Virtual cover art for The Totem-Maker with volcanic eruption








1. The Little I Can Tell
2. Jealousy
3. I Am the Cause
4. To Be and to Choose
5. Winter Alone
6. Use for Use
7. The Recalcitrant One
8. From Cliff-Head


(more to come)





The Totem-Maker

Chapter One

The Little I Can Tell


Collage of wary person looking over shoulder



I would not have asked to be born under a portent. The day of my arrival on earth began, at daybreak, with a fearsome one.

I knew the story so well, I could for years picture the event vividly; I believed even, alone most hours with my imagination, that this vision was not of my own conjuring. I was despised, and cherished all it promised.

I have come to know the world better. If I were chosen specially for anything, it was at the agency of men, and the thing was to shoulder the thankless task at hand. If I’d possessed any gift, I had by then been well taught not to nurture it, but let it die…envy bites hardest those uneasy hearts for whom glory must walk hand-in-hand with the debasement of others.

The story I recounted, though, in times I call helpless, not innocent, was one the old woman who stirred the pot…who it was always my place to serve…and who would not have me call her mother, had told first, rebukingly. She wanted her days of labor to end in rest. She dreaded the intervention of a god, tidings of great change to come.

“Lotoq,” she said.

The name was allowed to be spoken, because it was thought to be a word of the old tribe that lived at its feet when there had been orchards on the flanks, green forests of pine, herds of game. This was known. But she kept her back to the mountain. Only I stared at it, ran to the open door to take a bold look. Lotoq, living mountain, god or devil, was shaped like a crouching spider. The image the more imposing because of the black ribs of rock that buttressed the snow-covered peak, the web-like wisps that spun above it.

A highway connected our town to the next, and the next after that; it also, like the temple that had risen in a mysterious way when the flood subsided, had been built by these prosperous, forgotten ones. The pavement was sound, the stones surely a thousand-weight each, and cunningly fitted. Almost no grass would grow between.

But nearby it ended, the great stones thrust up from below, as it seemed, splintered and heaved in all directions. It ended at a crevasse, deep, foul-smelling. However the rains fell, this never filled.

That month before my birth, cruel signs began to show themselves. Birds fell from the sky, sudden, and in such quantities as to block chimneys. A terrible groaning shocked the soles of the feet, coming whence none knew…but a glow, burning light in colors no fire of dung or charcoal could produce, seemed to hover, turning the snows of Lotoq to a metal-hued, steaming cloud.






Something awful and tragic had occurred, not long after, somewhere below the opposite flank.

“I cannot go near the place.” A traveler brought word, meaning of a town that had once thrived there. “I think we will never know. I think none escaped.”

And then the scouring flood, that islanded our own town, once situated on a rise, now a barren plain. Many weeks of deprivation followed this, and I was protected from sacrifice, for being born to a mute, a woman who had come with no means of telling: What was her home? What had she seen?

Thus the priests said wait, wait for another sign.


Here was our strange condition. Other deluges had come, kinder rains, rolling pebbles into channels with the relentlessness of falling water. They had carried off the ash.

The ash was insubstantial, and the new streams, that became old rivers, grew fast. The land found its depth again, and waxed fertile, spreading outwards from the banksides, still in the years before I knew myself a being, in a place—this place.

The old woman spoke to me only to correct, to give orders. I had nothing then to teach me that adults feared at all, or what they might fear. This doing for myself, doing chores, perfecting them that I not be punished, was all the world held in my knowledge of it.

I hadn’t known it, but learned, how this village from that day of my birth had withered, stunted. Nearly all had survived, but none wished to stay. Under such a vastness of devastation it seemed odd, but it was true…only a day’s march, and one came upon green fields, wells that yielded pure water.

They had had to go bind themselves to the land, and do labor, as the holdings skirting Lotoq belonged to three lords. One overseer who kept the vineyards and the cornfields in his master’s stead, was called a fair-minded tyrant; another called brute. The third had refused to welcome any of the refugees.






So they had worked off the price of their keep, and one by one began to return. Why had the old woman and the priests remained, and why did messengers in those years bring food, kindling wood, jugs of water for our sustenance?

It was the foundling.



On a hot afternoon, I followed Elberin, who, the old woman had said, was now my master, through one of these forests…slim-trunked trees, that within a decade’s sprouting had thickened in their numbers.

They were of a type, where to dig one for the sake of moving it (which for the shade, the builders of new houses did), meant safeguarding the trailing root that tangled with those of the next tree, and the next. It must be severed at an arm’s length measure, or the tree would die. They had all reached perhaps twice my own height. Their shade was a thin grey veil over gritty earth; the sun beating on their leaves drew out a green, brothy smell.

I do not mean to dwell on trees, but to say I remember the smell, and the bitter flour ground from the seedballs that came to maturity at the end of summer. The flour I knew intimately, as among my chores had been all parts of the cycle: gathering them, culling them, kilning them, grinding them when they were very dry and brittle, sieving the powder through a cloth—this also I had to weave…and it was made from the leaves of these trees.

I do not mean to dwell on them, but to say they were not native to our land. So I’d been told. They came, as a burdensome gift, the gods’ familiar humor…even the bark stripped from the lower branches was woven into baskets; even a piney-flavored sap that had some sweetness about it, we used in feast offerings, and the fermented drink we called sap-wine.

And so I made the flour. I put the flour away in jars. I made the bread and the cakes.






I was most content to be always busy at something. Thus when I saw the priests at the door with their heads together, I would have the chore at hand to excuse myself. But I was meant to come at once to any adult who had not yet instructed me; to give obeisance, and to ask, “Vlan (which was our way of calling an elder), what would you have me do?”

She had put me over into their hands by stages, the old woman, and never in our time together had we spoken but face to face; and so to me she had no name, and I no name to her.

With my hands, then, clutching some implement—a broom, a mallet, the palette of clay our bread was baked on—I was in a ready state of apology. But their rebukes were always a sort of scorn. I ought by now to have prophesied, or to have manifested something…fits, a clouded white eye…any sign that had some whiff of holiness.

Elberin decided I would be taught to write letters. He’d taken me from the old woman’s house into his own…and an anxious severing from my usefulness. Now I sat after breakfast, an hour or more, and waited.

I was to carry a tablet on our walks, soft unfired clay, and mark down the names of things he pointed to along the way. Over my shoulder was slung a heavy basket, with many of these small tablets (that I made myself).

It was his way, when I’d scratched down mistakes, to seize the clay from my hands, send my flint flying, and smash my work to pieces. He did this with a great dispassion, and rarely a word.


I have never known my age…but only that, at some age of awareness, I began to mark the seasons. By my unhappinesses I could count these as different, one to another, a chronicle in fault and shortfall. My early years gave only the mildest of joys. When I could be alone working the furrows of my garden, that had been one—the maturing of seed into flower and fruit.

We kept a cat and a dog, as against rats and rabbits one must, and I loved them. I believe I did. These innocents never came to me with any other than a welcoming face. And I was never cruel, as the old woman; never at my hand were the good creatures swatted, never chased with a broom.

But there were bad seasons, blights in the crops, dearths in the harvest, for which I was held wanting…and there were my myriad mistakes with Elberin, when I had only his taskings of me, for time spent, and no garden to tend.






I was as tall, at length, as the elders. By now our town had doubled in size, from the enclave in which I’d lived alone with the priests, and the woman once my mistress; it had doubled again and again. And now, from that prince who never had deigned to shelter refugees, came sent a snaking throng, seen all along the road into the distance, towards haze and his border.

A mammoth beast of work came, shod hooves clapping the old pavement laid by the forgotten race of Lotoq’s plain, a long-maned beast of such girth, that one must be harnessed before another; and they drew their burden in train, catching all eyes. Iron bells tolled from the collars that circled their necks. The wagon bore a statue. The second wagon its massive plinth.

Two days’ labor with trunks of trees, and wheels and ropes…and the prince’s slaves had raised the monument. That we would know our land had been claimed, and know our prince by his visage. The skin of the face was done in gilt; the robes enameled in brilliant blue…a hue stronger than the sky, such as I’d seen at the heart of a small flower.

By this time I’d supposed that I also would be a priest. I had copied out all of the scrolls, and so my histories—my genealogies and my miracles—were established in memory. Any Father or Mother I met would speak a name to me, and I could recite the lineage. I had been set to work particularly on signs. I knew the size of spring leaves…when this boded ill; or when it boded over-bounteous…when mortifying sacrifice was needed, as envious gods demand. I knew the meaning of a grasshopper, a double-yolked egg, a blood-red moon. The types and colors of clouds. I clipped the wing of a moth, drew the divining circle in ash, and read the pattern, that in dying it scattered there.

They hoped…they had invested pride in the hope, and held to it…that my gift would show itself in this. And so the prince’s seizure of our city, and the fertile fields outlying, proved a portent indeed—for me. The puniness of my oracular talents was made plain in failure.

A host of strangely dressed men, testified to by sentries of the night watch, seen in moonlight swarming like insects, in and out of the thin trees that covered the flanks of Lotoq, had been the culminating sign.

“What does it mean?”

I answered her, the priest Burda, “That our borders are crossed, that ones foreign to us passed in the night, that they are gone now.”

She smiled, and looked at Elberin. I knew I’d said nothing, really. Nor had I foreseen the next day’s news, or I might have invented a wild prediction, one that could hardly be proved or disproved.

But you will note that preserving my place meant caring for my place. I had not come, then, to care for anything so worldly. Or it may be fairer to say, to feel that anything might care for me.






And so I sat, on a cold evening; a spring evening that promised frost—as it seems one piece of ill-luck must come in company with another—at work by dim hearth-light. If no one wanted me, I liked this hour between dusk and dark for repairing my few garments, my rug and blanket, my shoes and tools. I had never in my life asked that any new thing be given me. The old woman had treated my outgrowing of clothes as a willful act, vaguely embarrassing…as though I might by stealthy trading, aim for a rise in status.

I sewed, and paid no mind to voices at the door.

I heard one say what I was called, the foundling. The sneer was there; a joke now, those expectations I would have proved a blessing, a prophet to inspire pilgrimage—to make the locals rich.

Someone peered at me, through the door, and withdrew his face.

“Yes, tonight is better,” he said, to Elberin, or to Elberin’s servant.

“How much of your own do you need to gather?” The stranger stepped into the room. He lunged for my basket, but only to snag the handle on one side, lift and drop it. “Is this yours to take away? Will your things fit?”

They would, I told him…because I would make do with whatever could be thrust in the basket, and yes, it was mine. This was my station, not to offer protest, never to query. My confusion would waste his time, and I saw already in these evidences, that he was my master now.













Chapter Two



My place was on a sleeping porch where all the slaves of the house had their pallets. I had traveled for a day, then half another, forced to do this blindfold; allowed to see my bread and leg of fowl by the campfire, but in the morning before full day, blinded again.

The kinder of my three companions told me this was because slaves try to escape. “And truly, a master who has had the bargain of selling one, may willingly enough take him back…to have both money and man.”

“Did you…” I thought about my questions, how to catch out what I hoped to know, raising no suspicion.

“…belong to a good house? Was your work pleasant to you?”

One other of our friends, a sun-scorched fellow older than we, whose brow bore a bowl-shaped indentation, had warning in all his speech (of which there was little), and his looks. The third was a woman…these two went together…whose tasks I longed to shadow, the kitchen being my native place.

But then, it proved the writing had made me desirable to this man, Cime Decima. His family had been granted the right of tax-collection, in this quarter of this city unknown to me, and he did not himself make records on tablets. By which, you will suppose, he could not…to make the numbers come to account…but I had been servant enough, all my years to that time, to have asked nothing more.

“I belong to the family,” my companion said. “I was born in his mother’s house, our master, and he was made a present of me. There is a ceremony, which you may not have in your old place, wherein the mother of the groom chooses those gifts the bride will bring to the altar. Nyma Decima collected a dowry from Gueddu Treiva, and traded for coin a slave, an altar-bowl of alabaster, a team and chariot.”

I understood I might do well to note these names, remember them if I were able, and that demurely, my companion suggested this.

“Then given in return to her son,” I said. He had not told me what I wanted to know, if the Decima were just in temper…or mercurial. But he had told me they were of rank, and followed tradition. And that here, traditions of the great families were self-serving and binding.

It was my lady Pytta whom I attended at the first. I was given a livery to wear. I was given a broom as my staff of office, and when she strolled her garden, I preceded her on the path, to swipe at spiders’ webs and clear away fallen leaves…snakes and worms, droppings of birds…

These last were signs, though, to be read; I had done so in my old life, and found it difficult not pausing for a hurried divination.

“You see what an odd creature it is,” Lady Pytta remarked to her waiting-woman. “It will not trouble itself over a serpent, but the dung of a blackbird balks it…”

I bent to one knee, and rose at the tap of her fan.

It seemed politic to share my thought. “Cime’s wife, the gods favor enterprise just now…as I interpret, may you forgive me. There is a change of fortune on the horizon.”

(These were forms of address one used, to charm away rebuke.)






My predictions earned me status in the Decima household as a prodigy. Or, if nothing more, a jester. Divorced now from any shadow of belief…which for myself I had never had (had wanted only, for the sake of those to whom I belonged, earnestly to will into being), I waxed a hint histrionic…I shaded my words, to color their interpretation with wider and happier possibility.

I had no usual work-mate. I shared quarters with the others, and was called for alone. Lady Pytta was full of laughter; she enjoyed paying her visits…her circuit of the high houses, of which to make, as a young wife, she had the duty. And novelty to carry in her train…and so I was given the hood of a priest for a lark.

The other servants were sent away on pretense of concealing my revelations from gossip. It was sainted secrecy, this drawing of the veil of mystery; it made fun for these idle wealthy. I was given the importance of making my preparations and declaring myself ready…flattered to be attended, to have silence fall at the sound of my own voice. I was played upon—kindly I do think—to an even higher pitch, asked to choose, as the women could not among themselves, whose fortune would first be read. The game lasted the spring and summer, and I suppose in all it was only camaraderie, sport.

I had been isolated in childhood; I had not known what rivalry was.


Now autumn must come, following one cycle of the moon, and I was put in that place designed; ordered to accompany on his rounds Cime Decima. I received to complement my livery a pony, indifferently named for his brown coat, Cuerpha. The sun was low and burned in the afternoons. I wrapped a cloth around my head and neck, and sweated under my cap.

“In the planting season,” Cime said.

He was speaking to me, because he had raised his voice. Because his voice had a note of duty; duty done with resignation…and because his deputy, riding beside and not behind, did something with his shoulders on these occasions. Something that suggested an inward laugh.

“We will ride to the fields and take measure of each planted hektar, each left fallow, what grains are sown. Also we inspect the vineyards, the new leaf. The landholder pays in that portion determined, and if the harvest fall short, he is free to make appeal. But there is no appeal if he has not paid his taxes.”






“And in the harvest season…” I said, to prompt him. To show I listened.

You, who read my tale, heed: I had been taught to be well-spoken, been by exigence made well-read. In these manners, my faith was perfect, for all the men and women I had known—those whose orders I obeyed, who met my eye now and then, conversed with me—were of this kind. But the world is a large place. Here was a lesson I had not learned: that servants and slaves could, must, belong in the eyes of some, among the brutes. That upon a man like Cime’s deputy, Mumas, I—myself, my being, my looks, my voice, my sayings—grated.

All these things taken together, at the mere parting of my lips, sparked in him ire. To appease this man I could not have debased myself to a low enough humility. (Nor, then or later, would I have done so.)

He found me out of place. He found me grasping.

“Again we see how the crops stand in the fields…and nothing, if I have not certified its quality, can be taken to the exchange. You guess how it would be, giving too much license to these farmers. Even as close as we watch, there is not one, I promise you, doesn’t keep aside his stash, to sell over the border.”

“Because,” I said, still in innocence, “we are so near the border, it is not much effort to them.”

He laughed, and shook his head. “I did that work at one time, riding the boundary road, before my present honor.”

Cime was of the knightly caste, as you have surmised, his education all in arms; and what he had got from his tutors, he scorned. He found it easy to employ me in the jotting of figures. And then, for I wanted to do well at anything I undertook, I had thought of chart-making.

My success with Lady Pytta in mind, I’d said so aloud, this brainchild also, that grain and grapes grow with the weather, that in a fine year like this, we would expect a fine yield.

Next year, we would see.

“And the year after, Lord Cime…because by then…”

“How you let it prate!” Mumas said.






Cime rebuked him, with another of his laughs. “Why, Mumas, it costs me nothing!” And he said to me, “The office requires that I appoint a deputy, and his duties are another expense on the landholders.”

This, to Cime, was light humor, bantering with an equal, making foil of an inferior. To Mumas, the words held threat.


Now, the owners of these fields were townsmen. The town, behind its wall, sat central to the plateau, sited high in a bowl among fertile slopes; these descending from a naked peak leagues off, and trimmed by Cime’s boundary road. This, for a space, ran alongside a broad river, the Dagosse…the small branch of which had broken itself from the mud of Lotoq, to become again the Edagosse, native river of my old home.

It was not much in minds now, that fear I would gain my bearings and so flee to Elberin. No, and for a spring and summer, a week or two of the autumn, I did truly count myself content. I believed I had the grace of my lord and lady. I’d thought I had work to do, and that I would grow in giftedness…in this mastery of tasks which came easily to me…to ornament the house of Decima, and find myself valued there.

The town—I will give it a name: Montsecchers—was quartered, as are most. Each quarter was governed with a degree of independence from its sisters, under rule of its own militia. It was Lady Nyma, Cime’s mother, sat as judge above the marshal in our own quarter.

Typically the villas shared a courtyard, and the courtyard was a place for visitors to wait. This dull chore of meeting with whomever might be given, or in some cases prefer (there were lords disputed the hundredth part of a single sovereign), stewardship over the household treasury, was not Cime’s. It was—you have guessed it, no doubt—Mumas the deputy’s place to cool his heels thus.

“We may win them over,” Cime said to me, on one particular day. I was somewhat clever, and gave answers that amused him. He spoke to me for that, confidingly. “You understand, Foundling, that the tax collector’s share is sheared by all he can’t pry loose. But…blame your lady…”

He broke off, and so I tried, “Thank her, rather…?”

He grinned at this and said, “Where do you imagine you’re going?”






Now I might take this as a frank inquiry. I did not serve at table, nor tend to private chambers. Cime first collected me, and I followed, walking or riding. We would begin at Mumas’s stable, for here he always waited…as it seemed, eager. In truth, I think he arranged this excuse not to have me cross his threshold.

I chanced it. “To the house of your deputy, and thence to a bench under Lord Sente’s olive tree.”

This jest Cime took in gratifying spirit. My misfortune was that we had, at the start of our exchange, turned onto the street where Mumas kept his house, and my master’s laughter, his hand on my shoulder, were heard and seen by Mumas idling outside his stable gate. He regarded me with daggers.

Cime’s deputy then took his place, being sure to crowd me aside, and began his complaint…that once more Sente had deigned not to see us; that his dispute with the emperor’s taxes must redound upon Lord Cime, whose man for three days had moreover been left disemployed.

“You have clients yet I ought to have carried your assessments to… Two days more, and the month ends. They will make their own excuses…”

“Yes, they will feel entitled to start the bargaining afresh.”

Cime’s mood I had never seen other than sanguine. That he could be disgraced in office, and by the worst of charges—incompetence—by no sign troubled him.

