They built a fire in the courtyard using some of Muznut’s fine charcoal and such bumable rubble as was scattered about. The flames turned the ruined gardens into an inferno but the men stayed close by the fire, returning to the upper room only when Masha demanded fresh water or cloths. They said nothing to each other, choosing positions within the courtyard that allowed a clear view of the midwife’s flickering shadow and yet shielded them from each other’s casual glance.
Toward dawn the bats returned to their normally deserted lairs, their shrill peeps echoing off the walls and the men themselves as they protested the occupation of their homes. The day-birds took flight as well and the small square of sky above them turned a dirty gray that betokened another round of oppressive heat. Walegrin wanted a beaker of ale and the limited comfort of his officer’s quarters in the palace wall, but he remained, rubbing his eyes and waiting until Masha was through.
“Arbold!” she called from the window.
The young man looked up. “Water?” he asked, giving the neglected fire a prod.
“No, just you.”
He headed into the house. Walegrin and Zip exchanged glances before following him. Masha had expected them and was at the doorway to block their entrance.
“They’ve only got a few moments,” she said softly.
The midwife had washed the new mother’s face, smoothed her hair, and surrounded her with the last of Muznut’s fine-woven fuse-cloth. Her eyes were bright and she was smiling at both her swaddled child and her lover. But her lips were ashen and her skin had a milky translucence in the dawn light. The men in the doorway knew Masha was right.