Opportunity is a Piebald Cat: The Life and Times of Norman Platewarmer
an excerpt

The little ring of huts must have been based mostly on the Hambling style, though the materials were different, the wood lighter, the roofs shingled instead of thatched. There was a well, a common house, and two small areas cleared for fields.

It certainly looked livable, but a part of Norman rebelled at the thought of settling in one place, the way the Hambling did. Maybe they were used to it, used to making the land work for them instead of working for the land, but the Plainsracers and Grayfist were not.

For the first time since he'd set foot in Dimeradon so many months ago, Norman felt a sense of being united with his people. And it was obvious that he wasn't the only one who balked at the idea of settling in this place.

Two Plainsracer elders and a Grayfist elder consulted together and then in small groups with their people. Norman heard raised voices, but couldn't catch enough to make sense of the discussion.

Finally one of them called for Norman and he went to them with a tiny thrill of trepidation.

"This is what the Daw'avn have done for us?" the woman asked of him. She was bent with age, her hair long and gray and dirty from having walked so long in unfamiliar lands. He thought her name might be Su've, the Grayfist elder.

"I know not, Old Mother," Norman said, using the common phrase of respect. "The Plainsfolk and the Alderlings worked together--"

She interrupted him long enough to spit. "El'rings? Can't you call them by the name of Kyme's own making? The word Daw'avn isn't good enough for your lips?"

Norman held his breath and looked down at his feet, knowing better than to speak. One of the Plainsracer elders clicked her tongue in disapproval, but Su've ignored her.

"You talk to them all day long, and into the night, and never bother to sit by the fires of your own people. This is what we've come to -- these Hambling dirt-homes -- and you can't even have the respect to speak your own tongue."

Norman felt a wash of heat pour down from the crown of his head through his body and into his feet. He blinked and tried not to sway on his feet.

"Su've, he's just a boy." One of the Plainsracer elders, Ma'awa perhaps.

Su've snorted. "A boy. A boy would listen to his elders. This one ignores us." Norman could see her hand just out of the corner of his eye, raised and trembling as if with a terrible fury. "He disrespects us by turning away from his ancestor's words and he disrespects his mother's memory by discarding the name she bequeathed him as casually as a flea beetle discards its shell on the sand -- as if it were a useless relic no longer worthy of housing his meager life." She spit again. "Well, then it's a useless relic to me and I'm through with it. I cast it aside."

With those words, she turned her back, and this time Norman did sway on his feet. Su've's damning words had attracted a small crowd and he heard their indrawn breath as if they were one person together.

Su've had closed him out of the circle in the old tradition, forbidding him to enter the elder's fire circle or to eat from their cookpot, to hunt with the hunters or weave with the weavers. His would be the last tent to come down, were they to travel, and he'd walk last, in the dust of those who went before. It was a minor kind of exile, but an exile nonetheless, except for one thing: it was only ever used with adults. Norman was still only twelve.

Ma'awa said something in fury to Su've's back, but the old Grayfist woman would not be moved. Norman waited, staring sightlessly down at the tops of his dirty bare feet. Ma'awa could challenge Su've's decree indirectly by inviting Norman into her own tent as a guest, or -- if she wanted to dispute Su've's declaration that Norman was now an adult -- she could even offer succor as an adoptive mother.

But for all Ma'awa's fury and the words that she hurled at Su've, she offered Norman nothing.

The crowd slowly drifted away, many of them with bent heads, as Su've made her decision final by walking away. Ma'awa flung one final accusation and then she too departed.

When Norman heard Keir's voice, he startled badly. He turned and saw her standing some distance away, her head tilted in open curiosity, obviously having understood none of what she'd seen or heard.

For a moment, Norman considered turning away. If he did, he might regain some measure of respect from his people, though most likely not enough to sway Su've. But Keir and the Alderlings had shown him nothing but kindness. What was loyalty now that the Plainsfolk had been driven from their lands? Would his mother have turned her back on the Alderlings?

Instead he stepped forward and spoke to her: "My people are unhappy," he said. He swallowed whatever he might have said about his own situation or Su've's behavior. None of that would help his people now.

Keir nodded ruefully. "The houses, they're not much, right?"

Norman shrugged. "My folk aren't used to staying in one place. The tents have always been for us. We walk," he said, gesturing. "We always walk. When a place has low water and the... food no longer satisfies our hunger, we leave. We walk away and find a new place."

Keir looked puzzled. "But I thought your people had houses like these, out on the plains?"

"The Hambling did, but not my own folk, the Plainsracers, nor the Grayfist, our... cousins."

Keir whistled. "Well we'd best bring this to Ward. And then he can be unhappy right along with them."