IX
A Cluster of Collisions

Taláni waited in the meadow where his men had outlined a challenge ring in white stones. He had already chosen a hillock to station himself, higher ground so that Wolkári and his entourage would have to crawl up to him to meet.

He stood naked with arms out as several eunuchs finished painting his body, all yellow-white with red hands up to his elbows and red head down to his shoulders.

Crowds had already begun to gather, keeping their distance from Taláni’s side of the ring. They brought drums and bells and set up tents to shade themselves.

Good. They came for an event. They don’t know what is coming, but they already want to be a part of it.

Wolkári’s attendants arrived, bearing their king on a wicker throne that they set down on the low end of the meadow. He stood and shouted up to Taláni with cupped hands, “Did you think I would crawl up to you, kinsman-brother? This is my valley and you must do the challenging!”

Taláni waited for the last stroke of paint to be applied then girded himself in a soldier’s skirt and walked down alone to meet Wolkári. “Do you concede?”

“Certainly not. You may withdraw your challenge now without conceding. Forget this, this wastefulness, and I will send you home in full honor, laden with gifts.”

“Do you concede?” Taláni gestured to the crowds. “Admit your scheme. Surrender your throne, shave yourself, and grovel at my feet. By the spirits, I may let you live.”

Wolkári laughed. “I was told you didn’t have a sense of humor.” He turned his head and spat on the ground. “Go home, and I will let you live.”

Taláni made no answer.

“Curse you woodlanders and your single-mindedness! Any reasonable person would take payment and be on their way. But you are not reasonable, are you? Not by any definition.”

Taláni waited to let the elder ruler squirm. “Three-in-battle,” he said finally. “The old way: Four rounds, you and I last. Survivors remain on the field.”

“Stubborn goat! I have mages and so do you. We can inquire of the spirits without killing each other.”

“Knives for the last round.”

“See, you do have a sense of humor. It is subtle and very dark! Easy to miss.” Wolkári scoffed and turned to his attendants. “You see how I tried — I tried! You can’t reason with someone whose kidneys are made of flint. As you say, then: Clubs, axes, spears, knives. We will call you down when we are ready.”

From his hilltop, Taláni evaluated the first-round champions. His choice was a lanky fellow, lithe and strong like a willow branch. He chose a long flared club with notched teeth along its length, swinging it in tight circles, shifting from hand to hand.

Long arms, fluid movements. Such fine technique! A worthy sacrifice.

His opponent, a squat man, nearly as wide as he was tall, scooped a handful of dirt and rubbed it between his palms then clapped it off against his shoulders in a cloud of dust. He chose a thick club with a sharp knob at the end, lashing it into his grip with a leather cord.

A shame to waste him here and not on a real battlefield. Also a worthy sacrifice.

The crowd pulsated with conversation, drums, and horns until Taláni stepped into the ring to open the first round with a speech. “I charge your ruler with assassination. The penalty is death. Let the spirits decide.”

The crowd booed as he ceded the ring to Wolkári. “Kinsmen-brothers! Yes, kinsmen-brothers. There is only one here with the right to call you that. I have protected you from every danger and I will protect you from this heathen woodlander.”

The crowd cheered and the drums thundered out. He went on touting his accomplishments for a while longer. Too long. Finally, he concluded: “His charge is baseless. His way is madness. Soon this absurd spectacle will be over and we will hold a marvelous festival in honor of spirits’ justice and compassion!”

More cheering, louder than before.

With a long blast from a ram’s horn, the first round began. Wolkári’s man stepped into the ring, facing his opponent squarely, club out to the side. Taláni’s man stood on the balls of his feet, weapon held high and out front, leading with his right side, body loose.

The shorter warrior lunged, and Taláni’s man leaned back to parry. With a full-weight swing, the lowlander sent his opponent’s club spinning, then followed through with a back-handed smash across the jaw. A kick to the midsection sent Taláni’s man into the dirt.

The squat lowlander descended on one knee as he dealt a killing blow, then leaped up, club overhead.

He understands: It’s not enough to kill. The people must enjoy the spectacle.

Wolkári opened the second round. As Taláni’s men dragged their defeated warrior’s body from the ring, Wolkári gave his champion a flamboyant embrace, raising his club arm to raucous cheering. “Our warriors are better here because we are better. We fight for peace. War is never our aim — but if anyone brings it to us, they will find us ready!”

Taláni entered the ring to loud jeering.

