Camid stroked his nose thoughtfully. "I could give you a wee tap under the chin first. You wouldn't feel a thing. "
"I'll settle for a leather strap between my teeth, thank you just the same."
Camid laughed with far more delight than Miach was comfortable with, but dug about in his pack and came out with something that might have resembled a kit for the odd small job of putting things back together. Miach looked at it in alarm.
"Those look to be awfully thick needles," he said.
"Well, lad, aren't you thick-skinned?" Camid said, with twinkling eyes.
"Nay, I'm not," Miach answered promptly. "And when I look at your gear there, I think I might prefer to bleed to death."
"That's for my saddle," Camid said, setting aside one set of needles and pulling out another. "These are for flesh."
Miach honestly couldn't see how Camid could distinguish between the two, but he supposed it wouldn't make much difference. It especially didn't make any difference when he was treated to the spectacle of watching Morgan and Adhémar walk into camp. The sight of that, the sight of them actuallyconversingwithout blades drawn, was enough to have him gritting his teeth so hard, the cracking noise drowned out any grunts of pain he might have made.
"Easy, lad," Camid chuckled. "I haven't begun yet."
"Be about it then, friend," Miach said, still through gritted teeth, "while I am distracted."
Camid applied himself to the stitches. "Fond of her, are you?" he murmured.
"Is that really the kind of question?" Miach grunted, "?you should be asking right now?" Miach grunted another time or two. It was a more manly noise than yelping. Camid was obviously more suited to stitching saddles than stitching men.
"Your brother is desirable, perhaps," Camid offered, "but he is not for Morgan. I wouldn't worry."
Miach met Camid's eyes. "Did you think I was?" he said. "Worrying?"
"I have two good eyes. And a fine nose for a romance."
Miach grunted. "Don't sniff too hard."
Camid cinched a stitch with enthusiasm. "I never smell amiss. Ah, Morgan, look at who I have here. Apparently he cut himself training."
Miach glared at Camid, who only smiled innocently, then looked up as Morgan came near. She bent down to look at his arm.
"You," she said, meeting his eyes, "need a keeper."
"He'll be fine on his own," Adhémar said smoothly. "Morgan, we should go check on those fine Angesand steeds. Shall we?"
Morgan looked at Adhémar as it he'd suggested a visit to a nearby dung heap. "Thank you, but nay. I'll wait until Camid has finished with Miach."
Adhémar looked wounded. "It you must. "
Morgan hesitated, then frowned. "I suppose you can wait as well. Ityoumust. "
"I would like that very much. "
Miach was torn between glaring at his brother, smiling at Morgan's lack of enthusiasm, and yelping over Camid's very businesslike attention to his arm. Camid finished the final stitch and packed up his gear. Miach thanked the dwarf kindly, then rose.
"Why don't I come to the barn with you," Miach said to Adhémar. "An extra pair of hands is always useful."
Adhémar, predictably, ignored him.
Miach was slightly gratified to find that Morgan was ignoring Adhémar in much the same fashion.
She took him by the arm and pulled him toward the barn. "Miach, how did you manage this? Did you run into some bit of the farmer's gear? I should think you'd be more careful than that, being a farmer yourself. "
"I was distracted," Miach said under his breath.
