Why wouldn’t she be listening to them?

‘ You aren’t.’

Point.

‘ Watch carefully. She searches for something that you can’t hear.’

But you can …

‘ Only fragments of … wait, she is going to hear it again.’

As if she had heard the voice herself, she suddenly stiffened, her chin jerking. Her neck twisted, face looking out somewhere, through the stone walls and beneath the soil. He followed her stare, but whatever it was that she saw, he obviously could not.

‘ She does not see it, either. She hears. It is loud.’

And at that cue, her ears trembled with a sudden violent tremor that coursed down her neck and into her shoulders. He saw her lips peel back in a teeth-clenching wince, as though she sought to hold on with her jaws to whatever it was she had found with her ears. He felt her shudder, through the soil, as she clung to it.

And he saw her release it, head bowing, ears drooping and folding over themselves, seeking to drive it away with as much intensity as she sought to hold on to it.

He listened intently and heard nothing but the frigid voice.

‘ Didn’t like the noise. Pity.’

You … did you hear it?

‘ Mmm … are we on speaking terms again?’

Did you or did you not?

‘ Heard, not so much. Sensed, though …’

Sensed what?

‘ Intent.’

What intent?

No reply.

Whose intent?

Silence.

‘Whose?’

It was only after the snow had flaked away, after the numbing silence in his head passed and was replaced with the distant ambience of the village outside, that Lenk realised he had just spoken aloud.

She turned to regard him with a start, eyes more suited to a frightened beast than a shict.

‘What?’ she asked.

‘What?’ he repeated, blankly.

‘You said something?’

‘We didn’t.’

‘We?’

‘Well, you didn’t, did you?’

‘Nothing.’ She shook her head a tad too vigorously to be considered not alarming.

‘Are you …?’ He furrowed his brow at her, frowning. ‘You looked a bit distracted just now.’

‘Not me, no,’ she said, her head trembling again with a tad more nervous enthusiasm. Just before it seemed as though her skull would come flying off, she stopped, her face sliding into an easy smile, eyes relaxing in their sockets. ‘What about you?’

‘What about me?’

‘Are you well?’

‘I’m …’

‘ Calm.’

What?

‘ When was the last time we felt like this? No concerns, no fears, no duties …’

‘You’re what?’ Kataria pressed.

He opened his mouth to reply, but became distracted by the sudden, fierce buzzing that violated his ears. A blue blur whizzed past his head, circling twice before he could even think to swat at it. And as he felt a sapphire-coloured dragonfly the size of a hand land on his face for the twenty-fifth time, he was far too resigned to do anything about it.

‘I’m a tad annoyed, actually,’ he replied as the insect made itself comfortable in his hair.

‘You could always swat it off, you know,’ she said.

‘I could and then its little, biting cousins would flense me alive,’ he growled, scratching at the red dots littering his arms and chest. ‘The big ones, at least, command enough fear that the little ones will flee at the sight of them.’

‘Perhaps it’s for the best that we’re leaving,’ Kataria said, ‘if you’ve been around long enough to figure out insect politics.’

‘It’s not like I’ve got a lot else to do,’ he growled. He cast a glance over her insultingly pale flesh, unpocked by even a hint of red. ‘How is it that they’re not biting you, anyway?’

‘Ah.’ Grinning, she held up an arm to a stray beam of sun seeping through the roof and displayed the waxy glisten of her skin. ‘I smeared myself in gohmn fat. Bugs don’t like the taste, I found.’

‘Is thatwhat that smell is?’

‘I’m surprised you didn’t notice earlier.’

‘Well, I noticed the smell, certainly, I just thought it was all the gohmns you were eating.’

She grinned broadly. ‘Every part is used, you know.’

‘Yeah,’ he said, scratching an errant itch under his loincloth. ‘I know.’

He could feel her laugh, seeping into his body like some particularly merry disease. And like a disease, it infected him, caused him to flash a grin of his own at her, to take in the depth of her eyes. He could scarcely remember when they had looked so bright, so clear, unsullied by scrutinising concern.

‘ It is nice, isn’t it?’

It is.

‘ It could always be this way.’

It could?

‘ Is that not why you wish to leave?’

It is, yes, but … well, you hardly seem the type to encourage that sort of thing. In the back of his mind, he became aware of an ache, slow and cold. In fact, you’re being awfully polite today. That’s … not normal, is it?

It should have occurred to him, he supposed, that it would take a special kind of logic to try and ask the voice in one’s head what constitutes normalcy, but his attentions were quickly snatched away by Kataria’s sudden exasperated sigh.

‘How long have we been sitting here, anyway?’ she asked.

Lenk gave his buttocks a thoughtful squeeze; there was approximately one more knuckle’s worth of soil clenched between them, as far as he could sense.

‘About half an hour,’ he replied. ‘You remember how we’re going to go about this?’

‘Not hard,’ she said. ‘Tell Togu we’re leaving, ask on the progress of our stuff, get it back, find a sea chart, ask for a boat, head to shipping lanes, quit adventuring and the possibility of dying horribly by steel in the guts and instead wait to die horribly by scurvy.’

‘Right, but remember, we aren’t leaving without pants.’

‘Are you still on about that?’ She grinned, adjusting the fur garment about her hips. ‘You don’t find the winds of Teji … invigorating?’

‘The winds of Teji, muggy and bug-laden as they may be, are tolerable,’ he grumbled. ‘It’s the subsequent knocking about that I can’t abide.’

‘The what?’

‘Yours don’t dangle. I don’t expect you to understand.’

‘Oh … oh!’ Her understanding dawned on her in an expression of disgust. ‘They knock?’

‘They knock.’

‘Well, then.’ She coughed, apparently looking for a change of subject in the damp soil beneath them. ‘Pants, then?’

‘And food.’

‘What about your sword?’

Not the first time she asked, not the first time he felt the leather in his hands and the weight in his arms at the thought of it. The image of it, aged steel, nicked from where he and his grandfather had both carved their professions through anything that would net them a single coin. His sword. His profession. His legacy.

‘Just a weapon,’ he whispered. ‘Plenty more to be had.’

He could feel her stare upon him, feel it become thick with studying intent for a moment before he felt it turn away, toward the opposite end of the hut. She leaned back on her palms and sighed.

‘Chances are it might be here,’ she said, sweeping an arm about the hut, ‘given all the other garbage he seems to collect.’

He followed her gesture with a frown; it was a bit unfair to call the possessions crowding the hut ‘garbage’, he thought, especially considering that most of it was stuffed away in various chests and drawers. He did wonder, not for the first time, how a monarch who presided over lizards with little more to their collective names beyond dried reeds and dirty hookahs managed to assemble such an eclectic collection of antiques.

The hut’s stone walls looked as though they might be buckling with the sheer weight of the various chests, dressers, wardrobes, braziers, model ships, crates, mannequins sporting everything from dresses to priestly robes, busts of long-dead monarchs and the occasional jar of … something.