Wolkári raised his hands to quiet them. “No! Let him speak!”

Taláni held out his hands, palms up. “Let the spirits decide.” As he left the ring, he noticed Wolkári checking the tree line beyond the circle. No doubt there were archers stationed there. He would do the same in Wolkári’s place.

The squat warrior from the first round entered the ring again. He riled up the crowd as Wolkári’s attendants parted to let the second champion through, a thick warrior, taller than everyone around him by two full heads or more, who carried a massive flint axe with a long yew handle. The crowd began to chant, “Gi-ant, gi-ant!” The giant twirled his axe to their delight.

Taláni’s second warrior entered the ring alone, shoulders flexing, grim expression highlighting the long scar that ran down his cheek.

The horn blared and the scar-faced woodlander sprinted at the Giant, who swung, barely missing the man’s head. The crowd gasped. Spinning, Taláni’s champion planted his axe in the Giant’s thigh. The big man yowled and reeled backward, landing like a felled tree.

Taláni’s champion never stopped moving, whirling like a flame. He pivoted toward the squat club-wielding lowlander, swung his axe, failed to connect, dove forward, and somersaulted onto all fours to face the Giant, who was now limping back into the fight, hacking wildly.

Taláni watched with approval. He had taught his warriors a new way of fighting, fluid and elusive, dance-like. Not everyone took to it as well as this warrior had.

While the scar-faced warrior dodged the Giant, the other man slipped around behind and landed his club solidly at the junction of shoulder and neck. Arm dangling, face contorted in pain, Taláni’s champion stumbled right into the stroke of the Giant’s axe, which landed on his throat.

Wolkári leaped to his feet and whipped the crowd into a frenzy.

Taláni grunted and signaled some eunuchs to retrieve their fallen champion.

Now Wolkári thinks he can be rid of me and appear magnanimous in the process — even better than an assassination. Next, three against one, and in the end, he will have a small army to oppose me. His overconfidence is to my advantage. Everything proceeds as my mother foresaw.

Kaléntar paced nearby. “You see how he uses the crowd? Just like the ruler of Lolo.”

Taláni smiled. “He will fall, just like Lolo.” He entered the ring, stood for a moment to endure the noise of the crowd without speaking, and returned to his seat.

Wolkári waved his champions into the ring, also foregoing his right to a speech. The squat warrior and the Giant entered first, followed by a new man carrying a long spear.

Taláni recognized him as a soldier that had gone missing right around the time of the assassination — a surprise.

Well played old man! You may have been handed your position by birth, but you have had to learn a few tricks to keep it, haven’t you?

“Lesmári!” Kaléntar hissed. “So he was the traitor all along.”

Taláni held his composure. “No matter, kinsman-brother. The spirits have rendered judgment. All that remains is to carry it out.”

Meanwhile, Lesmári lifted the flap of his skirt and waggled his backside at them. The crowd swelled with laughter and jeering.

Kaléntar leaped to his feet, peeling his vest and outer skirt as he stormed toward the ring. He snatched the spear from the designated champion and stepped into the ring — another surprise.

This, my mother did not foresee, or if she did, she kept it from me.

Doubt crept in, but Taláni was careful to show no sign of surprise or displeasure. The lot was cast, and there was no changing it now. Kaléntar had crossed the line of stones. If it was a mistake, it was already made.

“Les-trelátha-las-taláni!” Kaléntar held his spear aloft as the drums rang out and the crowd taunted him.

Lesmári shifted on his feet, held his spear with both hands, ready to jab if approached. Instead, Kaléntar leaned back and heaved his spear across the ring. The point drove deep into Lesmári’s gut. He grasped the shaft, gasped, and fell over, gurgling blood.

Kaléntar kneeled, hands out to his sides in surrender as Wolkári shouted from the sidelines for his champions to spare his life, to show mercy for the people. If they heard him, they didn’t listen, first bashing him from one side and then the other. He fell forward, cheek against the dusty ground.

Taláni rushed into the ring. He had not planned to kill any of Wolkári’s warriors until the final round, but now Kaléntar forced him to improvise.

Was this the spirit’s plan all along? It must be, because it happened.

Reaching his fallen comrade, Taláni rolled him on his back, happy to find him not yet dead. He leaned in face-to-face and placed a knife in the older man’s hands. “Go to the earth, stay in the earth,” they said together.

