The town square had been furnished with tables and benches for the feast, and Root waited as the wine steward went around pouring dollops of sweet Pramnian wine—not for drinking, but for sacrifice—into each and every cup. The meal could not begin until Bartoulme performed the libation. Root’s belly grumbled. He had not yet broken his fast and the day had been long. He’d woken before sunrise to propitiate the quarry god by sprinkling him with barley and water. The magus offered Korrak a ram with all black fleece if he would abstain from further violence, but since there was no pasture for cattle he would have to wait until the next caravan, and Bartoulme burnt a pinch of ram’s hair in surrogate, to give the god a taste. Then he consulted the signs and, confirming that his offer had been accepted, moved on to arrange the funeral. Root helped stack acacia wood for the pyre, and once the bones had been picked out of the ashes, lathered in sacred oil. and placed in an urn, he helped carry stones for the barrow. Then the women sang their lamentations and the magus prayed, attesting to the lightness of Havil’s soul and pleading Ner’gal to herd it away from the Undergloom and up to the Great Blue Sky. Havil was habiru, and these were the appropriate rites. The sun god rose well past his zenith by the time of the feast, which Root had helped prepare.
He waited for his chance to escape and sighed. On holy days, work was supposed to be taboo. They must not be holy for thralls. He looked at Bartoulme’s empty tower and the length of its shadow and at the steward pouring. He had finally reached the slaves. He distributed the wine and the magus rope from his seat. “Sky Father Enlil,” he said, and his voice, trained in the choirs of the temple, filled the solemn air. “Hear me, the magus Bartoulme of immortal Shindar’s blood, and listen. On behalf of myself and the people of Whiterock I thank you for this bounty, and I make to you this sacrifice. In return I ask not for rain—for my land is barren. I ask for the continued health and prosperity of my people.” And approaching the fire he placed inside it a pair of oxen thighbones well draped in fat. They began to sizzle, and once the delicious smoke had wafted up to the god, Bartoulme tilted his cup, letting the wine flow into the fire and rise up to Enlil as steam. Root stood behind his betters in anticipation for his turn. Then he approached the fire and honored Enlil and all went back to their seats. The real drinks were poured and the lamb, which had not been preserved by salt but by the Barrens, in which nothing could spoil, was pierced with spits and cooked. Smoke drifted out in savory tendrils and made Root’s palette gush. He reminded himself that thralls would not be given meat. Still, he eyed a platter as it was brought to the sculptors’ table. There sat Squeaker, the newest sculptor, and he raised his cup of wine with an apologetic smile. Root raised his own cup—the thralls had no wine but instead a soup-like beer, thick with lees and taken through a straw—and toasted him back earnestly. Soon enough, Root would be a free man with a god at his side, and would eat and drink whatever on earth he wished. Spiced eel and mutton and peaches for dessert.
His day-dream was interrupted by a platter of barley bread and curds. He stuffed his face and, with his mind focused on freedom, sucked some beer and stood. Seated beside him, Eresh-Kigal glanced up from his plate. “Where are you off to?”
“Privy.” Root said, swallowing half-chewed lumps of cheese.
Eresh dipped his bread in sesame oil. “Huh.”
Root walked away. Watching eyes seemed to scald his shoulders, and he forced himself to stroll at a leisurely pace. When the line of sight was broken he lurched into a sprint. His belly sloshed as he ran to the tower, the long way around, to keep himself unseen, and hiked the steep side of the hill. The courtyard was walled. A short one, and he jumped high and grasped the ledge and vaulted, crossing over into a group of half-formed men. Statues and stonethralls. He weaved through them and saw the lowest room, an open workshop with many tall windows, fashioned to allow lots of good, natural light, and he crept through one and into a space cluttered with benches and shelves. Then he listened. Heard nothing over the drum of his own frightened heart. There was nobody but him, and the real danger was someone noting his absence and starting up a search. Speed was everything. If he were caught in his master’s tower without permission he would be surely killed. Abandoning any pretense of craft, he stomped up the spiral staircase to the uppermost floor, down the hall, and to Bartoulme’s study. Root stared at the door. He knocked three times, just as the herald had done. Nothing happened. The hall smelled like a wet dog. He removed his hat and tousled out his hair, damp with sweat. Then he exhaled deeply. The stone was covered by miniscule wedges. Perhaps if he read them he could learn how to open it. The Firstborn script was a syllabary, with a different sign for every sound a mouth can make, so there were many different signs. Their meaning came to him slowly. He mouthed them one by one until he could read entire words. The script did several things. It made the stone lighter than it should be, and immune to being marred or broken in any way. He wouldn’t be able to scratch a sign and render the enchantment null. And there were lines of opening and of closing and a password. Root searched for it and shook his head. Why would the password be written on the door, which any magus could read? It was surely in some secret place. And he found it. A square hole had been punched through the door and then filled with a square peg. The code must be written on a side of the peg, snug with the door itself and thus shielded from view. Root paced back and forth. Speed was everything. What could the password be?
