“Garret, sir.”
“Well, Garret, if you ever want a rapt audience who will ask you a million questions about that spear, talk to Ben-hadad. In fact, if you don’t want to talk about it, you’ll probably have to hide.”
Just then, there was a shout as one of the conn’s skimmers blew off one of its reeds.
Half an hour later, ashore, Ben-hadad hobbled over on one crutch and reported, “Repair shouldn’t take more than an hour.” He was taking the failure personally.
Kip didn’t blame him. There was simply no way to expect reliable drafting out of amateurs. He blamed the masters of Shady Grove. What the hell kind of drafters went their lives without drafting? Sure, you’d live for seventy years instead of forty or fifty, but a drafter was a candle. She was made to bring light and be consumed in the process. These were candles who lived and died having barely touched a flame.
To one who’d always heard that drafters were given their powers and privileges for their communities’ betterment, it seemed astoundingly selfish.
Still, in purely utilitarian terms, it did give him more of their drafting lives to use, if he could teach them quickly enough to keep them from getting killed.
Kip didn’t want to split up the platoon if he could help it, so he consulted with the woman who knew the valley Baoth would pass through, and decided they could lose two hours without losing their chance to catch it. Ben had asked for one.
“You have an hour and a half,” he told Ben-hadad. Everything always takes longer than you think it will.
In the meantime, as the others kindled a fire and made lunch and checked their own skimmers for damage, Kip memorized maps and made plans for where they would beach the skimmers, who would stay with them, and how the rest would spread out through the woods. The Ghosts would look for tracks to find the red wight’s trail if he was ahead. If they’d passed him, they would prepare an ambush point. Otherwise they would wait until after dark when he could no longer draft and set upon him at his camp. Baoth was a red, so Kip figured the wight would light a campfire to give himself a source. It would make him much easier to find.
“You’re confident in your trackers?” Kip asked the conn.
The conn nodded. “Not that I wouldn’t mind having me a Daimhin Web.”
“Daimhin Web?” Kip asked. There was an odd buzzing low in his ears at the name.
“Young man. Scary. Way over on the other side of Green Haven last I heard, though. In the old tongue, they call him Sealgaire na Scian.”
“He Who Hunts with Knives?” Tisis asked.
Conn Arthur said, “I know it doesn’t sound very imposing, but—”
But it hit Kip between the eyes.
Everything disappeared in a rush of leaves.
The next thing he was aware of, he was lying on the ground, blinking at concerned faces ringing him.
“Orholam’s hairies, Breaker, you almost fell in the fire,” Ferkudi said. “If Big Leo hadn’t grabbed you—”
“Does he have the falling sickness?” Conn Arthur asked Tisis.
“Stop!” Kip said. “Silence, please.” He reached after memories that were fading like a scent in the wind.
A scent. That was it. Something burning.
No, something that had been burning.
Kip opened his eyes and grabbed a stick from the fire. He stubbed it out on the ground and walked away, wafting the smoking wood in front of him, concentrating.
As with the first link of a chain, the rest came as he pulled on that. The smell, the memory, was from a burning village.
He blinked. Blinked again. He went back to the fire to stand next to Tisis. He murmured in her ear, “Was I gone for long, just now?”
“What?” she asked. “No. A few heartbeats.”
Oh, good.
“I’m sorry, but I must ask,” Conn Arthur said. “Are you ill? More to the point, are you too ill to lead us?”
“No, and no,” Kip said. “It was momentary, I’m better now. I must have eaten something that disagreed with me last night.”
Winsen cleared his throat behind his fist. “Didn’t sound like she disagreed much.”
The rest of the Mighty cracked up.
“Hey!” Kip said.
In a falsetto, as if in the throes of passion, Big Leo went, “Ah! Ah!”
Kip’s silver tongue failed him. He glanced at Tisis.
Her color was high, but she shot back at Big Leo immediately, “Oh, you think that was me?” She looked over at Kip significantly.
They burst out laughing.
“Ah! Ah!…?” Big Leo said, somehow managing to append a question mark to his falsetto while giving Kip the side eye.
Kip nodded, taking his lumps. “Fine. Fine. I’ll practice making acceptably manly… ejaculations. Nightly. While you boys get to cuddle with each other.”
“Ooo,” Big Leo said.
“That’s low, brother,” Winsen said. “Did Ferk tell you how Big Leo threw his arm over me last night?”
“No,” Tisis said. “What happened?”
“I couldn’t get away! He wouldn’t wake up!”
“A guy gets lonely,” Big Leo said defensively.
“I need a new tent mate,” Winsen said. “Ferk? I know you snore, but I can deal…”
“That wasn’t snoring,” Cruxer said. “I do not know what it is. We all eat the same food, but this man’s anus… If we could weaponize his farts…”
“Those were farts?!” Big Leo said. “I thought we were being shot at! They woke me up like six times!”
“Wait, you woke up six times? So you were awake?” Winsen said. “Why didn’t you let go of me?”
“Oh, come on,” Ferkudi said, “maybe I fart a bit more than some of you. But at least mine don’t stink.”
“Ferk,” Tisis said, “I smelled you from our tent fifty paces away.”
“Now you’re just piling on,” Ferkudi said. “Go on, have your fun, but I don’t know why I always end up being the…” He trailed off as it dawned on him. “Wait, I really am the butt of the Mighty, aren’t I? This is my destiny.”
“Why don’t you all go check with Ben-hadad if he needs anything,” Kip said. He just noticed that Conn Arthur hadn’t said a word in several minutes, since they started joking. Kip had been distracted by his friends, but the man stood like a bear on its hind legs, staring at you, uncertain whether to plop down on all fours and amble away or to charge you with sudden fury.