With Taláni’s help, Kaléntar plunged the blade deep into his own midsection. His body tensed, his eyes fluttered, and he was still.

Taláni quickly flayed open his gut, cut off a piece of liver, and slurped it down.

Gasps and moans shuddered through the crowd.

Now they will know the ways of blood, not second-hand but by experience!

His hand grappled deep into the cavity of Kaléntar’s belly, scooping out some bloody pulp, which he smeared over the red paint on his arms. Reaching in again, he anointed his entire head, from forehead to throat. He rose, dripping with power.

The noise of the crowd became shocked silence.

Wolkári stood in the ring, sputtering at him. “Do you cede? The spirits will not reward an abomination!”

The crowd murmured.

In reply, Taláni grinned wide, showing Wolkári his teeth.

Wolkári spat and showed Taláni the assassin’s knife in his belt, which he drew out with a dramatic flourish. “You say the spirits will judge? Ha! They already have. The one in this blade still thirsts for your blood, and I will make sure it is filled.” His two remaining champions joined him.

Taláni sucked some of Kaléntar’s blood from the back of his hand.

Thank you for the gift, kinsman-brother. Now we will take them — together.

He threw the knife he had used to disembowel his friend out of the ring.

Wolkári said, “If you face us unarmed, that is your choice!”

“All of this was your choice, from the start. But I am not unarmed.” Taláni pointed at him. “That is my knife, and I will have it back.”

The horn blared and Wolkári stepped into a defensive posture while his champions rushed forward. The Giant arrived first, swinging his ax. Taláni ducked under, punched the big man in the ribs, and danced around the squat man’s club, whirling, twisting, rolling.

This was just the body. He was aiming for the serpent’s head. Wolkári slashed at the air ineffectually. He looked to the tree line again, nervously.

Taláni bore down on him.

Ah, now you see, kinsman-brother! No one is coming to your aid. I have survived seventeen challenges without a single wound. I am a blood-mage, a spirit-in-flesh, a hero from ancient days, reborn. None of your blows will land. The way of blood that you dismiss as an abomination, as propaganda, is a living being and I am its most powerful limb, coming to strike you and every infidel who stands behind.

Wolkári slashed again and again, but Taláni was never where the impotent lowlander was trying to cut. Dodging, swirling, ducking, he presented himself to his opponent as though a vapor, or the smoke that billowed from the Lord of Dying Things.

He had always expected to enjoy this part — when was he ever so much himself as in the challenge ring? — but even so, he was thrilled to inhabit the moment. He became the motion, the noise, the smell of dust and sweat. His motions blurred together in his mind as he took on the shape of the combat, a fiery blossom, ephemeral, tenuous, delicate, at once like a bubble teetering on the edge of collapse and at the same time as firmly fixed in its course as the stars themselves. Every battle had its own shape, its own undulating surface. This one? Exquisite.

Midway through one of his opponents frantic thrusts, Taláni grabbed the knife hand, unlocked the elbow with a precise blow, and without much force at all, turned the strike off in an arc and guided it back upward. As the point of the knife breached Wolkári’s eyeball, he knew the old fool must finally realize: Now there was no one left who could stand in his way.

Atnan grew comfortable in Maur. He and Barlas woke before dawn each morning to catch rabbits with a throwing stick, or harvest dandelion greens, wild radishes, and summer berries. They dried mushrooms and skewered plump locusts on blades of straw to smoke by the fire.

The women, too, spent their time gathering supplies. The pregnant woman — Selolo — traveled with a huge eagle, which never slept nearby but always seemed to appear any time she raised her arm and whistled in a certain way. The eagle could pull rabbits from the field or squab and partridges right from the sky. The woman with the bow — Kilími — was a skilled enough shot to take squirrels from the treetops. The others gathered wild sorrel and chives growing behind the guardhouse and spent time weaving baskets and twine from willow bark.

In no more than a few weeks, they had formed the kernel of a new society, albeit a brittle one with no traditions or kinship to bind it together. They taught the women to say their names in Fyrean, “Atnan” and “Barlas”, not Owl and Bear. They shared stories and sang songs together each morning and evening, but otherwise kept to their work.

For their part, the women were anxious to continue on their journey, to nowhere in particular as long as it was upland. Any mention of Kindhirak stirred up a flurry of angry words in their language punctuated by spitting in the direction of the road.

