“Hardly,” he said. “I didn’t grow up in this spirit-forsaken place. And you’d best not think you’re going to make me do it because it’s man’s work. If you didn’t wish to bloody your hands, you ought not have killed them.”

She scooped the rodents up. “I simply thought that if you knew how to dress them, then you should, or we’ll be eating hacked meat for dinner. I’ll figure it out while you gather wood and start the fire.”

“Fetch wood? I—”

“You’re a grand warrior, from a line of grand warriors. Fetching wood is, I’m sure, beneath you.”

“Give me the beasts.”

“Too late.” She started strolling off. “Make sure the fire is ready when I am, Kitsune.”

He said nothing for a moment, then called after her, “Take them back to that rock to clean them. I don’t want to sleep beside a pile of offal.”

Skinning rodents was rather like removing a too-tight garment—slit the beast from from nape to arse and then peel. She had no idea how to cut it up, though, so she left the beasts whole. They could put them on a stick, roast, and eat.

Daigo watched the process with a complete lack of interest. When she showed him the final result, he sniffed, unimpressed.

“Yes, I know, I ought to have gotten a third for you. A little help in that matter would have been appreciated.”

Another sniff, as if to say he was not a mere hunting cat.

As they neared camp, she could see Gavril ahead, with his back to her as he bent over a fire pit. They had materials to light it from the lanterns, and he’d managed with less in the forest, but he was obviously struggling now. The moss wasn’t dry enough to act as tinder. She could have told him that but . . . well, again, there was little enough entertainment to be had in the Wastes. So she hunkered down with Daigo behind a boulder and watched the show.

It was not a silent performance. There was plenty of cursing involved. Finally, as she was about to advise him to use his blades to trim strips from the dried wood, he stopped cussing. He crouched there, staring at the pile. Then he glanced over his shoulder. She ducked behind the boulder.

When she looked again, he was hunched over the fire pit, talking to it. That’s what he seemed to be doing—whispering a string of words so softly that she struggled to make sense of them. Then she realized why. They were not spoken in the common tongue.

The words came faster and stronger. Then his hands lowered over the pit. He crouched there, shoulders quivering slightly, as if with exertion. Finally, he lifted his hands. And there was fire.