Pale Queen’s Courtyard
Copyright 2011 by Marcin Wrona
Smashwords Edition
If you will only return to Alu-nin-hura,
We will dance once more in your courtyard.
Chapter 1: A Vase from Akros
Leonine plucked a final note and quietly exhaled. As that last vibrant peal faded to a soft hum and died, applause rang out, followed by the predictable babble of courtiers trying to frame their praise in just the right words.
Sycophants.
There was a time when he would have committed their kind words to memory, but those days were behind him. He was not, in point of fact, listening, although he nodded politely and assumed a mask of humbly bemused gratitude. One did not recite the old lays for nobility as long as he had without learning that their sweet turns of phrase were intended more often for each other than for the artist.
So it was here, in the manor of Ila-uanna, the widow he had come to seduce. 
It was not rumoured to be an especially difficult task. She was, after all, a woman who had commissioned scribes to write for her a veritable library of salacious poetry, and this while her husband was still alive. She had even, if the talk of Inatum was to be believed, rewarded the scribes with her body in place of shekels.
Not a rumour – not at all in question – was her wealth. Her husband had been an able and canny merchant. His barges carried cypress and cedar from the woodlands of Karhan in the spring, when the placid Hapur was at its swiftest, and his caravans carried incense, linens and more exotic goods overland during the great river’s sluggish dry season.
Nevertheless, although she was said to have a ferocious hunger for men, and her humble manor bustled with suitors, Ila-uanna had never remarried.
Leonine was undaunted. Like the rest of this motley crowd of merchants and minor nobles (yes, and hopeful scribes), he had come with dreams of silver, carnelian and lapis lazuli. But marriage was far from his mind.
He set his lyre gingerly on the ground beside him, and accepted with a smile a platter of food and a cup of beer handed him by one of the house-slaves, a young Ekkadi with the goblet of a kitchen maid tattooed in blue ink on her forehead. The beer was cool and sweet, surprisingly good. It tasted – as did just about everything else in this country – of dates, a bland sweetness that he found odd but not unpleasant. As he drained his cup, assuaging the throat that earned his keep, he became keenly aware that Ila-uanna’s appraising gaze had come to rest upon him. A wasp to a sundew.
He met her kohl-rimmed eyes, as he had so many times this day, and flashed a coy half-smile, a roguish expression he’d perfected in silver mirrors and pond surfaces. Her eyes narrowed curiously, then flicked away. He caught a hint of crow’s feet at their corners; under the veil, she’d smiled. 
Theirs had been a courtship of cautious smiles, of glances pointedly turned aside. As the afternoon grew late, Leonine judged that his hunt had finally reached its end, and the full force of his attention returned to his plate.
Like Ila-uanna’s manor, dinner was unassuming but pleasant: warm bread smeared with garlic oil served alongside lamb, and chickpeas that tasted of cumin and sesame. After the poor fare of his long journey, it was a feast.
The noise ebbed. Ila-uanna’s many suitors had apparently flattered the musician sufficiently to meet with her approval, and returned to talking amongst themselves. The widow, no doubt bored with talk of sheep and trade routes, rose gracefully from her pillows and walked towards him, hips swaying. An affectation, and one that boded well. Her stride had not been quite so purposeful earlier. The bull-necked old man who hastily got to his feet to follow her was a less welcome sight. Akosh, the steward, a reaver whose loyalty had long ago been bought with Ekkadi gold; a man he’d been warned about.
“That was well played,” Akosh muttered through a white beard, the tone of his voice implying something a touch more hostile than simple approval.
Ila-uanna laughed. “As if you’d know the first thing about music, you old lion,” she said. Her voice was raw, bringing to mind the way men spoke after an evening spent gathered around the tobacco pipe. The earthiness of it suited her.
“One need not be raised at court to appreciate music,” said Leonine. “Although I had hoped – vainly, perhaps – that my war song would meet with somewhat more effusive approval. Lanapish was perhaps the most impressive victory of Ushti’s campaign.”
Akosh’s eyebrow climbed atop his forehead. “How did word of our provincial…” he spat that word “… scuffles reach the ears of the mighty Merezadesh?”
Ila-uanna groaned, turning her eyes to a red evening sky. Leonine noted with amusement that a hush had fallen over the nearest spectators.
“Akosh…” the widow said, her voice betraying a certain weariness, “is it absolutely necessary that we ruin this perfectly lovely evening with talk of politics?”
Akosh muttered an apology. They’d obviously had this discussion before, he and Ila-uanna. 
“No, it’s a fair question,” said Leonine cheerfully, “In fact, I know many things about Karhan. For example, I know you were at Lanapish. They called you the Stone, as I recall, after you alone fought off an entire siege ladder atop the Windward Wall.”
That got your attention. 
Akosh’s face contorted comically. He sputtered, grasping after but not finding the words for which he searched. Ila-uanna clapped her hands and laughed.
“Amashuk certainly did not tell me that story! And here I thought you were just a common brigand.”
Akosh coloured. “They did call me that, yes. Although the stories have grown so ridiculous that I can hardly recognize myself. I – and at least four other men the tales have forgotten – held that wall only briefly. Our brothers were quick to reinforce our numbers.”
It was not the first time he was grateful for Ibashtu’s research. None of Leonine’s past patrons had ever gone to such lengths to ensure his work was painless.
“Tell us of the battle, Akosh!” said a man sitting nearby, a minor functionary whose name Leonine would have forgotten, had he learned it in the first place. The warrior protested, but a self-satisfied grin spread across his face. He had all the subtlety of a child… but a child at least four stone heavier than Leonine. Dangerous enough without a scribe’s mind… don’t underestimate him.
Akosh allowed himself to be talked into taking the stage. He collected his thoughts for a moment, and then began to weave his tale of years-old heroism. Leonine picked up his lyre and strummed absently, matching the old warrior’s tone. The strings grew insistently louder as the Artalum horde approached the walls of Lanapish, and when they clashed shield against spear it was to the accompaniment of a minstrel striking a lyre’s base with the heel of his hand.
When the siege was finally broken, Ila-uanna’s steward sighed contentedly, then fixed Leonine with a grin that stretched the length of his leathery face. Ila-uanna led the applause, and Akosh turned a furiously red face towards his feet. 
It was almost endearing.
“I was about to say that we’d make a poet of you yet,” said Ila-uanna with a smile. “But it looks as though you already have a certain talent.” 
Several suitors wrestled valiantly with grins they hoped to contain; evidently, they were not oblivious to Ila-uanna’s rumoured patronage of the arts. Leonine wondered absently if she’d ever taken Akosh to bed. From all accounts, her husband had been as dull as he was rich.
Two more cups of date-sweet beer passed Leonine’s lips as the Shimurg flew overhead, low already in its journey over the horizon. The sky was painted in bands of orange and pink when he refused a fourth. The beer was not strong, but caution was important tonight – his work had not yet begun in earnest.
Ila-uanna’s courtyard slowly emptied. Merchants made their excuses and set out on the road back to their shops in the nearby villages of Balash and Hutu, resigned to empty beds. One had come all the way from within the yellow-glazed walls of Sinmalik the Golden, and a guest room had been prepared for him. A room had been prepared for Leonine as well, although he neither expected nor intended to spend the night there.
He sat alone, back to a blue-glazed column, and watched as the crowd slowly dissolved.
Not far away, Ila-uanna spoke with the merchant from Sinmalik and another man wearing the robes of a scribe, brown wool with the angular Ekkadi script embossed on the collar. The motto common, one that Leonine recognized immediately: “Anki gave us words, and made us Men.” Akosh stood near his mistress, his eye wandering to such points of interest as the bare wall to his right. Leonine caught his eye and beckoned him over. The warrior all but jumped to attention, obviously grateful for the distraction – any distraction.
“The rising price of goats not of interest to you?” Leonine asked as Akosh sat down beside him.
“Lucrative investments in sorghum, actually,” he replied. “And no. For every leech who comes here with dreams of taking Ila’s wealth by marriage, another comes assuming she learned nothing of money from Amashuk, may he be remembered. But enough. Such talk is liable to make me angry. Tell me, Merezadesh. What brings you so far from your own lands?”
Leonine shrugged. “Sarvash is not as glamorous as the priests make it out to be. It is all jagged rocks, dry heat, and the hide tents of nomads and goatherds. Ashavan itself is a reed shack compared to Hatshut or the twin cities of Numush.”
That was true, as far as it went, although Leonine had only once been to the hilly country of Sarvash, epicentre of the Merezad’s eponymous empire. He’d been a child then, pulled along by the hand during his father’s pilgrimage to the Garden of Ahamash. He saw no reason to mention that he was in fact Ekkadi-born, or as close to it as a man from Sarvagadis would ever be considered.
Sarvagadis. Once, it was Nin-nishi, whose ziggurat was visited at dusk by Nin, the Pale Queen. Now it was a city without a temple. Its white-glazed bricks had drowned somewhere in the shallow salt marsh where the Hapur met the sea.
Akosh looked into the distance. “It is strange, is it not? Such wealth here between the rivers, and so many able men. Ekka should have been the conqueror, as Arta was before her.”
“Perhaps so.”
The two men sat one beside the other, now speaking, now silent. The Serpent’s Eye, which the Ekkadi had once called a Queen, fixed them with a reproachful silver stare from its perch in the now-black sky. When Ila-uanna thanked her guests and retired to her chambers, Akosh clapped Leonine on the shoulder and rose with a grunt. 
“Sleep soundly, Merezadesh,” he said, and was gone.
Leonine sat in that courtyard alone, looking up at the night that his people so feared. Then he picked up his lyre and walked to the humble room that had been prepared for him. He sat cross-legged on the bed for a time, strumming absently, until a predictable knock at his door. It opened to admit the same Ekkadi slave that had bustled around the courtyard earlier that night.
“My mistress would like to see you,” she said, her eyes downcast. “She asks that you sing her to sleep.”
Of course she does.
Leonine smiled graciously, and stood up to follow her.
“I would be most pleased to be of service.”
Ila-uanna’s room was more sumptuous than he’d imagined – Amashuk had obviously spared no expense to make her life pleasant. Above a bed strewn with red Bachiyan silks, on which she now sat, hung an Artalum tapestry depicting a proud lion brought low by arrows. Before her was a shukasi game board, its malachite fields cut in half by a river of lapis lazuli.  She had started a game against nobody in particular, and appeared to be losing. Fragrant incense burned in a censer hanging from the wall. Leonine recognized the scent, though he could not have named it.
“Ah, I thank you for coming. I have such trouble sleeping these days,” she said, beckoning him over to the bed. “I was hoping that you might join me for a game of shukasi, or perhaps sing me to sleep.”
She wore a shift of diaphanous cloth, and a headdress of pearls bound together by thin strands of bronze. Of her marriage veil there was no sign. The smile on her painted lips was genuine, the laugh lines around her eyes intrusions of age onto a face that had seen more summers than Leonine’s own.
He sat down on the soft bed beside her, and pointed at the board. “If you wish to play,” he said, “I’ll have to insist that we start anew. My soldiers have already pushed far into your territory.”
She rearranged the pieces, setting them back in their respective camps, and took from a stool at the head of her bed a delicate bottle – dark glass, a rarity even in wealthy Ekka – and two cups. Date wine, Leonine supposed. She poured two cups of thick auburn liquid. Leonine nodded his thanks, and sipped at the wine. He’d been wrong. It was every bit as sweet as date wine, but also tart and more delicate.
“What is this?” Leonine asked, genuinely curious. “I’ve never tasted its like.”
“Wine made from the plum,” she said. “I am told it is a round, violet fruit that grows on the islands that make up Akros. Amashuk introduced me to it… though it is difficult to get. Akrosian goods have been too scarce of late.”
How true, he observed wryly. Akrosian ships only rarely came to Sarvagadis or Adarpa – that was, in fact, precisely why he’d come.
He drained his cup, and grinned at her. “I could be persuaded not to denounce you to the Master of Coin, if you’d be so kind as to pour another.”
“I suppose I’m at your mercy,” she said. Taking up the ewer, Ila-uanna leaned in close to pour another cup. The scent of jasmine and cloves lingered when she drew back.
They played, and talked of inconsequential things. She was born not far away, in Inatum, the daughter of a once well-to-do family that had fallen on difficult times since the conquest of Ekka by the Merezadesh – “your people”, she had called them. He told her that he had grown up poor and humble in Sarvash, and that he learned to play the lyre from a kindly uncle. She spoke wistfully of a marriage she had been forced into and a husband that, over time, she had come to love. He spoke of a life spent single, a traveler with neither the wealth nor the time to attract a wife. As her horsemen struck across the river and attacked his flanks, she told him that she was terribly lonely. And wasn’t he also? He said he was, sometimes.
When she spoke, her rich voice wove strands of pain, joy and regret; a tapestry of a life halfway lived. There was honesty in it.  In what he had told her there was little honesty, although perhaps some of the regret was real. He too had lived life halfway.
Leonine’s flank was in disarray. Ila-uanna blocked his reserve with her spearmen, and tried to sneak the cavalry in behind. He retorted by assaulting her gates with his catapult, but he knew he did not have men enough to take the walls. When her oracles – the Sarvashi had balked at that, and renamed the pieces “strategists” – moved up the field unchallenged to grant her soldiers their blessing, Leonine laughed and shook his head, holding his hands up in resignation.
“Well played,” he said. “I had considered letting my gracious host win, but I see now how foolish that thought was.”
She smiled, and placed a warm hand on his forearm, running her fingers along his as she removed it. “I was taught well.”
Improbable though it was, Leonine found that he was enjoying himself. The widow had a certain strength and composure that he found attractive. Ahamash, how long has it been?
Ila-uanna picked up the board, and turned around to place it on the stool from which she’d taken the wine. When she turned back, his face was before hers, his hand pulling at her neck, bringing her lips to his. 
She kissed him passionately, and Leonine found his body stirring. There was a hunger in him that he found surprising, and as he ran his fingers along her ear he attributed it to the wine. 
She grasped at his belt and undid the bronze buckle, then ran her hands beneath his tunic, over his stomach. They came to rest on his chest, and then slid down again, raking him playfully with lacquer-hardened nails. He slipped the tunic over his head, and ran a hand along the side of her foot, and from there in a snaking line up her leg. 
Soon they both were naked, her hands wrapped in his thick hair, his own between her thighs. She was not, he decided, without her charms.
Ila-uanna’s hands ran down his neck, to his chest, then pushed him backward, onto the bed. She kneeled above him, and took off her headdress, shook her hair free. 
She lowered herself onto him, and he shuddered at the feel of her. They made love, and it tasted of plums.
When it was over, Leonine and Ila-uanna lay among Bachiyan silks, her head on his chest. 
“Tell me your name,” she murmured.
“Leonine. How soon we forget.”
She chuckled, and cuffed him affectionately.
“Surely you don’t expect me to believe that your parents gave you a stage name?”
“Vajih,” he lied. “It means ‘traveler’.”
“Apt, I suppose.” She sighed. “I imagine now you’ll tell me that you must leave in the morning? And that every time you see a shukasi board you will think of me and sigh?” 
“I’d like to think I’d be at least a little less trite.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That’s unworthy of me. I could not keep you here even if I wanted to. Though I am a widow, there are certain protocols that need to be followed. And I’m afraid…” she smiled wryly, “… that a traveling musician would be an insufficiently exciting match for my family.”
“You grew to love your husband, even if he was not your choice. Why turn all your suitors away? You could find happiness again.”
“Happiness?” she asked. “A somewhat less lonely prison, I suppose, and then heirs to dispossess me of the manor my Amashuk built. You and I are not so different, Vajih. Lust can still come easily to a heart that does not love.”
There was silence, until Leonine broke it.
“You invited me to sing for you. Have you ever heard Elekut’s ‘Woman in the Reeds’?”
She shook her head, and he began to sing. His voice was soft and low, a zephyr carried in from the ocean that swept slowly through the marsh, bending reeds. As he sang, he opened himself to that wind, felt it gathering within the core of him. He drew it in slowly, cautiously. It was not a thing to be left unchecked. A teasing at the edge of his consciousness begged him to let go, to pull ever more power into himself. 
He concentrated a swirling eddy of force into his lungs and throat, where it stirred like spasms presaging a second climax. As he sang of Rodabeh laying her head to rest, he wove of it a command. Sleep, he implored her. Sleep and let your troubles be forgotten. The power left his throat and infused his song, and as it escaped him it drew vaporous fingers along his heart. He shuddered at its passing, and gasped for breath.
Ila-uanna slept. He knew nothing would wake her this night.
Leonine left the bed and dressed. The treasury he had come to burgle was no doubt locked, but nothing in Ila-uanna’s room had the look of a key, and he could not afford the time or noise of an extended search. No matter.
Within his lyre was a cunningly hidden compartment that added a hand’s breadth to the instrument’s base. Inside were the tools of his trade: a leather pouch, a folded woolen sack, two small bottles of baked clay, and an array of bronze wires, each tipped with a hook or point of a different size. There was one last tool, this one deadly: a bronze knife, short and keen, in a muffled wooden sheath. He strapped the knife and tools to his belt, closed the compartment, and took a deep breath, then padded on feet trained to silence over to the heavy mahogany door that led out of Ila-uanna’s bedroom.
From the other side of the door came the rhythmic rise and fall of a sleeper’s breath. Ila-uanna’s handmaiden, no doubt. Servants so close to the mistress of the house would no doubt be used to waking quickly. He would have to be careful.
Leonine took one of the clay bottles from the pack hanging at his side and pulled out its stopper. Inside was a cloudy oil that he daubed on the door hinge, then spread around with a finger. 
The door opened silently onto an antechamber where the mistress of the house sometimes entertained. Warm torchlight penetrated the room from the courtyard, from which it was separated by a beaded curtain. Four comfortable divans stood at regular intervals against the north and south walls, two of them now occupied by sleeping slave-girls. One was the same girl that had brought beer to him in the evening, and brought him to Ila-uanna at night. The other, he had not seen before. In the half-light, she looked pale, a pink-skinned barbarian from the frigid northern lands.
He considered singing them to sleep, but decided against it. Every use of sorcery was a risk. He’d not gotten any sense of talent from the gathered crowd, but such things could be difficult to read accurately, and a mistake could cost his life. There had been a day, once, when Ekkadi could chant spells with no fear of being staked down in an unforgiving desert, to die parched and delusional, scorched red by the Shimurg’s heat. That day had died with Nin’s temples.
Leonine would trust, then, in his other talents. He did not want to be seen prowling around at night, but if worst came to worst, there were a thousand believable reasons for a man to leave the bed of his night’s conquest. 
He snuck through the room, careful not to silhouette himself against the curtained portal, a child once more, wriggling through windows and stalking alleyways in search of bread or a too-low purse.
Leonine still had his hands and his life. He’d always been quiet.
The women did not wake. Leonine peered carefully around the edge of the archway, onto the familiar courtyard, lit now by the fitful flicker of torches. As he’d expected – as Ibashtu had told him – two guards were posted here, suits of lamellar with spears, a man inside each. They were, thankfully, not alert to the possibility of robbery. Instead of patrolling the grounds, they talked quietly, but with an undisguised heat – imprecations against their employers, most likely.
He gathered the beaded strings hanging from the archway, and pulled them slowly aside, careful not to let the strands jingle. There was no wind this night, and he did not want to test the guards’ talents. His heart began to pound, his breath shallow. Fear was delicious, in a way, like sex and sorcery. 
Keeping one hand to his knife just in case, Leonine stepped through the curtain and guided its strings back, slowly and silently, mouth dry. He was terribly exposed, at the mercy of luck and fate, though he was loath to trust in the former and did not believe in the latter. One glance, a guard turning his head to spit, perhaps, could prove the border between life and death.
The curtain finally hanging closed once more, Leonine leapt from the antechamber’s entrance, taking refuge behind one of the pillars in the colonnade that ringed Ila-uanna’s courtyard. His heart still pounded, hand tight on the hilt of his knife. There had been no shouts, no darting spearheads – only the constant, spitting mutter of men complaining about their lot in life.
He crept from pillar to pillar, ghost-quiet, working his way around the guards’ backs and towards the archway that led to the kitchens. He would find what he sought there, if Ibashtu’s information was correct.
And when is it not?
Leonine slipped through a mercifully curtain-free archway into the kitchens. He could just barely hear the drone of servants talking somewhere ahead of him, but the area appeared to be empty. Nothing remained of the day’s feast but the glow of the last dying embers in a clay oven, and the pungent scent of spice.
A door in the far wall creaked open, and the fly-buzz of a muffled conversation suddenly grew louder. Leonine leapt into the shadows behind a clay oven, hand at his knife.
“– see the way she looked at him? Shameful!” said a man’s voice in something near a stage whisper. The interloper was no doubt trying to be subtle, but to the musician’s keen ear he might as well have been screaming imprecations from a pulpit. 
“Ha! As if you’re surprised. A handsome young artist like him?” a second voice, this one making no attempt at silence. “I’m amazed she didn’t drown us all in her wetness.”
An explosive gasp, then a nervous titter of laughter. Shrouded by darkness, Leonine smirked.
“Are you insane, Mawalak?” the first voice whispered with some urgency. “What if her handmaid had come to fetch a snack? Or if Akosh overheard you?”
“That old bore? He’s a suaga snake. A loud hiss, and no venom. When’s the last time he lifted a spear to train, let alone fight?”
Leonine almost wished that Akosh was there. His reaction would surely be entertaining. 
“You’re wrong.” The footsteps were now at their loudest. “You weren’t with us when that pickpocket tried to take Anuatu’s wallet. Akosh had him on the ground before I even knew what was happening, and missing a few teeth besides.”
The noise of sandals slapping against the clay-tiled floor receded. They had passed his hiding place.
“Akosh did that?” asked the one named Mawalak, his voice carrying from outside the archway. Apparently tired of discussing Ila-uanna’s morals, he changed subject. “Ah, Muafa! Do you have my winnings yet?”
Leonine did not hear the response, for he was already moving. He put his ear briefly to the door the two servants had come through – the door he'd been told led to their quarters – and, satisfied that no noise came from the other end, opened it and crept through. 
Somewhere in the compound, Ibashtu had told him, was a guarded storage room in which Ila-uanna kept those spoils of her husband’s mercantile endeavors that she was not interested in displaying openly. Among them was an Akrosian vase, an item of some significant rarity. It was more than simply clay, glazed and baked; it had been used in sacrificial rites that would have made the forbidden priests of Nin blanch. Or so Ibashtu believed. More importantly, so did the buyer.
The servants’ halls were quiet, but for the rhythmic wheeze of snoring that rose and fell from all sides. Leonine did not relax his guard. Not all of the servants would be asleep. At least a few likely attended to nightly duties, and it would not do to stumble upon one unprepared. A shout could undo his efforts, and he was in too deep now to pretend he was headed to the baths to relieve himself.
He peered around a corner, and decided that he’d found what he was looking for. An armoured guard stood in front of a door at the end of the hallway, an axe at his belt. One did not guard a servant's quarters. This, no doubt, was the storeroom. 
The hallway was long, and empty of anything an enterprising thief might hide behind. Barring a sudden dereliction of duty, the guard would have to be eliminated. That was fine. It was hardly unheard of for a servant to steal from his employer, and if a valiant guard was taken by surprise and knifed by someone he knew… tragic, but not unbelievable.
Leonine crept along the wall, picking up speed. He knew it was only a matter of time before the guard noticed him and raised a cry, and he wanted to be as near him as possible before that happened.
The guard’s head turned, eyes widening. To Leonine it was a moment stretched out across eternity, an hour spun of a single heartbeat. A gnarled hand dropped to the handle of a bronze-bladed axe, and a mouth opened to raise a cry that would bring Leonine’s aspirations, and his life, to a halt.
Leonine would not allow that.
He opened himself fully, throwing caution to the wind, and felt power leap into the space he had created, roiling and churning like a storm at sea. Leonine sucked in a breath, and there was sorcery in it: a theft unlike any other. The guard’s mouth opened but no sound escaped. Horror twisted his features. As Leonine broke into a run, bare feet slapping silently against the tiled floor, the guard fumbled with his axe, hands no longer sure or swift, mouth working soundlessly. 
He was too slow.
As the axe finally cleared its belt loop, Leonine’s knife shot out, cutting deep into the guard’s right forearm. He hissed in pain, silently, and made to strike Leonine with his left hand, but the thief was quick – his own left was already there, stuffing the punch, while his knife found a throat and extinguished a life.
The guard crumpled against the wall. His axe fell from nerveless fingers and bounced soundlessly from the floor, chipping a tile.
Leonine exhaled, and noise seeped back into the world. He heard the sputter of torches. Servants snored contentedly in the distance, unaware of the murder that had taken place outside their doors.
He reached for the heavy door and winced. A moment ago he’d been caught up in fear, desperation, and through it all the shivering pleasures of sorcery. Now that the moment had passed, he became aware of a wailing agony in his head. He shivered, suddenly light-headed and more than a little nauseous.
Leonine breathed deeply, leaning against a heavy wooden door rich with engravings. He locked eyes with a mahogany soldier, the only guard that remained between him and riches. The world’s spinning slowed, and he tried the door only to find it locked.
He squatted down in a spreading pool of blood, and berated himself. Idiot, focus. There’s a dead man at your feet and a locked door in front. Work fast.
He rifled through the guard’s tunic, and found nothing. No key hung at his belt. The pendant around his neck was pretty enough, but it would not open a door.
 Leonine eyed the lock – a typical Ekkadi design, barred from inside by a sliding wooden slat that would not budge before each of its weighted wooden tumblers were raised to a particular height. The dead man at his feet might not have had one of the distinctive comb-like keys, but it was a poor thief indeed whose search was stymied for lack of one. Leonine reached into the pouch at his waist and withdrew the hooked picks.
His head was still spinning – albeit more slowly now – when he found the farthest tumbler’s height and began to work on the next. Sorcery, he reflected, was like the great Shalumes – it was life, and it was wealth, but wise men knew that the control they exerted over it was a delusion. The Shalumes was known to break its feeble bonds, to shatter clay earthworks and wooden dams and to wash away fields, villages and cities entire in its terrible wake. The Merezadesh barely needed their Huntsmen; a single moment of inattention could turn a sorcerer into a burnt-out husk. 
Such, Leonine reasoned as he solved the final tumbler, was the price of power.
Leonine pulled the door open, and slid a thin clay block into the doorjamb. He dragged the guard into the storeroom behind him, cursing. The cut arm had bled profusely. A dark pool was obvious even by weak torchlight, and his work was not yet done.
Leonine cut the straps of his victim's armour. The padded woolen shirt he wore below the coat of bronze scales would serve as a towel. Leonine took a deep breath and slipped out of the storeroom, mopping hastily at the blood until the shirt grew sodden in his hands. The floor would pass muster, at least by night. He was not overly concerned with what morning would bring.
Leonine stepped back into the storeroom and, finally able to look around, found himself grinning. By the entrance sat bolts of saffron-yellow Hatshut linen. He wiped his hands on the fabric, ruining it. To his right stood a large ewer inlaid with mosaic tile, and beside that were numerous glass bottles filled, he imagined, with plum wine. A pair of stelae depicting long-dead Artalum flanked a latched – but unlocked – chest. Curious, Leonine lifted the top and peered inside, whistling in disbelief at the variety of coins inside. Some were round and imprinted with the feather of Shimurg; others were square and inscribed with letters he could not read; others still were pyramidal hunks of silver. Amashuk’s reputation, he decided, short-changed the man. He had expected the wealth of a skilled merchant, and had found that of a lord.
I haven’t come here for coin.
He abstained – though it pained him – from filling his pockets, and lowered the lid. Coins jingled too loudly, and the thing for which he had come was worth more to the right buyer than all the coin he could carry.
He could feel it in the room when he concentrated, a brooding menace just at the edge of his consciousness. He followed that feeling until he found a vase glazed orange and black. To the untrained eye, it was unassuming. To his, it was anything but. It whispered of power bought with blood, of death and bronze and the stern regard of foreign gods.
He took the sack from his pouch and unfolded it. Carefully, he slipped the vase inside. He needed just one more thing tonight: a sacrifice.
The familiar drone of sleep greeted Leonine as he left the storeroom. He reclaimed his clay doorstop, and pulled the door quietly to a close behind him. Nobody had noted that a guard had deserted his post; no cry had been raised. 
Leonine retraced his steps, returning to the kitchen, and then through it to the courtyard. The servants who had come this way were nowhere to be seen, although the guards had not disappeared. 
Leonine crept around them, keeping his back as before to the colonnade. It seemed less perilous this time, although he knew the danger of overconfidence. The most difficult part of the night’s plan was still before him, and a man carrying stolen goods had little room for error. He needed to reach his wagon in the stables, but he could not do so now. One of the guards stared in that direction.
He decided to trust to patience. He flattened himself against a pillar, as far from the nearest guttering torch as he could manage, and waited. If he turned his head to the right, he could look into the courtyard and out of it, at the night that sheltered him from discovery. The Shimurg’s feathers were falling points of light. Some flew swiftly, some fluttered slowly. The first to be shed would already have fallen to earth. The last of them hung halfway to the vault of the black sky, a sign that dawn was still several hours away. His people feared the night, but Leonine found it strange and beautiful to look at – the highest reaches of heaven as black as ink, the lowest dotted with silver lights.
He was not sure how long he stood there, listening to the sounds of the courtyard and staring at the sky, when the silence was broken by a familiar voice.
“Muafa! Now do you have my winnings? Was Adnat obliging?”
Leonine glanced quickly around the column; the guards had turned to the irritating man he’d heard identified as Mawalak in the kitchens. One – Muafa, he supposed – mumbled a perfunctory greeting. Leonine took advantage of the distraction to dash across the yard and into the massive stable.
The stable normally housed the horses and wagons of Ila-uanna's caravan, which would even now be on its way to Hatshut and the east. In their place stood Leonine’s own wagon – Ibashtu’s, really – a garishly painted monstrosity, its greens, reds and golds mercifully muted by the night. She had insisted that he take it, claiming that its gaudy colours would proclaim his musical talents to Ekka… and that it had other uses besides. 
Curled up in a bale of hay lay a stable hand, a spindly teenage boy afflicted with spots. Some of Ila-uanna’s horses had remained behind. They slept now, although Shema, one of his own, stirred to wakefulness and whickered softly as he neared.
Leonine quieted the beast and worked his way to the wagon. He opened the red and yellow sliding door, taking care to do so slowly. It had an annoying tendency to catch, and once stuck required some muscle and more than a little noise to open. Inside was a sleeping compartment scattered with pillows; opposite them, bags of grain and sealed clay tankards of beer. Leonine rummaged about, cursing. Even now, after almost a week’s travel, Leonine had trouble finding the switch that unlocked the wagon's cunningly hidden false floor.
Finally, Leonine found the latch, and lowered the vase into a gaping smuggler's compartment.
The evidence of his wrongdoing now hidden away, Leonine was able to concentrate on the task that remained to him – somebody had to disappear.
The stable hand, he decided, would not do. He was too young, too gawky. Even with the element of surprise, it was difficult to believe that he could overcome a guard, much less orchestrate the theft of a vase of little apparent value. No, he needed someone who could conceivably have contacts in a city like nearby Inatum, where men would be willing to spend any number of minas to wrap their hands around Akrosian art. It was not the strongest ruse, perhaps, but he needed only to leave the manor before its strands were pulled apart.
The stables were well placed for what he needed, tucked into the northern corner of Ila-uanna’s courtyard, beside the baths. That was part of the plan. Leonine had but to wait until someone woke up and staggered over to pass water, which could hardly take long considering how much beer had been consumed earlier.
Mawalak was still conversing with the guards when Leonine passed by once more, although the subject of their conversation had changed. The second guard – Adnat, Leonine supposed – was speaking too quietly to be heard across the courtyard, but Akosh’s name, at least, was recognizable. 
“I’d never have believed it!” Mawalak all but shouted.  He was a small man, Leonine decided, for such a gratingly loud voice. The thief carefully passed through another of the damnable beaded curtains, watching the guards intently all the while. As he entered the bathhouse, he saw Adnat nod and return to his story.
The baths were empty, the central pool drained, probably by way of the same underground tunnel that carried waste from the manor into the plains beyond it. The smaller pool to his left, its privacy ensured by a surrounding curtain of ferns, was likely Ila-uanna’s own.
Leonine squatted behind the private pool, keeping a wall of greenery between himself and the bathhouse entrance. He withdrew a thin cord from a pocket sewn to the inside of his tunic. A garrote was not the gentlest way to die, but neither was it the worst. Small mercies.
He did not wait long. Within a few minutes, he heard the rattle of beads brushing against each other, and then footsteps. Mawalak. Mawalak would do.
The servant walked towards the commode, directly opposite the entrance. When he’d pulled the door shut behind him, Leonine stood up and walked over to it. There was a certain risk in crossing the floor this way, exposed by ample torchlight to whoever else decided this was a good time to relieve himself. There was an even greater risk of bungling the job and having Mawalak shout in that strong voice. 
Life is full of risks.
He waited there, pressed against the wall, while Mawalak grunted through his last shit. He’d strangled men before; they lost control of their bowels as they died. It would be much more pleasant, he decided, to deal with one that did him the courtesy of emptying his colon beforehand.
The door creaked open and Mawalak emerged, unaware that the Weeper had spoken his name. As he shut it behind him, Leonine struck, scorpion-quick. Before the servant could so much as gasp in shock, he was on the ground, a garrote around his neck, a knee in his back. Leonine held on, knuckles white as he strained to keep the cord tight. Mawalak was strong, certainly stronger than he. Servants often were, and fear made men powerful.
But not powerful enough. Mawalak died on the glazed tile floor of that bathhouse, fighting desperately for breath.
Leonine pulled the corpse behind the ferns that guarded Ila-uanna’s privacy, and left him there for a moment.
So this is my life. Strangling servants in bathhouses.
There was nothing new in the courtyard. Muafa and Adnat had stopped speaking, as though observing a moment of silence to mark the two murders that had happened on their watch. Their backs were to him, which was good. Leonine walked back to Mawalak, and lifted the slain servant onto his shoulder. He was not a tall man, but he was well built, and heavier than Leonine had expected.
Leonine trudged to the bath entrance, trying as best he could to walk lightly beneath his heavy burden, but his feet felt too heavy, too clumsy, and the beaded curtain would be much too difficult to navigate.
He sighed. He’d hoped to avoid using more sorcery. The sleep song had been slow, measured, unlikely to draw attention. The desperate spell he’d cast in the hallway, the one that had left him shaken and nauseous, was not. Any sorcerer within half a day’s ride had probably felt it, although the silence in Ila-uanna’s manor had confirmed his suspicion that there were none here. Or if there were, they did not care, which was every bit as good. 
Another risk. This time, at least, he would not be rushed. 
He laid Mawalak on the ground and opened up only partially, admitting a trickle, not a torrent. He shuddered as the power slowly filled him. It had a lover’s touch, a teasing caress that made his hairs stand on end. He was regretful when it was complete, when it came time to close himself away. Surely, there was no harm in a little more? One more caress, however brief. He made to open – 
No!
Leonine recoiled from the temptation. He had enough. He had more than enough.
He drew in a breath, and dragged Mawalak soundlessly across the tiles and through the curtain. He pulled him along behind the colonnade, behind the guards’ backs, lungs burning with the effort of holding in the all-important breath that plucked sound from the air and made him its keeper.
Leonine was almost inside the stable when he finally let that breath go, panting and gasping for air. The first noise he heard as he pulled Mawalak into the stable was Shema’s snuffling.
It took some effort to carry Mawalak over to his wagon, and then to stow him under his wagon’s false floor, a second sacrifice to the Akrosian urn that now lay beside him, secured with rope. He briefly considered silencing the area again, to ensure the stable boy did not wake, but decided against it. The boy had not so much as flinched the last time. Leonine would trust in the depth of his sleep.
The job done, he left the stable, intent on a well-earned sleep among soft pillows and Bachiyan silks. As he crept back along the colonnade, the guards seemed finally to realize that something was amiss.
“Mawalak has been in there a while,” he heard Muafa say.
Adnat snorted. “You probably should make sure he’s alive.”
Leonine froze, his back against a pillar
“Fuck him. With any luck, he fell through the commode.”
Long after Leonine returned to Ila-uanna’s bed, a horn sounded and woke them both.
Mawalak, it turned out, had murdered a guard.
Chapter 2: Hounds
The journey from Ab-Ewarad had been unpleasant. Kamvar’s thighs chafed from weeks in the saddle, after what had seemed a lifetime at sea. The nights spent outdoors on the flat plain between the rivers, with not even the fronds of a date palm to shield him from a hostile black sky, chafed in a different way. He’d once again chosen the short reed.  Three cold nights in a row, and the second and third of them midnight watches.
He had been shaken out of sleep in the deepest black. When he woke, the Shimurg’s feathers had mostly fallen to the horizon, leaving the night sky unadorned but for the malicious silver gaze of the Serpent’s Eye. That, he guessed, had taken place no more than an hour ago. He did not want to think about how many remained.
It was enough, Kamvar decided, to drive a man to kill.
He let out a sigh and drew his woolen cloak tighter about his shoulders, teeth chattering in time with the chirping crickets that were trapped with him in the cold of a grassland night. 
What I wouldn’t give for a fire right now. Yet he knew full well that the comforts of civilization could prove a deadly luxury here. Even if they were only three days from the bustle and stink of Ab-Ewarad, this land was no friend to the Merezadesh. Rebels, wild cats and darker things still prowled when fiery Shimurg passed over the mountains that men called the Serpent’s Bones and died there, dark things that would not dare show their teeth by day when great Ahamash was watching.
He stroked the spear lying across his lap. Few things, Kamvar decided, were quite as reassuring to a soldier as warm wood and cold bronze. If he had to spend his nights abroad under the hateful Eye instead of the thatched roof of a way house, well, that was the price of serving in one of the Kingpriest’s most notoriously selective orders.
Even if the realities of serving that order fell somewhat short of the songs.
We still haven’t been told why we’re here. He looked to the other men, who lay snoring contentedly beneath wool blankets. They were ten, and two Hounds – two full Hunts, which was hardly customary. Hound Majid had said little, and his replies were unusually terse. Hound Barsam… Kamvar preferred not to think about Hound Barsam. He had first met the man when their ship came in to Sarvagadis almost a month ago, but he knew – everybody knew – the stories. How could they not? “One Arm, One Eye,” was a Temple slogan these days, a command to fight against the dark, no matter the sacrifice.
Of course, the priests who chanted most loudly still had their eyes and arms. Hound Barsam was one of the lucky few that had suffered wounds in combat with Daiva and lived to tell of it.
Lost limbs were not the whole of Barsam’s tale. There were whispers of a zeal that – although he was wise enough not to admit it openly – made Kamvar uncomfortable. It was said that Hound Barsam had never failed, nor even stalled, in the Hunt. There were even rumours that he’d given his own sister to the Shimurg, that he had staked her out in the desert, nails through her hands and feet. That he had laughed at her curses while he watched her die.
Kamvar could not have said how much of this was true, but he had learned over the last several weeks that Barsam did not much enjoy levity, discourse, or Ekka in general, and that his men spoke carefully and seldom, glancing always in his direction before they began.
This trip to Ekka, this Hunt for an undisclosed something or someone, was far less exciting in practice than he had expected it to be when Majid first brought up the subject in Ashavan, two months ago, over a skin of honey wine.
Kamvar sighed and turned his gaze south. Somewhere beyond the horizon were the Vashedin, the molten peaks at the very edge of the world, which barred mortal men from the holy lands where Ahamash himself held court. In a few hours the Shimurg would be reborn, and the glow of its flames would paint the skies. Then, he would be free of this odious duty.
Until then, he would have to take solace in the smooth wood of his spear shaft, and do his best to avoid thoughts of one-eyed warrior-priests.
Just before the Shimurg began its ascent into the heavens that Ahamash had fashioned, Shadmehr came to relieve him. Yazan had drawn the watch, but it often happened this way. Majid’s men loved to throw dice or pull reeds, and Shad’s luck was notoriously poor. Barsam’s men did not gamble with them, but then Barsam’s men seemed to pass the days looking over their shoulders.
Kamvar wriggled out of his coat of bronze scales. A breeze danced across his bared arms, making the hairs stand on end. He elbowed his way in between Tahmin and Yazan and closed his eyes. Morning would come sooner than he wanted it to, and he was bone-weary. His last thought before sleep took him was of Sahar, left behind in Sarvash, and of little Ashuz, their son.
Morning dawned hazy, with the promise of another hot day in the saddle. The Huntsmen drew their camp and gathered for prayer, eyes to the sky while Majid thanked Ahamash for the new day.
Afterwards, Majid’s men ate together in a companionable silence, each absorbed in his own thoughts.
Kamvar thought of his humble wooden farmhouse, which leaned against Mesav Peak at the very heart of mountainous Sarvash. He had pigs and oxen there, on a small holding just outside the walls of Tagadis. One of his sows was fat with piglets, and he found himself wondering absently if she had already given birth. 
He washed hard bread down with water, then got up to attend to the horse he’d been given at Ab-Ewarad. Lugushu fidgeted and snorted, as unhappy at the prospect of another day spent under a saddle as Kamvar was to sit atop one. A handful of emmer quieted the beast, but the baleful glare with which he fixed his master showed no sign of abating.
“You spoil him, Kamvar,” he heard Tahmin say. “Ekkadi horses are used to stingy Ekkadi merchants – if this nag follows you back to Sarvagadis, I’ll have to buy you a real horse, or I’ll be ashamed to be seen with you.”
Tahmin wore a sardonic half-smile that Kamvar knew all too well. The two had grown up together in the fields outside Tagadis. Kamvar had a scar on his right shoulder from a knife-thrust Tahmin had snuck past his defenses when they were boys sneaking into the night with their fathers’ weapons. Tahmin winced when he dismounted; his left knee had never fully recovered from Kamvar’s accidental strike during a mock skirmish. And they had shared other pains, when their fathers – soldiers then as their sons were now – died together in the frontier of the cold north, their unit hacked apart to a man by Dolnayan axes. There were few secrets between them, and Kamvar recognized this morning's smile as a lie.
Tahmin drew closer and stroked Lugushu’s nose, then made a show of helping Kamvar saddle the bony horse.
“I just overheard the Hounds talking,” Tahmin whispered, wrapping his arms around Lugushu’s neck to hold the horse steady while Kamvar tightened the cinch. “One-eye said something about catching a girl’s scent.”
“Maybe he’s lonely,” Kamvar said. “There haven’t been any temple whores in Sarvagadis for years.”
Tahmin fixed him with a look to match Lugushu’s. His sense of humour rarely lasted through the Temple becoming the butt of ridicule.
“I’m sorry,” Kamvar offered. “It was a bad joke. A girl?”
Tahmin nodded. “Two Hunts traveling under the writ of the Prophet himself, one of them led by the most infamous Hound of the last century, just to catch a girl? A girl they won’t tell their Hunts anything about? Kam, my friend, what are we in for?”
The saddle was now securely strapped. From the corner of his eye, Kamvar saw Hound Barsam looking in their direction, his face an expressionless mask. He thanked Tahmin, and signed to him to go away.
Kamvar knew full well what it meant for a Hound to catch a scent. Sorcery had been used nearby, and where there was sorcery there were Daiva. He had given enough possessed men to the Shimurg to learn that lesson.
When the other soldiers had finished breaking their fast, Majid cleared his throat and called for their attention. He and Barsam stood side by side, and although it was Majid who spoke, Kamvar found himself watching the one-eyed man’s face.
“We have told you little about the task set before us,” his Hound said. “But you must trust us when I tell you that it was with good reason. I am not at liberty to say everything I mean to.” A note of frustration crept into Majid’s voice. Kamvar thought he saw the other Hound’s mouth quirk slightly upward. 
“We are here to hunt a girl of eight or nine summers. It will not be a pleasant task, but it is Ahamash’s work. And lest you think this will be easy –” Majid trailed off, glaring pointedly at a pair of Barsam’s men – one of them was named Behrouz, the other Bosmin, or perhaps Bostin. The two were brothers, but apart from that Kamvar knew little of them. He certainly did not know why Majid had singled them out. 
“Lest you think this will be easy,” the other Hound took over, his voice gravel thrown against a wall. “You should be aware that she has already killed. She is not unaccomplished in that.” As Barsam spoke, his face twisted, jerked into a grimace by the white scar that ran through the hollow of his ruined eye to the corner of his mouth.
