“Bring daru for our guest and myself, Yereh,” he said to the woman. “There is trading which must be discussed between us.”
The woman turned obediently to the large pot of daru which stood to one side of the room. She wore a garment which covered all of her. Maranu himself wore no more than a brief cloth about his loins, a comfort of dress which village men did not permit to their slavewomen. They jealously guarded the sight of their women’s bodies, thinking, perhaps, that to gaze upon them would cause such bodies to fade from view. The fact that the bodies of the Midanna did not fade from view was a lesson doubtless lost upon them.
Two pots of daru were brought by the woman, and were placed upon the platform between Maranu and myself. The daru had not been brewed to warmth as was the custom of the Midanna, for those of the village disliked the added potency brewing produced, and therefore drank it as it was in its fermenting pot. Though unbrewed daru was little more than flavored water, males liked it. Long since had the Hosta taken to adding the sthuvad drug to it for captured males, and never had a sthuvad disliked its taste to the point of rejecting it.
I sipped courteously from my pot of daru, then looked about to see that Maranu’s slavewoman still stood before the platform, her eyes upon me, a determined expression upon her aging face. Her hands twisted briefly together before her, then one hand went to where her life sign should rest, and the other to her hair which was braided and tied in obedience to the will of males.
“Maranu, not again,” she whispered, her eyes hard upon me. “The trading was to be done for the time, and this one is war leader! Please, Maranu, not again!”
“Yereh, Jalav is our guest,” Maranu scolded gently. “The trading will be brief, as the Hosta ride to war.”
Yereh’s eyes closed briefly, as though from the pain of memory. She stepped to Maranu and knelt beside him, then circled him with her arms as her head rested upon his chest.
“Maranu, she is war leader,” Yereh wept as Maranu held her close to him. “Have you not been shamed enough? Must you endure this thing as well?”
“My lovely Yereh,” Maranu crooned, stroking her hair to give her comfort, “my shame has always been yours to endure. Do not agonize, Yereh. All shall soon be done with, and again my arms will hold you alone. Leave us now, that the trading may be seen to properly.”
Yereh clung to him a moment longer, then hurried to the curtain which led to the next room.
“Forgive her, Jalav,” Maranu said. “She has never accustomed herself to the needs of trading. What number of kand do you require?”
“But one hand shall suffice,” said I, sipping again from the pot of daru. “She knew me as war leader, yet never have I seen her before. How is it that she knew I lead the Hosta in battle?”
“She must have seen your shield before you entered,” Maranu replied. “We have the kand, and ask only five lenga pelts in return.”
I replaced the pot of daru and smiled. “A hand of lenga pelts would fetch us more than two hands of kand,” I informed him. “I offer one lenga pelt, and six freshly killed nilnod.”
“We have meat aplenty.” He shrugged. “Four lenga pelts.”
“Two pelts,” I countered, “and we shall keep the nilnod to feed us upon our journey. What shame did your slavewoman speak of?”
“She is not a slave!” he returned angrily. Then his gaze dropped to the platform, and he said with difficulty, “Three pelts and the thing is done. The kand are prime stock, well worth the pelts.”
Again I felt my lack of understanding of males. It had almost seemed that had Maranu had a weapon, he would have been foolish enough to draw it. His anger was without reason, and I wished to know why.
“Maranu,” said I, “it was not my intention to offer insult. I merely asked of the shame spoken of.”
He glared at me again, and finished his daru quickly, with determination.
“Very well!” he said abruptly. “I shall speak of the shame, yet must you remember that it was not I who first asked of it! Always am I shamed when I must trade with the Hosta, for my manhood is forced from me along with my goods! The warriors of the Hosta demand my body and those of my men each time they come, and should we refuse, our women and children may stand victim for us! Yet are we men, war leader, and do not care to be used by women!”
I considered his words, confused. For what reason would the males of Islat dislike being used by Hosta? Nearly all of them had slavewomen, therefore the act was not unknown to them.
“The Hosta are ugly to the men of Islat?” I asked. “The males of Islat feel repelled by them?”
“No, no!” He laughed, as though surprised. “The Hosta are far from ugly, and the men of Islat feel great desire when gazing upon them. Yet it is not a matter of desire. It is more—” He paused, searching for the proper words, then smiled and shook his head. “You are very young, war leader,” he said quite gently. “Perhaps a greater age shall bring you understanding of men and their ways. Three lenga pelts and the thing is done.”
“Two lenga pelts,” I said, feeling no younger than he. I, too, led my people, and no war leader is known to have grown gray in her position as had Maranu. “You may recover the difference when the kand are returned to you in trade.”
“The kand are to be returned?” he said. “Then they are not for battle.” He paused briefly to consider this, and then nodded. “Very well,” he agreed. “Two lenga pelts against the return of the kand in trade.”
The trade was agreed to and done, sealed as we spat upon the backs of our right hands, and pressed our fists together, binding the trade as our spittle mingled. Maranu’s fist was larger than mine and more squarely made, seemingly shaped for the weapons it so rarely grasped. Should age be the only thing to bring understanding, I would undoubtedly be long beside Mida before I understood.
Maranu withdrew his fist from mine, then rose to his feet. “Our trading is done, and naught is left save the last requirement,” said he with a strange look about him. “There would be little shame to the matter, Jalav—were you not war leader. Come to the mat with me, war leader, and I shall soon be ready for you.”
He turned about and strode to a wide, woven mat that lay before the fire, while I remained seated. He seemed to feel no shame at the thought of my touch, yet I was able, in a small way, to see his difficulty. A warrior of the Midanna might take from or receive from a male as she wished, yet a war leader was forbidden to receive from him. A war leader must only take from a male, and Maranu, for some reason, did not wish to be taken from. His woman had known at once that he would be taken, and her distress had been clear to any with eyes. Though I lacked understanding of their feelings, I was not without feeling of my own. Maranu was no passing sthuvad, and little point was there in observing the customs of the village merely to give insult to its Headman in his own dwelling. Therefore I rose easily and stepped forward.
“I thank Maranu for his offer,” I said, “yet must I, with regret, refuse it. My warriors and I have a distance to travel, and the journey were best begun quickly. Perhaps, should Mida continue to smile upon her warrior, another time may see the thing done.”
Maranu, standing beside the mat, paused in removing the cloth from about his loins, raised his eyes from a frown, then slowly replaced the cloth. He gazed upon me with such pain, that I believed I had insulted him. I was about to repair the error, when he spoke.
“Jalav,” said he, coming to place his hands upon my shoulders, “indeed are you the highest among the Hosta. Yet you are so young—!” Deep was his sigh, and deeply felt. “Should your Mida not smile upon you, I shall feel the loss most keenly. Would that you were my daughter that I might see you safely beside a man of my choice!”
I stepped back stiffly. “Maranu had best remember that I am guest within his dwelling!” I replied, stung that he would speak so to me. “It would be the act of a boorish host to force his guest to the necessity of spilling blood!”