‘Friendship between the Laughing Men and the
Horse Society. Friendship between the Laughing Men and
the friends of the Horse.’
The woman who led these Laughing Men regarded them
haughtily for a moment, as though contemplating driving them
back into the river. Then she laughed, and the sound was just as
they had made when Stepped into their animal shapes – wild
and mad. ‘Come, then. The Malikah likes gifts, and her mates
like trade. Friends? We shall see.’
Dwellings of the Sun River Nation tended to be at least half
underground, digging into the cool earth to ward off the daily
height of the sun. The village of the Laughing Men, however,
was all in the earth, barely rising above the level of the ground.
Although their goat and cattle pens stood out, Asmander saw
little sign of an actual settlement until they were nearly upon it,
and he realized that the thirty or so raised mounds of dry grass
were actually roofs. They lived in pits, did the Laughing Men, a
scattering of holes in the ground, secluded and sheltered, with
no fear of flooding in this dry land. He thought it all looked
barren and primitive, but then the Plains life was not about
showing your wealth to the sky. When they had come to the
biggest hut, and descended the steps carved into the packed
earth, he found the area within was surprisingly spacious,
three-levelled and with the largest room being the deepest. The
day was ebbing, and at first Asmander was just stepping down
into darkness, twitchy with a sudden sense of danger. Up above
though, children were already letting down pots of flame, suspending them by ropes from the spars that supported the roof,
making an elaborate constellation that cast a thousand patterns
of light and shadow all about the curving walls. There were
paintings there, intricate and complex: human and animal figures, abstract designs, mountains and rivers. A hundred legends
had been sketched out and intermingled in bright colours
around the confines of the Malikah’s home.
Most of the Horse party were being hosted elsewhere. Only
the Hetman, her chief trader and her two southern guests had
the honour of meeting the ruler of these Laughing Men. The
trader became almost immediately ensconced with a pair of the
locals, falling to discussing commodities for the coming year
with an ease that told Asmander that all this threat and show
was a ritual path both sides had trodden many times before. It
was the first such sign: till then he had begun to wonder if these
Plains people were sharpening their bronze knives for the
throats of their guests.
The Malikah of the Laughing Men was a woman as old as
Venater, and looking just as battle-scarred. She wore a cloak
striped with many colours, and a leather headband set with the
teeth of lions rested in her tawny hair. She had a fierce beauty
about her, as did so many of these Plains people. Every sign of
the hunt and the fight that had marked her skin only added to
her sense of presence, and now she fixed Asmander with a
frankly acquisitive stare.
‘Champion of the River Lords,’ she addressed him. ‘But you
are no more than a boy.’
‘I am as you see me,’ he replied, sitting across the floor from
her. ‘So young and yet a Champion.’
‘Asmander, First Son of Asman. Your father must be proud.’
He kept his smile steady, although for a second it was difficult. ‘The honour of our family rests in me, Malikah.’
‘And so he casts it away?’
For a moment he wondered what she had been told, but no
. . . she was simply fishing, dangling a paw in the water to see
what she might catch. ‘The cold north calls to me. I would see
the snows of winter.’
Her eyes turned to his companion. ‘And you must be a young
man too, even with your old face. Venater,’ making great play
with the end of his name, that juvenile suffix, ‘your father, is he
proud also?’
‘I am all of my house.’ Venater met her gaze steadily.
‘But you have
Horse Society. Friendship between the Laughing Men and
the friends of the Horse.’
The woman who led these Laughing Men regarded them
haughtily for a moment, as though contemplating driving them
back into the river. Then she laughed, and the sound was just as
they had made when Stepped into their animal shapes – wild
and mad. ‘Come, then. The Malikah likes gifts, and her mates
like trade. Friends? We shall see.’
Dwellings of the Sun River Nation tended to be at least half
underground, digging into the cool earth to ward off the daily
height of the sun. The village of the Laughing Men, however,
was all in the earth, barely rising above the level of the ground.
Although their goat and cattle pens stood out, Asmander saw
little sign of an actual settlement until they were nearly upon it,
and he realized that the thirty or so raised mounds of dry grass
were actually roofs. They lived in pits, did the Laughing Men, a
scattering of holes in the ground, secluded and sheltered, with
no fear of flooding in this dry land. He thought it all looked
barren and primitive, but then the Plains life was not about
showing your wealth to the sky. When they had come to the
biggest hut, and descended the steps carved into the packed
earth, he found the area within was surprisingly spacious,
three-levelled and with the largest room being the deepest. The
day was ebbing, and at first Asmander was just stepping down
into darkness, twitchy with a sudden sense of danger. Up above
though, children were already letting down pots of flame, suspending them by ropes from the spars that supported the roof,
making an elaborate constellation that cast a thousand patterns
of light and shadow all about the curving walls. There were
paintings there, intricate and complex: human and animal figures, abstract designs, mountains and rivers. A hundred legends
had been sketched out and intermingled in bright colours
around the confines of the Malikah’s home.
Most of the Horse party were being hosted elsewhere. Only
the Hetman, her chief trader and her two southern guests had
the honour of meeting the ruler of these Laughing Men. The
trader became almost immediately ensconced with a pair of the
locals, falling to discussing commodities for the coming year
with an ease that told Asmander that all this threat and show
was a ritual path both sides had trodden many times before. It
was the first such sign: till then he had begun to wonder if these
Plains people were sharpening their bronze knives for the
throats of their guests.
The Malikah of the Laughing Men was a woman as old as
Venater, and looking just as battle-scarred. She wore a cloak
striped with many colours, and a leather headband set with the
teeth of lions rested in her tawny hair. She had a fierce beauty
about her, as did so many of these Plains people. Every sign of
the hunt and the fight that had marked her skin only added to
her sense of presence, and now she fixed Asmander with a
frankly acquisitive stare.
‘Champion of the River Lords,’ she addressed him. ‘But you
are no more than a boy.’
‘I am as you see me,’ he replied, sitting across the floor from
her. ‘So young and yet a Champion.’
‘Asmander, First Son of Asman. Your father must be proud.’
He kept his smile steady, although for a second it was difficult. ‘The honour of our family rests in me, Malikah.’
‘And so he casts it away?’
For a moment he wondered what she had been told, but no
. . . she was simply fishing, dangling a paw in the water to see
what she might catch. ‘The cold north calls to me. I would see
the snows of winter.’
Her eyes turned to his companion. ‘And you must be a young
man too, even with your old face. Venater,’ making great play
with the end of his name, that juvenile suffix, ‘your father, is he
proud also?’
‘I am all of my house.’ Venater met her gaze steadily.
‘But you have
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