He pummeled the stone and rubbed his aching hands and cursed. Then he sighed. Slumped against the wall. There would be another holy day, and in the meantime he would learn the secret. Somehow. He turned back toward the feast and to his aging meal—if it was still on his plate. A thrall might have stolen it. A thrall would. Root jogged to the stairs and suddenly his thoughts of beer and cheese were chased away by a sound. He paused. Held his breath to stop his crooked nose from whistling. He could hear, over the thrum of blood pulsing through his temples, a faint and rushing whisper. He was not alone. The sound grew stronger. Closer. And before he could even begin looking for a place to hide the hissing spiraled up the stairs and rushed through the hall and tickled his damp chest. He let himself breathe. The voice was nothing but a gust of wind. Then the tower groaned. His shadow lengthened before him and grew more clearly defined. The hall had brightened. Behind him there was light. He turned around and squinted against a pale and heatless glow, rectangular, beaming in from Bartoulme’s study. The door had given way. Perhaps somewhere in Root’s string of curses he’d spoken the secret word. But the reason didn’t matter. He walked into the room. At its far end was the massive oaken desk. On the desk, a stack of papers, and in the stack a messenger crane. Root was jogging to it when his tailbone felt a draft. Behind him the door was closing of its own accord, and he wasn’t sure how to open it again. He dived back and slid a leg between the door and the jamb. They clamped around his ankle. He looked for any object in reach. A measuring stick was leaning against the wall, and he stretched and plucked at it until finally it fell into his grasp. He slid the stick into place and extracted the leg and, testing his sore ankle, limped through the mob of linen-shrouded works. He reached the desk. After wiping his sweaty hands on his thighs, he picked the papers up and read.
Dearest Bartoulme,
You’re right, we did ask for her ourselves, but we elected her only to deal with the rebellion, and that ended six long years ago. So why is she still Magister? Because she’s abused her office to make her stewardship a tyranny! Half the Circle grovels at her feet! But there is hope. You have always been regarded a most pious, humble and diligent servant of Shindar, and you are greatly admired for your brilliance with stone and script. Your return would cause a sensation, and your vote would embolden those of us who, out of fear, have yet remained neutral. I have already gathered much support, and—
Root flipped the paper. The symbols on its backside were smaller and perfectly neat, and precise. Commands written as if the reader were purposefully trying to misconstrue them—as if the reader were Ogri. And they delineated the exact way the paper on which they were written should fold, and how the wings should flap, and how—when a certain phrase was uttered—the writing on the other side should vanish. If Root spoke the phrase, he could erase the message and write one of his own. But the disappearance of such an important letter might be noticed. He rifled through the stack and, thumbing through research notes and sketches and purchase orders, found a blank paper crane. He pulled it out and set it on the desk. He already knew what to write. Had rehearsed it countless times while keeping hold of a chisel. He pinned the paper down with stones and searched for the ink and the stylus and the door behind him shut.
There stood an emaciated girl. Her body was facing the door and her eyes were facing him. Her neck was twisted. In one hand she held the measuring stick and in the other her shroud. Cuneiform script spiraled across skin as pale and sheer as flax-paper, stretched taut over a nearly protruding spine. Her eyes were facing him. Root glanced at the window—barred—and back at the girl. The ghola. She reminded him of a Oscan bullfighter waiting with cape and sword, and if he didn’t speak soon she might take him for a bull. But what to say? He looked at his feet as a thrall should and donned his dogskin cap. “Apologies, my lady. I did not mean to intrude.”
The girl perceived her nakedness and tossed the linen sheet over herself to serve as a cloak. “But you did intrude.” she said. Her voice rang with the imperious tone of the magi, and her desiccated tongue rasped against her teeth. “Father says that intruders must be killed.” And the measuring stick clattered to the ground as she strode backward to him.
