“Why, the—” Helge thought for a moment—“well, it’s the head of the household’s wealth, but doesn’t the woman’s mother have something to do with determining how much goes into it?”

“Exactly.” The duchess nodded. “Braids cross three families, alternating every couple of generations so that issues of consanguinity don’t arise but the Clan gift—the recessive gene—is preserved. To organize a braid takes some kind of continuity across at least three generations. A burden which naturally falls on the eldest women of the Clan. Men don’t count: men tend to go and get themselves killed fighting silly duels. Or in wars. Or blood feuds. Or they sire bastards who then become part of the outer families and a tiresome burden. They—the bastards—can’t world-walk, but some of their issue might, or their grandchildren. So we must keep track of them and find something useful for them to do—unlike the rest of the nobility here we have an incentive to look after our by-blows. I think we’re lucky, in that respect, to have a matrilineal succession—other tribal societies I studied in my youth, that were patrilineal, were not nice places to be born female. Whichever and whatever, the lineage is preserved largely by the old women acting in concert. A conspiracy of matchmakers, if you like. The ‘old bitches’ as everyone under sixty tends to call them.” The duchess frowned. “It doesn’t seem quite as funny now I’m sixty-two.”

“Um.” Helge leaned towards her mother. “You’re telling me Hildegarde wasn’t acting alone? Or she was being pressured by her mother? Or what?”

“Oh, she’s an evil bitch in her own right,” Patricia waved off the question dismissively. “But yes, she was pressured. She and the other ladies of a certain age don’t have the two things that a young and eligible Clan lady can bargain with: they can’t bear world-walkers, and they can no longer carry heavy loads for the family trade. So they must rely on other, more subtle tools to maintain their position. Like their ability to plait the braids, and to do each other favors, by way of their grandchildren. And when my mother was in her thirties—little older than you are now—she was subjected to much pressure.”

“So there’s this conspiracy of old women—” Helge was grasping after the concept—“who can make everyone’s life a misery?”