The One Female glanced over at her mate, and though Firekeeper couldn't tell how, in the fashion of married couples of all types, he communicated his answer to his mate.
"We will let you hunt among us," the One Female said. "Better with us than with one of the other packs. We have some familiarity with the two-legs, and you are interesting."
Firekeeper stiffened at this implication that she was being lumped in with humanity. The One Female guessed the meaning of the wolf-woman's reaction and panted laughter.
"Lay down your hackles, Firekeeper. What I mean is that as our hunting grounds border on the place where the humans have their lair, we are more accustomed to seeing them. Thus we are better able to see how you are not entirely like them."
The female hunter broke the silence the pack had held until their Ones had decided how to deal with the strangers.
"Not entirely like," she said softly, her upper lip curling as she scented the air.
All the wolves were closing now, and much sniffing was going on. Firekeeper braced herself to be welcoming, for in all honesty—other than the times her pack had met with others for hunting of larger game and the pleasure of shared company and new voices in the songs—this was her first encounter with so many wolves who were not her family. During all those other times, her parents had been present to assert their authority in her favor.
The wolf pack introduced themselves in order of rank. The One Male and Female were Tangier and Hard Biter. The female hunter was Moon Frost, a descriptive name that told little about her personality. The young two-year-olds still had puppy names. The female was Nipper and the male High Howler. The old male was Neck Breaker, doubtless in memory of some long-ago achievement.
Having decided to let the newcomers hunt among them, the Wise Wolf pack took Firekeeper and Blind Seer back to where this year's pups were denned. There were five pups, three females and two males. Their nursemaid was a sibling of Nipper and Howler, a skinny wolf with a playful attitude. He was called Rascal when his fellows were pleased with him and all manner of insults when they were not.
It was a good-sized pack, though not overwhelmingly so. They could support themselves off of the local deer and small game, with occasional forays for larger game like moose and elk. Indeed, it was not a pack all that different from that in which Firekeeper had been reared, but she couldn't help but feel that these wolves—she decided to continue thinking of them as Wise Wolves, to differentiate them from the Royal Wolves who had raised her—were strange still.
The pack went hunting in the early evening when the day creatures were stupid with sleep and the night creatures not yet fully awake. Firekeeper with her bow acquitted herself well, but the Wise Wolves had lived in proximity to humans for generations. They knew how bows worked, and while mildly pleased to have one on their side, they were not impressed.
Nor were they particularly impressed with her ability to strike fire from flint and steel. Moon Frost sneered at Firekeeper's need to cook her food, but Firekeeper had dealt with several seasons of strong young hunters who needed to prove themselves by mocking those weaker. She bit her tongue and kept silence, though she longed to challenge the other.
And could you win? she asked herself, and had to admit that she was far from certain.
After eating was done, the pack settled in to gossip and nap, interested in what Blind Seer could tell them about the lands to the north. Firekeeper resolved to listen more than speak, determined to learn everything she could, and knowing that the novelty of her would take time to wear off. Better to let them forget that she was there and concentrate on Blind Seer.
Watching the One Male effortlessly crack a bone, Firekeeper wondered at her own arrogance in thrusting herself into this company—especially as she had done so with every intent of telling them she was there to free them from an alien and terrible imprisonment. If these wolves were imprisoned, they certainly felt no shame.
You have been too much among two-legs, Firekeeper thought, and have forgotten how dangerous wolves can be.
It was an unsettling thought to carry with her into sleep.
Varjuna kept the talk focused on horses as they drove to u-Bishinti. He asked when Derian had received his first pony and what type it had been, what had been the first horse he had selected for himself, what his family tended to do with horses past the prime age for work. As the ikidisdu learned more, he asked about the purchasing Derian had been doing for House Kestrel's depleted stables, about the trips Derian had made to horse fairs with his father. Varjuna wanted to know if Derian could drive—as if with a name like "Carter" Derian could not—and what style vehicle he preferred.
At first, Derian thought Varjuna was just making conversation. Then he began to wonder. Varjuna wasn't a subtle man as the politically astute Earl Kestrel was subtle, but he wasn't just a monomaniacal horse fancier either. His reaction to learning about Roanne's death had been indignant and quietly angry, but not shocked, so that Derian began to believe Varjuna had been told in advance.
Who would have told him? Only a small number of people knew: Harjeedian, Barnet, and the sailors who had been on the small ship. Waln might have known, and perhaps the ship's captain, but would they have attached any importance to the event? Waln had been a phantasm after whom Derian and his companions had chased for long moonspans, but they had actually spent very little time in his company. The only way Waln would have learned how fond Derian was of his chestnut mare would have been for someone to tell him.
Harjeedian seemed the most likely source of the information, but try as he might, Derian could not think why he would confess what he had ordered done to Roanne and the pack pony to Varjuna of all people.
Derian filed this away as one of those mysteries for which he lacked sufficient information to find a solution but resolved—as he still resolved to get revenge for Roanne—to somehow learn why Roanne's death should have come to matter enough that Harjeedian had let word of it get to the ears of this most horse-loving of humans.