He retreated and his tailbone struck the desk. “But my lady I’m your father’s thrall,” he said, “and thus your own. My name is Dogbreath.” And he bowed until his cap began to slip.
“You may call me Umbra.” she said, and pounced at him as lightly as a cricket. He fell and his head smacked the oak and the room spun and she sat upon his knees. Long dark hair tickled his face and his chest. Her skin was cold. One small hand reached out behind her to collect his wrists and another clutched his throat. He struggled and her hands were strong. Her nose nearly touching his. “Why do they call you Dogbreath? Your breath isn’t that bad. Anyways I’m sorry but I must kill you now. If I don’t then father will be jailed and I’ll be buried in the ground forever—with worms.” And her fingers tightened. Root’s face swelled and darkness crept into his eyes. “Father says that I may kill,” she said, “but that I mustn’t ever eat.” A gray tongue squeaked over teeth as white as marble. “But I’m ever so hungry.” And she looked at Root the way he’d looked at the piglet Tal had made him carve—as if searching for the weakest point. “Where does one begin? There’s not a morsel of fat on you.”
“Please!” he croaked. “A moment!” But her fingers pressed and his vision swam and his dull mind reeled. The darkness closed. A voice spoke in the Firstborn tongue and the voice belonged to him.
The hand’s grip loosened. The darkness yielded. Root could see the twisted neck and the curious expression, the ghola cocking her head. “You’re a magus then—or a god.” And she looked him over. “A magus. You must have been sent to spy on father. Who sent you?”
“Nobody sent me.” Root said. “I’m no magus.”
“Liar! I heard you speak.” And the hand on his throat squeezed him.
“I’m no magus I ate one! Was ghola, like you, but a witch turned me back and—”
“You lie!” Umbra said. “There is nothing like me. There is no way back.”
“It’s true I swear it! You’ll kill me. Why not hear me first?”
Her fingers relented. “That’s a good point. But you’ll swear by Enlil the Oath-Keeper himself that what you say is true.”
“Yes!” Root said. He coughed and choked. Stared into her eyes. They were deeply set and they lacked the spark of life. He took a moment to gather his wits. “I,” he said, “the slave known as Dogbreath, invoke Sky Father Enlil to witness my oath, which I swear without guile. That to you, the magus Umbra, I’ll speak nothing but the truth—or at least nothing I believe to be false. No one is infallible. If I prove a liar, may he strike me down, and may he command Ner’gal the Shepherd of Souls to ensure that mine never reaches the Great Blue Sky.”
“So you’re habiru.” she said. “Or pretending. Now explain yourself. Tell me your story, Dogbreath, but know that if I catch you in a lie I’ll cut your story short.” And she waited, straddling his knees, her face an inch from his own. “Well?”
He cleared his throat. “Forgive me, my lady, but this is rather painful. I’d focus more easily if I had a proper place to sit.”
The ghola released him and considered Bartoulme’s chair. “No. You are my father’s slave. To sit on his chair would not be appropriate.” She cleared a workbench, moved it to the front of the desk, and rotating the big chair took it for herself. “Sit down.”
Root complied. He rubbed the bump on the back of his skull and took a big breath. “Now,” said Umbra, placing her chin on the backrest, “will you tell me or won’t you?”
He closed his eyes. Let his breath seep out, and under compulsion he dared unfurl his past, a confusing tapestry both threadbare and somehow baroque—adulterated by foreign threads and variegated dyes. Dizzy with false starts and sudden endings. Unsorted memories that may or may not be his own, and thus bereft of meaning. He tugged at the most ancient thread, though it caused his soul to quail. “My earliest thought,” he said, “is hunger. Hunger and a room. The windows barred and the door without a handle. My body numb. My back painted with strange writing and I thrash against my bonds. I’m tied to a post. The room was a prison and I the prisoner. My warden a giddy, sobbing woman. I didn’t know who she was or anything else and I tried to tell her but I couldn’t speak. She said much that I was too hungry to hear, until eventually she ran out of words and only wept.
“I had no sense of time.” Root said. He felt the blood rushing back into his head and his wits returning, and his ability to converse. “My only clue was the woman. Her wrinkles deeper, her graying hair. She would visit me and talk and I would hunger and when she opened the door I would catch the scent of death—sometimes faint, sometimes strong, but always sweet. One day I got my chance to follow it. A termite snuck into my room. I stilled my body and watched him climb it. He made his meal on one of the cords binding me to the pillar, and by the time he was satisfied, the cord was weak enough to snap. There were countless others, but my constant thrashing—I never tired or felt the need to sleep—had loosened them, and now there was a small gap near my elbow. Contorting myself as no living man could I freed my arm, and with it worked the rest of my body out. But I was still locked in the room. I pulled at the bars of the window and threw myself at the door. Then I hid beside it and waited for the woman.