“For Lord Sente, Mumas, I have a plan…you needn’t fear the wasting of your time. Two days will do for the others. To hang between the poise and the fall will sharpen their wits…and if they balk, that which serves Sente will serve them too. You read and write, do you not? You do not require the company of a scribe?”

Mumas, silent, shook his head.

The words were sufficient in what they revealed. This was why Cime had been telling me (and I protesting), that my cunning in augury, my priest’s hood his wife had gaily given me, had power to charm. “Waylay one of Sente’s servants…or a fellow supplicant…and ply him with your arts. Make a show of it. Sente is a superstitious man, by all accounts.”






It had been uneasy, my trailing after Mumas, charged to serve him…and to never mind him.

“You will sort it out,” Cime said, with his good cheer.

Yes. My hand, so careful, was not legible to Mumas. I scribbled, and ought to copy it all out again. I was his lord’s slave and foisted, not requested…

And so, prettily, Mumas could introduce himself to high-born men. But I merited no acknowledgment.

I bore all that, and that no speech of mine could be answered by other than a snap, or a sneer, or a long quiet space of busyness, of attending to the important…a bit of lint on his sleeve that wanted picking, a question of whether he’d heard his name called, a craning of the neck, this way and that. Absently, then (perhaps with a mild start), what was I staring at?

My Lord Deputy, shall I repeat myself?

Yet never would I have complained.

I had a fondness for Cime and Pytta. I should have been sorry…crushed, I own it…if something I had done, or that they feared I might, reduced our exchanges to a rubbing friction. But what had I ever expected of Mumas?

This was as I saw it. That we walked together for a time, and that I would soon walk another way. That my stolid bearing of his companionship was a stepping stone, in its fashion.


My lady had given me Lom…that is, my fellow slave’s freedom for the afternoon; she spared him, who had taken back my role of sweeping the garden walk, and my broom.

“Cime,” she told me, “puts his faith in you.”

These were modest words. Her sideways look and rueful mouth said more. We were sharing a joke…to a degree…but also she counted, and hoped to counter, the possibility of her husband’s failure.

“Yes, have Lom!” She laughed now. “And tell me if you need any other thing.”

I was not certain I needed Lom, but Cime had suggested a foil. I thought this sound. I trusted Lom, both for his sense, and his good heart. He was that one I had told you of earlier, the first to speak to me the day I was wedged into my new quarters.

“I’ll teach you letters, if you like,” I said. “As a way of passing time.”






My plan was to make a memory story to suit each figure I would draw for Lom on my tablet. To include him actively, without his knowing of my other purpose. I had learned several means of divination that depended on the arrangement of characters; I had a bag of tiles with all of them. One etched a design, a hex, a circle-in-square, or arrangement of triangles, then drew a tile for each point, each intersecting line.

The game was irresistible enough to me, and for Lord Sente, I hoped…for I’d guessed (in the ordinary way) that he had debts, or secret expenses. A forecast of his prospects must tempt him out-of-doors.

We came to the bench under the olive tree. We petitioners were dwarfed here also by the porches of the four manor houses, all connected by a running colonnade, transiting from style to style. The tiling underfoot, for those invited to mount the steps, was first a plain black marble, columns crimson (a potent combination that thrilled me, though I knew nothing of the owner); next, a glazed terra-cotta, stamped for the treading upon with a smiling sun, a verdigris sun in bronze over the portico, columns all trained with vines. Then came the house of Oc’Marasas, carved on every surface with stories of the general’s great battles won, stern bone-colored marble withall…and Sente’s house, aloof in unadornment, mere fieldstone.

 Sente’s servants, whom he would call as he liked through the open window, waited on the porch above us, fanning themselves. In the center of the courtyard a fountain bubbled, and water flowed from spouts cut on four of its eight sides, draining away as the fountain filled, ever replenished by a pipe laid under the flagstones.

I topped my canteen, and Lom his.

We slaked our thirst and wiped our faces in the shade of the olive. I rooted in my basket for a tablet. I knew of a pattern, one of six triangles that together formed a larger, with many others that could be traced within. Eight at center, five base-down, three base-up; only these so arrayed calling, in this game, for a casting. There were other games played on this template, and I will never know…

But I had chosen this.






Any fortune indicated within a base-up triangle was taken reversed; and the four directions of the wind were the houses into which one’s spirit had been born. The north, of the intellect; east, of love. The south, of concealment; west, of the flesh.

I put that letter we call fish before my comrade, to explain to Lom the nature of the telling. “You see, a thing under water symbolizes wealth. If the water be still, your wealth be safe; if it flow out to sea, you must be bankrupted rain by rain; if it flow inland, you will gain. If the fish fall here, under dark of night, which we read left, though it sit right…then, my Lom, it will not be luck for you to have a water sign fall on the right above. You will pray, if you turn that one, that it fall in the center.”

“Ah!” said Lom. “Where water pools and does not flow.”

I smiled. “You have got ahead admirably. I will put the fish away, and draw another.”

I shook my bag of tiles, and with some flair in placing them one by one, laid out Lom’s fortune. I meant to tell it truly. The tiles could not lie, but the teller had freedom to interpret. For friendship, tempered by this necessary undercurrent of design, I would tell Lom a tale of redemption, and of hope.

And here was fish again…and so such gods as there were must demand it. And here was eda, the diminutive. Lom gave a sigh. He had nearly spoken, then stopped himself—showing me an unearned reverence—as I turned for him the first. The last three up-tiles were tre, bega, and sun.

The down-tiles were fal, rain, and wev.

“Will it be bad?” Lom asked.

“It! Your fortune?”

“Kire,” he said to me…the name an endearment, “I know my fortune. I read signs also…those my grandmother knew, sold from that place behind the mountain.”

He meant that vanished city under Lotoq the traveler had spoken of, and…as did we all…kept silent a moment for having mentioned it. “She saw it.” He held my eye. “That would have been the day you were born, her people carried away. At dawn a flight of ravens, and you know…”

He made me unhappy, saying this. I would have to tell him.

Ravens were said to carry souls to the clouds, to the realm of the gods. He had got both fal and rain, and these being down, meant up. He had got bega, which was the sign of the raven. He had got it in the center, thus it touched all other signs, drove them like the hub of a wheel.

But if he had not told me his story, I would have made light going of all this, for Sente’s sake. His two servants were at the rail. Their bodies threw shadows over my work, but their mouths were shut; they did not jeer. I sat, faltering, and my lengthening muteness brought a nod of the head from Lom.

I heard…in my betraying voice…a brokenness. “A small legacy will come to you, unexpected.”

“Interesting. I’ve seen you, Cime’s servant. Always in the company of Mumas.”

Lord Sente said this.





My next choice had been the better one. Although when Sente beckoned me indoors, and his servant—that officious sort, inevitable, who elevates himself wherever two or three are gathered to one purpose—had brandished a flat palm at Lom (making…only feebly…to stand), I had been inclined to a slave’s meekness.

If Lom weren’t asked, I must follow unaccompanied, acquiesce. But Sente and his man offended me. I felt in the wrong, also, in a way I hadn’t the burden of guilt to relieve myself of…not then. Later, I picked at it, nightly when I might have slept, and tried to find if I had done anything excusable, anything at least I might forgive myself for.

I said, “My Lord Sente, I wonder…”

“You had better not.”

“I wonder,” I said on, “if it interests you…interesting was your word…to have a game, at all? If you would have a game, I must please have Lom.” If Sente, superstitious man, had very often been read his fortune, he would doubt me, and I’d need at once to think of a role for Lom.

But we passed unspeaking down a dark and cool hall, the secret pomegranate nature of Sente’s taste in things apparent, the tiles of a green stone I had never seen, polished into streaks of lightning, matrices of amber…yes, truly, a deep water hue blazed with a glassy gold. I marveled at the tiles alone. But the walls also were tapestried; at each jutting pilaster, a pedestal, sporting bust or figure, goddess or beast.

We descended steps, to a sumptuous room for sitting. Opening onto a hillside view curved a terraced porch, with awning to protect benches snugged against a balustrade. The air was rich in scent, small gusts of wind moving languid, buffeting white flowers on vine-laden trees. A little fountain played here too, sunken, half-moon in shape. Before us, a flock of blue-feathered birds eyed our approach.

Sente was shirtless, wearing only a flowing cloth knotted at the waist; I, in my tunic and sandals…the creatures unconcerned to stir themselves until the movement of our garments made its own breeze.

“Tell Cime”—he paused at the scattering of wings, then sat—“that the gambit is a clumsy one.”

I sighed. To me, my master had seemed clever enough.

But now a servant, belonging to some other part of the house, mounted steps from the basement level to our terrace, bearing a tray of sugared fruits and wine. Sente, on his face a sort of encouraging sneer, gestured for me to take the second cup, and to eat as I liked.






He ought, if he had seen through it all, to have played his own usual gambit…of leaving Cime’s envoys to stew (in such weather, probable enough). Sente wanted something of me.

I ate a single berry, and took a restrained sip. “My Lord Cime has sent me here only…”

“To do the work of his deputy.”

And did he mean to disparage Mumas, I was receptive enough. Sente stared, measuring me. I had likely shown my smile…we do, when our lips are still, and our eyes downcast. A weakling unarmed would leap to flattery, speaking out of place. But, however false-hearted, I repeated myself merely, in full.

“My Lord Sente, I have brought in writing the demand of the Emperor, not of my master, and I will give it to you. My Lord Cime asks that I do, and I cannot take it upon myself to do more.”

“You are a slave. If Cime will not give you your freedom, I will buy you and I will give it to you. Mumas… Why anyone has use for him!”

“My Lord, will you bid Lom indoors?”

At Sente’s right hand, resting on the tiles, was a gong. He pressed the lever that struck a clapper against it. I had won the only point I had to win, that my dear Lom not be made inferior even to me, but allowed to share Sente’s wine.

The porter led Lom to the sitting room’s threshold; Lom preceding a second visitor who had silenced the man’s cheek, and for whom Lom rightfully served as vanguard…my Lord Cime. Sente did not rise.

“Can I fairly suppose, Sente, that the law touches you at last?”

Yet it was me Cime looked in the eye. I could hardly convey to him Sente’s remarkable words.

Sente gave the porter his orders to carry down to the kitchen. I, sharing the bench, stood, giving place to my master. But Cime stopped before the fountain and let the spray of it splash over his feet.

“If the day is an auspicious one, I will of course take gold from my treasury. To part gold from gold on an inauspicious day, is to pay the penalty twice.”






To this, Cime’s face replied with an obvious calculation. The countermove made difficulties…we were all in these lands bound to the old belief; Cime must respect Sente’s reluctance. He laughed in private…but would not himself have spent money without a casting, and had I told him fortune forbade, my lord would rather fall in debt to a man than be an offense to the gods.

He crossed now, to take my vacant seat. “Do your work at once,” he told me.

“My Lord Sente, have you any preference?” I sank cross-legged, and drew a tablet from my bag.

He spoke through a smile of disdain. “Ought I suppose Cime, who shared my boyhood tutor, and shined by his efforts a favorable light on my own…that is, what we call, next to nothing…?”

They grinned at each other. The kitchen man brought more wine, more fruit. A smell of roast pig came to us, and Sente said, “Of course, dine with me.”

Cime prompted: “Suppose…?”

“That you would have trained your servant to cheat me?”

“I wouldn’t know how, with these arts.”

“Well, that is the better answer. If you’d said you wouldn’t do it, I would flout the lie by sending to Elcade. It would take a day or two, and you would be formally in dereliction of duty.”

Elcade was a hermit, a fortune-teller of that sort who breathe the fumes of Lotoq and babble visions.

“Choose for yourself, as the fates dictate.”

I felt they dictated, on this day, Lom’s triangle. “My lord,” I said to Sente. “Will you trouble to draw the tiles, or…”

“No, creature, I say choose.”






Sente got nothing from the gods as to wealth.

Of course, my master’s humor must break the solemnity at least once…he quipping in low voice that his friend could hide gold so cunningly, even the gods did not perceive it. But I pleased Sente, for drawing mostly dry signs, the least ill-boding reversed. An easier sort of luck than rain, so given to come in deluge, drain to drought.

The dove, bearer of gossip, sat center. Sun, below, to the left. For glancing up now and then to meet a frown of discernment, the versedness in tiles I’d expected, I felt it was myself dealt with gentle-handed by the gods. I would not be hated for the fortune I cast Lord Sente.

Whose reading he could himself anticipate. He was cautious, a man thoughtful of possibilities. Not merely that he liked an omen before acting…

Sente kept his finery from envy’s sight, and he kept his counsel.

“There is talk of marriage… This will speed.”

His tile opposite sun, always that most personal to the subject, was swan, the bride. Sente might have a bride. I was soon to follow him to his dining hall, and might sit embarrassed, for fear of meeting an inconvenient eye. Sente himself seemed abashed at my words, and put a daring face to Cime; who knew, by his own, the answer.

But whether the secret were open among the nobles, or poor-concealed in Sente’s heart, I could not know.

“I believe…on this assurance…of the excellent, most reverend Fates,” Cime said slowly, flickering a smile; stopping it. “I shall ask you to put our little matter to rest at once. Why let money weigh on conscience, when we would rather be merry?”

“I had rather be merry.” Sente stood, and bent over my tablet. “Will speed…?”

“Talk,” I told him. Gossip, of course.

“The anthill falls to dust at an ass’s kick.” He spoke an old saying.


I understand the mind of my enemy. Proud men, struck in their natures equally with a grudging suspicion; men who have risen a little, gained somewhat in their small reputations…but who never can be lords of this world, must always land in service to the scions, the Cimes…hang on praise-seeking; stub their toes on open defiance. Mumas would have liked the emperor, or Lady Nyma in his stead, to discern a petrified merit in his will to perform his office.

The performing of it was another matter.

Mumas despised Cime; he supposed Cime to despise him. Thus all gifts to Mumas were unwelcome, almost insults; and yet he felt no less insulted denied them.






In that frame of mind, as I suppose him, Mumas had busied himself on this day serving assessments. I could suspect a sporting rivalry—I was closer to Cime and Pytta, of their household. I’d seen there distance, varieties indulgent and austere with elders, comradeship with Sente and a handful of the young…all these came to the villa and went, making their visiting rounds, as had I, accompanying my lady. Her enchanting novelty…the foundling, the reader of destinies.

They played with one another, I felt, at catch-me-if-you-can… But as to causing harm, they meant none. I think my freedom was not a thing that had occurred to the Cimes; the notion I would be better off for having it…

Yet I digress.

Trouble sprang from this, that Mumas preened himself on bringing the delinquents to bay. He’d done so much—a day’s success for him—and felt he could do more.


The porter came to announce another of Cime’s servants.

Lom and I were served our meal on the steps leading to the dais on which the lordly ones reclined. Fully laden tables were carried above stairs, crouched into place delicately before the divans; and emptied, carried away below. Lom and I, among all who waited on these steps, had privilege to sample from Sente’s kitchen and enjoy, being not ourselves in employment.

We kept our heads low. We offered profuse thanks at every new plate and cup, and we were loftily ignored. Sente’s guests were parents brokering a daughter’s marriage to him….this the embarrassment.

Sente held back not much of reluctance and disdain. They, wronged, but pleased for this to have the upper hand, commented…the wine in this country had for many years now a sulphurous under-taste…well, it was the water…unfortunately, the soil itself… Sweeter could be found in the north… And its being a month’s journey, of course there could be no occasion to wait for the mid-winter fairs…

The gist of these remarks we could grasp. Often, careless, they used words of their own; often they put heads together and conversed to the exclusion of the party. Sente answered by striking up talk with Cime.

“What else must we send for? My poor Darsale. But…she will grow used to it. Are you familiar at all with our sort of food, Sente?”

These two, the palest man and woman I had ever seen—they had spots to their skin, a russet pattern dotting their arms, and for the bareness of these, they were more clothed, too, than anyone I had seen, under and over garments, bonnets on their heads, and shoes that came above the ankle—made me pity all the more this daughter.

To be such as that, and to come alone, and to have been supplanted beforehand by some other love…






I was struck by the porter’s manner. He knew something…that in his private thoughts gave entertainment. He was bold enough, this smile in his voice, to ask Lord Sente if the applicant ought not be summoned from the courtyard, after the dinner was ended?

Bold enough to state: “But, he is Lord Cime’s man.”

Yes, Mumas had done an offensive thing to Sente; and Sente’s household was loyal.


When my ordeal was ended, a letter entrusted by Mumas to a servant of his own—instructed it be brought to light upon his death—exposed a secret that will not very much astonish.

Contracted marriage was the way in our land, of safekeeping fortunes. Every person of substance had a vote in the government, and the right of appointment; the militias of every quarter were raised at direct cost to the rulers there, and this was how order was kept.

Children of marriage inherited the great properties.

Husbands and wives often produced two or three, as barring accident…and then took up their separate domiciles. Children born of paramours had no part—or rather, theirs was that of the parent. If he were a slave, the child was born to slavery; if she were a wine-seller, the child was reared in her trade. A juggler, a refugee, a soldier, a horse-thief, a fortune-teller, these comings and goings produced such as they produced. But the law was iron, keeping them in their place.

And yet…the world is wide. Before my exile I’d known little of it.

Our prince from the north came bargaining with his mercenaries. His occupation—his plundering, if you like—of our land, was the price the Emperor paid to hold his old realms intact; to be held still in name their Supreme Sovereign. If Sente concealed his wealth from the gods, he had not concealed it from the prince.

Gueddu Treiva was gone with the ravens to the clouds, leaving his widow, a second wife (by a handful of years older than Gueddu’s daughter, my Lady Pytta). The prince nullified Sente’s contract to the House of Treiva; he introduced the family of the northern woman, Darsale. The northern horsemen, with their strong arms and long bows, the armor they bore even in our southern heat, made pitiful our own foot-soldiery and short blades. They were stern in love as well, great martyrs to it, as though, having made obedience a trial, all their pleasure lay in the pride of suborning themselves. They sang sagas of Death for Love.

Sente, one of us, hadn’t proposed to sacrifice his passion at all…only to be discreet.






And the tragedy…for why should small, scheming men’s lives not end, as well as do kings’, in the Fates’ laughter?…was that Mumas had not attempted blackmail. In his heart he might have known himself dishonorable—but dishonest, he was not. He had merely his jealousies, of Cime first; then of me, for the favor I’d gained in Cime’s eyes; at length, of Lom, for becoming my companion.

Being pity for oneself and envy of others ill-joined, jealousy makes the most vigilant of watchmen. Jealousy’s regard never strays from the place, the wealth, the luck in love (the luck, even, in misfortune, if this draw the sympathy and open the purses of the great). Jealousy’s regard is on the street-corner word exchanged with a man of higher office than jealousy’s host. Jealousy’s regard is on the beggar before the hated door; on the envied one’s dog and his cat…on his slave.

And Mumas’s eyes regarded…

Who was great in our city, who greater still.


Mumas entered, and a face of sums jotted, lists completed, on some interior tablet, gave way to one of discovery. He hadn’t come to speak to Cime; Cime, being here, astonished him. For his part, Cime, expecting the interruption must be word of the child Pytta bore (and that would arrive while I waited my fate in jail; and that, for want of her trusted Lom to send, she herself came veiled to have its future foretold), hadn’t guessed this visitor.

