Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [21]
There were some two dozen of the felt huts, which I later learned to call gers, in the camp. At close range, they were much larger and more substantial than I had reckoned, and infinitely more sophisticated than the simple tent that the storm had snatched away from me, thick felt layered on dome-shaped lattices. All the gers faced south, with brightly painted wooden doors. Smoke drifted from a hole at the top of each dome.
My hostess led me to the ger with the most elaborately painted doorway, ushering me inside.
Warmth struck me—warmth, and the smell of the rich, salty tea she had brought me. There were thick woolen carpets woven with intricate designs covering the floor of the ger, keeping the cold of the frozen ground at bay. Overhead, the poles of the lattice framework radiated like the spokes of a great wagon-wheel. Beneath the smoke-hole, two pots simmered atop an iron stove. I inhaled deeply, letting the blanket slide from my shoulders. My hostess smiled and took the empty bowl from my hand, then said somewhat in a formal tone.
I bowed in response. Even if she couldn’t understand my words, it seemed important to speak them aloud. “May all the gods bless you for your hospitality and generosity, my lady.”
“Eh?” On the far side of the ger, a seated figure lifted a wizened face, cupping one ear. Her bright eyes squinted in a parchment map of wrinkled skin. With an effort, the oldest woman I’d ever seen in my life, older than Old Nemed of the Maghuin Dhonn, dragged herself to her feet and hobbled across the carpets.
My hostess offered her what sounded like a bemused explanation.
The old woman nodded absently, peering at me. She had to crane her neck since a hump atop her spine wouldn’t allow her to stand entirely straight. Licking her weathered lips, she essayed a question, starting and stopping several times, pausing to search her memory. At last she got it out, each syllable rusted and creaky. “Did I hear you speak the scholar’s tongue of Shuntian?”
I blinked in surprise. “Yes, Grandmother.”
“Thought so.” She poked me in the breast-bone with one gnarled finger, her eyes sharp and inquisitive. “Who are you? What are you? And why in the world are you here?”
My hostess glanced back and forth between us, perplexity on her kind face. A boy toddler wobbled over to clutch at her coat; another child, a young girl, sidled up behind her, peeking out at me.
“I am Moirin,” I said politely. “Moirin mac Fainche of the Maghuin Dhonn. And as to what that means and why I am here, I fear it is a very long story.”
“Oh, good.” The old woman doubled over and coughed deep in her chest, then straightened to the best of her abilities, dark eyes glinting at me in her wrinkled face. She yawned widely, covering her mouth to hide it. “And after I’ve finished my morning nap, you can tell it to me.” She turned to hobble away, offering one last comment over her shoulder. “And take your time about it, because it’s going to be a long winter.”
EIGHT
So it came to pass that I wintered amongst a Tatar tribe.
It wasn’t my intention to stay with them, but from the beginning, it was obvious that the weather gave me little choice. Once winter arrived in earnest, even the hardy, nomadic Tatars with all their knowledge of surviving on the plains settled in for the duration.
On that first morning, I sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor of the ger, feeling awkward at my unintentional imposition, trying to stay out of the way while I waited for the old woman to finish her nap. My pregnant hostess brought me a bowl of hot, stewed meat to eat. I accepted it gratefully. When I had finished, the little girl—her daughter, I guessed—approached me shyly at her mother’s urging. With gestures, she showed me I was meant to wipe the bowl clean with my fingers, gathering the last of the juices. She bobbed her head in cautious approval when I obeyed.
The boy tending to my horses entered the ger along with