“When she finally entered, and saw the rope spooled around the base of the pillar, she tried to slam the door. But her strength was feeble. I grasped the door’s edge and overpowered her. Went into the hall. Followed the sweet fragrance through an open window and found myself standing on a ledge. Above me, a clear night sky full of shining stars. Below, a dark city bursting with ziggurats. I cared for neither. Following the scent, I jumped down the ledge onto the shelf below and then to the one below that, and so on, like a ball bouncing down the stairs. Until I stood on cobblestones. I trailed the aroma through wide streets and open courtyards and to the highest tower, which I climbed, sniffing at the wind. Near the top I mounted a balcony and crept through. I was in a sort of workshop, and upon one of its tables I found the fragrant source. She was lying down as if asleep and she was fair, and perfectly clean but for the wound in her belly.”
Root hugged himself. The hairs on his neck were standing upright and his skin began to crawl. “I tasted her flesh.” he said. “And for the first time I felt something else but hunger. Every morsel brought with it a feeling, a memory, a fact. I knew things. Knew I was a ghola. Knew she was one of the magi, and that if I was caught I’d spend eternity underneath a crypt. I knew that this place was their city and that I stood in the temple of their god. And I knew I wasn’t safe. He could find me. How long could I stay here with this succulent corpse without being caught? So I tore myself away from her. Went to the balcony and down to Revelation Court. No good being out in the open, where the streets are well lit and patrolled by watchmen. Avoiding them, I crept along the narrow spaces between the towers and the Upper District’s wall, and when I found a section without a golem there I climbed. Dropped into low town. And as the woman’s memories were fading and the old hunger returned—more fiercely now—I caught another scent. Somewhere in the maze of alleyways and boarding houses there was a waiting carcass. I wanted to get there before the corpse-catchers did. But now I knew better. I was no longer ignorant of the rising sun. Its rays were just beginning to warm the tops of the highest towers and soon the living would stir. Racing the dawn, I looked for some place to hide, and down a narrow side-street I found it. An alcove, carved into a building’s foundation and just barely big enough for a contortionist like me. This little grotto, which no watchman would ever think to explore, became my refuge. I lived there—if life it could be called—emerging only in darkness when the moon was thin. The lights in the Lower District were few and the hiding places many, but it was still perilous. Lots of people stayed there, in the summer-time, and lots of them broke curfew, and if they saw me they’d cry out for the watchmen and their hounds of stone. So despite my ravenous hunger I practiced patience, biding my time and waiting for the most ideal conditions. And I ate, and I learned, and I developed appetites. My favorite meals were Chosen.”
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“Chosen?” said Umbra. “Father had some for his household guard, when we lived in the city. But he didn’t like them much. Always said they were more trouble than they were worth, getting into duels and distracting my doctors. But I didn’t mind. They were funny. They’d flirt with me on my deathbed. Why were they your favorites?”
As Root composed his thoughts, the room was silent but for the whistling of his nose. His words begin to flow more swiftly. Habiru were enthusiastic poets. “I suppose because I’m habiru. But more than that. A Chosen carries with him all that he owns. He wanders the wilderness and eats by the hospitality of strangers—whether they feed him out of love or fear. In raids he wins fortunes and in taverns he loses them. His greed is matched only by his generosity. Wealth passes through his hands like water. Kings unburdened by kingdoms. There’s a sort of... lightness of being. But also a depth of feeling. Whenever I was lucky enough to eat one, I felt the shame of honor slighted and the pride of it restored, the thrill of slaying enemies and the grief of mourning friends. The joys and the sorrows of the Chosen are keener than those of any other flesh I’ve tasted. They had heat enough to thaw my frozen heart. Without them I knew only hunger—though it wasn’t merely hunger. It was a constant suspicion that everything is wrong, a yearning for some strange thing I couldn’t even name, a nostalgia for what I had never even known. I think everybody must feel that way, whose soul is poorly tethered.”