“I give you leave…” Sente tapped his friend’s arm with a wine cup, devil-may-care, and nodded, indulgent in the boredom of accommodating servants, down towards Mumas. Yes, he made a show of this for the parents of Darsale.

“Mumas,” Cime said.

“Or,” Sente cut in, “perhaps your man’s business can wait an hour. If he will, then, he may take his place at the foot of the stairs.”

It was the only place he might have stopped. The northerners had their servants; waiting women and armed esquires, a small rebuking crowd on the right. Sente had his, casual in retort, on the left. Lom and I had been deferred to, allowed by the pride of Sente’s retainers to sit well up, as though we served at table, a distinction too high for our rank…almost a joke (but played very soberly).

The intelligence of Mumas was seen to grasp something. He began to speak, and another illumination intervened, choking back his words.

Then at last: “My Lord Cime, I am surprised… I find I have made an error…” With these changes, his mind busy behind them, Mumas worked his strategy. “My Lord Sente, you have my apology. I will return to my own house.”

His accent was crisp. He made the point that he was an equal, not a slave. He left, glancing once, where my eyes would have met his, boldly enough. But he looked at Lom.






It was full autumn, when winds blow from seawards, and dells ringing our land at the height of a long, descending pitch from the mountaintops, yield scents of change, mineral exhalations from the chimneys of the earth, the let veins of dying greenery, misted in the morning fogs. Streams here cascade ridged flanks becoming waterfalls, making hollows scooped in the metalworker’s pattern of a gourd. Along this line, colors are glorious, the leaves of trees like linked feathers; trees we called colebot, and gathered sweet pods from, their strong cerise like a sunrise viewed through this same mist.

The withering of green rolled slow in our lowlands, and in the gardens, fern and vine, salt pine and orchid, were never much changed, only less fecund, going out of flower. Lady Nyma had come to her son to order his house. Cime was free of duties, other than sit in the chambers hearing speeches.

Pytta moved from the breakfast table to the garden pavilion, dressed daily in her suirmat, that garment which is one long cloth folded over, sewn from calf to armhole, cut at the head in the shape of a fan. Her friends came for her solace, draping themselves over cushions. From post to post in the women’s pavilion were hung targets: the serpent, the cat, the dove, the sun, and the ship…and when anyone felt moved to do so, small bags of cloth stuffed with the seeds of another podded tree, the bitter rosira, were hurled to strike them.

This game also told fortunes. But it was lightly played, and desultory. Pytta had her feet in a basin of cold water. Lom and I had two ends of a cloth, painted with the story of the young lovers who’d confounded the gods…he, held prisoner to be sacrificed; she, having begged her father allow her a parting word, throwing herself from the tower in his stead. The lover, it is told, seeing this, gave a cry that reached the heavens, then wrested away the bowl of entrails waiting on the altar, for the priests to read in the smoke of their burning, the gods’ continued wrath or appeasement. He dashed this into the flames. He then followed his love.

And the gods gave the sign of transforming them into palmeini, small hawks (who, in truth, hunt the songbirds). Such cloths of fine silk, and fine craftsmanship, moved the air, up and down, side to side, wielded by the hands of slaves such as we.

Vlanna Madla owned a large workshop, its lower hall all looms staffed by weavers, and dyeing vats; its upper story and attic let to drapers, tent-makers, upholsterers; their sewers and embroiderers, their artists of the brush. The counter over which money changed hands was on a half-closed porch at the building’s front. But only servants on behalf of their masters came to pay here, or deliver to Madla the request, as Nyma had sent her own woman to do, to dine, and to bring her samples.

The meal was necessary; it was custom. Important merchants and proprietors made an under-layer of gentry in our land. They were never, unless family, guests at weddings, or at celebrations of appointments; and their guilds honored holy days in ways peculiar to each trade. But the Decima order, for the nursery, for the Emperor’s—he would come mid-winter—entertainment, meant asking a favor…that Madla take this job, occupy her people with it; give, quite possibly to her lasting loss, others to competitors.

I had been at loose ends, while above the great ones sat. As a form of politesse (respecting Madla’s status; pretending for a time there was no business to discuss), they spoke only gossip…billows of which, in those days of the prince, passed from mouth to ear. It was Sente’s affairs were most powerfully interesting; but Madla knew well not to speak of them at the table of Cime Decima.






Lom and I sat on the rim of a water tank (that from which the launderers and scullions drew theirs), in the courtyard under the dining porch. It was cool in this spot, and we were silent, listening.

Madla, her deep voice honed to carry, had just broken off from a gambit…and began again, having reached a topical frontier. She ventured a toe. “Those leelaye…some of them, paid a call on Mumas. I don’t know if they are ignorant.”

(Leelaye was a pale-rooted plant that grew among the heights, crawling over rock where water fell. Step on one, and its thin skin peeled to a slippery gum…treacherous. Yet the very poor would boil them, through changes of water; sugar them and wrap them in leaves to ferment; boil them again, with the poison out, and the taste palatable, for a tea. The hungry ate and drank leelaye in abundance, as no one else wanted it. You see, reader, why the name lent itself, in denigration, to the northern newcomers.)

There were murmurs. Someone said, “Everyone is wise in his own way, dear.” It would not do to make a fault of Madla’s words. Nyma, as elder, answered.

“He will let his house to them. At the time of the wedding…ah, Madla!” Some laughter, and throaty sounds of ruefulness; and Pytta’s friends’ chatter. Some shared Pytta’s circle complete, and would see this princely scheme to its fruition, the bride Darsale and the groom, Sente, joined. Others did not know Sente, but knew the widow-lover. And a harsh, scornful, “Ha!”, above all making itself heard, was Caleyna Treiva’s.

A space of dishes clattering, freighted silence, made Lom and I exchange a sideways look. He, bless him, would not say it, but I would. “Will our lady burst the dam?”

He smiled…and she did.

“Maybe Mumas thinks he will surprise them. Maybe, for all we know, they can be surprised.” Pytta stopped for a moment. She went on. “Are the northern men virgins on their wedding day, do you think?”

We, of course, slaves moving often invisibly, even through bedchambers, could not be surprised…at the vulgarity of the jokes. And to the House of Decima’s advantage, Madla came down pleased with herself.






Under the pavilion the women lounged, Lom and I fanned, and Madla’s servant carried samples to each, for rubbing between fingers, for admiring the shades of woven thread…two or three, or several…to the effect of one shimmering hue. From her book came samples, many of these half-embroidered to show the fineness of her shop’s handiwork; half-inked, to show the designs in their intricacy.

But pleasure ebbed, as the sun dropped low. Pytta wanted her nap. Madla had by then sat for an hour at Nyma’s side; the two come to a price. Pytta’s maid rose to gather cushions, and Pytta’s friends found their excuses, leaving one by one.

Nyma gestured to me; nodded to Lom. We laid down the silk, edged round to where Madla and her servant knelt restoring order to their books. I did not know the woman’s name, and she knew of none for me, but I bent at the knees, straightened, and said (as addressing a superior), “Mera, allow me to follow with your burden.”

She lifted to me a pair of heavy, wood-bound books. Lom held his arms stiff until she’d piled onto these another three; then bobbed also, saying, “Mera, many thanks.”

There is always a street in any city, lined with the finest shops. Along a neighboring street, small leaseholders and vendors’ carts…yet further off, a tannery or slaughterhouse, stinking. And poor alleys near these, where things not for sale are sold, under cloak. Perhaps below, a square, the awnings of an open market. At the hilltop, then, houses…of a particular quality, both that of being in the thick of things, a first-hearers’ privilege; and a ceilinged constraint, desirability in decline.

Mumas was lesser scion of an ancient family; which in his case, meant neither wealth nor invitation—only this inheritance, house and stables, in the Anse Cerbe, the Old City. That, and the right…not of appointment, but to be appointed.

Most small nobles of the Anse Cerbe accepted circumstance with pride. They had their own…reward enough, I mean to say…and the virtues of humbleness, of competence, of public service, of diplomacy; their sort the levers and inclined planes of governance…for outside the debating halls, the mechanics of a nation must at a practiced touch shift and roll.

But Mumas took the back gate of Vlanna Madla’s workshop abutting his property as rebuff. His nature urged him towards the villas; the city’s commerce stood firm between.

Change…as to turn a tile, and find the bountiful sun’s promise shadowed, so slightly, by the sign of the cat, whose tail may flick this way or another…took flight and caught wind, fanned by coincidence, first. Then by a crueler convergence. We had heard, at Cime’s house, the clanging bell.






One of Madla’s own lofts, it proved—a drapery caught fire.

This spread fearfully for minutes, during which a chaotic fleeing from neighboring lofts netted and locked itself with her manager’s courageous marshalling of buckets. The fire was out; Madla, apprised by her own eyes and ears, met him as he pushed to the fore, halfway already to grasping the whole of it.

“Have them take all those things…any the fire has so much as warmed…and carry them to the street. The room must be swept clean. Someone will go on the roof…”

Lom and I could do nothing; we had been forgot, Madla’s woman sent at once on this errand upstairs. We moved aside and outwards, helpless and still burdened, as those following orders came down with their rolls of burnt cloth, bowing the arc of the throng. So much shouting was too much altogether for conversation, and so I may suppose Lom had resolved within, as had I, to listen and learn. Lady Nyma would expect our intelligence.

Now a horse appeared, forcing way down the alley, going three beats to the pace, it seemed, restive and under the whip. The alley met a lane, and the lane met the street on which Lom and I waited. The tide had carried us to its center.

The rider was Mumas.

He shouted, and only his anger made itself heard, words blending in and out the general hubbub. I knew he’d driven close when his whip licked my bare arm, his voice rose suddenly distinct, bellowing, “Useless!”

I stood in his path…though it seemed he’d willed the entanglement upon himself. In worse language he berated me, bent on riding me to the wall. Madla’s books were slipping…I did not like letting them go. I felt Mumas would trample me, and meant to, if I stooped. Lom for a moment had edged off, to lay his own load down; unencumbered he was back and reaching round to steady my elbow.

And Mumas, drumming with the whip and kicking with his heels, urged his mount to frenzy, clearing two half-circles round either flank. All this began to draw notice, a wary quiet spreading from the creature’s orbit. Its master might easily have charged onwards by now.

I say this, to paint the picture. It was much faster, of course. Lom’s head near mine, his arm supporting mine, then a flash and a blow that glanced my ear. And blood that bathed, where that from my arm had trickled.







Chapter Three

I Am the Cause


If in life, the Fates were not indifferent to us, and did not record in their Book merely the start and end of each wayfarer’s journey; if our sorrows, petty to them, were guided rather by a kind and just deity, a mother’s hand turning our blind eyes to the light, our stubborn hearts to humility, while the flame of the candle yet burned…

A death would be as a bedside story that ends when the hearer drifts off.

And all is well.

If Lom had opened an eye…if he had been able to speak…if he had said, I am resigned to it, I saw the signs of it, Kire, we spoke of this…

The wound was grievous. The hoof had struck him above and behind the ear. As the rim of a bowl, so this weak place in the skull cracks easily. I had stood for a stupid moment not understanding or believing. And Lom, though gone, stood too, in the thick of those fleeing Mumas’s mad charge. The blood flowed like water from a broken vessel, and all of us nearby, whose bodies had pressured him upright, jumped with horror, or edged away in shock. He fell.

I spun, and saw Mumas had won his cowering deference. No one delayed him now, all parted before him, and he was soon ridden from sight. It was only then, when Vlanna Madla came running with a set, furious face, that I fell myself, to my knees, and clutched at one of the rolls of burnt cloth.

He was gone, he never would know another thing done to his uncaring form, but he was not wholly dead. Such things often are. The blood came through the ball I’d bundled and pressed, with force enough only to tamp the flow.

It seemed no use. Another roll of cloth was folded to make a stretcher. Madla directed this into her counting room. Here, I shook off tears and stupor…

I was not the sufferer. “Mera, if I may…I’ll wait.”

Her chin trembled, and she did not answer. But in the hours after, I learned she’d given orders for quiet and comfort, Lom’s and my own.

The room fell into darkness, and I sat resting a hand on Lom’s chest to feel him breathe, until the numbness in my legs became insistent. Or, perhaps in truth I should say to feel him stop. I wanted to say soothing words and nothing came to my heart…none of what I had been taught of the next world struck me as that a man’s soul would wish to hear.






I stood, and turned to the windows along the back wall, giving onto the unlit alley. Madla had bade her servant leave the shutters open. She’d conversed with him over my head and had not troubled me. Once, he’d returned, cradling a candle flame; then left the untouched supper dish, and Cime’s slaves, alone.

I thought of this, looking over rooftops at stars, listening to hoofbeats, dim voices, lowering my gaze to see lamplight flare in a downstairs room of Mumas’s house. I ought, false shaman that I was, to have kept a blank mind, and let the gods speak…if they would. Deign pity me with wisdom. But I thought of my master, how deeply in defiance of ordinary rules I was now, whether I was forgiven…whether I, of less value than Lom, would be held at fault.

I might be held unlucky, unsafe to keep, as I had in my old home.

And it was Cime I heard speak, shouting for Mumas. Cime, the growing light of torches in the lane and alley making plain, had gathered his household knights, and they had concealed themselves in the dark. They had surrounded Mumas, and allowed him to enter his home.

He came out. From the window, many lengths distant, I could see in the light of his doorway, his hand tremble. He raised a purse, and flung it to the foot of the steps, where Cime gripped his sword unsheathed.

“I suppose the slave is dead. It ought to have been the other. But there, my honored Lord Cime, my purchase. Or, if you won’t take my gold, you may take one of mine.”

They faced each other, silent.

Mumas, bold in his terror. Cime, quivering with insult. But the law held each in check.

“There is no recompense for what you’ve done. Don’t bother with it!”

Cime said this, at last…stooped to take up the purse, hurled it, striking Mumas in the belly. A ripple of speech passed the ranks of his knights. They wondered—among themselves, but for their lord’s ears—if by this he meant challenge. If he would order them into the house of Mumas, to take blood vengeance.

But Cime was Lady Nyma’s son; he was the Emperor’s tax collector, and he couldn’t.


Lom was dead. I knew this, crouching to him once again.

Challenge, I thought of it.

I thought of the law, under which I had no right of being. But the Balancers, who stalk the guilty, are there where justice fails.

Tell me, I asked them, am I wrong?






Come the morning, I had left Madla’s counting room.

She might fairly suppose me returned to my master’s house…carry on, then, as Cime no doubt had given her permission. Lom would be sent for burning. With no ceremony I knew of that a friend, a brother or sister, was at the death of a slave called to perform.

For strength, I’d eaten the food set out the night before.

I’d got inside the stable of Mumas, no one awake and about to resist me. The horses stirred, snorted, not caring their early visitor was strange…this hour, and any bustle of humanity, meant food to them. I found the creature I was certain Mumas had ridden—goaded to do an evil, not at fault for it—and stroked its nose. It stood calm in its stall.

A groom turned up then, toting a pail of mash, and when his sight adjusted under the roof, he started at me.

“You get out!”

At once, I could see his master’s ways with him gainsay his first judgment. He peered towards the narrow opening giving light and air to the stall, and through which the horse could thrust its head to find the water trough. Mumas’s servant looked at me again, and his calculations seemed apparent enough.

“You don’t want me to go,” I said. “And I advise you not to waste good water, for foolishness. I have not poisoned it. Take me to your master, and let him dispose of my trespass as he chooses.”

The law of challenge required that I touch the person of my adversary. Thus, were I taken prisoner and delivered to Mumas, it would suit. He might in his house kill another of Cime’s slaves. But I was astray, and Cime, of superior family, had the higher right of disposition. And so I deemed Mumas wise enough to see himself as he was, slidden to the cliff’s edge, clinging to the root of the leelaye. He had never wanted a feud with the powerful.

The groom found me too reasonable, and suspected me. “Did you get hold of something?”

He scanned round, at rasps, and picks, and mallets, at tackle hanging from the walls. I spread my arms, smiling a little. My garments were thin summer ones. “I’m sorry. But I have something to say to Mumas. Do you find me unworthy to speak to your master?”

“Me…I don’t care.”

“Better, if I make my way in from the yard? If I have done this myself, and no one else to blame?”

He pushed hair from his forehead, in the way of reluctant agreement.

Discovering Mumas on his dining porch was as easy as pricking my ears. The slave attending his breakfast table was underfoot, apparently—too sudden to proffer the water pitcher, too slow stopping the clatter of its fall, mopping the spill. I doubted Mumas had slept, and I doubted his agitation could calm itself.






How to enter…

Though if he glanced over his shoulder, he would see me lingering at the threshold. The servant looked up and saw me, and in his brooding Mumas missed the twitch and quick effacement. So, I thought, do they hate him? I pitied him, and hadn’t guessed then—thinking of myself, my own grievances—how thoroughly I was to play nemesis.

I entered by walking in. Mumas heard the sound of my feet; perhaps he smelled Lom’s blood staling on my tunic. He breakfasted without arming himself beforehand, sensibly enough, and so only leapt from his bench, tamping away panic even as I watched his face.

It drew into itself, bitter. “You bring a message from Lord Cime. Yes. Such would be his humor.”

“Of my own,” I said. “Please keep still a moment. You,” I spoke on, approaching him, holding his eyes, so that he would keep still, “will choose the weapon. That is your right, by the law, as you know. You see I have none.”

He gave no order to his slave. Knights were expensive articles, and Mumas might support no household guard. I put my hand on his belly…which, you have guessed, reader, was symbolic in these matters, and if the challenge followed, it must be answered.

“I charge you as assassin. You have killed my friend Lom. You will fight me, Mumas. I, Cime Decima’s slave. I have never heard the law forbid it.”

The law did not. It was not done.


As to this city, that I had not lived in for very long, I learned its ways at times I was told a new thing. A slave (even a sort of jester of the games, bought for novelty) hasn’t business affairs…and errands to run only as commanded. Only when I’d found myself wandering lost, cursed for stupidity by shopkeepers, or by stewards of Cime’s clients, blockading their lords’ empty villas, had I been cured of any misjudgment. My early life in the shadow of Lotoq was my book of law and custom. I was wrong often enough in my guesses.

The prince had taken one such villa for his palace, its owner going sourly to the sea. He was there in the town, the prince. His glittering guard rode, in a bored way, through the quarter, most often under the walls of the fort. Our militia, never horsed, jeered at them from the towers, in veiled fashion, dumping down rinds of fruit…playing a light, comic air, on a reed.

Mumas had thrown me out. He had not become less convinced, but more so, that I acted on Cime’s instigation.

“Tell your master, if the Emperor’s justice won’t suit him, to make his petition before Lord Sente’s new relative.”

And in this, do you note my difficulty?

Mumas, a citizen, might have gleaned a fact. The family of Darsale might be true kin to the house of the prince. Mumas again might only class these northerners—who, under the rind, likely classed themselves as pith, and meat, and seed—mere orange to our own apple, indifferent to whether they redeemed a favor or performed one.

I’d expected to be taken seriously. Scorned and deplored, loathed, but comprehended. I would have to think of a greater provocation.






I sat on the steps to his porch, so far delinquent now, I felt a peculiar reunion with my early life, under the old woman’s care…when I had sometimes been free, finished with chores.

