“So!” pronounced Arsule. “Are you willing to stop being lazy and go to work? I warn you, girl, if you keep lounging about much longer your brain will get as heavy as my ass. And a lot fatter! At least my butt gets some exercise, which your brain certainly doesn’t.”
Helga’s mounting irritation was suddenly broken. Not by Arsule’s frown and torrent of words, but by the look of half terror/half excitement on Kata’s face.
Gods, the girl’s looking forward to it. A slave. An illiterate barbarian, to boot.
She looked down at the army camp. Tomorrow morning, the siege of Franness would begin. She could see that Adrian already had the handful of big siege guns at the gate, ready to be hauled out on the morrow. And, turning her head, she could see that the berms where those guns would be positioned were already finished and being guarded by several battalions.
And what do I have to do with all that?
Nothing.
Gods, she’s right. I’m bored stiff. No wonder Adrian doesn’t listen much to me anymore. I haven’t got anything to say except what he already knows.
“What are ‘saints’?” she asked.
Kata launched into a somewhat incoherent explanation, which was not helped any by the fact—soon obvious even to Helga—that the Reedbottom originators of the Young Word creed had all the usual sense of “logic” typical of barbarians anywhere. As sloppy as a pig trough.
“Never mind,” she said at length. “Come back with me to the camp and we can talk about it more this afternoon. Maybe I’ll be able to follow things better with a cup or two of wine. Adrian will be busy all day anyway.”
To Arsule: “So let me understand you. You’re thinking that Jassine . . . but what about her priests?”
“Priests! They’re all dependent on the state purse anyway, Helga—the cult of Jassine more than any of them. They’ll trot into line, watch if they don’t.” More charitably: “Besides, Jassine’s priests tend to be a fairly self-effacing sort, as priests go. Some of them are even quite pleasant fellows. I know, I’ve been spending a fair amount of time with them lately.”
Arsule started to add something else, but closed her mouth. Which was something of a miracle in its own right.
Helga chuckled. She could just imagine what Arsule had been about to say. While you’ve been idling about contemplating your miseries.
“Oh, why not? If nothing else, it’ll give me something to do.” She placed a hand on Kata’s shoulder and turned her back toward the trail. “Come on, girl. You can keep talking. That might slow us down enough to allow my blessed stepmother to keep up.”
Behind her back, she heard Arsule sniff. “Hmph. Technically, I’m your mother. All the laws say so! Do try to show a certain modicum of respect, will you?”
There came another rapid set of sounds, ending with a thump. Helga turned around and saw that Arsule must have slipped.
“I admit it’s sometimes a bit difficult,” Arsule grumbled, as Helga helped her back onto her feet. “But, as I said, having a hefty ass helps. Matrons would be lost without it.”
She gave Helga a half smile/half leer, and then swatted her on her own rump. “Gods, your butt’s almost as solid as a man’s. But don’t worry, girl. By the time you need it, you’ll have a proper ass.”
As they resumed their downward progress, Arsule’s voice provided a steady accompaniment. “All those hours, just sitting on couches . . . the only exercise trying to keep philosophers from each other’s throats . . . good thing they’re such a weedy and wheezing bunch, for a girl as strong as you it’ll be easy . . . remind them of the grisly fate of a certain band of pirates, now and then, that’ll help . . .”
* * *
Late that night, after Adrian returned to their quarters to get a few hours’ rest before the trials of the morning, Helga insisted on making love. Adrian was willing enough, for all his tension. He didn’t have all that much choice anyway, since—for the first time in weeks—Helga was being aggressive about it.