Apparently satisfied with this explanation, One-eye looked back to Majid. Kamvar felt Tahmin’s elbow in his ribs. Of course she had already killed, he thought. They all killed. There was nothing unusual in that. Certainly nothing that required the attention of two Hunts.
There was something unsettling about the thought of hunting children. He’d never seen one suffer the same fate as the men and women they’d caught, and was not sure he would be able to stomach it. His stomach churned at the thought of his own son – three years old and worshipful of his father – as nothing more than bleached bones sinking over time to the bottom of a sea of sand. 
Empathy is something I can ill afford. Sorcery was a danger in anybody’s hands, but perhaps even more so in those of a child. After all, how many Daiva were discovered when a child lashed out in anger and burned a playmate to cinders, or afflicted strict parents with disease? They had all heard such tales in the seminary. Few soldiers had seen what the Huntsmen had seen, and fewer still had hearts as calloused.
“We learned that she was last seen in Sinmalik,” said Majid. “But this morning, we caught the scent of strong magic wafting from the south. It seems to be nearby, though it is never a simple thing to know. If these maps are at all accurate…” he pointed to the scroll-case hanging at his belt, “… we are a short distance – a morning’s ride or so – from a village on the banks of Lake Shurop. Finish packing, attend to your animals, pass water if you must. We saddle up immediately.” 
They rode at a canter, through dry grassland that turned gradually more lush. By the time they saw the Shimurg, still low in the sky, reflected in the mirror surface of Lake Shurop, grass and brush had given way to checkered fields bordered by silver ribbons of diverted water.
They rode along the edge of a gleaming field of barley, and reined their horses in before a labourer. He had been feeding an irrigation canal with a wooden contraption the Ekkadi called a shaduf, indifferent to the Sarvashi as they rode up. Now that they stopped before him, his eyes flitted from Barsam to his armed escort, then back to Barsam. He had the look of a startled gazelle, ready at any moment to bound away.
Majid broke the silence. “We are looking for a girl,” he said, “Ekkadi, between eight and ten years old, and probably traveling by herself. She is a sorceress and a demon. Have you seen such?”
“N-no, masters. The only girls here are our own, down in the village…” the man pointed back, over a shoulder rounded by years of labour and baked by Shimurg’s heat. Kamvar followed the line of his arm, squinting into the bright light of late morning. He thought he saw a row of reed huts silhouetted against the lake. “And we’ve none in that age. The closest is Uat’s daughter, and she’s not quite five.”
“I see. Tell me, then…” Majid again, “has anything strange happened here recently? Anything you cannot quite explain?”
“Strange? I… I’m not really one for gossip, masters. The women were all gathered up and talking about something earlier, down at the village.” The labourer pointed once again in the direction of the lake, as though they’d forgotten where the cluster of huts he called home could be found. “I didn’t listen. Had work to do.”
“How lucky the Ekkadi are to have such industrious servants.” Majid reached inside his tunic, and pulled out a silver shekel, a week’s wage or more for a man such as this. He dipped low in his saddle to place it in the field hand’s palm, then straightened and wheeled his horse about. “Ahamash keep you.”
Majid coaxed his roan to a trot, and the Hunts followed after him, to the accompaniment of a man tripping over his own tongue to sing the praises of his Sarvashi conquerors. 
It was always thus, Kamvar mused. Loyalty to Lugal and country was a trait reserved for the noble classes here in Ekka, and was rare even then. Ordinary men cared only for bread and meat – or cumin and silk, depending on their means. Were it otherwise, the Sarvashi could never have established an empire that spanned the world, their glorious Merezad.
But then, why should it be otherwise? Ekka thrived under Merezadesh rule. They had come with bronze and flame, yes, but the wars had been short. Fields were not salted, prisoners taken in battle were not put to the sword. There were, of course, those Sarvashi who strayed from Ahamash’s path, the rapists and murderers, the sadists and torturers. But they had been dealt with harshly, and always in the public eye. 
Sarvash had respected Ekkadi laws, had modernized the roads, had fed – still fed - the poor. The Kingpriest himself rode the length and breadth of Ekka every third year to ensure that all was well with the country. All they had asked in return was the deposition of a single cult, the hated night-worshippers of Angramash, whom the Ekkadi gave a female aspect and the name Nin.
It was a small price to pay, and Ekka paid it happily. The people of Sarvagadis had cheered and thrown flowers when the conquerors rode in to tear Nin’s unholy sanctuary brick from brick.
As they rode along the banks of the lake and into a village where the women stood waiting, children hiding behind their skirts, Kamvar reflected on how strange it was that great Ekka had so utterly given in to the humble armies of rocky Sarvash. And yet, had not the Artalum found her equally pliant? For all her broad walls and shining cities, Ekka was more often the conquered than the conqueror.
The Hunts halted in the village, and Majid and Barsam dismounted.
“We are looking for a girl…” Majid began, and while he gave her description, Barsam dismounted and walked among the peasants, leaning in close to their terrified children. When Majid finished, the other Hound shook his head.
“She is not here.”
“Has anything strange happened here? Anything you cannot explain?” Majid asked next.
One of the women, young but already weather-beaten, stepped forward, her eyes downcast. “I don’t know if it’s what you’re looking for,” she said through a marriage veil of embroidered linen. “But we heard tell that there was a murder in the merchant Amashuk’s house.”
“A murder?”
“Yes, masters. They say there was a robbery, and that the guard Warassa was killed.” She pointed south, along the lake’s edge. “You will find the manor if you follow the lake. The lady Ila-uanna is its mistress now.”
Majid sighed. “I was hoping to hear of something less prosaic. But I suppose we shall look into this.” Kamvar caught Tahmin’s eye. His friend looked bored.
“Begging your pardon, master, but this is as strange a tale as any we have heard in years. We live quiet lives here.”
Majid nodded. “Thank you, you have been helpful. Ahamash keep you.” He smiled then, and passed a silver coin to her as he had to the shaduf man. “If you hear anything more that you think may lead us to the capture of this sorceress, please send a messenger to Faroush the Scribe. He has an office on the road of Anki’s Pleasure, in Sinmalik. We would be most grateful.”
“I will, master,” she said as they rode away.
The Huntsmen passed a dock wide enough to load or unload at least a half-dozen barges, although it seemed that most of those had already departed to take advantage of the Hapur’s swift season.  He did not envy them the upstream struggle to reach that river by way of the Shurop tributary, but if the maps were accurate, the trip was mercifully short. Only two barges had remained behind, these pulled through the reeds onto the green lakeshore. A small army of dockhands scampered about, sealing hulls with fresh layers of bitumen. 
Majid called out a greeting to one of the workers. Shortly after, Kamvar found himself ushered into the manor’s courtyard by a pair of well-equipped guards. The taller black-bearded one wore a coat of shining lamellar. The unpleasant-looking greybeard was probably a captain, by the look of his surcoat of bronze fish-scale. 
A large dock. Well-armed guards. There was wealth here, even if the manor itself was a far cry from the ostentatious – even gaudy – displays of affluence he’d seen closer to the river-mouth, in Sappa and Lakasib.
“Seat yourselves,” said the older guard. “Anuatu, go tell the mistress that we have … august visitors.”
The man named Anuatu looked less than thrilled with the task, and Kamvar got the sense it had been given to him out of spite. It stood to reason. If there’d been a murder here, the guards were unlikely to be in their mistress’s good graces.
Still, he went, and with a loud “Yes, Captain!” besides.
Two pretty girls with slave-brands appeared from one of the corridors that led from the courtyard into the building itself, each carrying a jug and a tray of cups. Majid was poured the first draught, but Barsam waved the girls away. He looked nauseous. Kamvar wondered if the Hound abstained from drink, like the Jazdamesh monks whose ascetic lifestyle fell out of favour before even his father had been born, after Behdin Zashin, the ageless Prophet, rose to power. 
I, however, am certainly no ascetic. A cup found its way into his own hands, and he drank from it. It was beer, and it was good. Very good.
“Well, now,” said Yazan appreciatively, licking beer from his thick brown whiskers. “This is a fine batch. My compliments, captain.”
The captain grunted noncommittally and nodded his head. He did not seem comfortable with their presence. That was understandable. Armed men traveling under the Prophet’s writ were not typically known for spreading cheer.
Tahmin nudged him with an elbow, and looked pointedly at Barsam’s men. Kamvar followed his gaze. One-eye’s Hunt, like the priest himself, had to a man refused beer. He nudged Manoush, seated to his left, and pointed out the same thing. The youngster hid a crooked grin behind his hand. Pointing out the way Barsam’s Hunt aped the priest’s conduct had become something of a game among Majid’s men. 
He felt another elbow in his right side, and looked back to Tahmin. This time, his friend was looking intently at the far side of the courtyard, at the woman that approached, accompanied by black-bearded Anuatu. She wore the white cloak of an Ekkadi in mourning, and a white veil to match, but in her eyes Kamvar saw more anger than sorrow. Majid lifted a hand to his brow. He too was watching the woman, but where Tahmin was appreciative, the Hound was visibly unsettled.
“I am Ila-uanna, wife of the late Amashuk. What brings men like you to my home?” 
“We have heard there was a murder here,” Barsam said in his rumbling voice. “We have come to investigate.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How kind. However, we have quite solved that little mystery, and your assistance, while generous, is unnecessary.”
Barsam smiled, which was a terrible thing to see.
“Oh?”
“A servant of mine, one in whom I obviously placed too much trust, murdered one of my household guards and stole something from me. I have sent guardsmen to catch his trail, and no doubt they will return with his head within the day.”
Barsam laughed. “My dear lady, I am not sure if you are deluded or lying.”
“What?” cried the captain, jumping to his feet. “How dare you?”
“Peace, Akosh. I will speak. What exactly do you mean by this?”
“I will explain as clearly as I am able,” Majid said, throwing Barsam a look that was less than friendly. “We, my colleague and I, are Hounds in the employ of the Prophet and the Merezad. We have come hunting a sorceress, because we felt powerful magic in the area. You, my lady, stink of it, and so –”
“What?” She blanched at that. “I … I can assure you that I am no witch. Please, you must be mistaken.”
Barsam interjected. “We can see that.” He did not elaborate.
“What my colleague means,” Majid explained, “is that the pall of sorcery hanging over you is not of your own creation. My lady, magic has been used against you, and –” 
Barsam interrupted again, pointing with his remaining arm to a spot along the colonnade lining the courtyard. “And there,” he said, then pointed to the other end of the compound, at an archway that must have, by the look of the white cooking-smoke escaping from the chimney above, led to the kitchens. “And there as well.”
Majid nodded. “So I must ask you: are you harbouring an Ekkadi girl, some ten summers old?”
Ila-uanna looked momentarily dumbstruck, her earlier icy composure having given way to confusion. Kamvar felt sorry for her.
“A girl?” she finally said, “No, there’s no girl. I am without heirs, and the servants’ children live in the villages… Are you saying Mawalak is a sorcerer?”
The two Hounds exchanged a glance, then Majid sighed. “It is possible. Without actually meeting him, I am afraid I could not say.”
The captain, Kamvar noticed, seemed ill at ease. He had a finger in his beard, twisting it to knots. His mouth worked soundlessly, as though he wanted to say something but was afraid to speak.
“Captain?” Kamvar asked, “Are you quite well?” 
“The performer!” he blurted. “Anki help me, it had to be the Sarvashi.”
The old man looked utterly miserable at the prospect. From the corner of his eye, Kamvar saw a number of servants huddled in a nearby corridor, trying to remain as unobtrusive as possible while they listened in. 
“The Sarvashi? Would you –” Majid began.
Kamvar cleared his throat and pointed to the eavesdroppers. “Perhaps we might go someplace a little more private?”
Ila-uanna followed his hand, then reddened. “Yes, please,” she said. “I would appreciate that. This is… this is a lot to take in.”
They passed, twelve soldiers, a guard and a widow, through a beaded curtain and into a sitting room dominated by four divans. Ila-uanna sat heavily on one of them, her expression inscrutable.
“A performer?” Barsam asked the captain. 
“He said he was from Sarvash, took a stage name. Leonine, he called himself. I … I didn’t trust him, but then he sang about Lanapish. Oh, I’m an old fool.”
“Why do you suspect this performer?”
Akosh looked up at that. “I didn’t, until now. But Mawalak was … he was just a servant. Now that I think on it, he could have had a knife in Warassa’s gut before he even grew suspicious. Mawalak lived in that wing of the manor. But Warassa’s axe had been drawn, and it was more a fight than a murder, mark me.”
The captain continued, a thoughtful look on his face. “And all he took was a vase Amashuk had brought back from Akros, before the wars. It’s valuable, I’ll bet, Akrosian craft always is… but where would Mawalak ever have found a fence? He was born here on the lake. He’s never traveled far in my knowledge, and certainly not recently. How would a man like him take a pot and leave behind a chest full of coin. And…” he coloured suddenly, and stopped speaking.
“And?” Majid asked.
“And… nothing. It’s not important.” 
Majid’s eyebrow rose, and Barsam fixed the guard captain with a glare that he studiously avoided, having caught sight of something terribly fascinating between his own feet.
Ila-uanna sighed. “It’s alright, Akosh. Go ahead.”
“Oh, forgive me, Ila! The performer... he had access to the mistress.”
“What do you mean?” Majid asked.
“He means,” Ila-uanna answered, her voice corpse-cold, “that I took him to bed.”
She explained, then, in a resigned voice, the events of the last evening, of song and feast, shukasi and sex. She told them he’d called himself Vajih, though that name was no doubt a lie, and described him. He looked like Manoush, slender and clean-shaven, with a thick mane of brown curls in place of the young soldier’s black ringlets.
When she had finished, there was a momentary silence. Majid broke it.
“Where is this performer now?” he asked.
“He left in the –” Akosh began, but Barsam interrupted him.
“It does not matter. Send men after him if you will, widow, but we are here on other business. This has turned out to be a waste of our time.”
He stood up, and made as though to leave. 
“Wait, Barsam!” Majid said. “We are two Hunts, and we’ve made precious little progress finding the girl. How could we leave here without sparing at least a few men to hunt down this Leonine, as he calls himself? A Daiva, and a thief and murderer besides – I cannot in good conscience allow him to walk freely.”
Akosh spoke. “He had a wagon. Wagons leave ruts. I saw him off this morning, and watched as he rode north along the lake, where the earth is soft. He will be easy to track.”
Kamvar’s blood began to stir. Barsam could not refuse Majid this. It was not the job they had come here to do, but who would not prefer to hunt a murderer over a ten-year old girl? Especially if he’d left a trail even a peasant could follow, secure in the presumption that his ruse had worked.
Barsam was silent a moment, the expression on his face disapproving. He and Majid would have words later. Kamvar would put money on that. 
“Very well,” he said finally. “As you say, we are two Hunts. I will take my men to Sinmalik as we’d planned, and catch her trail there. Majid, you have my leave to take your men on this hunt. But if you’ve had no luck within a week, you will return and meet me in Sinmalik. We have a duty to fill, and I will not squander our resources chasing after some primped musician, murderous or otherwise.”
Kamvar felt a familiar elbow in his ribs. He knew Tahmin’s grin must have matched his own.
Ila-uanna cleared her throat, and Kamvar looked over at her.
“Akosh will go with you, Majid.”
Akosh sputtered at that, and looked over to Ila-uanna, incredulous. “But –”
“But nothing, Akosh. You are skilled with an axe, and know this murderer’s face. I am not happy about being made a fool, and you will avenge this slight.”
Akosh sighed, and nodded. “I will go fetch my gear. It will only take a moment. Meet me at the stables. We will be able to overtake him by evening if we ride hard.”
Akosh turned and left the room. For a moment, there was silence. Hound Barsam was the first to break it.
“One more thing, widow. You have lain with a Daiva, and that makes you unclean. If you take another man to bed, you will damn him; and if a child comes of this union, it is to be given to the Temple of Ahamash. If you think to hide such a thing, I will come back here myself and give you to the Shimurg.”
He turned and headed to the stables, without another word. The rest of the Hunt stood and followed him.
Kamvar looked at Ila-uanna. She returned his gaze, her face ashen. He said nothing. He could think of nothing to say.
The ruts in the road headed north first, along the banks of the lake, as Akosh had said. The Huntsmen followed at an easy canter, loath to push the horses any harder. This was tricky country, with pools of sucking mud that could trip up a horse and possibly break a leg. None of them wanted to walk home.
There was little reason to rush, in any case. A wagon was not faster than a company of men bred to life in the saddle, even if their Ab-Ewarad steeds were somewhat less impressive than what they were used to. Kamvar had spent some time poring over maps of Ekka in preparation. If memory served, the nearest cities were Numush and Inatum, and each was a good three days’ travel away, Numush to the east and Inatum to the south. This Leonine would have no place nearby to hide away.
When they reached the Shurop’s northern edge, the wagon tracks turned slightly, in the direction of Numush and its daughter city, Numush-ummi. The Hunt followed them through fertile land between the Shurop and the Shalumes River. The rut was green with waist-high grass crushed and bent under wooden wheels. 
It was Yazan that first noticed the wagon, a speck of red and yellow far off in the flat distance. They broke into an uneven gallop, Yazan and Shadmehr swiftly outpacing the pack, Kamvar falling behind as he tried valiantly to stay in the saddle through Lugushu’s awkward, lurching gait, muttering imprecations against Ekkadi husbandry. It was the first time they had pushed the horses this hard; the first time they’d truly had the opportunity to take their measure and, subsequently, to find them wanting.
As they drew closer, Kamvar noticed something.
“The wagon!” he shouted. “It isn’t moving!”
When they surrounded it, spears in hand, he saw why.
The horses that had pulled Leonine’s garish carriage were nowhere to be found. Leonine himself was nowhere to be found.
“It looks like our hunt will take somewhat longer than we expected,” Tahmin said through a wry smile. “This Daiva isn’t quite as careless as we’d thought.”
“Kamvar, search the wagon,” Majid ordered. “The rest of you, fan out and search for signs of his passing. Horses may not leave ruts, but neither do they pass without trace.”
The wagon was mostly empty. A few large clay jugs and a coil of rope were stacked against one of the walls. Soft pillows stuffed with down were scattered everywhere. The Daiva enjoyed his comforts.
Kamvar clambered into the wagon, and rapped his knuckles against the floor. Thieves often built smugglers’ compartments into boats and carriages. He would not be surprised to find one here. 
The floor seemed solid enough at first, but after he knocked in a few more spots, Kamvar became aware of a faint echo. He cleared the pillows away, and searched for a handle or a latch. He found one, and slid open a panel in the floor, only to look directly into the bulging eyes of a terrified man. Kamvar started, hand going reflexively to the knife tucked into his belt, but the man did not – could not – move. 
“I’ve found something!” he called, beckoning the others back to the wagon.
“Mawalak.” Akosh said, when they’d gathered, making a ward against evil. He sounded tired. “That murdering bastard will pay.”
They pulled Mawalak’s body from the wagon, and laid him on its roof, so that the Shimurg could see his worthy – or unworthy – deeds and tell his soul the way to Shinvat, the bridge that led to God’s country 
Majid led the prayer, and Kamvar followed. Akosh did not join them; he kneeled before the wagon, uttering his own prayer, to Anki the Chariot, or perhaps to Dagush, whom the Ekkadi called the Weeper. 
After the prayer was finished, they continued the search. This time, it was Majid who found something: grass crushed and trampled in the wake of two horses moving swiftly. It turned south, towards Inatum, and they followed.
Chapter 3: Crescents and Manacles
“Messenger?” asked the gate guard, eyeing Leonine’s horses.
“No, master,” he replied, bowing his head and assuming a conciliatory smile. Guards liked that sort of thing. It made them feel powerful. “I’m a performer. My lyre is in that saddle pack.”
The gate scribe pressed a stylus into the enormous tablet he had propped against the wall. It was not yet noon, but the clay had already been imprinted with hundreds of names.
The guard groaned. “Oh, how grand. I hope you’ve some coin for lodgings. Sleep out on the streets and we’ll give you a nice cot under the Tower.” Leonine’s eyes followed his pointing hand. The Tower was a hunchback, leaning out over a wall plastered in bas-reliefs of war slaves carrying tribute to Artalum conquerors. It had stood straight once, but part of its foundation had sunk into the earth years ago during an unexpected flooding of the Shalumes – if indeed such a thing could be called unexpected and not inevitable.
Clearly not a patron of the arts. “I assure you, master, I’m well acquainted with the laws of Inatum. I have a place to stay.”
“How wonderful for you. Class?”
“Mushkenum.” 
The scribe pressed another word into his clay.
No matter how many times he explained that the Merezadesh did not divide themselves up into castes, the word did not seem to spread. It was not worth the effort. Easier to tell them he was a free man; there was no brand on his forehead to gainsay it, and no need to prove that he owned land.
“The toll for mushkenum is a shekel.”
It wasn’t, of course, but that was part of the game. Gate guards were a notoriously rapacious lot, and they loved best those travelers unfamiliar with Ekkadi law. A shekel was exorbitant, and Leonine said so. He argued the guard down to a quarter-measure; too much still, but such was life. In a few hours, Leonine would be too busy counting minas to care that he’d just bought this oaf a full jar of wine.
The guard waved Leonine through the gatehouse. He mounted Shema and rode into the city, leading Pash by the reins.
The day was at its hottest. Shimurg’s flames were bright, and the white- and yellow-plastered buildings of Inatum threw the light into Leonine’s eyes. Sarvagadis was hot – all of Ekka was hot by day – but there, a breeze came in from the sea to cool the city and chase from it the fetid stink of the salt marsh. Such breezes did not carry this far into Ekka’s interior.
Still, the locals appeared to have little difficulty. Veiled wives carried jugs of water and beer home for the midday meal, while their husbands sat at their stalls, shaded from merciless Shimurg by colourful awnings, singing the praises of this gewgaw or that to whichever passers-by would listen.
Leonine caught the familiar scents of cumin, fennel and coriander over the sweat of the crowd, and realized he was ravenously hungry. He stopped for a skewer of charred goat with onions and red peppers before turning onto the broad avenue that would lead him to the top of Lumshazzar Mound, and from there to the household of Shudagan, Ibashtu’s master.
If indeed he can be so called.
He devoured the meat as he rode. Overcooked as it was, it made a welcome change from the bread he’d been forced to subsist on for the last few days, without even beer to wash it down after he’d left his wagon behind. He regretted that still, but it was better to be unsatisfied and alive than well fed and staked down in the desert to the south. Even if the odds were good that he’d not been followed, prudence was in order. Thieves that took the law too lightly lost hands in Sarvagadis, and heads where Ekkadi customs still held sway.
Leonine reached the foot of the ill-reputed Mound within no more than an hour, thanks to crowds that parted obligingly before Shema and Pash. It was an open secret, at least to citizens of a less savoury bent, that the roads of Lumshazzar had been partially excavated when the Artalum conquerors of Inatum had decided the city was large enough to require sewers. The result was a rabbit’s warren of intertwined passages, where men could – and did – hide from the city guard for months. 
Inatum the Lawless, men called it, home to thieves and murderers, sorcerers and revolutionaries. It was not an entirely unearned reputation, Leonine thought, as he crested the hill that stood like a grave marker atop an ancient city’s bones. 
Inatum spread almost as far as the eye could see. Behind him was the Shalumes, and ahead he could see the green banks of the smaller Shummi. The view from the Mound made the two rivers look much closer than they actually were. It took a man on foot an entire day to cross the city, from the Conqueror’s Gate that he had entered to the Chariot’s Passage gate to the east.
It was a pleasant walk. Leonine himself had made the trip during his first week in the city. One morning, he’d explored the Weeping Garden of Du. That afternoon, he had marveled at the great stadium, where chariot races and the Lugal’s speeches vied for space. By dusk, he had climbed the four massive steps of Chananu, the great pyramid of Labeshi-Solon, wealthy god of the western mountains. 
Wealthy indeed. Ibashtu had been quite happy with the pearl-inlaid censer she’d hired him to steal.
As he led his horses into the communal stable across from Shudagan’s house and paid the old man there to rub them down and feed them, Leonine wondered absently if it would not be worth his while to buy his own home in Inatum. This was the third job he’d done for Ibashtu, each more profitable than the last, and travel was growing tiresome. Inatum was far enough away from Sarvagadis that his reputation was unlikely to cause problems. And if it does, where better to elude the overzealous arm of Sarvashi law?
Thus musing, he knocked at Shudagan’s door. An old Karhani domestic with a goblet-brand opened it and beckoned him inside.
The door closed behind him, and the old man spoke. “Welcome back, Leonine. Ibashtu is in her study. She’s been expecting you. I see you have the vase,” he said, pointing to the hard leather saddlebag Leonine had slung over his shoulder.
“Of course. Thanks, Nazimarut. I know my way.”
He passed through the entry hallway, and admired once more the stunning Artalum mosaic of a lion brought low by charioteers with bows. The stones that made up the beast’s mane gleamed in the soft glow of an oil lamp, reflecting patches of light onto Leonine’s tunic.
He climbed a set of stairs, at the top of which were two doors separated by a guardian, a stone lion with a painted mane and lapis eyes. The Artalum, he decided, had been obsessed with lions.
Ibashtu was behind the right door, seated at a table. She looked up from a tablet she’d been poring over and smiled. Ibashtu bore the stylus brand, a dark blue line that tapered to a triangular point, barely visible against the loam-black skin of her Hakshi face.
Ibashtu had been a scribe slave once. Officially, perhaps she still was. But Leonine had seen Shudagan and Ibashtu together several times, and it was rarely clear just who the master was. The three of them – Shudagan, Ibashtu and Nazimarut – behaved like equals in private, and put on a show only for guards and tax collectors.
“Welcome back,” said Ibashtu. There was no trace of any accent but Ekkadi in her deep voice. She had been a child when she was taken from her fiery southern homeland. 
Ibashtu indicated that Leonine should seat himself. She took a swig from a jug sitting on her desk and offered it to him.
“Koumiss?” he asked.
“The finest – a Sarvashi mare’s milk.”
Leonine wrinkled his nose and waved it away. “No, thank you. I have no idea how you enjoy that swill.”
Ibashtu took another swig, then wiped her lips with the back of a bony hand.
“I trust you were successful?” she asked. 
Leonine nodded, presenting the pack. Ibashtu opened it and withdrew the vase, examining it intently. There was sorcery in her gaze, and in the thin swirl of power he felt in his gut, of a different sort than Leonine had ever encountered. He had noticed it during their first meeting, several months ago, while haggling over a little golden bull he’d liberated from a chance-met traveler.
“This is it, most certainly. Wonderful craftsmen, the Akrosians. Look how well they capture the fear in this grouping over here.” She pointed to a black band along the neck of the vase, decorated with nude men and women being led to the slaughter by a winged figure with a bat’s ears. “Did you experience any difficulty?”
Leonine shook his head. “No, not especially. It all went rather smoothly, actually. Your floor plans were perfectly accurate.”
“Excellent. My horses and wagon?”
“The horses are stabled at Tusharta’s. I thought it prudent to leave the wagon behind. It was slowing me, and I don’t like to take stupid risks.”
Ibashtu nodded.
“I would consent to pay for it if need –”
Ibashtu waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t be stupid. The vase is worth a hundred wagons; it’s simply a cost of trade, as the merchants like to say.”
She opened a drawer, and took out a small sack. It jingled.
“Inside are shekels worth ten minas for your immediate needs, and a voucher for the remainder of the sum we agreed upon, as well as another gift, one that you may use at your leisure.”
“Thank you.” Leonine tossed the bag into the fold of his tunic. He would count the coins later, though there was no doubt in his mind that the sum was true. “If there is anything else…?”
“There is not. Enjoy the city.”
Leonine stood up and bowed his head, then turned to leave.
“Oh, Leonine!” Ibashtu called after him. “There is something. Come back and see us this evening. Shudagan wants to see you, and there may be another job on offer.”
“I will,” Leonine replied, and waved a goodbye.
He had thought, at first, that Ibashtu’s secret gift was a voucher, a clay tablet allowing him to take advantage of the scribe’s – or, more likely, her putative master’s – good name at a lending house, but it turned out to be something else entirely.
It was a small tablet of oven-fired clay, wrapped in a softer clay envelope, inscribed with what looked like a spider web. Leonine, perched atop a pile of cushions in his rented room, turned the tablet over in his hands. It was difficult to decide which side was up. 
It was not until he was about to shrug and give up that Leonine realized what he was holding. The tablet represented Inatum – or, more precisely, Lumshazzar. He made out the outline of the Mound, and found atop it a square etched with what was, now quite obviously, the sign for ‘horse’. There, across from it, were the bakery and the potter’s workhouse. A smaller unmarked block nearby would be Ibashtu’s home. It sat atop a long furrow, bisected by two smaller diagonals. An entrance of some kind? An entrance to what?
Leonine’s thoughts drifted back to a rare rainstorm, when he had first come to Inatum. His hunger, sharpened to a knife-edge by a long journey and an empty purse, had made him clumsy and stupid. His first theft, an attempt to cut a nobleman’s purse, was awkward and doomed to failure. There were shouts, and he ran, pursued by militia.
He remembered the welcome stink of the sewers; in every city, they were the thief’s swiftest road away from pursuit. He’d woven an erratic path, a fly buzzing from one corridor to another, until he could no longer hear any footfalls but his own. The walls had changed, from slick and cramped sewer corridors with ankle-deep filth to hallways of brick, their plaster worn away – houses, forgotten by time, their doors no longer able to swing open for the earth that had buried them entire.
He’d wandered in those corridors for a time, and when the torch he’d taken from a sconce in the street above had almost burnt down, he had felt fresh air against his skin.
That exit was… there! Behind the fruit market, where the Road of the Mound met the market called Spendthrift’s Lament. Sure enough, the tablet showed a tunnel, this one also scored with diagonals.
A map. The tablet was a map of the tunnels under Lumshazzar. It would be worth hundreds of minas to the Lugal, and still more to an enterprising thief. Not for the first time, Leonine found himself surprised at Ibashtu. What possible reason could she have to place such trust in a thief she’d hired only three times?
He slipped the tablet into a hidden pocket inside his tunic, in a place of honour beside his garrote. That little mystery will just have to wait. He counted the coins. Twenty minas to the measure, counting the two shekels he’d paid to cover his lodgings for the week. A true count, as he’d expected.
Leonine leaned back into his pillows and sighed contentedly. A nap first, he decided. Then beer.
“The city is… changing,” Shudagan said later that evening, frowning into his lacquered cup. “When I was a boy, my father believed that the Prophet’s invasion would help overcome certain of our more dated Ekkadi customs…” he said, pointing to the brand on Ibashtu’s forehead, “…but your people’s soft hand surprised us.”
“Soft hand?” Leonine asked. 
“Before Inashu’s armies swept down from Hatshut, we had no slaves here, but within a year of the wall’s breach, we were neatly parcelled into Mushkenum, Awilum and Wardum. Before Nanusa’s Artalum hanged the Ekkadi nobility from our walls, we were a peaceful people. Shortly after, we sent our strongest men into Karhan with spears and siege towers. Conquerors change cities, Leonine, and yet the Inatum of today is no different than the Inatum of my childhood.”
Ibashtu chimed in next. “You should read Darunni’s March from the Mountains, if you should chance upon a copy. ‘The Ekkadi took our freedom, but gave us industry. The Artalum took our sons, but gave us power. The Sarvashi took our goddess, and gave us nothing.’”
“Pretty words,” said Leonine. “If one ignores the roads, the Imperial Post and its way stations, and the freedom to run this city as you wish. Would you prefer subjugation?”
“Don’t be obtuse,” Shudagan replied. “My father saw freedom in the Sarvashi ways, hoped for new laws that apply equally to all people, from the meanest farm-hand to the richest merchant… and the only price the elimination of a cult that had been steadily dying for decades? I would have paid that a thousand times over.”
Ibashtu bristled at that, visibly. Nin was, among other things, the queen of mysteries, patroness of the sorcerer. 
Shudagan continued, oblivious. “And we paid that price, outlawed night-worship, even diverted the Shummi to drown Alu-nin-hura. But nothing has changed. Some of the common folk praise Merezad, more still vilify him, but nothing has changed.”
So much had changed. So much. But how could a man understand this if he had never bent reality to his whim, had never shuddered at the feel of his veins growing hot with power? From over the rim of his cup, Leonine could see the anger in Ibashtu’s eyes. The Hakshi, at least, understood what had been lost.
“Shudagan,” Leonine said, holding up a hand to forestall whatever the old man was preparing to rant about next. “I do get the sense that you’re trying to make a point, but damn me if I haven’t missed it entirely. Indulge me, will you? What exactly is behind this history lesson?”
“Why is it the youth are never content to let an old man speak at his own pace? No, don’t answer that. My point is just this: we had hoped for Sarvashi law to follow the Sarvashi occupation. That did not happen. I am a patriot, Leonine, but a patriot of Lumshazzar, and not this pale imitation of that great city. But the Sarvashi are not the answer to… ah, I’m prattling on again.”
“Allow me,” said the scribe. “We – that is, the Shattered Manacle, whom by now I am sure you’ve realized we represent –” 
Leonine had not realized that, but it was in retrospect unsurprising. 
“– have realized we will be no more free under the Merezad, and so we have decided we must act.” 
“And?” Leonine asked. 
“And we would like you to help us in this,” Shudagan finished, then looked at him expectantly. 
Leonine drained his cup and shrugged. “I will not lie. Your struggle is not my concern. But if the rewards are right, and the work is within my capabilities… well, why not? A man needs something to occupy his time.”
Shudagan nodded, and handed Leonine another cup of beer, which he accepted. The three sat in silence a moment.
“So,” Leonine asked. “Is there a job attached to all this?”
There was not. There was, instead, a cryptic hint at a job to come, and the promise of great riches. Something in this was unusual, Leonine decided. When Ibashtu’s master excused himself a half hour later to answer the call of an old man’s weak bladder, Leonine confronted the scribe.
“Ibashtu, you and I are both practical sorts. What is happening here?” Leonine whispered.
“In what sense?” the scribe asked.
“Don’t play coy. First I’m given a job to steal something that reeks of sorcery, then in addition to my payment I’m given a tablet that screams of unreasonable trust placed in a man who – let’s be honest – is no more than a competent mercenary in your employ. Then I listen to Shudagan wax poetic about a city to which I’m a stranger and a cause in which I have no stake, and all the while I’m getting the sense that you think I will take up your struggle. Really, are you counting on my idealism? A man such as I has little enough of that.”
As he spoke, a slow smile spread across Ibashtu’s features – it unnerved him slightly.
“So you want to know what possible reason Shudagan has to place such trust in the hands of a man perfectly capable of selling him to the authorities?”
“Essentially, yes.”
Ibashtu’s smile widened into a toothy grin. “In point of fact, my dear Leonine, Shudagan does not like you very much at all.” She paused, as though waiting for that fact to sink in. “No, it is I who trust you.”
Leonine laughed. People such as they did not trust each other like this.
“When,” he asked, “have I ever given you reason to put so much faith in me?”
Ibashtu’s face grew serious. She looked from shoulder to shoulder, as though checking to see if anybody else was in the small room, then leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially.
“I trust you in this, because I know what you are. Leonine, the Manacle is far too small and the desire for slaves far too widespread for a gaggle of well-meaning nobles and their halfway-emancipated servants to make a difference. You know this, and I know this. Even Shudagan knows this, although he is too thick to admit to himself that Lumshazzar is just a name for dust in the wind.
“We have… allied ourselves with someone. Out of necessity, yes, but it is a convenient marriage. The Crescent.”
It was interesting, sometimes, the way a single word could seal a man’s fate. The Crescent. Night-worshippers and heathens. The last priests of a deposed goddess, preaching a banned creed in the dark places of the world.
“I see,” Leonine said. He took a drink and realized he’d drained his second cup. There simply was not enough beer in Ekka for certain revelations. “This really is an interesting trap you’ve set for me. I suppose if I walk away now, knowing what I know, you will have me killed?”
Ibashtu nodded, and refilled his cup. “I suppose. I doubt you would say anything in any case, sorcerer that you are, but I can hardly take that chance. But, naturally, it need not come to that.”
Naturally.
“How much does Shudagan know?” he asked.
“Enough. He knows we have contracted with priests of Nin. He believes that they are just disaff –” Ibashtu suddenly trailed off. In the silence, Leonine heard footsteps coming from below. The scribe, he noticed, had sharp ears.
They spent the rest of the evening talking of less weighty matters: of a dry summer to come, and growing enmity between Lugal Zagezi and the High Priest of Labeshi-Solon. It was an age-old story, repeated in every last one of the ancient cities in this land between two rivers. One man exerted a claim over secular matters, the other spiritual. Neither would accept the other’s idea of where, in the sands between the two, a line should be drawn.
Leonine could empathize with the Lugal. He had no interest in the spiritual, yet somehow his entire life had been a struggle to find a teetering balance atop the fulcrum of other men’s beliefs.
Leonine wandered back towards his lodgings on shaky legs. Too many cups of beer had passed his lips. He’d almost missed a step in the staircase. Had it not been for his panicked scrabbling at Ibashtu’s arm, he could have pitched headlong to an early grave. Which would, at the very least, have been one way out of this noose. The expression on Ibashtu’s face had been somewhere between solicitous and mocking, but Leonine found that he was not overly concerned with pride just now.
It was not that he disagreed with the Crescent’s purpose, or with their means. He had, after all, some investment in the former, and was pragmatic enough to overlook the latter. An Ekka freed of Sarvashi superstitions would be a blessing. Using his gift, freely, without having to worry about any consequence more significant than a terrified village simpleton? The prospect was blissful. Leonine had seen enough of the Hounds, had spent enough years crawling on his belly.
Still, pragmatism was a harsh mistress. The Crescent was impotent. The night priestesses had long ago been scattered to the winds, or given to Shimurg. Their temples had been torn down. Alu-nin-hura – an entire city! – was gone, flooded and reclaimed by marshland. Worst of all, the Ekkadi had helped bring it all about. 
And why should they not? Would the mouse not kill the cat, given a chance? Men feared power they could not aspire to, especially if it was more difficult to understand than a length of sharpened bronze. When had they done otherwise? The Crescent could not fight Sarvagadis and the Prophet, not alone, not with the help of the Manacle. Certainly not with the assistance – coerced, at that – of a sorcerous dilettante with no more to offer than a quick knife and a modicum of control over sound and song.
Yet, he was trapped. Ibashtu was not a woman to cross. She was too well-informed to hide from, and too dangerous to risk a more direct solution. One did not take other sorcerers lightly – there was no telling how powerful they were, not until it was too late.
It had grown dark already; Shimurg’s feathers were just coming into view, gleaming brightly in their nightly descent from the roof of the sky. Though music and light still spilled through the cracks of a hundred doorways, the streets had nearly emptied. Another Sarvashi superstition, that. The Ekkadi had never feared the night like other men, when Nin watched over them. Now that her children had turned their backs, there was no protection from the evil things that walked in the night.
Superstitious nonsense. Of course evil things walked in the night. They always had, with knives at their waists and hunger in their bellies. Privation made men’s hearts grow cold, and the night hid their deeds from prying eyes. The rest was idiocy, children’s tales of ghosts and shedu, and beasts that spoke like men.
Idiocy. How had he gotten himself mired in such idiocy?
Enough already. The drink has made you maudlin. 
It always did.
He slept fitfully that night, and when he dreamt it was of a silver-masked goddess dancing on the surface of the Shalumes, radiant against a black sky.
She beckoned, and he tried to swim to her, but the current was strong. As he thrashed and flailed, she removed her mask and laughed. “Navid,” she called to him. He knew her voice. It had called his name more times than he could count. “Return to me. Dance with me. Love me.”
He wanted to, desperately, but the river was too strong. Water filled his lungs and pulled him under, but he could still see her clearly. Her face was that of love lost, her belly swollen with child.
“Return to me,” she said, and her voice grew mocking and cold. “Join me. It won’t be long, Navid. All you need do is cross the Shinvat.” 
Her face faded from his view, but the voice still rang clear.
“When Shinvat collapses beneath you, like it did beneath me, I will have you again and we will dance in the cold.”
He woke sobbing.
Farshideh, my light! 
The nightmare was the same. It was always the same.
I miss you so much.
Chapter 4: The Buried City
Majid’s company and their grey-bearded companion reached the Conqueror’s Gate of Inatum that afternoon, horses in a lather. Lugushu had almost collapsed along the way. He now had trouble standing erect, trembled and swayed. Kamvar stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the horse, as though propping him up. He wondered if Lugushu was dying, and didn’t much relish the prospect of planting an axe between his eyes. 
A queue of hopeful entrants into the city glared sullenly at Majid as he passed them to interrupt a potter haggling over the entry toll. The man scowled, but wisely remained silent. Men argued with Sarvashi warrior-priests only rarely, and then at their own peril.
“We bear the Prophet’s Writ,” said Majid. “We seek a musician in his thirties, clean-shaven, with Sarvashi features and thick brown hair. He would have passed through recently, probably with two horses.”
The guard shrugged. “I just got here an hour ago, master,” he said. “Check with the –”
The gate scribe, a rotund man with an oily beard, had heard everything he needed to. He interrupted the guard, jowls trembling. “Yes, yes! I remember that man,” he said, running his fingers across the tablet propped up before his stool.
“Here it is! Mushkenum Rakhshan. Performer. He arrived at midday, leading two horses, and paid a quarter in toll. Is he wanted?”
Majid ignored the scribe’s question. “That’s him. Did he say anything about where he would be staying?”
“Not that I recall,” the scribe replied, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “He did say he had lodgings prepared, but we do not normally ask for specifics.”
“Start,” Majid growled. He turned to the gate guard.
“Listen carefully. This man, who calls himself Rakhshan, Leonine, Vajih and Ahamash only knows what else, is a sorcerer, murderer and thief. I want every soldier in the city to know his description before sundown, and I want him found by tomorrow at latest. I want a messenger sent to the Lugal immediately. We will eat with him this evening, and impress upon him the importance of catching this Daiva.”
The guard looked sheepish, and more than a little overwhelmed. “Master, begging your pardon, Lugal Zagezi is a busy –”
“Every ruler is busy,” Majid interrupted. “But we are the representatives of the Prophet, and therefore of your emperor and his. The Kingpriest Merezad would not look kindly on his subjects turning us away, so we will speak with him, and tonight.”
Majid was like this, sometimes. Normally self-effacing and polite, he was nevertheless a Hound. When he gave commands, he expected obedience, just as he unquestioningly obeyed Behdin Zashin. It was easy to forget that this man Kamvar so often diced with had authority surpassing that of a noble.
They walked in the halls of the palace before sunset, flanked by rows of prostrate servants chanting respectful greetings into a floor of tiles glazed red and green. 
They paused before double doors of mahogany inlaid with flecks of black horn arranged in geometric patterns. At either side of the doorway stood great winged bulls of stone, with the bearded and crowned heads of munificent kings – shedu, the Ekkadi called them, spiritual guardians who warded homes and palaces against evil. Judging by the tales Kamvar had heard of Ekkadi tyrants, they were only rarely successful.
The throne room, no doubt, was before them.
“The Artalum painted these walls,” Shadmehr whispered while they waited. He had an interest in such things. “Those chained figures there, ahead of the soldiers: they represent the conquered tribes of Ekka. See the one in the peaked hat, carrying a basket of tribute? He’d be one of the Lumshut, whose city this was.”
Ahead of them, Majid chuckled. “Nice to see someone listened to my lectures on Ekkadi history. Tahmin!”
“Huh?” Kamvar’s friend looked startled.
“What is the significance of those figures there? The bald men turned in the opposite direction from everyone else,” asked Majid. Kamvar stifled a grin at Tahmin’s look of desperation. His friend was famed for having fallen asleep during one of Rector Tourak’s classes about the territorial struggles between Karhan and Arta. Majid was unlikely to let him forget; he enjoyed putting Tahmin on the spot.
“They … um. They represent the Ekkadi who revolted against Artalum rule. That is why they are facing them and carrying no tribute.”
Shadmehr snickered behind him, and Kamvar could not help but laugh. Tahmin would be cooking their breakfasts for a week to come.
“Very pretty,” Majid said. “And imaginative! I’m impressed, Tahmin. You could not possibly be more wrong than you are. They are the traitors of Ekur, who opened the gates of that city to the Artalum. There’s a song about them, Tahmin.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, of course,” Tahmin said, trying in vain to disguise the fact that he knew as much of Ekur as he did of the uncharted wastes of the frigid north, where the Shimurg’s light was wan. “Ekur. I remember now.”
“Poor show, Tahmin,” said Yazan with a laugh. “Even I knew that one.”