Umbra looked at him. “I believe,” she said, “that you were really ghola, and I’m sorry for calling you liar. Father has worked day and night, year after year, to end my curse, and he’s no closer now than when he started. Tell me. How’d you return to the living?”
Root cleared his throat and glanced at the corner of the room, where a tripod stood supporting a bowl of water. “My lady,” he rasped, “my story is a long one and my throat is rather sore. May I trouble you for a drink?”
The ghola shook her head. “Don’t you try and trick me, Dogbreath.”
He understood. If Umbra gave him a drink then he would become her guest, and she could never harm a guest. “I apologize, my lady. It was rude of me to ask.” But his mind was racing. “Now on with my tale. It all comes back to the Chosen. We habiru share a strict code of honor and take offense at the slightest insult, and we resolve our differences with duels. And because they’re forbidden they’re fought in secret, and the duelists, fearing capture, sometimes abandon their dead. I was a lucky ghola. My favorite meals served up to me fresh, in dark and lonely places. The only trick was getting there before the watchmen. To do so, I would skulk around the taverns, where insults and challenges are typically exchanged, and eacesdrop. And during one fateful, moonless night I overheard some gossip. One of the Circle’s Chosen had challenged a Magisterial Guard—a common occurrence, as I’m sure you know, and—”
“I don’t. Never even heard of them, the Magisterial Guard.”
“Oh.” said Root. “Of course. You left before she was elected. I’ll explain. There was a rebellion among the desert habiru, and the magi, arguing over how it should be fought and who should pay for it, had ground the Circle to a halt—and allowed their distant subjects to be pillaged. Then one day the magi voted to elect a Magister with the authority to overrule them and make unpopular decisions. They chose Hierophant Lilitu, because she was neutral in the arguments of the day and uninterested in Circle politics. But as Magister—and after an assassination attempt, which some insist was staged—she became interested. And she was fighting a war, so she increased the city’s force of charioteers. But rather than merely expanding the current one, which was sworn to the Circle itself—including all those who opposed her election and who now opposed her rule—she commissioned a new regiment, sworn to the Magister only. And to this day the two are bitter rivals, fighting to defend the honor of those magi to whom they’ve sworn. But the duel I heard gossip of on that moonless night had nothing to do with politics. A Guard—I can’t recall which one—had accused a Chosen named Larsa-Borges of provoking a duel on behalf of smeone else, in exchange for silver. Among habiru, labor of any sort is treated with contempt, but to duel for pay is to sell one’s very honor. Larsa had no choice but to respond with a challenge. Seconds were picked. The duel was arranged. It would not happen at sunrise, for fear of watchmen, but by the light of candles. Perfect. The only problem was that I hadn’t overheard where or when it would be. But I knew Larsa. His usual place was a tavern called the King’s Caravanserai. I could follow him from there.
“I crept along to it and found a shadow with a good view of the door, and I waited. The night went on. Men stumbled out in groups of two or three, stinking of wine, and none of them were Larsa. The night was shrinking, and with it my window of opportunity. I began to lose hope. Perhaps he was somewhere else. Then finally out came a pair of habiru. I could tell by their distinctive, bowlegged swagger, the result of a life on horseback or a day in the cups—or both. And one of them carried a candle. The glow revealed a handsome and cleanly shaven face. Tal-Humche, a young Chosen who’d already won his fame as a Yezerel champion. I knew him, once. Beside him a squat man, several years older, with a huge and bristling moustache. Larsa-Borges. The light of the candle rippled over a hairy forearm cross-hatched with scars. But when I saw his other arm I despaired. It was encased in rawhide, which habiru dip in water and wrap tightly around their broken limbs, to shrink as it dries and set the bone to heal. But a broken arm cannot wield a knife. The pair sauntered away, eyes peering into the darkness, hands resting on the pommels of their knives. Larsa had moved his to the lefthand side of his belt. I watched them leave and gave up my hopes for a duel. But I wondered. If they weren’t going to a duel, then where were they going? I had a bit more time and no other prospects, so I figured I may as well find out. Followed them as they walked. Tal chattering constantly and Larsa offering the occasional grunt to keep his friend going. Then suddenly the street blazed with light. I dove behind a column. Listened to Larsa curse. ‘And good evening to you as well.’ a voice replied. I peeked out from behind my cover and saw a man in a robe and a crimson baldric. A watchman. He had a mage-light in his hand and a hound of stone at his feet. By hiding in the shadows, he’d uncovered his lantern suddenly and surprised the walking pair.