One morning after unsuccessfully tracking a wild goat, Atnan and Barlas returned to a loud commotion in the camp. A pack of wild boars, one of them as big as an ox, was rooting around, turning over baskets and trampling or scattering whatever fell in their path.

Barlas and Atnan grabbed sharpened sticks and tried to chase them off, but the beasts were not only thick-skinned, they were ferocious and nimble. More than once, Atnan went to poke one of them and another would rush him from the side, jabbing him with tusks or pointed hooves.

Atnan tripped over a scattered rock from their fire pit, hitting the ground hard with both hands, which sent his stick clattering away. A big ugly male, snorting and slobbering, charged at his face. Head covered in his arms, he braced for an impact that never came. Instead, a loud thwip from Kilími’s bow dropped the beast just a few steps from him.

The big one started bashing itself against the door of the guardhouse. They heard Selolo and another woman calling from inside for help, saying they couldn’t hold the door much longer.

The noise brought the others running back to camp. Eventually, there were enough of them to pin the beast snorting and squealing against the side of the guardhouse door. Barlas and several of the women leaned on it with hips and shoulders while avoiding flying hooves and tusks — as well as the other boars.

Coordination was near impossible as everyone shouted in whatever language came to mind — except Atnan, who had no intention of trying to get anyone’s attention through sign. Instead, he stood ready with a stick, looking for a good spot to jab.

Soon, the same jargon word started bouncing around from voice to voice: Ganó, ganó! Bear.

At first, he thought the women meant to shout at Barlas, but that idea quickly faded. Bounding at a full gallop, head down, shoulders rippling, Ma-Huthra Shen bellowed as she rumbled uphill toward them.

From the corner of his eye, Atnan saw Kilími in a shooting stance drawing a bead on the great she-bear.

Shouting at her to stop was not an option so he ran and tackled her, sending the arrow waggling off target. She cursed at him as they wrestled a bit trying to right themselves. He made a sign of apology and indicated for her to wait.

When Barlas saw Shen approaching, he whooped and let go of the big boar. He peeled off anyone he could to free the beast as they all stumbled back, confused.

The elder she-bear plowed into the hog, rolled him over, and bit at him, just missing his scruff. He roared and kicked at her face as he righted himself but she reared up and pounced on him, heavy forelimbs falling on his rump as her open maw wrapped around the hump of his back. She bit down so hard her head shivered until there was a resounding crack! and the big boar fell limp from her jaws. She left him and snarled after his squealing followers, knocking them off their feet with heavy swipes of her paws until several more lay broken and bloodied. The rest ran away howling.

Everyone, including Ma-Huthra Shen, stood in a circle, covered in dust, sweat, and blood, silent except for heavy panting. The women held sticks and rocks, motionless but ready to make the bear pay dearly for her next meal if it was meant to be one of them.

Atnan and Barlas ran to Shen, burying their faces in her fur as she reared up on her hind legs, wrapped her forelimbs around them, and tilted her head back to howl at the sky.

Barlas pulled himself away from Shen’s embrace and coaxed the women to drop their guard. “No, no,” he said. “Friend, friend! Ma-Huthra Shen, good spirit. Friend.”

Shen plopped down on her haunches in front of the big carcass and made a low, sad grumbling noise over it.

Just then, Táripel said something urgent in her own language, followed by “leg” in jargon. Lifting the hem of her skirts she showed off a deep wound in her calf, slowly welling out blood.

Atnan signed for Barlas to fetch some water from the well. He had never dressed any type of injury, but he had read about how Fyreans would pack spear wounds with ash from the fire to stop bleeding. Táripel was suspicious at first but allowed Barlas to wash the wound. With a handful of ash and some of the water, Atnan made a little ball of clay and worked it gently into the gash until the bleeding stopped. Then they tied it up with a strip of cloth.

Work done, Atnan collapsed, staring up into the bright blue sky, panting.

They had stayed too long.

* * * * *

Cautiously, Selolo opened the guardhouse door to a shocking scene. The two strangers were being eaten by the biggest, blackest bear she had ever seen while Kilími and the rest of the sisters looked to be arguing.

She threw the door open and waved her arms, shouting nonsense. This had worked on smaller bears in the hill country, but this one only snuffled. If she didn’t know better, she might say it was laughing at her.

The sisters all turned to speak to her at once.

“I hate this wilderness!” Shúri said.

“Sorcerers!” Súmi said. “They’ve summoned spirits to torment us!”

“We’ll be kidnapped — ”

“ — or eaten — ”

“ — or eaten and then kidnapped.”

