered.

  Aylaniś stared at Anahli for a long, inheld breath, then let it out. Turned her back.

  “There is no danger of such insolence drowning,” Inhya growled, quiet, then also turned her back and walked away.

  The drums, once seeming-soft, now filled the Bowl. Behind them, Spear Dance continued as if nothing had disturbed it. Palatan’s fury showed in the trembling of his fingers, in the glimmers behind his eyes. Nevertheless, he hesitated, started to speak to Anahli—in the sudden clarity of her own broken temper, she could see that.

  But her dam slid him The Eye and, jaw tightening, Palatan turned away. Walked away, slow in his sister’s wake.

  Aylaniś followed, her back muscles roped even further with tension.

  The other oških fems were still seated in their tidy rows. They hadn’t so much as met her eyes, or smiled encouragement. Not even Čayku. They, too, turned away and began talking amongst themselves, as if Anahli weren’t there.

  PALATAN RETURNED, shaking his head when Našobok thought to question. His fingers signed Later, his talk soft and heavy as the tilt of his shoulders. She’s had her tail trimmed.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Mm. She’s too much like me. Thankfully she feels the sting of public shame more than I did. Or”—a cheeky smile—“than your vicious hareKin dancer clearly does.”

  This made Našobok’s desire to root for the slight oških all the stronger. Yet Hare had disappeared. The treacherous Bear oških also had vanished, and Sarinak, retreated to the sidelines.

  The drums were building even stronger, a fierce, body-pounding rhythm. The dancers were starting to pair off, no longer using their spears solely for combat, but for choice. Several older oških were still flirting with fems, but in the end all would follow the customs of Spear Dance and choose partners amongst their own. Našobok remembered his own Spear Dances with vivid affection: the indisputable conflict and resolution—both in circuit and, if lucky, off.

  The skinny silver-masked oških had first choice by rights. He whirled through the crowd, lithe and agile, and sent his spear point-first into the ground, blocking another dancer’s path. His chosen partner grinned then took it, pumping it Skyward like a trophy.

  “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 g
rip 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 one seated beside Našobok; he might have lost his nerve. But now he saw: Palatan watched him, intense and unnerving and… approving. Forest-hued eyes gleamed, and a slow smile lifted one corner of Palatan’s mouth. It was as if, beneath that smile, the hush of disapproval from the surrounding watchers wafted into Hare-voice; soft encouragement, rhythm throbbing behind Tokela’s eyes and down to his bare toes: Dance him. Dance him giddy.

  It was the mask, but Tokela didn’t care, because he’d seen the look in Našobok’s eyes. First when he had approached him—a hungry knowing flaming sparks all along Tokela’s nerves. Then when Našobok had stroked the haft of the spear with fingers just as knowing, making promises…

  Hands slide up, from spear haft to wrists, a searing touch with cool fingertips. But Hare isn’t about to be won so easily, and with a twist of oiled forearms and a push with the spear haft, tiptoes aside.