the fox she often thought he resembled. In the next compartment, Tor Leeson lay sprawled across two-thirds of the available space, snoring, while Erno, having lost the better portion of his sleeping pallet to Tor, was tumbled uncomfortably against the tent wall, his head propped up on a sack of grain. Katla grinned: in sleep, as in life . . .
Just as she thought this, Erno’s eyelids flickered open and he looked straight at her. Katla held her breath. His mouth began to move as if he might form a phrase, and when she saw this she shook her head, then bent to him and placed a single finger on his mouth. A second later she was gone.
Erno stared at the opened tent flap. He brought his hand out from under his fur wrappings and pressed it hard against his lips, as if by this action alone he might save the sensation of her cool, light finger on his skin forever in his memory.
Her father had told her to stay always in his sight. But since his eyes were currently fast closed, Katla reckoned this negated any such bargain. Besides, she thought, preparing against accusation, he could hardly deny her permission to visit the latrines.
The ablutions tents had been erected down on the strand, where a team of Empire slaves had the previous day dug a series of deep channels leading from the tents down to the shore, thus allowing waste to soak into the black sand, or be washed away by the sea’s tide. A waste of good piss, Katla thought as she made use of the facilities: in the skerries they kept their urine in deep barrels: for fixing dyes, for fertilising the ground; for preserving whale meat, for quenching metalwork. When she ran out of the good oil they rendered from the sea-creatures they caught, Katla had taken to plunging her red-hot spearheads and daggers into the barrel outside the smithy. It didn’t work quite as well as the oil, and the smell was appalling; but it was a thousand times more effective than water in the process, as she’d learned to her cost; for some reason there was a lot less steam and the metal hardened faster. Iron was not so readily come by in the islands that you could afford to waste it with impunity.
Outside again on the strand with the sun on her face, Katla strolled past the rest of the tents. Gulls cried overhead; out over the shining water a cormorant folded its wings, dived and vanished from sight. She waited for it to reappear, but even though she stood there for a moment or more, nothing broke the surface. More than likely it had swum away beneath the water and come up where she had not been looking. She smiled. Diving birds she loved to see: masters as they were of two elements at once. Scuffing the black sand, she walked further along the strand, past the other tents. At the last one, she stopped and listened. There seemed to be an inordinate amount of splashing going on inside it. Katla frowned. She waited, but the cascade went on and on, punctuated every so often with a groan, then a clatter. Unable to control her inquisitiveness, Katla poked her head through the doorflap. Inside, a woman in a pale Eyran tunic was crouched down with her head in a bucket.
Katla experienced a momentary glimmer of recognition. ‘Jenna?’ she enquired cautiously.
The bucket went over with a crash and a stream of yellow liquid washed out across the ground and all over the figure’s kidskin-clad feet.
‘Sack’s tits!’
‘Jenna, such profanity from such a well-brought-up young maid: you shock me!’
The figure squeezed her long tail of hair into a spill of cloth and straightened up, eyes reddened and blinking.
‘What in Sur’s name are you doing?’ Katla stared at Jenna, then at the bucket, and back again. ‘You’ll never drown yourself like that, you know.’
Jenna Finnsen regarded her furiously. ‘What I’m doing is none of your business, Katla Aransen.’ She tossed her head imperiously, but the effect was somewhat lost as the turban slipped sideways and tumbled to the sand, releasing an
Just as she thought this, Erno’s eyelids flickered open and he looked straight at her. Katla held her breath. His mouth began to move as if he might form a phrase, and when she saw this she shook her head, then bent to him and placed a single finger on his mouth. A second later she was gone.
Erno stared at the opened tent flap. He brought his hand out from under his fur wrappings and pressed it hard against his lips, as if by this action alone he might save the sensation of her cool, light finger on his skin forever in his memory.
Her father had told her to stay always in his sight. But since his eyes were currently fast closed, Katla reckoned this negated any such bargain. Besides, she thought, preparing against accusation, he could hardly deny her permission to visit the latrines.
The ablutions tents had been erected down on the strand, where a team of Empire slaves had the previous day dug a series of deep channels leading from the tents down to the shore, thus allowing waste to soak into the black sand, or be washed away by the sea’s tide. A waste of good piss, Katla thought as she made use of the facilities: in the skerries they kept their urine in deep barrels: for fixing dyes, for fertilising the ground; for preserving whale meat, for quenching metalwork. When she ran out of the good oil they rendered from the sea-creatures they caught, Katla had taken to plunging her red-hot spearheads and daggers into the barrel outside the smithy. It didn’t work quite as well as the oil, and the smell was appalling; but it was a thousand times more effective than water in the process, as she’d learned to her cost; for some reason there was a lot less steam and the metal hardened faster. Iron was not so readily come by in the islands that you could afford to waste it with impunity.
Outside again on the strand with the sun on her face, Katla strolled past the rest of the tents. Gulls cried overhead; out over the shining water a cormorant folded its wings, dived and vanished from sight. She waited for it to reappear, but even though she stood there for a moment or more, nothing broke the surface. More than likely it had swum away beneath the water and come up where she had not been looking. She smiled. Diving birds she loved to see: masters as they were of two elements at once. Scuffing the black sand, she walked further along the strand, past the other tents. At the last one, she stopped and listened. There seemed to be an inordinate amount of splashing going on inside it. Katla frowned. She waited, but the cascade went on and on, punctuated every so often with a groan, then a clatter. Unable to control her inquisitiveness, Katla poked her head through the doorflap. Inside, a woman in a pale Eyran tunic was crouched down with her head in a bucket.
Katla experienced a momentary glimmer of recognition. ‘Jenna?’ she enquired cautiously.
The bucket went over with a crash and a stream of yellow liquid washed out across the ground and all over the figure’s kidskin-clad feet.
‘Sack’s tits!’
‘Jenna, such profanity from such a well-brought-up young maid: you shock me!’
The figure squeezed her long tail of hair into a spill of cloth and straightened up, eyes reddened and blinking.
‘What in Sur’s name are you doing?’ Katla stared at Jenna, then at the bucket, and back again. ‘You’ll never drown yourself like that, you know.’
Jenna Finnsen regarded her furiously. ‘What I’m doing is none of your business, Katla Aransen.’ She tossed her head imperiously, but the effect was somewhat lost as the turban slipped sideways and tumbled to the sand, releasing an
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