things are known: you list his good points , Asmander told
himself, with a slight smile.
The shapes the Laughing Men took were not like lions, nor
like dogs, but some distant cousin of both, or neither. The largest
had shoulders that would rise to the hollow beneath Asmander’s
ribs, and the least of them would come up to his waist. They
were made oddly, forequarters broadly muscled, and front limbs
longer than the rear. A crest of hair ran down their spines and
their pelts were tawny and spotted with ragged patches of black.
Their heads were vulpine, heavy-jawed, with baleful dark eyes.
When they yawned, they showed a nest of dagger teeth that
would give even a River Lord pause. As they approached, one
or another would let out a weird cackle unpleasantly close to a
human laugh.
By standing there as they were, with all their weapons on
display, the Horse were signalling that they came without deceit.
Asmander wondered idly if that would work with these ferocious-looking creatures. There were few who lived along the
head of the Tsotec who had any kind words for the Plains tribes,
although perhaps that was just because the only examples that
came their way tended to be raiding parties.
For a moment, while the Horse stood firm, the Laughing
Men coursed around them, sniffing and heckling, thrusting their
noses at their visitors and baring their fangs in disconcerting
grins. Then they had drawn off a little, though still in a loose
crescent that penned their visitors against the water.
They Stepped lazily, almost seeming to stretch out into
human form as though waking from dreams of blood and carrion. There were more women amongst them than men,
Asmander saw, and certainly it was the women who had made
the larger beasts. They had the long limbs and spare frames of
the Plains people, and that skin like bright copper. The men had
heads shaved to the scalp, but the women just cut theirs at the
sides and sported coxcomb manes dyed in patterns of gold and
black and red. There was a lot of metal worn at necks and wrists
and ankles: copper, bronze and gold set into plates of bone and
horn.
Many of the women had armour of stiff cotton panels,
though the men wore no more than loincloths and cloaks of
hide. Long-headed spears and javelins were much in evidence,
and Asmander could sense Venater tensing, readying himself for
a fight much as another man’s mouth might fill with saliva at the
scent of food.
‘Are we not welcome?’ The Horse people’s Hetman, Eshmir,
spread her hands. She was the only one amongst the visitors not
armed at all. ‘Perhaps your Malikah may wish some talk with us
– or with these our guests?’
The leader of the Laughing Men, the oldest-looking of the
women there whose skin bore the memories of many fights,
nodded easily. They all smiled readily, these Plains people.
Everything seemed to amuse them, and no doubt killing these
new arrivals would just make them smile more. Asmander liked
that honesty about them.
‘Who are these, your guests?’ their leader asked.
The Hetman offered Asmander a small nod, letting him know
that the Laughing Men expected visitors to speak for themselves.
‘I am the First Son of Asman,’ he announced. ‘I am a Champion of the River Lords.’ He watched their faces to see if that
meant the same to them as it did to his own people, and was
satisfied to see that it did: enough widened eyes and thoughtful
glances there to know that they understood him. He looked to
Venater, who was scowling and plainly not about to play along,
leaving Asmander with the difficult job of introducing him. He
would rather I humiliate him than he has to do it to himself. ‘This
man is Venater, sworn to my family.’ It was the kindest way to
say it, for all that he probably owed his companion no kindness.
Better than, ‘a notorious but ultimately failed pirate’, certainly.
‘A little trade, a little talk, gifts.’ The Hetman displayed her
open hands.
himself, with a slight smile.
The shapes the Laughing Men took were not like lions, nor
like dogs, but some distant cousin of both, or neither. The largest
had shoulders that would rise to the hollow beneath Asmander’s
ribs, and the least of them would come up to his waist. They
were made oddly, forequarters broadly muscled, and front limbs
longer than the rear. A crest of hair ran down their spines and
their pelts were tawny and spotted with ragged patches of black.
Their heads were vulpine, heavy-jawed, with baleful dark eyes.
When they yawned, they showed a nest of dagger teeth that
would give even a River Lord pause. As they approached, one
or another would let out a weird cackle unpleasantly close to a
human laugh.
By standing there as they were, with all their weapons on
display, the Horse were signalling that they came without deceit.
Asmander wondered idly if that would work with these ferocious-looking creatures. There were few who lived along the
head of the Tsotec who had any kind words for the Plains tribes,
although perhaps that was just because the only examples that
came their way tended to be raiding parties.
For a moment, while the Horse stood firm, the Laughing
Men coursed around them, sniffing and heckling, thrusting their
noses at their visitors and baring their fangs in disconcerting
grins. Then they had drawn off a little, though still in a loose
crescent that penned their visitors against the water.
They Stepped lazily, almost seeming to stretch out into
human form as though waking from dreams of blood and carrion. There were more women amongst them than men,
Asmander saw, and certainly it was the women who had made
the larger beasts. They had the long limbs and spare frames of
the Plains people, and that skin like bright copper. The men had
heads shaved to the scalp, but the women just cut theirs at the
sides and sported coxcomb manes dyed in patterns of gold and
black and red. There was a lot of metal worn at necks and wrists
and ankles: copper, bronze and gold set into plates of bone and
horn.
Many of the women had armour of stiff cotton panels,
though the men wore no more than loincloths and cloaks of
hide. Long-headed spears and javelins were much in evidence,
and Asmander could sense Venater tensing, readying himself for
a fight much as another man’s mouth might fill with saliva at the
scent of food.
‘Are we not welcome?’ The Horse people’s Hetman, Eshmir,
spread her hands. She was the only one amongst the visitors not
armed at all. ‘Perhaps your Malikah may wish some talk with us
– or with these our guests?’
The leader of the Laughing Men, the oldest-looking of the
women there whose skin bore the memories of many fights,
nodded easily. They all smiled readily, these Plains people.
Everything seemed to amuse them, and no doubt killing these
new arrivals would just make them smile more. Asmander liked
that honesty about them.
‘Who are these, your guests?’ their leader asked.
The Hetman offered Asmander a small nod, letting him know
that the Laughing Men expected visitors to speak for themselves.
‘I am the First Son of Asman,’ he announced. ‘I am a Champion of the River Lords.’ He watched their faces to see if that
meant the same to them as it did to his own people, and was
satisfied to see that it did: enough widened eyes and thoughtful
glances there to know that they understood him. He looked to
Venater, who was scowling and plainly not about to play along,
leaving Asmander with the difficult job of introducing him. He
would rather I humiliate him than he has to do it to himself. ‘This
man is Venater, sworn to my family.’ It was the kindest way to
say it, for all that he probably owed his companion no kindness.
Better than, ‘a notorious but ultimately failed pirate’, certainly.
‘A little trade, a little talk, gifts.’ The Hetman displayed her
open hands.
Similar Books