“‘My friend!’ Tal said. He was shielding his face from the light. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’
“The watchman gave a curt nod. ‘Tal-Humche.’
“‘Are you enjoying your evening? It’s a fine one. I find the cool night air to be most refreshing, and the—’
“‘Forgive me, sir, but I’m not here to exchange pleasantries. You’re out well past curfew.’ And the watchman fixed his eyes on Larsa. ‘I heard you had a quarrel with a Guard.’
“Larsa stroked his moustache and beheld the hound of stone. It couldn’t run as swiftly as a living hound, nor track a scent, nor bark, but at the word of a watchman it would give chase forever. And once its jaws were clamped around its prey, nothing but a watchman’s word could pry them apart. Matthias smiled at Larsa’s discomfort. ‘You wouldn’t by any chance be heading to a duel now, would you?’
“Larsa glanced down at the rawhide cast. ‘How?’ And Tal-Humche stepped between them.
“’What my friend means is, how could that be, when the Circle, to which we have sworn, has forbidden such dangerous and unnecessary past-times?’
“The watchman laughed. ‘Where are you going, then, so long past curfew?’
“‘Why, our quarters of course. ‘We have Yezerel at the break of dawn.’
“‘Your quarters are that way.’ the watchman said, pointing at the direction from which the two had come.
“Tal-Humche forced a chuckle. ‘Yes, Matthias. I know that. We’ve decided to take the long way home, to take the air and clear the wine from our heads.’
“‘This is a dangerous neighbourhood. Perhaps you should have company.’
“Larsa gave his friend a look. ‘A chivalrous thought,’ Tal said, ‘though unnecessary. Shindara is rife with crime, and I would loathe to waste the efforts of a city watchman. Surely someone needs you more than we.’
“Matthias stared for a moment and looked at Larsa’s cast. ‘Very well, gentlemen. Get home safe.’ And the watchman strode past them, but he left his hound in the candle-light as he walked down the street. As he walked towards me. I skirted along to avoid his lantern and remain in the column’s moving shadow—until I could go no further without being seen. If I kept moving to hide from him I’d reach the sight of the Chosen. The hound blocked their path. They stood confused, looking at it cautiously and backward to Matthias. I had no choice but to hug the column and pray. The lantern’s light washed over me. Then a whistle blew and the hound sprang and the Chosen jumped in fright. Stone paws crashed against the cobbles as the hound went running. It scurried towards my column. Then passed it and slowed to a trot, right by the watchman’s heel. He chuckled—loudly, so that all could hear—and turned the avenue’s corner. His light receded. The shadows returned. I hugged the column and thanked the gods for my luck. I’d been well lit, in plain sight of him, but he was too preoccupied with his prank on the Chosen to see. I waited for them to turn away so I could creep back to my grotto. I’d tempted fate enough. Then Larsa motioned for his friend to hold the candle near.
“‘By the gods, do I hate that man.’ Tal said. Larsa grunted yes and drew his knife. He pierced the rawhide cast and peeled it carefully off.
“‘Let’s go.’ he said, rubbing the blood back into his arm, which was in perfect health. ‘We’ll be late.’
“I couldn’t resist. Stalked them to the Court of Heroes, a popular dueling ground, and hid behind one of its many statues—some of them probably from your father’s studio. And I watched. There on a bench was a candle glowing and a pair of men in purple. Magisterial Guards. At the sight of the Chosen they stood, hands resting on the pommels of their knives. The principles remained aloof. The seconds went forward to speak.
“‘Good evening.’ a man said, and I knew him. He was Tal’s cousin, Hanno-Horche, and captain of the summer Guard. He wore not only the purple headband and the belt, but a purple cloak as well, and the plaits of his hair were festooned with feathers from a golden eagle. ‘You’re late.’
“‘My apologies.’ Tal said. ‘The streets are crawling with watchmen. Let us not waste time.’
“Hanno clasped his arm. ‘Before our men draw blades, I would like to know why you, a prince of the most noble bearing, act as this man’s second. Surely, you have been misled.’
“‘I need not hear the argument. When I volunteered to be Larsa’s second, he did not tell it to me, and neither did I ask.’
“‘Then you would follow him blindly? Over your own kin? This rogue, this killer for pay, this—’
“‘Hanno.’ Tal said, and even by the candle’s dim light I could see his neck and shoulders flush with crimson rage. ‘If he wished me to know the reason, he would have told it to me. By speaking of it now, when I cannot turn back no matter what I hear, you risk causing offence.’