When they arrived at u-Bishinti, the atmosphere was markedly different. Whereas upon Derian's first visit all but the most senior hands had kept studiously to their work, now everyone turned to look—many to wave a cheerful greeting. Derian suddenly realized that the attentiveness to duty had not been for Varjuna's benefit as he had thought, but had been meant to impress him.
And now I've decided to come for a stay, he thought, and they're happy about it. Is it just because this means that the horse keepers have scored some sort of coup over their fellows or is it something else?
Derian decided he'd learn soon enough. Meanwhile he basked in the warmth of the welcome and luxuriated, as before, in the sight of so much magnificent horseflesh.
Varjuna's house—the residence of the ikidisdu, to be more correct—was a splendid place. It was built, as seemed to be the case for the best buildings in this land, of brick ornamented with mosaic reliefs in enameled brick. These, of course, depicted horses.
One thing immediately caught Derian's eye as Varjuna took him on a quick tour. The entire structure was built on one level, which Derian had already learned was not the rule, and each room either had doorways large enough to admit a horse or was equipped with broad windows clearly intended to permit a horse to poke its head into the room.
"My mother," Derian laughed, "would be horrified. She was always reminding us to close the doors after ourselves. 'You're not down at the stables' is what she'd say."
"I say the same thing," came a calm, level, feminine voice, "but it doesn't make any difference."
Varjuna turned and, with an abbreviated form of the hand gesture that served as the local version of a polite bow, indicated the woman who stood framed in one of the doorways.
"My wife, Zira," he said with evident affection.
Zira was, at first meeting, incredibly plain. Her dark hair was a bit coarse, her teeth stained to the ivory-brown of old bone. Her figure showed the effects of bearing three children and a fondness for nuts dipped in h
oney. Her skin showed that she spent lots of time out-of-doors. Even in her first bloom she had probably never been pretty. Now there were the hints that in old age she would be ugly.
Yet, as Zira joined them for the rest of the house tour, Derian began to be captivated by her personality. She was incredibly vital. She noticed things, whether a butterfly on a flower or the detail in a wall mosaic. Her teeth were stained from a tea she loved, but though she must have drunk thousands of cups of the brew, her expression as she took her first sip held a childlike bliss. Within a short time, Derian was comparing Zira favorably with his own mother—and Vernita Carter still gave ample evidence of why she had been one of the great beauties of her day.
Derian didn't immediately meet Varjuna and Zira's three sons. Two were still living with their parents, but were out at school. The third had graduated to living in the dormitories with the other younger kidisdum and was busy with his duties.
"Are all your children involved with horses?" Derian asked.
"They are, thank goodness," Zira replied, leaning her elbows on the table in order to select just the perfect honeyed nut from the bowl in front of her. "This is not to say that all of them will follow us into keeping or even into the disdum, but they all share our enthusiasm. It would be deadly otherwise."
She went on to tell a story about a family much like their own but associated with bears. The daughter of that family had no empathy with the animals and they in turn sensed her indifference. It led to a great deal of unpleasantness for all concerned.
"However, happily the girl was quite pretty and clever—though not with bears. She married a wool merchant and does very well with the lambs. No use trying to force rain to fall upwards. Water will always follow his own way."
The use of the personal pronoun for what—had Derian's mother said something similar—would have been a purely neutral element with no store of legends associated with it made Derian feel a stranger again. Varjuna might have noticed, for he jumped to his feet.
"Well, we've ample time to inspect at least some of the horses, if you'd be interested."
"Interested!" Derian said, setting down his cup so that it rattled in the saucer. "I can hardly wait."
Zira came with them. She was a kidisdu in her own right, associated with the brood mares.
"It doesn't take another mother to understand what they're going through, the dears," she said, stuffing her feet into very well-used boots, "but it does help. If I won't be in the way, I'll trot along with you."
Varjuna glanced at Derian to make sure Derian didn't mind. Derian felt odd as he realized that he merited some element of respect here. He was used to being a servant—or at least a commoner—and the horse people were treating him more like a noble.
"Please do come," he said. "I'll bet you've seen a good number of the horses we're going to look at into the world."
"I have," Zira agreed placidly, "and their sires and dams as well."
Because Zira was along, Derian had expected that the tour would include the new foals. After all, foals were the hope of every operation, and their antics were—at least in Derian's opinion—the most delightful of any young animal. Since Prancing Steed Stables rarely bred horses, preferring to buy promising young animals already beginning their training, Derian particularly enjoyed seeing other people's foals. Indeed, he had already resolved that, no matter how expensive it was to carry brood mares and foals, he would have at least a few when he founded his own stables.
That was his new idea. During Derian's last trip home, his parents had again gently indicated their hope that he would not stand in the way of his younger brother and sister taking over the family business that should go—were simple legalities followed—to Derian. There were two ways a first born could be disinherited. The first was through legal appeal on the part of his parents—an appeal usually only resorted to in cases of abandonment or criminal behavior. The second was by agreement with the older members of the family. These were scrutinized even more carefully than the first, for it was not unheard of for a parent to try and disinherit an elder child in preference for a favored or more tractable younger child.
