The two plain, thirtyish women lifted hands, palms down and fingers limp, heads still tilted toward the earth. "These are your wives," Fumlok said. "They are called Omi and Peyri."
"Wives?"
Fumlok nodded, smiling. "Lonal tell you about it already. Am and Roel are dead. Now Omi and Peyri are yours."
"You mean they're property?"
"What is property?" Fumlok asked.
Alemar wasn't sure whether Fumlok didn't know the word or didn't know the concept. "Like slaves?"
Fumlok recoiled. "No! Only foreign women are slaves! A man must look after the women of his own tribe. It is his duty to God."
Alemar looked at the strange women's faces, and at the home behind them, which they had shared with the men he and Elenya had killed. Peyri glanced up at him, met his eyes, and quickly looked back down, trembling at her own audacity. Alemar sickened – both at the sheer wretchedness of the women and at the guilt they inspired.
"What if we don't want them?" Alemar suggested.
Fumlok's small eyes went round. "Not want?" He stepped over to Omi and slapped her belly and made her open her mouth to show her teeth. She had most of them. "They both young. Healthy. Still bear good sons." He continued on toward Peyri.
"I was raised by different customs," Alemar explained. It was alarming enough to have been involuntarily adopted into the clan. To be suddenly burdened with a family compounded the disaster. "Ask them if they want us."
"It doesn't matter," Fumlok said. "What they think not important."
"Ask it anyway."
Fumlok muttered a few words to the women. They, as well as the two younger girls behind them, suddenly cowered and prostrated themselves again. The boy scowled.
Alemar was confused. "What exactly did you tell them?"
"I say you don't want wives, maybe."
"Why are they afraid?"
Fumlok shuffled nervously away from the gradually increasing group of spectators. "Women who are not wives, not daughters, not mothers, not sisters – they are…"
He struggled to find the right word, as if the one he would have used were inappropriate. "They are what?" Alemar demanded.
"Available."
Fumlok shrugged, eyes darting meaningfully back at the men standing not far away. Absent of veils, too many of the faces betrayed the hard lives behind them. Alemar grimaced. Now he understood. The offer of wives was not a reward for victory in combat; it assured that Am and Roel's widows would continue to have a source of physical protection and provender.
"We'll keep them," he told Fumlok.
"Are you crazy?" Elenya whispered.
"I won't let them be turned into whores," he argued.
As soon as Fumlok translated Alemar's acceptance, the women tried to crawl forward and kiss the twins' feet. Elenya danced away. "Ask them to go inside and prepare a meal," Alemar said, merely to free himself of the embarrassment. He needed a moment to meditate on this state of affairs. The incident had shaken him more than the attack at the water hole. He could understand laws requiring death for stealing water. This custom was insidious.
Omi and Peyri complied immediately, but Alemar had the younger women wait long enough to be introduced. Sesheer was an unappealing, somewhat pudgy teenager, timorous and ungainly. Meyr was about the same age as the boy, Rol, in the midst of her growth spurt. She was slender, sharp-featured, with plenty of nervous energy.
"Where are the small children?" Alemar asked. "I thought you said Omi and Peyri were still good childbearers."
Fumlok shrugged. "The desert is not kind to them. Omi lose last young one two seasons ago." His manner was offhand. Alemar sensed that it was not entirely callousness. To lose several children was simply the way of the desert. Although parents regularly saw infants die in his homeland, Alemar preferred not to think of it as inevitable.
"Don't you have healers here?" he asked.
Fumlok seemed surprised. "The Hab-no-ken are rare. Sometimes they visit a clan only once or twice a year."
"The Hab-no-ken?"
Fumlok paused. "There are four ken. You learn when you are taught the laws of the So-de'es." He wouldn't elaborate.
The two girls slipped inside the flaps, but the boy stayed. He stood stiffly, and shook when the twins turned toward him.
"Elique pertoh va nagt Po-no-fa!"the boy said. "Oi soh." He spun on his heel and ducked into the tent.
"Why is he angry?" Alemar asked, though, in truth, he understood the reaction better than he had those of the women.
"He say that in one year he rides with the Po-no-pha, the warriors. Then this tent is his. But you kill Am and Roel too soon. Now Rol must listen to you. If he disobeys, you can throw him out."
Abruptly, Alemar heard a deep voice speaking to him in Zyraii. The words meant nothing, but the tone implied a great deal. He turned around to face a burly, barrel-chested man.
Elenya shifted her stance meaningfully. Alemar tensed. Their training would serve them again, if need be, but after the disorientation and physical trials of the day, he wanted only to lie down for a very long time.
"Translate," Alemar ordered Fumlok.
"Shigmur say that it not polite to wear veil among your brothers, inside the camp. He say take it off." Fumlok's demeanor hinted that the suggestion was a good one.
Alemar could tell Shigmur was going to press the matter. But weary as he was, he couldn't submit so simply.
"What if we don't want to take them off?" Alemar asked. Fumlok gulped and translated.
Shigmur's reply sounded both calm and ominous.
"Shigmur say no reason to cover the head and face among one's brothers. It is insult. Shigmur does not like it. Of course, a very great warrior do as he please, if he beat ones who disagree. He say you are being a very great fighter to insult so openly."
Alemar pondered the situation for a few moments, then flipped back his cowl and dropped his veil. Shigmur frowned.
"My brother is better," Alemar said softly.
Alemar stepped back, and Elenya replaced him. "Do as you will," he told her. "I've had enough of customs and laws for one day."
Elenya stood where she was.
Shigmur said something gruff.
"Take off your veil," Fumlok repeated.
"No," she said.
"Na,"Fumlok told Shigmur.
The crowd immediately began to clear away from the front of the tent. Fumlok pressed Alemar back. Soon Elenya and Shigmur were in the center of a ring some ten paces wide.
"Shigmur duels you. The loser admits he is wrong," Fumlok said.
"What are the rules?" Elenya asked.
Fumlok blinked. It was the first time Elenya had spoken clearly, betraying her voice's high pitch. After a moment's hesitation, he said, "First blood or surrender." Hastily he added, "Killing is not permitted in the camp."
Alemar was relieved. On the other hand, his sister was often only hampered by rules. She was best in an all-out fight.
"Your choice of weapons, or none," Fumlok said.
She drew her rapier.
Shigmur stared at the insubstantiality of the blade and furrowed his eyebrows. He spoke to Fumlok.
"We have no swords like that here," Fumlok explained.
"Let him use his scimitar," she said. She motioned to Alemar, who loaned her his saber. Though less curved than the Zyraii weapon, it was similar in weight and length.
Shigmur nodded and drew his weapon.
"This is very bad for your brother," Fumlok told Alemar under his breath.
Alemar agreed. Shigmur towered over Elenya, so wide that he appeared overweight, though his grace denied it. His bulk hinted at endurance, rather than ponderousness. As did the other warriors, Shigmur wore only white, but in contrast to many of the clan, the clothing was well-tailored, the material superior, the embroidery intricate and lovingly crafted. The other members of the crowd gave him a clear berth.