The Boar warriors from the ship were present, but they stood in a group off to one side, witnesses to rather than participants in whatever was about to happen. The people who crowded the rest of the room were almost entirely Narwhal Clan, as evinced by their jewellery, clothing adornments and tattoos. The exceptions seemed to be almost entirely males standing alongside women, and were probably men who had married into the clan or were partners in a less formal arrangement with a Narwhal woman. I saw Bears, Otters and one Eagle amongst them.
Without exception, the women were strikingly arrayed. Those who did not wear jewellery of gold or silver or precious stone were still bedecked with ornaments of shell, feather and seeds. The artful arrangement of their hair had not been neglected, and added substantially to the height of several women. Unlike Buckkeep, where the women seemed to shift their finery in mysteriously feminine co-ordination, I saw a wide variety of styles. The only unifying theme to the beaded or embroidered or woven patterns of their dress seemed to be the brightness of the colours and the Narwhal motif.
Those in the first circle, I surmised, were relatives of the Narcheska, while those who stood closest to the hearth would be her most immediate family. They were almost all women. All of the Narwhal women shared an intent, almost fierce air. The tension in that part of the room was palpable. I wondered which one was her mother, and wondered, too, what we awaited.
Absolute silence fell. Then four Narwhal clansmen carried a wizened little woman down the stairs and into the hall. She rode in a chair fashioned from twisty pieces of gleaming willow-wood and cushioned with bearskins. Her thin white hair was braided and pinned in a crown to her head. Her eyes were very black and bright. She wore a red robe and the narwhal motif was repeated in tiny ivory buttons sewn all over it. The men set her chair down, not on the floor, but upon a heavy table where she could remain seated and still look out over all those who had gathered in her house. With a small whimper of complaint, the old woman straightened herself in the chair, sitting tall and gazing at the folk who had gathered. Her pink tongue wet her wrinkled lips. Heavy fur slippers dangled on her skinny feet.
‘Well! Here we all are!’ she proclaimed.
She spoke the words in Outislander, loudly, as old folks who are going deaf are prone to do. She did not seem as mindful of the formality of the situation, nor as tense as the other women.
The Great Mother of the Narwhal Clan leaned forward, her gnarled hands gripping the twisted wood of the chair arms. ‘So. Send him out, then. Who seeks to court our Elliania, our Narcheska of the Narwhals? Where is the warrior bold enough to seek the mothers’ permission to bed with our daughter?’
I am sure those were not the words Dutiful had been told to expect. His face was the colour of beetroot as he stepped forward. He made a warrior’s obeisance before the old woman and spoke in clear Outislander as he proclaimed, ‘I stand before the mothers of the Narwhal Clan, and seek permission to join my line with yours.’
She stared at him for a moment and then scowled, not at him, but at one of the young men who had borne her chair. ‘What is a Six Duchies slave doing here? Is he a gift? And why is he trying to speak our language and doing such a horrible job of it? Cut his tongue out if he attempts it again!’
There was a sudden silence, broken by a wild whoop of laughter from someone in the back of the room, quickly muffled. Somehow, Dutiful kept his aplomb, and was wise enough not to attempt to explain himself to the incensed Mother. A woman from the Narcheska’s contingent stepped to the Mother’s side and stood on tiptoe, whispering frantically to her. The Mother waved her off irritably.
‘Stop all that hissing and spitting, Almata! You know I can’t hear a word when you talk like that! Where is Peottre?’ She glanced around as if she’d misplaced a shoe, then lifted her eyes and scowled at Peottre. ‘There he is! You know that I hear him best. What is he doing way over there? Get here, you insolent rascal, and explain to me what this is about!’
There would have been a sweet humour to watching the old woman order the seasoned warrior about if his face had not betrayed such worry. He strode over to her, went down briefly on one knee and then stood up. She lifted one root-like hand and settled it on his shoulder. ‘What is this about?’ she demanded.
‘Oerttre,’ he said quietly. I suspect his deep voice reached her old ears better than the woman’s shrill whisper had. ‘It’s about Oerttre. Remember?’
‘Oerttre,’ she said, and her eyes brimmed suddenly with tears. She looked around the room. ‘And Kossi? Little Kossi, too? Is she here, then? Come home to us at last?’
‘No,’ Peottre said shortly. ‘They’re not here, neither one of them. And that is what this is about. Remember? We talked about it in the garden, this morning. Remember?’ He nodded at her slowly, encouraging her.
She watched his face and nodded slowly with him, and then stopped. She shook her head once. ‘No,’ she cried out in a low voice. ‘I don’t remember. The alyssum has stopped blooming, and the plums may be sour this year. I remember we spoke of that. But … no. Peottre, was it important?’
‘It was, Great Mother. It is. Very important.’
She looked troubled and then suddenly angry. ‘Important, important! Important, says a man, but what do men know?’ Her old voice, cracked and shrill, rose in anger and derision. Her thin hand slapped her thigh in disgust. ‘Bedding and blood-shedding, that is all they know, that is all they think is important. What do they know of the sheep to shear and the gardens to be harvested, what do they know of how many barrels of salt-fish for the winter and how many casks of sweet lard? Important? Well, if it’s important, let Oerttre handle it. She is the Mother now, and I should be allowed to rest.’ She lifted her hand from Peottre’s shoulder and gripped the arms of her chair. ‘I need my time to rest!’ she complained piteously.
‘Yes, Great Mother. Yes, you do. And you should take it now and I will see that all is handled as it should be. I promise.’ And with these words, Elliania emerged from the shadows at the top of the stairs and hurried down to us. Her lightly shod feet seemed to skim each riser. Half of her hair was pinned up with tiny star pins; the rest flew loose to her shoulders. It did not look intentional. Behind her on the stairs, two young women started to follow her, then halted in horror, whispering to one another. I suspected they had been readying her for her appearance, and she had bolted free of them when she heard the raised voices.