Colby and Vernita Carter, however, did not favor their younger children over their elder. Rather, Derian had already exceeded their wildest hopes for his advancement. He was a counselor to the king, had been consulted by the heirs apparent, and had the patronage of Earl Kestrel. As Colby and Vernita saw things, Derian was certain to do as well or better through these connections than he could through the stables.
Derian felt a sudden, familiar pang of homesickness as he remembered his family. He knew it was a normal part of reaching adulthood to discover that the orderly world known since childhood is changing, but that made the sensation no less disturbing.
And, he thought wryly, leaning over a fence rail and concentrating to understand as Varjuna discussed the merits of a particular stud's get, I've had rather a few more changes to my orderly world than is usual, more, I think, than most people experience in a lifetime.
This made him think of Firekeeper. The wolf-woman had been through as much as had Derian—and more. He wondered how she was doing out there on Misheemnekuru, and whether the wolves were anything like what she had expected.
"Hey, Derian!"
A laughing voice brought him back to himself. Derian started, finding Zira waving her hand in his face.
"Sorry," he apologized, feeling himself color. "I must be a bit tired. I was up late last night, making arrangements."
"Would you like to go back to your rooms?" Varjuna asked, beginning to turn that way.
"No, please," Derian said. "If I nap now, I won't sleep later. I'd prefer to keep looking at the horses. I can honestly say I've never seen so many fine animals in one place."
"They are good," Varjuna said. "I've been here sixty-five years and I can honestly say I've never seen finer."
"You say that every year," Zira said fondly.
Derian halted in his tracks.
"Sixty-five?"
"I cheated a little," Varjuna admitted with a chuckle. "I was born here. My parents were aridisdu and kidisdu, so I have a head start on my residency."
"He does look good, doesn't he?" Zira said. "I thought so when I met him twenty-nine years ago when I came to u-Bishinti from a little village to the south. There was Varjuna, without a thought in his head for anything but horses. I said to myself, 'There's the man for you, Zira, my girl—if you can just get him to notice you exist.'"
Varjuna chuckled again. This was clearly an old story and one he liked as much as she did.
"So," Derian said, fumbling for something to say, "I thought you were younger than Varjuna."
"Seventeen years," Zira replied without hesitation. "He's well preserved and I am not so, but we get along like many a stallion and his reliable herd mare."
Later, Derian was to learn that the Liglimom did not grey as quickly as did his people and that their oilier skin kept them from showing lines as early. However, at the time he felt as if he had stumbled into one of those tales of Old World magic wherein sorcerers remained comparatively youthful while those around them aged and died.
"Here's a group you may be particularly interested in," Varjuna said, gesturing to a pasture where a small bachelor herd was grazing in apparent amity. "We haven't cut any of these, waiting to see which show real promise."
Derian immediately knew why Varjuna had indicated this particular group. Superficially, they greatly resembled the Wise Horse who had let him have a ride the evening before. He wondered why he immediately knew that these were not Wise Horses. Unlike Elation and Blind Seer, who had been noticeably larger than the "cousins" of their type, the Wise Horse had not been unduly larger than many domestic horses Derian had known. The answer came to him as quickly.
Although a horse or two raised his head and examined the newcomers—and indeed a couple whickered with recognition and came trotting over—the eyes that examined the humans were bright, inquisitive, and yet lacking t
hat extra penetrating intelligence that Derian had found in Eshinarvash's eyes—and in those of the Royal Beasts he had been fortunate enough to know.
"We call this coloration type 'paint' for rather obvious reasons," Varjuna said, "and to save you from asking, yes, we're breeding for it in imitation of—one might even say homage to—the Wise Horses. They are widely admired, but not one rider in ten thousand can make the claim you now can—to have ridden a Wise Horse."
"I was honored," Derian said sincerely. Then, because he felt vaguely embarrassed—what had he done to deserve the honor, anyhow?—he changed the subject. "I see that these paints are not all black and white, like the gentleman I met last night. There are brown and white, some greys, and even what has to be called a bay."
Varjuna nodded. "It's rare to have more than three colors mixed in. Usually, it's just white and one other. We've tried but never managed to eliminate the white."
Zira sighed. "One time I was at the delivery of a foal and we thought we'd pulled it off. Chestnut coat with darker patches, but there was the white—a big splash of it across the belly and a star on her forehead. Still, she was a good horse nonetheless."
"There's enough variety in the paints to satisfy anyone," Varjuna went on. "They've been an interest of mine since I was a boy."
"I'm not surprised," Derian murmured, for he had heard a note of obsession in the other's voice. "These seem to have mostly blots—for lack of a better word. What else do you get?"
"Spots," Varjuna said, pointing in case the word wasn't in Derian's vocabulary to a handsome stallion grazing at the far side of the pasture. "Sometimes all over like a jaguar, other times clustered. We also get ones with speckles—irregularly shaped spots. Those can be really striking."
Derian touched his own forearm. "I'd call those 'freckles' and I agree, they're quite spectacular."
"Would you like to try that one?" Varjuna asked. "I can have him brought in and saddled up in a heartbeat. One shouldn't choose a horse just on our say-so. So much depends on how the horse and rider relate."
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