Nir-yat spoke as though she had read Dar’s thoughts. “You’re everyone’s muthuri,” she said. “You should appear serene.” She held up a piece of cloth, the color of willows in a fog. “Look at this weaving. Three different threads were twisted to make this color. This is elegant work. Discerning eyes are mark of wisdom.”
“Among washavokis, only powerful ones could wear bright colors.”
“Here, every mother can choose anything from Thorma-yat’s stores, as long as it’s not talmauki. She can have her neva made from this or that ghastly blue-and-yellow pattern you fancied.” Nir-yat grinned. “You thought I didn’t notice, but I did.”
“I like butterflies,” said Dar.
“Then let them fly on your sleeping cloak, not on your neva. Speaking of nevas, we’ll discuss them next. You should be prepared when Thorma-yat returns.”
The concept of fashion was new to Dar, and Nir-yat’s discussion of clothes seemed in another language. Dar knew the skirtlike garment was called a “neva,” and the paired capes “kefs,” but the rest of the terms were new to her. Dar found the topic dull, but calming. The immediacy of deciding on the cut and hem length for a neva kept darker matters at bay. Moreover, it cheered up Nir-yat, who was clearly interested in the subject and quite opinionated. The two planned Dar’s royal wardrobe until time for the evening meal. Dar sent sons to fetch it, glad that she would not eat alone.
Murdant Kol had forgotten when he had eaten last or whether it was day or night. Racked by fever, he was delirious. His entire body ached and burned, but the festering wound below his shoulder hurt the worst. It felt as though a hot poker were pushing into his flesh. He no longer knew where he was. Instead of a dingy room in a shabby inn, he thought he was astride Thunder, whirling his whip as he galloped toward Dar.
He relived the moment again and again, each time thinking it would end differently. He saw the orc queen by Dar’s side, too feeble to flee. He watched Sevren fighting the soldiers, outnumbered and preoccupied. Everything happened at a slowed pace. Dar turned, looking panicked. She groped for the dagger slung at her waist. Where did she get a weapon? Dar turned the dagger in her hand, grasping it by the blade. Then she threw it. The dagger moved through the air so slowly that Kol could watch it gracefully flip so its point was forward. His horse traveled just as slowly. I need only move and it’ll miss m^. It didn’t, and Kol was just as shocked—and enraged—as he was the first time. The events that followed were a haze to the murdant’s fever-stricken brain. Something about orcs. There were muddled impressions of an escape and a growing pain. Then Kol was astride Thunder again, galloping toward Dar.
Two men sat on the room’s other bed, strangers as disreputable as their surroundings. They watched Kol, waiting for him to die. “Can’t be long, now,” said one. “He’s out of his head.”
“His stink’s more tellin’,” said the other. “Like rotten meat.”
“Maybe we could hurry him along.”
His companion eyed a recent bloodstain on the dirty wooden floor. “And get what that other fella got? That’s a hard one there, dyin’ or not. Let’s bide our time.”
“Hope it’s worth the wait.”
“Well, he sold that horse.”
The other man laughed. “To a cheatin’ bastard.”
“Aye, the innkeep’s a sharp one, and this fella was half-dead when he came.”
“From where, do you suppose?”
“Taiben, most like. It’s all stirred up.”
Kol was rolling on his sweat-soaked mattress, trying to dodge Dar’s blade, when the door opened. The innkeeper, a rat-faced man, entered and spoke. “Clear out, the both of ye. This room’s been let.”
“To us!” said one of the men watching Kol.
“It’s been let again. Ye can move to the stables, or best this man’s offer.”
The men regarded the gray-eyed stranger who had joined the innkeeper. He had an intimidating look, despite his youthful face. Moreover, his clothes marked him as someone with means. Rather than protest further, the men followed the innkeeper out of the room. As they entered the hallway, they noticed a Wise Woman standing there, clutching her bag of healing herbs. The stranger who had usurped their room spoke to her. “Come. This is the one.” The Wise Woman entered the room and the door closed.
One of the men turned to the innkeeper. “Who was that fella?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
“Well, we had interests in that dyin’ bloke. Interests ye pissed away.”
His larger companion pushed the innkeeper against the wall. “Aye, pissed away. So, we’ll have our money back.”
The innkeeper attempted a nervous smile. “Why not take it back as drink and sleep in the stable for free?”
The two men grinned at each other. “We’ll do that,” said one.
“Seems our luck has changed,” said his comrade. He glanced toward the closed door. “And not just ours.”
Eleven
Nir-yat renewed the discussion of Dar’s wardrobe first thing next morning, picking up where she had left off the previous evening. By then, Dar had learned there were many other garments besides nevas, kefs, and cloaks. All of them had names, and all their parts had names also. Dar even remembered a few of them. She surveyed the carefully arranged piles of fabrics that covered the floor of her hanmuthi, each pile destined for a different garment. “Nir, this is never going to work. I can’t remember what’s supposed to be what.”
“It’s simple, really. Those gabaiuks are for your sukefas. They have two sides so they’re paired with tuug that.”
“Enough, Nir! You’ll have to tell Thorma-yat what to make.”
“But.”
“Secret of wisdom is recognizing it in others. I can’t do everything myself. Should I grow my own brak and pashi? If I cooked my feasts would you want to eat them?”
Nir-yat grinned, recalling Dar’s ineptness in the kitchen. “Thwa.”
“So I’ll rely on your wisdom when it comes to clothes.”
“You must tell Thorma-yat something.”
“Then tell me what to say. Something brief.”
“Tell her your nevas are to be long and fit tightly,” said Nir-yat.
“For what reason?”
“Because you’ll always sit on stool or throne, never on cushion. Also tell Thorma-yat your kefs should taper to point below your waist. That’s most elegant.”
“I can manage that,” said Dar. “I’ll send for Thorma-yat. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
After the seamstress arrived, she stayed most of the morning. Dar repeated what Nir-yat had told her, then asked her sister to describe how each item was to be made. While Thorma-yat and Nir-yat talked, Dar only half listened. Finally, the seamstress gathered up the fabric samples and bowed to Dar. “I know what must be done, Muth Mauk.”
“You’ve pleased me, Thorma-yat.” Dar waited until she was alone with Nir-yat before curling back her lips in a broad orcish grin. “Sister, you’ve pleased me also. I’m certain I’ll look grand.”
Nir-yat returned Dar’s smile. “You will!”
Dar was encouraged by Nir-yat’s self-assurance, for it was a sign that her sister hadn’t been cowed by their muthuri. Nir-yat had handled ordering the clothes skillfully, and Dar expected she would be helpful in many other ways. She learned more from her grandmother than she realizes, thought Dar. She knows how a queen’s hanmuthi runs. Indeed, Nir-yat’s thoughts were already on the next task. “Before you speak to Gar-yat about feasts, we should get hanmuthi list from lorekeeper.”
“One that says which families are high and which are humble?”
“Hai. It can be delicate matter.” Nir-yat explained that, though many Yat clan members lived in the surrounding countryside, hanmuthis within the clan hall were coveted. There were only thirty-three. Since there was no room on the mountaintop to build more, deciding which families occupied them and which mother headed each hanmuthi was a complicated and often contentious matter. It was largely based on ancestry, but other factors came into play. Hanmuthis changed hands as the standing of families rose or fell, and the lorekeeper recorded all the changes. Thus, the order in which the hanmuthis were feasted would be carefully noted.