"And now it must be allowed to cool again," said Thiazzi. "Three heatings, each time making sure it does not come to the boil, followed by three coolings. That, plus the salt, is the secret. That is what makes our plethin so much better than that of any other tribe."

  Tarvos looked down at the gently steaming liquid. It had turned from brown to a sem-transparent gold, churning gently in the mixing tank with languid convection cells. The plethsmith looked pleased with it, and Tarvos was relieved that they hadn't wasted the unusually rich patch of reeds the women had found and brought back to the village the day before. Later, when it was cool to the touch, it would be poured into molds to set and harden, but there would be a residue left on the sides of the tank that would have to be scraped off before it could be used again. That was usually made into small hand tools like combs and skin scrapers but this plethin, he thought, was of sufficiently high quality to be made into jewellery. Arm bands and bracelets. He would carve one himself, he decided, and give it as a gift to Daphnis.

  "This batch will be as good as wood," Thiazzi added. "Even the First Fathers would have been pleased with it."

  "Did such a thing really exist?" asked Tarvos sceptically. "Trees with stems so hard that you could cut them into planks and timbers?'

  "Do you doubt the old stories?" asked the old man with a smile.

  "No of course not," said Tarvos, going red with shame. "It just makes me think what a marvellous place Zol must have been. It takes an entire shoveltusk to make this much oil. Then it takes a full day's work to turn it into timbers, but in the same time they could have just cut down enough trees to make an entire wagon. They even made houses out of wood if the stories are true..."

  "If," said Thiazzi, frowning mischievously. "So you do doubt them."

  "They even made houses out of wood," said Tarvos, correcting himself. "And fences and spear shafts... We have to make houses out of woven grass with mud pressed onto it, or stone." He looked across at the piles of plethin timbers in the corner of the workyard, waiting to be traded with other clans for metal, salt, silk and gemstones. "Imagine a wall around the village made of plethin," he said. "No rex could break in. No enemy tribe could raid us. Just think what the villages of the First Fathers must have been like."

  "Young folk," said Thiazzi, shaking his head sadly. "Always daydreaming. If you applied your mind to your work as much as you do to idle speculation you might become one of the greatest plethsmiths there's ever been."

  "Even better than me?" said Skathi, appearing at the doorway to the workyard.

  "None will ever be better than you if you pay attention to everything I teach you," said Thiazzi, turning to face him. "And why are you late? You should have been here two hours ago. Lucky Tarvi was here to help me. You could learn a thing or two from the son of the clan chief."

  "I'm sorry, father. The chief asked for my help fixing the hole in the perimeter fence and I knew Tarvi was here." He gave Tarvos a grateful smile. "He let me go as soon as he thought he could spare me."

  "Well, you're here now." Thiazzi turned back to Tarvos. "Come back tomorrow and we'll do some more practice with toughness and hardness. It comes at the expense of durability of course but there are some applications where you want to be able to carve fine details."

  "Like jewellery," said Tarvos, looking at the mixing tank. "I'll stay for a while, if I may, if you'll let me have enough of the scrapings to make an armband."

  Thiazzi laughed. "Why not? You helped make it. You've earned a small amount. It'll be a couple of hours before it's ready to pour, though. Why don't you come back at three?" He nodded towards the clock mounted at the top of the great stone pillar by the north fence, where it was visible from the whole village.

  "I'll be here," said Tarvos happily. He nodded farewell to Skathi, then passed through the gate into the village green.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The open area in the centre of the village was covered with grass, kept short by the gooths that roamed freely around the huts and buildings. The goat-sized creatures were all currently huddled among the family huts, though, having been scared away by the dozen-or-so young adults and children that were kicking an inflated bladder around, all of them trying to be the one to kick it into the well while keeping anyone else from doing it. Tarvos grinned and ran forward as Ymir, the daughter of Gerd the Weaver, chased the ball in his direction. Tarvos kicked out with his foot and the young woman shrieked in outrage as he made contact with the ball, making it shoot out towards the iron foundry. Their shoulders collided as they both chased after it and Tarvos gave her a shove that sent her stumbling to the side. Then he took possession of the ball as Fornjot and Gridr charged forward to challenge him for it.

