Sentinelspire by Mark Sehestedt Page B

soften. “Spices?”
    “In my pack.”
    “And there wouldn’t be anything else in your pack that we should worry about?”
    Berun sighed. “If you don’t trust me, you could keep the pack and hand me what I need.”
    Valmir looked to Kerlis, who was sitting, morose, by his own fire, and Dren, who was sitting beside Lewan and honing his dagger over a whetstone. “You two have any objections?”
    Dren just shrugged. Kerlis scowled and spat into the fire.
    “You sit still,” Valmir told Berun, and he walked over to where most of the camp’s supplies were piled. He found Berun’s large leather satchel and returned to the fire. He sat, opened the flap, and turned the open satchel into the firelight. “Let’s see if we can get this over with before the rain hits.”
    “See the roll of felt wrapped in twine?” said Berun.
    “Yeah.”
    “Those are needles and spare arrowheads,” said Berun. “Quite sharp, so don’t unwrap them. On the other side of the spare clothes is an inner pocket. See it?”
    “Yes.”
    “In that pocket is a small leather bag stitched with a red thread. Make sure it’s the pocket on the opposite side from the needles. The other pocket is poisons.”
    “Poisons?”
    “I live most of the year in the wild. I sometimes have to hunt things larger than me, and it takes a bit more than an arrow to bring them down.”
    Val removed a leather bag slightly larger than his hand. “This it?”
    “The very one.” Berun reached for it.
    But Val drew it back, untied the drawstring, and looked inside. “How about you tell me what you want and I’ll pass it over?”
    “You have salt already, so try to find a white doeskin bag. It should have a brass hinge on top rather than a drawstring.”
    Val rummaged a moment, then produced the bag. “What is it?”
    “Just sage.”
    Valmir opened the little hinge and sniffed at it. Satisfied, he closed the latch and tossed it to Berun.
    “Now, a larger oilskin pouch with black stitching.”
    Val found it, sniffed the contents, and his brows rose appreciatively. “What’s this?”
    “It’s called lingale,” said Berun. “It will help to bring out more flavor in the meat, and if we let it simmer, it will thicken the broth nicely.”
    “Nice,” said Val. “What next?”
    “This one is my little secret,” said Berun. “The
yaqubi
call it yellow safre. Quite good. You’ll find it in a similar oilskin pouch, only this one has lighter stitching.”
    “Not much of a secret anymore.” Valmir grinned as he looked for the pouch.
    “This is just cooking,” said Berun. “I don’t guard these secrets that closely.”
    Valmir tossed him the pouch.
    “One more, I think,” said Berun. “It’s probably near the bottom. Been a while since I used it. This one is a bottle made from bone. Should have a thick wad of felt stuffed in the top for a cap.”
    “Why bone?” asked Val as he rummaged through the satchel.
    “Clay or glass might break, and leather tends to soak up the flavor of this particular spice.”
    Valmir produced the bottle and tossed it to Berun. “What is this one?”
    Berun twisted the felt out of the bottle and gave the contents a careful sniff. “This one is most special. I trade for it with Shou merchants in Almorel.” He shook a generous pile into the palm of one hand.
    “What’s it called?”
    “They call it
tep yen
,” said Berun. “I suspect it’s some sort of fruit, but these are the seeds, dried and crushed.” He leaned over the fire and extended his hand. “Here. Smell. It’s quite good.”
    Careful of the fire between them, Valmir leaned toward Berun’s open palm. He inhaled through his nose, and his brows rose in appreciation. “Good,” he said. “Smells hot.”
    “It is,” said Berun—and blew the
tep yen
into Valmir’s eyes.
    Valmir shrieked—a high-pitched scream so loud that Berun thought the man might tear his throat. Val fell back, his hands scrabbling at his eyes and his feet kicking the