Free Inheritance by Christopher Paolini

dwarf or Urgal slog past their tent, noting their wounds and the condition of their weapons and armor. He tried to gauge the general mood of the Varden; the only conclusion he reached was that everyone but the Urgals needed a good sleep and a decent meal, and that everyone, including the Urgals—especially the Urgals—needed to be scoured from head to foot with a hog’s-hair brush and buckets of soapy water.
    He also watched Katrina, and he saw how, as she worked, her initial good cheer gradually faded and she became ever more irritable. She kept scrubbing and scrubbing at several stains, but with little success. A scowl darkened her face, and she began to make small noises of frustration.
    At last, when she had slapped the wad of fabric against the washboard, splashing foamy water several feet into the air, and leaned on the tub, her lips pressed tightly together, Roran pushed himself off the stump and made his way to her side.
    “Here, let me,” he said.
    “It wouldn’t be fitting,” she muttered.
    “Nonsense. Go sit down, and I’ll finish.… Go on.”
    She shook her head. “No. You should be the one resting, not me. Besides, this isn’t man’s work.”
    He snorted with derision. “By whose decree? A man’s work, or a woman’s, is whatever needs to be done. Now go sit down; you’ll feel better once you’re off your feet.”
    “Roran, I’m fine.”
    “Don’t be silly.” He gently tried to push her away from the tub, but she refused to budge.
    “It’s not right,” she protested. “What would people think?” She gestured at the men hurrying along the muddy lane next to their tent.
    “They can think whatever they want. I married you, not them. If they believe I’m any less of a man for helping you, then they’re fools.”
    “But—”
    “But nothing. Move. Shoo. Get out of here.”
    “But—”
    “I’m not going to argue. If you don’t go sit, I’m going to carry you over there and tie you to that stump.”
    A bemused expression replaced her scowl. “Is that so?”
    “Yes. Now go!” As she reluctantly ceded her position at the tub, he made a noise of exasperation. “Stubborn, aren’t you?”
    “Speak for yourself. You could teach a mule a thing or two.”
    “Not me. I’m not stubborn.” Undoing his belt, he removed his mail shirt and hung it on the front pole of the tent, then peeled off his gloves and rolled up the sleeves of his tunic. The air was cool against his skin, and the bandages were colder still—they had grown chill while lying exposed on the washboard—but he did not mind, for the water was warm, and soon the cloth was as well. Frothy mounds of iridescent bubbles built up around his wrists as he pushed and pulled the material across the full length of the knobby board.
    He glanced over and was pleased to see that Katrina was relaxingon the stump, at least as much as anyone could relax on such a rough seat.
    “Do you want some chamomile tea?” she asked. “Gertrude gave me a handful of fresh sprigs this morning. I can make a pot for both of us.”
    “I’d like that.”
    A companionable silence developed between them as Roran proceeded to wash the rest of the laundry. The task lulled him into a pleasant mood; he enjoyed doing something with his hands other than swinging his hammer, and being close to Katrina gave him a deep sense of satisfaction.
    He was in the middle of wringing out the last item, and his freshly poured tea was waiting for him next to Katrina, when someone shouted their names from across the busy way. It took Roran a moment to realize it was Baldor running toward them through the mud, weaving between men and horses. He wore a pitted leather apron and heavy, elbow-length gloves that were smeared with soot and were so worn that the fingers were as hard, smooth, and shiny as polished tortoise shells. A scrap of torn leather held back his dark, shaggy hair, and a frown creased his forehead. Baldor was smaller than his father, Horst, and his older