Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [273]
"I'm not so sure of that," he said.
I squeezed his shoulder. "I am. Believe me, if I've learned nothing else on this journey, it's my own limits." I jerked my head toward the campsite. "Come on, let the pyre burn. There's naught else to be done here.”
We walked back together, leaving the pyre burning lower behind us, a lonely beacon illuminating the twilight. Cold snow crunched and squeaked under our boots. The horses watched us with incurious eyes, sheltered by the windbreak we'd built together. I wondered if they would miss their masters. If they knew what had transpired.
Travel was easier with horses, but it was more work, too. Maslin and I tended to them. The Vralians had better gear and an extra kettle. We packed both of them with snow, melting it on our campfire and filling the clever, collapsible leather buckets they'd brought, suitable for holding water or grain. I wished I'd had such a thing. Before it bolted, my mount and I had shared the same pot.
Once we'd fed and watered the horses, we fed ourselves. The Vralians had better food, too; or at least more of it. Maslin watched me shovel pottage and scraps of salted meat into my mouth straight from the pot, using my fingers. He had a wooden bowl and spoon.
"You look half starved," he said.
I swallowed a mouthful of food. "I am.”
"Did you get what you came for?" he asked.
I nodded at the leather sack hanging from a nearby branch. I'd hung it when we first made camp, the same as I'd done every night. "Yes.”
Maslin gazed at it with sick fascination. "Is that…?”
"It's his head." I put the kettle aside, my appetite gone. "Berlik's head. The man who killed my wife and son.”
"Didn't you have it… ?" He gestured toward his midriff.
"Tied to my sword-belt?" I asked grimly. "Yes. What else would you have me do? It wouldn't fit anywhere else. Urist told me to boil it down to the skull, but I haven't been able to bring myself to do it yet. So I've just been carrying it, at least until I can bring it home to Clunderry to bury at Dorelei's feet. Don't worry, it's frozen through.”
"Name of Elua!" Maslin shuddered. "It's a barbaric culture, isn't it? How…" His voice dropped. "How did you do it? Was it a fair fight?”
"No." I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. "It's a long story, and I don't want to tell it tonight. Later, mayhap. Maslin, what are you doing here?”
"Ah," he said. "That.”
"Yes," I said. "That.”
He picked at his bowl, scraping it clean with his wooden spoon. Then, at last, he put it to one side, sighing. It was funny. Maslin was older than me, at least by a few years. When I'd first seen him, working in the pear orchards of Lombelon, I'd envied him. His age, his surety of place. Now he seemed so much younger than I remembered him, and I felt a great deal older.
"Here." He rummaged among the Vralian's packs and brought out a wineskin. "Starka. Do you know it? It's sort of dreadful, but it gets better.”
I took a swig and felt it burn all the way down, then handed it to Maslin.
"My thanks." He tipped it, swallowed, and gasped. "It was Sidonie.”
"Oh?" I said mildly.
Maslin eyed me sidelong. "You do know about us?”
"A little." I retrieved the skin. "She didn't want to talk about you to me.”
He looked grateful. "Nor you to me.”
"Small wonder." I took another mouthful. "We're not the best of friends, you and I. Which makes me wonder why you're here.”
"Not out of any fondness for you, to be sure. Sidonie and I quarrelled." Maslin took the wineskin back when I offered it, but he didn't drink, only held it. His mouth twisted again, wry and self-deprecating. "I was on duty when your Alban messengers came from Skaldia with the news that you'd been refused passage. That you and Urist were attempting another route while everyone else was awaiting support from the Cruarch and Queen Ysandre in Maarten's Crossing." He did drink, then, long and deep, tilting the bag and pouring starka into his open mouth. "And I, like an idiot, said somewhat awful. I told Sidonie that if