She had called me Fate’s child, not her own…

And so I’d been allowed to walk the ashy countryside until nightfall, numbering the small green things that willed to live, and no one had wanted me.

I did suppose Cime wanted me, and expected me. I had every sense that he indulged me; little fear he would not excuse me. But for a few days, it seemed, I could please myself.

The shutters of a window folded back, someone yelling, “Why are you loitering there? Go to your master!”

I waved in good cheer, and said, “Tell your own master he has not answered me.”

This servant snorted and withdrew, I doubted to give my message to Mumas, rather apprise him I had not gone. Thinking again of the Balancers, dogged forms their quarry must see forever, if he dare look back…and never shake, until to their satisfaction he has atoned, I made my decision.

I saw the man I recognized as Vlanna Madla’s manager come up the street. He spoke as he approached.

“Lady Pytta sent that the other’s ashes be scattered upon the Dagosse, to flow as the gods will by the Edagosse, to the place. That of his mothers and grandmothers.”

“Of them all, his people,” I said. “Who on the other side must see no change, but in their ways live on. Only a strange visitor now and then, brings to them a strange tale.”

He made a gesture of piety…though I had not so much favored him with a seer’s vision, as shared a fancy I’d long held, in contemplating the vanished city.

One or two hours passed, and the house of Mumas sat closed behind me, silent. As you may surmise, I was less comfortable now than I had been, and the exigencies of keeping vigil began to tell. I might not succeed alone, for even a full day.

But a minor ruckus burst at the back of Madla’s establishment, louder than the hammering in the lofts, and someone skipped across to mount the steps beside me. She brought a water jug, a basket of bread and fruit.

“Eat if you like. Or go to Vlanna’s courtyard first, you know. She tells me to hold your place. Will Mumas come out, do you think?”

I’d made for myself a rise in status, never expecting it. Of this enterprise, at least, I had charge. I thus instructed: “Forestall him. Even if he would like to order you off, and have nothing more to do with me. You know his temper.”

She thrust up her chin and flapped a hand, dismissive, having her mistress’s weight behind her.

“Mumas knows what the law demands,” I finished. “He can give answer only to me.”






He hadn’t come out. I made myself content with jug and basket, sent the girl back to Madla…who, seeing to my lunch as well, sent her again at midday; again to play deputy, keeping my post. By now, behind the shutter, symptoms had begun to manifest.

The lane and alley carried a busy traffic as the day wore past noon. Not many knew me to speak to, but of the merchants’ clerks and porters, most cast an eye over affairs at the house of Mumas—returned my salute, gave greeting. So much tacit support from the buyers and sellers beneath him, so much bold condemnation from his neighbor, a woman of ordinary birth, but held in better esteem; so much effrontery from mere servants…

He brooded, probably. A man of law would have to advise him, but he would have to summon one. He jibbed no doubt, at not only that I cost him money (that Lom did), but that my stand gained credence for his spending of it, for his consulting upon it. The shutter edged back and knocked into place, the third time within an hour or two.

A small man, in the square-crowned hat of a lawyer, stoic also under the black cloth draped and belted, that told his profession, traversed the parting crowd. Yes, they stood off to let him pass, some moving their hands with a sardonic flourish. It was a fresh act in the day’s theater.

“There,” he said to me, mounting the steps, “sits the conundrum.”

“I don’t think I have made a very difficult puzzle. Can Mumas not kill me if he likes…only that there is some ceremony to attend…”

“I think you know well enough how you’ve placed him.”

He would not tarry to debate, perhaps give his advice for nothing, but feeling in his pouch for a scroll on which some tenet of the law must be inscribed, met the servant already holding the door.

I did not know it, though.

I own myself a bit puffed up by the crowd’s amusement, that they seemed to take my part. I would not turn over in my mind the matter of dying, since this prospect cannot improve for a closer study.

Lawyers were disliked…and so this one’s sympathies may have woken on the side of the unpopular Mumas. The man of law disapproved of me, at any rate, and was not charmed by me. I’d grown too easy in Cime’s and Pytta’s company, finding myself winsome, as reflected in the eyes of others.

Where had I placed Mumas? Where he could not win, I guessed now… Either to address me or not was humiliation.

A servant came round from the stables—my friend the groom, mounted on a horse. He pulled back on the reins, and before me nosed ahead.

“You are to be arrested. Will you run?”


“No, you won’t.”

He rode on. If he were pleased with me, or if he sneered at me, I couldn’t tell.






Now, to speak further of law and custom.

I found myself imprisoned in a cell of Lord Sente’s. The noble houses did for the Emperor this service, quartered his knights when with his entourage he entered their city, guarded his prisoners in their dungeons. These were made as each house saw fit to construct them, below ground or in towers, kept wholesome or wretched, and used when some great breach of the public order had occurred. For you have seen that from class to class, many disputes were confined to their sphere—noble, tradesman, laborer, slave.

This was expected. There was no assize to adjudicate some spat over courtship, over preference, as might be between myself and a fellow slave; over cheating, as to weights of grain, watering of beer or milk, purity of gold, as among sellers and purchasers. And soldiers at the fort fought continually, over courtship, preference, cheating of rations, cheating at dice, among others…over novelties of their own invention…for sport, for boredom. Lady Nyma’s sessions were convened only to resolve matters that challenged the law, as understood.

Sente had applied to the Emperor’s governor for the price of my maintenance, and I, loosely checked by the Prince’s man who’d arrested me, was made to stand awkward, in a contrivance of chain and metal bands looped round my neck and wrists, while the Prince questioned Lord Ulfas, with a northern show of baffled curiosity.

“I cannot keep this prisoner for myself?”

“In justice,” Ulfas began.

“You have here some quaint scheme that serves for the enrichment of the small nobility? Hence, no doubt, the bankruptcy of your Emperor. Your master, I apologize.” He bowed his head, very slightly, to tender in respect this insult to Ulfas.

“In justice…” Ulfas began again.

“Have I done wrong? Ought I to have denied this fellow’s request?” A nod, that did not find Mumas, though Mumas in a corner waited with his man of law, thumbs hooked on his belt, hands working forward and back. “I am strange to your customs.” (As though the serpent in the bird’s nest should remark, “Now these are dainty eggs”, the Prince passed this observation, otherwise deprecating.)

“I have only been asked to array my army and my navy such that your enemies cease their piracy, that the gold of commerce traffic your harbors to fill the Emperor’s barren coffers, that your people be not seized into slavery along the highways…”

“Uncle,” said Lord Sente. “I yield to you, if it pleases you.”

And Sente knew more of practicalities than I could, informed only by rumor. The Prince must of his land’s courtesy be so-called, having calculated the binding of our wealthiest houses by ties of blood.






“Ao-bahcan Darsale…” He inflected this honorific, if it were such, with potent accents and condescending smile. Sente, who’d got the “uncle” out with a bland enough face, did not allow himself to flinch. “I don’t want a prisoner, and I don’t need a slave. I make the creature a gift to you, then.”

He might mean this. He might so easily seize the property of Cime and bestow it on his own house, by proxy. He’d tired himself, it seemed, and left us. But as the Prince had reminded our governor, his authority was greater than our laws.


The cell was over the stable. It was clean, well-scented by manure, my own straw fresh…and I less alone this way. I had both the odd snort and nicker from below, which—for I loved horses—I might fancy an encouraging word, and visits also from two or three sociable cats, who ventured up by vine to squeeze through the bars. In truth, I could probably have escaped. The entry was a hatch in the floor. When food and water came, it was brought by a sole unarmed servant, and my ears caught no jangle of weaponry at the ladder’s foot.

I was curious myself, as was the whole city, how Lady Nyma would explain her ruling, and what that might be.

Sente arrived one evening, toed away straw in a circle, and placed a lantern.

“You bear it all calmly,” he remarked. He sat, cross-legged, on the floor.

“Lom told me he’d seen his fate. I am a teller of fates. Do I tell myself, then, that I have played my role, and that it can’t be helped? Nothing ever can be helped. But we are all here, are we not? And if the gods mean us pebbles in some rushing stream, with no power to rise or sink or come to shore, why have they made us at all? What is the use of us? We die in agonies…we starve, we burn, we drown. We seem sometimes to please them.”

“Yes. You have thought all that.”

“I have thought,” I said, “that I cannot wash my hands of Lom. He befriended me. Did some deity who willed him dead devise he do a good and kind thing…a very great thing, my lord, for I am very much without friends…will this also, that the heart of Mumas kindle with jealousy, that Lom, and not I, pay the price, for that it answer some godly ordination, some implacable story, plotted to the end of time, of event following event?”

He was silent, and so I said, to finish, “I don’t think it. I believe they would like us to rise, to be angry perhaps, to not bear responsibility…but seize it.”

“Now you touch me nearly,” he murmured. “Mumas, you see…why will you not have guessed this? I told Cime, don’t give the post to a Cerbaner. The tax-collector’s deputy…” He studied the lantern’s flame, and began in a different way. “I could have taken it. It would not be out of keeping. I would sit idle in my house and bargain with the bargainers. The withholders…Cime and I and our knights would ride roughshod over one or two new-sprouted fields. Then the scofflaws’ money would come unstuck…and in truth, for us, all a bit of fun. Or, being another sort of villain, I might inflate the assessments and pocket the surplus. But, Cime is Nyma’s son. He believed he would follow tradition…his idea of wisdom. Why not, if in old days, Mumas would have received the honor, and if he has two causes of complaint—upon which we have all heard him harp—that he is denied his right, and that we, our sort, are unfit…as Cime says, why not give Mumas a thing to prove, instead of a thing to grudge? He might do well, and the Emperor be pleased. He might do poorly, and then must go away and say no more.”

“Well,” I said, “is that not wisdom?”






“What do you see?” He asked me this, after getting to his feet.

When for minutes he had not furthered his point, I tried, “What is it like for me to see…? How do I know there is anything divine in…”

“A dream? Is that how it is? A trance that comes over you?”

“No…no. I read signs only by a certainty…a paltry gift, likely no gift at all. A sense no better I suppose, than to say…”

I looked over my guest, whose silhouette was framed by the barred window. I had always possessed one shirt, one tunic and one warmer robe, one pair of shoes, one of sandals. I did not make the sort of choice that had come to my mind. But Sente wore a cuff of silver, cabochoned with that amber-veined stone, that in his house I’d admired. “I will wear this adornment today. This is right. I don’t dream or swoon, no.”

Also I said, telling myself, I lose nothing by it… “I know the gossip, my lord. But my certainty is that you will thrive. Caleyna Treiva…”

“We have given each other up already.”

He kicked at the stone wall, willing himself this pain, stifling a broken noise. “That’s all,” he said, turning, stooping for the lantern.

But sat again. “No…I’m a fool. I came to confess to you. Please don’t now pity me and forgive me. But hear me. You recall that you and Lom were on the steps, and that Mumas came into the hall. Of course my servant would not have told him… His chief, your master…seated at my table. My new father and mother. You see, Mumas had been tale-bearing. I learned it. Or, I will say, he had been hinting. Or—”

I was inclined to pity Sente. I knew what his confession would be. I knew what stopped him going on. Mumas was an oddly uncalculating man. Yes, he could make trouble for others, and with all the pertinacity of a mole paddling away at her blind tunnel. And he would tell himself this was not making trouble. This was duty. That he felt himself alone performing it, must seem all the more reason to persist.






“You blame yourself that you belittled him. And before such guests! You belittled him because you saw it in him, how weak at that moment he was. Mumas, a man you’d had nothing to do with, who did not belong to you, or Cime, or the others…Whom you felt affronted you must care for, take time to speak to. More than that. You saw it plainly. For Mumas, the completion of a task, that honored the reputation of one he despised…”

My smile here was faint…showing in the eyes only, perhaps. Sente was in gloom, and would not himself have smiled, at even bitter humor. “For Mumas, this was principle…he would complete that task. He grew to wish harm to you, the one who thwarted him, to use what he knew, and what he thought was in his power to make use of. And you wished harm to Mumas. Which you could bring about easily enough.”

“Which I did. Yes, easily enough. You credit me with eyes to see…I doubt that of myself. Will the gods really allow me to thrive? I have killed a man. Without honor. Without malice. Without cause.”


Before the great day arrived, I had one more visitor. Sente did not require Cime’s wife, in her recovery, to climb ladders…or to enter his stable at all. And when I had been brought to a small chamber, a sleeping room mostly open to the air, one found along a gallery that led from the terrace where first I’d met him; and after Lady Pytta had done with me, he told me I would stay there.

“You won’t run. But feel free, if you like. I can make excuses.”

Escorting her away, she in her own melancholy, he’d caught Pytta’s eye, and they’d sighed together. The Prince, I read from this, and from my lady’s words, found such people as fell in his way immaterial to his plans. Until the marriage had come off, Sente could not offend. After, he must try very hard not to.

“Tell me about my Lord Cime’s heir,” I’d begun.

From a pocket amid the folds of the large garment she still wore, she drew my sack of tiles and tablets.

“Don’t tease. I have come to ask you the same.”

I did enjoy the games, and would the company…but of course, I did not presume. Nor did I trouble her to name which, but chose etching a pattern best suited to a newborn’s first forecast.






“Is he a morning child?”

“You ask.”

She liked my guesses prescient, pretending to suppose this banter. Such commonplaces, of possibilities one from two, from four…

Yet because the game was fun, often they did not want badly to think. (I had seen crooked practitioners tease indeed, cast a wrong guess as merely the sly unfolding of their mysteries.)

A boy, born in the day’s first quarter, called for a pattern of rays, and a clean line beneath, divided in thirds, for the stages of life. Each third had an up-triangle, and two down-triangles. And in this game, all values were such as the tile revealed; there were no tricky reversals. Each down-triangle gave a negative, each ray of the sun-sign applied to a house: of riches, marriage, children, war, peace, friends, enemies, length of life.

I shook the bag and threw, selecting only tiles with their faces hidden, that had at their landing formed shapes of import. I took three from a right-hand arc, and laid them in the direction of the moon’s waxing. Riches, marriage, children. Two made the portion of a star, and these I laid, one at the center of the sun, the other on one of her rays not filled, that for length of life. I threw again, commenting to Lady Pytta, as I did when casting, keeping her apprised of my purpose.

And so I’d said, “I am throwing for war, enemies. Last, for friends, peace.”

“Put it all away.”

I hesitated.

She said, “No, never turn them. Something is happening to us. This is not passing weather, foundling. I thought I would feel happier, knowing the future…and now I feel I trust you too much. I think it can’t be, can it? Peace and friends, long life. Can he come into his own…now? No. If my son’s father stays in favor with the Prince, still the Prince profits from war. And if he lives himself, he will only invite more of them, and they will only take more of…our fields, our houses, our knights and horses and gold, our sons and daughters. And you, you won’t tell me a lie… I’ll not bear it if I see you softening the blow, being kind.”












Chapter Four

To Be and to Choose


Lady Nyma’s assize was all of a nature impressive, sober, ceremonial…for me, never-seen. I must be dressed, I discovered, in a blue and yellow garment, one with high collar and buttoned cuffs, ornamented fasteners down the chest, that designated me Petitioner. I had counsel, and I had not expected it.

Vranga-lan Banche, for three days’ visits to my cell, had showed a face of wonderful containment. I was sure he despised me…why should he not? By his title, and by his great stoniness of manner, and by these competent mysteries urged upon his charge, each task of which I could but agree to, his aid to me was a gift.


More a boon…or even a tribute. For Cime, Pytta, Sente—and likely enough, Caleyna Treiva—were in cause together. My counsellor was a price too high for me to repay; I must bear an eternal debt.

I would stand when ordered to do so, I would sit and keep quiet, I would allow Vranga-lan Banche to speak, and speak for myself only when Lady Nyma questioned me. He’d said that word, allow. I was sorry if I’d come to be known…it would be my fault…by a reputation. By this, and by other things, Banche was hemming me in, as did my shorn hair and stiff coat. He wholly expected I would surprise, I could see that he did…in some way disobey, seize on this chance to have my name known.

Not that. I have no name.


“What do you think? It is only the villa of Montadta.”

I thought Banche smiled a bit, whispering as we entered a pillared hall…this, serving for antechamber, so that I understood his “only”. Strange furnishings, skulls ensconced in burnished helmets, and hides of animals, were hung on the panels between. It must be then the villa of Montadta the Prince had made his home. This awfulness must be both a norm to the northern castle, and a laugh in our shrinking southern faces.

Mumas was there with his own counsellor. As Respondent, his costume was like mine in trim, but of brown cloth. As well, he was allowed a sash, to represent the colors of his family arms. I did not bear Cime’s, had not suspected such honors, and the solemnities of this great performance embarrassed me…embarrassed me again at the vanity of feeling so.






I will take a moment to explain what may puzzle you, Reader, about the ways of this first country. I have lived in others; I know scruples are not alike among all peoples. The first party to the case, called to make his statement before the court, following a confusion of echoes, of voices shouting for silence, steps in cadenced pattern, and the blowing of a horn…a rush of air from a curtain drawn back, a faint scent that reminded me of my master’s house on that day of Lom’s murder, was he, Cime. You may object. Yes, it was his mother who summoned him to the dais.

My counsel prodded me ahead, soured on all the world and blaming me.

I faltered into the great chamber, stumbled over boots, drew laughs and found myself misdirected. I whispered:

“My lord Vranga-lan, will I sit below the dais?”

His head inclined at an angle.

“No, slave! There!”

One of the knights took my arm, pushing me back from the steps. Banche flushed in anger as three others rose, and bowed smiling, moving themselves from a front bench to a leaning place, over the rail of the gallery. Mumas and his counsel scooted next to us, furtive, and no one corrected them.

I hoped, for Banche was sharp of eye, that I’d well-enough concealed my gambit. Yes, he was enraged with the Prince; the Prince had upended all proper forms of conduct…and no doubt for the first time in his career, Banche had not himself known what was expected. His pride would not confide this to me. A man like my counsellor felt legal tradition travestied as acutely as Mumas did loss of place.

In the Prince’s land, a Father-King dictated all.

The Prince entered, kept his feet, the heralds blew a salute and flourish. He spoke, informing us of this custom, and how, again a stranger to ours, he anticipated the enjoyment of witnessing these…opening the session with a mockery of pomp, where I understood from Banche’s careful rehearsals, now from his bitter frown, ought to have been a simple reading of procedure.

Somehow, to our mercenary ruler, the rigid steps by which one climbed in the north—houses rising on marriage-bonds paid in tribute, tribute money gained from fratricides, houses aligning in plotted assassinations, tumbling when such schemes failed—were just and right. He and his knights spread limbs over all the remaining benches laid before the seat and table of Lady Nyma and her ministers. Her authority to recreate in the Prince’s usurped house, a proper court, had won her this, since he would not trouble himself to ride for a day, and would not allow our people to administer our law without him.

I do not mean to digress, having said so much. Lady Nyma bore a role bestowed upon her line, the founding House of Delia, by the gods. The gods, who ordered all things, could not mistake their own purpose. To suppose or to suggest that Cime might influence his mother, was as mad as to claim a mortal could hold power over the divine.






“Be seated, vlan.”

Lady Nyma rose, and the Prince obeyed her, even the hauteur falling from his face, but contempt in the hand waving off sitters across the aisle. In this way, I was beside him, though separate, and began to dread being called to speak.

The court officer shouted, “Cime Decima!”

My master strode forth kicking aside, cheer enough on his face, the feet of the Prince’s knights.

