The Summer Palace by Lawrence Watt-Evans Page B

trousers.
    He needed new garments—but learning how to hunt
ara
might well be necessary to his survival, as well, and this was clearly a social step upward, an opportunity not to be missed.
    Especially since he would get a share of the catch. He had been paying for scraps to eat by working for the old women; supplying his own meat for a day or two, and having a few bones to trade, would put him in a much better position.
    He looked up. “A thigh, then?” he suggested.
    The three Uplanders exchanged glances. “All right,” Dancer said.“The smallest thigh, if there’s a difference. Meat and bone and feathers, not hide.”
    Sword glanced at the hides he had already purchased with his efforts. “Fair enough.”
    â€œIn the morning, then,” Fist said.
    Sword nodded. Then, as the others turned away, he leaned over and murmured to Whistler, “Thank you.”
    Whistler nodded in return, but said nothing as he rose and turned to go.
    That night, when Sword slipped into the tent, he noticed Bent Ear lying in bed, looking foul-tempered; a thick bandage was wrapped around his left foot. Sword considered saying something sympathetic, then thought better of it—Bent Ear looked in no mood to appreciate sympathy, even if his Barokanese were good enough to recognize it.
    In the morning Sword was shaken awake; he unrolled from his carpet to find Fist standing over him. The sky outside the tent’s open flap was the dirty gray of pre-dawn.
    â€œCome on,” Fist said.
    Sword came, tugging his clothes into place and slinging his sword on his back—he did not dare leave it unattended in camp. The Clan of the Golden Spear had strong proscriptions against theft, but Sword saw no reason to provide needless temptation.
    â€œYou carry,” Dancer told him as he emerged from the tent. The hunter was holding out a leather-wrapped bundle with three spears thrust through it, protruding from either end.
    Sword accepted the bundle silently and hoisted it onto one shoulder, giving it only a quick glance.
    The spearshafts were polished bone, he noticed, with good steel heads—
barbed
steel heads, razor-sharp and broad. These weren’t intended for crowd control, like the spears the Wizard Lord’s guards carried; these were designed to kill.
    The bundle was lighter than he had expected, and he wondered what else was in it, but he didn’t ask; instead he followed the other three as they set out eastward, toward the approaching dawn, at a trot.
    They were well clear of the camp when Dancer turned and smiled at him. “I’ll wager you’re glad to be free of Stepmother for the day.”
    â€œI appreciate a little variety,” Sword said.
    Fist gave a snort of laughter at that. “Variety!”
    â€œ ‘Freedom’ might be a better word,” Dancer said.
    Sword just smiled in reply; he wasn’t sure just how disrespectful he could be without giving offense.
    The others seemed disappointed by that response, though, so he asked, “Why is she called Stepmother, anyway?”
    â€œBecause that’s what she is,” Fist answered.
    â€œShe’s been married four times and widowed four times,” Dancer explained. “Each time she married a widowed father, but she never bore any children herself. Sometimes it seems like half the clan is her stepchildren or her stepchildren’s children, even though none of us are her blood kin.”
    â€œShe always married men much older than she was,” Fist added.
    â€œWhich she can’t do anymore,” Dancer said. “There aren’t any!”
    Fist laughed at that, while Whistler and Sword smiled.
    â€œSome people say she just wanted to inherit her husbands’ belongings,” Whistler said quietly. “But I never believed it. I don’t think she
wanted
any of them to die.”
    â€œNo, she wanted to raise her place in the clan,” Dancer said. “Each husband