Midway through the afternoon, Iskren came by the bubbling spring carrying a flat wooden tray held in the crook of his elbow. On the tray sat six rough lumps of gray marsh-salt, three dried willow-bark chews, and a stiff boar-bristle grooming brush with a looped leather handle.
“Your side’s scabbing over nicely under the clay,” Iskren said, squinting down at the dull olive patch along Pip’s right flank. “If you’re done staring holes in the mud, I have a job for you up in the south paddock. Ysabet stays here by the fire.”
Ysabet looked up from the field journal where she had been drying damp pages by the brazier. “Just Pip?”
“Just Pip,” Iskren said. “Right now the only creatures it knows how to ask a question of are you and a boy it scared half out of his wits. If every yes or no in the world feels like life and death, it’s going to shake itself to pieces the next time somebody shuts a door. The adult stock in the south paddock don’t know anything about war gods, and they’re very clear about their manners.”
He set the wooden tray on the grass in front of Pip. “Take the tray up the plank walk. Put it down six feet from an animal and tap the board. If they come over for salt or a scratch, give it to them. If they turn their rumps to you, pick up your tray and walk on to the next one…