Lady Nyma drew down a tablet, topmost of several at her right hand.

“This, as you have here set in writing, you swear before the court, Cime Decima. That, you ask nothing in reparation from Mumas Martas; that, you will put no price on the dead slave Lom. That, for your part, you withdraw from the case altogether, will press no claims, will speak no word in future.”

“I do.”

The clerk who sat beside her gave to Cime the chip of obsidian here used to mark the unfired clay. He signed before this room of witnesses; the clerk inked the tablet and pressed it to a stretched cloth. This, by another clerk, was carefully removed for drying.

“Citizens and guests, Petitioner and Respondent, Counsel.”

She placed, and studied, a second tablet.

She lifted her eyes, looking over all the crowded room, and the northern chatter began a slow dying. I, under cover of this, glanced at the Prince. I wondered if she’d angered him, calling him guest.

His profile offered me only the clue of pursed lips.

“The Petitioner—”

Banche rose; I rose quickly at his side.

“Asks the court to consider whether the laws which pertain to dispute by challenge, pertain to the slave as to the master. The Respondent charges the Petitioner with trespass in his house, and with assault upon his person, and asks that the court dismiss this request of the Petitioner; that the session be closed upon this resolution; that Cime Decima be made to offer reparation to the Respondent; reparation which the Respondent’s counsel states his client will accept, in form of the Petitioner’s being bonded over to Mumas Martas, by Cime Decima. The court dismisses the Respondent’s charges, and will hear the Petitioner’s request.”

Now I wanted badly to peer at Mumas. I’d known nothing of his seeking such recompense, and was glad of its dismissal…

But I was beginning to feel myself the walker, high on the mountainside, who dislodges the pebble.






“For thirty days, I have weighed one question, upon which all other questions the court shall consider in this case, must of necessity hinge. From Dal Ruggia, where otherwise this assize might have been opened, and where the archives with those verdicts relevant to the matter are to be found, I have returned, after many days’ research.

“We do not question that a slave is regarded property of his master.

“The court is asked to consider whether, as property, a slave can be a person of will, can choose his actions independently of his master’s will. If we determine that this is so, we must determine whether the court’s authority, applied in balance…that is, the law being the same law, its weight accorded in the same case and degree to every person; and in justice to its own principle…that is, the law itself deriving from natural right, this right being apparent, and when applied without caprice, its fairness manifest—can withhold reward if it mete punishment. For to apply the law in such a way that it thwart its own purpose, is to apply no law at all.

“Let us then consider so many instances as will illustrate what a slave is, and what a slave is not, whereupon those at this hearing who have objections may at the close of my remarks, raise them. Suppose that the Father of Lotoq shake the earth.”

She paused, gauging us all, for she had boldly spoken the name of the nameless, the god we dreaded. Nor did Lady Nyma herself make the sign…but many others touched their fingertips and bowed their heads.

“If the guest of a householder be injured by the fall of a pillar, we do not curse the god. We allow that we live only by the will of the Holy One; and that a god shall dispose as he chooses. But if the house were ill-constructed, we do not blame the pillar. The householder shall be held to blame; she may in her turn hold the builder to blame.

“Suppose that a neighbor plant his corn, and that her chickens, for being let to roam free, eat the seed and deprive him of his harvest. We do not blame the chickens; and yet, we do not blame either he who sold to her the chickens. We rule that fowl must be penned, the loss reimbursed…and by this we acknowledge that fowl, left to themselves, will wander and peck.

“Suppose she does not pen them, and he set his dog on them. We do not blame the dog, but yet we acknowledge that the creature performs the will of its master, a thing we do not accuse fowl of doing. In such cases, the magistrate will order the parties come to terms, recognizing fault on both sides. But, if the master set the dog on a fellow citizen, and do him bodily harm, a sergeant must confine the dog and destroy it. This is so, and is written so in the law, because we will not trust the dog to be safe, when it has proven itself dangerous. Heed, Citizens, that here, and well established, we make a distinction; we acknowledge both status of property and autonomy of action.

“Now if the master have a slave, and if he send the slave to injure bodily an enemy, the master is at fault, but the slave does not escape the law. According to the injury done, he may be put to death. He may be sent otherwise to serve in the galleys. But, say the enemy meet the slave and beg that the slave not harm him.”

Here, Lady Nyma silenced herself for a long moment. We sat, and thought, of what she wished us to think. I heard a grunt from the Prince, a noise that conveyed something of admiration grudged to our High Magistrate.






“The case is that known to some of you, of the slave Hanit. She had been sent to bear a gift of wine to the marriage feast of Vlan Androchas. This wine was poisoned with the seeds of the rosira tree; another of the kitchen slaves had tasted of it, unbidden—

“He had died of the sickness. Hanit was told by her master Lord Tahme, go in his stead, seal your lips, and do as you are told. She feared he would kill her, having no use for her, and she knowing of his ill-intent towards a rival. Thus she confessed to Androchas; Androchas tested the wine, pouring it into a pool of fish, and found that Tahme’s slave spoke the truth.

“You will stay with me in my house, he said to Hanit.

“Now we grant to Hanit, that she owed the greater obedience to the law; the law that states above all that we cannot take what we cannot give, that the gods give life and by their will only does life end. Hanit chose rightly; but she chose so with no counsel, by the guidance of her wit alone.

“Citizens, the Petitioner would act, not with the thought of sparing, but of avenging life. There is no question, as to this matter, of obedience, for Cime Decima makes no claims, and has so, before you all, averred. Does a slave have the right, the duty, to intervene, to refuse to perform an act of evil, whether or no the slave has been ordered to perform it by he who regards the slave his property, and does the court accept the verdict of Hanit as precedent; it must then follow, that this case we consider today is the mirror of Hanit’s. The slave has not been ordered, but of self-will desires to perform an act against the life of Mumas Martas; the act in question is not a crime, but one sanctioned by the very law created to resolve such disputes as the death of a loved one through the recklessness or malevolence of another.”

Lady Nyma proposed, and my mind found this fitting, that day is not more true than night, our rains of winter not more true than our droughts of summer…that the justice in Hanit’s act must be somehow inherent in my own, yet unrealized act.

“Vlanna,” she said to a minister at her left. “I ask you now to speak.”

The woman stood. Her face was scarred; her arms alike bore the grooves of knife wounds, healed over, accenting sinew and muscle.

“I am called Pyrandtha. I am a Knight of Caeluvm, a challenger. I fight no longer, but still I serve, my life pledged to the virtue of honor, and have been named by the emperor, Minister of Causes to the city of Montsecchers. I am asked by Lady Nyma to state for the court those rules appropriate to the cause of the Petitioner, for many of you are strangers, and many have never challenged.”






She used such formal cadence in her speech. She paused here, and made me look her in the eye. And with each of these, occasions when someone of importance exercised the dignities of high office, rituals of a tradition I never had believed touched me, I felt a bit more ashamed.

“The challenge must fall into one of three classes of grievance: Sauta Umos, insult to the person; Sauta Maitos, insult to the house; and, Sauta Faibe, insult to the weak. The law holds that a person of lower lineage or place cannot insult a person of higher; that one without citizenship cannot insult the family or reputation of an Elector—but…for this, to the law of challenge, is the very foundation…any person may issue challenge against another, to charge him as having preyed upon one weaker than himself.

“The Order of Knights of Caeluvm exists for this, that many of the rightly aggrieved have not the capacity to meet an opponent in combat. We are a charitable order. We swear a vow of Service above Self, even unto death, if this the gods will.”

She came to a stop. I felt hopeful and wanted to tamp away this stirring. It was the first I knew in myself, that I was not ready to be winner—in this cause of my own choice. For to win would grant me only the chance to lose all. But she had stopped, not to address me; not to offer her order’s charity to me, but because the Prince had been playing at something.

I’d seen him ogle…so from the corner of my eye, I perceived…this phenomenon, our Minister of Causes; I saw him shift in his seat and nudge with his knee one of the guards who kept close by him. Pyrandtha and Nyma with serene faces gazed above the heads of the royal bench-sitters.

“The form of challenge, which by the account even of Mumas Martas, had been done correctly, in accordance with the law, it is this. That the insult must be stated, its being and its reason; that the hand be placed on the belly, the seat of trust. As we do when on pilgrimage, as at the shrines, where the stonecrafters who lived in the time of the gods carved their images by arts unknown, and where the priests fasted, the earth burned day and night, and where the blood of the impious ran as a river in the streets, to consecrate and make holy the living rock. When we pass in procession, and when we say our prayers, we place our hands on the belly of the god, but our eyes we cast down.”

Her words were cast at the Prince. Our mid-winter time of pilgrimage would come soon enough; many hearts would pray in those weeks, many more of our people walking the procession than before the days of the Prince…

Pray that the emperor be toppled from his throne. His paid vassal, unsanctioned, would then sail away. Or march his army over the mountains. Or, if the gods, the Children of the Father of Lotoq, heard our prayers, he would never leave this land.






“Now he who is challenged may see fit to decline. If it be entered into the record that he has answered no, this is the same as to forfeit the right of dispute. Whatever is charged against him stands, though he pays no other penalty than in honor lost.

“If he will fight, he will agree to appear with his challenger at the offices of Cause; there record will be made of the dispute, its circumstances, who charges, who denies, where they will fight and with what weapons. He may, and his challenger may, employ as champion a knight…or a friend.”

She mentioned then, glancing down…though she spoke from expertise and had no tablet to consult…

She made of this summing up what struck me untrue, acted. She mentioned, I say, and somewhat hurried, that also they who seek charity may, counselled as to form by her deputies, apply to the Vranga-chae’m of her order, and that the law permitted any length of delay, but that his refusal meant the combat must take place within four days.

All this was a disturbance. Only to me. I had wanted to pay such close attention to these great ones, to trust with all my heart in this idea

That the gods had ordered our world as a pyramid, my place in it so low, I need think of nothing for myself. I wished this, that I could sit with an empty mind, drink in grand-sounding phrases, gaze with wonder at the Villa of Montadta, at its alley of columns, every four the legs of a giant horse, a team to pull Lotoq’s chariot, to speed his wheels of thunder and fire…the high dais, its rich cloths, the handiwork of patient years…

Of slaves.

And I was not so gifted, to be unwise. Nor so very wise. I understood it; Pyrandtha knew something of me, a thing decided in privacy…and I feared the friend was Cime. And I could not allow him to champion me, even if he was certain of himself.

The Minister of Cause took her seat, and the High Magistrate rose.

“In summary, I state the question again. The law was made, in large part to protect the property of citizens, in lesser part to protect their persons; within the tradition of the law our enquiry has uncovered two key principles. First, that the law must touch the slave, albeit the slave is not a citizen, albeit the slave holds no property, else the will of a slave shall be ungovernable, for the slave may then act by a will independent of his master’s, and do harm to either or both the property and person of a citizen. Second, that also a slave may do great good to a citizen by the exercise of an independent will, and that, as in the case of Hanit, and where a slave is regarded covered by the precepts of the law, we may fairly consider a word of warning, or bodily intervention where evil is intended by one against another, duty—duty to speak or to act—not mere privilege to do so.





“Then we must consider, as Pyrandtha has given you to understand, that the challenge requires an answer; that the answer may be no answer. There are consequences for declining combat; these to be borne or spurned as best the heart of the accused advises him. The objection may be raised, that if one slave challenges, many will challenge. I counter this with two points: One, that we allow marriage among slaves; we do not complain that if one slave seeks to marry, many will seek to marry. We uphold by custom the master’s right to place this slave in the stable, that in the kitchen, a third at his side; we do not cavil that if this one have a task different from that one, many will fall into jealousies and intrigues…and yet this we know to be the frequent result. If the court allow weight to an argument constructed on such lines, it cannot be lax in enforcement, or blind to instances of identical construction, for the sake of convenience.

“Two, the law is founded, the limits of the law expanded, upon this principle, that each new case introduces a new question. Were we ever to see the later arising of a petition wherein no single factor departs to the smallest degree, but all correspond precisely to those of the earlier, there could be from the court no issue, other than that previously determined…”

I will not give more of this speech, Lady Nyma going forward from this preamble, to restate the attestations of Mumas, of Cime, of my man of law, Banche, on my behalf. She spoke of the laws of property and of challenge.

The Prince’s men began to be difficult.

From nerves, I’d felt no hunger all day. But I supposed for these forced witnesses, pleasing their lord, here for no other reason…that which they found amusing and worthwhile beckoned, in reverie, to minds long since astray.

Lady Nyma’s officer bellowed now, in a voice to silence the room, cow the flouters of our assize’s dignity: “Rise, Petitioner! Rise, Respondent! All rise!”

The Prince reached across the aisle, surprising me, and hauled me to my feet by the collar, as he stood to his own. I hadn’t even the chance to be laggardly; his act was of contempt. I think only for the ceremony itself.

“Citizens. Honored guests. Counsel and client. My son, Cime Decima. Sente Vei.”

Sente also must be present. Standing with my head no higher than the Prince’s bruma, a half-breastplate in gold the northerners wore, a flared-nostrilled and fanged beast, bear or boar, molded upon the heart, I would not look back. I would not move in any way to suggest opinion, loyalty, even curiosity. But with great curiosity, I wondered. Sente had made an attestation of his own; Lady Nyma had not introduced it.

“The court rules thus: The challenge against the respondent, Mumas Martas, is in full keeping with the Law of Challenge, therefore Mumas Martas must make answer. That is all.”

All, but not simply. He had balked from the start, and for the pride of such a man, as already I have said, to give answer to a slave was to stoop low, and too far. Surely, Mumas would have come to it. He could not embarrass himself less making any of choices left to him…surely, he would have said no, and come to it. His imagination must torment him for a time…he would suppose himself laughed at; he would draw inward and grumble, when—most especially at this season, the pilgrimage needing weeks of filling jars and baskets for the journey, weeks away—his adventure would be only forgotten.





The Prince said:

“Mumas Martas agrees to the challenge. He will fight. He will fight the slave upon the mustering grounds of the fort. What else?” He fingered his chin, artificial in manner. Mocking still, if not more so. “Knives…shall we have shields?”


I went home.

Cime, at the court’s adjourning, caught my eye, tight-smiled; he pushed through the crowd to myself and Banque, pinching my counsellor’s tunic at the shoulder (this was respect, in our land, to touch the clothes, not the body), and steered us to where we had been making, one of the row of standing desks in niches, adjacent to a table where clerks sat; where, when a man of law had found an empty place, a clerk would rise, and come with tablets and seals, writing instruments.

We had an important air, our group; we had gained a fourth, Sente, and a fifth, a man who served the Prince closely. We had no name for this one. He seemed not a knight, almost a Keeper of Acts…however, the northerners recorded their bargains in tattoos and burning brands, in disfigurements of ears and noses. Their naked arms told history, their cheeks and brows raised beads of flesh, colored with indigo or charcoal. Some of these were familiar constellations, some were runes. This man’s head shone bald in a plucked circle, a blasphemous mountain sculpted at center with bone slivers, blood congealed to color them, tiny ribs thrust up in a spider’s crouch.

But he was quiet, listening. His eyes were studious, taking in what we did, and I felt he knew our language.

My question for Banque, if I had not, in this company, swallowed it, would have been, am I free? At liberty, I should say. Will I be told where to go, will an officer fetch me? Will I be marched to the mustering grounds, a knife placed in my hand? Will I stand at some distance from Mumas, will he look at me, eye to eye, will I pity him still, too much to wish him dead, yet will we kill each other…at the last, for I know I will fight to live?

Have I been wrong, have I done wrong, am I wrong?

But, blinking my eyes against the sun, I walked the colonnade of the Villa Montadta’s porch, blinded and blinded again, Cime’s hand on my shoulder, teaching me the way. The way of our future. This was all I’d feared. That I could not, as consequences weighed, be forgiven.





If the mother who bore me, and died for it, had won free of Lotoq’s execration…if her home had been the city of Lom’s grandmother, so angering to the god…then my flowering into promise in this way must seem, to a clever man—to Cime, to his friend Sente—that warning shudder under the feet we called the Giver’s Laughter.

Lotoq, unnamed but in thought, gave well. He had purpose in me, it was Montsecchers he loathed today, and the ordinary, gay laughter of untried souls…kind, unworldly souls, the young of the houses of Decima and Vei, pleased him. He liked that they welcomed in their midst his deep, iron-wrought designs, sped them, paved avenues for them.

Cime could not laugh now. Pytta had come to it, Sente had.

The touch on my shoulder was a warden’s. We were down the steps, into the sunset shadows of the tall city houses and steep-pitched streets, down from the hills overlooking Sech-apla, the green plain cut by the sea, a crescent of empty terrace, where in famine times of old, so they said, numbers had been made to live…to wait, and be sacrificed. It was known strange tides arose, tides with no moon—known that the Sech-apla could not be inhabited for that.

We had come down and were quiet and far from the others.

“You will go back to your quarters. I won’t need you for any chore, nor Pytta. I think you were no friend to Stol.”

He put it that way. Had I been too preferential to Lom, or been above myself withal? I thought now, why not? I had been proud enough. Stol and his wife must suppose so, and Cime, I foresaw, was placing me in their hands.














Chapter Five

Winter Alone


I came by the outside steps, drew back the curtain from the door, saw in shuttered dark the sleeping porch, the quarters of Cime Decima’s slaves, and sniffed the air of it, by myself. Stol and Larsa were about some business…Larsa, set at work in the nursery now, guarding the infant, it might well be.

My eyes and throat betrayed a weakness to shed tears. I had made mission of Lom’s being gone. I had begun a thing; I had played, with no grasp of its nature, into some inspiration of the Prince. I’d done nothing for my friend.


As far as the gate of Cime’s villa, the strange servant had followed us. He spoke once, and courteous:

“Stol, Mero, I have heard this…it was he sold himself to you. He is no longer of the order.”

Cime’s face grew fixed in choler and he answered the Prince’s man no word, would not turn, even, to eye him in reply. The gate closed. I had learned a morsel of Stol’s history. Yes, the very poor, free men and women, broken in health, aged, unlearned in any trade, might sell themselves into bondage. They did, for tokens, now and again, and allowed themselves to be worked to the death…but died under a roof, allotted their bread, enough to make their labor of value.

Lom’s pallet was not there. Mine was, and my basket where I kept my clothing and my bag of tiles, my tablets. My candle was here also, but I had no other to light it at. No fear, in those few months I had been wanted and liked here, would have kept me from going into the villa.

And so, this I would put aside, and be brave. I also was soon to die.

All along the passageway were the same arched windows, the skins of sheep over the same wooden shutters. The candles burned on bronze stands going down the center, flames dancing in such drafts as snaked round edges, but far from touching pillar or hanging. And Stol was here, lighting the last of them.

I could not properly call him Mero, though I wished to.

I bent at the knees, in the posture of humility, a slave’s.

“Go fetch your pallet. Leave your basket. There is decent light here in the hall, and we will have to start now, at once. The Prince has given you four days, has he not?”

Four days, in which I’d expected, shunned and alone here, to pray, to meditate with a mind emptied, hoping did the gods wish for anything I possessed, will anything I might do, they would grant me the great charity of revelation.





“We will start…” I said.

