“So much to do,” said Karis gratefully. “And I haven’t even chopped the firewood yet. I’d better get busy.”

Chapter Twenty‑Six

It was a howling night, one of those godawful storms that made Clement wonder how humankind ever managed to get a foothold in this dreadful land. She had been checking on the progress of her sledges in the carpentry shed. The armorers had finally finished the runners, which should have been simple enough to fabricate, and all that remained to be done was the harness work. Soon Clement’s soldiers, who had finally developed a sullen competence with snowshoes, would have something new to learn and complain about.

She built up the fire in her small, plain room, but unless she stood right on the hearth she couldn’t feel the warmth. The night bell had long since rung, Gilly would be deep in a drugged sleep, and Clement decided she might as well go to bed. Like all soldiers, she had saved up her housekeeping tasks for winter, and could have done some mending, or put a new coat of paint on her table. But it was too cold.

There was a knock at her door and she opened it with her tunic half unbuttoned. A man with snow thick on his hood gave her a shivering salute. “Lieutenant‑General, the storyteller is at the gate.”

“The storyteller? What is she doing here at this hour?”

“She says you must come with her at once. Bring the money, she says.”

They exchanged baffled looks.

“The storyteller can be a bit close‑mouthed,” said the gate guard. “So I thought you ought to talk to her yourself. I’m sorry, though. It’s a wretched night.”

“Here, stand by the fire for a bit, not that it’ll do you much good, since that wind is blowing directly down the chimney.”

After she’d bundled up in every warm piece of clothing she had, which she was certain would still not be enough, Clement left the guard still shivering by her poor fire and went downstairs to Gilly’s room. She didn’t bother to pound on his door, but simply went in and shook him vigorously by the shoulder until he mumbled. “What?”

“I have to go into town.”

“Clem?” He turned his head and blinked blearily at her. “That wind,” he said, articulating carefully, “will flay you.”

“Hell, I’m half frozen and I haven’t even been outside yet. Gilly–I think Alrin’s decided to accept my offer.”

“Congratulations,” he said dryly. “You’ve succeeded in completely mystifying me. And why areyou going out? Have you explained already, when I was asleep?”

“The storyteller’s been sent to fetch me, and she wasn’t too forthcoming with the gate guard. But–”

“Oh, Clem!” With his face muffled in the pillow, Gilly uttered a grunt of laughter. “You’re about to become a mother.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Early.”

“Apparently.”

“Unprepared.”

“Desperately.”

“What do you expect me to do about it?”

“Explain my absence to Cadmar, will you? If I’m not back by morning.”

“Clem,” Gilly said, as she stepped away. “What are you going to do with it?”

“With what?”

“With the baby.”

Gilly was just a shadow in the darkness, but she stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“When Alrin hands you her baby,” Gilly said, “What are you going to do with it?”

She found herself incapable of reply. When she left Gillys room, he was still laughing, and she could hardly blame him.

*

When Clement finally reached the gate, having first awakened the garrison clerk to get her funds out of the lockbox, the storyteller waited in shelter, huddled by the brazier alongside the lone guard in the shack. At the sight of Clement, she rose quickly, wrapped a muffler around her face, and pulled on a pair of fur‑lined gloves.

They went out into the storm. Clement was still speechless, but in any case, the storm would have made conversation impossible. A miserable journey, staggering down narrow roads with the wind blasting like a river down a canyon. One step at a time, tears freezing on her lashes, face numb, feet like blocks at the end of her legs. A killing wind, flinging ice like daggers. Shutters banged, a piece of slate torn loose from a roof shattered at her feet. “Bloody hell!” The storyteller glanced at her, her eyes a smear of black, rimmed in white snow stuck to the wool that wrapped her face. They staggered on.

The wind was barred from Alrin’s house, but still it roared, only somewhat muffled by latched shutters, locked doors, and heavy curtains. A single lamp flame flickered in the hall; the house seemed empty. The storyteller pulled the muffler from her face. Clement followed her to the kitchen, where together they built up the fire and then unwrapped themselves. When Clement’s face had thawed enough, she asked, “How long until the child is born?”

The storyteller stomped snow from her boots. “I will ask the midwife.” She left the kitchen.

A chair was drawn up to the fire, with a work basket beside it. Clement sat down, shivering, and waited. She waited a long time. Once, she thought she heard a groan or cry, but it could have been the wind. The storyteller returned. “The midwife cannot say how long it will be.”

“But Alrin has borne several children.”

The storyteller held her hands out to the fire; her fingers were still gray with cold. “This one is different.”

She swung the kettle over the fire, and then went moving about the dark kitchen. Distracted, still thawing out, Clement stared into the fire until the kettle began to utter enthusiastic spurts of steam. Then she watched the storyteller make tea: a surprisingly fussy process of Pouring small quantities of water, waiting, swirling the pot, sniffing the steam, and adding more water. The rich, grass‑and‑flower scent of the tea brought Clement out of her daze. “I’ve never seen anyone make tea like that.”

The storyteller paused.

“Usually, they just pour the water and let it sit.”

“This is the way I know.”

“How do you know it?”

The storyteller poured some water, took another sniff, and put on the lid. She brought over the tea table, on which she had laid bread and butter, and a selection of cold foods: pickles, cheese, salt meat, jam. She poured the tea, and Clement took a sip. Whether due to the method or to the ingredients, it was delicious.

“I can’t answer your question,” the storyteller said. “I know many things but I don’t know how I came to know them.”

After a moment, Clement said, “I suppose having no memories could be a blessing.”

The storyteller said nothing, as though loss and gain were no more important to her than they were to a dumb beast. She drew a stool up to the fire, and took a cup of tea.

Clement sipped her tea and waited, and the storyteller never became impatient, never looked at her questioningly, never seemed restless at all. She held the teacup in her palms of her hands and warmed her fingers with it. Her solitary, remarkably long braid lay across her wool‑clad back like a mislaid piece of yarn. Her boots steamed in the heat of the hearth.

Clement said, “I haven’t even considered what to do with this baby when it’s born. I suppose I assumed I’d have time to … do whatever I am supposed to do.”

The storyteller said, “You must find someone to nurse it. A woman in milk, who will raise this baby beside her own, or whose own child is dead, or has been taken from her.”

“I have no idea how to find such a woman.”

“The midwife will know.” There was a silence, and the storyteller added, “It may be difficult.”

“You mean it will cost me even more money?”

“The Shaftali people do not raise children casually.”

While Clement watched in stunned silence, the storyteller sipped her tea until the cup was empty. “The child could die,Clement finally said. ”While I’m running around looking for a young, willing woman with milk in her breasts …“

The storyteller nodded indifferently. “The Laughing Man is doing his work tonight.”