Saragánthi lamented, “I should have married that fat farmer — ”

Kilími shouted, “Quiet, all of you!”

Selolo said, “Is no one going to mention the giant bear?”

“I think it’s their … pet?” Kilími said.

“That’s not anyone’s pet,” Selolo replied.

Shen shifted, warbling and bobbing her head in the direction of the ugly heap of boar still lying in the middle of their circle. A deep aroma wafted from the carcass, not unpleasant but like the smell of the earth at the bottom of a freshly-dug hole mixed with the sap that runs from the woody stems of thorn bushes. The blood was already crackling dry and the broken flesh was beginning to turn black.

Selolo had never seen anything like it — or for that matter, the bear.

What sort of land have we wandered into with such wild creatures and enchantments?

Barlas gestured toward the boar and said in jargon, “Place-spirit. His death makes curse.” He explained that Maur still belonged to the animals and spirits, who hadn’t seen people stay there more than a night or two in a long time and had reverted to their wild ways.

“Not our curse. You fix. We go. Now.” Kilími said, adamantly. She started gathering up their gear.

Barlas said, “Yes curse, on you. On all. First, burn. Then … go.” He told them they would need to burn the carcass without touching the flesh or getting any blood on them. He indicated the smaller carcasses, “Cut and eat, good. No waste.”

So many strange rules in this place! How do they live?

The sisters conferred and decided it was getting too late to start afresh, they didn’t want any curse hanging over them, and some pork could sustain them for many days. “Hay-hay,” Kilími said. “Morning, go. Now, meat.”

As the others started piling up brush around the lead boar, Shen ambled over to Selolo and plopped down next to her, startling her. The great she-bear leaned down and started nuzzling her, first gently, and then more insistently. Selolo scuttled back.

“Stand up,” Barlas said in jargon, motioning with his hand. He moved over to her and took her hand, running it over Shen’s neck. “Good spirit,” he said.

“Good spirit,” she repeated, unsure. The creature’s fur was softer than she expected, sleek and almost oily, though it left no residue on her hands. The bear ululated contentedly then loped back to grumble over the boar.

Is she still angry at it? Or mourning?

Barlas lit the pyre, sending up a shower of floating sparks and more of the earthy aroma.

Without much thought, Selolo started to sing the old song with new words,

Sing, Lapsala, sing —

Sing the willows and the hills,

Sing the clover-covered blocks,

Sing the spirits of this place,

Sing peace for us and safe travel —

Sing, Lapsala, sing.

Each line she sang the sisters repeated back. Everyone joined eventually, even Barlas pretending to know the words, Atnan playing softly on his “music-stone,” and the great she-bear howling — in time if not in tune. The boar burned quickly, leaving behind no trace except a blackened circle of ash.

Just like Lolo, one more place that will not allow me to rest in it.

* * * * *

Barlas gutted two of the hogs while the sisters dug a pit to slow-roast it. By morning the meat was falling off the bones. What they couldn’t eat they hard smoked for travel and Shen took care of the rest.

These foreigners have some excuse, but me and Atnan should’ve known better. We ought to’ve been putting out food every night and praising the name of the place every morning. Nah, we took what we wanted from the land without a single thanks. Who can blame it for trying to take a little back?

“Stupid, them heading off on their own. Del’s where they ought to go, innit?”

Atnan let out a flurry of signs that Barlas took to mean strong disagreement, which was a surprise. He ended by indicating Gwetlak, which wasn’t.

“Even if they would go that way, one has a bloody leg and the other is gonna burst anytime — you may enjoy playing physician, but who wants to play midwife, you or me?”

Atnan indicated Dub with a personal sign, a sour expression, and a hand clawing at the air in front of his mouth.

“Oh, Dub can go soak his head!” Barlas flashed.

“Listen,” Barlas said in jargon to the women. “No good here. Other people, far away. Walk, walk, many days. No town. No houses. Many animals. Much danger.” He gestured to Selolo. “Little one inside. Come soon.”

“No stay,” Kilími agreed. “Meat. Then go.”

“We go to Gwetlak.” He motioned down the road. “Four, five days, easy walk. You come, too. Eat, sleep, share. Safe together.”

Atnan signed his agreement.

Selolo replied, “No Kindhirak.” She turned her head and spat. “Kindhirak, to us, danger. Death.”