He laughed. The laugh was angry, not altogether with me, and satisfied. “Yes. A thing you have not suspected, Gifted One. I was of the order, myself. But you see…” He pointed to that I had first noticed about him, the stamp on his brow where a heavy blow once had misshaped his skull. And then I saw, as I ought to have, that this order he and the Prince’s man spoke of, was Caeluvm, the Order of the Knights of Cause.

“Each chapter of our order is dedicated to a virtue. You know the virtues.”

“Honor,” I said. “Faithfulness. Love.”


“No, Stol, I guess. I don’t know them.”

“If Pride were a virtue, that you would know.”

“Do virtues save then, as sins destroy?”

“I won’t waste your hours of life,” he answered. “And yet one day—why suppose not?—you…you…will debate in the Senate, perhaps, and if sauce is wit, you will find an appetite for yours. For this day, for all this night, and all tomorrow, we will play a game. Not a game of fortunetelling. The War-Maker’s game.”

He directed me with a finger, and when I had rolled my pallet, and shouldering it scurried back, a board, I found, was laid on the floor. This was polished slate, etched with lines, twenty squares to a side, twenty rows of squares. The pieces were pebble-sized dobs of glass, as the glass-blower drops in the sand.

“Lay them out. Blacks on your side, whites on mine.”

I scooped from the bowl and sorted, again and again, it needing two hundred of these pieces to fill the squares on my side to the center, where Stol’s met them. He produced, or rather, called my attention to, by scooting it closer, a wheel, a sort of spool on a spindle. The spindle was marked with an arrow, and the wheel in squares of red and gold, each numbered.

Thus, the War-Maker’s game.

“Do you suppose it matters who goes first?” he asked me.

“You shall, and I will learn.”

“You expect to have that luxury. In battle. In warfare. Do you grasp at all what we are doing?”


I cooled myself, centering two or three pieces that sat imperfectly. “No. I can bear harsh teaching, Stol. That I had from Elberin. Tell me what you would like to see me do. If I do it badly, shout at me, or sneer. Do you suppose I care?”

I knew that these orders of knighthood enjoyed themselves so, putting postulants to absurdities of ritual, mysteries made grand by just such posturings, and that each next step must be guessed, and the guess be always wrong. I did not aspire to it. I could not see my future suffer should I enrage my tutor. And no, reader, this defiance did not break some spell, and earn me Stol’s admiration.





He spun the wheel, and the number was ten.

“Your move then. Take ten of my pieces, and place one of yours on the tenth square.”

Rapid was the exchange of tests, up to perhaps the dozenth spin of the wheel. The board cleared, and I, ignorant as to any means of victory, rather willful as to fidelity, sparks of which I planned to snuff—Stol could have his game, I had only time—advanced my men every which way, taking such numbers of his as the wheel indicated.

But here were wide gaps on the board, and if I were to win seven steps, I might gain one captive…while if Stol won eight, he might take my lone patrol and move more dangerously towards some cluster of four or six…

I saw my way. The fewer men left, the more strategic every move.

“But there are players, you know, players who are at the game for days…the boards may sit while a man goes about his business, and when next he visits his opponent, he has thought of the best answer. But then, his opponent has thought, too. Players, I was going to say, because there are four hundred pieces altogether…who have in their heads great charts, great diagrams. Each possible move of each possible piece by each possible turn of the wheel. I am far from being so good.”

Stol, of course, beat me several times over, and allowed me at last to nap, when I’d grown too sleepy to attend.

We’d conversed, playing, Stol coming to nurture pride of his own in his protégé’s successes. Pride it was, I thought…but very secret about this…had won me his regard. I too was a maker of mental charts, young in the eyes of others, but old in the years I’d spent at it, those pleasant games of the fortune-teller.

I did know how to flatter and please. I had nothing other, of which to barter; I might easily be hated as a curse, driven in nakedness to the wild lands.

You see, that commonplace of condemning the flatterer is a luxury. Even Lady Nyma, of such high integrity, was courted, and did not need to court.


I woke to shutters banging open, fresh cold air filling the hall.

Stol said to me, “Eat your breakfast and come down to the water trough.”

This instruction, my head busy with the War-Maker’s game, I followed half-dreaming…the puzzle of whether it mattered much to plan, until the field had cleared, or were it true, so complicated as the numbers destined upon each piece be, that like the spheres of the stars, these numbers are written, and the wisdom to read them—to read them all—a matter attainable in deep study. All the slaughter of the early rounds could not be waste, then.

It meant much to me. I came heedlessly near the trough, moving glass soldiers through imaginary cycles…

And got a great surprise. I had passed Stol, not seeing him under the dining porch; he strode up behind me, and seizing my collar, dunked my head.

“Make yourself alert! There is almost nothing about fighting I can teach you in two days. Now tell me why we played the game.”





I mopped at my face, to take a moment’s time.

But why ought I care if my answer were the right one, or the wrong one? I gave what had been on my mind.  “Strategy.”

“Well,” he said, “that’s something.”

The knife was weighty iron, but blunted. I was given a shield of wood—both together, too heavy.

“Could I not fight with only a shield, though?”

“Can you kill a man with a blow?”

This gave me thoughts of divine justice. But I hadn’t the strength of a rearing horse. “Suppose that I had knocked the knife from his hand?”

“Is this the way I teach you? Take those up!”

I took them up, my labor to stand perhaps overacted. I faced him, and he at once touched the side of my neck with the blunt edge of his own knife.

I said: “I hadn’t thought of that. I’d supposed it was the heart.”

“You may suppose any foolish thing you prefer. But you had better quicken your intellect. I will do that again…I want you to tell me anything you see that may be of use to you.”

He swung the blade, while I stood quite feckless for wishing, by the gods, to have my intellect quickened.


This time, as slowly, slowly, for my sake, Stol lifted his elbow, I moved my blade, and countered the blow…just there, at the elbow. My intuition suggested it, that the muscles moving the arm be severed.

“And why do you know what you know?”

“Because you were slow for me.”

At last, a smile.


Aching limbs, after our brief lunch…though Pytta, I believe, had ordered the best of her kitchen (and more than any delicacy, it bolstered me knowing her silence was not disdain)…taught me to make bolder choices.

Stol’s lesson for me, above all lessons, was this: a lunge with the knife was a movement that must complete itself. The weight would carry, the brain adjust an instant behind, but one or more instants were yet needed…

If to plan, not flinch.

Pyrandtha’s great stature in the order was due to her quickness, that greater thing than might.

“So then…I want to see you give me a sober look…if Mumas supposes you small and weak… If you struggle, as you did now, lifting your shield, he may give you the gift at the very outset, before you tire yourself.”

He was telling me to exaggerate, play on my enemy’s folly. And did I guess, so, that honor has its limits, I was not to twitch a lip. I took my sober eyes from his face, and when he raised his weapon, I let the shield slide to earth.

Caught by the impulse of his senses, for just that second, my seasoned tutor had left his belly clear for the touch of my knife…but then it shook a bit, with laughter.





The mustering grounds, within the ramparts of the fort, met my eyes dressed in the panoply of a fair day. I had never thought to see the inside of a garrison’s stronghold.

And could not imagine the fort in its sobriety…

The Prince had ordered entertainments, fights staged for joy, mounted men driving at each other, a melee fought with clubs. The injured carried off the field to cheers, half-melodious chants in the northern tongue, making of my death-battle with Mumas a triviality…not even the best of shows on the day’s ticket. The Prince had invited guests to sit with him, their couches (and the viands’ braziers, the roasting meat and spiced wine warming, the servants tending these noble spectators, their knights on bored alert) under a canopy, on the rampart at my right hand, entering.

Sited on its promontory, the fort had high and steep walls, outside…and far down among the rocks, secret ways, it was said, so siege could never defeat us, while our fort defended us; inside, the walls might be only twice my height, gained by stairways from the gallery of the stronghold itself, in whose warrens were housed the general quarters, weapons-stores, kitchens, stables, treasury.

And so the Prince had the magnificent view, seaward, if he preferred it. The sky was blue and cloudless, the sun kind, warm. The sea cared her least on such days as she wore her greatest beauty, her sapphire mantle…and sang songs of her own…for our brave banners, our jugglers, our pipes and drums.

“Bid it approach,” someone said.

I stood unseconded, unescorted. The voice was Elberin’s. Knowing him, quashing useless astonishment that he should be here, I obeyed my old master. I did not wait to be bidden.

“Will you bow before your Prince?”

I stood too far below. A stone wall draped in cloths stitched with insignia, loomed between myself and the eyes, hidden, that apparently could see me.

“I will bow. But I don’t know the form, so you will add that to my list of offenses. In the style of my own country, and yours, Elberin.”

I bowed, and a laughter which was the Prince’s rose above the others. I had not belonged to Elberin, and still he had profited by the selling of me. I had not called him Vlan, before these men of high rank.

“And so, Vlan, you see. Now, wait also for the outcome. This creature…”

Elberin had found his comeuppance for me ready to hand, as I might have guessed, in tendering his own humility to the Prince. His dry laugh cut abruptly.

“…enjoys the Giver’s guardianship. There will be some twist to the story.”

“Then let us have the end of it now.”

These words were enough for the Prince’s competent underling. I heard his running feet fade along the parapet, and soon he was crossing the field, tapping men on the shoulder. Some game with a ball, the object that this was not to touch earth, for its novelty played ringed by our own foot soldiers, was shouted into default, victory to the side that scurried away smug.





Nervousness seized me.

The field was mudded and pocked. I thought of Mumas and his bleached summer tunic; guilty, I thought that I had known him but one summer… Yet this must be habit, or character, so far as character were divined from habit. He cared for this in his appearance, Mumas, that his garments be white, as one who can have his horses saddled by a servant, a man of refinement…was it possible?

All this delving felt sick-making to me, taking what I could see of him in memory, subterfuge my aim, so that if I might prey on his weaknesses, I might destroy him. But, for the space of a minute or two, while these temptings and loathings flickered, I asked myself, is fastidiousness for clothing a thing, even, that goes deep in the grain? Would it catch at his attention, a lifelong disgust of dirt, if I worked him towards a miry patch, and then—

Stol, with his question, had made me think. Could I kill a man with a blow?

Could I play this war-maker’s game with subtlety enough, drop my shield, as we’d rehearsed, hit Mumas, ducking when he swung, at the knee, slicing sinews, my hand darting behind his leg? If I did this, would he fall, and the curved thickness of the shield’s edge catch him by the ear, as his horse’s hoof had caught Lom?

If I could ask so much of the gods, I thought. Mumas dead by a sort of fatefulness, not needing to be an act that I had done.

“What do you suppose all this delay is?”

Stol was beside me. The tone of his question seemed too conversational; he was speculating aloud, irritated that his groomed fighter be toyed with, that the Prince had such slight honor as to command this battle, and to not respect it. He had said enough to me in our time together that I knew this of his mind, while in fact he did not wait my answer, but moved to tackle a knight of the Prince, who wandered in our direction, helmeted face blank, as to offer encouragement or dismissal.

“Why do they not begin? Why have they not marked out the field and cleared those stragglers?”

The knight laughed. He came and put his hand on my head, in the way of someone measuring playfully, making conspicuous the puniness of another. But, and it did not surprise, he spoke none of our language. He drew his long knife and feinted it at me, and said something to Stol that ended in a shrug.

There was a shout, well down the field, the import seeming that the game was over. Not, I suppose, of the shout itself, but the head-hanging posture of those near the tower’s base, who stumped disorganizedly towards emptying stalls, where little refreshment was left to be purchased.

I said it myself, to Stol. “What now? The Prince has not ordered the combat off?”

“Your rival does not appear. I say you have won…and I don’t know what it is.”

It was a stranger expressed himself in this way, and not badly, for a northerner. For neither can I say what it was I won that day. I had expected a desperate hurling at my opponent all I had in strength, all I could conjure in cunning, all that my muscles, so sore and over-tried, could be driven to, to serve me…

And here, while the crowd milled disconsolate, while I, and Stol, and our comrade of a passing moment stood, facing in a circle, none facing the tower, a figure dropped from its crown…they said they saw it, some who were there.

I did not. I heard only, far off, a wet crunch, and shrieks.





A long ride over country, how next I found myself directed, gave contemplation of the end of Mumas…what I had done to him…free play in my mind. For I suffered a bit, without knowing what had befallen me. It was best to think of anything other than pain and malaise, and I was among indifferent companions. They offered food that I didn’t want; they offered drink that I did. Neither answer brought rebuke, nor coaxing.

No one, on that day of the contest, had had further use for me. And so, confused, certain with each step towards Cime’s house I offended the more unforgivably, I returned. Stol and Larsa were not there; my pallet was, and I lay on it. I was only tired. Then I woke, after a time, to hear a conversation below the window…my friend the Prince’s deputy, and Elberin.

“There have been signs, Wosogo. Everything had grown, lush, seeming a wonder…that the soil could so soon become fertile. The strange trees, though I believe those, they have among the hills you are about to cross… And so, if it pleases your lord, he will say the wind had delivered them. It is true.”

Elberin spoke this last, as cutting short a digression, affirming again a thing discussed. So was his manner.

The other, by name or rank Wosogo, said, after some noise of the metal things he wore on his face, a vigorous nod: “The foundling carries fortune. Such as plans, may I say, your Lotoq…I mean…” Jingling again.

“You mean, we were premature. My wisdom was not sufficient…well, I will never claim to know the mind of the Giver. But, I had warned them. He rumbles, it is not always ill-omened. Or not for those of us in this present life. They would have the creature sent away. And now the lake of sweet water has gone sour.”

My heart lifted, as I dared think Elberin had come to take me back, and that that would solve my crisis…

Or, rather, I had inflicted something of crisis on the city. Making my way, I’d seen how eyes were averted, while hands played at a gesture of appeasement. As with the people when I had been Elberin’s disciple. I had brought at my birth too much of taxas, the gods’ dark designs, and they feared to have me among them.

“I will call you Foundling. That is what many say.”

I took this, the voice of Wosogo, as a summons. I pushed from my pallet and went to the steps. If he had business with me, then perhaps I had but changed hands again.

“You are not wearing the only clothes Cime Decima has given you?”

And this was Elberin’s greeting for me, after so many months. I could have made a joke of the riposte…must I not be wearing the only clothes I had? But my old master, now and again, had used the back of his hand when he thought I’d answered him ill.

I was used to it, shouldering such treatment as I got, but before the Prince’s man I preferred to stand on dignity. “You know, Vlan, that I am yours, or any free person’s…”

I bent my knees to Wosogo. “…to be commanded. Can I make myself better suited to your purpose, I shall.”





“Well, there,” Elberin said. “What you will find yourself contending with. I believe the Prince calls it clever, and amuses himself regardless, with our superstitions, our little customs. This one will never show true humility. The words will always betray these forays into out-reasoning, so that thus, having got just what you’d asked for, you will be somewhat at disadvantage.”

He made to leave. Then, turning back, so that I could see he spoke to me, and see I was not worth a meeting of the eyes, said:

“Creature, your road goes one way, and mine another. And so we part.”

“As the Giver wills.”

He disliked this. More of my trouble, was his thought, expressed in the grunt before his pace became resolute, and the back of him passed Cime’s gate. For I could have said only goodbye. I could have said nothing…he would not have cared. I had mentioned Lotoq; and of course, for just that effect, just that small warning.

Trouble, no doubt.

But for Cime, for Pytta, Sente, for Stol or Larsa, my heart’s goodbye would have been sincere. Would be, as I learned at once.

“The Prince will have us start the road tomorrow. It is winter soon, and we have all this land to cross to the sea, where we are going.”

Wosogo had a frown of interior work on his face, and I supposed his fluency in our language ebbed, as he measured in his own what he wished to say next.

“The Prince makes you free. There are fortunes to be told on every man who journeys. Every beast, horse and oxen, every sun’s rise and set. It is always with our people to be at odds with the sea. That is an old curse upon us.”

“What sort of journey is this? Why are we going?”

“I…journey. But I think I have not the word. Balbaec is a town of the Alëenon, all they trade by the mountain road brought down from the fortress city. No one passes the gate…and there is on the plain a great bazaar at all times. Men even from over the mountains to the east.”

He put a picture in my mind, or the Giver did, and I saw walls buttressed in living rock, a puzzle of tunnelways, as our own small fortress boasted—but sinister, breathing, by means of cruel engines in the labyrinth above, bursts of fire; a great upwards road flanked in pines, a garden terrace in the clouds, planted in mosses…its captive birds eagles. And far below, a fertile rift between chains of peaks, terraced in vines, a green land with a thousand bright tents. I knew of nothing I’d seen to account for the invention. I knew also that the Prince hoped by some means to break this fortress, claim it, bottle all its lord’s trade into his own coffers.

“Why, though,” I said. A minute or two might have passed.

The look Wosogo gave me was as a man’s facing death in battle, who finds in his hand a spell-bound weapon. Thrilled, grim in purpose, both.

“Why so urgent?”

“That is a matter of the Emperor.”





Cuerpha was my gift from Cime, my pony, his saddle and tackle.

Pytta came to me, and said, “I should not. You, who know, know we have been warned, and by a brother of the Emperor. Word spreads far and wide, young fascination. You would not have thought how much trouble! But, however, I think your trouble is sometimes mischief. Yes…I think the Giver designs more upon you than you will humbly admit. Not good, my dear!”

She teased now, a bit arch with the dignity of motherhood.

I smiled, and she said, “Perhaps you will come by great fortune. I have none of the gift, but I fear for you.” Blushing then. “I’m sorry. To speak of luck, when you are riding off tomorrow. Curse me!”

“I don’t.”

“This,” she said.

And left me. And so I found this, the bundle, to be a folded vest of fleece. She’d taken of her jewels and given me chains in fat links, rings with the green and red stones most prized.

She’d sewn these, to silently keep their places…

And why… Perhaps to Pytta’s mind, it was sentiment.

She had thought the cloth, with the story of the lovers, held Lom’s memory. I found the memory harsh. I found the rebuke (though His, not hers) deserved.

I laced them, my trinkets, by which I might bribe advantages, into a pouch, made fast so that it would always be under my belt.

Stol, also, had put in my basket his bag of game pieces. A board I could craft…with a knifepoint and level patch of earth. Would it be a challenge? Teaching the game, finding others to play with me.

Wosogo was with his prince. The captain of our mission, having duties of command, had not been chosen to instruct me. For that burden, I mean, and for knowing any word of my language. But one of our company did, a master of intendance, who kept most with his wagons at the rear. His understanding was less than Wosogo’s, but he would pass me, trotting from rear to fore, and when he passed, would grip Cuerpha’s halter, grin down at this small-statured creature.

“Far there.” Flinging a hand.

And today another gesture, removal of an object from a bag. I made to reach behind me, wondering.

No, he shook his head. “Vlan seh’le.”

He gave a shrug. He questioned.

“The Emperor’s seals, yes. There is a lord, a general of the province. No…let me not say province…”





(It was a misconstruction I had fixed, never having cause to unfix, at an age when provinces, city-states, principalities, sovereign nations, had been all one to me.)

He laughed, a bit knowing.

My taking the word back a way of giving insult, he seemed to guess. I would, on my chaotic path, stir trouble on our borders next, dropping unwitting hints, sowing confused enmities.

Emphatically, I shook my head. This too brought laughter.

The general,” I said, “will receive the seals, and he will give us his hospitality. We will spend the night inside his walls.”