“Indeed,” Majid said sonorously, though the corners of his mouth quirked, belying his pretend-scowl. “Tahmin, you know what this means! It’s a long ride back to Sinmalik once we leave here, and you’ll be cooking every meal.”
Tahmin groaned in concert with the door, which swung open to reveal a bowing man with a goblet-brand and the pale skin of a northern savage.
“The Lugal Zagezi, king of Inatum,” he chanted through a heavy accent, “proud lord of the river-fork and beloved son of Labeshi-Solon, bids you welcome to his palace, sons of Sarvash, and of our Emperor the Merezad.”
The Lugal himself was a hard-looking man, far from the fat, oil-bearded, silk-swaddled dandy Kamvar had half-expected.
That’s what comes of expecting accuracy of our playwrights. The Artalum had been conquerors, and their blood still ran in the veins of the people of Inatum; certainly in this man, who sat proud and straight on a throne of red porphyry, a simple crown on his grey brow. His attendants – many of them fighting men, from the look of their scars – bowed to the Hunt as they entered, and Lugal Zagezi nodded to Majid in respect.
“Be welcome in my sight, children of the mountains,” he intoned. “And you,” he said to Akosh, “son of the rivers.”
“We are honoured, good king,” Majid said. He inclined his head slightly, a gesture of respect between equals. Kamvar and the others bowed at the waist, and beside them Akosh prostrated himself on the ground.
“The Kingpriest smiles on his brother, the Lugal of Inatum,” said Majid. “I am the Hound Majid, and these men my Hunt. I regret that we come bearing only good wishes, and not a tribute fit for Your Eminence. However, we did not come to Ekka intending to stop in Inatum, and are here because disturbing events compel us.”
Kamvar was glad to have come here with Majid. Barsam would probably have burst into the palace uninvited and unannounced, and started by berating the king for his lax security.
“What disturbs Merezad disturbs Inatum. I take it this will require some explaining. Let us retire to more comfortable chambers and break bread together.”
They ate a meal of beets and onions, and barley-stuffed hens roasted with coriander, while Majid explained what had brought them to Inatum. He omitted nothing, speaking first of the girl they’d been tasked to find, then of their attempt to track her to Ila-uanna’s mansion. He finished with the Daiva musician’s arrival in Inatum. When Majid stopped speaking, the Lugal motioned for date wine to be brought to table, and sat silently for a time.
“And this… Leonine is now in Inatum?” he asked, finally.
“Yes, he arrived just before we did. We asked the gate guard to circulate his description. He was most accommodating.”
The king nodded. “I am happy to hear it.”
The Lugal sighed then, and his craggy face seemed to soften. When he spoke, Kamvar heard something that sounded like frustration, or perhaps pain.
“I will give you whatever aid you desire, Hound Majid. But you must understand our situation here. To my great shame, Inatum is still called Inatum the Lawless, despite my best efforts over so many years to rid her of the criminal plague we have suffered. As you perhaps know, Inatum is built on the bones of something much older, the Ekkadi city of Lumshazzar.”
Kamvar did know that, but the tale Lugal Zagezi wove, of a city with a veritable underworld of tunnels teeming with thieves, sorcerers and murderers, was beyond what he’d learned in the scrolls and lectures of the seminary. He was reminded of the tales of Angramash’s beastly realm in the chasms below the holy bridge of Shinvat, a place never brightened by the Shimurg’s light.
As Lugal Zagezi spoke, in the matter-of-fact cadence of a soldier, Kamvar began to fear that this hunt would prove more difficult than anticipated. They had already spent two entire days on horseback, and that left only five to track the Daiva before they exhausted Hound Barsam’s patience. That was not a great deal of time, especially not in a city where thieves could spend days hiding below the Mound of Lumshazzar.
Kamvar, already exhausted by the breakneck pace at which they’d galloped to Inatum, was unhappy to learn that a good night’s sleep would remain out of reach. Lugal Zagezi’s servants led them to luxurious bedrooms, two men to each and Majid to his own, but there was little rest for the weary – an hour, all told. When Tahmin shook him awake, Kamvar’s head was heavy and his vision bleary. 
“Get up, Kam,” Tahmin said, then he yawned sleepily and chuckled. “I swear, when this is over, I’ll sleep for a week and wake only to drink or fuck.”
“You’d need a woman for that, Tam. Or I can lend you my sow. She’s about ready for another litter.”
“Who needs a sow when I have your wife?”
Kamvar leapt up and swatted his friend in mock rage. 
“I am slain!” shouted Tahmin, before falling back into his silken pillows.
From the doorway came the rumble of a clearing throat. Kamvar turned to see Majid, and grinned at him crookedly. The Hound was attempting to look stern, and failing abjectly. “Are you quite done?” Majid asked.
Kamvar nodded. Beside him, Tahmin stood up and brushed off his tunic, attempting to look dignified. 
“Then get your damn armour on, and let’s go.” 
Moments later, the Hound and his soldiers left the palace, fully armoured and spears to hand. Majid too was armed, a broad-bladed sword hanging awkwardly from his slender waist. Akosh fairly bristled with weaponry. Two cruel hatchets were slung through belt loops, and beside them hung two knives in leather sheaths, one to each side of his portly frame. A third was strapped to his thigh, and a shield to his back. His battered armour looked as though it had been intended for a smaller man. Kamvar found himself wondering how long it had been since the old man had touched a blade, but he was undeniably intimidating.
As they descended by way of a long flight of steps into the palace gardens, three town guardsmen ran up to them, their leather breastplates creaking. They too carried spears, and heavy-looking shields were strapped to their arms. Kamvar felt for them. He hated shields, found them cumbersome and unpleasant. They had their uses on a pitched battlefield, of course, but in small combats such as those the Hunts faced, a man was often better served by a quick step and a deceptive spear. Many of the Huntsmen fought that way, in the manner of the vicious Serav tribesmen who had given their country its name. They leapt and whirled as they killed, attacking now with the head of the spear, now with its butt, like mountain hermits laying about with their walking staves.
“Hound Majid!” said one of the town guards, saluting to them. “We have done as you ordered. Every known entrance to Lumshazzar that remains unbarred is under watch by disguised soldiers, and we have begun interrogating those we suspect of underworld ties. Men have also been sent to search every inn and stable where a man might leave horses. No news yet, but it’s only a matter of time, master!”
Majid nodded. “Well done, soldier,” he said, and Kamvar silently agreed. The guardsmen had mobilized with impressive speed, although that was perhaps to be expected in a city rife with the criminal element. Zagezi seemed a strong and competent leader, and his guards were well equipped. It seemed odd that men who appeared so valorous were unable to police Inatum, underground city or no underground city.
Corruption, I’ll bet. Kamvar wondered how many of the Lugal’s officials were trustworthy.
They wandered Inatum’s streets for three hours that night, accompanied by the guards. The city was typical of Ekkadi design. They walked broad, straight boulevards, well lit by large copper braziers smouldering with fragrant Karhani wood, or bituminous pitch.
Inatum seemed lively, even at this hour of night. Men and women walked the streets, heedless of the Serpent’s Eye, some swaying in time with the faint skirls of panpipe and lyre that had managed, just barely, to escape from behind the heavy doors of brightly painted buildings.
The streets were full of pleasure halls, explained Anzatesh, the soldier who had first spoken to them, where men and women went to dance and drink, smoke and sing. Their guide took a certain joy in pointing out which of these establishments were well regarded, and which were crude and villainous. As they neared the Mound of Lumshazzar, the latter came to outnumber the former, and the streets grew deserted but for the occasional group of nervous-looking revelers stumbling home. 
The wise, Anzatesh told them, did not wander about the Mound when night had fallen. Good advice anywhere, Kamvar thought, doing his best to avoid peering into the silver eye of Angramash. Shimurg saw what men did during the day, and forgot none of their misdeeds. But God did not watch men by night. The Serpent did, but the Serpent reveled in brutality.
Night is made for sin.
This night, however, proved almost disappointingly virtuous. If any of Inatum’s locals had seen the murdering performer, they were not speaking of it. The night’s only criminal was captured by a pair of guards that had taken up posts beside a sewer sluice leading to Lumshazzar’s buried market street. It was not Leonine; merely a witless merchant who had crept into the under-city in search of untaxed hashish. No serious crime. Nothing a fine would not set straight.
Leonine had eluded them, at least this night. Still, when Kamvar returned to his chamber to sleep, he was hopeful. Somebody on the Mound must have interacted with the Daiva, and it was only a matter of time until they found that person. As Majid had said, there were only so many places a man could disappear leading two horses. Sooner or later – sooner, he guessed – this Leonine would be uncovered. The only question that remained was whether they would kill him on the spot, or give him to Shimurg.
Kamvar found himself hoping for the former. Barsam would have some choice words about that – so, for that matter, would Majid – but Kamvar was a soldier, not a priest. His world was a simpler place.
They broke their fast the next morning on savoury strips of beef served atop fragrant rice from Bachiya, while Lugal Zagezi’s hired musician played a lilting tune on his bone pipes. The king attended to matters of state, and had left them in the charge of the master of guard, a man named Et-Halum who, Kamvar belatedly realized, had been standing beside the Lugal when they’d first walked into his throne hall.
Et-Halum read from a tablet while they ate, summarizing the events of the previous night. “Mushkenum Tugash the sandal-maker, suspected agitator, claims not to have seen the suspect. Mushkenum Alushu the whore, common informant, claims not to have seen the suspect. Wardum Shapakarna, debt-enslaved petty thief, claims not to have seen the suspect…”
He droned on in that vein, a litany of names Kamvar forgot as soon as he heard them, each ignorant of Leonine’s whereabouts. Or they’re simply uncooperative. Et-Halum stopped for a moment, cleared his throat, and then continued. “Lumshazzar gate in the sewers below the Green Square, no activity. Lumshazzar gate in the sewers near Shurulgi’s pleasure hall, no activity. Lumshazzar gate…”
Kamvar lost track of the seemingly endless list, lulled by good food and the rhythmic rise and fall of the guard master’s voice. Ashuz would be rising now, helping his mother feed the chickens and pigs before their own breakfast. Sahar had probably cooked a gruel of emmer wheat. Her deft fingers had no doubt seasoned it with far too large a pinch of salt. 
He smiled wistfully at the thought of the home he’d left behind, then fretted about his son, too young to understand why his father was gone so often. Ashuz had asked him that, before he left for Sarvagadis. Kamvar’s heart ached at the memory of his son’s earnest little face scrunching up, his eyes brimming over with tears. He’d told him to be strong, as though that could mean anything at all to a three-year-old.
Et-Halum had stopped talking. Kamvar looked up, and thought for a moment that the Lugal’s man was looking at him. He glanced back over his shoulder and realized that someone had slipped into the room without any fanfare, a middle-aged man wearing the leather armour and blue half-cloak of a militia soldier. 
“Master Et-Halum, we have news. The Daiva was last seen near the very top of Lumshazzar Mound. We spoke to a beggar who claimed he saw a man matching the description, right down to the two horses, heading to an inn owned by a man named Tusharta.”
Kamvar glanced over at Tahmin, who grinned at him. Perhaps this will be easier than I’d expected.
“We confirmed this with the stable-hand.”
“You have men there?” Majid asked, the excitement obvious in his tone.
“Yes, master Hound,” the guard replied. “We’ve got the inn surrounded by men out of uniform. They’re keeping low. We didn’t want to go without your orders… not if he’s a sorcerer.”
“Good!” Majid said. “You’re a credit to the Lugal.”
Kamvar had to agree; they’d lost Daiva to the bungling of unprepared, if well-meaning, guards before. If the girl proved so easy to find, he’d be back to his home in the shadow of great Mesav before the spring rains gave way to dry highland summer.
“Men, gird up.” Majid was already striding purposefully towards their rooms as he spoke, his half-eaten breakfast left behind. “We approach as always. Akosh, that means we take him alive – preferably unconscious – if at all possible. If not, don’t hesitate to kill him. None of us will shed any tears if you split his skull. “
Akosh grunted his assent, although something in the set of the old man’s jaw told Kamvar he had little intention of making Leonine a prisoner. It was just as well.
“Above all,” Majid continued. “Do not let him speak, shout or sing. I might be able to defend you from his sorcery… or I might not.”
They passed through the Lugal’s gardens shortly after, moving at a soldier’s trot that made their scale coats jingle like bells. Inatum’s citizens scattered as they climbed the Mound, staring after them with mixed expressions. Kamvar saw curiosity in some faces, naked loathing in others.
Tusharta’s inn seemed a cozy, pleasant place, at least until Yazan burst through the door, waving about him with the point of his spear.
Shocked patrons stared wide-eyed at them over plates stacked with bread and fruit. Kamvar quickly scanned the room, but saw nobody matching Leonine’s description. Majid ran towards a man standing behind a counter. He had been wiping a cup clean with a ragged square of cloth as they entered. His mouth now worked soundlessly.
“Where is the man Rakhshan?” Majid asked. Kamvar did not hear the innkeeper’s response. He was already sprinting into the back rooms of the building, where patrons slept, Manoush at his heels. He opened the doors on the left side of the hallway, Manoush doing the same on the right. 
He startled a man combing and oiling his beard in the first room. The next two were empty. He woke two men sharing a bed who stared at him first blearily, then with terror in their eyes. A woman shrieked when he muscled his way through the next door; he stammered an apology as she turned her unveiled face away from him. Two more empty rooms, and it was done.
“Nothing,” he said to Manoush. 
Manoush shook his head. “Nothing here, either.”
They returned to the common room to see Majid standing over the innkeeper, who had prostrated himself on the ground as though begging forgiveness. A pool of blood spread beneath the man’s face.
“Where is he?” Majid shouted.
“I – I don’t… I don’t know. He paid for the week. He’ll be back, I’m sure! Please, I don’t know!”
Majid snorted in disgust.
“Next time you lie to me, I’ll spit you on my sword,” the Hound said, his voice cold, before turning his attention back towards the entrance. “Guards! Have this mahram whipped.”
Kamvar blinked. Majid cursed only rarely. But then, he was lied to only rarely. The innkeeper bleated and groveled as grim-faced guards dragged him away. 
Majid turned and caught Kamvar’s eye. Kamvar shook his head, and the Hound sighed.
“He’s not here! Move out!”
They left the inn, no doubt to the great relief of its patrons. Majid instructed the guards waiting outside to keep their eyes on the inn’s exits, then called his men together.
“Keep out of sight, in the alleys here,” he instructed. “ I doubt he’s stupid enough to walk into a trap, so if you do see somebody matching the description, quietly say so to Akosh. Strike only when he’s too close to run off.”
They did not wait long.
Akosh saw him first. “There!” he whispered, pointing at a man walking towards the inn, a sack slung over his shoulder. “That’s him!”
Akosh made to leap forward, but Yazan was quick to react. He grasped the old man’s shoulder and pulled him forcefully backwards. “No! He knows your face!”
Instead, Yazan walked into the broad boulevard with Shadmehr beside him, spears resting casually against their shoulders. Majid crouched just at the end of the alley.
“I tell you, Shad, her tits were like gourds!” Yazan said, slapping his chuckling friend’s shoulder. Shadmehr looked first at Yazan, then at the other side of the street; avoiding, as they’d been taught, looking directly at the target until it was too late.
Kamvar held his breath as the two edged closer to Leonine, making to block his path as casually as they could. When they were finally close enough, Yazan swung the butt of his spear at the Daiva’s head.
“Stop!” cried Shadmehr, “In the –”
Majid bolted from the alley. At his signal, Kamvar followed, Tahmin at his side, spear gripped between white knuckles.
Shadmehr had not finished his sentence. The Daiva threw his sack into the face of the man who’d confronted him, dodged a whirling spear, and then he spun on his heel and ran, ducking into the first alley on his left. 
Kamvar felt blood rushing to his face as his feet pounded against the hard-packed road. Yazan had recovered already, and led the charge. Shadmehr… he heard a woman scream from the other side of the road. Shadmehr stumbled.
No. Oh, Ahamash, no. 
“Shad!” An anguished scream behind him. Kamvar could do nothing but keep running. He passed Shadmehr and felt his stomach lurch. The wall was red where Shadmehr had fallen, painted by a spray of blood.
“Oh, God. Shad!” Manoush’s voice.
“Leave him!” Majid shouted. It all seemed unreal, as though he had fallen asleep back in the alley and was now dreaming. He knew he wasn’t. Shadmehr was not the first friend he’d lost.
Kamvar rounded the corner of the alley at speed, ran almost into the far wall. He pushed off it with his right foot, and kept running. The dream state was shaken away, replaced by cold fury and a gnawing pain in his chest. He raced side-by-side with Yazan, and wondered if he knew. Yazan and Shadmehr had been close. Oh God, Yazan. I’m so sorry. He couldn’t look over, not now, not with the murderer ahead and so close.
Another alley, this time on the right, and Yazan and Kamvar almost collided as they turned into it. He heard pounding feet and heavy breathing behind him, could not turn to look.
Leonine turned another corner, right again, and Kamvar heard a strangled shout from the other side. Another corpse, in guard’s leathers, his companion staring at the fallen man. Ahead of them and to the left, a slender shape disappeared behind the wall. 
Kamvar sprinted, his lungs burning, moving too quickly to avoid the guard that stood gaping like an idiot in the middle of the alley. He lowered his shoulder and bulled through, almost tripping over his own spear after the jarring impact. The guard careened into the wall with a grunt, and Kamvar half-ran, half-stumbled into the next alley.
It was empty. He yelled something furious and inarticulate, kept running. He had to be somewhere. Kamvar looked up, then down, and saw a foot disappear into the wall to his left, a mouse scurrying from a cat.
There was an opening here, Kamvar realized, a gap in the brick wall, low to the ground, which he only now realized slanted downward.
The sewer!
“Down here, in the flood drain!” he cried, then dropped to his stomach. He did not bother to look behind him; he knew the others would be there.
Kamvar crawled on his belly, leading with the point of his spear, which met no resistance in the darkness of the sewer. He wondered absently how he would see, then shook his head. It did not matter.
The drain sloped downward past the opening. He stumbled headlong, and landed on his hands and knees in a squelching wetness. He leapt to his feet as quickly as he could, and blindly whirled his spear in tight arcs. It rebounded from a wall to his left, the impact vibrating through the shaft and into his arm. 
He heard a splash behind him, and realized his eyes had begun to adjust. A shadow passed over the weak beam of light extending from the alley above, and then came another splash.
A sconce hung in the left wall. There might have been a torch there, but it was empty now. The Daiva was out of sight, having disappeared into the darkness.
“Go! We have light!” Majid shouted behind him, and a torch flared up in his hand. Kamvar was not sure where he’d found it. He thanked Ahamash for Majid, and followed his order, running through sewer water that churned about his ankles, only now noticing the stench.
He ran through a corridor of bricks that glistened moistly with reflected torchlight, until he reached a fork where the sewers turned to his left and right. He looked to the left first and saw nothing. The path to the right was brighter, lit up, perhaps, by a torch taken from where they’d entered the fetid tunnels.
Kamvar followed the light. Something was wrong. It grew closer to him, as though their quarry was no longer fleeing. The tunnel ended ahead. Light flickered from the right side of it, sending shadows to dance across the wall ahead of him. 
Kamvar turned the corner and groaned, unsurprised. A torch burned merrily in a sconce in the wall, blinding him to the subtle play of light in the forking corridor that opened before him. Someone pulled up behind him and cursed roughly, and Kamvar shook his head clear. There was no time to wait, or to get one’s bearings. He ran to the next intersection in the tunnel, and saw nothing but darkness to his left and his right.
Kamvar groaned and threw a fist against the wall. He felt the heat of a crackling torch at his shoulder, then, and turned to shrug helplessly at Majid. The Hound shook his head.
“No sorcery.”
Akosh held a second torch that he must have picked up along the way. Anger and frustration were etched into the grim folds of his face. In the yellow torchlight, Kamvar saw filth in the old man’s beard. He doubted his own was clean.
“Akosh… that way!” Majid gasped, “I’ll go left. Sh-shout if you see anything.”
Kamvar and Yazan followed after Majid, Tahmin and Manoush after the old ox. Kamvar looked first at the ground, then the walls, searching for any trace of passage. An unlit torch hung from the wall beside him. He pulled it from its rusted bracket, and stuck it through his belt. It could never hurt to have a spare, not down here. He did not want to think about what would happen if they ended up trapped here in the dark. 
Majid, deep in concentration, looked from side to side.
“Here!” They heard Akosh shout from behind them, and broke into a sprint. The old man was already running ahead with Manoush, puffing like a bellows. His panting echoed in the tight corridors. Tahmin fell in line with Majid, pointing first at a bump floating in the ankle-deep water, then at an empty sconce in the wall.
“He…. dropped... dropped his torch.” Tahmin was breathing heavily. Kamvar realized he was as well. “Must’ve taken another. Ran in the dark a ways.” 
They followed after Akosh and Manoush. Kamvar shook his head in disbelief as he ran. Tricky bastard. I bet you’ve done this before.
Shadmehr was dead, killed in daylight, lying in a broad street in the sight of men and God. Above them, in the alleyway, a city guard bled out his life.
This was supposed to be easy.
Ahead of them, Majid slowed, then stopped abruptly. He held up a hand.
“Stop,” he said, then leaned against the slick wall while he caught his breath. They had reached an intersection of tunnels, a warren that opened to the left, the right, and ahead. This time, there was no sign of passage.
“There’s no time!” Akosh growled. “Split up! I’ll go –”
“No!” Majid shook his head, then sighed. “No,” he said again, quietly this time, wearily. “That will only play into his hands. I don’t want to see another throat cut, or to have you fall under his spell without me there to ward against it.”
“So now what?” Yazan asked, his voice taut with barely contained fury. Kamvar had loved Shadmehr, they all had, but there was something more between the dead man and Yazan. Kamvar had lost a brother in arms, but Yazan something greater still. Kamvar glanced to Tahmin to reassure himself that his friend still drew breath.
Majid shrugged. “We go this way,” he said, pointing to the left. “It’s as good as any other.”
They followed a corridor that looked like any other corridor, searching for any trace of the Daiva: a scuffed wall or a rock kicked aside. Kamvar, looking intently at the ground as he jogged after Majid, noticed suddenly that the water level had dropped. Where it had been an ankle-deep morass, it now reached no higher than the top of his sandaled foot. Soon, the water disappeared altogether, and the floor took on the consistency of mud. There was no sign of any footfalls but their own.
“Wait,” Kamvar said, and he stopped. The torch in his belt had slipped to rub uncomfortably against his hip as he moved, and he adjusted it. “Stop,” he said. “He didn’t come this way. We’ve lost the trail.”
Yazan made a disgusted noise ahead of him. Manoush punched the wall. In the flickering torchlight, Kamvar saw tears glitter on the young man’s bare cheek. Beside him, Tahmin shifted uncomfortably and sighed.
“H-hey, look at this,” Manoush said in surprise, then pointed where his fist had fallen. A relief on the wall depicted one of the old Ekkadi gods. From a jug in his hands he poured a river. A line of bare-chested men fished in the water; bare-chested women filled their own jugs from it. One of the men lacked a head where Manoush had pulverized the clay.
Shad would know what it means, Kamvar thought. He had little doubt the others were thinking the same.
The wall ran ahead a hundred paces or more, interrupted now and again by recesses in the brick. Kamvar realized they were, or had been, doorways.
“This must be Lumshazzar,” said Majid, breaking the silence. “The city proper. This … does not bode so well.”
“Hm?” A grunt that was question; it came from Akosh.
“Too many places to hide.” Majid said simply. Kamvar walked to the nearest arching doorway, and stepped through. It was true – it would be impossible to find someone here who did not want to be found. The doorway led to a house that lacked a fourth wall. A gaping hole opened at the far end of the room he found himself in, leading into another corridor, once an alley, that ran parallel to the one in which they stood. The Artalum builders had torn the buried city asunder when they’d installed the sewers. 
“So what do we do?” he heard Tahmin’s voice echoing oddly from outside.
“Nothing,” the response, bereft of hope. Kamvar walked back into the torchlight.
“So we let him run?” Yazan asked. He spat on the muddy floor. “Fucking fantastic, Majid. This went well.”
Kamvar saw Manoush bristle beside the doorway he’d passed through. “It’s not Majid’s fault!” he began. He intended to say more, but he lost the words when Yazan whirled to face him, murder in his gaze. “It’s not,” he repeated, less forcefully this time, staring down at his feet.
It wasn’t. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. Or perhaps it was everybody’s, which was for all intents and purposes the same thing. They’d taken the Daiva too lightly, and now people were dead. And Majid… Majid?
The Hound was still, his eyes closed and brow furrowed. His nose twitched slightly, and then he opened his eyes and laughed.
“I can’t believe it. What a fool.”
Akosh was looking at the soldiers in confusion, but every other man in the tunnel understood.
“Sorcery,” Kamvar said by way of explanation. Majid nodded. The Hound had caught scent of his prey.
“Follow me!” Majid said, turning back the way they had come. 
“And this time,” he continued, an edge to his voice, “no risks. I want him dead.”
Chapter 5: Cat and Mouse
When he was comfortable that his pursuers had followed the wrong corridor, Leonine kneeled down, back against a slick wall, and caught his breath. He considered simply leaving town, following the sewers to where they emptied into the Shalumes.
It will be too dangerous aboveground. The guards had been obvious despite their best attempts to stay low, but it was not terribly out of the ordinary to see soldiers skulking about Inatum the Lawless, pretending to be anything but. 
At first, Leonine had not entertained any particularly compelling reason as to why Zagezi’s finest should be after him and not any other of the city’s countless criminals. Those hopes had been dashed the moment two Sarvashi warriors walked out of a back alleyway, failing abjectly in their attempt to look inconspicuous. It would have made him laugh, had a Hound not followed them.
That, ultimately, was the sort of thing that forced a man’s hand, and so Leonine found himself slipping quietly through the murk, following the warm light of the torch the Hound carried. He’d doused his own torch some time ago; he did not need it to follow sewer walls, and he certainly did not need it to follow a light in the oppressive darkness of buried Lumshazzar.
He could not allow a Hound to snap at his heels, especially now, after he’d killed one of his men.
Four killings in as many days, at least one more to come. That was not something the authorities would forget. Leonine would have to leave Inatum for a time. He wondered what Ibashtu would think about that. He’d have to go back and see her before he left, assuming the Hunt did not find the right mix of coins to jog a witness’s memories of a long-haired Sarvashi walking into Shudagan’s house. A dishonest man would probably know better than to send the guards Ibashtu’s way. She had earned a certain infamy among men that carried knives and kept to shadows. But what of the regular citizens?
Angramash take these meddlers. I’m too old to be skulking about the sewer, knee-deep in shit.
The corridor they had taken slowly widened. Leonine kept to the wall as he followed it, one hand tracing clay bricks that sweated in the damp air of the sewers. The Hound was far enough ahead that his torch was little more than a subtle gradation of light.
A sharp pang suddenly took his side, chasing breath from his lungs, and Leonine stumbled into the wall, gasping and shaking with pleasure. He thought he heard the echoes of a high-pitched scream from someplace behind him in the tangle of tunnels.
Sorcery. Leonine felt dizzy. He shook his head, and tried to breathe deeply, but settled for a series of ragged, shallow hisses. He had to leave, he knew, and quickly. The Hound must have felt the disturbance, and would be following it even now. He turned and ran blindly into the dark.
He did not look over his shoulder. He did not need to. The flickering torchlight would be drawing closer, and in the echoing sewer corridors, he thought he heard the thunder and jingle of armed men running.
The water rose, and he felt it splashing against his ankles, errant droplets cold against the skin of his legs. The tunic he wore flapped raggedly against his body. It was too long, more robe than tunic. He’d slashed a slit into the side while he ran, to allow his legs to pump freely, and he now ran with a left hand tracing the wall, knife and the sodden folds of his tunic bunched up in his right.
He reached the corridor fork where he had lost the Huntsmen. He could feel the residue of sorcery wafting from the tunnel to his left, and so he followed the right fork. If there was another sorcerer in these tunnels, the last thing Leonine wanted was to be caught between him and an angry Hound. Better to let the Sarvashi soldiers run ahead first, and come upon them from behind.
He saw the orange torchlight first, dancing a hundred paces ahead of where he stood flattened against a sewer wall. Then the Hound came into view, and his soldiers behind him.
“Left!” the Hound called, rounding the corner at a run, the other men behind him. When the last of them had his back to Leonine, he rose and loped after them, keeping his distance. The thought of simply leaving crossed his mind once again, but he dismissed it. He could ask for no better opportunity than this to send another Hound to Ahamash, as he had the bastard in Sarvagadis.
The torch stopped moving briefly. Leonine flattened himself against the wall in case one of the soldiers chanced to look back, and then it was moving again.
He followed, and the eldritch trail grew more obvious as he ran. It was strong, he realized, although this should not have been surprising. He could not remember the last time another man’s sorcery had been powerful enough to steal the breath from his lungs. He ached with desire, wanted more than anything to open up and draw in what he could, to try to match the shudders and shivers he’d felt earlier.
Then Leonine’s foot kicked something heavy, and he stumbled, whirling his arms in a vain attempt to keep his balance. He landed on his hands in the muck, knife skittering away, and cursed his inattentiveness. The thief’s heartbeat quickened with the fear that somebody had heard the splash and grunt of his fall, but he dismissed those fears as irrational. The Hound and his unit were making far more noise than Leonine could. In this, at least, he was safe.
Turning to pick up his knife, Leonine caught a fleeting glimpse of what had tripped him up, and curiosity brought his eyes back to it. It was a crocodile, splayed out on its back, obviously dead. It happened, from time to time, that river beasts lost themselves in the sewer tunnels and starved there, but that explanation, he realized, was inadequate. The sorcery was very strong here, in the carving-etched walls, the water, and more than anything the corpse itself. The crocodile must have attacked someone, hoping for food. It was strange that it should be a sorcerer – beasts normally knew better than to anger his kind – but if hunger drove men to do things they might otherwise avoid, should not the same be true for animals?
Leonine got up and followed the tunnel, noting with a frown that pain ebbed and flowed in his knee as he walked. He must have bruised it in the fall, and he cursed once more the chain of events that had led to this. The theft from Ila-uanna’s was supposed to have been easy. Leonine did not much like complications.
The torch that burned merrily ahead of him took a turn and disappeared around a corner. Leonine heard a commotion, a number of voices raised in surprise. One of the soldiers laughed then, in the disbelieving way of a man who has been through so many twists and turns that the shocking seems commonplace. Leonine reached the corner, and peered around it.
The men stood in a semicircle, their backs to Leonine. The echoing corridors carried their voices clearly back to his ears.
“It’s alright,” one of them said, in the idiot voice some reserved for babies and pets. “We won’t hurt you. We’ve come to take you from this place.”
Leonine could not see the person they addressed.
“I’m not going anywhere with you! Leave me alone!” came the reply. To Leonine’s shock, it was the clear, high song of a little girl.
One of the soldiers moved forward, head gleaming in the torchlight. He looked as though he had dunked his head into a barrel of oil, like one of the dandies strolling about the Perfumed Gardens of Hatshut. When he spoke, his voice was sweet and fluid. It was youthful, and better suited to seducing women with poetry than barking out commands on the field of battle.
“Come on, love. You don’t want to be stuck here in the dark, do you? We can –”
“No!” she cried, and Leonine heard splashing. “Stay back! Don’t touch me!” 
“We won’t hurt you. We’re here to help –”
“Stay back!” she shouted, and suddenly Leonine felt a rush of power, of sorcerous energy rushing from all directions to coalesce in the tunnel ahead, until he saw – or felt – strands of power whipping and roiling inside a vessel shaped like a girl.  He felt a second rush ahead of him, the Hound mustering his own powers. Leonine’s breath burned with anticipation. He realized to his surprise that he too had opened himself in preparation for sorcery, that his own veins had grown hot.
There was a scream. Power rushed and roared, burst its bonds like a flood shattering an earthen dam, until the air itself seemed to catch aflame. The man that had moved forward writhed and twisted. He shrieked as he fell twitching to the ground.
Leonine felt terror caress him with ice-cold fingers, and he burst into song, spilling forth the first rebellious lyrics of the Rahavashaska, a song of resistance and iron will, of Rahava the shepherd refusing to heed the honeyed words of the Crone of Beshadis. The soldiers had scattered. Three ran past Leonine, oblivious to his presence, stumbling and clawing at each other in their desperate flight. He realized with a shock that he knew one of the men, the grey-bearded steward of Ila-uanna, but now was not the time to consider such things. Now, he could only sing to shield himself from the awful power of the girl’s shriek.
She was still screaming, and he could see her now that there were no soldiers in the way. The tunnel ahead was empty, save for the girl and the Hound, who had also raised a ward. He took one step towards the girl, then another, his sword drawn. Leonine knew he was muttering a prayer, although he did not hear it. The Hounds did not sing of Rahava; they prayed to Ahamash to deliver them from Daiva sorceries. 
As the Hound moved closer to the girl, Leonine realized with a start that she was still radiant with energy. She had not closed herself. The very air seemed to vibrate with power.
She’s going to burn out. In the realization, there was a pang of sympathetic pain. So very few sorcerers had someone to teach them control. So few sorcerers lasted. Even those that eluded the Hounds so often boiled their own blood, and died writhing and spitting flame.
Her scream faltered, and she fell to the ground. The horror that had tried to rend Leonine’s defensive song dissipated, and he found himself running at a Hound similarly freed, knife in hand.
The Hound had not noticed him, had not heard his song in the chaos. He was moving towards the fallen girl, faster now than before. Leonine was faster still. He swung his knife in a vicious arc, burying the point in the back of the Hound’s neck, then ripped it out. The Hound made a horrible retching noise and fell, his life’s blood spraying Leonine’s face.
The torch! Leonine grabbed at the falling man’s arm. He could not afford to allow his only light to be extinguished by the water. There were still soldiers around, and by now they could have recovered from their horror. Leonine did not want to stumble blindly into the head of a spear.
He took the torch and made to leave, but he stopped short.
The girl.
She was probably dead, Leonine thought, looking past the soldier who had tried to placate her. He was young, would have been pretty if not for the grimace of fear that had twisted his face as he fell. He stared up at the tunnel’s ceiling with bulging eyes; he too was likely dead.
She’s still breathing. Leonine saw the girl’s chest rise weakly, then fall. He could carry her, if he wanted to. She couldn’t possibly weigh much, and he did not like the thought of leaving her for the Sarvashi. They had given enough sorcerers to the Shimurg. Why give them another? 
Sentimental idiot. She’s powerful. Terrifyingly powerful. She’ll rip you apart like she did this youngster when she wakes. He could leave her behind. He doubted she would have much trouble with the rest of the Sarvashi, if they tried to take her. Their Hound was dead, and with him their only chance at protection from her powers. He could leave her here, let her kill them off, and go in peace to find the tunnel buried deep within Lumshazzar that led to Shudagan’s house. 
And yet…
With a strangled cry of frustration, Leonine picked up the girl and threw her over his left shoulder like a sack of wheat. Torch in his right hand, child in his left, he ran back in the direction from which he had come. He would run to where the crocodile died, where he had seen the carvings. That had to be where the sewers turned into Lumshazzar. Once he reached the buried city, it would be easier to figure out where, in the twisted labyrinth of corridors, he would find a safe path leading to the surface. Ibashtu’s gift would see to that.
He ran past the dead crocodile, and then thundered down the corridor to his right. His heart caught in his throat as he rounded the corner, coming face-to-face with one of the Sarvashi soldiers that had fled past him. The man was dumbstruck for an instant, but he was well-trained. His features twisted quickly from confusion to hatred, and he charged at Leonine, hands scrabbling at a weapon in his belt. 
Taken by surprise, it was all Leonine could do to get the torch between him and his attacker’s head. He saw sparks fly, and the man screamed in anguish. Leonine kicked the soldier’s leg out from under him, sending him ruined-face-first into the tunnel wall, then leapt nimbly over and kept running. 
He saw no more soldiers as the tunnel grew wider and the water more shallow. Within moments, he found himself in what must once have been a street of Lumshazzar, the walls beside him cut through with doorways. Inside the first doorway was a hearth ringed by strewn potsherds, and little else. It was a house, and the back wall was missing, leading into another dark corridor.
From what he remembered of Ibashtu’s map, Lumshazzar’s humblest houses had been in the western portion of the city. If memory served, the underground passage that led to Ibashtu’s house would be nearby. 
The girl was growing heavy.  A moment’s rest would be welcome, and a chance to consult the map… but not here. He was still much too close to the Sarvashi for comfort, and the one he’d burned would know which way he went. The soldiers could as easily follow the light of his torch as he had theirs. Now was not the time to grow complacent.
Leonine dropped the torch for a moment, shifted the girl from his left shoulder to his right, and picked it up again. He turned right the first time a road presented itself, then left, then right again. He passed a square that had once been open to the sky, and now had grown almost crescent-shaped with rubble fallen from a collapsed tunnel ceiling. That was always a danger in a place like this. He wondered absently how many men had been lost in the excavation.
In the middle of the square was a well, and looking at it made him realize how thirsty he was from the morning’s exertions. The bucket, unfortunately, had long since rotted away, as had the rope. Leonine sighed, and kept walking. To his right, the tattered remnants of a rotted awning hung from a storefront. They’d gone far enough, Leonine decided. The store would be an adequate place to sit down a moment.
No sign remained of what the store had once sold. Everything that was not brick or the occasional shard of pottery had long since rotted – or been carried – away. Leonine laid the girl on the ground and sat on the brickwork bench where the merchant would have sat by evening, scratching the day’s sales into his ledger tablets. He put the torch down beside him, and pulled Ibashtu’s map from the inner pocket of his tunic, relieved to see that it was unbroken.
He scanned the western half of the map, following with a dirty fingernail a network of streets in search of open places where a market might conceivably have been. He found a square that looked promising and mentally retraced his steps, matching the turns he had taken to the streets on the map.
They seemed to match up. If he were to head north from here, then turn right, he would be close to the centre of the Mound and Shudagan’s home.
“Wh-who are you?” Leonine almost leapt into the air. He had not heard the girl stirring. When he looked over, she was scrabbling on hands and heels to the back wall, eyes wide.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said to her, his voice as calm and understanding as he could make it. “I won’t hurt you. I’m like you.”
Her eyes were narrow with suspicion, mouth pursed. “The other man back there…” she looked around, obviously unsure where ‘back there’ could be found. “He was ‘like me’ and he drew a sword.”
Leonine smiled, held his hands open in front of her. “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done so earlier, when you collapsed. Instead I carried you here, away from the soldiers.”
She thought about that for a moment, and slowly nodded. When she spoke again, her voice trembled.
“Wh-what happened to me?” she asked. “I was scared, and then I screamed, like when the monster tried to bite me, and everybody was running away, and … and I think I killed the first man. I don’t remember anything after that, and now my head hurts. Why does my head hurt?”
“You almost burned out,” Leonine said gently. “Sometimes, when people like us pull in too much power, it can destroy us. I thought you were dead, at first. Afterwards, I wasn’t sure if you’d even wake up.”
Something struck him, then. “Is this… was today the first time you’ve used your power?” he asked. She shook her head, and looked down. In the torchlight, he could see her face growing red. It looked as though she was about to cry.
“N-no, but … but that’s not important now,” she said, mustering a fragile smile. “My name is Ilasin. I’m from Nerkut. What’s your name?”
Nerkut? Nerkut was a very long way from Inatum, an overland journey of a week at least, or several days by river.
“My name’s Leonine,” he said. “I’m from Sarvagadis.”
“That’s not a real name!” She giggled unexpectedly, face brightening.
“Oh? Well, it’s what I call myself,” Leonine replied. “Maybe I don’t think Ilasin is a real name.”
“Well, it is!” she said indignantly. “I know three other girls named Ilasin, and a grown-up too! I don’t know anybody named Leonine.” A strange expression crossed her face, then her eyebrows rose. 
“Wait, you’re from Sarvagadis? Are you… Sarvashi?” the question was a whisper, as though she feared that proclaiming the answer too loudly would be dangerous. That was true enough, in some company.
“That’s… that’s a surprisingly complicated question. My father was Sarvashi, but my mother was Ekkadi, and Sarvagadis is in Ekka. I think of myself as both, but nobody else seems to agree.”
Ilasin thought about that a moment, and nodded.
“My father used to say that we should not let Sarvashi people come to our city. He said they exploited us. He never explained how, but a lot of people agreed with him.”
“It’s the way of the world,” Leonine replied with a shrug. “But that’s neither here nor there. We need to go. The Sarvashi man with the sword is called a Hound. It’s his job to catch people like you and I, and you don’t want to be caught. It would –”
“Wh-what will he do to us?” she asked. She had the eyes of a calf, big and dark.
“He? He will do nothing. He’s dead. But his soldiers aren’t, and if they catch us they’ll put nails through our hands and feet out in the desert, and leave us there to die.”
Ilasin blanched. For an instant, Leonine felt guilty. But is it not my duty to be frank? Sorcerers had to know the stakes of their actions. The enemy would not spare her simply because she was a child. Not with a power like hers.
She jumped to her feet and ran to the door, then turned and looked back at Leonine. “Well? Let’s go!”
Leonine took his burning torch from the bench and nodded. He led the way, and she followed after. Shadows danced across Lumshazzar as they left the market, falling on the soft jowls of bearded merchants and the unveiled smiles of the women who would barter with them for eternity, chiseled into the buried foundation stones of a city lost to honest men. Lumshazzar’s artistic tastes were, Leonine decided, somewhat more pleasant than those of the vicious Artalum.
“Where are we going?” asked Ilasin, as they overtook peasants bowed beneath the weight of the reed bundles on their backs. 
“I need to talk to someone – a friend – and then I’ll take you out of the city. It isn’t safe here, for either of us. I can take you back as far as Nerkut, if you like.” No sooner had the words left Leonine’s mouth than he berated himself for speaking them. 
You intend to run from spears with a child in tow?
“No,” she shook her head. “Not Nerkut. I’ve been on my own a long time now, you don’t have to take me with you anyplace.”
“We’re both in danger. No reason why we shouldn’t travel together.”
I can think of a few. Idiot.
“Besides,” he continued, “somebody needs to teach you control, or you’ll have every Hound in Ekka after you soon enough.” His voice softened, grew reflective. “I didn’t have a teacher.”
They walked in silence. Beside them, men dropped the reeds from their shoulders and used them to build homes beside their fields, watched over by some god or other: a richly garbed figure, twice the height of a man. Birds circled his crowned head, their beaks open in song.
The street-turned-tunnel that they followed opened into another square, this one larger than the market, confirming to Leonine that they followed the correct path. This had been a temple garden once, according to Ibashtu’s map. A crisscross of canals that once flowed with water was now heaped with rubble. Of the plants they had watered nothing remained, except for a few lonely palms and flowers etched into the backs of stone benches, watched over by sculptures of snake-headed beasts that walked on four legs. In the distance, the monolithic first step of the temple ziggurat rose into the ceiling, as though supporting the weight of the younger city above.
They passed the temple, following the street that would ultimately lead to the surface and Shudagan’s home. It was far less clean than the others they had followed, strewn with earth and the remains of stone and brick. The ceiling had partially caved in some time ago, Leonine guessed, and had probably taken more than a few slaves with it. At the tunnel’s narrowest point, Leonine was forced to crawl through on his knees, Ilasin behind him. He became keenly aware once again of the sheer weight of the world above his head. 
His wrists and hands were bloodied from a hundred little gashes by the time the tunnel cleared and he was again able to stand upright, knees protesting stiffly. Ilasin was silent behind him, absorbed in her own thoughts
Leonine and Ilasin followed the street until it ended, forking left and right, exactly as Ibashtu’s map had said it would. Leonine found himself grateful once again for the surprising gift. He took the right fork, beckoning to the girl to follow after him. He stopped in front of a doorway with a leering face engraved into its lintel. 
This is the place.
“We’re here,” he whispered, crossing his lips with a finger. “I’m going to go up to the surface. Wait here until I come back. I don’t know for sure that it’s safe.” If the guards had not found Shudagan’s home already, they would soon.
Ilasin nodded, and sat down inside the doorway, a little heavily. The morning had been eventful, Leonine realized. She was probably tired.
The house they had entered had three floors, linked by a crumbling staircase. The third floor opened into a room that was unremarkable, save for the hole knocked into the wall to his right. It led to a tunnel that snaked upward. The incline was gentle at first, but grew steeper as he went. He soon found himself climbing, bracing his feet on earth just barely solid enough to hold his weight. He started a small landslide of dirt and grit each time he pulled himself higher with his right hand, awkwardly trying to avoid burning himself on the torch in his left.
