“Very well,” Ettook said. He looked at Seel. “Say then.”

Seel drew himself up and quivered all over. He hawked and dislodged his phlegm in the fire, and cried, “I myself marked him as a warrior is marked. He was not willing, speaking oaths and struggling. When the other boys rose up men, he was groaning and insensible. The herb woman must tend him for a fever. Then I came and witnessed him bare, and saw the One-Eyed had punished him for his cowardice and weakness.”

I was dressed in winter gear like the rest, shirt laced and a cloak over it. They would see nothing yet. Seel leaned forward, scrabbling through the air at me.

“Take off the garment. Strip, strip and show your wretched shame.”

The warriors were rock still, waiting. Ettook grinned and scowled at once. Seel-Na’s eyes sparkled through their shireen eye-holes. I made no move and Seel’s attitude exploded into a hopping, frothing dance on the ledge.

Having incensed him before, there seemed nothing to gain by holding out any longer.

“Be careful, grandfather,” I said to him courteously. “Your old bones must be brittle, you should be more gentle with yourself.”

“What is this shame?” Ettook snapped finally, impatience wiping his face over like a cloth. “You must answer, Tuvek.”

“Very well. I answer. The old madman there did his work so poorly with the needles that my flesh healed without a sign.”

I opened my shirt and showed them, and they grunted and jumped down the slope to get a better view, save for Ettook, Seel, and the fruit of Seel’s loins.

They were puzzled, the warriors. They prowled around me, lowering under their ginger brows, then went back toward the cave in a bunch. One said, “He is not warrior.” That was all that was needed. Everyone took up the howl.

At this, even though I had been waiting for it, the fury came up in me like a flood tide. My voice had broken early; from my twelfth year I spoke like a man. I filled my lungs and I roared loud enough to drown the lot of them.

“So I am not a warrior? Let each warrior who thinks I am a boy still come here and fight me. That is fair, I think.”

That quieted them. They glanced about, wondering whether to gibe or kill me, which was a hard decision for their fleas’ minds.

High on the ledge, Ettook laughed.

“My son is valiant,” he said. “He has fourteen years and seeks to slay grown men.”

“Do you require me to kill them?” I asked him. “Is it to the death? I’m ready.”

I had only my boy’s knife, but it was to hand, and I had spent some minutes sharpening it before I came.

Ettook glanced about at the warriors, still laughing. Seel cracked his knuckles, and the bitch-daughter had let the beer boil over.

“Yes,” Ettook said abruptly, “this matter of the patterns. Maybe there is some mistake; the sweat of the fever has washed out the inks. Let him prove himself. Let him fight. If he can best a warrior, he shall be a warrior. I am the chief, that’s my word. You, Distik. Give him one of your own knives and use the other. Don’t be easy on him just because he’s my blood.”