  They played for an hour or so with Farbauti scoring the most points, and then they drifted away one at a time as hunger drove them to have a bite of lunch. Tarvos returned to the Clan Leader's hut, twice the size of any of the others, where he found his brother and sister already spooning porridge into their mouths. His mother filled a plethin bowl for him, and he sat on the floor beside his siblings to eat it.

  "Here," said Eggther, handing him the rex tooth he'd taken as a trophy. "All done."

  "Thanks," said Tarvos as he took it. His mother had drilled a neat hole in it with their smallest carving knife, one of the rare metal tools they possessed. He took his trophy necklace from beside his sleeping furs and untied the thin, leather cord to add it to the handful of fleethorn teeth already there.

  "What kind of hunter gets his mother to drill his trophies?" asked Narvi scornfully as he scraped the last of his porridge with his plethin spoon. Dione snickered with amusement.

  "At least I have trophies," Tarvos shot back, looking his brother in the eye. "When you've earned a few you can find out how hard it is to drill them without breaking them to pieces. You can't go back to the corpse to get another tooth, you know. One kill, one trophy. That's the law."

  "Women should be allowed to have trophies," said Dione grumpily. "Women sometimes hunt. Why don't we get trophies?"

  "You get to wear jewellery," said Tarvos, pointing to the necklace she was wearing around her neck. It was made of gold, and some of the links had crudely-cut gemstones set into them.

  "I'd rather have trophies," his sister replied. "Something I've earned. Not just given by parents and suitors."

  "If you don't like it, give it back," said Eggther with a sweet smile. Dione put a protective hand over the largest ruby, though, looking embarrassed.

  "When you're married you share your husband's trophies," Tarvos replied. "His glory is your glory."

  "We should have glory of our own. It's not fair,"

  "Only the Council can change the law. Talk to father about it."

  "The Council are all men. Why aren't there any women on the Council?"

  "Because it's the law."

  "A law made by men. It's not fair."

  "So talk to father about it."

  "You'll be on the council one day, when you're Clan Leader." Dione leaned forward to look him in the eye. "Will you change the law? Allow women to wear trophies?"

  "Even if I did, we'd have to vote on it and none of the others would agree. I'd just make myself look foolish by asking."

  "A man, a real man, would be willing to look foolish if he loved his sister enough."

  Tarvos grinned at her. "And what makes you think I love you enough?"

  Dions stared at him in outrage, then jumped to her feet to take her bowl to the sandpit to be scrubbed clean. Tarvos chuckled to himself as he continued to eat.

  Eggther went to stand beside Dione and put a hand on her shoulder. "Women don't wear trophies because we don't feel the need to brag about our achievements," she told her. "We don't have the insecurities of men. We don't need to be constantly reassured of our worth."

  "That's right," said her daughter, smiling at Tarvos triumphantly. "Poor men. We have to pity them really."

  "They have their uses," her mother replied with a sly smile. "You'll find out one day."

  "We find out every night," said Narvi with a look of disgust. "The First Fathers know you and father make enough noise. Other people need to sleep, you know."

  The mention of the council had reminded Tarvos that their father would be going to another meeting soon, though. The six tribes met at Festival City every hundred and twenty days to discuss matters in the civilised lands, and the next one was due in five days. Gunnlod and his escort of warriors would be leaving in two days, in order to make the fifty mile journey in time, and Tarvos, as the eldest son, in training to be the next head of the Robin Hood clan, would be going with him. Daphnis, the daughter of Aegaeon, head of the William Tell clan, had promised that she would also be there, with her father and her eldest brother. Tarvos would see her again; the woman he wanted to marry one day.

  That reminded him of the armband he wanted to carve for her and he jumped to his feet with a sudden sense of urgency. If he was late back to the plethsmiths Thiazzi might pour the liquid plethin without him and use the scrapings for bowls and spoons instead. He dashed over to the sand pit, gave his bowl and spoon the most hurried, basic cleaning off ever, and dashed from the hut while his family stared after him in astonishment.