“Hah! You have nothing with which to negotiate, girl. A wagon, a pair of broken-down horses, a straggle of a herd, a single chest of poor possessions. You have no man in your tribe, not even sons who can grow.”

“Kiri,” said Mari in an undertone. “Fetch Feder’s saber and give it to Orphan.”

“Heh?”

Mari threw her a stinging look. Kirya was so startled by the intensity of that gaze that she obeyed. She scrounged in the wagon as Mari kept talking, raising her voice so everyone who had gathered to gloat could hear her.

“You can all go back to the confluence unless you have come in good faith to negotiate. The Moroshya tribe is departing today, so if you wish to speak to us, be quick about it.”

Some laughed, while others scoffed. They were vultures, waiting for the dying corpse to stop twitching, only there was nothing holy about their intentions. Kirya walked around behind the wagon, where Orphan hovered well away from Aunt and the other women. She offered him the saber. He stared first at the blade, then at her. She indicated Mariya and pressed the saber against his arms until, reflexively, he took it from her.

Mari said, in a loud voice, “You may all as well witness. That you rodents all scurried over here to sniff for food interrupted my betrothal.”

She turned to look at Orphan, whose eyes grew almost round as he stared at her in surprise. Women have no choice in marriage, of course. While any man, however powerful or poor, could walk up to any woman, however well- or ill-connected, few marriages were founded on such unstable earth as sexual desire or the impulse of a moment.

Mariya could be silly, vain, self-centered, and vague, but the desperate gamble she threw now made her entire body seem larger and more imposing; she was a daughter of the gods, loosing the last arrow left in her quiver.

Orphan caught the shaft at once. He frowned mightily, but his body became taut with expectation and joy. He unsheathed the blade and, like steel taken life, cut past the onlookers to stand in front of Mari with blade extended. She lifted her chin expectantly. Kirya wept silently, and she did not know why.

In the gathered crowd, some tittered, while others drew back as though they could not bear to witness the shame of an orphan marking a headwoman’s daughter, even in a tribe so cast out that it now consisted merely of two adult sisters, a daughter and a niece, and what remained of their paltry herd.

Orphan rested the tip of the blade on Mari’s cheek. She stiffened, preparing herself, and he sliced a short mark, not too deep, into the skin. Blood welled, sliding to her jaw. He did not smile. If anything, he looked more grave.

Mari said, through the pain, “Now you see we have everything we need. A headwoman, her daughter properly wed, and our own herds intact. We may be a poor tribe, but we are not dead. If you have nothing further to say to us, then go.”