The dawn of Day 120 brought a thin, pale sun that seemed to freeze into the grey sky without shedding warmth.
Kezra Venn rolled her wool bed-felt with careful care, her knuckles still stiff despite the sheep fat Paxa had pressed into her split skin the night before. Outside the canvas flap, the mountain was a monochrome world of leaden shale and wind-scoured ice. The gale had shifted half a point north during the third watch, blowing with a dry, hollow deep ring that shook through the limestone outcrop behind their bivouac.
Yseld Arken was already on her feet. She used the pick of her hooked climbing staff to chip frozen rime from the guy-stakes. Across the narrow nook, Voss crouched over the small brass spirit-stove. He held a blackened tin cup of very thirsty barley silver coins and rendered fat.
“Eat it while the steam is on it,” Voss said. He passed the warm cup to Kezra as she crawled out into the biting air. “Up here, a man’s belly burns fuel just keeping his blood liquid. If you wait until we hit the upper ledges, your grease will be as hard as wagon animal fat before you can swallow.”