“His cousin stared, mouth opening, closing, mutely seeking words. Larsa shifted from foot to foot like a bored child. His opponent glared at him and whispered. ‘Captain let’s do this.’
“‘A moment!’ Hanno said. I felt that the duel was nearing, and to get a better view I crept closer, from one statue to another, until I almost bumped into a living man. He was hiding also, but he hadn’t noticed me. I retreated to my previous position and watched. ‘I intend to cause no offence.’ Hanno said, choosing his words with care. ‘But I wonder. Does family mean nothing to you? I don’t know where he’s told you he’s from, but—’
“‘Enough talk!’ Larsa said, and against the proper protocol he conversed with his man directly. ‘Let’s fight. Are we nobles or slaves?’
“‘He dares speak of nobility?’ his opponent asked to the surrounding statues. ‘Now!’ And men rushed out from behind them. A dozen Guards or more, naked bronze gleaming in their fists. Larsa growled at the glittering knives and drew his own, but his friend kept his in the sheathe.
“‘Yes.’ Tal said. ‘He dares speak of nobility. Do you, who refuse to fight him fairly? But you haven’t sullied your honor yet. It isn’t too late to keep your word.’
“The man scoffed. ‘Please.’ he said, pointing his knife at Larsa. ‘This one is less fit for a headband than a noose!’
“‘How awfully convenient,’ Tal said, ‘that the gods have appointed you judge and executioner both. But know that Death comes for us all, and when he weighs my soul it will be light as a feather. It will soar to the Great Blue Sky. Will yours?’
“‘Cousin,’ Hanno said, ‘you may leave without harm. This does not concern you.’
“‘Such conduct,’ Tal said, ‘concerns me greatly.’
“Larsa moved close to his friend and whispered. ‘Go, Tal. I beg you.’
“‘And let you have all the glory?’ he said, dropping his candle and drawing the knife from his sheathe. ‘I think not.’
“Hanno mimicked his cousin. ‘You’ve done this to yourself.’ And every man unhitched his cloak and swaddled his left arm to serve him as a shield. Tal and Larsa stood back to back. Knives circled them, like the scales of a brazen serpent coiling round its prey. The pair pivoted in search of a gap through which they could flee, but the Guards had them properly surrounded. Some hesitated, chastened by Tal’s rebuke, and others pressed in closer. Mantles swayed in the breeze. Blades carved the air. Eyes darted from man to man. Who would be first to lunge?” Root said, and allowed his voice to fail him.
A moment passed. The ghola was leaning backwards across her father’s desk. Her eyes unblinking, gazing into Root’s. “So? Who was it? Who was first to lunge?”
Root made a performance of massaging his throat. “Apologies.” he said with barely a whisper. “My voice is gone. I need a drink, or the story ends here.”
She looked at him. “I could just eat you. Perhaps then I would learn your story.”
“Perhaps.” Root said.
Umbra stared at him for a very long time. Then she sighed. “All right, Dogbreath, I’ll make you my guest. But you must promise never to speak of me to anyone, or to reveal me by any other way.”
“Shall I swear another oath?”
She shook her head. “You are still bound to speak the truth by your first one.”
“Then I promise to do as you said, in return for water.”
“I can do better than water.” she said, and opened her father’s hutch. She took out a small silver bowl and two clay jugs, from which she poured equal measures of water and of wine, in the Magian way. Then she unwrapped a block of cheese and grated it in and, mixing it all together with a golden stirring stick, presented the bowl to her guest. “I always serve father’s wine. He says I pour impeccably.”
Root received the offering and sipped. The wine was Pramnian.
“How is it?”
He raised the bowl and bowed his head in thanks. She would not kill him today. “Impeccable.” And he glanced through the bars of the window. The sun was moving. Before long, the feast would be over and the slaves would be expected to clean. He tipped the silver bowl, drained his wine, and wiped it from his lips. “Thank you, my lady. I feel much better.”
Umbra gave a respectful bow, as a host would give to her guest. “Well?”
“Hmm?”
“Your story. What happened next?”
“Ah.” Root said, clearing his throat, “Where were we?”
“The Chosen! The ambush! Which man would be the first to lunge.”
