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"This is like the palaces of the gods," she blurted.
Actually more like summer camp, Walker thought with some pride. But it's a start.
Alice Hong came up. Ekhnonpa made a bobbing gesture, halfway between a curtsy and a bow, as was due to the senior wife.
"Greetings, my elder sister," she said quietly.
Hong nodded to her, smiling, and went on to Walker in English: "All right, if you like big blond horses. Being a cowboy, I suppose…"
"Tsk, tsk, meow," he replied in the same language. "Everything ready?"
"Yes, oh Master," she said, leading the way into the dining room. "The ru
"Cut the sarcasm-I'm hungry."
The table was set for a dozen, his principal followers. Ekhnonpa looked around at the room, the table with its place settings and candelabra, the chairs-those were only for chieftains, among the Iraiina-and laughed nervously. "I can see that there is much I must learn about helping to run a household of the Eagle People. Much my elder sister Alauza must teach me."
Alice had enough Iraiina by now to understand that. She began to laugh into her wineglass. The other Americans joined her, and the Iraiina looked at the ceiling or the table, anywhere but at the chieftain's bride. Servants scurried in with platters of food and baskets of bread, the candlelight flashing on their silver collars.
"I teach well," Alice said, looking aside at Walker. "Don't I, Will?"
"Not this time," he said in English. "Political considerations, my sweet."
She pouted slightly. "You get all the fun, with this bloody log-cabin harem of yours."
"You've been having a good enough time."
"Pickles and ice cream are nice, but they're no substitute for beef," she said. "There isn't enough of you to go 'round, Will, and now there'll be less, and you've developed a really medieval jealous streak."
"This is the Land of the Double Standard, Alice my medicinal querida." For an instant his face went utterly cold, until she looked aside. "I don't give a shit personally, but I can't afford to lose face, which I would if you strayed. If I lose face, you lose your face. Clear?"
"Clear," she said sullenly. "Pass the peas."
Walker did, then helped Ekhnonpa fill her plate. A fork could be surprisingly difficult if you'd never used one before, and he helped her with that too. He kept her wineglass filled. Before long she was blushing and giggling at him, and leaning closer unconsciously. He gri
"That's fun," Swindapa said, swinging down out of the saddle.
Ian Arnstein stifled a groan. Well, young women are supposed to like horses, he thought. He didn't, and besides that he looked ridiculous on any but a fairly large one. On the Bronze Age ponies… he'd be lucky if they didn't walk out from underneath him and leave him standing like a straddle-legged statue. There'd been a Viking chief with that problem; they'd called him Hrolf Ganger, Hrolf the Walker.
The big barn had two sawdust riding rings inside it, and the board walls cut the chill a little… a very little. It smelled of the sweat and other by-products of horses, despite the snow that lay three inches deep outside. Cynthia Kelton had rented stable space before the Event, to support her habit-the habit being horses, of course. She was about thirty herself, and she'd been plump before the Event; that showed in the looseness of her jodhpurs. There was a visible glow to her as she tutored Eagle's officers and selected members of the militia who'd be going east with the expeditionary force. She would be along herself, to break in local horses they pla
"Of course it's fun," Kelton said to Swindapa. "And a very promising student you are, too. Nice seat and good hands."
"Better her than me," Arnstein muttered under his breath.
He'd always been convinced that the only purpose a horse served was to take up space that might otherwise be occupied by another large quadruped, say a cow or a camel.
"It's not that bad, Ian," Doreen said, turning out a leg with a riding boot on it to admire the curve.
"I'd rather hoof it myself on shank's mare than saddle myself with one of these things," he said, heading toward the mounting block. "What is it with women and horses?"
"They don't make puns, for starters," she said. "Or leave cracker crumbs in bed."
Marian Alston doubted anything like the Dance of the Departing Moon had been done in Nantucket before. Certainly not by someone in pink bikini briefs spangled with blue flowers. Swindapa was humming to herself as she danced, turning, whirling, leaping, crouching, then slowing to a stately gliding walk in the intricate measure; it was like a ballet laid out by a mathematician with a taste for geometry. Long blond hair spun out in a final spiral as she collapsed gracefully into a pattern of limbs, the fixed look of religious ecstasy fading from her face.
Well, that explains how she picked up the Art so quickly. With that sort of training…
"That will bring our journey luck," the Fiernan said, rising and kneeling up on the sofa at the foot of the bed, elbows on the back and palms supporting her chin. "Oh, it will be good to see my family again! And I'm looking forward to showing you off to everybody, my friends and my uncles and aunts, and having you meet my mother and sisters."
Alston blinked a little. The Fiernan Bohulugi had plenty of taboos. Swindapa wouldn't eat swan, for instance, or eat at all on certain days, or wash clothes or plant in the dark of the moon. But they evidently had different taboos. The thought of acquiring a whole new set of-well, might as well call them in-laws-was a bit daunting. Plus that meant more culture clash. The memory of the day they'd spent going over the concept of monogamy wasn't pleasant; the Fiernan language didn't even have a word for it. And what if she wants to stay home? With an effort, Alston put that thought out of her mind.
She looked out the window; dawn was just breaking, gray through early-spring clouds. "Not worth trying to go back to sleep," she said. The Arnsteins were coming over for a working breakfast, pla
"No, it isn't worthwhile going back to sleep," Swindapa said.
Alston looked down to the foot of the bed. The Fiernan was ski
A hand knocked at the door a little later. "Go away!" Swindapa shouted, laughing.
Alston found herself laughing too; then stiffened as it turned into a long shivering moan. They lay clasped together, and then the knock came again-louder this time, and Ian Arnstein's distinctive mumble. She rolled off the bed and snatched up her bathrobe, belting it on as she strode over to the door.
"This had better be good, Arnstein," she said as she flung it open, trying to make the words a bark and knowing she still had an ear-to-ear smile on. "In case you hadn't noticed, breakfast time isn't for another hour and a half."
It was the scholar, looking extremely nervous, and then blushing slightly as he looked over her shoulder.
"Sorry, Captain." He didn't call her that onshore unless it was a formal occasion or he was very nervous. "It's Martha."