Page 89 of A War Apart

The flap of the tent swung open, and we both jumped. Lada peered out at us, wiping her hands on her apron. “You do know these tents are made of cloth,da?”She rolled her eyes. “If you’re going to gossip like old women, at least do it in here.”

We followed her into the infirmary tent. Cots lined the walls, and tables in the middle held numerous bottles, some filled with potions, others empty. She pointed us each to a seat. “I assume you can work while you talk?” She didn’t wait for us to answer before handing us both a large bunch of herbs. “Strip the leaves off and put them on the table over there.” She picked up her pestle and began grinding something in the mortar.

Yakov and I shared a wide-eyed look and began doing as she commanded. “She’s as bad as Mila,” he muttered.

“So.” She blew a loose strand of hair out of her face. “What were you saying about the desertions?”

“Just that I’m worried if we stay here too long, we’ll have more.”

She nodded. “My father says there’s no plan in place for our next offensive. He’s worried we’ll lose the advantage if we don’t leave soon.” Her eyes flicked to Yakov. “You look pale. Something wrong? Or is the early hour making you sick?”

“Went to the execution,” he grunted.

“Bit squeamish, are you? Here, this’ll settle your stomach.” She poured a cup of water and added a few drops of potion to it. He sniffed at it before taking a drink.

“Thanks.”

Lada turned to me. “What about you? Did you lose your stomach like Matvey Il’ich did this morning?”

I shook my head, frowning at the poor joke.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. You’re as bad as my father.” She turned back to her mortar and began grinding again. “The world’s full of gruesome things. I’ve seen my fair share. If you don’t laugh at it, you’ll cry, and I’d rather not cry. So don’t judge my gallows humor, Han.”

The color in Yakov’s cheeks was returning. “What’s in this?” he asked, taking another drink of the potion.

She winked at him. “Blood Bastards’ secret. If I share it with outsiders, I’ll be executed myself.”

He blinked, as if unsure if she was telling the truth. I wasn’t sure, either.

“Of course, if you worked for me, I might be able to share some of my secrets. Not the sacred ones, but some of the skills I’ve learned.”

Yakov looked to me and back to her, brows furrowed. “Work for you?” He waved his hand around the tent. “Here?”

“Why not? I know neither of you will be in any of the battles, so you might as well be useful somewhere. Han’s busy with the tsar, but you don’t have any other duties, do you?”

He frowned at her. “You mean helping in the infirmary? Fetching water, cutting linens for bandages, and such?” She nodded. “Isn’t that women’s work?”

I slowly edged back as she whirled on him. I’d seen that look often enough on Mila’s face to know when to get out of the way.

“‘Women’s work?’ Keeping your sorry asses alive is ‘women’s work?’” She glared at him, waving her pestle under his nose. “Sure, it is women’s work, if by that you mean sewing off gangrenous limbs, setting bones, and sitting next to dying men so they’re not alone when they say their last words.” Her eyesnarrowed. “I thought you might appreciate having something to do now that we’re back with the army, but if you’d rather mope around waiting for a more manly task to come along, be my guest.”

“I just remembered the tsar was expecting me,” I lied. “I’ll find you later, Yakov. Lada.” Ignoring the glare he shot at me, I disappeared through the tent flap.

So much for spending the day at camp. I wanted to be far away from the impending storm between those two. I walked back to the castle. The tsar was walking across the entrance hall, and he waved me over.

“Ah, Han. I hoped we would have a chance to talk today. Will you walk with me?”

“Of course, your majesty.”

Borislav led me through the doors I’d just entered and into the castle courtyard. “How was the adjustment for you?” At my questioning look, he nodded at my arm. “Going from two hands to one.”

“Difficult,” I admitted. “I never enjoyed writing, but learning to write again was awful. Mila made me learn, but most of my correspondence is—was—handled by my steward. I had to relearn how to handle an ax, a sickle, a spoon.” I gave a wry grin. “For the first year, Yakov and I spent all day training with tools, and all night Mila harangued us about pens and spoons.”

The tsar smiled. “Your wife is a treasure. But what about swords? I can’t imagine a man like you accepting the fact that you’d never hold a sword again.”

Was I so transparent? “We trained a bit, with sticks and the like. Yakov and I, I mean. But no one would sell us a sword after Barbezht, and it’s hard to learn to swordfight without one.”

We stopped outside the castle smithy. “And if you could fight again?” he asked.

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