“Right.” Root said. “The ambush. From behind a statue I watched the trap close. Larsa growling. Tal flourishing his cloak. Having given up on escape, having accepted their doom, they planned to sell their lives dearly. The Magisterial Guards, wary of this cornered prey, inched closer, testing them with feints and lunges well out of reach. Bronze flashed in front of them and neither man flinched. Back to back the Chosen stood, poised to punish the first who dared step forth. The Guards were like hunting dogs snapping at a pair of cornered lions, and leaping back from their every slightest twitch. All waited for someone else to start. ‘Courage, men!’ Hanno said. ‘The first to strike a blow gets the spoils!’ And leading by example he made an earnest lunge. Larsa parried it with his mantle and lunged back and missed. Hanno was a full head taller than he and longer of limb, and had easily kept out of range. But the captain’s ploy worked. The bravest of his men joined him and pounced at Tal, who waved his cloak and slashed the air and kept the foe at bay. But Tal could not close, for fear of exposing his own flank, and couldn’t dodge backwards for fear of bumping Larsa. It would be only a matter of time before other Guards joined in. Only a matter of time before the pair were exhausted, their wards slashed to ribbons, their blood spilled by unseen blades.
“For a ghola like me this was better than any duel, which might end with reconciliation before a blade is even drawn, or with the first blood. And even if a man dies, his second might take charge of the body. My chances of a meal were usually rather slim. But an ambush like this guaranteed at least one corpse—assuming that Hanno would protect his cousin’s. I should have been pleased. But as I watched Tal-Humche fight, a feeling bloomed inside me—unprompted by any human flesh. I suddenly felt as though he and I were the best of friends, and my only thought was how to save him. I charged out from my hiding place and into the ring of men, and shoved a Guard from behind. He stumbled, and Larsa, perceiving it as an attack, thrust his blade into the man’s throat. Clutching his neck and gurgling blood he toppled by his companions. One charged screaming for vengeance at Larsa, but I caught the thrusting hand and—surprised by his yelp and the crunch of snapping bones—released it. Guards and Chosen turned to the chaos in their midst and for a moment the fighting stopped. They gaped at me. Clutched amulets, muttered spells. And Hanno found his courage and stabbed me. His knife struck my shoulder-blade and I heard bronze clatter. My skin was not pierced. It snapped his knife in two. He staggered back, eyes wide as they beheld his broken blade, and wailing 'ghola!' he fled into the darkness. Followed by his men.
“The danger to my friend had passed and I returned to my senses. Someone was whistling. Across from me stood Tal, a cold light shining upon his haunted face. He pointed his knife at the source. A Magian lantern. ‘Watchmen!’ Larsa said, and the two sprinted off toward the distant shadows. Shrieking whistles pierced the solemn air. Stone paws clashed against the cobbles and golem hounds hurtled, weaving through the clutter of benches and tables and statues—not at the Chosen but me. A hound leapt at my throat. I raised my arm, and jaws clamped around my wrist and the force knocked me over. I stood back up and ran, dragging the heavy stone, and something squeezed my ankle. Another golem. And another and another. They bore me to the ground and I wormed my way along it. Out of the corners of my eyes I glimpsed the hem of a watchman’s robe.
“‘Just look at the way it moves!’ A voice said.
“‘By the gods, Matthias!’ said another, ‘You said this would only be a duel.’
“‘I thought it would be.’ Matthias said. ‘Go call for a corpse-catcher. We’ll need a wagon and rope.’”
“Wait.” Umbra said. “You were caught?”
“Oh, yes.” Root said. “And buried deep underground, with worms.”
“But if you’re telling me the truth, then how could you be here?”
He stood up and stretched his legs. “That, my lady, is a tale for another time.”
“What? You can’t leave me now!”
He looked at her. “My lady, surely you would not keep a guest longer than he wishes to stay?”
The ghola frowned. “No.” she said. “It would not be appropriate.”
“I should be at the feast, my lady. I’ve been gone awhile, and soon somebody will wonder. Farewell.”
“You’ll visit again, won’t you?”
“Of course.” he said. “I promise.”
“When?”
“When does a thrall ever have time? It’ll have to be the next holy day.”
Umbra smiled. “Very well. Next holy day.” And Root strode to the door. It was closed. He cleared his throat.
“My lady, if you could just help me here.”
“Umbra forgive me,” she said. The stone creaked apart. “And Dogbreath. If you don’t show up I must tell father everything.”
Root adjusted his hat, gave her his best winning smile, and bolted. After all this time, he really did need to use the privy.
