(no subject)
Written as I go.
Inakka had half expected to be directed around the manor house to the servants' door, but in this alpha's home, there was no such door because there were no servants. There were only faithful omegas and half-amused packmates who kept their rooms clean themselves, and these cultured creatures gathered in the entrance hall to watch Inakka Haapari stride with eyes of stone and jaw tight-clenched to Nicht Marrin's meeting room.
They glittered--the thought almost made Inakka laugh as her heavy-booted feet pressed clean earth into the soft carpets. They wore jewels and chains and rings that flashed like spearpoints in the moonlight or fish-scales in the early dawn, and for an instant they so reminded her of the Ikika chieftains in their armor of state that she wondered if she was an enemy to be blinded. She wondered if the thought cheered her or disconcerted her.
At last, an albino whelp who introduced herself as Minara pushed out of the crowd of rich and shining wolves and curtsied; she dropped her weight easily and rose just as smoothly, without the slight shiver that might have told Inakka that this curtsy had been cut short like a misguided blow. "The alphas are waiting, Miss Haapari," said Minara--the other members of her pack pulled back as the situation ceased to be interesting, trailing clouds of perfume as a boat trailed streamers of mist on the lake. Where the false scents lingered, the real world could not be perceived.
"Thank you," Inakka answered, and curtsied stiffly in return. The Ikika did not lower themselves to anyone, respect or no respect, and yet something of the albino omega's deep curtsy had touched her.
She had seen that, omega or no, neither did Minara lower herself to anyone.
The polished iron of the door's handle was cold under Inakka's warm, dry fingers, and she pulled the varnished oaken door open with her back straight as an arrow and her right hand curved as if it held a spear.
The three city alphas sat arrayed on the far side of a wide, circular table, speaking to one another in quick whispers as their hands sketched numbers and letters and pictures in the air. The man closest to her, Inakka knew as the Arlen alpha; he had been a country wolf at one time and well-known to Kargoth before a fortuitous hunt in the mountains had led him to the hard, salty smell of gold. The cast of the miner remained in his broad, heavy shoulders and scarred, callused fingers; although he wore his grey hair curled in a fashion that hid the balding patches at his temples, any wolf could smell that the Arlen alpha had crossed that intangible ridge between his prime and the long descent that followed.
The alpha who sat with a heavy sheaf of papers spread out before her was the most familiar of the three--as old as Kargoth had been, with her white hair tied back in a tight and practical bun, the head of the largest garment industry in all of Deit. She had bought the costly pelts that Kargoth had gone north every winter to seek; she had coolly accepted the mink and fox furs when Inakka had come to keep Kargoth's appointment, assuring the Ikika alpha that her rates would be the same as they always had. Her name was Miss Elenharter, and she had hunted with the country pack long ago, before the arthritis in her knees had all but crippled her. Even as Inakka watched, Miss Elenharter rubbed at her knuckles distractedly, as though the pain were far away.
The last alpha scowled, shaking his curly, dark hair and raising a hand to pound the table; he caught sight of Inakka, though, and instead folded his hands in his lap. That man was Nicht Marrin, her host; of all of the city wolves, his pack kept the most to themselves and out of the forests. His eyes burned, dark and narrowed with scrutiny, and the light of the chandelier carved his cheeks as hollow as the flooded river-valleys.
He was the one whom she would need to convince.
"Good evening," said Inakka from the door, resolutely refusing to play the game of finding her place at the table. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me."
"In light of Kargoth's death," said Miss Elenharter, leaning forward in her seat, "There seems little else that we could do in good conscience. All of us know the confusion that follows the death of an alpha."
"And some of us know the danger of a flood." The Arlen alpha not only stood, but came around the table to take Inakka's thin hands in one of his own. "It's hard for a body to get back on his feet." He smelled of papers and sealing wax, and of course he smelled of gold, but with an almost physical shiver of relief Inakka realized that the Arlen alpha smelled most of all of plain flesh and plain clothes. He smelled like a real person, and the thought cheered her as even Minara's honest curtsy had not.
Miss Elenharter peered at Inakka across the table, rubbing each knuckle in turn as though invoking a charm. Her eyes were clear and grey, like a sheet of ice over deep waters. "Arlen and I will be more than willing to provide your pack with money to start your farms again--within reason, of course. I should hate to hear that some of you country wolves have taken up farming expensive furniture and twenty-member orchestras," she chuckled. She had a rich voice that didn't match her cold, shuttered eyes, and a thin smile that did so perfectly. "I don't suppose that we have to worry about any extravagances from you, though. Kargoth has told me over and over that you are an extremely level-headed and competent alpha."
