The Book of Many People

Sonne and Girre: Alternatively, Rhyme Hates the Weather, Part 2

You could say Rhyme was having a bad day.

You would be making an understatement.

They'd moved out that morning, and the instant they'd gotten far enough away from Tamaerlaine to lose sight of it, a fierce snowstorm began to roar over the tundra, whipping up huge puffs of snow and ice.

They'd been forced to put up their tents before the gale hit them. Now they were huddled inside their crude shelters of fur and leather and wooden posts, wishing they were back inside the city with warm cups of cocoa.

The strike force was cold, demoralized, and tired. Rhyme ordered the first ever "group nap" in the history of the Talestoran army, and proceeded to follow her own advice by curling up in her rickety cot in the command tent. (Really, it was just a rest stop, but she wanted everyone to sleep a little.)

After about an hour, she woke up. Outside, the blizzard was still unleashing its fury upon the land. Rhyme made a rude hand gesture at the snow, akin to flipping it the bird.

Some poor soul brave enough to test the winds ducked into the command tent, shutting the flap tight against the storm.

On further inspection, it was two poor souls. Looking utterly bedraggled, Sonne Revelan and Girre Wysetta, two of Rhyme's higher-ranking cronies (as it were), stumbled into the shelter and collapsed on the rug in front of the fire.
"Thank the stars for our general's foresight in packing some extra coal," gasped Girre. Ice that had gotten caught in her thick auburn hair began to melt and drip water over her thankfully leather-clad back.

Rhyme stood and balanced herself on top of her cot, peering down at her subordinate owlishly. "You're welcome," she said in the most mystical-sounding voice she could muster.

Girre threw back her head and cackled.

Meanwhile, Sonne seemed to have returned to life, withdrawing from the folds of her cloak an iron pot and a disassembled over-the-fire cooking rack. "We brought supplies," she said. Her voice was rough from something. Rhyme couldn't see her eyes; her bangs fell over them, obscuring the bright orbs.

Stepping down very carefully from her unstable perch, the general crossed over to Sonne and took the cooking rack from her. She began to put it back together. Sonne, her mannerisms curiously stiff, handed the pot over to Girre, who smirked (hmm) and began to scrape snow off the ground into it.

They set the pot over the fire to let the snow thaw and boil, then Rhyme turned to Sonne and brushed the hair out of her eyes. Immediately the reason for her stillness was revealed. Lieutenant Revelan was wearing a blindfold.

"Did Girre put you up to this?" Asked Rhyme, trying and failing not to laugh.

"Yes," growled Sonne. "I'm getting paid good shimmers for this, and Wysetta over here said that she'd fork it over when you noticed. Pay up, missy." She ripped the cloth off her eyes.

Girre, cackling again, withdrew a small pouch from a pocket somewhere on her person. As a former thief, she seemed to have an infinite amount of pockets on her person from which she could withdraw things. Tossing it over to Sonne, she said, "Here you are, you hulking brute! Count them if you like, but you'll find that I haven't cheated you. Ah, what a nice game!"

"If I'm a hulking brute, then you're a trickster with one too many pockets who can't hold her drink. Pick this out of the pocket of some poor, unsuspecting foot soldier?" said Sonne, but she took the shimmers anyways.

Rhyme shook her head, smiling wryly. "You two will be the death of each other."

"Likely so!" Girre puffed out her chest. "Brawn-before-brains over here has just insulted my honor! Can't hold my alcohol, she says. You'll be eating your words soon enough!"