“Rather protect it myself, and take my chances. They treat us like slaves, not men in our own land!”
“And what do y’think the Saxons would do?”
“The Saxons are men. You can outfight ’em, you can outlive ’em, or you can outbreed ’em.” He smoothed a hand over the baby’s fiery fuzz. “Or, worse comes to worse, you can mix w’ them and make a new people. What can you do with bastards that never die? They don’t belong here, and I’m not the only one sayin’ it!”
“Well, don’t say it so loud,” his wife said. “You’ll upset the babe.”
The man looked at Pritkin for support, who nodded, still breathless. “The fey . . . will protect us, but keep us exactly as we are . . . while the world goes on without us.”
The man looked at his wife. “Y’see? Bad times come, but sometimes they need to. Or you die anyway, of stagnation and rot. I know how I’d rather go out!”
“Would you stop that talk?” the woman hissed, hugging her child. “I want her protected!”
“And when they come for her? Who’ll protect her then?”
The woman looked at him fiercely for a moment, then deliberately pinched her child, I didn’t know why.
Until I saw two fey breaking off from the group to approach the tent.
I pulled back into the shadows.
“There!” the woman said, her voice annoyed. “What did I tell you?”
“What’s wrong w’ the child, anyway?” her husband’s voice demanded. “Have you lied to me, woman? Are you part banshee?”
She snorted. “More like you. Snore loud enough to wake the dead, he does,” she told someone.
“How would you know?” he demanded. “When do I get t’sleep? All night, it’s the same thing—loud as thunder, she is!”
The man had a point. The kid’s outrage was impressive. And I wasn’t the only one to think so. One of the fey I could now see was wincing in pain, while the other looked vaguely horrified.
“Picking up, good sirs?” the man yelled.
“What?” The first
fey looked at him while the other started trying to push inside, I guessed to start a search.
But the cauldron the couple was using to boil clothes was in the way, bubbling merrily. The man plunged in a paddle, and steam erupted everywhere, causing the fey to jerk back. And then the woman was blocking the small avenue that was left, along with the human foghorn.
“Let me by,” the fey told her.
“What?”
“I said, let me by!”
“You’ll have to speak up,” she screamed, almost in his face. “She’s teething.”
“What?”
“Teething!”
The fey looked at the child in concern, as if it was some alien creature. A tiny, smelly, very loud alien creature. It suddenly occurred to me to wonder how often the fey dealt with babies, considering their birth rate.
Judging by his face, not a lot.
“Then what’s that smell?” her husband asked, leaning over.
“You’re right,” the woman said to him, peering into some sort of proto diaper. And releasing a stench worse than anything the dirty clothes were giving off. “I guess she’s not teething yet, after all.”