Arlen and I. The other words had vanished; the other words had trailed away into smoke behind Arlen and I. "Thank you," Inakka said. She clenched her right hand, though, as she asked, "And Mr. Marrin?"
The city wolf leapt to his feet with eyes like brushfire and grasping hands white-knuckled on the edge of the table. "I have told these two," he hissed. "I have told these two that this flood had destroyed one of my suppliers, and unless I can help them to rebuild, my entire pack may go bankrupt."
"Her entire pack is," snapped Miss Elenharter. "Watch your tongue, pup."
"When this mess has been sorted out, I will help you," Nicht Marrin growled over the older alpha's admonition. "When our supplier has rebuilt and begun producing again, I promise you on my own life, I will help you--but I cannot help you now."
+ + + + +
Inakka shook all of the city alphas' hands when she left, but she did not linger on Nicht Marrin's.
+ + + + +
The rug in Kargoth's cabin was warm and soft in the lazy firelight, and Inakka lay curled on the fur with her eyes closed and her dark hair unbound, feeling the heat caress her bare limbs. Takka had taken the sturdy wooden chair and sat with his ankle crossed over his knee, reading a book by the red, red light--Inakka could hear the pages turn every so often, and she sometimes heard her brother read aloud in Ikika. The harsh cadence beat on her consciousness in a summer storm of syllables that only the Haaparis knew, and with her eyes closed . . . with her eyes closed, she could imagine that the sound of Uri stirring the soup was the sound of paddles on Tuurrapa lake. She could imagine that she was home again.
As she rolled onto her back to stare at Kargoth's rafters, Inakka wondered if that was why the Haaparis had taken so easily to the stranger Seyah--if it was because, of all of their pack, only the dEbweme and the Ikika knew what it was to be foreign. She wondered if that was why, when she looked across the breakfast table into yellow eyes set into a high-cheeked, golden face, she felt a kinship that was part a sister's love and part longing.
She closed her eyes again, and she wondered if that current of longing was why she felt Ikikonnen so strongly today.
Inakka let the fire warm her right arm and dance heat across her right leg, and she remembered Ipaara.
Inakka had half expected to be directed around the manor house to the servants' door, but in this alpha's home, there was no such door because there were no servants. There were only faithful omegas and half-amused packmates who kept their rooms clean themselves, and these cultured creatures gathered in the entrance hall to watch Inakka Haapari stride with eyes of stone and jaw tight-clenched to Nicht Marrin's meeting room.
They glittered--the thought almost made Inakka laugh as her heavy-booted feet pressed clean earth into the soft carpets. They wore jewels and chains and rings that flashed like spearpoints in the moonlight or fish-scales in the early dawn, and for an instant they so reminded her of the Ikika chieftains in their armor of state that she wondered if she was an enemy to be blinded. She wondered if the thought cheered her or disconcerted her.
At last, an albino whelp who introduced herself as Minara pushed out of the crowd of rich and shining wolves and curtsied; she dropped her weight easily and rose just as smoothly, without the slight shiver that might have told Inakka that this curtsy had been cut short like a misguided blow. "The alphas are waiting, Miss Haapari," said Minara--the other members of her pack pulled back as the situation ceased to be interesting, trailing clouds of perfume as a boat trailed streamers of mist on the lake. Where the false scents lingered, the real world could not be perceived.
"Thank you," Inakka answered, and curtsied stiffly in return. The Ikika did not lower themselves to anyone, respect or no respect, and yet something of the albino omega's deep curtsy had touched her.
She had seen that, omega or no, neither did Minara lower herself to anyone.
The polished iron of the door's handle was cold under Inakka's warm, dry fingers, and she pulled the varnished oaken door open with her back straight as an arrow and her right hand curved as if it held a spear.
The three city alphas sat arrayed on the far side of a wide, circular table, speaking to one another in quick whispers as their hands sketched numbers and letters and pictures in the air. The man closest to her, Inakka knew as the Arlen alpha; he had been a country wolf at one time and well-known to Kargoth before a fortuitous hunt in the mountains had led him to the hard, salty smell of gold. The cast of the miner remained in his broad, heavy shoulders and scarred, callused fingers; although he wore his grey hair curled in a fashion that hid the balding patches at his temples, any wolf could smell that the Arlen alpha had crossed that intangible ridge between his prime and the long descent that followed.
