Fallen by Tim Lebbon

knife.
    “Boulders stuck between my teeth,” she said.
    Ramin nodded. “That sheebok eat stones all its life?”
    Konrad only smiled as the abuse came and went.
    “I thought it was fine,” Nomi said. “In fact, it was better than fine. I've eaten some truly bad food on voyages, but I think this is the one when I'll be turning fat and lazy.”
    “What do you mean, turning? ” Ramus asked.
    Konrad nodded to Nomi, acknowledging her praise.
    “Thing is,” Nomi continued, “the grit gives it texture.”
    Konrad hefted his knife, but made do with throwing a discarded potato at her head.
    As they cleared up, Lowkie—a thin, wiry man with a startlingly wild head of hair—appeared carrying a wooden box. He walked slowly and carefully, obviously not wanting to upset the newly bottled wine. Beko helped him open the first bottle. Rhiana collected each of their mugs and held them while Lowkie carefully poured.
    “Who's first?” he asked.
    “You, surely,” Ramus said. “You brewed and bottled it.”
    Lowkie grinned. He looked like someone who smiled a lot. “And that's why I don't want to be the first to die from it.”
    “Well, piss, I've died from bad root wine a dozen times before,” Noon said. The stocky Serian seemed to have accepted that Lowkie had no daughters to entertain, so perhaps getting drunk was the next best thing. He took his mug from Rhiana and sipped. He held his expression for a while, but he could not hide the emerging smile. “This,” he said eventually, “is going to give us a good evening.”
    They drank, answering Lowkie's many questions about events in Long Marrakash, and after a couple of bottles were emptied, Nomi stood close to the fire and looked around at the group.
    “You can all guess one of the reasons why I like traveling with Serians,” she said. She nodded at Ramus. “He may not be so keen to hear yet more stories, because he reads his fill, but I'm always ready for a new tale, tall or short. And as your employer, I believe it's my choice as to who gets to tell their tale on the first night of a voyage.”
    She smiled at Ramus and was glad to receive a smile in return.
    “So,” she continued, “who's to be first?” She turned in a slow circle, hand held out and index finger dipped and ready to point. Beko . . . she had heard his tales, and knew that some of them were sad. No need of a sad tale this early in a voyage. And besides, she hoped she would be hearing more from him, and closer. Noon could be interesting, but she had yet to really connect with him. Rhiana and Ramin would both be amusing, especially the tall Ramin, who she was sure had some serious tales beneath his droll exterior. And Lulah . . . there was a story, for sure. That eye patch, and where it had come from, and who she had killed to gain that stud.
    But perhaps that was for another night.
    “Konrad,” she said, pointing. The Serian affected a groan, but she saw his smile when he stood. Picked the right one, she thought.
    Nomi went around the group with another wine bottle, refilling mugs where they were empty. Then she sat on her saddle, glancing to her left at Ramus.
    She felt Beko's presence to her right, ten steps away yet still almost touching. This could be awkward, she thought. But when she looked at him she caught him looking away, and the campfire seemed to reach out and seed itself in her belly.
     
    “I’ LL TELL YOU about the first voyage I went on,” Konrad began, “and a woman I met on that voyage, and how Mancoseria has never been a safe place to live.” He paced around the fire, finishing his wine and looking down at his feet as he mused upon his tale.
    Nomi loved the way Serians told stories. She'd never heard anything quite like it; they combined personal tales with Mancoserian history, sometimes so seamlessly that she could not tell whether they were talking about themselves or their entire race. Their stories were always quite short, but they packed in enough to occupy her dreams