“You,” it said. It sounded afraid. Afraid of me? She couldn’t look at it.
“She killed it with one blow and
from a knife?” the Weasel asked, incredulously.
Babi didn’t answer him. Her lips were firmed in a thin line. After a moment, she turned to Dalthon. “Drag it
off into the woods and kick snow over it.”
The assassin was too surprised to
argue or complain. Before he grabbed the
thing’s heels and began to drag it away, he inclined his head to Malora. There was
something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Respect?
“How...?”
Babi
turned to the Weasel and interrupted him. “Get the fire going again and warm
some water.” The Weasel hesitated, but
at another sharp look from the little woman, hurried to the task.
Each time he had stood watch...
“You knew, didn’t you.” It was not a question.
Babi
met her eyes then lowered them to her hands, which lay on Erron’s
chest. The blue light and its healing
magic flowed into the thief, suffusing him with color and health. With a sigh, the thief’s body relaxed and Malora knew he was just sleeping.
“You knew what was happening,
what’s been happening since Patinara, and did
nothing.” Her anger was cold, not hot
this time, tempered by all that she had endured, all that had been forced upon
her without explanation.
“The water’s getting hot,” the
Weasel called.
Babi
nodded. “Get some blankets.” She watched the wiry man duck into the
shelters to gather them before she turned to Malora
to answer her. “Yes. Is my saying it supposed to mean
something? You already know the answer
is yes.”
“What did he do to you to deserve
this?” Malora demanded, gesturing to the young man in
her arms angrily.
“Him? He has nothing to do with this. It’s you.”
“Me? Killing him is my punishment? Punishment for what? For my father building that machine? Itt was never his
intention..!”
“I’ve got the blankets.” The Weasel returned, laden with his salvaged
woolens.
“Good. Help me with him.” Babi took one of Erron’s arms while the Weasel took the other. Malora averted her
eyes, not wanting to meet his questions as the two hauled the thief off between
them.
“Bring the hot water,” Babi ordered over her shoulder as they disappeared into one
of the tents.
By the time Malora
brought the water into the tent, they had gotten Erron
undressed and snug amidst the blankets. Babi motioned for her to set the pot down then ripped
strips off her cloak to serve as rags.
These she handed to Malora to dunk in the pot.
The tent flap suddenly opened and
Dalthon stood in the doorway. “I dragged it as far as I could and was about
to bury it, but it turned to dust.” Babi nodded and the assassin let the flap fall back into
place. Without being asked, he took up
the second half of the watch.
“Wash your hands,” Babi commanded, “but don’t get the water all bloody. Use the rags.”
Malora
looked down at her hands and for the first time, saw the blood staining
them. Hurriedly, she took out a soaking
rag, lifting it by its corner and began to scrub, trembling violently. It took three rags to get the color off, but
she could still smell the iron tang on her skin. Her stomach turned over and she excused
herself to vomit outside in the snow.
When she stumbled back inside, Babi stood, drying her hands on her shirt. Despite the woman’s orders, the water was
pinkish. “Where did you go?” Malora questioned, wiping her mouth with the back of her
hand.
The Weasel still eyed her
curiously, half in awe, half something else, but she ignored him. After a moment, he stood and walked out,
leaving the two women to talk.
Babi
eyed her oddly then turned away. “I went
to take a piss. Is that all right by
you?’
Malora
frowned, taken aback by the mundaneness of the answer