Iron Jaw and Hummingbird by Chris Roberson Page A

managed, painfully making his way toward a heavy man slopping pigs. The man dumped a bucket into the low, narrow trough—animal bones, old vegetables, dinner scraps, and trimmings all mixed in a murky, brackish water. “My . . . friend and I . . . have traveled . . . great distance, and if you could . . .” Temujin paused, wavering slightly. “Water . . . and food . . .” he finally finished simply.
    The man shook out the rest of the bucket and tossed it to the corner of the pen.
    â€œWe don’t take very kindly to beggars around here, stranger,” the man said, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “But I’ve had good fortune this season, and it’d be an ill deed not to pass on at least a little of it.” The man rubbed the whiskers on his chin. “Tell you what, if there’s anything left once they’re through”—he indicated the two pigs greedily eating at the trough—“you can have what’s left. That’s all I can do for you.”
    Temujin scowled momentarily but forced a weak smile.
    â€œThank . . . you . . .” he said, his eyes on the pigs.
    Gamine drew near.
    â€œH-heart attack, pig,” she said, her eyes on the trough, wishing as hard as she could. The foul mess in the brackish water was, at that moment, more appetizing than the finest meal in Fuchuan.
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    In the end, they didn’t wait for the pigs to finish. Squeezing through the bars of the pen, they waited until the man’s back was turned and worked their way to the far end of the trough, as far from the two monstrous pigs as possible. Luckily for them, the animals were too busy eating to pay them any mind, and Gamine and Temujin were able to scoop out handful after handful of the stuff and cram it into their waiting mouths. It smelled foul, and tasted even worse, but it was edible and had water in it, both of which were all that mattered at the moment.
    They ate as much of the stuff as their shrunken stomachs would allow, the first food they’d had in nearly three days, and if the pigs hadn’t started toward them ominously, beady eyes regarding them almost as though they were dessert, Gamine and Temujin would have fallen asleep right in the muck. As it was, they scrambled back through the bars as quickly as their diminished strength would allow.
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    Smelling now worse than the pigs—slop dripping down their chins and fronts, and muck and manure all over their clothes and hair—Gamine and Temujin nevertheless breathed contented sighs of relief. Having crossed the unpeopled stretches of the plains, they had reached civilization again at last, though the journey had proved much longer and more difficult than Temujin had originally suggested, as Gamine was always quick to remind him.
    â€œâ€˜Just a couple of days,’” Gamine said, trying ineffectually to wipe some of the muck from her clothing. “‘We’ll reach the farms of the northern plains in no time.’ Isn’t that what you said?”
    â€œWell . . .” Temujin replied, dabbing daintily at the corners of his mouth with his sleeve, as though he’d just dined at a grand restaurant and not stolen scraps from a couple of pigs. “We’re here now, aren’t we, my little sprite?” He laughed slightly and glanced down at his ragged, soiled robes. “Perhaps a little more worse for wear, but still here, nevertheless.”
    â€œFor all the good it does us,” Gamine said, looking around. “Our first real meal since leaving the city is at a pig’s trough, and it doesn’t look as though our welcome is going to get much warmer.”
    Men, women, and children walked past, carrying bundles and farm implements down the dirt road, all of them giving Gamine and Temujin a wide berth.
    â€œWe’ll work something out, I feel certain.” Temujin pointed at the road, which wound deeper into the little village. “Perhaps it’s just