“Here is the slave I spoke of,” I said to her. Chula’s eyes narrowed. “Take her in and give her tribal garb. She has some jewels under her furs, they are mine. But you may keep the silver mask for yourself, if you wish. See she wears the shireen instead.”

“My husband is generous,” Chula said, greedy and suspicious at once. “After that, what?”

“Whatever you like. The slave is yours; put her to work.”

“Has my husband no interest in the matter?”

“None,” I said, for Demizdor’s benefit.

“Then why not give her to a warrior, to my father, Finnuk, perhaps, in return for his portions of meat to me when you were away?”

“I shan’t waste a woman on your father,” I said. “He’s past his prime for that kind of dance. Don’t be hasty, my loving wife. You will find her useful to take some of the load of work off your own bowed shoulders. If she’s lazy, beat her, but not enough to mark her, and never let her out to catch children in her belly. In the future I may be able to trade her to my advantage, so take care.”

“But I may beat her,” she said smartly, “if she is disobedient.”

“As you see fit.”

Demizdor never opened her mouth that I knew, but I had not imagined she would. Chula came forward to her like a cat stealing up on a bird, then grabbed her by the arm and thrust her inside the hen-tent. I tried to think this funny, but the aftertaste was sour.

Ettook never visited my welcoming feast, though several men were there who did not much like me, yet considered it expedient.

Later, I gifted Finnuk and the rest, and they took the presents, simpering like maids at a posy, though I could see they would like a city horse apiece as well. Only Urm grumbled, and said he had already had a present from me, and showed his crippled leg.

When the fire tired into crimson, the warriors rolled home. A mound of dogs lay in among the meat bones, and the sleepless city horses shifted their feet along the picket line.

Chula was in my tent. When I had tied the flap, she sprang on me like a panther, winding me with her limbs and her red hair. She went at me as if she would get three more sons in one night.

She took the edge off my appetite, but nothing else. It was another I needed under me.

Somewhere near dawn, Chula woke me. She stood in the indigo dimness of the tent, and she had put on Demizdor’s dress of scales and the bodice of emeralds, which was too narrow for Chula at the waist and too large for her at the breast, and she was wearing, as well, the deer-mask, and her ruddy mane tangled behind. It was such a parody, I lay and stared at it without a word.

“Is this how she looked,” said Chula, “when you had her?”