There was a hustle of steps behind the door but it remained closed. Nala tapped his toes impatiently. While he waited, he turned to see the Protectorate City of Varnavrat behind him. Compared to Hastinapur, Varnavrat was little more than a village, but it was the nearest thing to a true town the hillsfolk had. This ancient stronghold of the Hastina Union stood at the northernmost end of the Riverlands; a little outcrop of ice and stone, surrounded on three sides by enormous peaks. Just five leagues of hill road separated Hastinapur from Varnavrat, yet they were two different worlds. Nala had heard of how music played in pink-tiled courtyards, and how the air was always sharp with the smell of citrus in Hastinapur. The air of Varnavrat on the other hand, smelled of smoke and dust. While Hastinapur was built of marble, all its streets cobbled, down to every turn and roundabout, Varnavrat was a sprawl of wooden hovels with thatched roofs and mud streets, albeit in a backdrop of white peaks.

The wooden door finally opened and the innkeeper peered out. Nala was neatly dressed in his shishya tunic, his hair cropped short, with just the right smearing of sandalwood paste on his neck. The innkeeper allowed him in but then stopped short as a motley group that straggled in after him. ‘Who are they?’ he shrieked.

‘My family,’ Nala clarified. He could understand the man’s confusion. His mother and five brothers were dressed in traditional forest attire, with an assortment of bone jewellery, and feather fetishes in the hair. Their ash-painted cheeks and hawked noses could scare the toughest townies. The innkeeper scowled. But having opened his door, there was no going back. Northerners took the guest rite of atithi seriously. He hesitantly gestured them in but gave them the farthest room of the inn.

‘I don’t know why we have to sleep here when the woods outside are perfectly comfortable,’ Matre complained in the forest tongue.

‘Oh Matre,’ Nala said with a condescending sigh. ‘It’s time you all experience the wonders of a quilt, and a place we can sleep without one of us having to stand guard.’

‘Rubbish!’ Caani scoffed. ‘I’ll take first watch. Townsfolk are more dangerous than the animals.’

‘They’re rude,’ Iweeth complained. ‘That innkeeper’s wife kept staring at my nose stud and earrings as if she wanted to steal them. I wasn’t staring at her flower necklace now, was I?’

‘Maybe she did want to steal them,’ Caani offered.

‘I will have her know the shaman invested it with spirits to guide only me.’

‘I thought the innkeeper rather muscled for a town man,’ Matre said slyly.

Her children groaned. Valka women never repressed their needs. They rode men in the open and there was little anyone could do about it. Sometimes, Nala could see why the townsfolk were so regressive in their ways. It was to keep their mothers in check.