The fire was lower than it should have been for the wood that had gone into it, but nobody moved to add more. Around them, from every direction across the camp, other fires had gone up in the camp and the celebration made its presence with voices and laughter from other arbans marking the night in their own way.
Temur's fire had its four.
Goru was looking at Buras from across the flames. He had been for a while.
"You're bleeding through the face wrap," he said.
"I know," Buras said. "It starts when I lay down and then when I sit back up."
"Then just stay still."
"Fuck off," Buras said. "I want to sleep this night."
He looked at his hands in the firelight. "My left shoulder's tightened since the hall, the cut from before started itching where the physician packed it. Face is doing what it's doing. Horse is dead and still on the citadel paving, as far as I know."
"We know all of that," Goru said.
"I don't care, the least you can do is hear me complain." Buras retorted.