Leonine’s legs, tired as they were from the morning’s run, quivered as he climbed, but the slope mercifully ended before his muscles gave way and sent him tumbling to a broken limb or neck. He found himself on even ground, the torch warming a panel of gleaming mahogany that seemed incongruous after a morning spent among brick and soil.
He took a deep breath, and laid the torch on the ground beside him. Drawing his knife, he slid the panel aside, revealing a dark space hung with cotton and linen. A closet? Leonine pushed past the clothes, and through a wooden door. It opened into a tastefully appointed room dominated by a copper bathtub. It reminded him of the great Bhargat cauldrons that dominated the fears of his childhood, huge pots in which the fire-eyed desert raiders could stew a dozen unruly children at once.
As Leonine closed the door behind him, he heard footsteps. He ducked behind the mahogany closet, knife in hand, and peered cautiously around its edge. He breathed a little easier when he saw Ibashtu round the corner.
“Ibashtu, lis–”
“Leonine!” she interrupted, her face livid. “What in hell have you done?”
News travels fast.
“A Hound,” he replied, noting with some petty satisfaction that Ibashtu’s nose wrinkled in distaste. She had evidently caught the sewer stink. “He must have tailed me.”
“What do you mean, a Hound? How could you blunder like this?”
Leonine began to laugh, and she trailed off, staring at him in stupefaction.
“Come off it, Ibashtu,” he said. “You knew full well that I’d probably need to use certain talents to get the vase out. Why else would you have hired me? That Hounds happened to be nearby is hardly something I can be blamed for. Anyhow, I came to let you know that I need to leave town, and that you probably would do well to do the same. But it seems you’ve already learned that.”
The scribe took a deep breath, then spoke from between gritted teeth.
“How could I not? There are guards swarming the Mound, and already people in the street are speaking of Hounds and escaped sorcerers. It won’t be long before Zagezi’s men learn that you came here, and even the thickest of them will be able to reach unpleasant conclusions about my line of work. Of course I need to leave – I’ve no desire to be sacrificed to your bird god.”
“For what it’s worth,” Leonine said, “the Hound is dead. There won’t be anyone to identify you as a witch.”
The look she gave him was scathing. “That, in point of fact, is worth very little. Instead of being staked out in the desert, I’ll be whipped and hanged.”
Leonine shrugged. This is getting tiresome. 
“So find Shudagan and Nazimarut and leave. In a few months this will all be forgotten, and you’ll be able to return and live as though nothing ever happened.”
They would probably lose the house, Leonine knew. The city would have to repay Merezad somehow for the loss of pious Sarvashi soldiers, if they failed to catch their killer – and Leonine certainly did not intend to be caught. It was a small price to pay in any case. Ibashtu would be able to buy several houses with the proceeds she made from selling the Akrosian vase.
She did not look particularly satisfied with that line of reasoning, but there was nothing to be said. What was done was done, and she would know as well as Leonine did that crime was inextricably linked to unexpected difficulties.
“Well,” Leonine continued, “I’ll be leaving. I just wanted to come and warn you, and to apologize that I will not be able to help you with your … other interests.”
Ibashtu chuckled at that. “Oh, no. You won’t be getting away quite so easily. I still have need of your services. As you say, this unpleasantness wasn’t your fault, and it would be remiss of me to hold it against you.”
Bitch.
“I’ll have to spend some time hiding in Lumshazzar while I wait to make contact with the Crescent,” she said, looking up at the ceiling while she reasoned out her next steps. “Afterwards, I can commission a boat to Numush-ummi. I expect you to be there by the time I arrive.”
Numush-ummi, the sister city of Numush. The smaller of the two, it was nevertheless a sight larger than Inatum. Together, the two dwarfed even Hatshut. Leonine had some contacts there. He would be able to find a place to stay, and someone willing to take the girl off his hands.
“So be it,” he said. “Where shall I meet you?”
“I have a contact there, an Ekkadi dock official named Luwa-shagir.” 
That was unfortunate. Leonine had little doubt one of the Huntsmen would think to send a messenger ahead to the Numushes. The docks would almost certainly be watched, unless he moved quickly.
“He lives on The Bridge,” Ibashtu continued, “near the southern end. A house painted green and gold. The doorposts are fashioned after stalks of barley… but he is very rarely home. Give the name Hafis to the gate guard. That will be Luwa-shagir’s sign to find you.”
“So I meet you there in a few days, I do whatever job it is you have for me, and you never again bother me with more nonsense about the Crescent. Is that about right?”
She smiled, a little coldly. “Let’s say six days. Now go. You stink.”
Leonine had not truly expected Ibashtu to answer his question. Somewhere along the way, the mention of a secretive cult had fundamentally changed their relationship. It was a shame. He had rather liked Ibashtu, and did not relish the thought of cutting her spidery throat. Still, that was premature. He could bide his time. 
Leonine bowed, and plastered a courtly smile across his face. It did not look genuine. It was not intended to. He passed through the closet and into the tunnels to Lumshazzar. His torch still burned on the ground at the tunnel-mouth, if a little less brightly than before. He would have to take another when the opportunity presented itself.
As he bent over to pick up the brand, he realized that he was famished. The girl would be as well. I can’t risk going back into town. Unfortunate, but such was life. He’d gone hungry before. What thief had not?
His thoughts awash in practicalities, Leonine half-climbed, half-slid down the earthen slope that led back to Lumshazzar. Ilasin sat where he had left her, arms curled around her knees, hugging them close. She got to her feet as he descended by way of a crumbling staircase into the crumbled house. 
“So what now?” she asked.
“Now I take you as far as Numush-ummi.”
A glimmer of something like disappointment flashed across her dirty face, but it was gone as swiftly as it had come.
“Alright,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 6: Letters
Shimurg had already flown over the Serpent’s Bones when Kamvar shaped a final tablet from the clay in his water-bowl. He had written several letters already, first by the dappled afternoon light shining through Lugal Zagezi’s gardens, then, as the sky darkened, by the oil lamp in his own chambers.
It was slow going. He was used to ink on vellum, or papyrus woven from mulched bulrushes, but these were not commonly used in Ekka. Pressing a stylus into clay felt clumsy. His hand was messy and uneven, something a barely-lettered child might write in the tablet house.
The first of his several letters had been compelled by duty – a report even now speeding its way to Sinmalik, carried by a messenger with two fresh horses galloping alongside his own, and two guards besides. Barsam would have to know what had happened here. Kamvar wondered how the Hound would react to their losses. Three men dead – No, four; do not forget the Lugal’s guardsman – and Yazan badly burned. Even if they had come away with the girl, it would hardly be considered a success.
The next of his letters were compelled by compassion. Three of his brothers had died, and he had taken it on himself to send letters of condolence to their families: the usual rote recitations of piety and honour, of men dying bravely and for a greater cause, of Shinvat and Vashedin. He hated writing them, but who else could? Yazan was his elder, but he’d spent the evening among poultices and prayers. Tahmin… Tahmin had not taken the day’s events well and had gone off on his own. He dealt poorly with death.
Finally, his duty discharged, Kamvar turned his attention to a letter compelled by love, addressed to that simple farm holding in the shadow of Mesav Peak.
Sahar, my light, this letter that I write to you is a difficult one. I do not wish to cause you grief, or to make you ill with fear for me, but neither will I lie and tell you all is well.
We left Sarvagadis in high spirits, hunting an unfortunate young girl cursed with a talent for sorcery. We thought we had caught her trail in a manor in the very west of this country, but instead it was the trail of a different sorcerer, this one a murderer and thief who fled to Inatum, a nearby city. Majid believed we would be able to catch the man without abandoning our duty, and I was happy for it. Who would not be, when the alternative is to go after a child?
Kamvar wrote slowly at first, considering his words carefully. He soon lost himself in the letter, words spilling forth like beer over a mug’s rim.
We were brash, overconfident. It made him angry. Seven armed men had gone in pursuit of a thief with less than a half-day’s lead, and had found his trail in Inatum within a day’s time. It should have been an easy Hunt, and yet…
We found the thief, but he was not surprised. He killed Shadmehr in the street where we tried to apprehend him, and ran into the sewers. We followed after but lost his trail, and found instead the girl we had been sent after. It had seemed a masterstroke of luck at the time – even had they lost the thief, the girl was their true quarry. Had she been captured, this stay in Ekka would have been cut mercifully short; he could have been on his way downriver within days, and from the delta to Sarvagadis and home. 
But again, they had taken the situation too lightly.
Angramash has a wicked sense of humour. Her power was horrific, Sahar. Manoush tried to dispel her fear of us, but she screamed, and I do not know exactly what happened after. I saw Manoush fall, and then I was panicked, terrified. Images flitted before my eyes that I will not describe, and I ran – and so did the rest of us, scattering like mice. I had no choice, no control. I just ran, as fast and far as my legs could take me.
He stopped there, laying the tablet aside, and let out a deep breath. It had been some time since he had thought of his father. When the girl had shrieked, it was his father that he saw, first smiling through a black beard and telling his son that he would return before the rains came, then lying raven-pecked on snow stained red, his head shattered by the blow of an axe.
The image had repeated a second time, but the son wore the face of Ashuz, the father his own, and the Dolnayans walked from the battlefield and struck south, raping and pillaging as they went, moving inexorably towards a farmstead where a widowed wife comforted a weeping son. 
The thought had incited in Kamvar a blind terror, and he had hurtled headlong into the sewers, trying desperately to reach his home and spirit away his family before the barbarians descended upon them.
He had never felt such a thing before. Kamvar had been the target of sorcery twice in the course of carrying out his duty – being a Huntsman carried that risk, and they all knew it – but never this way. What the girl had done to him was not deadly, and yet more invasive by far than anything he had suffered before. He felt tainted by the doubts and fears that had assailed his mind, insidious sorceries that he did not have the strength to resist. The thought of a Daiva having access to his mind terrified him.
The most dangerous sorcery he had faced prior to this accursed trip to Ekka was that of a wood witch, a young girl that possessed the animals of the mountains in which she lived. They had lost Vasha and Hasan that day. Vasha’s ribs were smashed to splinters by the great paw of a mountain bear, and Hasan had fallen to his death after a herd of rams knocked him from a narrow mountain path, half of them blindly following after. Yet even that terrible day seemed pale before this one.
When I came to, I found myself stumbling blindly through the dark of Inatum’s sewers. Ahamash be praised, I had the foresight to put a torch in my belt earlier, in case the one we carried went out. I tried to follow a path I did not remember running, calling out the names of my brothers in the hope that they would hear me. But when I found them…
He remembered his return to that corridor. He had come across Yazan first, unconscious, and when he tried to wake him he saw the ruin that only fire could have made of his face, the skin already white and blistered in places. What awaited him in the sewer tunnels was worse, much worse: Majid lying in a pool of blood, his throat ripped to pieces, and Manoush – poor, young Manoush, who joined them in Hasan’s place – dead, his back arched and face frozen into a screaming mask of terror.
Kamvar felt tears gather, and he clenched his jaw, his head swimming with an angry litany of curses. Three men dead, and Majid among them, the first and only Hound he had ever followed.
I don’t know how I’m going to sleep tonight, he thought. He would train a bit, he decided, and hopefully weary himself enough that he would collapse without dreaming. First, though, he had to finish his letter. Sighing, he returned to the tablet.
When Manoush fell, it was to his death. I do not know why he died when the rest of us only ran in terror, but now he is gone. Majid lay dead as well, his throat cut. I found Yazan nearby, unconscious, his face horribly burned. He told me later that the thief had found them, and that the girl was in his custody. 
That was bad. That they had failed to bring in the girl was unfortunate, but could be forgiven. Such things happened. But if their efforts had only led one sorcerer to another, and allowed the two to join forces… well, that would look very ill on Majid’s command. Not that it really mattered any more, Kamvar supposed. Majid was dead.
The city’s Lugal – that is how the Ekkadi call their kings – has sealed every exit from the city, but the thief has not turned up.
No doubt he had followed the sewers to the Shalumes. Tahmin had asked the Lugal’s men to post guards along the river, some men at each place where the sewers ran into the water, but they had not yet heard any news. The murderer must have left the city well before the guards arrived at their posts. It had taken some time – and shouting himself hoarse – to find Akosh and Tahmin. He and Akosh had carried Yazan while Tahmin ran ahead to warn the Lugal’s men of what had happened. They had already been mobilized, but even still, he doubted his request was typical. It took too long to find the sewer map from the public works office, and longer still to follow it to each sluice. It was a failed effort from the start.
We brought our fallen brothers to the surface, allowed them to lie in honour in the eyes of the Shimurg… 
The funerals had taken place shortly after noon. The Lugal had given them a carriage, so that their fallen brothers could ride in dignity to their final sacrament. The survivors followed it through streets crowded with citizens. Men and women whispered to each other, and their curious children pulled at sleeves and tunics asking what had happened.
They chose as the funereal site a grassy plain north of the Shalumes, and they let their brothers lie there, in view of the Shimurg. While the Huntsmen followed their own custom – each man standing relating a tale of a man fallen – Akosh and their Ekkadi escort buried Hanasib, the guard who had been killed, and sang a prayer to one of their many gods in an Ekkadi dialect of which he had understood only a few words.
“I was a member of Majid’s Hunt for three years,” Kamvar had said of their leader, “and in that time I came to learn what a singular man he was. A Hound, certainly, but also a man – a man who laughed and drank and diced with us. When my son Ashuz was born, I was still a student at the seminary, having just been assigned to his unit, and our Ekkadi language exams were fast approaching. To my great surprise, Majid allowed me to put off the exam. To my even greater surprise, he roused our entire unit and galloped to my farmstead, so that I could name my child and feast his birth in the company of my brothers.”
Tahmin spoke of Manoush next, and the tale he told was one that always made Kamvar smile. “When Manoush and Shadmehr first came among us in the Seminary, after Hasan and Vasha crossed the bridge, I was worried they were too green. Manoush in particular looked so… dainty. Like he had never lifted a hand to the plow, much less the spear. Being an idiot, I decided I would test him – and hopefully bruise that pretty face a little – by challenging him to a fistfight. We attracted quite a crowd, he and I, brothers cheering in a ring around us, and money changing hands. So I closed in, showing off a little, and then he came at me. Ahamash, I’d never faced a man so quick with his fists before in my life. Before I knew it, I was stumbling around dazed, nose smashed open, and then I was on the ground.” Tahmin chuckled sadly. “And Kamvar has never let me forget that he bet against me and made enough money to buy a new ox.”
Yazan, naturally, spoke of Shadmehr. Kamvar wanted him to stay behind, with the healers, that they could keep his face clean and free of infection, but he could hardly ask a man to forgo his closest friend’s funeral. So he came, a gauzy strip of cloth hanging across his face like a woman’s veil, and mumbled through lips cracked and bubbling.
“Shad was my dearest friend,” he had said, speaking slowly and deliberately through the pain it must have caused him. “We had not known each other long, but in that time we forged first a friendship, then a love. In his love of learning, he reminded me, old man that I am, of what it was to be young, of my own sons and daughter, and their endless questions. I asked Shad once why he had joined the Hunt. He shrugged, and said simply, ‘To see the world.’ That was Shad – everything he did, he did out of curiosity.”
They stood together in silence a moment, and when the Ekkadi heaped the last shovel of earth on Hanasib’s grave, they left. The Ekkadi probably thought them barbarians for leaving their men to the jackals and birds, but Kamvar did not care. The longer Shimurg had to gaze upon them, the more He would come to love the fine men they had been. They had returned and built pyres this morning.
He etched another symbol into the tablet, a horizontal line scored by a number of smaller vertical cuts. One day, long ago, it might have looked like the dog it was intended to represent.
…and I have sent a letter to Hound Barsam – a thoroughly unpleasant man – informing him of these events. I am sure this will occasion some censure from the Temple, but these deaths are on their heads. Perhaps it is heresy to say so, I do not know, but they could have warned us about the danger this girl posed, or sent more Hounds, or… I don’t know. Something.
Was that unfair? Perhaps it was – who was Kamvar to question the Prophet’s orders? – but still. They had not been prepared, not seriously, and they had lost men. It was true that regular men rarely had reason to know the secrets Hounds kept to themselves, but the Huntsmen were not city guards. They were the finest warriors of the Kingpriest and the Empire of Merezad that bore his name. To lose their lives in battle was one thing, but to be told nothing of the danger that awaited them? 
Tam is well, praise Ahamash, and I am well also – if greatly shaken.
I do not know what will happen next. Were the decision mine, I would return immediately to Sarvash, but I expect we will continue the Hunt. I will write to you soon.
Tell Ashuz that his father thinks of him constantly.
I hate to make of you a harbinger, but please read this letter to my mother as well. I know you do not always get along, but she too has a right to know what has happened here. I will not ask you not to worry; know simply that I love you and that I will do whatever it takes to return safely home.
The letter complete, Kamvar sighed and leaned back on his stool. They had been left to their own devices that night, which was fine. The Lugal had probably thought the Huntsmen too shaken to sit at royal banquet, pestered by inquisitive nobles. He was right. Unworthy though it was, Kamvar simmered with an anger he struggled to contain, and he did not particularly want to build a reputation for punching out Ekkadi noblemen.
He placed the tablet beside the oil lamp, with the others. In the morning, they would be dry enough that the writing would not smudge. Lugal Zagezi had graciously offered the use of his own messengers to carry the letters to Sarvash. He was an honourable man.
Kamvar stood up and left the room he and Tahmin shared, bending nimbly to snatch his spear from the floor where it lay.
The palace corridors were mostly empty at this hour, even the servants and slaves having retired for a well-earned sleep. He nodded to a guard as he passed through the doors that led outside, and got a perfunctory nod in return. The night was cool, as it could so often be at the tail end of the Rain Days, even when the afternoons were hot and dry. Akosh had told them during their ride to Inatum that dry Rain Days were common, and that the Shalumes often swelled and flooded when strong rains did fall, carrying away entire villages in its wake.
Rivers did not do that sort of thing in Sarvash.
It had taken him some time to get used to the weather here. His homeland was a country of winds, of mountains and plateaus. Snow was known to fall in winter – he had seen such, even in the foothills where he tended his farmstead – and the Rain Days were worthy of the name.
Ekka was a strange country, he decided, picking out a spot atop the palace’s step where he would not be disturbed. He stretched out his arms and waist, then squatted several times to get blood flowing to his legs. He was bemused to note that they still ached with the morning’s exertions. He’d been lax in his training.
Kamvar took up his spear, and began the Snake Dance, dashing around in triangle patterns and arcs, and weaving his body about to avoid imaginary thrusts. Sometimes, he returned one, or punched out with the shaft of his spear to knock out the teeth of an imaginary adversary who drew too close. In time, he began to strike more often, now a high thrust, now a low, and now a whirling strike that could cut with the elongated spearhead of the Hunt’s chosen weapon, or shatter bones with its haft.
“Pretty,” said someone behind him, the voice that of an old man. Kamvar had not heard anyone approach. He turned to see Akosh stroking his beard and appraising him as a man might a horse.
“More than pretty,” he said, breathing a little too quickly for his taste. “The Snake Dance teaches a man to attack with every inch of a spear, instead of hiding behind a shield and poking with the tip like an infantryman.”
Akosh snorted. “You know, boy, I was an infantryman, and I wasn’t a half-bad duelist either.”
“Oh?” Unsurprising. Akosh had, for all his bulk, kept up with them during the sewer chase without complaint – with ease, even. He was certainly more than a simple hired guard.
“Yes. Come with me,” the old man said, turning around and beckoning to him. Kamvar shrugged and followed.
Akosh led him to another end of the palace, where a set of circles had been chalked into the ground. A number of racks stood by the wall, stacked with padded wooden poles of all shapes and sizes.
“Training yard, for the guards,” said Akosh. “I was working with them a bit earlier. Come, show me just how deadly that Snake Dance of yours is.”
Kamvar grinned, and selected a wooden pole as long as he was tall, both ends swaddled in cloth padding. Akosh took up two sticks that curved sharply at their ends.
Kamvar bowed his head to his opponent, saw him return the gesture, and started to dance, weaving about the yard to keep his distance from the old man, who advanced cautiously. 
He threw two quick thrusts to test the man’s reflexes. They were good. The first thrust was easily batted aside, the second… Akosh slipped under the second, letting the padded head of Kamvar’s stick pass harmlessly over his shoulder, and careened toward him, right axe held high. His left slid along Kamvar’s pole, keeping it in check.
Kamvar leapt back and spun, delivered a whirling strike with his spear that Akosh turned to block, both sticks held out in front of him. The impact was jarring, the strike hard enough to shatter an arm or a skull. Kamvar was not fighting to kill, but sometimes, in the heat of training, such details were forgotten.
The old man did not seem to mind, if indeed he noticed. A savage grin lit up his face as he lashed out with his left axe, aiming for Kamvar’s ribs. The younger man leapt back, and Akosh followed. Before he could get his bearings, the old man was already uncomfortably close, his axes whirling one over the other, blurring together. Kamvar heard the impact of stick on stick as he twisted and parried in a desperate defense. He realized, when the opportunity came to push Akosh back with a foot planted square in his broad chest, that he had somehow weathered the old man’s barrage. 
He had to attack, to end this quickly. Akosh had already regained his balance. He was breathing heavily, wheezing like a bellows, but the look in his face was not one of exhaustion. Kamvar feinted a thrust at his face, then redirected it, attacking his opponent’s legs. Akosh danced back, as he expected, then blocked the follow-up thrust and rushed in once more, as expected. 
Kamvar pulled his spear back, sliding his hands closer to the head, as though intending to fight in close. He made as if to strike with the head, then leaned forward, swinging the butt of the spear across from his back, in a tight arc that ended at the old man’s head. 
Or would have.
He heard the loud clack of wood striking wood, and then the impact of Akosh’s bull charge dashed the wind from his lungs. He found himself wrapped in a bear hug, his spear trapped uselessly, a padded pretend-blade at his throat.
“S-scorpion Tail, eh?” Akosh huffed, letting Kamvar out of his grasp. “Seen th-that one before.”
Kamvar laughed, and bowed his head in respect. “I underestimated you gravely, old man.”
“Old just means I’ve learned more tricks,” Akosh replied. “I was a soldier too, once. Fought with axes, clubs, spears… even stood at the wall and pulled a bow.”
“What did I do wrong?”
“Wrong? Bah, you were good. I was just better. When I was a young man, maybe a few years younger than you, my people – I am from Karhan – warred with the Artalum. They liked spears, so we trained to defeat spears.”
There was a momentary silence, and Akosh added, “There is one thing. When a man’s good at closing with you, every heartbeat – every fraction of a heartbeat – counts. The Scorpion Tail may defeat a man who does not expect it, and I’ll wager most don’t, but it is risky. Takes too long, for one thing. You should just punch out with the shaft, or kick your man away, like you did me earlier. That was prettily done. Won’t score a kill, but it won’t kill you as readily.”
Kamvar nodded. They had been taught as much by their trainers, but he had found too many times that fights favoured the bold. Still, Akosh had defeated him soundly. It was something to consider.
“Thank you, Akosh,” he said, “for the training. We will have to do this again.”
Akosh clapped him on the shoulder, and grunted assent. For a moment, neither man spoke. Kamvar turned and watched twinkling points of light falling to the earth, a black sky their backdrop.
“The Ekkadi believe the night-fires to be warriors, Ashuras, I think they call them. Men who served the gods bravely in life, and who continue to do so in death,” Kamvar said. He’d learned as much in the seminary.
Akosh nodded, looking at him curiously.
“My people believe them to be the Shimurg’s feathers, floating down to earth, where they become the birds.”
“And?”
“They look like neither.”
Akosh laughed at that. “The Karhani once believed the night-fires to be literally that, the cook-fires of our ancestors in the other world. The desert men to the south believe them to be the souls of their fathers, hung by their gods in the sky that they might keep an eye on their descendants. The fire-eyes even further believe them to be droplets of blood spilling from the body of a dying god.”
“Have you ever wondered why it is that we are so certain of our beliefs when men the world over hold different gods to their breast as lovingly as we do ours?” Kamvar asked. He had asked Sahar that once, and Tahmin – though Tam had only rolled his eyes. He never dared ask a Hound, or a priest, for fear of the boring lecture that would undoubtedly follow.
“I thought about these things when I was younger, like you.”
“And what answers did you come up with?”
Akosh shrugged. “My answer is that you should believe what you believe, without worrying so much about who’s priests are correct. Does it matter what the night-fires are, so long as they give us light to see by?”
Kamvar had asked Sahar a question of that sort once as well. Smiling, she had chided him for spending so much time locked away in his own head, struggling with questions meant for priests. But she had no opinion on the difference between feathers and warriors.
“I don’t know,” Kamvar answered quietly, and he meant it.
Later that night, Kamvar woke to the sound of a door opening.
“Tam?” he asked. “Where have you been?”
“Praying,” said Tahmin. 
Kamvar rolled over on his cot. The weak light of the night-lamp sent shadows dancing across Tahmin’s face as he undressed. He looked tired.
“You spent the entire evening in prayer?” he asked. 
The look in Tahmin’s eyes was baleful. “You know, Kam,” he replied, his voice venomous, “some of us holy warriors do turn to Ahamash for guidance.”
“Oh, come off it,” Kamvar said, a little more angrily than he had intended. Faith had been the source of so many arguments between them, and while most were good-natured, there were times when one man or the other was not at his best, and they could grow heated. “I know I’m no Jazd, but don’t start with all this. I mourn our brothers in my way, you mourn them in yours.”
He rolled over, turning his face back to the wall. “Good night, Tam,” he said.
For a moment, the room was silent.
“Good night, Kam,” Tahmin said finally. “I’m sorry, I’m just… just on edge.”
Kamvar grunted dismissively, and closed his eyes. Some time later, when weariness finally threatened to pull him back into what he hoped would be a dreamless sleep, Tahmin cleared his throat.
“Kamvar?” he said.
“Yes?”
“What did… what did you see? When the girl cast her spell.”
He had expected Tahmin would ask him that eventually, if not so soon. They had few secrets from each other.
“My father. I saw him leave home, and then die in Dolnaya. And then I saw the same thing again, but his face was my face, and then the savages swept down on our farms. I… I saw Sahar and Ashuz, huddling together while our home burned, and … and that’s enough. They’re not thoughts I want to revisit.”
Tahmin’s voice turned wistful. “I have not thought about father in so long. Another sin, I suppose.”
“Hm?”
“I saw the cultists of Angramash, from two years ago, when we uncovered their mockery of a Temple,” Tahmin said. Kamvar remembered that day well. Majid’s company had found a ring of stones in the wild after the Hound caught the scent of sorcery wafting from the Hashaveh woods, on their way back to the capital after yet another of the interminable training exercises their company underwent. Tahmin had been injured that day, a spear tearing through his side.
“This time… when I was injured, I died. And… and I came to Shinvat, believing myself worthy, but with each step I took, the bridge shook. It crumbled under me, Kamvar. It crumbled, and I didn’t know why.” There was anguish in Tahmin’s voice.
“It wasn’t real, Tam. No more real than me dying in my father’s place. She just showed us our fears, like Jazd Shezad in the Chronicle of Paar.”
Tahmin was quiet a moment, then he laughed. “I didn’t think you paid anywhere near that much attention to the priests.”
“Yes, well. It’s been known to happen. But it’s true – what we saw, in those sewers, was nothing more than our own … insecurities, made manifest.”
“I know. I’m not always an idiot. I’m well aware that I didn’t die in the Hashaveh. But it still made me think. Why would a man living a worthy life fear damnation? I’m not living up to God’s word.”
“Tahmin, my friend, what in hell has gotten into you? Of course you’re not living up to the God’s word, no more than I, or Majid, or Barsam or any of us. Does the scripture not say that men are imperfect, and that as long as they strive after goodness they will find it?”
“This is rich, Kamvar. You’re quoting scripture?” Tahmin’s voice was disbelieving, but the edge of humour had returned to it. 
“I have more. Does the scripture not also say that sorcery will cloud your mind, and cause you to doubt Ahamash and yourself? How many times did Majid tell us that?”
Tahmin sighed. “You’re right, of course. I don’t know, it just seems different, somehow. Than the priests had made it out to be. I didn’t expect to feel as though… as though there was truth in it, somewhere.”
“A lie built on truth is stronger.”
“I suppose,” Tahmin replied. 
“Good. Now go to sleep.”
Tahmin chuckled. “Good night, Kam.”
Kamvar slept late, much later than intended, waking only when Yazan burst into their room and shook him and Tahmin awake.
“Late,” he said simply. Yazan’s eulogy for Shadmehr had probably been more painful – physically as well as otherwise – than he had let on. Since the funeral he spoke rarely, and then only in clipped sentences. “Guards have news.”
 Kamvar perked up at that, and leapt from his bed. He and Tahmin dressed quickly, then followed their brother to the Lugal’s dining hall where the guard master Et-Halum waited with a group of his men. A man lay at their feet, his face bloodied. One of the guardsmen had him pinned to the ground with a sandaled foot.
Et-Halum greeted them respectfully, if not effusively, and pointed to the man.
“This is the house slave Wardum Nazimarut, of the household of Awilum Shudagan, merchant of Inatum. We have reason to suspect that his master was the fence or employer of the thief Leonine. He…” Et-Halum spat the word distastefully, prodding the slave with his boot, “…has neither confirmed nor denied. Mostly, he has just bleated his ignorance.”
“But it’s true, master, I didn’t –” Et-Halum kicked the man, hard, in the ribs. He groaned in pain and fell silent. Kamvar, watching Nazimarut’s face, thought he saw loathing in his features, replaced quickly – too quickly to be anything but artifice – by an expression of weepy fear.
“Why do you suspect this man’s master?” asked Tahmin before Kamvar could voice the same question.
“Witnesses of good character swear they saw the thief Leonine walking into his home the day before yesterday. One said he was carrying a sack. We went to Shudagan’s home earlier today, and all we found was this man here. Who claims, conveniently enough, that his master’s gone to Sinmalik on a merchant’s errand. Never mind that there are no records of his passing at the Windward Gate.”
That seemed damning enough.
“Scourge him. Still lies? Kill him,” suggested Yazan.
“What? Wait a moment!” said Tahmin. “Since when do Ekkadi noblemen confide in their slaves? I don’t find it at all hard to believe that a menial would be kept ignorant of his master’s intentions.”
Et-Halum cleared his throat. “Master Tahmin, is it? You do not know of this man. Shudagan, like his father before him, has long been suspected of having ties to criminality. This man, Nazimarut, has himself been accused of murder, but his accuser was unable to prove the case and was put to death.”
Ekkadi law was famously harsh. In Sarvash, a false accusation merited a fine, at worst, and there was no penalty if the judge believed the accuser mistaken rather than malicious. In Ekka, it was said, men feared to bring others to justice, for a single bought judge could spell their own death.
“If you have all these suspicions,” Kamvar asked, “why did you not simply keep them under watch?” No sooner had he asked the question than he knew the answer.
“Master Kamvar, in a city with as many proven criminals as Inatum, it is difficult to spare men to watch someone simply out of suspicion.” Kamvar could not help but detect a note of disdain in Et-Halum’s voice. He probably resents being ordered about by foreign soldiers. “We throw a few scraps of meat to the beggars when we need such answers, but they are not always speedy, and certainly not always reliable.”
“So scourge,” Yazan said again. “Ahamash, I’ll do it.”
“That would not be proper. He has not yet been sent before a judge. We do have laws here in Ekka.” Disdain and smugness, that time.
Yazan laughed, an ugly, grating noise. Kamvar realized, with a shock, that he did not recognize him. Yazan had always been a dangerous man when his temper rose, but he had not been cruel, not like this.
“Lied to you. And me. Lying to Hunt is death. The whip is mercy enough.”
Et-Halum looked helplessly to Kamvar. Kamvar looked away. Yazan was his elder brother. Majid’s death had made him their leader.
“Very well,” Et-Halum said with a grimace. “But know that I will discuss this with the Lugal.” If it was a threat, politics made it an empty one. As much as the Merezad respected the laws of its vassal states, there would be no argument where sorcerers were concerned.
Kamvar cleared his throat. “Master Et-Halum, if you would be so kind as to spare us one of your men? Tahmin and I will search this Awilum Shudagan’s home.”
Tahmin shot him a look of gratitude. Kamvar knew that his friend had no desire to stay and watch Yazan scourge the slave.
Et-Halum nodded. “Certainly. Anzatesh will go with you. He knows the way.”
Kamvar was glad for that. Anzatesh had been a knowledgeable guide, and a familiar face would be welcome.
“Oh, and another thing,” Kamvar added. “Has anyone seen Akosh? I would like him to come with us.”
Shudagan’s home, its back to the Mound of Lumshazzar as though leaning against it, was smaller than Kamvar had imagined it would be. In Sarvash they had heard tales of the fabulously wealthy merchants and nobles of the Awilum class, tales of manors that competed even with palaces and temples in their excesses. He had seen such in Ab-Ewarad and Sarvagadis, although the Sarvashi had converted the more extravagant buildings of the latter city to public use. 
Still, if Shudagan’s home was small and unassuming, it was nonetheless tastefully appointed and watched over by expensive statuary. Nobody had answered the door when Tahmin hammered at it with the butt of his spear, and so they kicked it in. The house, it seemed, was empty.
Kamvar rifled through what appeared to be an office, examining tablet after tablet, ledger after ledger, by the wan light of an oil lamp that was close to expiring. He found no mention of Akrosian vases, or indeed of any prior business within Sinmalik, but that was to be expected. Wise men did not catalogue their misdeeds. Instead, the ledgers bore mute witness to the trade of jewelry and textiles, and a surprising number of slaves. 
“Anzatesh!” Kamvar called. The guardsman had been searching Shudagan’s bedchamber a room away, while Akosh and Tahmin searched the upper floors.
“Yes, Kamvar?” When Kamvar looked up, he found the guardsman standing in the office doorway, his head cocked quizzically to the right.
“Master Et-Halum mentioned earlier that Shudagan and his father have been under suspicion for some time. What were they suspected of, exactly? I should have asked him.”
Anzatesh scratched his head. “I don’t know all the details, but we had apparently found evidence some fifteen years ago that Awilum Shudagan’s father, Awilum Hadames, was buying up slaves in great number only to free them afterwards.”
Strange. 
“That’s not illegal, of course. A free man has a right to buy and sell slaves as he wishes, but… well, it created some problems at the time, as there was no place in Inatum for the freed slaves to live. Many of them ended up living below, in Lumshazzar, and of those, most turned to crime. A man who frees a slave that turns to crime is considered partly culpable, and the crimes were so many and so serious that Hadames was put to death.”
Anzatesh looked distinctly uncomfortable to be discussing this. Kamvar felt a little guilt at prodding further, but not much. There was too much that he did not yet understand.
“So what happened?” he asked.
“There was a riot. Hadames was an old man already, could not have been far from death, but when we hanged him, the city erupted. Men came from sewers and inns and docks, Mushkenum and Wardum alike, armed with clubs, knives, broomsticks and anything else they could find. I was new to the Lugal’s guard then… it was the first time I saw real combat. We lost many men in the streets, and too many more when we swept through Lumshazzar to eliminate the rest of them.”
A riot of such fury should certainly have been recorded in the history scrolls, yet Kamvar had never heard mention of the event in the seminary. Perhaps the Merezad’s historians had discounted the slave revolt as insignificant.
They probably want to keep Ekka’s slave trade as quiet as possible, Kamvar realized. Slavery was forbidden in Sarvash. Many of his countrymen considered it an abhorrent practice, but the Merezad had allowed the Ekkadi to keep to their customs.  If such tales were to spread, and too many important Sarvashi cried out for change, who could know how the Ekkadi would react? 
Politics.
“What does this have to do with Shudagan?” Kamvar asked.
“Well, that riot wasn’t the end of it,” the guardsman replied. “Since that day, there have been a number of attacks on slavers’ barges, or Awilum that were reputed to treat their slaves poorly. All by a group that calls itself the Shattered Manacle. Pretentious, I know, but they have caused us no end of grief.”
“And you believe Shudagan is involved with them because of his father’s history?” That was by no means a long leap.
“Yes, Kamvar. That’s exactly what I believe. Moreover, we know Awilum Shudagan himself is very active in the slave trade, and yet he has never suffered an attack. I believe he buys slave warriors for the Manacle.”
“Let me guess: there is no solid proof of any of this, and so men fear to bring him to court.”
“I am only a guard, not a judge. But yes, that is what I believe.”
How is the Daiva implicated in this? And what use would a man with so much money to spend on slaves have for the petty theft of a vase? 
Shudagan’s ledgers seemed profitable enough, but if what Anzatesh suspected was true, it was entirely possible that the slave sales recorded within them had never taken place. If that was the case, perhaps Shudagan needed to arrange thefts from time to time to pay for his purchases, if jewelry and textiles did not suffice. Kamvar found himself wondering how, if at all, these events related.
“Kamvar!” 
Kamvar looked up at the sound of Tahmin’s voice. His friend stood behind Anzatesh in the doorway, a strange look on his face.
“Come upstairs. Akosh has found something.”
He followed Tahmin up the narrow staircase, its landing guarded by a splendidly sculpted lion, and through a maze of small rooms. Akosh waited for them in a bathroom, a great copper tub in its center. Behind him was a dressing closet of heavy mahogany. Akosh pointed to it as Kamvar entered.
“Have a look at that,” the old man said.
The clothes had been pulled to one side, and behind them, where he would have expected to see more wood, or at least a wall, an earthen tunnel spiraled downward into blackness.
When Akosh next spoke, his tone was wry. “Where do you suppose it leads?”
Chapter 7: Child of the Rivers
There was something charming about the girl, Leonine decided, even when she was splashing him with river water.
Shimurg had been at his highest in the sky when they emerged cautiously from the sewers, eyes adjusting to the brilliant light of day. Leonine had forced a hard pace through Lumshazzar. He knew soldiers would be dispatched to watch the riverbanks, and so they ran until they were short of breath, then walked, then ran again. Leonine’s legs had shrieked in protest, and Ilasin… Ilasin had done well, better than he would have expected from a child, but even so he had been forced to carry her when she began to complain.
Thankfully, when they finally did reach the Shalumes, the sewer tunnels were unguarded. Leonine had been pleasantly surprised to learn that Ilasin could swim, and well at that. She dove into the river, squealing with glee, and he followed after. The smells of earth, reeds and clean air were intoxicating after so many hours spent underground.
They had spent what remained of that first day, a balmy afternoon followed by a cool evening, putting as much distance between themselves and Inatum as possible and talking only infrequently. Leonine set up camp as Shimurg began to dip behind the Serpent’s Bones, his light painting the sky with orange and pink. Leonine would have preferred to press on, but the girl was weary, and weak. 
He built a tiny fire instead, on the muddy bank of the Shalumes, and struggled for some time to catch one of the river’s many fish for their evening meal. Ilasin had fallen asleep in a thicket by the time he succeeded, so he ate his fill and wrapped the remainder in the feathery leaves of a fern.
Leonine tried to stay awake for a time, to stand guard in case pursuit was swifter than he anticipated. It was only a matter of time until the soldiers they’d faced in the sewers regrouped. They were hamstrung without their Hound in some ways, but they would not need to follow the scent of sorcery when simply following the river would do. There were only so many directions in which a man leaving Inatum could go, and south, into the desert, was not one of them. 
His vigilance did not last. Within minutes of settling in beside Ilasin, he too was asleep, bone-weary from the day’s ordeals. Yet, exhausted though he was, Leonine did not sleep soundly. He dreamt, for the second time in as many nights, of a lost wife and her swollen belly, of a child whose cries he would never hear. Each time he saw her face he woke, and each time he returned to sleep, he saw her face.
Farshideh, he asked her memory, waking for the third time from fitful slumber. Why do you haunt me now, after all these years? There was nothing I could have done. 
It was a lie, he supposed. He could have died alongside her, to be spared the misery of the lonely life he had lived afterward, but some men grasped at life all the more fiercely when nothing else remained to them. There was nothing I could have done.
When he woke again, dawn had broken, to the accompaniment of a wispy fog. Ilasin was no longer lying beside him. Instead, he heard splashing from the river.
He rose, groaning at the realization that his interrupted sleep had left his head aching, and walked to the riverbank.
“Good morning, Ilas–” he began, then sputtered at the cold water she splashed into his face.
“Hey! No peeking,” she said. Ilasin stood waist-deep in the water, covering herself with her hands, her face amusingly wroth. Leonine laughed, and she blushed furiously.
“I’ll try to control myself,” he said. “Now come out of there before a crocodile eats you up.”
She threw a dirty glare his way. “It’s not as though I just jumped into the river without looking. I can see, you know. Don’t try to scare me.”
He held up his hands, palms outward, conceding the point. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Now, I’ll turn my back, and you get dressed. We have roast fish for breakfast, and then we have to go.”
“My feet hurt,” she said as he turned. He heard the lapping of water, then splashing as she walked through the shallows to the riverbank. 
“So do mine,” Leonine replied honestly. “But we have to keep moving – you know that. Maybe we’ll be able to hire a boatman soon. I think there’s supposed to be a village a little way’s travel from here.” The prospect of a good meal and an easy journey was too welcome to pass up, even if it left a trail. The Sister Cities were large, and he knew them well enough to avoid pursuit. As long as they reached the city before anybody hunting them – and that was all the more likely if they could travel by river – they could afford to leave a few signs of their passing.
“There is,” Ilasin said. “I passed by it when I was coming to Inatum. They had chickens there, and pigs. You can turn around now.”
Leonine turned around, and pointed at a leaf-wrapped bundle lying next to the ashes that remained of the previous night’s fire. “Fish,” he said simply. “Eat as much as you can. You must be starved.”
She was, it seemed, from the way she tore into the fish. By the time she finished, with a murmured “Thank you”, little remained of their meal. He ate the rest, wishing for some bread or a cup of cool beer.
Ilasin’s story weighed on Leonine’s mind. He had not asked her anything during their journey through the sewers, or along the riverbank. He had been too weary, and too preoccupied with the need to move quickly, and she… well, she had no reason to trust him yet, and it was probably best to approach her delicately. Little sorcerer girls did not travel alone for fun. He had little doubt that her story was painful.
“Ilasin,” he said, scattering the ashes of their campfire into the river. “I want to teach you a little, about what we are and what we can do. You don’t have to tell me anything about yourself if you don’t want to, and I won’t ask… but…” he trailed off. The memory of the sewer meeting shook some of yesterday’s events into place.
“But what?” she asked hesitantly.
“In the sewers, one of those soldiers said they had come to take you away, and they seemed… really satisfied about it. They came hunting me, I’m sure of it…” Why else would Akosh have been there? And they obviously had me watched. “… but you said, afterwards, that you’d used your sorcery before –”
Ilasin looked uncomfortable with the question that hung as yet unspoken about them. She did not meet his eyes, stared at the ground instead. Still, he had to ask.
“Ilasin, do you think… could those soldiers also be looking for you?”
To his surprise, she started to cry, and turned away sharply.
“I… it w-wasn’t m-my fault!” she said, sobbing.
“What wasn’t your fault?” he asked, his voice as gentle as he could make it. He put a hand on her shoulder, gingerly, surprised to see that she did not flinch away.
“I k-killed them. I couldn’t help it, I was afraid!” she cried, turning and burrowing her face into Leonine’s side. He could feel her tears, hot against his skin even through the cotton of his tunic.
Inwardly, Leonine winced. It was a familiar story. More than familiar, it was ubiquitous. A young sorcerer, raw and untrained, lashing out with powers beyond control. Half of the time, they burned themselves to husks in the process. Failing that, there were always Hounds and the Shimurg.
He held her close while she sobbed, and saw himself as a young man, performing for a crowd in Sarvagadis. The crowd had asked for a martial song, a call to war, and he had obliged, singing to them of Lugal Lamash, and his battle against the Artalum invaders. It was an ancient song, almost a legend, of hard warriors succeeding against tremendous odds.
He had lost himself in that song, in a strange ecstasy that at the time he could not describe. When his voice swelled in crescendo, he had opened his eyes on bedlam and anarchy. His listeners beat each other with fists and stones, rent flesh with their nails. Eight died that day, three women and five men. In doing so, they sealed his fate.
And Farshideh’s.
“It’s…” he wanted to say it was alright, but he knew that it was not. “These things happen, sometimes. It happened to me too.”