The alpha who sat with a heavy sheaf of papers spread out before her was the most familiar of the three--as old as Kargoth had been, with her white hair tied back in a tight and practical bun, the head of the largest garment industry in all of Deit. She had bought the costly pelts that Kargoth had gone north every winter to seek; she had coolly accepted the mink and fox furs when Inakka had come to keep Kargoth's appointment, assuring the Ikika alpha that her rates would be the same as they always had. Her name was Miss Elenharter, and she had hunted with the country pack long ago, before the arthritis in her knees had all but crippled her. Even as Inakka watched, Miss Elenharter rubbed at her knuckles distractedly, as though the pain were far away.
The last alpha scowled, shaking his curly, dark hair and raising a hand to pound the table; he caught sight of Inakka, though, and instead folded his hands in his lap. That man was Nicht Marrin, her host; of all of the city wolves, his pack kept the most to themselves and out of the forests. His eyes burned, dark and narrowed with scrutiny, and the light of the chandelier carved his cheeks as hollow as the flooded river-valleys.
He was the one whom she would need to convince.
"Good evening," said Inakka from the door, resolutely refusing to play the game of finding her place at the table. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me."
"In light of Kargoth's death," said Miss Elenharter, leaning forward in her seat, "There seems little else that we could do in good conscience. All of us know the confusion that follows the death of an alpha."
"And some of us know the danger of a flood." The Arlen alpha not only stood, but came around the table to take Inakka's thin hands in one of his own. "It's hard for a body to get back on his feet." He smelled of papers and sealing wax, and of course he smelled of gold, but with an almost physical shiver of relief Inakka realized that the Arlen alpha smelled most of all of plain flesh and plain clothes. He smelled like a real person, and the thought cheered her as even Minara's honest curtsy had not.
Miss Elenharter peered at Inakka across the table, rubbing each knuckle in turn as though invoking a charm. Her eyes were clear and grey, like a sheet of ice over deep waters. "Arlen and I will be more than willing to provide your pack with money to start your farms again--within reason, of course. I should hate to hear that some of you country wolves have taken up farming expensive furniture and twenty-member orchestras," she chuckled. She had a rich voice that didn't match her cold, shuttered eyes, and a thin smile that did so perfectly. "I don't suppose that we have to worry about any extravagances from you, though. Kargoth has told me over and over that you are an extremely level-headed and competent alpha."
Arlen and I. The other words had vanished; the other words had trailed away into smoke behind Arlen and I. "Thank you," Inakka said. She clenched her right hand, though, as she asked, "And Mr. Marrin?"
The city wolf leapt to his feet with eyes like brushfire and grasping hands white-knuckled on the edge of the table. "I have told these two," he hissed. "I have told these two that this flood had destroyed one of my suppliers, and unless I can help them to rebuild, my entire pack may go bankrupt."
"Her entire pack is," snapped Miss Elenharter. "Watch your tongue, pup."
"When this mess has been sorted out, I will help you," Nicht Marrin growled over the older alpha's admonition. "When our supplier has rebuilt and begun producing again, I promise you on my own life, I will help you--but I cannot help you now."
+ + + + +
Inakka shook all of the city alphas' hands when she left, but she did not linger on Nicht Marrin's.
+ + + + +
The rug in Kargoth's cabin was warm and soft in the lazy firelight, and Inakka lay curled on the fur with her eyes closed and her dark hair unbound, feeling the heat caress her bare limbs. Takka had taken the sturdy wooden chair and sat with his ankle crossed over his knee, reading a book by the red, red light--Inakka could hear the pages turn every so often, and she sometimes heard her brother read aloud in Ikika. The harsh cadence beat on her consciousness in a summer storm of syllables that only the Haaparis knew, and with her eyes closed . . . with her eyes closed, she could imagine that the sound of Uri stirring the soup was the sound of paddles on Tuurrapa lake. She could imagine that she was home again.
As she rolled onto her back to stare at Kargoth's rafters, Inakka wondered if that was why the Haaparis had taken so easily to the stranger Seyah--if it was because, of all of their pack, only the dEbweme and the Ikika knew what it was to be foreign. She wondered if that was why, when she looked across the breakfast table into yellow eyes set into a high-cheeked, golden face, she felt a kinship that was part a sister's love and part longing.
She closed her eyes again, and she wondered if that current of longing was why she felt Ikikonnen so strongly today.
Inakka let the fire warm her right arm and dance heat across her right leg, and she remembered Ipaara.