Chapter 6 #2
"And you went for him with a boning knife." Drogga's grin widened. "Brave or stupid. Haven't decided which."
"Both," Varek said. His voice rumbled through his chest and into Mab's back.
"Both is good." Drogga leaned his elbows on the table, giving Tibbs his full attention. "A warrior who's only brave gets himself killed. A warrior who's only stupid gets everyone else killed. You need both in the right amounts."
Tibbs's brow furrowed. "I'm not a warrior."
Drogga picked up a chunk of meat and bit into it, talking around the mouthful. "Not yet."
Mab watched the exchange, watched Tibbs's shoulders slowly drop from their defensive hunch, watched Annie lean forward to listen.
A hand appeared in front of her face. Varek's hand, holding a piece of bread torn from the loaf.
"You're not eating."
"I'm fine."
"You're watching them eat." His voice was low, meant only for her. "When did you last have food?"
Mab tried to remember. "Yesterday morning," she said. "I think."
"Open." The word was quiet. Not a command, exactly. But not a request either.
Mab opened her mouth.
Varek placed the bread on her tongue. His fingers brushed her lip as he withdrew, and she felt the touch all the way down to her stomach.
She chewed. Swallowed. The bread was good. Crusty on the outside, soft within.
"More," Varek said.
This time it was meat. A strip of roasted pork tender enough to fall apart on her tongue. He held it steady while she took it from his fingers, and his thumb grazed the corner of her mouth, catching a drop of grease.
He brought his thumb to his own mouth and licked it clean.
A small sound escaped her, involuntary, caught in the back of her throat.
Varek's arm tightened around her waist. "Good?"
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
He fed her another piece. And another. The rhythm of it settled into something that felt almost natural. She stopped thinking about the hall full of orcs. Stopped thinking about the nightgown, the strangeness, the thirty pairs of eyes that might or might not be watching.
There was only his hand. His warmth at her back. The food he placed on her tongue like an offering.
"—and then what happened?" Annie's voice cut through the haze.
Drogga was in the middle of a story, his hands moving through the air to illustrate something. Annie was leaning forward, bread forgotten in her grip. Even Tibbs had stopped eating to listen.
"The bear came out of the river," Drogga said, his hands spreading wide to indicate size.
"Bigger than this table. Water pouring off it like a waterfall.
And Varek—" He jerked his thumb toward his brother.
"Varek just stands there. Doesn't move. Doesn't reach for his axe.
Just stands there looking at this bear like it owes him coin. "
Annie's mouth fell open. "What did he do?"
"Nothing." Drogga's grin was enormous. "The bear looked at him. He looked at the bear. And then the bear turned around and walked back into the river."
"That's not how it happened," Varek said. His voice vibrated through Mab's spine.
"That's exactly how it happened. I was there."
"You were hiding behind a rock."
"I was strategically positioned behind a rock." Drogga pointed a chunk of bread at his brother. "There's a difference."
Annie giggled. The sound was so unexpected that Mab turned to look at her. The girl's face was still pale, still drawn with exhaustion, but her eyes had lost some of their haunted quality. She was watching Drogga like he was the most interesting thing she'd ever seen.
"What's your name?" Drogga asked, his attention shifting to Annie.
"Annie."
"Annie." He said it back like he was committing it to memory. "That's a good name. Strong. You know what it means?"
Annie shook her head.
"Means grace." Drogga tore off a piece of bread and handed it to her. "My mother told me once that names shape the people who carry them. So you've got grace in you, Annie. Even if you don't feel it yet."
Annie took the bread. Her chin wobbled, but she didn't cry. She bit into it instead, chewing with fierce concentration.
Drogga turned to Tibbs. "And you? The one who tried to gut my brother with a bread knife?"
"Boning knife," Tibbs said. "And my name's Tibbs."
"Tibbs." Drogga nodded slowly. "Short for something?"
"Just Tibbs."
"Just Tibbs is enough." Drogga reached across the table and clapped Tibbs on the shoulder, a gesture that made the boy flinch and then straighten, like he wasn't sure whether to be alarmed or proud. "A man's name is what he makes it."
Mabel. The name surfaced unbidden, like something rising from deep water. Her mother's name for her.
But Hester had looked at her that first week in the kitchen, a chubby child with too much hair and not enough words, and said, You look more like a Mab to me.
And so Mab she became. Mab who scrubbed pots.
Mab who hauled water. Mab who took up less space in every way a person could take up less space, including her name.
She hadn't thought of Mabel in years. Hadn't let herself. The name belonged to someone who might have been loved, and that someone had stopped existing the moment she walked through the kitchen door.
Mab felt Varek shift beneath her and she turned her head slightly to see him better.
"What does Varek mean?" she asked.
Varek's hand paused halfway to the platter.
"Enduring," Drogga answered for him. "Our mother named him that because he took three days to be born. She said he was stubborn before he drew his first breath."
Mab felt a rumble in Varek's chest. "She still tells that story," Varek said.
"She tells it to everyone." Drogga leaned back on the bench, stretching his arms wide. "Every new warrior who joins the warband. Every trader who passes through Northwatch. The healer, the smith, the—"
"Drogga."
"—the goats, probably. If they'd stand still long enough."
Annie giggled again. The sound was stronger this time, less startled out of her.
Mab filed the information away. Varek's mother was alive. She told stories about him. She was at Northwatch, or near it, somewhere he expected to see her again.
He had a mother who had labored three days to bring him into the world and still spoke of it with what sounded like pride rather than complaint.
Mab tried to imagine having a mother who told stories about her.
The fragment of memory she carried—herbs, a voice singing—was too thin to hold any weight.
She didn't know if the woman in that memory had wanted her, had fought for her, had told anyone about the circumstances of her birth. She didn't know anything at all.
Varek's hand appeared in front of her again. A piece of meat, glistening with fat.
She took it from his fingers without being told. His thumb brushed her lower lip, and she heard him exhale slowly against the back of her neck.
"What does Drogga mean?" Tibbs asked. He'd relaxed enough to reach for the porridge, spooning it into a bowl with movements that were almost casual.
"Laughing," Drogga said. "Our mother named me that because I came out smiling."
Annie's nose wrinkled. "Babies don't smile."
"This one did." Drogga thumped his chest. "It's in the clan records."
"It is not in the clan records," Varek said.
"It should be." Drogga winked at Annie. "I'll have Verity add it when we get back."
The hall had settled into a rhythm around them.
Orcs finishing their meals, pushing back from tables, moving toward the doors.
The fire crackled. Somewhere near the back of the hall, two warriors were arguing about something in a language Mab didn't recognize, their voices rising and falling without heat.
Varek's warmth seeped through the thin fabric and into her skin. When his hand moved, settling more firmly against the curve of her waist, she leaned into it instead of pulling away.
"The servants will be gathering in the courtyard soon," Varek said. His voice was pitched to carry to Tibbs and Annie as well. "Anyone who wants to say goodbye should do it now."