She drew back and looked into his eyes, her own wet and red, yet strangely hopeful. He told her of the riot in Sarvagadis, so many years ago. He did not tell her of Farshideh, of the fate that so often befell a sorcerer’s loved ones. Some truths were best left unspoken.
“Do you ever wish it didn’t happen? That you couldn’t… do what you can do?” she asked when he finished his story.
“Sometimes, some aspects,” he replied. “Not everything. Ilasin, we are more than other people. We have a gift, a power, something that makes us greater than a simple wheelwright, or farmer. Even a Lugal. But people fear the strong, like the antelope fears the lion. I lost some people very dear to me, and I wish they could still be with me. But we are what we are, and we are great.”
Ilasin did not respond immediately. She looked up at the sky, as though asking the gods for answers. In a voice weak enough that he almost did not hear it, she said, “I don’t want to kill.”
“I know,” he replied. She would have to, eventually, or be killed herself. Such was the life of a Daiva, that hated word. “I can teach you to control it.”
Leonine explained as they walked, even showed her. A Hound was dead behind them, leaving his Huntsmen blind to their passing. Or so he hoped. Who could know how many other Hounds might be nearby? Regardless, it was worth the risk. Some things could be explained in words, but some – and sorcery was one of them – could be learned only in the attempt.
“Think of yourself as a dam, and sorcery a river that rages outside you,” he explained as they followed the broad ribbon of the Shalumes, cut through now and again by canals that carried river water to fields near and far. The Ekkadi had mastered the river, had used it to turn barren sands from gold to green. It was a metaphor she would have little trouble understanding.
“To take that power, and to shape it, you have first to open the dam. If you open it too little, the power will only trickle through, and you will not have enough. If you open it too far, power will rush through, shatter the dam, and overwhelm you.” 
She considered that a moment, and nodded. “That’s what happened in the sewer, isn’t it? When I blacked out.”
Leonine nodded. It was always a threat, and he told her so, told her that she could just as easily have died. “I felt it, you know,” he said. “When you opened yourself. I felt it. All sorcerers can. That’s part of the danger. Some of the people who hunt us have their own power. That’s how they found me, and that’s how they found you. When the crocodile attacked you, the Hound felt your magic. I did too.”
“The Hound,” she said slowly, as though turning the word over in her mind. “That was the other man like us. The one with the sword.”
Leonine nodded.
“Who are they?”
“Priests. Fire-priests of the Sarvashi. Sorcery was not always forbidden in Ekka. That happened after the fire-priests took Nin-nishi, and called it Sarvagadis.”
“Why? Are they afraid of us, like you said earlier?”
How did one explain a thing with a hundred causes: envy, zeal, politics… and yes, fear. “It’s complicated,” Leonine said.
Well done. Brilliant start.
The Sarvashi had a legend, he explained, of events so long ago that history had turned into myth, a fanciful child’s tale of proud Kingpriests who lived for millennia, and of bat-winged creatures in the mountains. Daiva, men called them: demons. They made war for centuries. Every time the Sarvashi tried to defend themselves, they were overcome by sorcerous gales and cruel lightning storms. 
He told her of Ahamash, king among gods, who finally took pity on the men and women of Sarvash, teaching the fire-priests to defend themselves, and their charges, against sorcery. They had driven the Daiva back, according to legend, until there was no place for them to roost within the lands of honest men.
“Is all that true?” she asked when he had finished.
“I doubt it. But unfortunately, whether it’s true or not, men believe it. And because of that tale of bat-winged demons who call down lightning, we are hunted.”
“That’s stupid,” she said, and Leonine laughed bitterly.
“Yes, Ilasin. Yes, it is. Now watch closely.”
He drew power slowly, relishing the current that flowed through him. His veins grew hot, began to throb, that familiar, delicious agony. Leonine sang then, the poetic opening to the Shivasti, and channeled his power into it. As he sang of Aza dancing before Rusut, Ilasin began to dance, her eyes widening in surprise and confusion.
“Wh-what are you doing to me?” she asked, hands clapping as she shook her hips like a courtesan. Leonine chuckled, and fell silent. Ilasin stopped dancing and backed away, her expression difficult to interpret.
“I’m sorry to use you as an example, but I had no other way to make my point safely,” he said. “Did you feel when I drew power into myself? It’s a difficult feeling to describe. It’s like a bright light, and a scent of fire and loam, of… life.”
She nodded. “I felt it when the Hound started chanting, too. After I screamed.”
“Yes, exactly. When we use sorcery, we leave a mark; a mark that others like us can recognize and follow, even from a long way away. The Hounds follow that scent, so it is not always a safe thing to do. I risk it now only because the Hound that was following us is dead… and because it is important for you to understand.”
He asked Ilasin to open herself and draw power in, then to shape it to do her bidding. It was not a thing that could be explained, but she had used her powers before. Leonine believed she would understand what he meant.
He was wrong.
She scrunched up her features in concentration until he asked her to relax, then relaxed until he asked her to concentrate. There was not the subtlest trace of power.
“I can’t do it,” she said finally. “Not just like that.”
He looked at her curiously. “That is strange. You drew power into yourself so quickly in Inatum that I thought you would burn. And yet, you can do nothing now?”
“I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I can’t do it.”
Leonine found himself lacking for words. It seemed unusual. He’d never had a teacher, that much was true, but after the first time his sorcery manifested he never again had trouble drawing upon it. Shaping it could be a different matter; it was frequently more difficult than opening oneself to the world.
“You said you were afraid, that first time,” he said finally. “You must also have been afraid when the crocodile attacked you, and when the soldiers tried to take you.”
Ilasin nodded.
“Have you ever used your powers at a time when you were not afraid?” he asked.
She shook her head.
Interesting.
“I am not sure what to tell you. I have read that sorcery works differently for different people. Well, and seen it. I can control sound and song. I knew another man…” His eyes clouded over, fixed on horrible memories. “…who could break minds and force people to do his bidding. It may be that you can only draw on your powers when you are angry, or afraid. We will keep trying. Yes? It’s important that you learn.”
“I suppose so,” she said. 
“But Ilasin,” he said, an afterthought. He chided himself, for this was too important to remain unspoken. “Not in the city. Cities are a dangerous place to be a sorcerer.”
She nodded. “I know,” she said, and there was sadness in her voice.
Well before midday, they came upon a cluster of huts on the bank of the Shalumes, screened from prying eyes by a wall of date palms, their fruits hanging in clusters still yellow and hard. Animals – pigs, sheep, chickens – clucked and squealed, running and waddling through the streets, in some places chased after by children or weathered villagers.
A woman tending to the date palms looked up at them in disinterest, until Leonine smiled winsomely and asked her about a boat to Numush for his daughter and himself.
“Might be that my husband could take you,” she replied. “But we have need of him here. The fields have not all been sown, and the season is growing old.”
“I can pay,” Leonine said. “Enough for you to hire a labourer from Inatum to help.”
The woman considered that, her eyes suspicious, and finally nodded. “Come, let us find Warut,” she said, laying her shears down where she stood. 
She led them to a clearing where Warut was busy helping other men to raise a reed hut along the banks. One of the builders wore finer clothes than the occasion seemed to warrant. A home for the newly wedded, Leonine guessed. He had heard of such customs among the peasantry. 
The woman walked to her husband and whispered in his ear, glancing back towards Leonine now and again. Warut eventually nodded. He approached, a smile on his face.
“So… you are in need of a boat?” Warut asked, wiping sweaty hands on his kilt. He was broadly muscled, even if age had softened him. They ate well in this village.
Leonine explained that he was a traveling musician on his way to Numush. Warut peered at him suspiciously, his head craning like a heron’s as he examined the two of them from all angles.
“Where are your instruments, if you are a musician?”
Leonine gave a helpless shrug, and tried to look embarrassed. “One of my songs did not meet with approval. Some blasted Awilum had my lyre broken. It will ruin me to buy a new one.” It was a lie, of course, but not entirely so. He had, in fact, left his lyre behind at Tusharta’s inn. He did not want to think about it. He and that lyre had traveled together for years, had made many beautiful songs.
Warut cackled, and clapped Leonine on the shoulder. The thief did well to hide his distaste. “It’s true what they say. Money ruins a man. So the Awilum must be the most ruined men of all, but for Lugals… and maybe Sarvashi.” The mountains of Sarvash were said by the Ekkadi – if not the imperial treasury – to be shot through with veins of gold and silver that danced together, intertwined, amid streams of gems. The Sarvashi told similar stories of Ekka’s cities.
“If money ruins a man, surely you will help us without asking for payment?”
Warut’s wife’s gaze was flinty, but the man chuckled. “Who said I will help you at all? I am needed here.”
Tiresome. I’ve no time to spar like this.
“Which is why I offered your lovely wife some coins for the service. I cannot offer much, you understand, but it should allow you to rent some help and have a little left over,” Leonine said, taking a pouch from inside his tunic. “Of course, if it will corrupt you…”
Warut turned a helpless gaze to his wife, and then bowed his head. Leonine knew that he would accept payment. Coins were not easy to come by, here in the outskirts, and there were things a man could not buy with a sheep or a brace of hens.
“Very well, very well. We can talk about this. But only because your daughter is such a pretty little girl do I consider this! All men know Warut is kind to children.”
Warut, it turned out, was true to his self-professed reputation. He’d loaded his boat with jugs of murky beer, and jars full of fragrant rice, candied dates and dried, spicy meats. These delicacies were ostensibly intended for sale in Numush, but no sooner had they pushed away from the dock than Warut cracked the wax seal on a date jar, and invited Ilasin to partake. The coracle, woven large enough to seat five or six, sat deep in the river, weighed down by its bounty.
The fee they had negotiated was reasonable; more perhaps than Leonine would normally have paid, but not so generous as to raise eyebrows, and he was now a wealthy man. Although, he reflected, a too-large handful of coins would be necessary to buy a new instrument. Lyres with hidden compartments were not, as a rule, the easiest thing in the world to come by – especially not for a discerning performer who wanted them to sound tolerably musical. The last one had been made for him in Ekur, so long ago. Perhaps he would return there after he left the girl in Numush.
“… and that, my dear, is why you should never serve your future husband emmer if there’s purple fluff growing on the sheaf.” Ilasin giggled. Warut had been telling her one story after another. The first had been some lunacy about a lion that had turned into a man after being speared by Warut’s father. “True as the night is dark!” the peasant had exclaimed. Then his eyes had grown wide and he’d covered his mouth in shock, stammering an apology that Leonine genially waved away. One did not speak lightly of night to the Sarvashi. Pious Sarvashi, anyway.
They made camp that first night in a copse along the riverbank, after a meal of dried meat and dates. Some day, Leonine decided, spitting the pit of a date into his palm, I will leave this accursed country for Bachiya or Haksh, and I’ll never touch another date so long as I live. 
That night was clear, and slightly on the cool side of pleasant. Leonine slept comfortably regardless, until he was woken partway through the night by Warut, only to realize that Ilasin, who had fallen asleep curled up against him, was gone.
“Master Leonine! I couldn’t sleep, and… and your daughter!” Warut stammered. “Where could she have gone?”
The boatman’s eyes were wild as he looked left, then right. He made a sign to ward away the ancient evils that stalked the night.
“Probably just passing water,” Leonine said. I hope. He got up and concentrated; the night smelled of leaves and river clay and nothing else. He felt no sorcery.
“Ilasin!” he called. “Ilasin, where are you?”
He heard nothing for a moment, then a tremulous voice responded. “H-here.”
Leonine followed the voice, pushing through a bush that scratched at his arm. He found Ilasin sitting at the river’s bank, her legs kicking in the water. The Serpent’s Eye was wide open, the night-fires still high in the sky. Leonine sat down beside the girl, who turned her face away from him.
“Are you feeling well?” he asked.
She grunted something that sounded as though it was meant to be assent, though she did not turn to face him. Leonine became dimly aware of footfalls, and turned to see that Warut had followed them.
“Warut… I’d like to talk to my daughter in private, please.”
The farmer nodded and bowed his head. “Of course, of course. I just… I hope everything is well. I have some fennel in my boat, if her stomach has swollen.”
Leonine smiled at that; he was almost surprised to realize it was genuine.
“Thank you.  You’ve been very kind.”
Warut beamed, and bowed again, turning to go. When he had gone, rustling through the bushes, Leonine placed a hand on Ilasin’s slender forearm. “What’s wrong, child?”
“Nothing,” she said, too quickly. 
He put a hand to her chin and tried to turn her face to his. The girl flinched away.
“I’m sorry. I would…” he trailed off, awkwardly.
They sat in silence a time, then he heard her take a deep breath. Ilasin turned towards him. In the night sky’s light, he could see – just barely – that her eyes were swollen.
“Ilasin… you’ve been crying?”
She sighed, and nodded.
“I couldn’t do it,” she said. “I couldn’t. Nothing.”
“Couldn’t do what?” Leonine asked. He realized that he already knew the answer to his question. “Oh, you tried to use your power, didn’t you?”
She nodded.
“And you’re crying because of that?” his question came out a little more incredulous, a little harder, than he had intended. She flashed him a look that might have been indignation, and he chuckled. She sniffed, loudly, and turned abruptly away again.
“Oh, Ila. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed, but this isn’t something you can force. It will come when it comes – and it will come,” he said, smiling. She sighed and leaned into him.
“Can I tell you a secret?” she asked. 
“Of course.”
“My father used to call me Ila, long ago. He was – is – the High Priest of Kutuanu.”
The what? Leonine struggled to hide his surprise. If that was true, she may as well have been royalty.
Leonine wanted to ask what had happened, but he was afraid he knew the answer. There were only so many answers to questions about sorcerers.
“He threw me out,” she said, her voice cracking, and then started to cry again. “S-said that he n-never wanted to see me again, and that he w-was supposed to kill me.” 
He held her in his arms while she cried, tried to console her.
“But he did not,” he managed feebly. “There’s that, at least. Your father must love you at least a little, if he let you go.”
“If he loved me, I’d still be home,” she said, anger sharpening her voice. It was, Leonine conceded, difficult to argue with that.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Leonine asked, his eyes following a feather that fell more swiftly than the others. Where they landed and turned to birds, it was said, the harshest of diseases were cured, the sharpest pains eased. 
“Of course,” Ilasin replied.
“My wife used to call me Navid, long ago. So long ago. That’s the name my parents gave me.”
“What happened to her?” Ilasin asked, tentatively, as though fearing the answer.
“She was killed. Because of me… because of what we are. A Hound put her to death, because she was my wife.” Old wounds still ache when the rains come, the Sarvashi said.
“I’m sorry, Navid,” Ilasin said, her small hand finding his own. “What was her name?”
“Farshideh,” he said. Farshideh.
They sat, fingers intertwined, watching the night-fires reflected in the gentle ripples of the Shalumes. The night was clear, but Leonine’s wounds ached regardless.
The warbling song of some bird or another woke him. Leonine opened his eyes to a sky that had trouble deciding between blue and grey. Swollen clouds had formed to the west. He wondered absently if it rained in Inatum.
A high-pitched yawn interrupted his reverie.
“Good morning, Ilasin.” They had fallen asleep where they sat, on the grassy riverbank. It had not been terribly comfortable. Sleeping outside never was.
“Good morning,” she said, too brightly, and clawed her way up Leonine’s arm until she was standing upright. “Turn your head!”
“Huh?” he asked blearily, but obeyed. He heard cloth rustling, then a splash followed by a hiss.
“It’s cold!” Ilasin shrieked. Judging by the sound of her flailing about in the water, this was not an insurmountable challenge.
“Ah, you’re awake!” Warut shouted from the other side of the bushes.
Leonine heard Ilasin gasp, and called out. “Not another step closer, Warut! If you spy my daughter bathing, she’ll never be able to face you again.”
He heard a hearty laugh in response. “I would not dream of it!” Warut said.
They ate after Ilasin clambered out of the river, and set off after the meal. The voyage was pleasantly uneventful. Warut told them some more dubious tales, even sang a poem that he said his mother had taught him. His voice was untutored, but Leonine found its rough edge pleasant. Ilasin seemed to like it as well. When she was not popping dates into her mouth, she favoured the farmer with wide smiles.
Leonine sang also, choosing first the tale of Nashuna seducing Anki, and taming the wild god with her love. Ilasin listened in rapt attention, her cheeks reddening at certain of the more lush verses. She clapped in delight when Nashuna convinced Anki to drive her sick father’s chariot across the sky each day, her body the night’s prize. 
They reached sprawling Numush in the afternoon of the next day, after a quiet night unmarred by wakefulness. The docks bustled, in their place of honour in the shadow of Chagasha’s Ford, the great Bridge of the Numushes. The Bridge, impossibly large, stretched across the broad Shalumes that formed the border between the Twin Cities. To their left was Numush. To their right, Numush-ummi.
Now that the day’s heat had grown less oppressive, bare-chested dockworkers loaded barrels and jugs onto barges with linen sails, while merchants fanned by slaves with palm fronds scratched notes into clay tablets. Ilasin pointed, laughing, at a colourfully garbed merchant followed by a parade of servants, each carrying a jug. “They look like ants!” she said.
Armed guards were everywhere. Some sweated in lamellar painted in shades of green and red – the city’s colours – but there was no such uniformity in most of the armed men on the docks, which boded well. One particularly wealthy-looking man was flanked by black-skinned spearmen in the horsetail helms of Aramayin; another jabbered at a trio of disinterested-looking toughs, pale and red-haired, from lands Leonine could not name. Less exotic were Karhani bodyguards in their striped pants, heavy axes at their belts, and the ubiquitous Ekkadi spearmen with peaked caps and oiled beards.
The city’s soldiers had not yet been warned of his coming, Leonine decided. There was no sign of vigilance, only underpaid guardsmen standing around bored on a day like any other. Warut had proven an able oarsman. They'd set an impressive pace. 
Why are you surprised? This is not Sarvash. His people boasted that if the Merezad asked for mangoes in the morning, by evening they would hear of it in Bachiya. That was ridiculous, of course, but messages did move exceptionally swiftly in Sarvash.
As they will here, soon enough. The east, near the marshes of the delta where the Shalumes and the Hapur emptied, was already thus. Way stations had been built along the roads, a day’s gallop apart as they were in Sarvash, such that a messenger always had a place to leave a winded horse and take a new one. It was only a matter of time until the Merezad’s grip on the interior was as sure as anyplace else.
There was no place at the docks for a craft like theirs. Warut steered the coracle around one of the Bridge’s titanic columns, and brought it to rest on a patch of sandy earth in the shade beneath the bridge. Here too there was bustle, if of a different nature. The merchants here were simply garbed in homespun wool, and while a few carried cudgels at their belts, there was no sign of hired guardsmen.
“Warut!” someone cried as the boat’s keel scratched a furrow into the sand. A man came running towards them, a smile on his face. “I did not expect you to return so soon. How did you enjoy my wine?”
The wine, it turned out, had been to Warut’s taste. He embraced the newcomer and introduced him to his passengers. He had an archaic Ekkadi name with entirely too many syllables.
Warut and the man who knew him launched into a brief and uninteresting conversation about this year’s dry Rain Days, and the weather’s effects on the ripening of dates. Leonine interrupted them gingerly, thanked Warut, and handed him a pouch with the second half of the agreed-upon fee, and a little more. Warut would be in for a pleasant surprise when he counted his money. 
They said their goodbyes, and Warut laughed delightedly when Ilasin threw her arms around his broad gut. 
“So where to now?” Ilasin asked as they climbed a winding set of steps that led up into the city proper.
“First, we find lodgings,” Leonine said. “Then we find something to eat that is not wrinkled and hard from sitting out in the sun. Then we sleep, and in beds at that.” Then… then I find Ibashtu’s Luwa-Shagir, and I find out what I have to do to rid myself of the old hag. He would have to find a place for the girl as well. That was something he could talk to Ibashtu about. She would know where a sorceress might be safely stowed. 
How will I tell Ilasin? She held on to his tunic, eyes wide as her head turned this way and that.
Sentimental fool. You will simply tell her, and go.
It seemed somehow less clear than it had been, Leonine thought, when they reached the guard post at the top of the winding staircase. Somehow, between the sewers of Inatum and here, the waters had muddied. Shared pain and a held hand had conspired to render him stupid.
“Mushkenum Iraj,” he elected to call himself, “and my daughter Khorsheed.” Fuck Ibashtu’s plots. I’ll find her, not the other way around.
A scribe seated under a brightly coloured awning pressed some marks into his clay. The city guards waved them on, yawning. That was good. Leonine liked complacency.
The first two inns they visited were small buildings near the docks, from which the scent of roasting meat wafted enticingly into the street. They were full up, or pretending to be. This could be a rough area, so close to the crudity of the docks below. Not every proprietor would be willing to give a Sarvashi a room. Violence had been known to erupt between locals and unwelcome travelers. It happened rarely enough that Leonine had little fear of attack, but frequently enough to dissuade the sort of man who stood to lose coins over it.
Leonine’s stomach was rumbling by the time they found a room, in an inn ramshackle enough that he would have expected even a Bhargat to be given lodging. The Bricking Month had obviously passed it by without warning. Chipped and faded yellow paint did little to hide the state of the crumbling walls from view, although the pleasant scent of meat and savoury spices was behind these doors as well.
Ilasin, who had been complaining audibly of her hunger, tore with abandon into the meal they were served, spicy hunks of goat served atop a bed of cracked wheat. It was not the finest meal Leonine had ever eaten, but it was certainly a welcome change from dried strips of lamb. There was not a date in sight. The beer was cloudy and flavourless, but it was, if nothing else, wet. 
The inn had no facilities for bathing, a fact communicated to them by the mute proprietor – a criminal, no doubt; in Ekka, a liar could lose his tongue, a thief his hand – with a grunt and a pointed finger.
“There’s a bathhouse down this street and to the right, in a building painted with blue waves,” said a teenaged boy Leonine assumed was the proprietor’s son. He had brought dinner to their table earlier. 
An hour later, Leonine was neck-deep in hot water, a luxury that was expensive in a country with so little wood to burn. Still, it’s worth the two shekels, he thought, closing his eyes. He enjoyed the sensation of water lapping against his chin and cheek, and the smell of jasmine flowers and scented oils. Ilasin was enjoying similar treatment elsewhere, with the women. 
The gods had an ugly sense of humour. A month ago, he had been happy, with no heavier thought weighing on him than whether he should sup on pork or lamb. And now? Now he dreamed of Farshideh by night, thought about her by day. About her, about their unborn child, about the life he could have led.
And then, there was Ilasin, that strange and sudden addition to his life. She was trouble. He had told her about Farshideh, had told her his name. Why had he done that?
Ilasin is not your child.
Yet she had somehow wormed her way into his thoughts. Into his affections? 
Don’t be stupid. What had she done, other than slow his escape and ensure that Hounds would follow in pursuit? She was the reason they had come. He had grown increasingly certain of that. Ilasin had told him that she was the daughter of an important priest, gifted with sorcery and let loose when she should have been put to death. 
The fire-priests would see her as a Daiva, certainly, but that was not all. A regular man like himself would be hunted as a sorcerer, but he could escape pursuit and be forgotten. Leonine had done that. With Ilasin, it was less likely. A regular man with sorcerous inclinations was called a demon. The child of an Ekkadi High Priest with the same gift? Some men would call that politics.
I have to leave her behind. She will bring me only grief.
He should leave this very night, he knew. He should walk out of the bathhouse, find a different inn for the night, and leave Numush-ummi in the morning. Perhaps cut north, across the green plains between the rivers, to Ab-Ewarad.
But you won’t, will you? He would not. He owed her at least a little help. He would meet Ibashtu, and tell her of the child. Ibashtu would reach Numush-ummi shortly, possibly ahead of whatever messengers the Huntsmen had doubtless sent. Even if the scribe did not, they would not be looking for her.
It was a short walk to the barley-etched house on the Bridge. He could do it by night, perhaps take to the roofs. The guards would never know he was there. Even if they turned over the entire city searching for him, this was not Inatum. The guards here had little experience, and were directed by an effete weakling of a Lugal. He had learned firsthand, the last time he was here, that Numush’s corruption handily outpaced that of Inatum, purportedly “the Lawless”. Inatum was a better place for a man of his skills – Numush could be violent – but the night’s work was as profitable here as anyplace else.
Oh Navid, you fool. Why are you rationalizing this? He would not leave Ilasin, not yet, and it galled him to admit it.
“Leo…Navid? Are you awake?” Ilasin asked later that night, in the room they shared. Their bed was little more than a thin mattress of straw wrapped in linen. The itching kept him awake. Her as well, it seemed.
“Yes.” He was not sure he liked hearing Ilasin call him Navid. She had called him by name earlier that day, at dinner, but she seemed to understand the enormity of her blunder after he told her, aghast, never to call him by his given name in public. He could allow her to do it in private, he supposed. There was something oddly comforting in the sound of the name he had left behind in the desert outside Sarvagadis.
“Have you ever been to Haksh?” she asked.
“Haksh? No… why do you ask?” He thought frequently of starting life over in another land. But he did not speak the language, and wasn’t he too old to bother with all that now?
“My father used to say that everybody in Haksh has skin as black as coal, and that they’re all sorcerers and devils. I wonder if that’s true.”
Leonine laughed. “Well, it is true that the people there have black skin. You’ve seen them in the markets before, have you not? As for sorcery …” Ibashtu had told him much of her homeland. “The Hakshi are different. They are not all sorcerers – if they were, do you think any of them would be allowed to come to Ekka? – but our kind is not persecuted there, like we are here. In Haksh, sorcerers are kings, or advisors to kings, or shepherds or wives… they are people.”
“We should go there, then,” she said. “Is it far?”
“Yes, Ila,” he said, ruefully. “Yes, it’s very far.”
She was quiet for a time. Leonine thought she had fallen asleep, but he was wrong.
“Navid?”
“Yes?”
“If they came here, there must be a way for us to go there. We can take a boat.”
It was all so simple.
“Maybe,” he said, though he did not mean it. “Maybe we can.”
He heard a rustle, and was startled to feel a kiss on his cheek.
“Good night, Navid,” Ilasin said cheerily. She turned over and curled up into a ball.
Leonine’s chest tightened. For a terrible instant, he thought he felt tears forming.
She is not your child.
“Good night, Ilasin,” he said, trying hard to keep the weakness from his voice.
Run!
Chapter 8: Arrows in Dark Places
“This is a disaster,” said Hound Barsam by way of greeting. 
He dismounted, followed a moment later by his blank-faced men, and handed his reins to one of the boys that handled the Lugal’s stables. The boy, to Kamvar’s amusement, was doing everything in his power to avoid staring at the stump of Barsam’s right arm. War had been all but absent from Ekka in his brief lifetime. Battle wounds were, mercifully, something he must have seen only rarely.
“Six men and a Hound, and not only did you fail to catch one Daiva, you lost three men doing so?”
That, Kamvar decided, was absolutely beyond the pale. He retorted, words clipped with anger. “Maybe if you’d told us what we were facing instead of throwing us to the lions, this–”
That thought trailed away into a silence born of disbelief after Barsam struck him across the face. 
“It is not your place to question my orders, or those of your late Hound,” the Hound said coldly, his expression one of disgust. “I regret the loss of your brothers…”
You don’t fucking well sound regretful.
“… but we had our own orders just as you were given yours.” 
The matter apparently settled to Barsam’s satisfaction, he turned to climb the steps to Lugal Zagezi’s palace gate. One of his men threw Kamvar an apologetic look and shrugged helplessly.
“Who among you has the command?” the Hound asked as he walked. “Am I to understand it is this young man that disapproves so vehemently of my actions?”
Fantastic way to make an impression. Barsam obviously had not bothered to learn their names or ranks, but Kamvar had little doubt he would remember being challenged. I suppose the miserable bastard will hold this against me.
“I do,” said Yazan.
Barsam turned to look at Yazan, who had neglected to wear his veil, probably against the healers’ orders. His face looked awful, bubbled with blisters. Kamvar was surprised at how far the burns spread. Yazan had drawn perilously close to joining Hound Barsam in losing an eye.
“So you are Kamvar? The man who wrote me that most interesting letter?”
“No, Eminence. I am Yazan. Young man is Kamvar. Tahmin is beside him. The duty to inform you was mine, but I was with healers.” Yazan pointed to his ruined features. “It could not wait.”
The Hound nodded at him, and when he spoke his face seemed to soften momentarily. His voice, however, did not. “I see. From this point, you are the only man of your company with whom I care to speak.”
It took Kamvar a great deal of self-control to keep a sigh trapped securely behind his teeth. This will be fun.
Barsam’s promise to speak only to Yazan did not last. Over a midday meal of bread and lamb, he questioned Majid’s men about everything that had happened. He asked them to recount the initial hunt and sewer chase in detail. Yazan spoke, wincing in pain at every other word, and Hound Barsam interrupted him from time to time with questions.
“What have you done since?” the priest asked.
“We sent choice men of the Lugal’s guard to seal every exit from Inatum,” Yazan said. “The Daiva had likely left the city by then. We sent messengers to Numush, Sinmalik, Karuni and Ekur with instructions for the Lugals of those cities, and continued investigating here.”
Yazan told Hound Barsam of Wardum Nazimarut, whose scourging had ultimately proven fruitless. The man had been silent first, and then, as Yazan’s tortures grew more creative, he hurled curses and imprecations, babbling in a dialect of Ekkadi that the Huntsmen had not been taught. Unfortunately, Yazan explained, cheeks flushing, the slave’s condition was deceptively feeble. He died during the interrogation. 
The man had certainly seemed hale enough. As Yazan’s tale turned to the investigation of Shudagan’s home, Kamvar found himself deeply grateful that he had not witnessed the Wardum’s final gasping, flailing moments.  
 “And what did you find in this Ekkadi merchant’s house?” the Hound asked when Yazan had finished his story. 
Yazan shook his head. “I was not there. Kamvar and Tahmin led the search.”
Barsam turned to Kamvar. “What did you find?” he asked.
“It seems the Ekkadi consider this Shudagan something of a subversive. Evidence suggests that he has some involvement with an organization called the Shattered Manacle,” Kamvar said. He explained to the Hound what Anzatesh had told him, and the contents of the ledgers that he had found.
“The house is built with its back to the Mound of Lumshazzar,” he continued. “A tunnel from one of the higher floors led downward into the bones of the old city. We searched them – Akosh, Tahmin and I – for signs of passage or inhabitation, but haven’t found anything of the sort thus far. We have mapped some of the tunnels, but they are extensive and confusing.”
Barsam was silent a moment, lost in thought, a finger to his pursed lips. He slowly nodded. “I see. When we have finished here, you will lead the way. I would like to see these tunnels… perhaps I will catch a scent where you are unable.”
Some time later, Kamvar found himself once again in the tunnels below Inatum. The only scents he caught were earth, decay, and the fetid reek of sewers. Barsam seemed unaffected by the stink.
The map they had etched was as accurate as they could manage without trained surveyors. Kamvar had compared it against the sewer map maintained by the Lugal’s scribes, and was gratified to learn that the two matched more often than not. The Lugal’s maps had charted portions of Lumshazzar, but the city’s face had changed, it seemed, since the day of the Artalum. New tunnels had been dug in places. Others still had collapsed.
When Barsam finally did catch a scent, stiffening so suddenly that one of his men almost tripped over him, they were in a corridor Kamvar had already explored. On his map, it was a straight furrow that led from a raised square at the western end of the city, as near the Shalumes as the Mound of Lumshazzar got.
“Something was here,” Barsam said, running his fingers along the wall. 
“This corridor does not go anywhere, Eminence,” Kamvar said. “It collapses, a few hundred paces from here.”
Barsam looked faintly amused. He said nothing, but beckoned for the rest of them to follow as he turned and loped into the blackness. His torchbearer, a short but solid-looking man, followed after.
Tahmin gave Kamvar a helpless shrug. What could they do but follow?
The corridor ended as he remembered, at a solid wall of fallen rubble. Barsam knelt by the rocks a moment, then nodded.
“The scent is stronger here. Whatever is causing it appears to be on the other side of this blockade,” the Hound said, turning to Kamvar. “Is there another way around?”
There was not. Not, at least, if his map was somewhat accurately scaled. He had counted his paces, fifty at a time, but he was no surveyor. It was entirely possible that he’d made a mistake, and he said as much.
“I see,” Barsam said, snatching the map from Kamvar and peering intently at the clay. “Where are we?” he asked. Kamvar pointed to the corridor. The Hound followed the stitching of lines that represented tunnels, and finally nodded, satisfied.
“Start clearing the rubble.”
What?
“What?” Akosh asked. They had found the old man dicing with the guardsmen. Yazan had suggested that they did not need his help, if he preferred to stay behind, but Akosh simply laughed at that and stood up, collecting what remained of the coins stacked before him. He had not been doing well. Maybe that’s why he excused himself.
“The rubble, Karhani. I feel sorcery on the other side of this collapse. It had to get there somehow.” 
Barsam’s men were already bowed over before the rubble, clearing it in handfuls to the corridor’s side. Kamvar shrugged and joined them, Yazan and Tahmin following. Only Barsam and Akosh stood aside, the former seemingly lost in thought, the latter scowling.
“Hound Barsam!” cried one of the men, the same that had shrugged sympathetically at Kamvar when the Hound had upbraided him.
“Parvish? What have you found?”
Kamvar looked over. The man named Parvish had rolled away a stone the size of a child. Behind the rock was a tunnel, wide enough for a man to crawl through and shored up with bricks and palm stumps. The rock itself had a bronze clamp affixed to the back, through which was threaded a rope as thick as Kamvar’s forearm.
“Shocking,” Barsam said, clearly unsurprised. “I’ll take the point. Fall in behind me. Last man through pulls the stone back in. And try to make the rubble look more natural before you close the tunnel. We conserve whatever advantage of surprise we might have. No stupid risks.”
“What if we need to retreat?” asked Tahmin.
Barsam regarded him as he would a child asking why the sky was blue. “If we need to retreat at a crawl through this tunnel, we’ll be crossing the bridge whether we need to push a stone or not.”
The tunnel crawl was hard on Kamvar’s knees. He held his spear close to the head to avoid stabbing the man in front of him – one of Barsam’s – and tried to move in time with the rest of the group. Right hand, right knee, spear in tow. Left hand, left knee, and repeat. He could not have said how long the tunnel ran. The awkward march seemed to take an eternity.
Barsam was right. If they needed to retreat through this passage, they would all of them join their brothers in the land beyond the Shinvat.
Presumptuous, aren’t you? But had he not lived a life in tune with the Prophet’s teachings? Tahmin’s discomfort had worried him, even if he’d not admitted such. If Tam of all people fears for his soul, what chance do I have?
Kamvar formed an image of Sahar and Ashuz as a ward against evil thoughts, and shook the doubts from his mind.
When the tunnel finally came to an end, Kamvar found himself in a place that seemed older, somehow, than the rest of the buried city. The light of their torches reflected in places from what remained of a mosaic, its pieces dulled by time or scattered where they had fallen at the foot of the otherwise bare wall to Kamvar’s left. If the walls had been painted in those ancient days, when rain still fell on Lumshazzar, no trace remained. A single corridor led out of the room they had entered.
“The Lugal’s map made no mention of these tunnels?” Barsam asked, his voice a whisper.
“It did not, Eminence,” replied Yazan.
“Then I have little doubt that this is where we shall find our Daiva.”
I have plenty of doubt. Leonine, or Rakshan – whatever the Daiva’s name was –could not possibly have been fool enough to remain in the city. Lumshazzar could hide a man for months; that was hardly a matter for debate. Still, the murderer had proven canny beyond their expectations. He would know, no matter how tangled the corridors beneath the mound, that his best chance of survival lay outside Inatum’s walls.
But if Barsam’s caught a scent… At the very least, perhaps Leonine had passed this way. How many Daiva could there possibly be in a city like Inatum?
No sooner had Kamvar posed himself that question than he withdrew it. He did not want to know the answer, not truly. A city such as this, with an underworld such as this, could hide many things from the Shimurg and the eyes of virtuous men.
Barsam led the way, a sword gripped tightly in his left hand. Kamvar found himself wondering if the Hound could fight tolerably well, if he had learned to cope with the loss of his right arm and eye.
The ground was dusty, but not in the way of some of the tunnels Kamvar had come across in his explorations of Lumshazzar. The powder left behind by dried and crumbled clay lay heavy by the walls, but the path they walked was clean, obviously well-used.
Ahamash guide my spear, and protect me from those of my enemies. There could be fighting this day. Men who went to such troubles to hide from the world above were men who would defend their tunnels from unwelcome visitors.
The passage they followed led to another room, this one larger than the first, if otherwise unremarkable. Kamvar watched as Hound Barsam left the shelter of the corridor and entered the chamber, the stout torchbearer at his side. They seemed terribly out of place, a point of light blazing in the depths of the earth.
“This is bloody unnerving,” Akosh grumbled. Barsam turned briefly, his scarred face contorting somewhere between a smirk and a sneer.
“We have nothing to fear from such men as would hide in a place like this,” said Barsam’s torchbearer. Tahmin nudged Kamvar, incredulous. It was unlike Barsam’s men to offer opinions unsolicited.
Akosh laughed bitterly – the idea that they had nothing to fear was ridiculous beside the memory of the funeral they had held – but Barsam spoke before he could retort. 
“Hesam, don’t be a fool.” Barsam’s voice was terse.
The torchbearer’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, as if trying to stammer out an apology, but he evidently thought better of it, and simply bowed his head.
Idiot.
Tahmin hid a snicker behind his hand. Kamvar threw an elbow into his side, but not before one of Barsam’s men – Zavar? – turned back to glare at the two of them. Tahmin, Kamvar thought despairingly, you’re a child.
“A spell was cast here,” Barsam said, pointing to the ground at his feet. “I cannot be certain exactly how long ago, but the scent is recent. A day, three days…” He shrugged. The mannerism looked strange on a one-armed man.
Barsam beckoned for them to come closer. The room in which they stood seemed to have been the main room of a house. One of the walls was cut through with an arch that must once have held a door. A bricked step in one corner of the room had been a hearth, long ago.
Something seemed to occur to Barsam. “I do not think this was our Daiva,” he said. “The scent in that who–” he trailed off, apparently reminded of the presence of Akosh. Ila-uanna’s captain bristled, then drew a deep breath through clenched teeth. So our Hound does have some slight understanding of diplomacy. “…in that widow’s manor… it was fainter than this, even when recent. The girl’s, on the other hand, I would expect to be stronger. They’ve probably left the city, at any rate.”
Of course they had. Barsam was not stupid.
“So why are we here?” Akosh asked flatly.
“Because at the moment, other than what we have found here, we have nothing. The wrong trail can still lead a man to the right one.”
Barsam sheathed his sword and took the torch from Hesam. He paced around the room in a slow circle, examining the walls and ceiling.
“We’ll learn nothing else here,” he said finally. “Into the street. And be careful.”
Hesam led, sidling up to the archway in which a door had once hung, and peering around the edge. He waved to the rest of them to follow, and stepped into the buried street.
The rubble lay heavy here. The tunnel they had entered opened to their left and right. The walls had been shored up, but the workmanship was haphazard and uneven, and the earthen ceiling had collapsed in places. Kamvar could not decide whether he was more uneasy at the evidence of other men’s passage than gratified that somebody was hard at work keeping these hidden tunnels from collapsing atop him.
“The Shimurg doesn’t see places such as these,” said Tahmin. There was an uncharacteristic uncertainty in his voice. 
“Then don’t die here,” replied Barsam, less than helpfully. Men who died in a place like this, their passage unobserved by the heavens, could not expect a fair accounting when they crossed the Shinvat. Not something I want Tahmin worrying about in the state that he’s in.
Barsam looked down the tunnel in one direction, then the other. “We go this way,” he said finally, pointing to the right of the buried doorway. Kamvar could not tell if the Hound had a reason for choosing that direction, or if he was simply guessing. He supposed it did not matter.
The street they followed must once have been a slum. The houses here – what remained of them – were small and cramped, their bricks weak and crumbled. The area would probably have been near the docks, Kamvar realized. The Shalumes was further north now, but if this was in fact the edge of the Mound of Lumshazzar, and thus the edge of that ancient city, the river must have flowed differently once.
If that was true, this part of the city would have been home to labourers and dockhands, and many among them slaves. It seemed oddly appropriate that Shudagan’s history had led them here.
He imagined the murmur of the river, and the men and women that strode these streets once, when their city stood atop the earth and not below it. Strode? No. Lumshazzar was not yet abandoned. There are still people here.
The murmur grew louder and louder, until Kamvar realized that he was not imagining it. “I hear water,” he whispered. “Running water, up ahead.”
“I hear it too,” said Akosh. “Careful. Where there’s water…”
They crept as quietly as armoured men could, although the effort was likely a waste. An enemy, hidden in the dark, would see the light shed by their torches well before their footfalls could be heard. That thought made Kamvar uncomfortable.
The sound of running water grew louder. Are we coming up onto the sewers?
They were not. The tunnel they followed opened into a square, divided into four equal sections by deep furrows over which stone bridges had been built. The torchlight cast an orange reflection into the furrow nearest them. Water. There’s actual water running through –
A shout broke the stillness, then a strangled cry. Ahead of Kamvar, a man fell to the ground. He heard a whistling noise any warrior would recognize, and then the sharp impact of an arrow striking the tunnel wall and ricocheting away. He heard another cry of pain, but did not stop to consider it. Instead, Kamvar broke into an instinctive dash and dove, rolling over his spear, to take cover behind the bridge nearest him. An arrow flew over his head and embedded itself harmlessly into clay bricks.
He peeked briefly over the lip of the bridge, searching for the archers, but could not see them. Damn those torches and damn these fucking tunnels.
Kamvar looked over to where his brothers had stood. He saw torches littering the ground, and one moving rapidly towards him. The others had dropped theirs and run for cover just as he had, but for the man approaching. By his height, it seemed to be Hesam, though Kamvar could not make out the details of his face. Barsam’s men reacted quickly. He had expected no less. A dark shape flitted between him and the nearest torch. A moment later, Tahmin was beside him, breathing rapidly.
“Two down,” he whispered. “Barsam’s.”
Kamvar nodded. “Can’t spot the archers.”
“Damn.”
The cavern’s roof was high. The archers’ aim would not be hampered here, as it might have been in tighter quarters. As if to prove the point, an arrow struck the bridge Kamvar and Tahmin hid behind and snapped, the shaft whirling end over end as it flew over their heads.
“What do we –”
Tahmin’s question was interrupted by a bloodcurdling yell.
“Ahamash… look!” Kamvar whispered, pointing across the square, to one of the other bridges. The torchbearer – it was Hesam – had left his cover. He ran to the source of the arrow fire, as evasively as he could manage, other dark shapes following after.
“What are they...? They don’t have shields!” Tahmin said, incredulous. Kamvar heard the hiss of released arrows, heard them hit ground. Ahamash, keep me safe.
He stood up and ran across the bridge, following the bobbing light, blood pumping in his ears. “Kam!” Tahmin shouted. 
Kamvar did not heed him, pressing onward, leaping across the square’s central river in his haste to join the others. He heard the hiss of an arrow, too close. A moment later, one of Barsam’s men cried in pain, and fell noisily to the ground.
Hesam, leading the charge, threw back his head and roared Ahamash’s name. Other men took up the cry. This is insane. Why am I doing this? The thought was interrupted by the noise of an arrow striking the ground near Kamvar. It bounced at him, the shaft whipping painfully against his leg. Kamvar hissed and stumbled momentarily. He planted his spear butt in the tiles ahead of him and pushed off, trying to get his feet beneath him.
A dark shape overtook him, and briefly grabbed his elbow. Kamvar glanced over, startled, and recognized Tahmin. Apparently satisfied that his friend had regained his balance, Tahmin let go and grinned.
This is insane.
He realized a moment later that arrows had stopped flying. He heard panicked shouts from ahead, and the unmistakable scrape of swords leaving scabbards.
Swords? Where would such men as would hide in a place like this get swords?
“One alive!” somebody shouted. Hesam’s torch cast its light on a staircase at the far end of the square. Kamvar saw a man leap from the darkness, his arm a blur that gleamed in the firelight. There was a dull noise, like an axe hewing a sapling, and then he saw Hesam fall – no, dive! – at his attacker’s feet, bowling him over. 
“Attack!” a man screamed – their own or an outlaw, Kamvar could not tell, and now he too was at the front, near the staircase. Before him, a man in flowing robes swung a blade, which was batted aside by somebody else. Kamvar impaled him. A heartbeat later, an axe took the outlaw’s arm. 
Akosh. The old man flashed him a grin. 