“Hay-hay.” Deciding he didn’t care what Atnan thought, Barlas pointed off in a different direction. “Our town. Big water. Four days, five maybe. You go there, rest, be strong. My mother, his mother — many mothers. The little one.” He motioned awkwardly from his belly forward with his hands. They took his meaning. “Many boats, going up-coast.” He made a motion like paddling. “No walk. Go in boats.”

Selolo folded her hands into a peak then motioned to the hills, Táripel, and herself. “Hay-hay, no walk.”

She was right. They certainly weren’t going to make it over any rough terrain.

Atnan signed his agreement with Selolo, then tapped the knuckles of both fists together, difficult, then touched his fingertips over his heart and flicked them away, bad idea.

So what? We part ways, wish each other luck, and hope they don’t die?

He watched one of the sisters giving Shen affection as she snuffled and ululated like an overgrown kit.

Shen’s taken some responsibility for this place now, but we’re five days from water — she won’t follow them or us much farther, eh?

He reckoned the bear was large enough several of them could fit on her back if they held on tight enough — and if she’d let them. He thought for a bit then nudged Atnan. “We could make a sledge, eh?”

Atnan signed bad idea again.

“Bah! Give up Gwetlak. Come back with us. There’s plenty of places up-coast to hide out a few months — I’ll come visit — by winter you’ll get your oar back and it’ll be like none of this ever happened.” He motioned to Atnan’s satchel, laid with the rest of their gear. “None of that ever happened, eh?”

Atnan paused, considering. At last, he threw his hands up in the air and waved them toward Del in one exasperated gesture.

Finally, he’s listened to reason!

“No walk,” Barlas said to the others in jargon. “Wait here.”

While the women gathered their gear, Barlas cut and dragged willow branches back to the guardhouse, notched the branches, and lashed them together into a long triangular frame.

Shúrimel recognized what they were building and called it a palaltal. After another conference, they decided to see if it would work.

None of them had any idea what the jargon term for a sledge might be, and the women seemed unable to pronounce the Fyrean word, hagllyflacht. Atnan dragged two fingers across his forearm to signify the device, a novel sign which the others quickly adopted. Meanwhile, Shúrimel and several others started weaving a hammock seat out of willow bark.

Barlas stepped back and let them work. “They know what they’re doing, eh?”

When the building was complete, Barlas brought the sledge to Shen. After some negotiation, he laid it across her shoulders, then hopped on while she dragged him around.

He felt rather proud of himself.

Selolo and Táripel climbed into the sledge with most of the gear. Shen submitted to being yoked without complaint, but wouldn’t let Atnan join the party, shaking her head at him and groaning whenever he got near.

When they were ready to go, Barlas went back to talk to Atnan. “Wonder what’s gotten into Shen?” He wiped some sweat from his brow with his hat. “I reckon you should follow a ways back, eh?”

Atnan signed in the negative, then tapped the satchel slung over his shoulders, and gestured down the road.

“No, I thought — ”

Atnan interrupted him to gesture toward Shen. Then he signed: Shen is right. You go back, I go on. He held out his palm, fingers splayed to indicate the Five Spirits.

Barlas swiped Atnan’s hand away. “I don’t care what Shen wants, or the Five, or — ” He stopped himself before saying, or you, for that matter. He started again. “Whatever hill the spirits gave you to climb, I’m not on it. All I want is for everyone to be safe, back home.”

Atnan handed him a folded sheet of cane-leaf. Take. To elders. Oar. To Dub. Break.

“Don’t talk foolishness, Inky-fingers!”

Atnan gave no response, expressionless. There was no arguing with him when he was like this.

“Ah, you boulder! Go to Gwetlak then, finish this cockle-footed errand you care so much about. Pretend them scraps are worth more than — ” He stopped himself. Deep breath. “Even so, you go do what you feel you have to do, then come winter — ”

Atnan made an ugly sign like scratching his own eyes out.

“I don’t blame you, the way they treated you. But don’t turn your back. Not forever, eh?”

Atnan signed quickly. He already had. So had the elders. So had his father along with them. He wasn’t going to beg their forgiveness — they should beg his!

They stayed in uncomfortable silence for a moment. “You know, you’ve always treated me like … a regular person.”

He noted Atnan’s confused expression.

