Her new captor didn’t seem to mind. She sheathed the dagger without wiping it, lifted her portion under the edge of her mask, and stuffed the whole charred mess into her mouth, grease dripping onto her tattered leathers. Anji cringed at the audible crunch behind the wood. The woman wiped at her lips, reached a finger between her teeth, and tossed a particularly large bone into the fire.

Something clattered inside the tent, and the Goat’s head appeared through the flap. “Where’s the map?” he said.

“How should I know?” said the Ox, not looking back at him. The Goat grunted and slipped back inside, barking a curse before something else crashed behind the canvas.

A full day had passed since Anji had last eaten, but the stink of fish and the Ox’s smacking lips made her stomach turn. The Ox reached behind her and drew out a sloshing canvas canteen. She sucked at the bladder’s spout, head tilted back, the tendons in her bulbous neck standing out, then swished the water around in her mouth and spat it into the sedge at her side. “You should eat,” she said, gesturing at the burnt meat in front of Anji. She lifted the still-sizzling pan and shifted it farther from the fire. “We’ve got a long couple of days ahead of us, and that’s assuming we don’t run into—hells!”

The Ox dropped the pan clattering to the rocks, oil spilling over the ring of burnt grass circling the fire. Shoulders heaving, she clenched one hand around the other and doubled over, her breath hissing between her teeth. With a snarl she snatched up the pan, raised it high, and smashed it down into the fire, sending sparks and flaming grease in all directions. Anji scrambled away as the Ox shrieked and beat at the flames, the pan clanging off the gathered stones. After multiple strikes, she tossed the battered pan aside, and cradled her hand. Tiny beads of grease crackled on her thin leather glove as she finally ripped it off. She flexed her hand, an angry red spot welling just beneath the first knuckle where oil had burned through the leather and onto her skin. Anji blinked. The first finger of the Ox’s hand was missing. Where the finger would have been was now only a lump of pink scar tissue.

The Goat burst out of the tent, crossbow raised in one hand, his other arm holding a bundle of cloth.

“What the—” he started, then his mask twitched toward the pan lying in the dirt. He lowered the crossbow. “Grand, Ox. You’re not the only one that needs to eat, you know.”

“Just signal her,” said the Ox, stomping out a smoldering bit of grass. “And do it in the tent.”