Hrodenynbrys tended the fire. The human mage was fast asleep. Finn had gone back out into the snowy twilight. 'Brys was sure, by now, he was not human. He wasn't too sure exactly what he was, except dangerous to anger, and wily as a big old sea-pike and just as fast. 'Brys had to admit that for chance-met companions who constrained him to accompany them, he could have done worse. He had always known his power with music set him apart. All merrows had some magical skills, but they tended to be fairly minor manifestations of it. It was . . . refreshing to be in company of those similarly blessed, or cursed, depending on how you looked at it.
Finn came back with a large, dead animal, already flensed. "I bought it, believe it or not. The Scrap would be proud of me."
"What is it?" asked Hrodenynbrys.
"A sheep. I found the owner flensing those he'd had to kill or that had died when Zuamar burned a piece of mountainside," said Finn with a scowl. "He was a ruined shepherd. Now he's got some silver and a fine ruby that'll buy him a bigger flock, if he has the patience. Right, let's hack some bits off this carcass and cook them. They'll be tough as old dragonhide, but it'll be food."
"Is dragonhide something you'd be making a habit of eating, then?" 'Brys asked, taking out his knife.
Finn grinned wryly. "It's come my way before. Trust me, you haven't missed anything. Too full of metals to be good for you anyway. Slice some collops off that leg. There is a bit of fat there, and in the cold humans need the energy from it. Our little mage needs feeding up."
"And you, lord?"
Finn rolled his eyes. "What with her 'master' and you calling me 'lord' it's a wonder I don't get too self-important for my own good. Call me Finn. I like a bit of mutton, but this weather is not really cold for my kind." He threaded lumps of meat onto a long stick he'd sharpened, and held them into the flames. They began to smoke and fizzle on the edges. "You hold this—I'll get out some salt."
'Brys did as he was bade, although the heat was fierce. "So . . . Finn. What kind are you that would not be feeling the cold? Or," he looked at the fire, "the heat."
Finn shrugged. "You're burning them. Turn them. Here, let me put some salt on first. I am what I am, for me to know and you to keep your mouth shut about if you do work it out." He jerked a thumb at the sleeping woman. "Scrap has delusions. I'd prefer for her to keep them for now."
"Consider me silent," said Hrodenynbrys. "Is this meat done? I have never cooked meat before."
"That's obvious," said Finn examining the sizzling meat with its one blackened side, critically. "Let me wake the Scrap and we can eat this lot before we try and do better with the next attempt. It's all supposed to be more-or-less this color,"—he prodded a part of the meat—"not alternating black and red."