“Not like a foundling. Not like someone who don’t quite belong in a place, but is stuck there anyhow — don’t say you don’t know what I mean, because you don’t quite belong there, either. That’s why we’re friends, innit? The difference is I want it to be my place, my family, my home, my traditions. You … ?” He scoffed. “Listen, I’ll give Dub the oar if that’s what you truly want, but I’m not gonna give up on you coming back, because not quite belonging someplace is almost tolerable when you don’t have to do it alone.”

Barlas put the note in his cloak then embraced Atnan for a long time. “I’m not giving up on you coming back,” he said finally. “Someday.”

When they finally left, Barlas didn’t look back.

I hope you know what you’re doing, Inky-fingers, because I sure don’t, eh?

Mekvat and his protégé arrived at the harbor and commissioned a raftsman to ferry them to the island of Khet Manak. Mekvat was adamant that they not alarm Luto so they dressed in plain clothes.

“I want a chance to survey the project when I am not expected,” he told Shemulak. “As soon as my arrival is known, everything will be arranged to please me. Remember this: The more prestige you amass, the less you can trust what is presented to you — a paradox.”

They were able to stroll around the site for a long time before Luto noticed and came bumbling at them, all arms and elbows and insincere smiles. He rushed them inside a sparse building overlooking the channel and offered them something to drink.

“Is this structure safe? It seems ready to collapse,” Mekvat said.

“A temporary structure, minister, worker housing, nothing more. I am surprised to see you — happy, very happy — just surprised.”

Mekvat received a mug of honey beer from Luto. “Your letters have been alarming.”

“By Radu’s foot, that is the opposite of — ”

“You have fallen behind, and I fear you will only fall further.”

“No, no, no, no. That shouldn’t be your impression at all. Not at all. We’ve laid almost half of the pilings for the causeway, and we’ve begun the process of quarrying the great stairway.”

“Almost half?”

“Three of seven.”

“Three indeed?”

“The third will be done this week — or next.”

“And ‘begun the process’ of quarrying? What does that mean? That no quarrying has been done?”

“We have  … ah  … conquered the problem of how to quarry this particular stone. This was no surprise! We discussed early on — repeatedly, you will recall — how the basalt would be a challenging material to work with. It is quite, shall we say, durable — bends tools like putty. A workman may get five, six good whacks.” Luto mimed beating a chisel with a hammer. “Then we must carry his tool back to the smiths to be reshaped. In the end, we invented a whole new configuration — now smiths work alongside the quarrymen so they can keep up. It’s quite ingenious, if I may say so.”

“It is worse than I feared. You love the process of the work so much you have forgotten what you are working toward! Months gone, and where there should be progress, there is only preparation. No causeway lain. No foundation set. Not one stone is set upon another — how can they be, since none has yet been quarried?”

“That’s, that’s — why, that’s not an accurate view of things, at all. You — well, you are not a builder, are you? You haven’t seen as many of these big projects as I have. It is often like this, a long set-up, then everything falls into place. I’m sorry, Minister, but you have misread the situ — ”

Mekvat silenced him with an outstretched hand and motioned for him to sit. “I have spoken with one of your foremen, I won’t say which. Furthermore, I have contacted the order of Etreya, whose attendants are intimately  familiar of the comings and goings of your workers.” He took out a coin, held it up. “On one side I hear stories I have every reason to trust,” he flipped the coin around, “and on the other side, yours.” He tossed the coin to Luto. “You have not been honest with me, Luto.”

Luto fumbled the coin. “Minister! I — I — no, no, no. That’s not it at all. You don’t understand. No foreman knows the full extent of the job. Only I talk to them all! As for the other thing — seriously now — ha! — seriously. Do you expect me to believe that you’d take the word of prostitutes over mine?”

Mekvat smiled contemptuously. “Oddly enough, they say the same about you.”

Luto stood. “Minister, I — I thought you trusted me. I thought we had some rapport. But I see now, the one who misread the situation was me.”

“Don’t let your fluids carry you away, Luto. The work will continue apace. I will simply need to be onsite myself, to oversee the overseer, if you will. To keep you honest — ”

At that, Luto took off his hat and boots and threw them at Mekvat’s feet.

Mekvat rose and his young companion hopped up behind him. “What is the meaning of this gesture?”

“Try and see if they fit you. Or don’t! Do whatever pleases you. I am returning home. If you wish to find me — don’t.”

“The contract has no provisions for — ”

“That is your interpretation. Mine varies, on a number of points.” Luto stormed off, shouting at some workers as he disappeared from sight.

“What now, minister?” Shemulak asked.

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