Two more men that had been running to meet them stopped near the top of the steps, evidently thinking better of it once they saw their numbers, and turned to run. Kamvar caught a flash of movement to his right, beyond Akosh, and one of the fleeing men fell with a yelp of pain.
“Take the landing!” Barsam shouted, and they surged upward, leaping from step to step. They met no resistance on their way. Kamvar found himself shoulder-to-shoulder with Barsam’s men, breathing quickly, spear leveled at the darkness. From below, from where they had come, came a litany of curses.
Their attackers had melted away. Flickering torchlight illuminated a profusion of houses in good repair, leaning one against the other in a tangle of side streets.
“I don’t think we want to be here when reinforcements arrive,” Akosh said. There were a hundred places where an archer could hide, a hundred alleyways from which men could spring. 
Kamvar saw Barsam nod. “Agreed. Hesam left one of them with a leg wound; he won’t have gotten far. Take him, and our fallen, and let us turn back. The Lugal’s guards can clean up this mess.” From where they stood, the square was like a night sky, darkness dispelled in places by the fire of fallen torches.
Barsam instructed Kamvar to carry their hostage. He lay close to where Hesam had tackled him, his back against the staircase, leg bent beneath him at an ugly angle. A torch lay nearby, illuminating a face weather-beaten like a farmer’s and scarred like a soldier’s. A slave-brand of some kind marred his forehead.
A sword lay by the man’s side, but he made no move towards it. Instead, he sneered, mouth twisting with contempt. “Kill me, dog,” he spat. “Kill me for your masters, your soft silk eunuchs and priests–” Kamvar decided to interrupt his tirade before it began with a spear-butt in the teeth.
“Be quiet, and show me your hands,” Kamvar said. 
“Why should –” the man began, blood spilling from a split lip, when Kamvar struck him again.
“Listen to me very carefully,” he said, trying – perhaps successfully? – to imbue his voice with a growling menace, to hide the growing sickness and guilt inside him. “You don’t fear death. I can see that. But there are good deaths, and there are bad ones. How would you like to be impaled outside Inatum’s gates?”
His hostage’s grin became a little less self-assured, then faded away. “Honourless coward,” he muttered. He held out empty hands. Kamvar kneeled beside the man and checked his clothing for hidden weapons, then tore strips from the hostage’s robe to tie hasty shackles around his wrists and ankles. Touching the latter made the man wince, though he tried to conceal it. Kamvar found himself admiring the brigand’s stoicism.
“I will carry you,” Kamvar said. “Make it difficult for me, and I will make it difficult for you. No harm will come to you so long as you cooperate with us. Understood?”
The man nodded sullenly, and Kamvar slung him over his shoulder, eliciting a hiss of pain. It was a lie, of course – or, at best, a promise Kamvar had no power to keep. His hostage’s safety relied on a number of factors, the most significant of them a one-eyed warrior-priest.
When Kamvar rejoined the other Huntsmen, they were engaged in that most dreaded duty, attending to a battle’s aftermath. He knew the trepidation, had felt it so many times before, that sick, dull fear of turning a man over to learn that a friend – a brother – had crossed the bridge.
Zavar was one of the fallen, an older man with a bald head and an unruly beard flecked with wetness. An arrow protruded from his side, and his breathing was weak. Moving him would be difficult, Kamvar knew, especially on their way back through the tunnel. Yazan and Akosh were the first to reach him, and they shared the burden. Parvish had taken an arrow in the hip and could not walk, though he appeared to be otherwise unharmed – he grinned, in spite of his pain, when Hesam scooped him up in his arms. “My hero,” he said, then winced.
A moment later, Kamvar heard Hesam’s voice constrict in pain. “Behrouz, your brother! He’s… he’s dead.” 
Behrouz had been walking ahead of Kamvar. He stopped short abruptly.
“What?” he asked, voice small and weak, disbelieving.
“An arrow took him in the leg… and then another found his throat. I’m so sorry, Behrouz.”
Behrouz ran to where Hesam was standing. “No. Oh, no. Bosmin,” he cried, kneeling and laying his head on his brother’s chest.
“Leave him,” Barsam snapped.
Behrouz whirled around. “Down here? In eternal dark?”
“Leave him,” Barsam said again, softly this time. “We have not the men to carry so many, Behrouz. Not that we can spare on a dead man. We will return for him, I swear it.”
Fear warred over Behrouz’s face, its opponents trust, anger and despair. Behrouz finally heaved a deep breath, a shudder wracking his body. Barsam laid a gnarled hand on the man’s shoulder, his own face impassive, and Behrouz nodded weakly.
They turned and trudged into darkness, carrying their fallen and a hostage. Behrouz, his burden sorrow rather than flesh, took up the point. Barsam guarded the rear, alert for pursuit that never came.
The return through the tunnel through which they had clambered to reach these hidden chambers was far worse than the first trip had been. There was not space enough in the tunnel to carry men, so the soldiers following Behrouz crawled backward, cradling the injured in one arm and pulling themselves along with the other as best they could. 
They moved slowly, for minutes, or hours – who could tell in a dark place such as this? The man in Kamvar’s arms was silent but for the occasional hiss of pain when his leg struck against a stone. 
It would have been so much easier to have simply killed the brigands. It was an unworthy thought, perhaps. But under the circumstances, he was sure Ahamash would forgive. He thought back to the torture of the slave Nazimarut, and winced. If there’s anything to forgive. Perhaps this man would be happier with a spear through his heart.
As they neared the end of their crawl, Zavar’s weak moans ceased. But for the shuffle of cloth being dragged over stone, and the slow breathing of labouring men, they made the rest of the journey in silence.
Kamvar knew what that meant. They all knew what that meant. As the tunnel finally opened into the sewers that had already claimed so many of his brothers’ lives, Kamvar heard muffled weeping. The old man’s wounds had been too grave. He was dead, his passing announced by a brother’s tears.
They returned to the sewers as Barsam had promised, with a cohort of the Lugal’s soldiers behind. They were grim, scowling men, each armed with a spear and a torch, long knives at their belts. They came with hearts pounding like war drums, and the taste of blood in their mouths. Some were grizzled veterans of countless dusty skirmishes, others fresh-faced boys newly become men, but all came with a singular strength of purpose. These were angry men, and fierce, and they were prepared for slaughter.
They found none.
In the caverns below the city, where rivers still flowed under bridges that had once been strewn with flowers, they found a single corpse: Bosmin, fallen brother of Behrouz. My brother as well, Kamvar added, if only briefly.
The soldiers scattered in small groups, each following a different tunnel to find where it led, leaving a trail of small stones in their wake so that none would be lost to the depths. They returned with no blood on their blades, and each of them told the same story. The tunnels wound up, and down, and around each other. Many patrols found stones scattered by their comrades. Many more found rooms within which fire pits had been recently used, and in some were burlap sacks of grain and other supplies. But of robed swordsmen there was no sign.
The next day they gave Bosmin and Zavar to Ahamash, and subjected the outlaw Kamvar had carried to Hound Barsam’s tender ministrations. He told them nothing and everything. His name was Luhe and Tawasi and Abbawas. The Manacle was based in Ab-Ewarad and Sumudkam and Inatum. Its leader was a merchant, a priest, a sorcerer-king, and dead.
Kamvar carried the branded man back to his cell, bloody and bruised, missing an ear, an eye and three fingers. Barsam was more skilled – or perhaps merely less enthusiastic – than Yazan had been. The man did not find the release of death until somehow, during the night, he found the strength to smash his own head open against the wall. Kamvar felt a certain relief at that, and included the man in his prayers.
“Kamvar?”
These days, Kamvar thought ruefully, it seemed Tahmin hardly slept at all. I’m one to talk.
“Yes, Tam?” he asked, opening his eyes. The room was suffused by the weak amber glow of oil lamps shining through the cracks in the doorjamb. He could just barely make out Tahmin’s features in the huddled shadow perched atop the room’s other bed. 
There was a silence, then an apology. “I shouldn’t wake you. Never mind, I’m just being an idiot.”
Kamvar shrugged, then realized his friend could not see the gesture. He swung his legs over the straw pallet and sat up, yawning. “I haven’t been sleeping very deeply these days, Tam.”
Kamvar rose and walked over to Tahmin’s bed, then sat down beside him. He clapped his friend on the shoulder, then hunched over wearily. Tahmin chuckled.
“What’s funny?”
“We look like two old buzzards in a cypress.” 
“I feel old, Tam,” Kamvar replied. “Today, anyway. This whole business with Barsam…” A week ago, their leader had been their friend, and for all that Majid could be stern, he was first and foremost a kind man with a quick laugh. Not the sort of man whose every word was gravel rubbed into a cut, who tortured men with a shrug and a smile, who… You’re being stupid. Majid was no Jazd either. “… I don’t know, I don’t think we were prepared to lose Majid yet.”
“Or Yazan,” Majid muttered.
Or Yazan.
“Is that unfair?” Kamvar asked. “He lost his closest friend.” And his face. “We should try to be understanding, but…”
“Kam, did you see his eyes when he ordered that slave scourged? Did you hear his voice? I don’t know. Yazan could always be vicious, but he never seemed to… to enjoy it. I thought that our own brother had been replaced by… well, by Hound Barsam.” Tahmin shifted, leaning back against the wall. He said nothing for a moment, then continued, his words slow and measured.
“But then, when Barsam saw Yazan’s face, he seemed… I don’t know, moved. And then in the tunnels, with Behrouz…”
It was just too inane. Kamvar laughed and shook his head, clapping his friend’s knee. “Listen to us, Tahmin. We’re sitting here muttering like fishwives, shocked and surprised that a man we barely know has shown some tiny smattering of human emotion. Of course he was moved. How could he not be? He’s just a man.”
A petty, vindictive, rough man, but a man nonetheless. It was funny. Barsam seemed somehow less threatening now, in the dark, his terrible secret exposed.
“Is he?” Tahmin asked, more quietly now. His fears had evidently not been assuaged. “Can a man – any man – just give his own family to Ahamash? If Sahar were a Daiva, could you give her to the desert like that?”
Kamvar knew that Tahmin would not see his incredulous stare in the dark, though at the very least he’d be able to hear it in his voice. “Of course not. Don’t be stupid. Besides, it could just be a rumour.”
“Maybe. Neither could I, you know,” Tahmin said softly. “Kamvar… that is a failing, not a strength. Imagine that. We’re warriors sworn to Ahamash, and yet we’d balk at the sacrifices He demands?”
Kamvar sighed. He was not at all interested in one of those discussions.
“That’s why he’s a Hound,” Kamvar said, “and we’re just apes with spears.”
Tahmin snorted. “Great, Kam. You really know how to cheer a man up.”
Oh, Ahamash. Why me?
Kamvar grunted and rose from the pallet.
“I don’t like where this is headed,” he said. “I think I’ll go for a walk. Join me?”
“Now? In the dead of night, under the Serpent’s Eye?”
“Forget I asked,” Kamvar said. He opened the door to their room and squinted as the hallway’s lamps assaulted his eyes. “Try to get some sleep.”
If Tahmin responded, Kamvar did not hear it. He shut the door behind him, and followed a pride of painted lions into the cool night air.
Chapter 9: The Barley-House
Leonine carefully sawed at Ilasin’s hair. It was no masterpiece – the ends were ragged, the length not quite even – but it would have to do. He was amazed to see quite how much hair there was. Black waves of it carpeted the floor around his feet. 
Ilasin squirmed, and he thought for a moment that he had cut her. 
“Is it done yet?”
He turned her head to one side, then the other, taking a close look. “Yes, I think we’re done.”
She ran to the wall of the inn chamber they shared, and studied her reflection in the beaten brass plate that hung there. Then came a plaintive wail. “I look like a boy!”
“That’s the idea. It’s… admittedly, it is not much of a disguise, but people expect a Sarvashi and a girl. And now, I claim I’m traveling with my son. As long as you don’t talk too much, and try not to let people get too close a look at you, it should be believable.”
“Oh, thanks!” she said, walking back and sitting down at his side, arms crossed over her chest. “That’s wonderful. Maybe we should turn you into a woman, then! They’d never expect that.”
“That, my dear, would be a little more difficult than making you look like a boy.”
“Not much more,” she muttered, drawing a laugh from Leonine.
“But you raise a good point,” he said, thinking a moment. “How would you like to have your revenge?”
She put a finger to her lips, considering the matter, and then peered at him through narrowed eyes. “How?”
“Simple. I will keep my beard growing, and you will oil my hair back. Braid it, even, if you’re so inclined. We can’t make me into a woman, but an Ekkadi is not out of the question.”
Ilasin thought about that, far too briefly for Leonine’s liking, and then nodded. “Perfume, too. We’ll make a proper, civilized man of you!”
“I can’t wait.”
“What about this one?” Ilasin asked later that day, pointing to a cumbersome-looking harp, the arm skillfully carved to look like the feathered bough of a cedar.
Leonine shook his head. “Too big, too heavy.”
“I have smaller! Come over here, master, I will show you!” the shopkeeper had struck that balance between unctuous and pushy that made him a perfect specimen of his kind. The thought made Leonine want to leave the shop. Still, his fingers itched. He needed something to play, and he had coin to spare. He could do without a custom-made instrument for the moment. And Ilasin, it seemed, was even more excited than he at the prospect of music.
They had spent the afternoon browsing one of Numush-ummi’s countless markets, eating figs and olives, and a strange tart fruit that hid within an orange shell. Leonine had bought a sturdy bag that he could strap to his back, and as the shadows grew longer, the bag grew more full.
They’d bought new sandals for Ilasin, and new tunics and woolen rain-cloaks for both of them. 
It had taken some convincing to find a less upstanding merchant, but coin loosened lips; a few shekels later, Leonine had bought new lock picks from a man in an alleyway, and a small knife that he intended to teach Ilasin to use. “He was so ordinary-looking!” she said afterwards. “He didn’t look at all like a thief!”
Leonine had laughed at that. “Do I?” She hadn’t answered that question, which was, he decided philosophically, an answer in itself.
He had told her more of his past over the last few days, of a childhood spent snatching bread and dates at market, and an adulthood spent snatching purses and burgling homes. She had told him of the temple of Nerkut, with its golden couch, on which her father had sworn the god Kutuanu slept on holy days. She’d snuck in once on Midsummer’s Day, to see if the god was there. Unsurprisingly, she’d found no Kutuanu. Just as unsurprisingly, she had found a lashing from an irate father.
It had been a mistake to tell the girl that he knew a song about Nerkut’s deity. She seemed to have gotten it into her head that Leonine needed an instrument to accompany his voice. When they passed by a small shop in front of which a merchant displayed finely carved flutes and pipes, she had pulled him in by the sleeve, unrelenting in her aggression.
“Look, is it not finely crafted? Go on! Touch the wood!” The harp to which the merchant pointed was a smaller one, with a long base meant to be gripped between the knees. Intertwined serpents were carved along the arm, a symbol most Sarvashi would be loath to adopt.
An omen, I’m sure.
He kneeled down before the harp, and picked out a quick song. One of the strings was out of tune; he would have to pull it tighter. Otherwise, the harp was well enough made. Still, as he left the store with a lighter purse and a harp tucked below his arm, Leonine was fully aware that he would have bought nothing, were it not for Ilasin’s insistence. Although, he admitted, the carved snakes were a pleasantly subversive touch.
Thank all the gods I believe in, and those I don’t, that tonight I meet Ibashtu.
A thin drizzle had fallen the previous day, and in the morning as well. The afternoon was cool, comfortably so. It reminded Leonine of summer days in Sarvagadis, of keening gulls and the breeze that softened the acrid scent of salt from the sea and the marsh.
Ilasin, evidently, found it less pleasant than he did. She had rifled through his bag for her new rain-cloak of tightly woven grey wool, and now wore it wrapped around her shoulders.
His new beard – still a patchy, ragged thing – was itching him, and he scratched as they walked. True to her word, Ilasin had twisted his hair into ringlets and oiled it back. He felt more than a little ridiculous. His Ekkadi “disguise” would fool no one when subjected to scrutiny. For all that his mother had been Ekkadi, his angular features spoke more of jagged cliffs than green riverbeds. Still, even if he still looked Sarvashi, he looked at least like a different Sarvashi, and dressing after the local customs was to the good as well; during those weeks when one was more a thief than a performer, it was best not to cut too striking a figure. Men could easily have traveled to Numush from Inatum by now. He had to assume that somebody was asking after him.
A week’s beard and oiled hair made for a poor mask, but he did feel somewhat less exposed. And Ilasin had enjoyed making his scalp ache as part of the deception.
He would miss her.
“So, this is the same friend you met in Inatum? As we left?” she asked, taking a swig of beer from his cup and making a face at the taste.
“Yes. She’s Hakshi, actually,” he said, remembering their conversation.
“Can I meet her?”
Soon enough, I expect you will.
“Probably. But not tonight. She’s … like us, and a thief like I am. Meeting her might be risky, if the men in Inatum have made the connection between her and myself.” He rather doubted they had. They had probably learned about Shudagan by now, but Leonine doubted the Huntsmen would be overly concerned with his household slaves.
“Leonine… what will we do next? After you talk to your friend?” The question was probing, blunt. He wanted to tell Ilasin the truth, to warn her that they had come to the end of their time together, but the words would not come. They had already grown painful to say, and Leonine did not like pain. He did not want to see her cry, wanted even less to make her cry. Too much time together. I should have left earlier.
“I don’t know, Ila. I haven’t decided yet,” he said, giving her a smile he hoped looked reassuring. “Maybe we’ll go to Haksh,” 
If she did not believe him, she made no sign of it. She smiled instead, and popped a walnut segment into her mouth. “That would be nice,” she mumbled, chewing. Leonine could not be sure, but it seemed as though she avoided his gaze.
She knows. She’s not stupid.
“Could we… go to Nerkut?” she asked. “Before we sail?” 
Nerkut?
“Do you want to see your father?” he asked, but she shook her head.
“No. I want to go see my mother. She’s buried there. I … wouldn’t feel right, if I left without saying goodbye. You know?”
He nodded. Yes, I know.
“Do… do you want to go say goodbye to your wife?” she asked hesitantly, biting her lip.
“No, Ilasin. I said goodbye already, and it was hard enough the first time that I can’t bear to do it again.”
He had gone back for Farshideh, too late, when he realized she was in danger. He had found only a Hound in the desert, and Farshideh lying on her back, staring blindly into the sky, nails through her hands. He had said his goodbyes then, a scream on his lips and a knife clenched in his fist.
“Besides,” he added. “Wherever we go, it will not be Sarvagadis. There is no place outside Sarvash that is more of a danger to us than that city.” He could warn her, at least. He could do that much. Even if they did not travel together, she would know not to go to Ekka’s great outpost of the Merezadesh.
Ilasin knitted her brow in consternation. “Wait… if not Sarvagadis, where will we find a ship to Haksh? Surely you don’t expect to find a ship in Hatshut?” Leonine was surprised for a moment at how well she knew the lay of the land. The reefs around Hatshut were well known. Her docks faced the river. No captain was fool enough to approach from the sea.
But then, of course Ilasin knew such things – she was a priest’s daughter. And not just any priest’s. She had been educated.
“Adarpa, I think. It’s not a safe trip.” An understatement. The overland journey was mostly through desert, plied by nomads and outlaws. “But I’ve heard tell that guards can be hired, from among the desert outlaws. They’ll let us pass, if we pay them well enough… provided, of course, that we don’t pay them so well they decide to slit our throats to see what else we have to offer.”
“We could buy camels!” Ilasin said suddenly. “I’ve never ridden a camel before. Have you?”
Leonine laughed. “Vile creatures. They spit and bite. And stink.” She looked crestfallen for a moment, but her face brightened when he told her that it was actually a rather good idea.
“Good! Then we have a plan!” she said, then blinked, a new thought coming to her. “But I don’t speak Hakshi…”
Leonine shrugged. “I don’t either. But the Hakshi speak many languages themselves. And we’ll learn, anyway.”
She smiled, a little wistfully.
“Good. I’m glad. And it’ll be fun! An adventure, like in the songs.”
Leonine nodded, plastering a grin across his face, but the song that came to his mind was Afazeh’s lament for a lost child.
Idiot. Maudlin, sentimental idiot. Your child died with Farshideh.
Night was darker in Numush than Inatum, although the streets were far busier than they’d been atop the Mound. Near the docks, boatmen and whores scurried about under the disinterested gaze of bearded guardsmen, the more well-to-do among them trailed by long-legged boys with sputtering torches in hand. One would find copper braziers like those of Inatum in the wealthier sections of the city, but not here. 
Leonine kept to the shadows, ducking now and again into alleyways when torch boys padded too close on bare feet. He had walked brazenly earlier, secure in the knowledge that he looked enough like a local – or at least a visiting deckhand – that he would not arouse suspicion. Still, the closer he drew to the Bridge, and the house with barley-etched lintels, the more pressingly he felt the need for stealth. Caution, he reflected, was a trait he had not cultivated quite enough of late.
He found Luwa-Shagir’s house easily, spotting the distinctive lintel carvings with eyes well accustomed to the night. When he was content that he had not been followed, Leonine knocked on the door. Moments later, it creaked open to reveal a sour face set deep within folds of fat.
“Get in here!” the man hissed, pulling Leonine through the doorway by his tunic. The door shut behind him, and then Leonine was rammed into it, a silk-clad forearm pinning him to the door by his neck, cutting off his breathing. The fat man was surprisingly strong. He tried to push back, momentarily, his blood beginning to grow hot, but stiffened when he felt something sharp poke at his stomach.
“Luwa-Shagir?” Leonine wheezed.
“Name?” the fat man asked.
“Ha-Hafis,” he replied, giving the name Ibashtu had ordered him to use.
“You lie. Hafis has not arrived.”
“I’m here to talk to Ib –” A fist in the midsection finished Leonine’s sentence, blasting the breath from his lungs. He wanted to double over, but the man’s grip would not let him.
“I said you lie, little man. Name?”
“Hafis, damn you. I was not sure this name was safe. I gave another to the guards.”
The fat man leaned in close, his small eyes scrutinizing. “And what exactly is my guarantee that this is true?”
A female voice rang out from somewhere in the barley-house. “I’ll be your guarantee, Luwa. This is, in fact, my dear Hafis.”
Luwa-Shagir smiled unpleasantly, and stepped away. Something in his hand gleamed briefly before it disappeared into a voluminous sleeve. Leonine coughed through a series of shallow breaths, steadying himself against the wall with an outstretched hand. He heard the sound of tinkling bells.
Just wait until this job is done, fat man. 
He straightened gingerly, shaking his head, and looked over at Ibashtu, who stood smirking beneath an oil lamp.
“Did you enjoy your little rebellion, Leonine?” she asked.
“Very much so,” he replied. “I see working with you will be a pleasure.”
“If you behave,” she said and shrugged. “May I ask why exactly you decided to disobey a direct order? You’re lucky I was not delayed in coming here. Luwa might well have gutted you.”
“Inatum’s finest could have been looking for you. I didn’t want to take the chance that you’d been captured.” Not true, it was nevertheless as reasonable an answer as any.
“Oh, of course,” she answered, her tone wry. “And to think, I was about to throw around all sorts of unfounded accusations. Why, I almost thought you wanted to be difficult to trace in case you decided not to work for me.”
Leonine elected simply to smile and look around. The house he had been pulled into was clearly that of a richer man than any dock official had a right to be. Tongues of flame danced atop ornate bronze lamps set in a wall etched with poetry and harvest scenes. Colourfully stitched pillows lay in two rows against one wall. A lacquered stool sat nestled between them like an amulet between a woman’s breasts, atop it a water pipe that had some time ago extinguished; of its coal was left only a little heap of ash. The air smelled faintly of pipe-leaves and myrrh. In an archway inset with a checker pattern of red and green stones was a curtain hung with beads and bells.
“I am happy to learn you are not quite so stupid. I’ve known you were here for a few days, though I’ll admit I did not expect you to look quite so… local.” 
She knew? It was not inconceivable, Leonine supposed, but he’d thought himself careful enough to avoid detection. She had spies, certainly, but who among them would be able to recognize him?
“Wear furs in the north, tunics in the south. I thought I might try to make myself as unrecognizable as possible. Perhaps that is why dear Luwa-Shagir has so overstepped his bounds.”
The fat man smirked. “A thief talking like a noble, eh?” he said.
“Luwa, keep quiet,” Ibashtu ordered. “There’s no need for tension between the two of you. In fact, I hope there’s none, as I intend for the two of you to work together.”
Leonine sighed loudly. Ibashtu turned towards him, eyes narrowing. “Leonine,” she said in a measured tone, “I grow weary of your arrogance. You are good, I’ll grant you that. But you are not indispensable to me, and these… tantrums of yours bring me ever closer to having Luwa slit your throat. I am not here to bicker as I would with a spoiled child.
“Now,” she continued, “let us discuss the matter at hand and be done with it, so that I can rid myself of you and perhaps the pounding in my head.” Ibashtu waved a hand, somewhat more imperiously than Leonine would have liked, and pushed through the curtain. The air rang once again with bells like falling raindrops. 
Luwa-Shagir grunted and pointed after Ibashtu. “After you,” he said, his voice light and maddeningly polite.
I do so enjoy genteel men with knives at my back. He said nothing, but followed after the woman from Haksh, who reclined already among more pillows – these dyed a shade of violet that must have been ruinously expensive – before a low table, a ewer, and three small cups of polished stone. It seemed she’d been expecting him after all. She beckoned for Leonine to sit, then poured the first glass for him. Leonine sniffed at the cup. The liquid within it was warm and pungent.
“Poison,” Ibashtu said by way of explanation.
“Ah, of course,” he replied. Beside him, Luwa-Shagir chuckled as he settled his considerable girth down. Leonine sipped at the liquid. It was smoky and bitter, but not unpleasantly so.
“What is this?” he asked. 
“A sort of tea, brewed from a mix of roots and masha beans,” Ibashtu replied. “Hakshi. I was surprised to see it at market. It will keep you alert if I begin to drone on.” Her face was once again familiar, sardonic.
“My dear Ibashtu, I hang on your every word,” Leonine replied, taking another sip. There was a certain pleasant familiarity to this meeting, at least, feigned as it was. “Where is Shudagan,” he asked. “Is he not with you?”
Ibashtu shook her head. “He is… elsewhere. Nazimarut was taken, shortly after our last meeting. He’s dead now. Shudagan,” she said with some distaste, “is not his father. He has decided that safety is worth more to him at the moment than his calling, and has fled upriver to some friendly noble’s manor. He calls it ‘gathering resources’.
“But enough about my master,” she said through a jackal smile. “You must be wondering what exactly I intend for you to do.”
Leonine nodded and raised his cup to his lips, pretending to savour the fragrant Hakshi tea. An old trick, and a handy one. With employers one did not trust, it was sometimes prudent to hide one’s reactions.
“We’re searching for a girl.”
Leonine almost choked on the bitter tea. His stomach lurched.
“A girl?” he said, feigning disinterest as best he could.
“A girl.” Ibashtu nodded. Leonine’s mind hurtled madly from one thought to another. It need not be Ila, he reasoned, it could be anybody. He felt hollow, though, as though he were trying to convince himself of something that could not be true.
“She’s seen ten or so years, perhaps more. A priest’s daughter, and a sorceress. She was last seen in Inatum, though some reports now place her here. Interestingly enough, I am informed that the Hounds of whom you ran afoul were in fact searching for her.”
Ilasin. Of course it was Ilasin. Ibashtu lied, he realized. She had not known he was in Numush, or she would have known what company he kept. Fate, he decided, was as amusing as she was capricious. His task was complete before it had begun. 
And yet…
“I see,” he said. “So, assuming I can find one little sorceress who may or may not be in the city, among thousands of other girls her age, what shall I do with her?”
“You will bring her to Luwa, alive. And Leonine, do not take any stupid risks. She may be a child, but she is exceedingly dangerous, and has by all accounts not learned to control her power,” she said. “If she is here, her sorcery will manifest sooner or later, and you must get to her first. I would do it myself, but I must leave shortly, and so I need your talent. And whatever you do, do not allow her to use magic. Knock her unconscious if need be. She has left a trail of corpses.”
“So I’m to bring you, alive, a girl who can kill with a thought? And my reward for this lunacy?”
Ibashtu frowned. “You will be amply rewarded. Our benefactors are wealthy.”
“Not good enough,” he said, shaking his head. “I want your word that I’ll never have to see you again once this is done.”
Ibashtu sighed, and poured him another cup of tea. “I had hoped you might have gotten over this petty bruised pride of yours, Leonine. I’ll admit I may have forced you into this somewhat heavy-handedly, but –”
Leonine barked something like a laugh.
“But you will be rewarded more generously than ever before. We are not friends, Leonine. I know that. But I know also that your pockets have grown fat from the jobs I’ve offered you, and I have always dealt with you fairly.”
Leonine shook his head. “You forced me into accepting a task against my will,” he said. “I will take your money, but I want your word that this is the last time.”
“How dramatic you are,” she replied, scowling. “So be it, you have my word. Luwa, show our guest out. He does not seem to appreciate my patronage.”
Leonine drained his cup, stood up and bowed.
“Thank you for the tea, Ibashtu. It was lovely.”
She would have him followed. That was how Ibashtu plied her trade. She would want to know where he was staying, so as to better keep an eye on him. That, Leonine decided as he stepped onto the Bridge, was fine.
I’ll be rid of that crone soon enough.
The Serpent’s Eye hung low in the black sky, casting a pallid glow through wispy clouds. The night-fires had all but disappeared. The darkest hours had come to Numush. Ahamash himself would be blind to his passing.
The gods had a strange sense of humour. Yesterday, Leonine had thought himself a trapped man, as much a slave as any barbarian standing dejected on the auction block. Today, the key to his manacles was within his grasp. Better still, Ilasin trusted him. He’d seen first-hand what her scream could do. It was much easier this way.
You’ll not give her up.
But had he a choice? It was not a betrayal, not truly. Ibashtu wanted the girl unharmed, and what use could the Crescent have for Ilasin but to train her to join their ranks? They would teach her to control her gift – where was the ill in that?
And she was powerful. If Ila could learn to draw power as she wished, even the Crescent would fear to mistreat her. It was for the best.
It will hurt.
Of course it would. Even pursued by Hounds, he’d felt a lightness of spirit that had been so long absent. Did his heart not swell when she laid her little hand in his, or kissed him like a daughter would her father?
You are not a father. Your life is not a father’s life. If she traveled with him, what then? Would he have her burgling houses and cutting throats?
But then, would the Crescent priests allow her a peaceful life? Were heretics and rebels any better than he? How could he be certain that their intentions were good? Suppositions aside, he could not know what they wanted with her. 
Fool. Your womanish emotions are getting the better of you again.
Leonine turned into a narrow alley between two buildings. The walls were close enough that he could easily shimmy upward, back against one wall, feet pressing against the other. He pulled himself to the roof with the grace of a spider climbing its web, and rolled to its edge, looking back the way he had come. 
A dark shape followed the path he’d taken, a bearded man in the garb of a dockhand whose face turned this way and that, eyes gleaming when the Eye shone over his features. The man made as though to pass the alley Leonine had entered, but his hand disappeared into the folds of his tunic as he walked by. He peered into the alley’s mouth, subtly enough, then hesitated, his eyes suddenly darting in one direction and then the other. His mouth opened sharply, and Leonine grinned at the curse that spilled out. 
He rolled back from the roof’s edge and stood up, patting the clay dust from his clothes. Ibashtu was growing predictable. He wondered if she had anyone on the rooftops as well. She probably did. Tarrying would do Leonine little good.
He broke into a run and jumped to the next roof, the mud bricks shifting uncomfortably under his weight as he landed. In the room below him, somebody would no doubt wake up spitting dust fallen from the ceiling. Leonine grinned at the image, then leapt to the next roof – this one much lower – rolling to break his fall. A brief glance assured him that the streets below were empty, and he jumped from the squat building, touching down softly on the street’s flagstones.
Let Ibashtu wonder where he was staying, even as she pretended to know every detail of his coming to Numush.
As he neared the inn, Leonine’s step grew lighter. Freedom stolen could be so swiftly reclaimed. It was a truly auspicious reversal, and one worthy of a skin of fine wine and a new flute at least – and with the purse that had bought this little betrayal, Leonine could have one fashioned entirely of lapis, if he so chose.
Perhaps I should give the gods a goat or two at least, he thought, smirking at the idea. But then, what god will have me?
It was little matter. The concerns of Leonine’s flesh were somewhat more pressing than those of his soul, and his flesh cried out for a hot bath and a pipe full of hashish. And perhaps he could –
A scream, muted and muffled, escaped through an open window a street’s width away. Leonine’s breath caught as his veins burst aflame. It was an echo, a reflection of a power all too familiar, and he was drawn to it as a moth to an oil lamp.
Ila!
He released the power that threatened to consume him in a note, a keening wail that shattered clay pots, and broke into a desperate headlong run. The inn door flew open beneath his shoulder, and then he was through, pushing a wide-eyed patron to the ground. Leonine took the stairs two, three at a time, racing to the room he and Ilasin shared.
The door was closed, barred as he’d instructed. He hammered the wood with his fists, crying Ilasin’s name, until he heard someone fumbling with the bar. His knife was in his hand. He did not remember drawing it.
“N-Navid!” Her voice was small, barely heard over the commotion of an inn stirring to wakefulness. The door swung inward, and there she was, eyes red and cheeks wet. Leonine fell to his knees and clutched her, momentarily oblivious to everything but the shaking, weeping child in his arms.
“What happened?” he asked, unnecessarily. A dead man lay on the ground, his face grotesquely twisted. Blood trickled from an ear, and a blade lay naked beside him. The window shutters were open, the room bathed in the Serpent’s contemptuous gaze. Ilasin did not answer; she had not yet found her voice.
Has Ibashtu found us? He shook his head. There was not time to consider the possibilities. Even if she had not known where to find them, she would now. Everybody in the city with even a modicum of sorcerous ability would know where to find them. He took Ilasin’s hand in his, noticing for the first time that his hand was bleeding.
“We need to leave,” he said, pulling Ilasin to her feet. “Right now.”
The innkeeper stood at the bottom of the stairs, an axe in hand and a grim expression on his face. There would be questions. Leonine did not want questions. He let Ilasin’s hand fall loose and leapt. The innkeeper’s eyes widened, and he made to raise his axe, but it was too late. Leonine’s foot took him in the mouth. As Leonine fell to the ground, his back striking painfully against the steps, the mute man struck hard against a wall and slumped to the ground. 
Leonine staggered back to his feet as swiftly as he could, ready to cut the other man’s throat, but the innkeeper lay groaning and helpless. Then Ilasin was there, tugging at his tunic. Together, they fled into the night, from one alley into another. They passed markets, storefronts, pleasure halls.
Hours before Shimurg would be reborn into a cloudless sky striated pink and blue, Leonine found himself sitting alongside Ilasin in a narrow street somewhere in the southern part of Numush-ummi. Their chests heaved as they caught their breath.
Leonine sighed. “Oh, Ila. I did not know how to tell you this, but it is something you must know.” He took her hand.
“The Hakshi friend I went to see in Inatum, and now in Numush… I had been working for her. I stole a vase – nothing extravagant, but I needed sorcery to do it. From that point on, the Hounds were on my trail, and I came over time to the realization that you’re the reason they are here.”
“I know all this, Navid,” she said, suspicions clear in her narrowed eyes.
“There’s more. Ibashtu – that ‘friend’ – is after you as well. I did not know this until tonight, and I have every reason to believe the man who attacked you in the inn was one of hers.”
Ilasin looked at him, her eyes wide. Then she shook her head. “Why are so many people after me?” she asked plaintively.
“I don’t know, Ila. I can imagine why the Hounds are after you… but the Crescent? I don’t know. I think maybe they want to recruit you.”
“The Crescent? The sorcerers of Nin?” Ilasin looked as though she would be sick. Poor child. How overwhelming this all must be.
Leonine nodded. “Ibashtu represented them.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then: “Navid?”
“Yes, Ila?”
“I’m glad you came back.”
Leonine’s chest constricted painfully.
“Of course I came back. Where else would I go?” he asked.
Leonine was accustomed to feeling like a liar, but he could not remember the last time it was painful. He put his arm around Ilasin’s shoulders, and pulled her close. He kissed her brow, and she nestled in closer, resting her head against his chest. She did not speak.
She trusts me. Can I betray that trust?
A week earlier? Perhaps then, yes. Now?
Farshideh, my light, what have I become?
“Ila, I promised I’d take you to Haksh,” Leonine said. “I will not let anybody take you from me.”
It was a fervent promise, a passionate promise. And, for the first time in many years, it was an honest promise.
Chapter 10: A Song for Ekka 
Night had fallen over Wacham’s Cradle. It was named, Akosh had explained, after a Lugal famed for his sobriety – prudishness, as some would have it. The irony was unmistakable. A linen banner hung over the lintel, home to an embroidered child that smiled beatifically, raising a plump hand in blessing over the whores gathered in the doorway.
As Kamvar passed beneath the sign, avoiding as best he could their predatory gazes, he felt a soft hand lightly tracing the lines of his scarred shoulder, and another teasing its way from a knee to inside his thigh. He shivered and turned to scowl at a local beauty with thick curls, a golden chain hanging from her wide hips. She withdrew her hand, but her eyes held more amusement than he would have liked.
I am grown too old for such foolishness. Kamvar turned briskly away from the whore, aware – and not entirely unashamed – that he’d grown hard at her touch.
Akosh had no such conscience to wrestle with. He barreled through the doorway in a manner that must have been expertly calculated to brush against as many women as possible, all the while grinning like a crocodile. One of the girls whispered something to him that Kamvar could not hear over the muted sound of pipes and the twang of a string instrument he could not identify. Akosh laughed and whispered something back. The old man was in his element.
That Tahmin had decided not to come along was probably good, all things considered. He’d likely have had a few choice words about the venue Akosh had chosen.
Inside the pleasure hall’s door was a corridor hung with tapestries in red and gold, depicting men and women walking together, eating together, and eventually laying together – the last in some detail. At its end stood guards from one exotic southern country or another, large men that had been shaven clean as babes. They were draped in silken fineries that by themselves must have been expensive enough to buy whatever forsaken village they’d been snatched from. One of the men looked Kamvar over, patted perfunctorily at his sides and legs, and nodded. “No fight. No weapon,” he said before waving him through. 
Inside, fires crackled merrily in braziers set against the walls, and in such close quarters the air was sweltering. Everything stank of hashish smoke and incense, sweat and sex.
In the middle of the room, a trio of nude women twisted sinuously to the skirling pipes of a slightly built Ekkadi boy. To Kamvar’s fatherly sensibilities, he seemed much too young to be allowed in a place like this. The youth stomped his foot and the women clapped in response, accompanied by the scattered claps and catcalls of a drunken crowd seated amid a sea of azure-dyed pillows that followed the wall.
“This is… not what I am accustomed to,” Kamvar confessed to his friend, who laughed and tousled his hair, as though he were no older than the piper.
Akosh scanned the room intently and pointed to a ring of pillows around a small table, empty but for a fat man and the serving girl he’d pulled into his lap.  They tiptoed around a crowd entranced by the dancers and sat down.
Kamvar nodded to their new neighbour, who in a moment of distraction allowed the girl just enough space to pry herself out of his arms. Before she could make her escape, however, Akosh grabbed the gauzy silk of her gown and tugged at it. She turned to him and smiled forcedly, but the old man’s designs were honourable enough. Kamvar had to strain to hear his order of beer and a pipe over the din. The girl nodded, bowed her head, and was gone.
Akosh leaned in close. “I’ve no idea if she heard me or not,” he said. “I hope you’re not too discerning. Who knows what we’ll end up with?”
Kamvar shrugged and reclined into the pillows, his back grateful for the luxury of their softness. They’d been training hard, he and Akosh, exorcising demons of idleness and boredom with fists and sticks.  That his body complained of it was not a good sign. There had been too much sitting around; too many hours lost questioning this underworld maven or that, all to no avail. The Hunt had learned nothing conclusive, nor had their outriders, and the frustration was palpable – the men were short with each other when together, and given to solitude otherwise. More so, anyhow. Only Akosh seemed immune.
Kamvar looked over at his companion, who now clapped in time with the pipe player’s stomping foot and roared his approval at the dancers that leapt and twisted, a whirlwind of dark hair and slender legs. Kamvar turned to watch them and found his cares melting away into the sweet ache of longing. Sahar had dark hair and long legs, and if she could not dance as gracefully as these women, she could still make his blood sing.
The serving girl had evidently heard Akosh clearly. She returned, placing a jug of beer on the table before them. Behind her was a slender man carrying an ornate water pipe, a chimera of brass tubes and pots topped by a shallow bowl. The man bowed as he placed it before them. He took up the tongs and made his way to the nearest brazier, while the girl poured beer for them and eyed her erstwhile captor warily.
The male attendant returned with a glowing coal he placed atop the pipe, and Akosh thanked him with coins. The servants scurried away, bowing their heads in apology whenever they obscured someone’s sight of the dancers, who had slowed down somewhat.
Akosh reached for the pipe and puffed at it merrily while Kamvar drained his beer. The music stopped, suddenly, and for an instant all that Kamvar heard was the gurgle of the pipe, until the dancers bowed and applause rang out.
“Aha!” Akosh said, blowing a ring of smoke. “Finally lit.” 
He explained that the pipe contained a brick of hashish, cut up into chips and mixed with a concoction of spices and fragrant leaves.  He passed the mouthpiece to Kamvar, who pulled at it and held the smoke a moment in his lungs. It tasted of mint and something not unlike Bachiyan cardamom; a pleasant enough combination. He exhaled white smoke into air already thick with it and poured himself another cup of beer.
Akosh laughed as he reclaimed the pipe. “No coughing, eh? That’s interesting.”
“I’m not a priest, my friend,” Kamvar replied.
Akosh grinned crookedly around the pipe’s mouthpiece. “Could’ve fooled me, the way you ran from the fine young ladies outside.”
“I thought I’d leave a few for you. Consider it my respect for the elderly.”
“Oho!” Akosh swatted at him and passed the pipe. “Best watch that tone, stripling. I’m not too old to throw you around the room!”
That much, at least, was true. Akosh still got the better of the younger man more often than not. Kamvar found himself wondering what a menace he must have been in his prime. Akosh had told him a tale or two of blood spilled in dusty fields. He had not said much about his own role in those stories, but it was easy to imagine him young and strong, reaping a bloody harvest with his axe.
After a time rendered indistinct by pipe smoke – an hour, two? - a lanky man with a long beard walked into the centre of the room, and announced something that Kamvar could not hear over the conversations of other patrons. Having mumbled his piece, the man bowed and walked off, and another took the stage, an older man with a lyre in hand and the milk-white eyes of the injured blind. 
The crowd quieted somewhat, and as Kamvar handed the pipe’s mouthpiece back to his companion, the musician began to strum. He repeated a single chord at first, while he introduced whatever it was he would play in a dialect with which Kamvar was unfamiliar. That chord was soon joined by another, and the old man began to sing. 
Kamvar leaned back into the pillows and closed his eyes, and in the dark the music seemed strangely vivid, a wave that crested and fell, then reformed to the urgings of an old singer’s incongruously sweet voice. When the beat of drums joined in, faintly at first then growing more urgent, he imagined a thunderstorm drawing ever closer to the shore, bringing with it waves to crush ships and shatter homes. The voice, once warm, was now strident, a howling wind to churn the sea.
Kamvar felt strangely uncomfortable. He opened his eyes, and the musician seemed to shrink in his mind, turning from the raging Serpent that drove the tide before him back into a frail, blind man, but his voice was powerful still. Although Kamvar could make little sense of the lyrics, he heard anger in them. He reached for his beer, hand unsteady, and met the eye of the fat man that sat nearby. There was anger in him, too, it seemed – a keen edge, barely disguised, a whispered menace.
Something... something is wrong. I should stop smoking. Clear my head.
He drained most of his cup, and watched the liquid inside ripple with the drumbeat that reverberated inside him, loud, insistent. He realized that the pipe was in his hand, and he put it down on the table, shaking his head as though to clear it of dust.
“Akosh. Something does not feel…right. Do you feel it?” he asked, and his friend turned to him, a thick white eyebrow raised quizzically.
“You’re just smoke-addled,” Akosh said, and his voice seemed muffled, as though it was far away, hidden away in a remote corner behind the soaring tenor of the stage musician.
“No, no. I’m not.” Yes, you are. “Yes. I am. But there’s something more. Akosh, this song. What is it about? There’s so much anger. Everywhere.”
