‘Kat doesn’t seem like the type to lay out pants,’ Lenk said, looking thoughtful. ‘I think that might be why I. .’ He scratched his chin. ‘Approve of her.’
‘Well, listen to you and your ballads, you romantic devil.’ The rogue sighed, resting his head on folded arms. ‘Still, I might have known this would happen.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Well, you’ve both got so much common,’ he continued. ‘You, a grim-faced runt with hair the colour of a man thrice your age. And her. .’ Denaos shuddered. ‘Her, a woman with a lack of bosom so severe it should be considered a crime, a woman who thinks it’s perfectly fine to smear herself with various fluids and break wind wherever she pleases.’ His shudder became an unrestrained, horrified cringe. ‘And that laugh of hers-’
‘She has her good points,’ Lenk replied. ‘She’s independent, she’s stubborn when she needs to be, doesn’t bother me too much. . I’ll concede the laugh, though.’
‘You just described a mule,’ Denaos pointed out. ‘Though you grew up on a farm, didn’t you? I suppose that explains a lot. Still, perhaps this particular match was meant to be.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean you’re both vile, bloodthirsty, completely uncivilised and callous people and you both have the physiques of prepubescent thirteen-year-old boys.’ The rogue shrugged. ‘The sole difference between you is that you choose to expel your reeking foulness from your mouth and she from the other end.’
‘Glad to have your blessing, then,’ Lenk muttered, hefting up another log. ‘So, what do you think I should do?’
‘Well, a shict is barely a step above a beast, so you might as well just rut her and get it over with before she tries to assert her dominance over you.’
‘Uh. . all right.’ Lenk looked up, frowning. ‘How do I do that?’
‘How’d you do it the first time you did it?’
‘What, with Kat?’
‘No, with whatever milkmaid or dung-shovelstress you happened to roll with when you first discovered you were a man, imbecile.’
Lenk turned back to the boat, blinking. He stared at the half-patched wound for a moment, though his eyes were vacant and distant.
‘I. . can’t remember.’
‘Ah, one of those encounters, eh?’ Denaos laughed, plucking up the waterskin from the sand. ‘No worries, then. You might as well be starting fresh, aye?’ He brushed the dirt from its lip and took a swig. ‘Really, there’s not much to it. Just choose a manoeuvre and go through with it.’
‘What, there’s manoeuvres?’
‘Granted, the technique might be lost on her. . and you, but if you’ve any hope of pleasing a woman, you’ll have to learn a few of the famous arts.’ A lewd grin crossed his face. ‘Like the Six-Fingered Suldana.’
‘And. .’ Lenk’s expression seemed to suggest a severe moral dilemma in continuing. ‘How does that go?’
‘It’s not too hard.’ The rogue set down the waterskin, then folded the third finger of each hand under it, knotting the two appendages over themselves. ‘First, you take your fingers like this. Then, you drop a gold piece on the ground and ask the woman if she wants to see a magic trick, then you-’ He paused, regarding Lenk’s horrified expression, and smiled. ‘Oh, almost got me to say it, didn’t you? No, no. . that one’s a secret, and for good reason. If you tried it, you’d probably rupture something.’
‘Maybe all this is for nothing,’ the young man said, turning back to the boat. ‘I mean, it’s not usual to. . do this sort of thing right after confessing your feelings, is it?’
‘Love has nothing to do with feelings, you twit. Or at least, lovemaking doesn’t. It’s an art, created to establish prowess and technique.’
‘I’m. . I’m really not sure I want to do that, then.’
‘Fine.’ The rogue sighed dramatically. ‘I was trying to spare you some embarrassment, since I severely doubt your capabilities of conveying anything remotely eloquent to her. Then again, she is a barbarian, so perhaps just grunting and snorting will do.’
‘I was planning on something like that,’ Lenk said, grinning. ‘But, out of curiosity, if Khetashe does smile upon me … what manoeuvre do I use?’
‘Something simple,’ Denaos said, shrugging. ‘Like the Sleeping Toad.’
‘The Sleeping Toad?’
‘A beginner’s technique, but no less efficient. You simply request that your lady wait until you’re asleep, then have her do her business with such delicate sensual eroticism that you barely even stir.’
‘Huh. . have you ever tried it?’
‘Once,’ the rogue said, nodding.
‘Did it work?’
Denaos looked out over the sea thoughtfully, took a long sip from the waterskin. ‘You know, I really have no Gods-damned idea.’
The coconut was a hairy thing, a small sphere of bristly brown hair. Kataria scrutinised it, looked it over with an appraising stare as she took out her hunting knife. With delicate precision, she jabbed two small holes into two of the nut’s deeper indentations. Quietly, she scooped a chunk of moist sand out of the forest floor and smeared it atop the coconut.
It looked at least vaguely silver in the shimmer of the sunlight, she thought, but there was still something missing. After a thoughtful hum, she brought her knife up and gouged a pair of scowling lines over the nut’s makeshift eyes, finishing the product with a long, jagged frown underneath.
‘There,’ she whispered, smiling as the hairy face scowled at her, ‘looks just like him.’
She traipsed over to a nearby stump sitting solemnly before a larger tree and set the face down upon it. Then, backing away as though she feared it might flee if she turned around, she reached for her quiver and bow. In a breath, the arrow was in her hand and drawn to her cheek, the bowstring quivering tautly.
The coconut continued to frown, not an ounce of fear on its grim, hairy visage. Just like him, she thought, perfect.
The bow hummed, the arrow shrieked for less than a breath before it was silenced by the sound of wood splitting and viscous liquid leaking onto the sand. The face hung by its right eye, the arrow having penetrated it perfectly and pinned the nut to the tree trunk behind it. Its expression did not change as thick milk dripped out of the back of its head and its muddy hair dribbled onto the earth.
The shict herself wore a broad, unpleasant smile as she stalked back to her impaled victim and leaned forwards, surveying her work. She observed the even split in the nut’s eye and nodded to herself, pleased.
‘I could still kill him,’ she assured herself. ‘I could do it.’
He was the tricky part, she knew, the only one she would have trouble killing. The rest were just obstacles: shifty hares in a thicket. He was the wolf, the dangerous prey. But that was hardly a matter. She could kill him now, she knew, and the rest would be dead soon after.
With that, Kataria jerked the arrow out of the face’s eye and watched it fall to the earth. Wiping the head off on her breeches, she slid the missile back into her quiver and turned to walk away. She had gone less than three paces when she felt a shiver run up her back.
The nut was still staring at her, she knew, still frowning. It demanded an explanation.
‘All right, look.’ She sighed as she turned around. ‘It’s nothing personal. I mean, I don’t hate you or anything.’
The coconut frowned, unconvinced.
‘You had to know this was going to happen, didn’t you?’ She scratched the back of her head, casting eyes down to the ground. ‘How else could it end, Lenk? I mean, we’re. . I’m a shict. You’re a human.’ She growled, turning a scowl up. ‘No, you’re a strain. You’re part of the human disease! It’s up to us to kill you before you become unsatisfied with the parts of the world you’ve already contaminated and infect the whole thing!’