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trying to appear defiant. Unfortunately all she was really achieving was to remind people of how haughty magicians were said to be.
    â€œThat,” said Quirk in an austere tone, “is exactly what I chose. I chose to be in control of who I am and what I do.”
    Three hundred and sixty-nine leagues. On her own. Without a single spell? Lette wasn’t sure she quite believed that. But she did believe that Quirk wanted it to be true. The question was how in control the woman was. And how much warning would there be before she slipped?
    Balur was shaking his head. “That is like owning a hammer and trying to put in nails with your hand.”
    Quirk didn’t let go of her rigid pose for a second. “The problem arises,” she said, “if every time you use the hammer you accidentally bludgeon three or four people along with the nail.”
    And suddenly, without warning, she won Lette over. A chord ringing out that was too much in tune with the one thrumming in her own breast. That desire to be better. That struggle.
    â€œCome on,” Lette said, stepping toward Quirk, the weight of the blade strapped to her wrist suddenly forgotten. “I thought the whole point of this fire was to make sure you didn’t freeze. Get that cloak off and come closer.”

5
The Problem with Dissecting Dragons
    Will watched Lette approach Quirk, watched her shoulders finally relax. A letting go of some inner tension. For some reason she had switched from treating Quirk as if she was some barely contained bag of knives and ferrets, to more like she was the poor, cold woman she appeared to be.
    He was making the opposite journey.
    Study dragons?
The only reason Will could think of for that was if you were looking for weak points. And this woman seemed to be missing both the army and the suicidal tendencies that usually accompanied that exercise.
    Quirk shrugged off her cloak, then searched for a patch of floor relatively clear of intestines and bodily fluids where she could lay it out to dry. Beneath the cloak she wore a simple pale green dress bound with a blue cord. It was not much drier than the cloak.
    Without her hood to hide her face, Quirk looked to be in her early forties, curly black hair cropped close to her skull. She was broad-featured—wide nose and lips. A line of gold studs stitched its way up her right ear. There was a direct, no-nonsense quality to her gaze, though the lines around her eyes seemed to suggest a smile was not hidden too deeply.
    She settled herself down by the fire, Lette beside her. Firkin ambled over from the cave entrance, all joints and gangling limbs. Then came Balur. The lizard man at least still seemed to be nursing the suspicions Lette had released.
    Study dragons
. Will felt his knuckles clench, unclench. Clench again.
Study the fuckers that took my farm from me.
    He breathed steadily, waited for his vision to broaden back from the pinpoint it wanted to become. He opened his hands, joined the others at the fire. Staring at this woman suspiciously wouldn’t help much. It was like his father used to say: A breeched calf didn’t turn itself around just because you gave it the stink-eye. You wanted to sort out a problem, you better just get elbow deep in cow vagina.
    His father, Will reflected, had not had much poetry in his heart.
    Still, the advice was sound enough. “I’m sorry,” he said, to Quirk, doing his best to keep his voice calm. “I’m still having some trouble with the bit where you actually study dragons.”
    â€œReally?” Quirk’s eyebrows lifted in what appeared to be genuine surprise. “Well, they’re fascinating creatures. And we still know barely anything about them. We haven’t a clue how they generate the fire they breathe. Some sort of flammable fluid secreted from a sac inside the cheeks or throat is the most likely explanation, but then how do they light it? And how do they even get off the ground?