I was earnest, and caring enough to try at this, he threaded out sense—his face showed it—from seals, give and night. He would have ridden on then, but I’d taken a notion…

Of a thing imperative. We were to cross land and sea. This journey, this venture of plunder, as Wosogo would wish to correct me, would be a long one.

I patted Cuerpha’s neck. “Brei!” I pointed to Cuerpha’s neck, and spoke our word for pony again, with that same brightness.

He patted his own mount’s neck, and raised his eyebrows. “Habba!”

Now he did spur onwards, and I hoped I had learned…

Horse, and not the name of his horse. The beginnings of a language with alike no name I knew of, and no alphabet in which I could note it down.


The general’s land was far yet, as my friend said…and so we camped.

I was free, I had been told so. Wosogo had given me nothing as token of this. Slaves freed by their masters in our country had—I’d been prepared to endure it—the lobes of the ears clipped… For no ambition could this be forged, done with a ring of sharpened brass, in the hands of one, and a hammer; a block held in place by a second.

I had the luck then, if my luck held. I felt the gods might ignore Lady Pytta’s error, else that their irony (always they prefer irony) must do me good. I would mix among the small and the great, and never be so low in their eyes as an ex-slave, bearing his mark, and only nominally free.

Cuerpha’s coat and hooves must be tended when we came to our night’s rest. I would inch behind others at the hay wagon, fill my arms with the clutches that dropped from theirs. I had felt, sliding from the saddle three nights so far, weary, cold, weak on my feet. I resented none of my good beast’s needs, but I resented, somehow, that this was a task.

I could be tempted, bedeviled by an envious imp, to think it…

That the Prince, needing my help—to strengthen his men, bolster with certainty their wavering superstition, call by the gods’ verdict the venture blessed, might have made my comfort someone else’s chore.

It was only temptation, Reader. I set the thought down at this date to belay that same envy. Of demonic spirits, quick, as we know, to strike at pride. Thus, I do not conceal from you the faults of my nature. No, I had no servant; I had little of will, but I did this work, then rolled in my blanket to sleep.





I had slept at my first home in profoundest silence…fairly it might be said, that of the grave. Childhood dreams did not meander here from sound to sound, weaving a story of footsteps, caterwauling, morning birdsong; rather mine, I could now suppose, had been the god’s teaching. I knew I understood his language, that I could hear him at times, and receive his mysteries, as he chose to confide them.

Not so on my mountain, such a silence, though I and Cuerpha were at first the only beings at the toll house. From the deep earth that faint song in my ear always, the iron seeds astir with their rising power. And nature is not silent, excepting where the old woman had kept her house, in ash and barrenness, in that time after the wrath of Lotoq.

Our camps were never still.

The Prince’s army did not settle, but that they set their watches, and sent their scouts along the road ahead and into the countryside. Raiding parties afterwards, from the holdings thereabouts to carry away the cattle, sheep, hens, the stored grain, the butts of wine. We remained in the Emperor’s lands, and he permitted his mercenaries right of pillage.

I said that I was free. I could come and go…not at will, but so far as I did not cross the Prince’s will. And being without status (though wealthy, had they known, for Pytta’s great charity); being nameless, untied, but at the same time a talisman…something like, I’d decided, a wild lion taken up company with the soldiers, walking their road alongside them.

I was left alone, observed with both pleasure and wariness, avoided.

I felt eased finally, this night, of the abuse done my limbs in training against Mumas. That, and only a day between, and the riding, hours upon hours of it. I am grown stronger, I told myself. I lay awake and regretting that I’d bedded down to doze, long enough to have passed my chance for a meal. I rested my head on my hands, but for the torches could see no stars.

Who would have advised Mumas?

I tried to put words in the voice, the mind, so far as I could enter it, of Lady Nyma. Now the Prince has ordered you to fight, you will have to…

Merely, have to?


Did she ever entertain dishonor, as Stol did, where weight of consequence falls unequal, almost dishonorable itself—everyone’s hope for life being equal?

The Prince would then find his sport in the chase. Mumas a fugitive, stripped of citizenship, made slave and sent to the galley.

Or would he beg mercy, on some ground invented…illness, a distant, dying relation? I wished I’d thought of these questions, and that I’d seen Lady Nyma in Cime’s house, to put them to her.





Creature, why do you trouble me? she would say.

Because, Vlanna, there is no wisdom to answer this. The Giver offers me nothing. Would you have counselled him to fight? Would you have counselled him to lie? If I had gone to the Prince…

It must be his laughter, our great god, and behind this, his answer. I could not, of course, have gone to the Prince, told him, punish me for reneging on a vow, for shame, disloyalty. Ask the Balancers to torment me with Lom’s wraith…I will not fight. It can’t matter. What you desire my fate to be, so it must…how can I transgress, then, Vlan? Mumas, you could not seize from his house, lay bonds upon… But the foundling?

The world has not graced me. For this, I have all the world’s grace. I may spare even my enemy…

And the Prince might admire this. He might care for none of it, yet want me for the games. I hadn’t then, but could think now of glossing my reputation, while bestowing on Mumas favor, crushing him a little…a little more…by winning for him his life.

But the only lesson to be gleaned at this hour was, how heedless we are. How foreseeably familiar snares appear along our path, how eager we are, for that, to step in them.

Mumas, though.

Rising upon a morning when he saw…

I saw, degradation as a word made glyphic, as an actual grave chamber, that hollowed place our people by custom made, a dome of clay tiles open at the top for conversation, for gifts on feast days that our dead might share.

We loved our dead; we felt that, like grandparents, they took to their seats at the last, awaiting visitors, as was an elder’s due, but sat in kindness—sage advisors rewarding remembrance, asking no more. But well-wishers, too, who loved us when fortune loved us not, when the lordly men and women loved us not.

Mumas, though…forty winters old and not wise.

Not visited, as he had no kin and neglected his own ancestors. He might have seen himself a figure underground, hearing footfalls that only passed above his head. He would have killed me, and I had tried so hard, at such disadvantage, the crowd swayed to my cause…

A victory he could not live down. Or, he would have been killed by me…

For Lotoq is all-powerful.

Lotoq, or some god, or some demon, put this whisper in Mumas’s ear, here is all you can salvage of your place, as by rights it would be, all the joy you can snatch from the jeerers, from the Prince, from Lady Nyma and the Knights of Caeluvm…

And from the slave, the foundling, the hateful creature…

But Mumas, I have wished you well, only that.

That night I asked myself, is there any hopeful wish, is there any kindness towards others, of such purity to stop us hurting them?





Our road curved round the flank of the terrible mountain. Boulders sat here on earth where they’d fallen, house-sized, sconced and beaked, many…rude carvings of giants’ heads spat so-formed, from the mouth of the Giver. They stared, and we, on this stretch of evil reputation, averted gazes, fingered amulets. We felt their anger shiver underfoot, these wardens of Lotoq. We intruded at a helpless pace, worming forward stop-start as an army half on foot, half-mounted, drawing its wagons, its scavengers, its peddlers…of trinkets and bodies…must.

But myriads upon myriads of stones too had fallen, of size a slave or prisoner could carry. This is an efficient labor, dozens to lift them onto sledges, better privileged drivers of horses to whip these to a fort site. It is less efficient to chisel planes from the soft blue rock abundant here, and fit them with care, larger to smaller.

And I suppose, not efficient at all, when the rocks are of the god, and granite. The quarriers had an ingenious device, a thing new to my eyes. Wood for my people was a dear commodity, our metal-working land barren of old forest, and so we made machinery from rock and clay, from water, wind, and woven ropes.

Within a natural crevice was laid a chute, lined with glazed tiles. To protect these, women poured a stream from urns at a gentle angle, a trickle to speed one rock to the base, where was placed another. The first or both would split at the impact.

Thankful (half-thankful, it might be) that rain lowered on the seaward horizon only, far behind, we left the dusty track. Going by thoroughfare, it must be dust or mud. Our captain’s messengers who sped in relay along our flanks, did not hail the workers. The workers did not shout or point.

For it was a thing known for days, that we approached the fort. The stonebreakers were weary and we were weary. The way was uphill, the cadence beaten by the drummers unflagging. But this that parted from the track was a true road, paved; the men could fan out, doubling our pace forward.

Circling the slope…a long, long, gentle incline, making west…were earthworks. If the fort were attacked, the general would disperse his legions amidst these defenses; thus the road served to the limit of them.

And we were inside, by right. For having set foot upon his hill we were under the general’s protection now. Yet the earthworks had no archers mounted, no sentries.

Our country was at peace.

Under the wall ahead, we saw the open gate. The captain sent his seal-bearer with two other bearers, one of the Prince’s banner, one the Emperor’s. We drew up our reins, while a ceremonial parley began.





And then a messenger, cantering back aside the ranks, met my eyes—still from a distance, which suggested nothing to me. He carried something bundled under an arm; he steered his steed with his legs, as men who fought with spear and arrow learned. He halted, catching Cuerpha by an ear.

My pony expected well of people, was a contented beast and could not be startled. Only the smoke of fires made him raise his head, keen, more than alarmed.

I asked the man, “How may I serve you, Mero?”

The chance was there, but he did not know our speech. He gave me the bundle, and pointed to the gate.

I allowed my mind to be preoccupied with pace…not eager, not laggardly, with solemnness in my eyes, respect for what they wished me part of. To convey this to them, as I did not know what role I played. I hadn’t unfurled the cloth, banner, flag…garment, possibly. My doubts of this choice were strong by the time I reached the general’s men.

“Charmer,” they said to me.

One said it to me, the others murmuring. Reader, you will not suppose I had been paid a compliment. The name was given to the wandering caster of lots and spells; to many, it meant charlatan.

“Mero,” I said. “How may I serve you?”

“Dress yourself. You are to see the general.”


The general saw me, spoke to me, called me Charmer as well. He wanted the chore of greeting done. “I will give you what you need. You will ask for whatever lacks.”

He bowed, saying so, and left me.

You see that I was fallen between authorities. I did not doubt the Prince himself had directed what his deputy to me instructed. While here, for my new overlord found me, or the need to accommodate me, distasteful, I had none to order me about, no Elberin or Cime.

“Am I…?”

Seated in my chamber, I sorted tiles, and counted of my tablets broken ones. (There was in cracks and chips no omen, none I had been taught. Yet never would I lay such before a poor seeker, who surely would feel himself cursed.)

I had a servant. I apologized to her and began again, apology earning me a hard glance of contempt. “Jute, I don’t know if I am expected to wear this.”

A high-collared cape with a fringed edging had unrolled itself from the bundle. I knew every sort of office-holder in our land wore his or her dignity in cloth, in capes, in sashes, robes. The general had said I would dine on his couch. The great ones reclined at dinners in suirmats only, to comfortably glut, letting juices fall as they would.

She answered, in the accents of Wosogo. “How could I tell you?”





She had been brought to our land captive. Once, the Emperor’s fortunes won smiles from the gods, and his legions swarmed the North, the Prince’s country, seizing plunder and slaves. My servant did not merely wait on me; Jute was to tell me what the Prince’s men said, tell them what fate I read for them.

A thankless and frightening extra duty…I pitied her that.

For these mysteries, the being steeped in them, so much luck of ill and good escaping bounds, must confer a taint. Or I supposed this superstition to account for it…as those who tend the dying are feared for carrying home the sickroom air.

I wanted no mastery over her, but I wished to make her useful. “Jute, what have you seen of custom at table, in this house?”

Would she lie?

In an army stronghold, few who serve or fetch are not soldiers of low rank. I expected this woman had done every chore, at every beck and call, and could answer me.

“I do not own a suirmat. I would need to have one one of the general’s retainers, perhaps. Elsewise, I may enter his hall…to be stared at no doubt, wearing this cape they have given me. If I am wrong, you will tell me, but I know a little of banqueting. Now, I suspect I am a novelty to these men, that I unnerve them a bit. They may laugh. I forgive laughter. You see I have no great status in the world…I am not much more than the charmer they call me.”

All this I told her, even-voiced and eyes on my work.

“Do you bid me bring you the suirmat?”

Canny, these northern people. I must show myself good as my word. “Please do.”

She gave another of her angry looks—for the “please”.

Alone, I weighed temptation. I might cast my own fortune. I could see something honorable in this, if I were pledged to brutal truth. I would sow mayhem, play havoc with happy lives, while holding myself immune. I drew to center before me one of the broken tablets. I etched on it a simple wheel of life.

I laid out tiles, and turned that of the hub.

It was not the Raven. It was the Counsellor.

“Giver, may I not earn your favor? You play your jokes on the Prince, as on the Emperor. Yes, I think it. You will correct my error, Aantahah, Salo-Lotoq. This people, or this place, for Alëenon is a strange word to me…their own prince will displace ours, and I am to be the instrument of his undoing. I, whom he believes his charm. You will correct my error, Aantahah, Salo-Lotoq.”

I turned the tile for the First Hour of the Sun.

It was Raven. It could not be, of course, though the god had smiled this mystery upon me. For the First Hour of the Sun was the birth sign, and here I sat, born well living and not dead.





But the thought came.

As it does, when one feels put in the wrong. That I would fix this, I would sweep them all into their pouch, my tiles. Break the already broken tablet…that in false humility I ought not to have used!

Stomp my foot on it perhaps.

Cast a corrected fortune, then, cease with the striking of attitudes. For…I had been about to tell myself…to misvalue the Giver’s favored one, is to misvalue the Giver and his Gifts.

Temper ebbed, as another thought spoke. Weather, the roll of the seasons, was our taskmaster in this enterprise. Wosogo had warned me. For all the thousand things I was charged to prescribe upon, the time was short.

I saw it must be the Wheel of Life for each and every soul, from the personal slaves of the officers, to the Prince himself (and even this notion whispered another, that distracted me…) I might do twenty, I might do thirty a day. I might cast from the rising to the setting of the sun. For a month or two…and every morning in frost, and every north wind, blowing to our fleet’s ruin when asea, would worry and harry.

However it tired me, I must will this on myself, to show the same smile to everyone. To put myself in his shoes, each…for how would it be if the Charmer, that being of mystery and power, yawned at them and sighed? And mumbled, and tossed the tiles, bored with it all? Always there were soldiers who made their faces brave, but nursed terror in their hearts.

A thousand trials…and would the Raven not come up once, many times, in the First Hour of the Sun? I had twenty-eight, I drew ten for this game. Every third toss might have him; every tenth of these, the Raven there. I, with my wish to bedazzle, had ignored this simplest of games…little prestidigitator of complications, I had been. Fooling myself.

I thought of the other pouch in my basket, the War-Maker’s Game. Of what Stol had told me, its masters dreaming the math of it, trance-walking their lives, while in their heads each piece was moved to all possible places on the board, a layer in a stack four hundred high…

No, I thought. Four hundred times some number I could not guess.

My own games were not pure, in such rules of mathematics. The mechanical intervened…the Raven need not come up at all. I could finger the impurities of the tiles, bubbles of glaze, chipped edges. I could cheat, skirt my disquietude, disappoint Lotoq. He would find me coward, lacking faith in him, a worse fault than dishonesty. He would take his hand from me, and my enemies would know it.

Who were they, my enemies?

Even Jute…bitter against us all, against anyone she served. What feeling must assail her, mocked by this cracked mirror of her own fate, this freed slave who rose in the world, made instrument to her further degradation?

Elberin, on small provocation. He had made me, and he would see me unmade.





Jealousy. If I had courage, and would only lay the tiles and turn them, I would find it there, in the sixth hour, where fortunes have climbed their highest. All after is decline.

“Salo-Lotoq, forgive me. Make me strong tomorrow.”

“Atu. Marei capeddre’yhce.”

Here was another servant, humble…offering in response to mine that, by our daily prayer, she begged the god accept of her…and with a fleece draped over her arm. I was mildly irritated. With such unwonted fits, I ought to fast through the general’s meal, take a link of my gold to Lotoq’s temple.

“There is, dear,” I said to her, “a temple dedicated to the Giver nearby?”

Like so many, she took this friendly address, my unsurprise at her, for dispositions of holiness. She made the sign of piety, and knelt.

“There is a way to it. Only his priests go.”

“I may go.”

I told myself I might not. I had been thinking a thought, and she had interrupted me. Jute returned, with my dinner garment, and set up a great scolding of this woman. I thus caught her name—Dessa Lom. I caught also some sense that her place was in the kitchens; she was not (somewhat relieving to my embarrassment) another assigned to tend me, but to speak to me had dared transgress.

“Dessa Lom, remain. This is a matter of holy things, Jute. You may stay or go.”

Jute, flushing, left at once.

Now, on her knees the while, Dessa crept nearer. She dropped the fleece, to reveal a wonderful crafting in beads, in bright-hued thread, in the crested heads of an iridescent lizard, the sahreik, which we dried in the sun to make brilliant, and that were coveted against death on the road…all these things, and more my glance alone would not discover, woven in an old woman’s tapestry. Matriarchs of families too poor to possess gold, gathered stones and shells and shaped them, and sewed them, with many things of beauty given our earth by the gods, into these such hangings, these made to show the designs of the clan.

“My brother carried this, not knowing, and was told by a woman there, Larsa, Lom had named you. It was in that house a fear to speak of, and he was turned away from the master. You see, we had seen ravens three days, and at last gave them corn, and they flew.”

This brother had had no difficulty pursing me; the army, as I have mentioned, crossed our land with a great noise, leaving hardship in its wake.

“The fortune I cast for Lom was that he would receive a legacy. Was it your mother? We will pray then, together, for her soul’s comfort. If the god counsels me that your need is greater…”

“Oh! I pray he does not!”

I saw then, that for Dessa Lom, the wealth in this tapestry portended harm and death. Her family treasure could not be cured of omen, were I to say to her, keep it. She would find this, sense in this, wrong.

I confess it, friends, I’d had this small ruse in mind…and would on her devout heart have played. I would have her suppose Lotoq refused me this kindness.

I felt now it would be many days before I tried his patience again.





On the general’s dining porch, shuttered and hung with fleeces, hot–centered and smoky as would my master’s be…

As would be at Cime’s house. I entered the room lonely, being no one’s friend in this place, my servant Jute fading from me at the door. The general pulled flesh from a bird and glanced up at me. Nothing else. I ventured seating myself on his couch. Both I and my basket, that I’d brought foreseeing just this, unhappy meeting of formalities which the military man would not forgo, and the embarrassment I made to him.

I was given wine and a bird of my own, and bread. The bird had, filling its cavity, the spiced meat of some other creature, of reptilian flavor. (But in our land we ate snake quite often.) A fair repast. I wondered if I would have a loaf, or any small thing for comfort, left me in my room.

No, no one here would hail me as guest, rise to his feet at seeing me. A courtier’s hand was wanted, and such persons are not found at border forts.

What is this creature’s rank? What does one call it? They shied. For soldierly reasons, they disliked this in themselves; for shyness and pride at odds, they felt irritated…and knowing I had the Prince’s favor, constrained also to force such thoughts away. They chewed their meal with a rare concentration and wished the evening done.

I did as well. And hid my smile, that I might issue imperious orders, tell great falsehoods of invented titles and proprieties. Say I must have sweets and music. The Prince could not well have instructed otherwise…than that I was to be accommodated, allowed to do my work, a thing only I understood.

When I’d eaten; when the servant with the cloth had come, and I had cleaned my fingers, I moved from the couch to the steps below the brazier. I began idling with my tablets and tiles.

