18
“It’s not that hard a job.” Neil banged his spoon against the side of his massive metal pot with a clang that pounded into my ears.
None of the three of us working in the cook tent were foolish enough to speak.
“Go out into the woods, find an animal, and kill it,” Neil railed. “Bring the chivving thing back, and I’ll do the real work of preparing the chivving beast to feed the hundred-odd ungrateful chivving mouths I’ve been charged with.”
I tucked my chin and kept my gaze fixed on the dried root I was shredding.
“But when the meat doesn’t come”―Neil picked up his knife and began hacking his way through a tuber―“it’s not the useless hunters that get blamed. It’s me.”
A brew for an ill temperament, that’s what he needs.
Lily had grown herbs for such things in her garden in Harane.