Akosh turned to him, and Kamvar could see a fire smouldering in his eyes, threatening to break the skin and erupt, to bury the mountainside with molten stone.
“It is… nothing. Just a war song.”
He was lying. Kamvar was sure of it. Why would he lie? His mind swam as though through turgid water, a salt sea. He pushed slowly, laboriously, to an obvious conclusion.
“Conquest. This song is about us, isn’t it?”
He saw the fire leave Akosh’s eyes, replaced by something gentler. The old lion nodded, and surveyed the crowd around them from right to left. His eyes widened, and he gestured to Kamvar to lean closer.
“I think we should leave,” he said. “Quietly, now.”
His friend’s words sharpened Kamvar’s mind. There was wisdom in them. The drums were growing more insistent, the angry intent behind them more palpable. This was not, all things considered, the safest of places for a Sarvashi.
Kamvar stood up, a little shakily, and felt his head swim. He stepped carefully over the pillows and into the aisle between stage and seats, painfully aware of a hundred eyes coming to rest upon him as he left. He felt exposed and vulnerable. He sweated, concentrating on the feat that was walking in a straight line. 
He passed the foreign guardsmen, glancing back to ensure that he was still being followed by Akosh’s reassuring bulk. He passed ladies that whispered and threw coy glances, beckoning and inviting them to spend the night, and then he was outside, breathing deeply of the cool night air. He had never felt so relieved to be under the Serpent’s gaze – a thought that seemed somehow less heretical this night than it might have – but even that momentary relief passed when his hand brushed his belt and found it empty of the comforting heft of his knife.
Kamvar’s heart pounded as he patted his thigh, his boot, the small of his back. Nothing. He was unarmed.
But…
Of course you’re unarmed, fool. You came unarmed.
He let out a barking laugh and shook his head, then flinched and cocked a fist when a hand came to rest on his shoulder. He spun on his heel, ready to let fly. Akosh. Of course.
“Are you quite well, lad?” asked Akosh, concerned.
Last damn time I smoke this shit. It was probably a lie, and he knew that full well, but at the moment it seemed a necessary one.
“I… yes. All’s well. I think I just need to sleep. Tonight is too strange.”
Akosh laughed. “You should see yourself, Kamvar. Leaping at shadows, wild-eyed. You look like a boy terrified that his father will find out what he’s been doing.” That was unflattering, perhaps, but difficult to gainsay. Akosh looked none the worse for wear. It irritated him somewhat.
“Come, lad, come. Let’s head back. It has been a long night, and my old bones could use some rest,” Akosh said. “Would’ve preferred to rest with a soft, young thing wrapped around me, but I suppose I’ll have to settle for your company.”
Kamvar chuckled at that. “I’ll not sleep with you, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” The cool night air was pleasant, refreshing. He felt as though the smoke of Hacham’s Cradle was leaving, wending its way up into a sky half-black, to fill the void left by feathers falling to the earth.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. I hear that’s what you Sarvashi use goats for.”
“Odd,” Kamvar replied. “We say the same of your people.”
“Aye. The Ekkadi say that too. Seems we’re all one big, happy empire of goat-fuckers.”
Kamvar did not laugh. Empire, it seemed, was a word he’d have to be more careful of in the future. Something in that smoke-filled bar had shaken him.
“You’re not… offended, are you?” Akosh asked. “By the whores, I mean. You seemed uncomfortable.”
“Hm? No.” He wasn’t, not really. “Some of the other men might be. Some are less… let’s call it ‘worldly’… than I.”
“That’s a relief. I have to say, I had a mind to just turn back when I saw you contort yourself to get away from that girl.” Akosh chuckled at that, stroking his beard.
“Ah, well. As to that: I’m not particularly afraid of women, Akosh. I just prefer my own. I almost felt that I was betraying her just by walking through that door, stupid as that may sound. I have not been touched by a woman other than Sahar in many, many years.” 
“That doesn’t sound stupid, my boy. That sounds like you’re in love.”
“Were you ever married?” It occurred to Kamvar that he knew precious little about his friend, save what he’d been told of his exploits as a soldier.
Akosh regarded him quizzically, then sighed and looked up at the dark sky. “I was, once. It didn’t last long. Died in childbirth. Lost the wife, lost the child. Would have had a son, like you. I’d always intended to remarry, but it somehow fell by the wayside, and one day it was no longer important.”
“I’m sorry,” Kamvar said. “Perhaps I should not have asked.”
“Eh, it’s nothing. I’m an old man, I’ve had years to accept it.” He had, no doubt, but a sadness was there nonetheless. Akosh continued: “There was a time, not long ago, I thought I’d perhaps try again… but what do I have to offer? Only tales of long-forgotten glories and a talent for cleaving men in twain.”
“Ila-uanna,” Kamvar said. It was more statement than question, a voicing of an old curiosity, and he regretted the name the moment it left his mouth. Salt in old wounds, fool. Keep your mouth shut.
If indeed it hurt Akosh, he was content to shrug it away. “I’m that obvious, am I?”
Kamvar smiled. “You have many talents, friend. But I fear subtlety is not among them.”
“Perhaps not.” Akosh was quiet for a moment, reflective. Lost in old memories, no doubt. Finally, he let out a deep breath and spoke.
“We are being followed.”
What?
“Followed?” Kamvar whispered under his breath, cursing the fog in his mind. He had enough discipline – just barely – to stop from looking back over his shoulder. 
“Four men, maybe five. Been behind us a while. Look natural.”
The two men continued walking. Akosh talked of inconsequential things – the saddling of horses the next morning, and the fine feast that would await them in the Lugal’s palace – anything that came to mind, anything that might extend their illusion of nonchalance.
The men behind them had no fear of the Lugal’s name. Their sandals slapped ever more swiftly against the paved streets. Akosh turned into a side street, and Kamvar followed. They entered something like a courtyard, an open space overlooked by the balconies of wealthy houses. There was no way out but the way they had come.
Akosh cursed. “I thought this was it,” he said. “Looks like we’ll need to fight this rabble.”
“Rabble, you say?” A new voice, confident and malicious. Kamvar turned to count five men blocking the street ahead. They were trapped.
“So, Sarvashi,” said another man, clad in a striped robe, “you think you can come here and eat our food? Drink our beer? You think maybe that it belongs to you?”
Oh, fantastic. This will go well.
A third voice, this one younger than the first, asked if perhaps he had come to fuck Ekkadi women – or did they prefer boys in Sarvash? That earned a laugh from his friends. Thugs were always in such high spirits when they outnumbered their target. Kamvar cursed his empty belt. A knife would have been welcome on a night like this. Ahamash would see nothing. The darkness made evil men bold.
There was no place to run, and a cursory glance around revealed nothing that could be made into a weapon, save for a stone bench too heavy to swing.  Akosh betrayed no trace of fear; only a sardonic amusement carved into his craggy features. He crossed his arms over his chest and stepped slightly ahead of Kamvar.
“Brother!” said the first man through a sneer, mockery plain in his voice. “Why do you protect that Sarvashi dog? If you do not stand back we shall have to gut you as well.”
Akosh barked out a laugh. “I’ve lots of gut to take, stripling. I hope you brought a big knife.”
The man drew out a cruel-looking hooked blade from the folds of his robe and waved it through the air in front of his face. “Will this serve? It looks suitably –”
Akosh leapt at the man, quick as Kamvar had ever seen him. He snatched the hand holding the blade, and slid behind the thug with the agility of a wrestler. Before the man could react, Akosh wrapped a meaty arm around his wrist and neck, adeptly trapping the thug’s blade to his own throat. Akosh squeezed like a python, smothering a thrashing attempt to break free.
Striped-robe, the first to recover from his surprise, rushed at Akosh with a cudgel in hand, but Kamvar was faster still. He lashed out with a fist, felt the pain of bone striking bone, and saw the man topple backwards into one of his comrades.
Beside him, Kamvar heard the thud of a man’s body hitting the ground. A quick glance confirmed it – Akosh had killed his man – and then Kamvar’s attention was torn away, to the bright flash headed in his direction. He leapt back and a new assailant, the boy so interested in his sexual habits, redoubled his efforts. He swung and thrusted his arm this way and that, the Eye reflecting from a knife in his fist.
Kamvar deflected one strike, leapt back from a second, and felt a heat in his arm that he knew meant drawn blood. The youth, encouraged by his success, made as if to strike again, leaning in to hide the direction of the blade. Striped-robe returned to the field of his vision, and Kamvar’s throat went dry with fear.
“Duck!” Kamvar dove to his side, turning as he did so, and a blur of movement filled the corner of his eye. Then a sharp crack, a grunt, and Akosh’s roaring laughter. The bench! The old man had swung it as though it were but a sack of grain, and where it struck it shattered bone.
Kamvar tried to stand, slipped in something slick, and clumsily regained his feet. Arms raised in protection like a wrestler’s, he peered this way and that. One man lay at his feet in a pool of blood, staring sightlessly at the sky. Striped-robe tried feebly to crawl away from Akosh. The youth lay against the wall, dead or unconscious. Of the last man there was no sign. Ran off, most likely. So much the better.
“We probably should run,” Kamvar said, breathing in time with his pounding heart. Akosh nodded and tossed the bench aside. Already there was light in the window of one of the courtyard’s buildings, and the silhouette of a woman peering out at what had taken place. Kamvar turned and ran, Akosh a step behind him, beard stained red with a man’s blood. If there was sin in what they had done, Ahamash had seen nothing. 
“It is not deep,” Akosh said, releasing Kamvar’s arm. He nodded in satisfaction. Akosh was mostly unharmed as well, save for a long but shallow laceration where he’d grappled with the first man’s blade. His cheek was marked with what looked in the light of a brazier like the first tender redness of an ugly welt. 
Akosh tore a strip from the bottom of his tunic and examined it with a critical eye. 
“It is not precisely what I would call clean, but it will serve until we find a medic.” Akosh wrapped the strip of cloth around Kamvar’s bloodied arm, then tore another to bind his own. He leaned back and chuckled. “I have seen more fighting with you in a few weeks than in the last twenty years of my life.”
“Apologies. It seems fate finds me particularly unlikable these days,” said Kamvar, smiling ruefully. I could say the same for myself. I have never before seen battle so frequently.
“Think nothing of it. It’s probably for the best. I’ve been getting soft.” 
Kamvar had to laugh. “Soft? Soft? You fight like a cornered bear! I’m glad I’m too young to have faced you on the battlefield.”
Akosh waved his hand dismissively, seemingly embarrassed. “I’m glad of it too, Kamvar. You’ve a wife and son to return to.”
The old man looked up, and Kamvar followed his gaze towards a sky black but for the Serpent’s Eye and the last few feathers that had not yet fallen to earth.
“It’s all so stupid,” Akosh said, shaking his head. “Men ready to die for a stretch of earth, because it has a name… because songs are sung about it. And here I sit in judgment, while my very own eyes clouded over with rage when that blind man was on stage. I’m too old to be such a fool. And yet…”
“And yet?” 
“I look up, and I see a hundred twinkling fires that the priests tell me are my ancestors, and I feel as though they expect me to be ashamed to fight alongside a friend. Why? Because his stretch of earth has a different name than mine? How is it that such fictions can turn men against each other?”
If I knew…
They sat quietly for a time. Kamvar’s head felt heavy beneath the weight of a sleepless night, a cup of beer, a brick of hashish, and the mingling of doubts and revelations.
“You know,” said Kamvar, “We’d always been taught that Ekka was a land full of men who cared more about their purses than principles, men so practical that they welcomed our ‘civilizing influence’, our roads and way stations. That the Merezad was a kindly realm, a place that asked little of its subjects and gave them much in return.”
Akosh snorted.
“These last few weeks, I’ve actually been surprised at the resentment that simmers beneath the surface. Glares, whispers… and now spilled blood. How foolish I feel.”
Akosh’s hand came to rest on Kamvar’s shoulder. “We are all of us fools,” he said. “It’s just that some of us fools are the conquerors and some the conquered. And many years from now, perhaps more years than I have left, the Merezad will grow weak and a new conqueror will send his spearmen in. And then, a new blind idiot will sing about fallen Merezad and more blood will spill.”
Kamvar sighed. “You’ve a somewhat cynical view of the human condition, haven’t you?” 
“It is what it is, youngster,” Akosh said, chuckling ruefully. “I should have asked Ila to marry years ago, you know.”
Kamvar looked to his friend, who gave him an old man’s knowing smile.
“Return home to your woman, Kamvar. Go home as soon as you can. You’re too young to mire yourself in other people’s conflicts. And too smart. Maybe if I’d been as smart then as you are now, there would be no songs of the Stone of Lanapish, and I would be tending farm with a plump wife and as many sons as I had goats.”
If only I could, Akosh. If only I could.
“I have sworn an oath,” Kamvar said.
Akosh shrugged. 
“Break it. Your bird-god cannot see you, and my ancestors certainly do not care.”
Kamvar leaned against the alley wall and looked deep into the Serpent’s Eye. When he was a child, it had terrified him. But he was not a child any longer. Somewhere, in this green land between two swollen rivers, he had abandoned his fear.
“The night sky is beautiful,” he said.
“That it is.”
Steam and fragrant oils were good for a man, Kamvar decided, sinking deeper into the copper basin until hot water lapped at his beard. A pleased groan from across the room told him he was not alone in holding that opinion.
“I feel like a courtier,” said Akosh. “But damn me, if it isn’t pleasant.”
His wound would probably reopen in the hot water, but at the moment, Kamvar did not care. They had spare bandages aplenty, and had the medic not ordered him to keep the cut clean? He’d asked somewhat more coin than was perhaps customary, but under the circumstances, it was difficult to fault him. Men who asked no questions could afford to be somewhat more demanding, and he’d held up his end of the unspoken agreement admirably.
Until he sells you out to the city guard, anyway. But no, that was silly. Men who needed the services of a silent medic were rarely averse to silencing one more permanently, if a tongue should wag. Besides, the Lugal’s men were allies, for all intents and purposes. Now, Hound Barsam…
Kamvar laughed and shook his head.
“What’s so funny?” asked Akosh.
In place of answering, Kamvar elected to slide deeper into the tub, submerging his head beneath the hot water. He worked his fingers through the tangles of his hair in the hope that the stink of hashish would wash away. A moment later, he emerged.
“Our dear Hound. I’ve spent the last hour thinking of suitable excuses, lest he find out what we’ve been up to. You were right, earlier. I feel like the child that broke his father’s pot. Stupid, isn’t it? I’m old enough to have a child of my own, yet here I am skulking about.”
“Bah. If he asks where you’ve been, tell him we were sparring and that it grew heated,” Akosh said. “The Lugal’s men won’t gainsay us. I owe them too much coin to be staked out in the desert, and your Barsam seems the sort to make those who displease him disappear.”
“There are stories. Not all of them terribly credible, mind.” Kamvar worked soap into his beard, realizing as he did so that it had been too long since it was last trimmed. Perhaps tomorrow. “It occurs to me,” he continued, “that Hound Barsam has been surprisingly couth around you. Almost as though he’s afraid of you.”
Akosh shook his head. “No, I doubt that. He’s a commander like many others, Kam. I’ve served under a few. He’s used to a certain amount of respect, and doesn’t know how to handle men he cannot intimidate. He’s just the biggest lout in the village. Or was, anyway.” The old man laughed again, seemingly pleased with himself, then gestured to one of the serving boys standing unobtrusively at the bath chamber’s doorway.
“I’m for leaving,” Akosh said, clambering out of his tub to a chorus of water spilling over the edge and splashing on the glazed floor. “Luxuries enough for one night. Besides, unless I miss my guess, it’ll be light soon. Wouldn’t want to earn you a spanking.”
When the Lugal’s palace gates came into view, he decided that the deception would do well enough. At the very least, he was clean. And if his tunic still stank a little, and the sleeve was crusted with dried blood… well, what were the odds of coming across Barsam before he reached the sanctuary of his bedroom? The feathers had already disappeared from view, but the Shimurg would not crest the mountains for another hour or two at earliest. Still…
Probably best not to worry.
As Kamvar drew closer to the Lugal’s palace, he noticed that the compound seemed unusually busy. The courtyard glowed with the soft light of oil lanterns. Surely, it was too early for men to be waking.
He turned to Akosh, who shook his head slowly, brow furrowed. He’d come to the same conclusion.
As they approached the gate, the guards posted there talked briefly among themselves, then one came running towards them.
“You are the Sarvashi Kamvar?” he asked. Kamvar nodded.
“You have been ordered to follow your general to Numush-ummi. I do not have all the details – you are to go immediately to the stables.”
“What?” Kamvar asked. Had the others left during the night?
“I do not know the details, only the orders,” said the guard. “The others have already gone.”
Kamvar groaned, cursing the night’s adventure. This could only end badly. Thanking the guard, he broke into a run towards the Lugal’s stable, Akosh not far behind. 
The expression on Et-Halum’s face was inscrutable.
“Well,” said the captain, shaking his head disapprovingly. “I had wondered what you were doing, skulking about at night. I didn’t expect to find you pummeling the locals like some puffed-up farmhand.”
“We were sparring,” offered Akosh. “It got heated, so we went for a friendly drink after.”
Et-Halum raised an eyebrow, a sardonic smile beginning to play across his face. “Of course,” he said, shrugging. “Unfortunately, while you were off recovering…” The word bore a peculiar inflection. Kamvar attributed that to the smells of smoke and beer that no doubt still lingered about them. “…a missive came from one of our scouts. A girl and a young man fitting the description you provided us were spotted escaping Numush-ummi after several murders at…” 
The captain leaned towards one of his soldiers, a wiry man with thick curls. The man whispered something into his ear. “…ah, yes. At Mushkenum Wajji’s inn, near the docks. Most men seem to agree that sorcery was involved, although of course we cannot verify this as you can.”
What a nightmare. Even Majid, kindly as he was, would have had harsh words for him, and probably a year of breakfast duty. Barsam… well, it was best not to think about how Barsam might react quite yet.
“When did they leave?” Kamvar asked.
“Several hours ago… near midnight. They waited for some time in the hope that you would show yourself, but eventually decided they would wait no more, and left orders for you to follow. They went by boat, and we haven’t another to spare, so I suggest you follow swiftly. I doubt you’ll be able to catch up to them before they reach Numush.”
Et-Halum pointed to a horse that a servant had just finished saddling. It was not Lugushu –Kamvar had, despite himself, grown strangely fond of the obstinate Ekkadi nag – but a far finer animal, chestnut brown and cleanly muscled, an alert look in its eyes. Others, already saddled, stood in the next stalls.
“Your personal effects and your weapons are already here, and there is food in the saddlebags. Now go.”
Servants led the two horses out of the stables. Kamvar swung gracefully into the saddle. “Thank you, and your Lugal, for your hospitality,” he said. Et-Halum nodded and waved him away.
Kamvar swung into the saddle and spurred his horse on, gripping in his hand the reins of two other fine beasts. He cantered through the palace gate, Akosh riding abreast.
“You know,” shouted Akosh over the sound of pounding hooves. “For all that this is likely to end badly for you, I can’t stop laughing!”
Chapter 11: Mothers and Uncles
Never before had he spent so much of his time on the run. Certainly, Leonine was no stranger to escape, but this? 
He dipped his oar into the Shalumes, back and shoulder screaming in protest. They had set a hard pace after leaving Numush-ummi in a stolen coracle, but what other choice did he have? Pursuit was a certainty. Not by the guards, perhaps – Numush-ummi’s finest had likely given up hours ago, if they’d even bothered to search for him in the black of night – but Ibashtu would not be so easy to lose. And the Hounds?
They’ll be after us, if they weren’t already. Hell, they may well have moved on to Nerkut by now. Our path is not exactly a secret… and they’ll know Ilasin’s story.
Which meant, of course, that going back to Nerkut smacked faintly of suicide. Still, what other way was there? They had to leave the country, and the only safe path lay across the desert. Safe indeed. 
Besides, he’d promised to visit her mother’s grave. That too had seemed suicidal, until Ilasin explained that it was outside the city. If he could find a safe place for her to hide somewhere outside the walls, he would likely be able to make travel arrangements easily, and unobtrusively, by himself.
How many stupid risks must a man take? If I want to avoid being staked out in the desert, I’m going about it in all the wrong ways. And Ilasin… Ilasin was more vulnerable than he.
She lay curled up in the boat’s bow, sleeping peacefully. Leonine wished he could do the same, but sighed instead and pulled at the oar.
Ilasin woke to the dawn-song of croaking frogs. “Navid?” she called.
“I am here, Ila,” said Leonine. 
Ilasin smiled and came to sit beside him. He threw an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close.
“I’m starving,” Ilasin said.
“I’ve been waiting for you to wake. I mean to take our chariot ashore and start a little fire. I’ll show you how we used to hunt frogs in the salt marsh.”
“Frogs? You eat frogs?” Her voice was incredulous. “That’s disgusting.”
Leonine chuckled. “It’s frogs or nothing, princess. Besides, they’re not so bad.”
She crinkled her nose, coming to terms with the prospect. “What… what do they taste like? They’re not slimy, are they?”
He shook his head. “No. A bit chewy, maybe, but they taste fine. Like muddy, fishy little hens.”
“Oh, that’s comforting.”
Leonine had found a suitable thicket of rushes at the riverbank and cut several free. They were somewhat more flexible than he would have liked, and hollow besides. Still, there was only so much a man could ask for in a place like this. He cut the end from the reed, and whittled it into a makeshift spear. It would do.
“Come now.” He handed her another stick, this one smaller than his own. “I’ll need you to spit them on this.”
Ilasin looked as though she wanted to protest, but hunger got the better of her. She nodded resignedly.
The first frog adroitly escaped Leonine’s wrath, bounding away from a missed thrust and diving deep into the water so quickly that he could not follow it with another.
How long has it been since I’ve done this? Fifteen years? Twenty? 
Longer still, perhaps. As a child, he often accompanied his father into the marshes of the delta where the rivers met and emptied into the sea. Father would wield the spear, and Leonine the spit on which the caught frogs were impaled. They would leave before dawn and come home before noon, with enough frogs between them for a few days’ meals, at least. His father was a passable musician, but not a good one. And in Sarvagadis, a passable musician needed to spend his mornings in the swamp catching dinner, especially if he had a son to feed and no wife to help.
“Navid,” his father had told him, at least once every month. “When you hunt frogs, you must strike once and cleanly, or they’ll be gone and you’ll be hungry. You don’t always get a second chance in life.”
Twenty years? Twenty-five? His father had not been given a second chance either. One successful robbery, when the frogs hid. Then another, and another. Eventually, one ended on the wrong side of a guardsman’s cudgel, and he had not the money to pay his fine. That was the last Leonine had seen of his father.
“Run, Navid! Never let them catch you.”
Oh, father, I hope what remained of your life was happier than mine. Hard though his own life had been, it was doubtful. A man who could not pay the penalty for his robbery was a man slaving in the copper mines in Sarvash. That should have been his own fate, but few things are as difficult to catch as a young boy running for his life.
“Navid? Are you well?” 
“I’m sorry, Ila. Just lost in my thoughts. I used to hunt frogs with my father, just like this. It seems I spend as much time in the past these days as I do in the present.” 
“So… we’re not going to have breakfast, then?” She sounded hopeful.
Leonine could not help but laugh. “Quiet, you. I just need a moment to get used to it. The last time I did this, you hadn’t even been born.”
He scanned the area in front of him, looking for a likely target. One sat atop a fallen branch that poked out of the clear water of the Shalumes.
“The key,” Leonine said, his tone measured, “is that they do not realize you’re a threat until the spear comes down – but once you strike, you either hit and have something to eat, or the frog realizes you’re a predator and you’ll never see it again.”
The spear came down, quick as lightning.
“And that, my dear, is how we catch breakfast.”
By the time they sat before a merrily crackling fire, the pink sky of dawn had already turned a brilliant blue.
Ilasin tore the charred meat from a leg-bone, and chewed meditatively. “These aren’t so bad,” she said, her relief obvious.
“They’re better cooked in a pot, with spices and vegetables… but no, they’re not bad at all.” After the hunger and rough pace that had characterized their impromptu flight from Numush, Leonine was just about ready to eat slugs. He’d eaten better than plain, roasted frog legs, but there had been days when he’d eaten worse, or nothing at all.
Ilasin slid over to his side, and reached over for another frog to roast. She leaned against him and yawned, then stuck the new frog on a stick and set to cooking it. A moment later, the frog, stick and all, fell into the sputtering flame.
“Ila,” Leonine said. He pulled her skewer out of the fire. “You’re falling asleep again.”
“Huh?” she said, wiping her eyes. “I guess I did.”
“I’m sure we’ll have a nice featherbed for you soon enough, but you should try to stay awake for now. You need to learn master your weariness.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Talk to me. Keep me awake. What was your father like?”
“My father?”
She nodded. “You said you used to catch frogs with him. What was he like?”
“He was a kind man. A bad musician, and a bit of a drunk, but he was always good to me. My mother died when I was a boy, from a fever. Like yours. My father raised me by himself. Never remarried – he was poor, and getting older, and there wasn’t the opportunity.”
“Did he teach you how to play?” she asked. “Music, I mean.”
Leonine nodded. “He taught me everything. Taught me to play, taught me to sing, taught me to fight... taught me to steal. He wasn’t very good with a lyre, but he was a good boxer, and dangerous with a knife. I’ve always wondered where he learned that, but he never told me.”
“Was he ever a soldier?” Ilasin asked.
“No, I don’t think so. Probably a thug, when he was a younger man, at least. Maybe not, even. We lived in an ugly part of the city. Men there needed to know how to defend themselves. Especially men who looked like us.” 
“Sarvashi, you mean?” 
Leonine nodded.
“So what happened to him?” she asked, then her eyes widened and she shook her hands in front of her, as if to wave the question away. “No, wait. I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that.”
“It’s fine. I’ve had many years to come to terms with it.”
Run, Navid! Never let them catch you.
Something caught in his throat. Another part of his life he’d thought sealed away. “One year, we had no money, and couldn’t hunt enough to feed ourselves. So my father started to steal. Surreptitiously, at first. Then I followed him one night and found out what he was doing.” Leonine winced. “I caught quite a lashing that day… but then, after that, my father would take me with him. I guess he decided if I already knew, I might as well learn a little bit in case I ever needed to do the same.
“We stole a lot, he and I, but it was never enough. There was a man named Hechal, a big, bald Ekkadi… used to be a guardsman. He controlled our streets. If people wanted to steal, they had to work through him, or they’d never live to see a judge. And he asked a lot, so we kept stealing and stealing, and it seemed like our take was never quite enough to eat any better than we had when we were hunting frogs. Then, one day, my father was caught by the guards.”
Ilasin squeezed his hand. “Did they kill him?” she asked.
“They asked him to pay the fee, and he couldn’t, so they decided to take us both into slavery. I managed to run away, but he could not. I don’t know if he is still alive.” Perhaps he was, at that. He was not so old, yet, and he’d been a strong man.
“So what did you do?” Ilasin asked. “After that, I mean.”
Leonine shrugged. “I did the same thing my father had done: I stole, I played music, and I hunted frogs. I wasn’t as good at the frog-hunting, but I learned to be a better musician and a much better thief. I ate well enough, I grew up strong, and eventually I had enough money to buy a house and lead a respectable enough life.”
“Is that when you met your wife?” she asked.
“Yes. But that,” he said, tweaking Ilasin’s nose, “is a story for another day… and you already know that it ends badly. Now eat your frog. We’ve spent enough time here. Maybe this time you’ll row and I’ll sleep.”
Ilasin’s face told him that she did not find that funny.
Hours later, Leonine found himself barely able to stifle his yawns, while Ilasin slept once more, happily curled up in the boat. His exhausted arms quivered, reinforcing the unfairness of the situation.
“Ho there!” a shout from the shore. Leonine froze up momentarily, hand dropping to the hilt of his knife, then looked towards the source of the noise. By the riverbank, a man sat atop a donkey-cart, waving in his direction. He had the look of a merchant.
“Good morning,” called Leonine, stopping the boat. Ilasin stirred, then sat up, yawned, and rubbed her bleary eyes.
“Do you come from Numush?” asked the man. He was short but broad, with an oiled beard – the archetypal Ekkadi, the sort one saw in frescoes and paintings.
“We do,” Leonine called back. “It is much the same as ever. Good trade to be had at the docks, and thieves prowling at night to relieve you of the proceeds.”
The man laughed. “Yes, that is the Numush I remember. But then, could not the same be said for any city?”
“Indeed,” Leonine nodded. “But I have heard it said that other cities have guards, where Numush has only thieves and thieves wearing the city’s colours. Have you no hired men?” He poled the boat to shore. This man was no threat, and perhaps some trade could be arranged. They had no food, but the boat they’d stolen had contained some sturdy, if unadorned, bolts of cloth.
The man raised his hands, as if imploring the heavens, and shook his head. “No, friend. Nerkut was unkind to my pockets,” he said, spitting on the ground. He seemed to catch sight of Ilasin, then, and his eyes narrowed in a way that made Leonine nervous. Another murder? If need be.
“Your daughter?” the man asked. Ilasin’s boyish disguise, alas, seemed a failure. Leonine nodded. “There are Sarvashi in Nerkut.”
His voice was taut with anger, and Leonine found himself wondering if in fact his own Ekkadi disguise was better than he’d anticipated. “They are asking everyone they can find questions about a girl her age, and they’re being forceful about it. Some noble’s daughter ran off, best I can figure out, but they’re not being very particular about who they waylay. You might do well to avoid the city altogether.”
“Damn,” said Leonine. The Hounds? How could they have gotten so far ahead of him… unless a second group had been called in to make up their losses. That was, on reflection, not unlikely, and Ilasin’s hometown was a better place than most to continue the search. “Unfortunately, we have little choice in the matter – our pockets are likely no more full than yours. On the bright side, I doubt anyone will take us for nobility.”
The other man chuckled. “There is some benefit to looking the part of a Mushkenum. Then I shall be going, I suppose. Thank you for the information.” The man quickly rummaged around a bag to his side, and took out a small package wrapped with palm leaves. “A honey cake – I’ve a horrible weakness for sweets, and my faithful wife indulges it.” He handed the pastry to Ilasin with a smile.
“For me?” she asked, eyes brightening.
“I’m old and fat,” the man said. “I’ve eaten plenty of them.”
Ilasin thanked him, and they said their goodbyes after Leonine secured a small trade – a bolt of cloth for a jar of beer, a jar of dates and some bread. It was a fair enough exchange. More importantly, it was food he didn’t have to hunt; food that wouldn’t dredge up memories he preferred not to face.
“Navid, I think we should avoid Nerkut,” said Ilasin. “You heard what the merchant said. It’s too dangerous!”
Leonine nodded. It was. Still…
“It isn’t so simple, Ila. If we’re to go to Haksh as we planned, we’ll still need to join a caravan with means of crossing the desert – we won’t be able to get to Adarpa otherwise. And where else can we find such, if not Nerkut? I don’t think we have a choice.”
“So what will we do?” she asked. “It sounds like the moment we show ourselves, the guards will take us for questioning.”
Leonine nodded. “Simple, then. We get into the city without passing them.”
Ilasin cocked an eyebrow quizzically, and folded her arms across her chest. “You call that simple? How do you expect to get in?”
“How did you get out?”
“I had help. My uncle was a temple servant. He hid me in the tithe when he went to collect taxes. I slipped out in a nearby village and ran.” Her face clouded over for a moment. “I hope he wasn’t caught…”
“Are there no other hidden ways in or out of the city?” There had to be something. A storm drain, a sewer, a thief’s dig… But then, Ilasin would know little of such things.
“I left inside a bag, Navid. And it’s not like the High Priest’s daughter has a whole lot of opportunity to sneak around the city and explore.”
That sealed it. If there were other ways in and out of the city – and there were; there always were – they would remain a mystery. Still, there were other options. He returned to prior musings.
“We’ll find a place for you to hide. I will go into the city alone, and try to arrange a caravan. We’ll decide what to do then.” It was not a perfect solution, and the thought of leaving Ilasin alone worried him somewhat, but he could think of no other option short of climbing the walls – and that was the sort of thing one did not try in the affluent and well-guarded cities of the east.
Ilasin spat a date pit into the river and popped another fruit into her mouth. “I suppose that will work. I know a place.”
They reached a village in the mid-afternoon of the next day, after a lazy morning of boating and singing under the hot sun. The Shalumes was sluggish here, its ire diverted and dispersed by a thousand straight canals carrying water to perfectly square fields of golden kamut and barley. The shore was dotted with shadufs and with the men, ant-small at this distance, who dipped them now into one canal, now into the other. Before their coracle, a veritable wall of fishing boats bobbed in place, nets cast overboard. 
“This is the place!” Ilasin said cheerfully, pointing to a small pack of huts. “This is where Utar’s family lives. They’ll help us!”
“Utar?”
“Oh, he’s Uchu’s son. Uchu is the uncle that helped me get out of the city. We’ve been friends for ages.”
Leonine laughed at that. “Ages, you say? Would that be two years, three?”
“Six, if you must know!”
“Ah, well. Ages, indeed.”
Leonine squinted. The water shimmered in Shimurg’s light, making it difficult to see. In the distance were the walls of Nerkut, perhaps an hour’s ride from the village.
“Can they be trusted?” he asked Ilasin.
She nodded. “Utar would never tell anyone, not if I make him promise not to.”
And how can you be so sure of that? “Just be careful,” he said. “If at any point it looks like you’ve been betrayed, run into the fields. The wheat is growing tall, so you should be able to hide. If you’re not here when I return, I will meet you…” He scanned the horizon for a likely place. “…there, in those trees.” 
He pointed at a small grove of fig trees that seemed to waver in the heat, tucked into the corner of a field that looked more than a little unkempt. Hopefully, that meant it was tended infrequently.
They followed the bank of the broad Shalumes to the village. In the distance gleamed the golden roof of Kutuanu’s great temple; the light could have been that of a second Shimurg, watching over the city and the ill-omened swamp to its south, where neighbouring Alu-nin-hura had once stood. Men tending the shadufs looked at them curiously, some with friendly nods or waves. None challenged their passing, nor indeed gave them a second look. That was encouraging.
Still, be careful. This was Ilasin’s city, and though her hair was cut short and her clothes were rough-spun, it was entirely possible that someone would recognize her.
Someone, as it happened, did. They came across a boy, perhaps five or six years older than she, dipping a shaduf into the river with the blank expression of the very bored. As he looked at them, that expression changed. 
“Ilasin!” he whispered, a little too loudly for comfort. He must have realized that, because he clapped a hand over his mouth and looked this way and that to ensure that he’d not been overheard.
“Hi, Utar,” said Ilasin cheerfully. The boy’s eyes widened further.
“What under Anki’s Chariot possessed you to come back here? Are you insane?” he asked. Guilty as charged. “Do you remember which house is mine?”
Ilasin nodded.
“Get inside, now. Mother will recognize you. I’ll come back as soon as I’ve finished in the fields. And try not to talk to anyone. If they ask questions, tell them you’re… Lantu and his daughter Chasha – they’re cousins of ours – come to visit.” 
The boy's sharp mind made Leonine feel somewhat better about the whole affair. Perhaps they would manage this yet.
Utar’s mother was no less surprised than he. She pulled them through the door as soon as it was opened, and poked her head through to ensure they’d not been followed. Seemingly satisfied, she scooped Ilasin up into her arms and squeezed tight, tears forming in her eyes. She was tall, and run somewhat to fat, but something in her features reminded Leonine of the girl.
“Oh child, we’ve missed you so! But why in the world have you come back?” she asked, concern and joy warring for control.
“No choice,” said Leonine. “We are being hunted, and need to find safety. We had to double back here.”
Utar’s mother seemed for the first time to notice Leonine. “And who are you?”
“This is Leonine,” said Ilasin. Leonine was glad she’d remembered to avoid using his real name. Did that mean there was distrust here? Probably not, but he’d have to ask her a few questions when the opportunity arose. “He’s been helping me run away from the soldiers.”
“Welcome, then, Leonine. It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Awasha.” The words were kind enough, but her suspicion was clear. Perhaps she thinks I’ve come here to turn Ilasin in? It did not matter, particularly. 
After looking Ilasin up and down to ensure that she was unhurt, and subsequently clucking her tongue over the girl’s sunken cheeks and bony wrists, Awasha set herself to bustling about the kitchen, all the while babbling a stream of gossip concerning people whose names Leonine had never heard. Ilasin giggled now and again, while the scent of roasting goat grew stronger and stronger, making Leonine’s mouth water.
Soon, they were eating, and the meat, though overcooked, stringy, and bland for lack of spices, was a welcome change from the bread, fruit and frogs of the journey. Ilasin tore into a haunch with abandon, grease dripping down her chin. Awasha seemed to approve.
“Where’s…” Ilasin said between mouthfuls, “Uchu?”
“In the Temple. The diviners have needed help with something or other, and Uchu has been coming home late. Uchu says Anki is about to win some sort of battle, and that it’s a sign of a good harvest and peaceful times ahead. Not that we’ve been struggling here, mind.”
“He didn’t… get into any trouble? On my account?”
“Oh, no, child,” Awasha said, her eyes darting momentarily away. “Nobody thought him responsible for your escape. Why would they?” 
Because you’re family. Do you take us for idiots? Still, if this Uchu was still alive, whatever suspicions might have rested on him had obviously failed to bear fruit. He had probably covered his tracks well. Well enough that no man dared accuse him, at any rate. Still, he would have to talk to Ilasin about this too.
The door banged open, startling Leonine and disturbing his reverie. His eyes shot towards the house’s entrance, knife in hand and ready to be drawn. He relaxed when he saw Utar, the shaduf boy, a stupid grin on his face. He rushed to where Ilasin was seated and wrapped his arms around her, lifting the girl clear off the bench and squeezing until she laughed and started to tickle him in a vain attempt to wriggle free. Leonine found himself smiling.
“You big oaf. Do you treat the village girls like that?”
Awasha laughed, and Utar set Ilasin down, his face reddening.
“What?” Ilasin asked, confused, looking first at Awasha, then Leonine.
“Our young son has just recently learned how some girls like to be treated,” Awasha said, “and has got himself into a wedding arrangement quite by accident.”
Ilasin put her hands on her hips and shot the boy a baleful glare. 
“Oh, you idiot, her father caught you two? Who is it? Tell me it’s not that fat cow Asha.” No nervous laughter, no confusion. Leonine found himself surprised yet again at just how worldly Ilasin sometimes seemed.
“She’s not fat anymore,” the boy said in a small voice, eyes fixed on his sandals. “We’re to be married after harvest.”
Ilasin shook her head and let out an exaggerated sigh. “Boys are so easy to tame,” she said, prompting a laugh from Awasha. Farshideh had once said something similar. Leonine could not help but agree.
Leonine shifted his weight uncomfortably. He stood first on his left foot, until the hot sand grew too painful to endure, and then on his right. Shimurg flew low to the ground already, but the desert had not yet cooled. He found himself wondering if the noonday sands were fiery enough to singe the leather thongs of his sandals. It was an amusing thought at first, until memory whispered spitefully of days he’d sooner forget. Farshideh had died in a place much like this one.
The heat did not bother Ilasin. She knelt in front of him, brushing grains of sand from a heap, gradually revealing a flat white stone scored with the darts and arrows of Ekkadi script.
“See! I told you it was here.” Ilasin stood up, her face passing through the long shadows cast by a jagged cliff and into the golden light of afternoon. She looked satisfied, though a hint of melancholy played about her almond eyes.
Leonine took her hand, and bent down to read the inscription.
Here is the tomb of Ananta, most holy servant of Kutuanu, and his family. May Dagush avert his gaze, and Kutuanu gather them to his bosom. Ananta, if Ilasin was correct, was almost certainly not yet dead, but it was not unusual for the nobility to erect such crypts well in advance of needing them. Below the first inscription was a more recent hand. Shawa, beloved wife of Ananta, passed in the Year of Locusts. May she never be forgotten.
“Why is the tomb all the way out here, and not within the city walls? I should have thought the high priest’s wife would be granted a somewhat more luxurious resting place.”
Ilasin shook her head. “The priests of Kutuanu have been buried in this pass since the Merezadesh came. I think they were afraid your people would decide to knock our temple down and rob the graves like they did in Alu-nin-hura. Only the priests and their families know of these tombs. The slaves who built them were sealed inside to die.” 
“Pleasant.”
“My father said it was so that their uneasy spirits would stand guard against robbers,” said Ilasin.
“Better still.”
Ilasin sighed. “How mother must be shamed by all this.” Leonine elected not to ask what she meant.
“I miss her so much, Navid.” 
He took her hand and squeezed it. “I know. There is no greater pain than losing someone you love.”
“I think she would have liked you,” Ilasin said. “You would have liked her too.”
“The Sarvashi have a custom,” said Leonine. “When we hold a funeral, we tell stories of the fallen. Will you tell me about her?”
Ilasin told him of a mother as kind as she was beautiful, and of daily walks in the Temple garden. They were a child’s memories, polished unto gleaming by the pain of loss, but they wove a tapestry of joy and love, of happy times cut brutally short by the impersonal ravages of the Weeper. As she talked, Ilasin’s eyes grew wet with tears.
So did his own.
Evening had slowly darkened to night by the time they returned to Uchu’s hut, and the relieved hugs of Ilasin’s teenage cousin. A third person was inside, sitting at a chair beside the table where they had eaten, a bowl of legumes in front of him. His face was like Utar’s, but his tired eyes were those of a harried man.
“And this is uncle Uchu!” Ilasin said brightly. She threw her arms around the man’s neck and kissed his cheek. Leonine nodded and tried to smile, but managed only a yawn.
“A long day, I think,” said Uchu. “Were you able to find the grave?”
Ilasin nodded. Her fingers darted into her uncle’s bowl and came out with a bean that she quickly swallowed.
“You must be starved!” said Awasha, wringing her hands. “I will prepare some more food. Please, sit.”
Leonine sat down at Ilasin’s side, across from her uncle, while Awasha descended upon her pantry, a matronly whirlwind.
“You cannot stay here long,” said Ilasin’s uncle. Awasha stopped her bustling just long enough to throw the man a dirty glare.
Leonine nodded. “I don’t intend to. I will go into the city tomorrow and search for a caravan to take us away from here.”
“Where do you intend to go?”
Leonine reminded himself that he had no reason to trust this man or his wife. “It is not important. Suffice it to say, we will be out of your hair as swiftly as is possible.”
Uchu gave him a measured look and nodded, sighing in what appeared to be relief. “Good,” he said. “The last escape was a narrow one. I have no desire to be part of another.”
“Father!” Utar was aghast. “Ila’s family.”
“Be silent when I speak, boy,” said Uchu. “You are not the man of the house yet.”
Leonine broke the awkward silence that followed. “Your father is right, Utar.” Even if he is a coward. “The longer we are here, the likelier it is that we will endanger you. Nobody here wants that.”
Three days later, he began to despair of ever finding passage to Adarpa.
An hour spent wandering the market had left Leonine at wit’s end, his ears close to bleeding from constant bellowed reminders that this stall or that had the freshest fruit, the sturdiest baskets.
More annoying still was the fact that he had to subject himself to the predations of all these money-hungry merchants while he sought what must have been the one bloody man in all of Nerkut with a caravan ready to ride. 
The last merchant had suggested that he talk to an Akushu-Ti, a dealer in fruits and other foodstuffs imported from far countries, and one known for the speed and reliability of his deliveries. It seemed a promising enough lead, if an expensive one, but the man's directions were easy to follow and he soon reached the shop under a green awning of which he'd been told.
“Fresh fruit! Plantains from the south! Pears from the north! Ah, and what would you like from my humble shop?” Akushu-Ti was a mustachioed Ekkadi, his head wrapped in a cocoon of silk cloth like that of a Bachiyan sultan.
“Answers. Not fruit. You are Akushu-Ti?” If the experiences of the last few days had left him curt, so be it. He had no more time to waste befriending this fat shopkeeper or the other. Money loosened lips more easily, and more swiftly at that.
“I am, but you have come to the wrong place, for I deal in fruit and not answers,” the merchant replied with a smug expression that begged for a sharp knuckle. Yet another exemplary specimen of his kind, he decided, thinking back to the oily man in Numush who’d sold him a harp. That harp had remained behind, another casualty of his haste.
“Plantains from the east!” called Akushu-Ti, turning away from him.
“I’ll make it worth your while. Only a few questions.”
“Oh?” The merchant seemed confused, as though the game’s rules had changed into something he did not understand. “Then what is it you need, and what do you propose in return?”