This drew every eye.

“My general.”

I did not feel nervous, though never had I spoken so to one of the great ones. He left his seat and came to me. It was for knowing no name to answer. And that he could not guess what I wanted, wanted no talk with me aloud, for his officers and retainers to hear his ignorance.

“My general, how do you propose to keep a record of all that is done, and all that remains to be done?”

Silence. “The word of my men.”

“But…the word of a horse? A quiver of arrows?”

Silence again. “Then, is it a scribe you need?”

“Yes. And a couch and low table. And, how do you suppose? Let us begin with twenty, each man, his weapon.”

“They are not mine to command.”

“No, general. As the Prince would have you do, you must do. But they are not mine.”





He did not have the luxury of expressing himself in a language untranslatable to me. He shouted up an adjutant, told him to have taken down what I had just said.

And avoiding any more of me, left altogether.

To the adjutant I repeated myself, willing to suppose I might repeat again these demands to a scribe. With luck, a scribe of my own—for this time.


His chief trouble, the general had solved, by making of his dining chamber my staging area. We need share meals no more. The Prince’s captain came next morning first, in company with my friend, the intendance officer.

“Habba,” he said to me.

My eyes might have gone dismayed. How badly, misunderstanding him so, had I insulted him? But he laughed, elbowed the captain’s ribs, always (and through our years together), willing to believe me a jester.

“Yes, we were getting somewhere…”

Jute interrupted me to say a quelling thing. She drew herself up, and cupped her right wrist in her left hand. The sleeve of her tunic fell to the elbow.

The men looked wary.

“Jute, give me their names.”

Depwoto, she told me. A light hand, flung at the captain. Egdoah. A scornful half-lift of it towards my friend. Egdoah also to be my scribe. Surely not, I said to Jute. As I could not help it, I stared at her forearm, that bore some sign troubling to her countrymen. A spot below the wrist had none of the strange, pale hair, seemed plucked clean of them, and inside the circle was a raised place—one of those they made, as I have said, from slivers of bone worked under the skin.

A family sign.

She held her arm stiff and let me read it, which I could not.

“Yes, he wishes this himself. You have a champion. He will like to stay by your side, and you will teach him this language.”

Great disdain for ours. As well for my curiosity, and for Egdoah, whose championing, for my part, I learned of with gratitude. He might feel nothing of the kind. Jute left my couch to sit on the steps with her back to us all.

“Egdoah. What will you like to call me?” I pointed to him, and to myself, and made my words distinct. I watched him pass with Depwoto some questioning remark.

Jute spoke up. “Nur-elom.”

“Nur-elom.” Egdoah said, in innocence.

She meant to name me this for insult. I was the little scion of the slave Lom…but scion only grammatically. I began to wonder, given such clues, if Jute were not herself of some grand lineage.





“Yes, call me that. Depwoto.”

I patted the couch. He sat next me with a simplicity that made me think better of his kind. Whom had I met in this place unbeset by that crippling haughtiness that troubled the general and Jute? Lom’s kind sister Dessa; the northerners Depwoto and Egdoah.

I thought, in that very minute, of a refinement to my art.

The tablets were too breakable. Each man would like something, though, some charm to finger and remind himself he was favored, that he brought no curse to the great undertaking…

And the answer, as the god had put Dessa in my mind, was the legacy. I bade Jute fetch it. “You know well what I mean,” I said to her. “You will please make haste, come again to your duties at once.”

I believed I saw what balked her, and what meekened her that day (poor woman, the indulgences of her life no richer than this). It was that she had grown used to her privacy; that words she spoke inside herself were such the men surrounding her, ordering her about, could not understand, so doubly cached away.

She could carry her contempt as a cage round her heart…

But here were two who’d discovered news of her. Of Jute, daughter of a house…a house of kings, perhaps…

Daughter long missing.

Two who, meaning no great harm, would tell this to their comrades—a curiosity, a phenomenon.

There were so many things you could not help.

I etched my wheel on the first tablet. I placed the tiles. The captain’s luck was doubtful, although—

“You have a son?”

I glanced at Jute, who stood below the steps, clutching the tapestry.

“Two sons.”

“The heritage of one will prosper. You are to travel and not return.”

A smile, at Jute’s translation, came slowly over his face. She told me he wished to know if there were any glory in his death. The sixth hour’s tile was the cat. It was quite fair for me to interpret this as success, as quarry bagged. I told Depwoto…I did not wish to look away from his eyes…yes, there is glory in it.

And he rose, and I used my etching flint to cut the thread, that bound a shining black stone with white specks.





Of what I learned from this gigantic enterprise, as it proved (as you may well have suspected it must), I will go into, only so far as such lessons came to benefit my understanding.

You know, Reader, that from thinking myself to be one sort of creature—

(Myself to the world, I say…as I dare to suppose the Holiest, the God of All Gifts and All Deaths, crafts us each sovereign, having each a particle within of that All, thus when for me, or for you, the pattern locks, and our sixth hour arrives, we may ourselves have become god…or yet be shrunk lowlier than a grain of sand…)

To discover myself another, regarded powerful; and of powers in their way unlimited. I said that I might, given vanity and recklessness—Lotoq forbid me the curse!—have demanded indulgences. I might use fire and music to bewitch and terrorize.

But the only thing I have ever wanted was my own life.

If you care to live, of course you do not make of yourself an envied obstacle. The closest counsellor to the Prince was Wosogo. Wosogo, cautious and wise, had no rival, none to my knowledge…and I would not desire his place. The wealthiest man in our land was a brother to the Emperor, who stood at the imperial elbow, winning for his timely praises, small gifts. Only a patch of land, a bit of coast barely arable; only a detachment of knights to protect it.

The Emperor made errors; his brother did not.

And the wealthiest man in our land had no ambition to take his brother’s place.

Cime, on one of our rides, had spoken of this brother, a visitor sometimes to the House of Delia, which is to say the quarter in which all of this lineage lived. The mother of Lord Teomas, the second wife of the last Emperor before my time, had been aunt to Lady Nyma.

Cime’s teaching was for Mumas to hear; myself wanted, for my ignorance, to pose useful questions.

“So bearing the weight of office on one’s shoulders,” I said, “is an honor, but a bond. Whereas…”

“Yes, just that. When cannot Teomas make free use of his brother’s house, and stable, and fleet? Of all he desires. A day ends, another begins, Foundling. And all a man has feasted on, all the music he has heard yesterday, he will never enjoy better.”

“If Lord Teomas had the wish, besides those things, to hold his brother’s title and seat, while enjoying them?”

Cime laughed and made some remark to draw Mumas into our talk.


And on a winter morning, making comfort as I could…chilled and damp under a tautened skin arranged for a roof of sorts, one of many roped across the high deck, giving shelter to our traveling company…I recalled that I had laughed, myself.





I was liked by Cime, disliked by Mumas; but Mumas, his love or hate, I scorned.

I would not have told you so, Reader, had we spoken then. I rode at my master’s side in good cheer. I was well housed, protected by an officer of state; I was servant to the great Houses of Decima and Treiva, dressed in new clothes and seated on my pony…where the least of our people had no mount and made their way by the labor of their feet.

I was proud. I was blind to this pride, and called myself humble. I aligned my thoughts with what I believed to be Cime’s. Thus, as I sat then, and as I sit now, so far from my youth, and my place of birth, I impart to you this first lesson. We are not well with the will of the gods; never, having not their eyes to see, but least when we are certain of it.


The work I had to do could not be finished. Not before our setting sail became urgent, no more to be postponed. The plain we crossed, from the general’s outpost at the foot of the mountain, to the fingering ridges that brought us to the sea, were scenes that weighed on me; unfamiliar, I need not say. We rode four days, the land flat and climbing. We camped two, above a river.

A steep way dropped here, of bare rock implacable, and a chain of soldiers was set filling skins, passing them up hand to hand. For neither under sail, nor for our remaining days crossing this desolate plain, would we come by water easily. Their gloved hands were encrystalized in ice, as was the fur trim of their boots, when the lowest men came again to the top.

Beyond this river, gazing back the way we’d come, I could see a plateau of black mud…or in appearance more a heavy sand, that sparkled. From this height and distance the rectangles of roofs, the path of streets between, seemed plainly to assert themselves. I had never wished to know it. I had never thought to trade the legend of the buried city, that the child I’d been, found thrilling, even magical, for truth in its pitiful starkness. There below lay the great tomb. There, the people of the city, posed as death had found them.

No one named this city any longer.

I had time then, and I studied it. I felt their wish to be named, to be risen from burial, allowed a fresh chance to appease Lotoq—and their doom stayed with me. We reached a harbor town. This was called Sianka. The Prince had furnished himself with translators other than those slaves taken with Jute. The Siankans said nothing I, or the soldiers, could understand. They lived, a sturdy people, terse of speech regardless, suspicious as to the looks they gave, behind a seawall.

They had hammered a gangway, years of pounding rock on rock, making of a natural cliff this protector. Tunnels, they had hammered too, traversing from the path to the village…only stone huts thatched in dried seaweed. The Siankans were poor in sheep, horses unknown to them.

But the sea they knew.

The Prince bought dried fish, and a fermented broth of fish. A type of oil that burned well in lamps, and thickened in the cold air, making sails stronger against the wind, ships faster.





The Prince and his knights, and a woman, her servants…

Indeed his wife, eager, I had been told, for battle…had a lighter craft of their own. This single-masted ship gave its commander some pains, to keep it from rocking in the wake of our larger vessels; to keep it from skimming off course. The winds on this sea, that to the Siankans was named the Zablenen, seemed relentless, never ceasing.

Two of our own sheep, skinned, as the Siankan rite did not forbid it, the brains out—for these were of value, pickled in wine—had been thrown to the waves from a Siankan tower (a sort of crow’s nest hewed from rock).

I watched, for as I played priest to the Prince’s army, this was my dignitary’s role. I stood with the Siankan priest, and neither of us could speak to the other. I shivered to see a monster of the Zablenen—a name, I dared suppose, of the god himself, who ruled these waters—come at his bidding, its white belly thrashing under grey waters, its maw thrusting, toothed extravagantly…

Fearsome meshing rows of teeth…the snout reddened with blood…

The creatures, the poor sheep, were dead, for what we’d done to them.

I could not swear this was true. I had had nothing in my life to do with butchery, or with physic, and wondered now for the first time, what is that threshold? What proof life has flown?

I therefore begged, in my own speech, but aloud for the benefit of my comrade, that Zablenen forgive me…first, that I knew not his proper name, nor whether I erred in addressing him at all; again, I prayed that he forgive us, our mixed party, of neighbors to his worshipers, and strangers; our clumsiness in this sacrifice, our ignorance of his will. That he withhold not from us his hand, in calming the waters of our crossing.

The waters showed no sign of calming. I was led to one of the transport ships.

It was of this construction. Two masts equally placed, if one took the bulk of the vessel as its useful whole, the bow quite long and thin, upcurving to a carven shape like that of a snail’s shell. This I did not imagine it to represent, as men and beasts at work upon some enterprise decorated both sides, shrinking into the infinite. The sleeping deck sat highest, tented from a constant spray by hides, closed by a few measures of planking. It was the place I must live for some weeks.

On the deck below was arrayed cargo in barrels, the weight made perfect, none more on the left than on the right. Lowest, and always airing freely, for the center was laid across with the split trunks of great trees, was the horse deck. The sides of this were raised and floored for the rowers, and also cargo was distributed here, the heavy engines of war.

Asea, she sat somewhat above the oars, and the men used to sailing engaged in marvelous acrobatics, without a care, skipping across logs from one side to the other. In my house, as it were, that space of my own partitioned by hanging skins, I had for company Jute and Egdoah. Egdoah and I worked daily on my learning his language, his learning mine.





We took our lessons together from a map.

A map must be no great marvel to my worldly readers, who like the northerners, have bent no doubt, and plotted, over such scrolls of woven cloth, painted with the shapes of nations and the names of seas, islands known inhabited, others barren, where no fresh water may be had. And coves where ships anchor safe; cities, of trading peoples giving welcome for gold, or of warlike peoples seizing the unwary adrift, to sell them: voyagers, ships, and all.

I had never seen a map…in my education I’d had no cause. Yes, Cime himself had pictured for me roadways, in dirt, crouching with his knife. I’d seen primitive representations of shrines on crossroad stones. But this quite astounded me, so unthought of, and so obvious a thing, that landmarks could prove the breadth of a shoreline, that by formula one could draw out a god’s-eye view of one’s own country.

Jute’s mind had altered, for finding herself included in the adventure.

She was no longer the general’s property, in a practical sense that Lady Nyma’s wisdom would recognize—for he had not sailed with us. The Emperor’s laws, upon the life of Jute, could never again bear sovereign. But a ship at sea is a precarious place to have choice at one’s disposal.

I was her only friend to rely on for simple protection.

The sea was not marked on the map as Zablenen, nor whatever my own people might have called it, the map being Depwoto’s from the Prince…

The sea was not marked at all, by lettering, but by signs like the symbols of my tiles. Only these made no depiction of a bird’s wings, or the undulation of a wave; they were only dots and lines. Egdoah shrugged, and said he did not read these runes. Princes and wise men used them, and could tell their meaning.

“But, you, Jute?”

“No, why would they have taught me?”

I pressed this near-admission. “Our written signs are not thought too high for even a slave. You have been helping me set down Egdoah’s words.”

She muttered, and with my ear tuned to the northern speech, I felt she had called ours a pig’s tongue. Perhaps not. Mild-faced, I turned to Egdoah, and said, “So?”

The syllable meant why. The rest I could not conceive, but I traced a finger straight across the Zablenen, a long, narrow body of water, between island-studded coasts. There were monsters, certainly, and in these depths they might reign. But Egdoah, understanding, said another thing.

“Pirates,” Jute told me.

And then, she made a gesture. “From the south. There is a great city not on this map, a great island, but very near the shore, bridged by land when the tide is low. And that country is feared by everyone…their ships are fast, faster and far more seaworthy than this.”





If I peered from under my ceiling, I saw only the swell, its rushing lacework of white foam. And sometimes failed to see forewarning, of the slap of saltwater in my eyes. Also a dizziness would upset my stomach, and only the sinking back into my little darkness restored equilibrium. But I made it one of my tasks, to stand and acclimate my feet…

For one thing, the view opposite held interest.

Our way was not straight, but we followed the coast, keeping both in sight of it and well out, for (as Egdoah had me to understand) currents made by the jutting rocks and the little coves between, and by the sea-devils whose cities were on the ocean bed, had strength to draw even a large ship abeam, her rowers and sails helpless to right her.

Having the coast within reach was in the Prince’s scheme; he in name admiral of this fleet…and nor was he virgin to such farings. We rocked upon a sea by which his legions had arrived at the great city of Hezhnia, a place far east from Monsecchers.

Never until my lessons known to me. The Hezhnians were another sort of people, Egdoah said. They had been conquered and gave tribute to the Emperor. They had wide beaches of sand; their harbor on the map curved like an implement our orchard-keepers used to snap twigs hung with fruit. My knowledge of things pictured it so, and I gave the name to Egdoah.

“Cimbel. There is a bird…that lives only among the gods, above the great mountain Ami, that dwarfs Lotoq. But Ami is quiet and kind, as no human sets foot there. We have a story how this came to be.”

I spoke too much, too quickly, as I would. But these two sayings, there is a bird, we have a story, were not difficult, given him at an easy pace. The northerners’ word for bird was juta, and so it seemed to me I had got the meaning of my servant’s name. You will know, Reader, that this pleased her ill.

“And what do you say for moon, Egdoah? You’ve told me, and I can’t remember.”

I made a gesture near my ear, two fingers flitting away, not unlike a bird, and this he understood.

Chos was the name, and he bowed his head, saying so once more.

“And is Chos a powerful or a vengeful god?” I asked Jute.

“You will never make a journey in your life if Chos despises you.”

Make, at all, or succeed at…I could not pursue this…I had promised Egdoah a story.

“The moon, Egdoah, once always showed his face, as does the sun. In a very green land, where the night was nearly as the day, lived a princess, whose name was Escmar, who had a gift from her grandmother…”

From my basket, while I held up a finger asking Egdoah’s patience; that also of Jute, and one of the young soldiers who had come to give his offering, I drew forth an orb of milky stone, which as I spun it for them showed its blues and yellows.

It was a luck totem. One made these…Elberin had taught me how. I’d spent hours happy enough wading in streambeds, searching out this soft rock that betrayed its translucence. From coarse stone a rounded bowl must be chiseled, smoothed, the perfection a matter of eye.





My eye was good in such finenesses, and my totems, turned and turned, and polished in sand, were round as the moon. “A gift like this,” I told them. “But mine is a poor thing, and grants me only hints. The grandmother of Escmar was a Seeress of the ancients, and said spells over hers…it had a power of wishing, and the girl, they say, lived in the forest alone. She was heedless of any hardship, for she need only wish into being those things she wanted.”

My northern friend sat absorbed. And I, not heedless, but teaching myself at every moment, saw that a comradeship could grow between strangers in this way. The soldier met Egdoah’s eye…his face said, yes, I know that, or, ah, wait and see. Even Jute took the fate of Escmar with a generous suspension of scorn, her smile merely arch.

A prince—a Hezhnian or Siankan, I might suppose, for having learned of them (though the Siankans seemed ruled by rough chieftains)—had set off to hunt on the Island of Birds, but his ship was blown to that where Escmar lived.

I won’t trouble my reader with their adventures. On a sea voyage, waiting dinner, such long tales don’t come amiss…

Suffice it say, Escmar grew angered at length, for she’d pledged herself, and for her prince’s admiration had wished a bounty of game teem her forest, and every day he hunted, and put the marriage off, and would not carry her home on his boat, to meet his father the King. She wished herself into a bird of surpassing loveliness. And in the wanton way of the ancients, she led her love a chase to a great waterfall, and there, leaping to net her, he plunged to his death.

She wished herself a woman again, and said, over her totem, “Now restore him.”

“Ha,” said Jute. “And he lay dead.”

“But,” Egdoah said, with a worried face.

Well, I hoped I had not erred, trodden on a word forbidden. I recalled I had no reason to tell this story, only I had wanted to explain why a moon-shaped implement was called for a bird. “No, friend, there is redemption.”

The soldier said: “She ran mad over all the world. She flew into the face of the sun, and the plumes of her tail caught fire. And then, blinded by the smoke, she crashed into the face of the moon. And then…”

This, while animated, was all too speedy for Egdoah’s grasping. Jute pushed in and spoke in a slow, condescending way—for after all, she spoke to him in his own language. What my pride would have borne with a grudge, Egdoah took as rare honor. Here the famous touch that confers virtue, that royal persons of high houses are gifted to bestow; the healing touch, as the northerners were said to avow…an attention uplifting to their poor hearts. Egdoah with downcast eyes thanked her, and called her Princess. I believe so.

Ami, the father of all gods, in wrath cast Escmar into the sea, and the waters doused her flames. The moon, so wounded, was not looked for to live. That, to the people in those times, seemed unendurable, their nights forever dark. A terrible age of cold and famine passed over the land. The people threw their dead into the sea, and prayed the god surrender up to them Escmar.

Among the dead Escmar met her grandmother.

“If it is the will of the people, then send me to them! Why should I live? I do not wish it.”

These words Jute spoke as though they were her own.






(more to come)



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