Nettle & Bone(39)

This seemed like a lot.

The dust-wife clearly had no fear of Fenris, even if he was twice her size. “You do not believe in ghosts, Hardishman,” she said, “yet would you desecrate a grave?”

Fenris’s eyes went wide in clear dismay. “No! Of course not.”

“Well then.”

They walked along in silence for nearly half an hour. Bonedog nosed at something in a hedge and snapped his jaws closed. Whatever it was fell out through the bottom of his jaw and ran off into the grass. He came back, grinning hugely, very proud of himself.

Finally Fenris broke the silence, saying, “You may be right, Lady Fox. But I find that I feel differently about the fairy forts than a grave. Even when I did not believe, the forts were … uncanny. There was always a little dread, under the surface. Dread of the unknown. But when I think of desecrating a grave, I do not feel dread but revulsion. I am not afraid of what lies in the grave, but it would be dishonorable. Disgusting, even. I do not fear retribution; I fear what sort of person I would become by doing it.”

The dust-wife slowed then and gave Fenris a sharp, appraising look. The brown hen gave an indignant squawk and rocked on top of the staff.

One of her rare smiles crooked her lips. “You are still wrong, Hardishman,” she said. “But you are wrong in an interesting way.”

Fenris bowed his head, a knight accepting praise from a queen, and Bonedog wagged his tail and barked silently at them both.





Chapter 10


Traveling on the road with Fenris was different than traveling solely with the dust-wife. Different and also, Marra had to admit, easier.

He was clearly used to camping roughly. He could build a fire while Marra was still fumbling with flint, and keep it going longer. He had no gear of his own after his time in the goblin market, so the dust-wife sacrificed a metal measuring cup and Marra handed over the smaller of her two knives so he could eat and drink.

After two days, Marra no longer seriously believed that Fenris would turn on them. He was calm and judicious and the dust-wife needled him more or less constantly, which he took in good humor. Occasionally Marra would share a glance with him, a bemused one that said, Can you believe that two sensible people such as us are in this situation?

The look warmed her. She had not shared that look of fellow feeling since she had left the Sister Apothecary at the monastery.

Nevertheless, there were times when he stood up too quickly, or loomed too large, and some shadow on her mind whispered that no one had thought Vorling would turn on his wives, either. Am I being too cautious? Or not nearly cautious enough? And she remembered the farmer who had tried to kill her, the one who likely thought that he was a decent man but had seen only a monster from the blistered land, and she would put a few more steps between them and try not to make it too obvious.

If he noticed, he gave no sign.

He did eat more than the dust-wife and Marra put together. She could tell that he was trying not to, but she could also hear his stomach growling. They stopped at farmhouses whenever they could. One night all they had was tea, but the next afternoon Bonedog rousted a rabbit and Fenris cleaned and spitted it and they ate better than they had in days.

As they went farther north, travel became easier. Everyone needed firewood split and Fenris could use an axe with the ease of long practice. They went up to doors and asked if he could chop wood in return for a bit of food for the road, and generally people were happy to see them. Occasionally they’d even point to someone farther along the road that would also need work. Fenris’s stomach stopped growling, and they no longer had nights where there was nothing but tea.

With the north, however, came cold. Since Fenris had no gear, he had no blankets, either. They slept in barns when they could, but that was not always possible. Marra woke one morning to find frost on the ground and Fenris crouched so close to the fire that his beard was in danger of going up in flame.

“Uh,” she said that night. “It’s cold. If you’d like to share my blanket…”

The dust-wife snorted. Fenris’s eyebrows went up. Marra wondered if that was a euphemism in Hardack, too. “Not like that,” she said hastily. “I mean, if you’re cold. It’s cold. That is to say, you can have part of mine. I’m not suggesting anything more than that.”

The dust-wife was having a coughing fit. Fenris, however, bowed his head gravely to her and said, “It is probably not the path of honor to deprive a young woman of half her blanket, but my bones are old enough that I thank you.”

“I’m not that young,” said Marra.

“And don’t even talk to me about old bones until you’re over seventy, youngster,” said the dust-wife.

Fenris gave her a mild look. “That’s about thirty years hence, at which point you will undoubtedly tell me that I cannot complain until I am over a hundred.”

The brown hen cackled and the dust-wife thumped the staff until the bird flapped. “Don’t get smart,” she muttered, although whether she meant the hen or Fenris, she didn’t say, and no one tried to find out.

Marra unwrapped her bedroll. The dust-wife had given it to her, one long blanket, enough to wrap one person comfortably, even if, like Marra, she tended to stretch out in her sleep.

It was very small for two. They lay down back-to-back, the blanket over both of them, although Marra was quite certain that Fenris was giving her the lion’s share. She could feel his back against hers like a wall, though they were both wearing too many layers for her to catch his breathing.