The Dreaming: Dark Star (Book 5)

The Teahouse and Dit'teh

Imorah kept her head down as ordered, which was a lot harder than it sounded, mostly because this was the first time she'd ever been in a village, or a camp, or whatever it was. She wanted to look at everything. 

People passed by, offering a quiet hello, but no one seemed to pay them any special attention. Although it was dark and difficult to see anyone's face, she wanted to see what everyone looked like, and how they behaved. Were they all brutes like Liran and his father, or were there some civilized people as well?

But she didn't look up. She just looked at the ground through the narrow opening in her hajab. She followed Liran's feet in the near dark, along a wide, very well-worn foot path between the tents.

Inside the tents she heard lots of people, mostly men, talking—each tent was another conversation she could listen to, although she couldn't understand what they were saying, only the tone of how they were saying it. There were raucous arguments going on, impassioned pleas, annoyed murmurs, and more than a few sexual moans and murmurs.

The tents went on for what seemed like forever, row after row, and one time Imorah caught a glimpse inside one of them, when a flap was held open for someone departing. It looked warm inside, with a cozy fire and carpets on the ground.

Everyone they passed was a man. Imorah wondered if any of the women she could hear in the tents ever came out -- were they stuck in there? For the first time in her life, Imorah began to realize that it might have been easier if she were a boy. She'd never felt that way before.  

The realization was strange and uncomfortable. She'd studied all the cultures on earth and knew there had been such a thing as sexual inequality, but these weeks above ground were her first experiences of it. According to Family Law, brothers and sisters were made equal, and she'd always been taught that any other differences were purely fiction. But here, on the surface, she was inferior. She was... weak.

When they made it to the last row of tents, Imorah was so caught up in her thoughts that she walked right into Liran and knocked him over. Without thinking, she yelled, "Sorry!" and put her hand out to help him up.

He fumbled awkwardly, narrowly avoiding falling over. He stood back up and slapped her hand away, giving her a look of death. 

Imorah realized she'd spoken in Standard. She mouthed 'sorry' a second time, and he just shook his head and turned around.

It's hardly my fault, Imorah ruminated, it's not like I can look where I'm going. The urge to say this out loud was unbearable, but she bit her tongue. And good thing, for just as she readjusted her hajab and her line of sight, a group of men exited a very large tent that they were standing in front of.

One of them said something gruffly to Liran, who responded as gruffly as he could for a young man. Imorah wondered suddenly how old Liran was—perhaps a year or two older than her?

The men spoke for a while—they were arranging something. Their tone was formal.

Finally, Liran said something in his language that Imorah recognized—talay, or 'come with me'—and Imorah picked up the bag she'd put down and shouldered it. Then she followed him into the tent.

She kept her eyes down to the ground and followed Liran's feet into the tent—and the world changed.

Outside the camp was cold and empty, almost lifeless, but inside was a warm, bustling world of activity.

The first thing that hit her was the smell—the air was filled with smoke, scented and a bit harsh on her throat, but not completely unpleasing. It had a sweetness to it that made it palatable. Then there was the smells of food that made her stomach grumble—an array of spices, like perfume almost. Her mouth watered, despite the discernible scent of cooked meat in the mix.