Those in.the first circle, I surmised, were relatives of the Narcheska, while those who stood closest to the hearth would be her most immediate family. They were almost all women. All of the Narwhal women shared an intent, almost fierce air. The tension in that part of the room was palpable. I wondered which one was her mother, and wondered, too, what we awaited.

Absolute silence fell. Then four Narwhal clansmen carried a wizened little woman down the stairs and into the hall. She rode in a chair fashioned from twisty pieces of gleaming willow-wood and cushioned with bearskins. Her thin white hair was braided and pinned in a crown to her head- Her eyes were very black and bright. She wore a red robe and the narwhal motif was repeated in tiny ivory buttons sewn all over it. The men set her chair down, not on the floor, but upon a heavy table where she could remain seated and still look out over all those who had gathered in her house. With a small whimper of complaint, the old woman straightened herself in the chair, sitting tall and gazing at the folk who had gathered. Her pink tongue wet her wrinkled lips. Heavy fur slippers dangled on her skinny feet.

'Well! Here we all are!' she proclaimed.

She spoke the words in Outislander, loudly, as old folks who are going deaf are prone to do. She did not seem as mindful of the formality of the situation, nor as tense as the other women.

The Great Mother of the Narwhal Clan leaned forward, her gnarled hands gripping the twisted wood of the chair arms. 'So. Send him out, then. Who seeks to court our Elliania, our Narcheska of the Narwhals? Where is the warrior bold enough to seek the mothers' permission to bed with our daughter?'

I am sure those were not the words Dutiful had been told to expect. His face was the colour of beetroot as he stepped forward. He made a warrior's obeisance before the old woman and spoke in clear Outislander as he proclaimed, 'I stand before the mothers of the Narwhal Clan, and seek permission to join my line with yours.'

She stared at him for a moment and then scowled, not at him, but at one of the young men who had borne her chair. What is a Six Duchies slave doing here? Is he a gift? And why is he trying to speak our language and doing such a horrible job of it? Cut his tongue out if he attempts it again!'

There was a sudden silence, broken by a wild whoop of laughter from someone in the back of the room, quickly muffled. Somehow, Dutiful kept his aplomb, and was wise enough not to attempt to explain himself to the incensed Mother. A woman from the Narcheska's contingent stepped to the Mother's side and stood

on tiptoe, whispering frantically to her. The Mother waved her off irritably.

'Stop all that hissing and spitting, Almata! You know I can't hear a word when you talk like that! Where is Peottre?' She glanced around as if she'd misplaced a shoe, then lifted her eyes and scowled at Peottre. 'There he is! You know that I hear him best. What is he doing way over there? Get here, you insolent rascal, and explain to me what this is about!'

There would have been a sweet humour to watching the old woman order the seasoned warrior about if his face had not betrayed such worry. He strode over to her, went down briefly on one knee and then stood up. She lifted one root-like hand and settled it on his shoulder. 'What is this about?' she demanded.

'Oerttre,' he said quietly. I suspect his deep voice reached her old . ears better than the woman's shrill whisper had. 'It's about Oerttre. Remember?'

'Oerttre,' she said, and her eyes brimmed suddenly with tears. She looked around the room. 'And Kossi? Little Kossi, too? Is she here, then? Come home to us at last?'

'No,' Peottre said shortly. 'They're not here, neither one of them. And that is what this is about. Remember? We talked about it in the garden, this morning. Remember?' He nodded at her slowly, encouraging her.

She watched his face and nodded slowly with him, and then stopped. She shook her head once. 'No,' she cried out in a low voice. 'I don't remember. The alyssum has stopped blooming, and the plums may be sour this year. I remember we spoke of that. But . . . no. Peottre, was it important?'

'It was, Great Mother. It is. Very important.'

She looked troubled and then suddenly angry. 'Important, important! Important, says a man, but what do men know?' Her old voice, cracked and shrill, rose in anger and derision. Her thin hand slapped her thigh in disgust. 'Bedding and blood-shedding, that is all they know, that is all they think is important. What do they know of the sheep to shear and the gardens to be harvested, what do they know of how many barrels of salt-fish for the winter and how many casks of sweet lard? Important? Well, if it's important, let Oerttre

handle it. She is the Mother now, and I should be allowed to rest.' She lifted her hand from Peottre's shoulder and gripped the arms of her chair. 'I need my time to rest!' she complained piteously.

'Yes, Great Mother. Yes, you do. And you should take it now and 1 will see that all is handled as it should be. I promise.' And with these words, Elliania emerged from the shadows at the top of the stairs and hurried down to us. Her lightly shod feet seemed to skim each riser. Half of her hair was pinned up with tiny star pins; the rest flew loose to her shoulders. It did not look intentional. Behind her on the stairs, two young women started to follow her, then halted in horror, whispering to one another. I suspected they had been readying her for her appearance, and she had bolted free of them when she heard the raised voices.

I recognized her bearing more than her form as people parted to let her through. Like Dutiful, she had grown taller in the months since I had last seen her, and all her childish plumpness had melted away, replaced by woman's flesh. As she came past the line of her women, I was not the only Six Duchies man who gasped. Her gown covered her shoulders and back but left bare her proudly up-tilting breasts. Had she rouged her nipples, to make them stand so pink? I wondered, and felt my flesh stir in response. An instant later, I had flung up my walls and Guard your thoughts, I chided Dutiful. He must have heard me, yet he did not flinch. He stared at the Narcheska's bared breasts as if he had never seen a woman's breasts, and in all likelihood, that was possible.

She did not spare a glance for him and his gawking but went straight to the Great Mother. 'I will deal with this, Peottre,' she said in her new woman's voice. Then she spoke to the men who had carried her chair. 'You have heard our Great Mother. She requires her time of rest. Let us all thank her for gracing our gathering this evening, and wish her calm sleep and easy bones.'

There was a murmur of response, echoing the Narcheska's goodnight to the Great Mother, and then the young men took up the old woman's chair and carried her off. The Narcheska stood straight and silent, turning to watch after her until she disappeared into the shadows at the top of the stair. She took a deep breath. The Prince was now staring at her back, at the knob at the top of

her spine bared by her upswept hair and her graceful neck above it. The seamstresses had cut it well, I thought to myself. Not even the edge of her tattoos peeped over it. I saw Chade give Dutiful a tiny jab in the ribs. The young man started as if waking from a dream and discovered a sudden interest in Peottre's feet. Peottre was staring at him flatly, as if he were an ill-mannered dog that might steal meat from the table if he were not watched.

I saw the Narcheska square her shoulders. She turned back to face us all. Her eyes roved over the assembly. The ornament in her hair was made from narwhal's horn. I have no idea how they had wrought that iridescent blue upon it. The tiny star pins sparkled around it, and I no longer had any doubt that the carving that Prince Dutiful had found upon the Treasure Beach had presaged this moment. I was no closer to knowing what that meant, and had no time to think upon it.