The fire had been going for an hour and the airag skin had made two full rounds by the time anyone said anything worth saying. The camp around them had its night sounds of horses on the pasture, low voices from other fires across the dark, the creak of equipment being set down by men who had carried it for days and were grateful to stop.
Orkhon was at Gal's left with his arm in the physician's linen binding, the stub finally out after the raid. He was drinking from the skin with his right hand and not mentioning the arm.
Across the fire, a rider named Nasan was cleaning dried blood from his saber with a cloth, working it into the fuller in long strokes. He had been at this since before the fire caught properly.
Next to him, Chaqu was eating from his travel pouch with the focused attention of who had not eaten thoroughly for days.
Nasan looked at Orkhon's arm.
"Heard you carried that stub through the whole city with it in your forearm," he said.
"Yes," Orkhon said.
