“Are you human, or demon?” Kirya asked.

The old woman grabbed her hands, clucking over the sores on her wrists as she scolded the old man in a withering harangue which he ended by throwing up his hands and walking away. This impertinence toward the headwoman passed without comment. Kirya found herself led to a long wooden tent with a narrow door guarded by two men holding staffs and barred by wooden beams that must be shifted before the door could be opened.

Inside was a confusing mash of walls, women, cloth, and doors, and beyond it a space surrounded by a high wall. Girls and young women pressed forward to touch her as she was led through their ranks into a place with a pair of vast copper tubs. Now, again, she must strip and bathe, only this time twenty or more females, mostly young but some old, sat on or stood behind benches and stared with eyes wide and whispered comments but not a breath of laughter. The tub soon muddied, and she stepped out to stand dripping on cold tiles. A child brought a cloth, and she dried herself. The old woman fanned herself on a stool as she examined Kirya with the implacable gaze of a headwoman who considers the impact of a stranger come into her tribe.

She gestured. A girl hurried forward to collect Kirya’s discarded clothing. Kirya grabbed for it, but the old woman slapped her on the wrists with a quirt—right where the sores made them most raw—and Kirya yelped and withdrew her hands as she was left naked.

A girl brought perfumed soap, and indicated the other tub, filled with clean water. While Kirya washed herself again, and washed the grime out of her hair, the old woman searched through the soft leather pouch that held Kirya’s mirror, her comb, her cup and spoon, and the beaded nets Mariya had given her. The old woman handled these things and set them aside as of no value. No doubt she could not respect a woman without bow and knife.

Silks were brought, and their colors held up against Kirya’s body, and comments made—yes or no by the swaying of heads and clatter of hands and excited whispers. They dressed her in silk of unspeakable softness, underclothing so smooth it seemed to have the weight of a cloud; loose trousers and a knee-length overtunic slit for walking in a cloth the color of the sky before dawn, more gray than pink. The old woman brushed a gooey salve onto the sores that circled her wrists. It stung, but then the spicy scent relaxed her. The old woman gestured to show she must sit on a stool with arms extended, so the salve could dry.

Giggling, three girls approached her. One had black hair and black eyes, one brown hair and brown eyes, and one hair streaked with a reddish-brown color that matched her complexion.

“Mima. Mima,” said the black haired girl, tapping her chest. She pointed to the others. “Ebba. Ebba. Noria. Noria.” Then she pointed to Kirya. “Yah? Yah?”