Chapter 291

The pilgrims waking along the branch. And at the top of the line, where nothing was last night: a kitchen. Three stoves dragged up from both ships' galleys, wedged into glowing cracks in the branch, the Burn's own heat roaring under them. Pots on every one. And in the middle, slung from a tripod of oars, a black iron cauldron as wide as a cartwheel: Mätt.

a mountain in an amber-stained apron over scorched leather armour, a great brown beard to his belt with a horn tasting-spoon tucked in it, an amber kerchief knotted on his head, stirring the cauldron with Sleven, a ladle the size of an oar.

on her stump, staring at him.

stooping to talk to her, the way he stoops to talk to everyone.

very still.

holding up three fingers.

Roffe walking down the pilgrims' line with a slate and a stub of chalk, stooping at every jar: "What did she like? …Pancakes? Thin or thick? …Lingonberry? Good girl."

Jeppson, kneeling on the dry charcoal, chalking tables down the whole length of the branch, long ones, one after another, TOK, TOK, TOK, his hands already starting to tremble. "An hour each. I'll redraw them. I've got all week to shake."

Öde emptying her planter-box of Värn barley, grinding it between two stones.

Svala flying a Flight-Line down the branch to the sea and back with a net full of fish.

a dozen pouches, and he's opening the new ones: TIDEKANT SALT-COD. LUMEN LAMP-HONEY. VÄRN BARLEY.

at the bottom of the branch, standing in front of three supply carts pushed by white-robed Everlasting acolytes, sacks of flour and salt and dried meat on them, bound up the branch for the pyre-keepers. His ten rings flashing.

a young thin one, staring at the flour, at his own hands, which are thin too.

The kitchen roaring. Both crews peeling, chopping, kneading, hauling water: Krydog carrying sacks, Tihi juggling onions (badly), Rougeina dicing with her blades at Swap-speed ("Don't tell anyone."), Kali and Bakasura's shadow gutting fish, Daniel washing bowls with his sleeves rolled up, Drekk at a pot in silence, Kompis peeling potatoes with Mingus's chin on his knee. And three Everlasting acolytes in white robes, at the end of a chalk table, kneading bread, very confused.

at the cauldron, tasting from the horn spoon, eyes closed.

Lanterns on the chalk tables. The kitchen still going. Pilgrims asleep along the branch, but closer to the stoves now, the way people creep toward warmth. And the smell, amber steam rising off every pot and drifting together over the whole branch like one great tablecloth.

asleep with her jar, nose twitching in her sleep at the smell. Smiling.

on her stump at the top of the line, cooling, grey, watching the kitchen through the steam. Everyone moving. Everyone busy. Nobody in the line tonight: Roffe told them wait for the meal. For the first time in as long as she can remember, nobody is asking her for anything.

on her footprints again. She looks down at him. Her hand drifting, very carefully, to the top of his head. Not burning him. He doesn't burn.

The tables longer. Pots everywhere. Roffe at the cauldron, grey with tiredness, his stomach growling under his apron (he hasn't eaten either). Jeppson redrawing a crumbled table with shaking hands. Krydog asleep standing up against a stove for three seconds, and getting up.

taking a plate down the line to Aska's stump. A small plate. Barley bread, warm. A curl of salt-cod. A spoon of lamp-honey on the side. And a cup.

staring at the chair. At the card with her name on it. Her coal eyes flickering.

sitting down. Slowly. Like someone sitting in a chair that might not be real. Her cracked hands on the table on either side of the bowl.

picking up the spoon. Eating one mouthful of barley bread dipped in honey. Her eyes closing.

(In the panel corner, no number. She isn't counting.)

sitting down on the bench opposite her, very carefully, so as not to shake the table. Not eating. Watching her eat. The way he watches everyone.

Both crews at the far end of the table, all of them, pretending very hard not to watch a woman of charcoal eat a bowl of bread and honey. Tihi biting her knuckles. Krydog grinning at the sky. Levla wiping his eyes and blaming the smoke.

putting the spoon down. Opening her coal eyes. A tear running down her cracked cheek and sizzling to steam halfway.

looking at him across the table.

walking back to the cauldron, his stomach growling again, loud, in the quiet.

The kitchen glowing on the branch. Below it, the pilgrims asleep closer than ever to the stoves. And above it, at the very crown, the black pyre-hill, smoking. Figures on it in white robes, looking down.

The Kindler, sitting on the top step in his ragged showman's coat, knees drawn up, steam pouring off his scarred lips, shivering, a ring of acolytes round him. Looking down at the kitchen. At the chair at the head of the table.

watching Aska, far below, sitting at the table after her minute. Her head down. Her shoulders slumping, the first time anyone has seen her rest.

smiling with his scarred white lips.