At least this one got to the heart of the matter swiftly. “A reasonable amount of coin. I’ll even buy some of these plantains you’re peddling, if you like. I need to book passage on a caravan to Adarpa for myself and another, and I would prefer to leave soon. I mean to negotiate the sale of some rare art, but I was delayed in reaching here, and the man I need to meet will not wait much longer until he takes to sea.” It was as good a lie as any. Leonine dug into the pouch inside his tunic and withdrew a silver shekel – an extravagant enough gift to appear well-to-do, but not so much so as to appear desperate, or worse yet, criminal. “You obviously range far afield. Can you help me?”
“Hmm,” the merchant pursed his lips and pocketed the coin with practiced ease. A common language is a fine thing. “I cannot help you myself, you understand. I do not import my wares directly, but rely on some men I trust to do it for me. The last shipment was delivered by a man named Lumurta. I believe he is still in the city, but he will not be planning another trip for at least a month.”
A month?
“So you cannot help me?” Leonine mourned the loss of yet another perfectly good coin. Not because he needed the funds, particularly, but because the men in whose hands his coins ended up never seemed to deserve them.
“I did not say that. How significant a sale are you planning?”
“Tapestries and some crystal-ware. It should be about thirty mina in value, if it is all sold, and half of that profit.” Leonine hoped those numbers were reasonable. Akushu-Ti tapped his chin, obviously thinking something over, and nodded.
He clapped his hands and rose to his feet. He was taller and broader than Leonine had anticipated. A younger man with a definite family resemblance and a similar turban ran up and bowed his head.
“Mind the shop,” said Akushu-Ti. The younger man nodded. 
“My son,” said the merchant. “Come inside with me, and we will talk.”
Akushu-Ti led him around the building, to a heavy door with an ornate brass lock. The house behind the door was clean and smelled of sandalwood. The waiting room was clearly that of a well-traveled man – or, at least, one with associates that traveled for him. Urns in unfamiliar shapes stood atop rugs sewn in unfamiliar patterns, and the walls were hung with paintings of foreign beasts and deities, polished wooden masks and bronze plates etched with writing Leonine could not recognize, let alone read. 
Akushu-Ti gestured to a stack of pillows before a small table. “Please, sit down,” he said. After the bone-wearying investigation of the last few days, such opportunities for comfort were all the more welcome. Leonine sat down and leaned back into the pillows, sighing contentedly. Akushu-Ti clapped his hands. A servant with the nut-brown skin and almond eyes of Bachiya entered the room. He asked a question in his unfamiliar language, and Akushu-Ti responded in kind. The servant scampered off.
“He will bring us a delicate and flavourful tea from his homeland, that I think you will quite enjoy. Now, let us discuss how I may help you.”
It would no doubt be costly. Still, I’m quite willing to share the proceeds of an art sale that does not exist. “Thank you,” Leonine said. “I listen.”
Akushu-Ti’s plan turned out to be precisely what he’d expected. Sales had been uncommonly impressive, he said, and his stores were depleting to the point where it would not be entirely unreasonable to schedule another trip, though of course he would need some compensation for the change in contract with his man Lumurta. Yes, quite natural. Leonine agreed, nodding his head. He wondered when it would all be over. 
He was not a man that specialized in art, Akushu-Ti, but one who nevertheless had a certain fondness for the handicraft of other lands, and so on, and so forth. The tea arrived, a merciful respite from his self-aggrandizing ramble. It was indeed delicious, redolent of the sharp, sweet tang of ginger and pungent cloves.
Akushu-Ti continued. He would arrange for a trip to leave within three days, on the condition that Leonine pay him twenty shekels to mollify Lumurtu – not pocket coin, precisely, but nevertheless a humble sum to a man such as this. Which means, of course… There was a way this could prove quite beneficial to them both! Akushu-Ti asked but for the small sum of a coin every twenty on the art sale, which surely was a fair compensation for the trouble involved in arranging a caravan.
It probably was at that. Perhaps I ought to go into art sales.
“I am glad you agree,” said Akushu-Ti when Leonine finally nodded, after a pretense of careful consideration. “You will not object, I imagine, to my sending a man along with you? He is handy in a fight, and educated enough to represent me in the negotiations. I would feel better if I knew you were safe from bandits.” It was a thin pretext, but hardly an unreasonable precaution for an intelligent merchant.
“That would be most welcome,” Leonine said. “The blasted sand-eaters grow more daring every year. When shall we draw up a contract?”
“Tomorrow, I think, over a midday meal. One of my cousins is a notary, and he owes me some favours. It shan’t cost us a shekel.” 
Fantastic. I look forward to entering into a bond blessed by this and that Ekkadi god of prosperity. I do so hope he doesn’t judge me too harshly when I kill your man.
“That is excellent. My thanks for all your help.”
The notary was a vaguely bored-looking man, who with some rolling of eyes recorded the details of their agreement on a tablet, posing occasional ritualized questions about whether or not they were bargaining in good faith.
The deed was done soon enough, and after some clasping of hands and patting of backs, Leonine was free to roam the city in search of food and perhaps some clean clothing. Ilasin would no doubt appreciate having something to wear that had not been repeatedly caked in the filth of road and sewer. She had been given some clothes that Utar must have outgrown years ago, but deserved something nicer.
The caravan would leave the morning of the day after next. And once they reached Adarpa, finding a ship out of the country was a simple enough matter. It seemed strange, to leave his homeland for the teak cities of Haksh, for endless savannah dotted with baobab trees and watering ponds, disturbed by the cackle and crow of a hundred foreign animals.
Still, he thought, as he passed a rag-clad prophet crowing about drought and famine, what had Ekka given him that was worth staying for?  Farshideh was dead, and he and Ilasin would follow her soon enough if they stayed. The Hounds would not pursue them over the sea, would they? What more reason could he need?
Learning a new language would be difficult, more so for him than the child, but it was not an insurmountable challenge. And while some considered Haksh to fall somewhat short of the ever-so-civilized land between the rivers – the word “savage” came up not infrequently – Ibashtu told a different tale, of mysticism and wonder, rich cities with great libraries, and ineffable spirits.
Not that Ibashtu was trustworthy, but she had little reason to lie about this. Leonine knew full well that Haksh would fail to live up to her nostalgia. Even still, a land that accepted and even venerated sorcery had to be better than Ekka. Are you a child? At best, there will be different problems. And besides, you’re not there yet.
A member of the local guard shouldered him aside, throwing a dirty glare after him. “Forgive me,” Leonine said fawningly, “I did not see you.” The guard grunted and continued on his way. Leonine felt suddenly exposed. It was true. He was not yet in Haksh, and there was little doubt the Hounds were not far behind. He’d seen none of the Sarvashi spoken of days ago by the chance-met merchant, but that failed to reassure him.
His buoyant mood of moments earlier evaporated, and all of a sudden the thought of shopping for more clothing seemed like an exercise in unreasonable risk. It would be wiser to return to the village. He could send the boy to shop for them. That would draw less attention. Leonine thought back abruptly to the chase in Inatum. He could not afford such a thing here, not in a city he did not know, and not in a city with streets as tight and narrow as some of the alleyways he’d passed through earlier in the day.
I’ll send the boy. Much easier.
That settled, Leonine turned and started on his way back to the River Gate and into the fields. Then he stumbled, a frigid chill picking at his spine with spidery legs. Sorcery.
Gods, not again. It came from the direction he expected. Oh, gods above and below, not again. He saw Farshideh, staring blindly at a desert sky, then Ilasin in her place. 
Leonine broke into a run, weaving around people where he could, barreling through them where he could not. He pushed and prodded, even leapt onto and over a horse-drawn hay-cart. Anything to move faster, until his lungs burned with the exertion. Oh, Ilasin, please tell me you got away.
He ran until he could no longer feel himself running, until his legs grew numb and it felt as though he moved solely through force of will. City walls turned from hard edges and sharp corners to a white blur. A guardsman stepped into his path, eyes wide, struggling to pull his cudgel from his belt. He thinks me a thief? Leonine struck him savagely in the face, and felt bone give way beneath his elbow. He’s not wrong. He heard screams behind him. Had he killed the man? 
Ilasin! It was of no concern. The walls were closer now, their squat gate towers rearing up before him. Think, idiot! How will you get through? He ducked into an alleyway to catch his breath. The guard he’d struck was far enough behind that news of his attack could not have reached the gate. None of the soft guardsmen of a peaceful city like Nerkut could keep pace with him. Still, to get to the village, he had to get through the gate, and one did not normally run past its spear-armed guards.
Breathe. Slow down. There was no time. He sweated a little too profusely. He’d blame it on heat, perhaps. It did not matter. If they stopped him, he was prepared to kill.
“Name?”
What name? Damn, what name did I use here?
It came to him. “Mushkenum Walid. I entered the city several hours ago through this gate.” The guard looked over to the gate scribe, who eventually nodded and scrawled another entry, then waved him through.
“Name?” He could hear the gate guard accosting the next passer-by, but already it seemed far away. He broke into a run again, trying to decide whether it was wiser to first go to the village or the copse where he’d told Ilasin to meet him if anything went badly.
He decided on the copse. Ilasin’s sorcery meant someone would be dead. They could not capture her so easily, could they?
If they have a Hound… Still, he found himself running, trampling kamut in a mad rush to reach the grove. Oh, Ilasin, please.
The ground dipped suddenly, almost throwing him off his feet, and then he was leaning against a fig tree, trying to catch his breath. “Ilasin!” he hissed, a whisper with the urgency of a shout. “Ila!”
She was not there.
Nobody was there.
“Ilasin!”
Leonine became acutely aware of his heart pounding in his throat, of white-hot rage bubbling up in him like bile, threatening to spill over. With a strangled cry, he ran again. He could feel neither the ground nor the wind against his face. He had only visions of Ilasin being given to the Shimurg, and an anger that threatened to devour him.
It could not happen. Not again. He would not allow it.
Leonine burst through the door to Utar’s hut, startling the husband and wife. Her eyes were red from weeping, his dry. Utar sat in the corner of the main room, his expression first startled, then showing something faintly like disgust. They were alive. Which means…
“Where is she?” Leonine asked, his voice cold, menacing. “What happened here?”
Uchu shook his head. “I am sorry, friend Leonine. She and Utar were playing achi out in the field with the other children. She lost control of her sorcery. Utar did not know what to do, and we were not here. They hid, and… and then they came.”
Lies. The man lied. Ilasin could not have lost control of her sorcery unless she was terrified, and she could not possibly have been stupid enough to play in the fields. The miserable shit of a man was lying.
“You sold her out.”
“Wh-what?” Terror showed itself suddenly, in his eyes and the too-swift, too-nervous shake of his head. “That’s insane! How could I do such a thing to my own kin?”
“Who was it?” Leonine asked, barely able to control his rage. He saw movement to his side. Awasha tried to edge closer to the door. He turned on her. “Don’t move!” he said, “Or you both die. I ask you again. Who was it?”
Why even ask? There were no bodies, and Ilasin had screamed. It had to be the Hound. Who else could be powerful enough to nullify her sorcery? Ibashtu? Perhaps.
“I… please, you must believe me. It happened exactly as I said. I understand your anguish, but do you not think we are also grieving?”
Bastard. Arrogant, ignorant, cocksure bastard. I will spit you, roast you, and feast on your damned flesh.
Leonine leapt across the room, drawing his knife. He caught Awasha by the hair, jerked her head back hard, and put his blade against her neck. “Do not think me some naive idiot who will swallow your lies. You lost face when you helped Ilasin escape the first time, and now you’ve sold your soul to get it back. Am I right?”
Uchu blanched and shook his head, but the truth was written in his face.
“He did!” Utar, the son. He wept now, pointing an accusing finger at his father. “He did sell her to the Sarvashi! He condemned his own niece!”
His suspicions confirmed, Leonine found himself possessed by an icy calm.
“Tell me what happened,” he said, turning to the son. Utar looked up at him, seemingly confused, unsure where to begin. A look at his father’s face, now mottled with furious patches of red and white, steeled his resolve.
“We were sitting and talking about the temple, and some of the new priests, how things had changed… then some armed men burst in. Sarvashi ones, all in armour, led by a horrible man with one arm.
“She screamed, and suddenly I felt a terror, like I was going to die… but the one-eyed man started shouting something I could not understand, and the fear went away. Then Ila… Oh, Ila.”
So there is another Hound. He’d killed two already. He’d kill a third.
“Continue.” Leonine said.
“She looked so scared, and she scrambled back into the wall, trying to get away, but the men just ran in and started hitting her. I tried to get in the way but one of them threw me into a wall, hard. And then one of them said ‘You did well’ to my father, and I knew what he had done.”
Utar looked at his father with hate in his eyes. “Beat me if you want, you filth, but that is the truth.”
“He will not beat you,” Leonine said with icy certainty. He turned to the wife. “If you scream, or send anyone after me, I will return and kill you both.”
Her eyes widened, and she shook her head slowly, imploringly. Uchu must have understood what was coming. He opened his mouth to scream for help, but gurgled instead, his throat spraying the wall with blood. Uchu clawed at his ruined neck and fell to the ground twitching. His wife sobbed, shoulders heaving, but she was silent. The boy merely looked at Leonine. There was horror in his face, and hatred, but also a grim satisfaction.
They would not stop him, he knew. They could not stop him.
Ilasin. Oh, Ilasin, I’m coming.
Chapter 12: Anki Gave Us Words
A silver latticework of irrigation canals stretched out from the Shalumes, cutting the green fields outside Inatum into a map of square countries, each delineated by a watery border that gleamed in the light of morning. 
The driest patches of land were planted with date palms, their clustered fruits still hard. The fields watered by the canals were displayed various states of progress. Some had already been sowed and planted, while others were even now being furrowed by meagre-looking oxen struggling under the weight of the plow.
The labourers had risen with Shimurg, as was their lot. Kamvar and Akosh had left Inatum at dawn, and already the land beyond the city’s gates was buzzing with the excitement of the planting season’s final busy weeks.
And flies. Don’t forget flies. Kamvar felt a tickle at the back of his neck too late, and slapped at it with a sigh. The welt would itch from here to Numush-ummi, and it was not alone.
“Akosh, we need to get moving, if only to be harder targets for these vile flies,” said Kamvar, swinging effortlessly into the saddle. The men had stopped their horses only briefly, to break their fast with bread, dates and an herbed cheese. Kamvar, raised among the legendary horsemen of Sarvash, would have been content to eat in the saddle, but the older man had much not liked that idea.
Akosh sighed and put what remained of his breakfast back into its waxed pouch. He hung the pack from his saddle-horn and clambered atop his horse. They had been given three mounts each, all of them strong creatures by Ekkadi standards.
Hardly a surprise. Crossing the Hunt was a fool’s gamble. Whatever else could be said of Lugal Zagezi, he had been generous and cooperative enough to make a good impression. Kamvar wondered how soon gifts would make their way to Inatum from the mountains of his homeland. That was to the good. Last night’s events had convinced Kamvar that the Prophet needed as many allies in this land as he could find.
“Let’s go, then,” said Akosh.
Minutes later, the farmland thinned abruptly, reeds and scrubby bushes having won a momentary respite in their battle with the civilized world. They were perhaps a two-hour walk from the city proper; near enough that the fields they had passed were tended by farmers who lived within the walls of Inatum, but far enough that Kamvar did not envy them the trip. Most of the men who came out this far had built tiny reed huts in which they could live comfortably enough for a few days at a time, if they could stand the isolation.
This, Kamvar reflected an hour later, was the true face of Ekka. To his left, the glittering Shalumes reclined languidly in its green bed. The rains – such as they were – had widened both the river and the verdant belt around it, but they had also turned soft, springy earth into deep mud. A little over a stone’s throw from the river, green turned to the pale yellow of drying grass. A stone’s throw from yellow was dun. Beyond that, he saw nothing but cracked earth baked hard by relentless Shimurg, and the blowing sands of the desert.
This was the land the Ekkadi had tamed. From the thin belts of life that were the two great rivers, they had built a thriving empire. They had fed the sands with the river’s grace and turned them to soil, then turned that soil into the bricks of their cities. Sarvash was itself a harsh land, but not like this. Nothing Kamvar had ever seen was quite like this.
And they say wandering tribes eke a life from the deepest deserts. The Ekkadi, for all the faults ascribed them back home, were unquestionably a resilient people.
It was not long before scrub turned once again to fields, and a series of stumps rising against the horizon took on the familiar mushroom shape of mud-brick huts with roofs of woven reeds. Tahmin and the others must have passed through here. Perhaps one of the villagers could tell them how long ago that had been.
“Let us stop here, Akosh,” shouted Kamvar over the thunder of hooves striking hard earth. Their horses had held up well enough, although they neared the end of their laudable resilience. The beast under Kamvar shivered and sweated from exertion. A rest would be welcome, for the horses and for them.
“Oh, thank the gods,” said Akosh. 
As they drew closer to the cluster of huts, the villagers started to make themselves more apparent. The midday meal had drawn to a close. Brown-scorched farmhands had begun to make their way back into the relentless sun, back to their empty fields. Kamvar slowed, and reined in his horse before a pair of shirtless young men who stared sullenly.
“Good day, friends.” Rolled eyes told Kamvar what the villagers thought of that. He continued. “I believe other soldiers came through here earlier – did you see them?”
One of the men shrugged. “I was in the fields. Didn’t see them. There’s lots of travelers that pass through here.”
“And how many of them are Sarvashi soldiers? Come now, you must have heard something.”
The man sighed. “Maybe I have. There was a ship docked here, earlier. I heard some chatter about a bunch of… of outsiders. I didn’t pay it no mind – the spring planting needs to get done, and fast, before the rains return and we have to trudge through ankle-deep mud to get our seeds in the ground. And before they stop altogether.”
“Those sound like our men. Do you have a dockhand I could speak with?”
The farmhand stared at Kamvar as though he had grown another head. 
“Look around you,” he said. “Between the two of you, you could count all the men in this village and still have a hand left over. Dockhand, pah. Maybe you’d like to talk to the town magistrate, or the architect, or the oracle.”
Kamvar started to speak, but Akosh interrupted him. “Watch your mouth, Wardum. I just rode my old arse sore enough that I’m not sure I can sit down, and I’m in no mood to listen to a farmer crack wise.”
Anger flashed in the farmhand’s eyes. “I am Mushkenum,” he replied. “Not that it matters to the likes of you lot. Look, I’ve work to do. You want to talk to someone about visitors, talk to old Adumi. I hear they did.” It was the last word, and spoken with venom. The two men they had accosted pushed past Kamvar’s horses and walked toward the fields. A formless unease crept into Kamvar’s thoughts.
“What do you suppose that bit meant?” asked Akosh.
“I’m not sure I want to know. But I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”
Adumi was a village matron transplanted, it seemed, directly from a relief. She was stout, as they all were, with wispy white hair, missing teeth, and an unveiled face that bore the lines of years gone by. An angry red welt had nearly closed one of her eyes, and gave her face the appearance of a perpetual squint. 
‘I hear they did.’ Poor woman.
“My name is Kamvar. I am looking to rejoin my company, who I believe passed through here…”
“Oh, that they did,” said Adumi, scowling. “They passed through just long enough to shout threats and beat me.”
Kamvar felt abashed. In a land in which hatred for his people already simmered, they needed as few of these situations as possible. At least, Kamvar reflected, this village was far enough away from the cities that its story would not spread as far or as swiftly. The thought made him feel even guiltier. Perhaps it should spread. Is this what the Prophet had in mind? Beating old ladies?
“Why did they hurt you?” he asked, not wanting to hear the answer.
“You know,” she said, pointing to the ball of woolen thread in her lap, “I’m busy. I have to finish weaving a shawl for my granddaughter, and talking to Sarvashi is not helpful.”
“Please,” said Kamvar. “We only want to understand what happened here, and how long ago.”
“Five, maybe six hours,” she said, then sighed and put down her knitting needles. “They came to our village asking questions about a man traveling with a girl. I told the one-armed man that I knew nothing of it. He accused me of lying, and I told him to show some respect for his elders. It seems Sarvashi have precious little of that. And that’s the whole of the story. Now will you leave me alone?”
“Yes… yes, of course,” said Kamvar, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”
The woman sniffed loudly and returned to her labours.
“A pleasant fellow, your Barsam,” said Akosh as they rode away.
“I don’t want to think about it.”
Hot wind whirled the stinging grit of the road into clouds that hung dancing in the air like locust swarms. The hooves of their mounts flattened shrubs and pounded dirt into the curved impression of horseshoes. The tracks were deep, for they had pushed their horses hard in the dry country far from the river. Leaves and birdsong would certainly have been more pleasant than sand and a flatland wind unbroken by a barrier of trees, but not at the cost of a fresh horse breaking its leg.
He and Akosh had left one exhausted pair of horses at a village now hours behind them, with instructions to send the horses back to Inatum and perfect awareness that such a thing would never happen. They had only one change of mounts remaining and two days’ ride to Numush-ummi.
The pace, hard though it was, felt slow. For all that his thighs had grown unused to the saddle in the weeks gone by, Kamvar was Sarvashi.  His childhood had been spent on horseback, and he could easily eat in the saddle, or vault from a flagging horse to its replacement without the need to stop. Akosh had no such facility. For the first time since they had met, the old man looked his years.
They had spoken little during the gallop, choosing in place of chatter a companionable silence. It was just as well, for Kamvar needed the time to think. The sweating mount beneath him had brought to his mind the wide plains of Sarvash, the flat expanses of grass beyond the hills and the snow-capped mountains near his home city. How many days had he spent with the wind in his face? 
His father had taught him to ride, as was customary. They had worn paths fit for ox-carts into the grass, father atop his splendid chestnut Yazeja, and he first atop a pony, then a horse barely out of its awkward coltishness, then a stallion no less fierce than his father’s. Years later, after both his father and Yazeja had died – the former to barbarian axes, the latter to a disease that had required Kamvar himself to wield the merciful knife – he had returned to those plains as part of the citizen levy, striking out with spear and bow to patrol the lands or chase after horse thieves.
Sarvash was jagged stone or grassy, featureless plain, and yet his memories made it so beautiful. 
Akosh is right. He would return, this time to stay. 
Kamvar had tired of making war on men whose harm was to scripture, to orthodoxy. Younger men could carry that burden. He would return to his home in the hills, and teach his own son to ride horseback and shoot a bow; to live a peaceful life, among goats and horses and simple men and women. His Ashuz would not be made a weapon. He would not stain northern snows with blood as his grandfather had, nor would he become a spear of the faith like his father.
I hope. First, Kamvar had to return home alive.
“How, how on earth, do you hill-men manage to live on horseback?” Akosh sat cross-legged with his back against a stone, shifting uncomfortably. Kamvar smiled and handed him what remained of the hunk of drying bread that he’d been gnawing on.
“We have more horses than men, some years. And ours are wilder than these,” said Kamvar, pointing to the weary beasts they had stripped of rein and saddle. He felt a twinge of guilt – these animals, strong though they were, could not be accustomed to the hard use to which they had been put, not in this land where men traveled first and foremost by river. He shuddered to think what they would make of his homestead, with its craggy hills and hard ground.
Still, we gave them a bit of a rest… not that an hour’s enough after what they’ve done. Kamvar decided that he would saddle the last pair of horses when it came time to leave. They were not fresh, not any longer, but at least neither had suffered under a man’s weight.
“We were always told,” said Kamvar, “that our lands were so hard and unforgiving that Sarvashi men and horses had to be stronger than any other.”
Akosh snorted. “If you wish to see harsh, I can take you into the desert one of these days.”
“I don’t. Not especially. You know, I miss the mountains. It seems somehow wrong to see an unbroken horizon in every direction.”
“Aye, this land’s flat as a table,” said Akosh, shifting his weight gingerly and wincing at his strained muscles. “You should come to Karhan one day. Deep forests, tall hills, and everywhere the scents of cedar and sea.” He sighed.
“Why did you leave?” asked Kamvar. He saw Akosh fight down a grimace, and wondered if it was inspired by his question or the ride. The old man broke a piece from the bread and tossed the rest to Kamvar. 
“Pack that up, will you? I’ve had my fill.” He sat silently for a moment, then continued. “There was nothing for me there, Kamvar. I was a wild man when I was young. I was to be a carpenter, as my father was, but I treated my apprenticeship with disdain. A lecture here, a whipping there, none of it helped. I cared for nothing but drink and the honey-pots of the village girls. One day, my father grew angry with my irresponsibility, and he struck me. I struck him, harder, and he cast me out.”
“And you left?” asked Kamvar.
“The village? Yes, I left. I wandered around Karhan for a time, making my way towards Lanapish. I decided I was to be a great warrior, you see. After your people took Ekka back from the Artalum, the brutes decided it was time to make war on us. The soldiers of Lanapish had been fighting with them for decades already when I was a young man, and they were famed in our parts.”
Akosh smiled ruefully, and pulled at his beard. “I didn’t realize then that food does not simply grow by the roadside, and soon the hunger made me mean. I killed a man that I came across, a merchant. That was my first taste of blood – real blood, not splitting a lip with my fist – and it changed me. I knew I’d done wrong, but I could not return home and admit to my shame. So I pressed on. Became a soldier, went to war, married and lost a wife, went to war again. 
“I returned to my village one day to ask my father’s forgiveness, only to learn that he had died not a year after I left. At that time, I had already befriended Amashuk. Ila-uanna’s husband, you remember? He came to Karhan regularly in those days, shipping linen there, and lumber back. I had been assigned by the city to guard one of his caravans to the lumberyards along the Cedar Road, and we grew to like each other. You would have liked him also – an honest man, and thoughtful like you. Well, he was in Lanapish when I returned from my visit home, and I must have looked desperate and lost, for he offered me a post in his household. That is how I came to live among the Ekkadi.”
“And you have never returned home?” asked Kamvar.
“A few times. Amashuk returned there each summer to conduct his affairs, and I went with him. Only when he grew old enough – and rich enough – that he preferred to send representatives instead of going in person did I stop going back.”
“Do you want to return? Your sighs seem to say ‘yes’.”
“Do I?” Akosh looked up at the thin, wispy clouds. “I suppose. It’s a beautiful land, and it still has a hold on me. But I don’t know, Kamvar. I feel that my life has taken me down a different road. I no longer know anyone. Hell, I have lived as many years outside Karhan as I ever spent there. Ekka has become my home, for better or worse.”
“Do the Ekkadi not consider you a foreigner?” asked Kamvar.
“Sometimes, and a barbarian besides. But at this point, the Ekkadi have seen so much of my people that they treat us well enough. And I am as much a foreigner to my own country in any case. Bah. I am growing maudlin. Enough of this. We should saddle the fresh horses and continue on.”
Kamvar nodded and stood up – spryly, by comparison to Akosh, whose sore discomfort was palpable. He put a warm hand on his friend’s shoulder and went to the saddles. The flagging horses would not be happy to continue onward, but then, neither was he.
They rode into the evening, until it was too dark to see the wending of the Shalumes and the nature of the ground under their horses’ hooves. When the dawn woke Kamvar from dreams of his farmstead, they mounted again and pressed on. 
That afternoon, wilderness turned once again to field, and Kamvar found himself watching Numush’s walls seem to rise up from the haze at the horizon. Even now, several hours away, he could see the awesome scope of the sprawling sister cities.
“It’s enormous,” he said to Akosh. The morning’s thunderous gallop had slowed to a brisk trot, in an effort to spare horses that were surely near collapse. Kamvar was glad that there was no longer any need to shout; his throat was raw from even the infrequent conversations of their too-swift ride.
“The Numushes? Oh, they’re legendary. It’s said that when the Artalum breached the wall, it took three days and three nights for word of it to travel from the west gate to the east. It’s an exaggeration, of course, but there it is.”
As they drew ever closer, Kamvar found that he could easily believe it. The city was larger than any he had ever seen. He recalled his amazement when the Hunt’s ship had first docked in Sarvagadis. He had always known that even Ashavan was little more than a village by Ekkadi standards, but reading about the enormous beacon towers of Sarvagadis in a scroll had certainly not prepared him for the sight of them rising straight and tall from the harbour, ancient kings with fiery crowns.
So it was with the Numushes. He had read that the city was at one time home to almost a million people, and had dismissed that as a flight of fancy. As he and Akosh rode through the city’s outlying villages, each the size of a Sarvashi town, the walls drew ever closer, until they dominated the entirety of his field of vision; until there were walls in every direction but back. 
How will we ever catch anyone here?
Even the horses seemed intimidated. As they drew close enough to tell the ochre steps of the city’s great ziggurat from its dun walls, the beasts slowed to a walk, their heads hanging like those of pilgrims nearing a holy place.
“Kamvar? Are our horses about to die beneath us?”
Probably.
“They’re no more used to this sort of trip than you are,” he said. “To be frank, I’m impressed that they’ve served us this long. I think poor Lugushu’s back would have given out within hours of leaving Inatum.”
Kamvar pointed to the temple whose topmost steps rose above the city’s walls. “Who is the god of Numush?”
“Chagasha, as I recall. A harvest goddess said to be the loving and loyal daughter of Kutuanu and Nin,” said Akosh after a moment’s reflection. “I’m surprised your people didn’t tear this one down as well, come to think of it.”
“I suppose even the Hounds don’t fear the harvest.”
Were we right to tear down the Serpent’s – no, Nin’s – temples? He felt strange pronouncing the name, even within the sanctity of his own thoughts. The priests never did. It had never been Nin, the Pale Queen, the Ekkadi night goddess. She had been stripped of her former dignity, made into nothing more than another face of Angramash, the Serpent. But was it really so? Surely, the night was not so terrible that only evil men loved it. Had the Ekkadi loved Nin as this Chagasha did? Some certainly must have, if entire cities had been dedicated to her name. Could all the men and women in those cities have been base? Are all the men and women of Sarvash noble and kind? Think, Kamvar. People are the same every place you go. 
Had Akosh loved her? That was a question he would have to remember. There was more to this land than what the Hounds had spoken of. Much more. It would be foolish to forgo the chance to learn its secrets.
“Akosh?”
His voice came out uncertain. The old man turned to him, a bushy eyebrow raised.
“How did the Ekkadi feel about Nin? As a whole, I mean. We’ve always been taught that there was little resistance, that the Ekkadi themselves helped us tear down Nin’s temples, singing while they did so. I recognize that for what it is. Now, anyway. But… I guess what I want to know is just how much damage we did.”
Akosh looked at him curiously for a moment, and then responded, slowly at first while he gathered his thoughts.
“It’s… well, there’s no ‘as a whole’ with Ekka, first of all.” He pointed to Numush. “Numush, for instance, was part of its own country, before the soldiers of Hatshut really and truly forged the Ekka we know today. Then it was among the first cities taken by the Artalum when they invaded in turn.
“Kamvar, these people, they’re accustomed to conquerors. I know that you know that, but I’m not sure you truly realize what it means. Of course they went along with your Kingpriest’s demands. Hell, maybe some of them did sing his praises. But they’ve not forgotten what was done. There’s a saying among them: ‘Anki gave us words, and made us men’…”
Kamvar had heard it. Had seen it, and everywhere. Every scribe’s robe – and in this country, scribes were many – was embroidered with the same slogan.
“… do you know what that means, Kamvar?”
Kamvar did not respond. Although he thought he understood, he wanted to hear it from Akosh.
“These people have been writing everything down for centuries. You could go to Numush’s hall of records right now, and if you know how to search you’ll learn what Mashu the goatherd paid in return for feed on this day hundreds of years ago. Hell, thousands of years ago, when the gods built these cities. They record everything, and they forget nothing. And while you may think you’ve conquered them, they know it’s only temporary. Mark me, the moment your Kingpriest is too weak to pacify Ekka, your people will be chased away at spear-point, and Nin’s temples will be rebuilt.”
“So they love her still?” asked Kamvar.
Akosh shrugged. “Some do. Some don’t. Some never did, and some don’t care either way. But even a man who cares nothing for Ekka’s gods will bristle at foreigners telling him which of them he should and shouldn’t worship. And he may not do anything about it now or an hour from now, but he won’t forget.
“Those are the Ekkadi. Their country has been here for more lifetimes than any man can count, and when your many-times-great grandchildren are dust, the kids here will recite poems that are ancient even now. Ekka forgets nothing.”
Torches were already lit when they reached the city gates an hour later. Chagasha’s looming temple hid fading Shimurg from view. How many times, Kamvar wondered, had this scene repeated? How many times had Shimurg flown over Numush?
“Kamvar!”
Tahmin dropped the bread he’d been eating to the table and leapt to his feet, wrapping his arms around his childhood friend.	
“Oh, thank Ahamash. You’re alive,” said Tahmin, pushing Kamvar back out to arm’s length and looking him up and down. “What happened to your arm?”
Kamvar shook his head. “Long story.  We ran into some … patriots, let’s call them. Akosh is with me also. He’s just wrangling with the stable boy.”
Tahmin cocked an eyebrow quizzically. “What were you doing out at night anyway?”
“Um.” Should I be embarrassed? It seems silly. “Akosh and I were bored after sparring, so we went into town to find a pleasure hall.”
Tahmin laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “So while we threw open every door in the Lugal’s palace to find you, you were off dancing and drinking? Kam, my friend, let’s keep that between us. I’ve a feeling Barsam would have your head. Ah, Akosh! Welcome back.”
Akosh clapped Tahmin on the shoulder, then pulled the younger man into a bearish embrace.
“Where is the Hound, anyway?” asked Kamvar, looking around the inn room.
“Nerkut. Sit. I’ll explain, and then we’ll need to be off.” 
Tahmin recounted the events of the last three days. They had rowed hard the entire way to Numush-ummi, in search of the inn where sorcery had been reported. The innkeeper had been instructed to leave everything as it was, and as soon as they saw the corpses, it was clear that they were on the right track. The first had been a cruel-looking man, arched backwards, rigor mortis freezing his face into a terrified, wide-eyed grimace. They had found two more, a pair of lovers in the next room, whose deaths had already become a local sensation. Maddened by sorcery, they had clawed each other to death.
“When we arrived,” Tahmin continued, “the city guard explained that they’d chased after the girl and this Leonine. They’re still together – he seems to have become her guardian. They had dogs and everything, but they found nobody. Shocking, I know. We did some investigating around here, and turned up nothing at all. This city is not like Inatum, Kam. Nobody’s seen anything, nobody knows anything. So here I was, expecting who knows how many more months of boredom and futility. Well, at dinner that night, the Lugal’s men brought us a messenger bird from Nerkut. Barsam read it, and the smile on his face… it was terrifying, but what a relief. The girl’s been found, Kam. I don’t have all the details, but Barsam took the ship on to Nerkut.”
“And left you here to wait for us?” Kamvar asked.
“Guilt by association. My orders were to wait four days, and to ride on to Nerkut if you didn’t show up. But since you’re here, fancy another trip? We’ve a boat waiting.”
“No,” Kamvar replied, sighing. What he truly fancied was a meal and a bed. “But I suppose such is our duty.”
“You’ll need to be as dutiful as the Jazds to defray our dear Hound’s wrath, I think. Oh, Kamvar, the meals you’ll cook, the tunics you’ll launder.” 
“Just don’t grow too jealous,” Kamvar said. “I’m sure you’ll be back to your role as company cook soon enough. On that note, I’m starving. We have time to eat, I imagine?”
“Oh, yes. Good thinking,” said Akosh, sitting down to the table and eyeing Tahmin’s fallen bread dubiously. “I could do with some meat.”
Tahmin clapped his hands loudly. A gangly inn-boy came running with the promise of seared lamb and cracked wheat. 
“Eat well, Kam,” said Tahmin. “Think of it as your last meal before the execution.”
“Funny,” said Kamvar. “Very funny.”
Chapter 13: The Feast of Lamash
Leonine’s heart sank when he saw the commotion. He stood in an unmoving queue behind a brutish-looking man with the muscles and sunburn of a menial, who cursed frequently and muttered to the next man about how he had not the time to wait.
The gate guards were present, but admitted nobody. They spoke in heated tones with a band of armed newcomers wearing the city’s colours.
Leonine’s heart rose into his throat as he watched. Had his description already been circulated by the guards he ran over during his desperate flight back to Uchu’s hut? What does it matter? He had little choice.
He had considered taking the time to shave his beard and find new clothes, but time, even when measured in minutes, had become a luxury. He would have to trust in luck and his knife; it had already drunk deeply this day, but he would not hesitate to give it another feast.
How much time does Ilasin have left?
He had been too late once.
“Do you know what’s happening up there?” he asked the man queued ahead of him.
The worker turned to him, and raised his hands imploringly to the sky. “I asked the same of a farmer leaving the city, maybe ten minutes gone. He said there was a fight in the streets. Swords, spears, soldiers. Some band of Sarvashi was attacked, near as he could make it out.”
Sarvashi? How many bands of Sarvashi could there be in Nerkut? Had someone attacked the Hunt that abducted Ilasin?
“Of all the damnable luck,” Leonine said, shaking his head. The Crescent?
“That’s what I said. If it were just some scuffle between dockhands, we’d be in the city by now, but Sarvashi? Oh, all of a sudden we need to wait all damn afternoon to get into our city.” The sunburned man spat on the ground. “Anki’s balls,” he added, turning away. “And tomorrow a festival day. If this lasts much longer, I won’t be able to find lodgings.”
If the Hunt had truly been attacked in the street, there was little doubt in his mind that Ilasin was the cause. Did they still have her, or was she even now in yet another set of hands? This game has too many players. The uncertainty gnawed at him.
Moments later, the guards newly arrived at the gate jogged away. The queue lurched forward once again. Leonine ensured that his knife was loose, expecting the worst, but caution proved unnecessary. He gave the name Sumgub, and entered the city.
Some men said – usually with clucking tongues – that the further one went from the great salt marshes where the Shalumes and Hapur emptied into an endless sea, the more dangerous the cities became. Some blamed the pernicious Karhani savages. Others claimed the east was calmed by the influence of staid, stolid Sarvagadis.
Nerkut was one of the eastern cities often used as evidence for this theory. Her wide streets were clean and bright, the water from her wells clean and bright, her merchants clean and bright. The city looked safe, orderly and prosperous, in a way that menacing Inatum and ramshackle Numush did not. 
But Leonine had lived in Sarvagadis, the city so many claimed with knowing nods to be the model of civility, where smiling guards held torches for women who fearlessly walked alone at night. How many times had he stumbled over the corpses of those guards, murdered for a handful of coin or in retribution for a jailed or executed friend? How many times had he seen what became of women who’d been caught walking the wrong street alone? Every city had its dark alleys. It was just a question of finding them...
“Spare a coin?” 
… and in every city, the method was the same.
There were few beggars in Nerkut, and most of them seemed well enough fed. This one sat against a wall, stick-thin legs splayed uselessly before him, beard and hair wild and grey. The arms that held out his begging bowl were traced with numerous scars, some thin white lines, others angry, ragged weals. A former soldier, or perhaps a thug, his back broken. It seemed as good a place to start as any. 
“I’ll not spare one, but you might earn two.”
The beggar fixed Leonine with a suspicious eye. 
“Not sure I can do much for you,” he said, pointing to his legs.
“It’s not your strength I’m after. I need information. Have you an ear to the ground?”
The beggar looked him up and down appraisingly, then nodded. 
The method was always the same.
“I see you’ve done this before,” said Leonine.
The beggar nodded. “The coin,” he said simply. Leonine reached into his tunic and the pouch inside, producing a shekel that he tossed into the man’s wooden bowl, which was emptier than it should have been by this hour. Old tricks. He wondered absently how much a canny beggar could make in a city such as this one. Some of the better-informed street urchins in Sarvagadis earned more than tailors or bakers.
“More if your information is worthwhile,” Leonine said.
“It’s worth the coin. Might be you’ll end up like me if you take it, but if you’re paying…” another cough.
Leonine looked around. The streets seemed empty enough, but only prophets, philosophers and criminals conversed at length with beggars, and none of those were much loved by guardsmen. Leonine pointed to a nearby alleyway between two immaculately white buildings. “In there.”
The beggar sighed, and upended his bowl into the folds of his grimy tunic, the coins jingling merrily as they met their silver and copper brothers and sisters. He gripped the bowl itself in the few teeth that remained to him, and pulled himself into the alleyway with practiced spryness. Leonine followed, looking around at the street and nearby roofs to make sure they had not drawn too much attention. It seemed clear.
“What’s your game?” the beggar asked. “Burglary? Fraud? Murder? You’re too pretty to be a street tough.”
“Why, thank you,” Leonine said dryly, “but I’m not looking for work. Earlier today, a group of Sarvashi soldiers took a little girl captive. The word is that they were later attacked. I need to know who attacked them, but more than anything I need to know where the girl is.”
The beggar thought a moment, then nodded.
“What you say is true. The Sarvashi you describe are even now licking their wounds at Kutuanu’s temple. I do not know anything about a girl, but they were taken by surprise and definitely took the worst of it.”
Justice of a sort, at least.
“Who attacked them?” asked Leonine.
“I haven’t a clue. Best bet is the Kardash Umamum. Thugs, but organized ones. They wear many boots, as they say – theft, assassination. Mean bastards, and behind most of this city’s ugliness. If they were not behind the attack, like as not, they’ll know who was. Of course, if they were, you may not want to ask.”
“How do I contact them?”
“More coin.”
I don’t have time for this.
“More coin, or I tell you nothing more. You won’t find anyone else as well informed.” The beggar folded his arms across his chest, a belligerent look in his eye. Under different circumstances, Leonine would have liked him.
“Here,” he said, tossing the man two more shekels. “Get through the rest of my questions without interruption for more payment, and there’s ten more where these came from.”
“Oh, well,” said the beggar in a singsong voice. “Aren’t we Abalash, the generous thief?” 
“No. Unlike Abalash, we’re perfectly happy to kill. Now, how do I meet them?”
“There’s a small rat-hole of an inn down the Street of the Blessed Ox, with a sign of a woman pouring water. The street’s some ways west of here, near the gardens. If you can’t find it, ask for the way to the green bathhouse. The inn you’re looking for is a few doors down. Sit in the same place two nights in a row, and ask for koumiss. At the end of the second night, go to the bathhouse and ask for a private room. It’ll cost you.”
Two nights?
“How elaborate,” said Leonine. “Is there a password? A secret handshake, perhaps?”
The man snorted. “I know, I know. But take them seriously, or you’ll regret it.  You need to negotiate well, and set up a smart coin drop. They get to thinking you’re some noble playing at intrigue, and they’ll slit you from belly to throat and take everything you’ve got.”
Leonine nodded, and counted out the remaining coins he’d promised. “Thank you.”
“Your coin is all the thanks I need. Try not to get yourself killed.”
“Koumiss, please.”
Leonine thought he saw a flash of contempt in the serving girl’s eyes, but it was gone as swiftly as it had appeared, replaced by a mask of bland pleasantry.
“Will you have anything to eat?”
Leonine’s stomach felt pinched. He had eaten nothing more than a skewer of too-dry lamb that day, when he could no longer ignore the screams of his hunger. He’d been busy talking to other beggars to corroborate the claims about this Kardash Umamum of which the first man had spoken, and to learn more of Ilasin. The first beggar had indeed been well informed. Most of the others he talked to knew nothing, and the few that did seemed nervous discussing the matter. Still, the instructions made no mention of food. They were silent on the absence of food as well, but who could tell with such dramatics?
“No,” he replied. “Thank you. Just the milk.”
Leonine wondered how much time this bloody exercise would require. He’d heard nothing of trials or executions, and if indeed the Hunt had been taken unaware, it was not altogether unlikely that Ilasin had been taken away. Still, this night and another? It was so long a time to spend sick with worry.
“Your koumiss.”
Leonine thanked the girl, and passed her a pair of copper coins. Satisfied, she walked off.
It’s enough to order it, right? I don’t have to actually drink it, right?
Leonine took a sip of the fermented milk, trying not to wince, while he contemplated how it could be that some – indeed, many – men drank the foul stuff willingly. Why could this idiotic ritual not have called for beer, or an apple wine from the north?
Just drink the swill and go.
The inn under the sign of a woman pouring water was not a place in which he would have enjoyed spending time. The common room was empty but for a pair of old men silently nursing cups of beer at a table near his own, and in the absence of people to watch, he’d found himself counting cobwebs and ceiling cracks in a vain attempt to distract himself from thoughts of Ilasin.
Another sip, this one slightly more palatable. He might have to pass up Akushu-Ti’s caravan, worse luck – their agreed-upon departure loomed. Unless the capricious gods decided to turn everything his way, it would likely be impossible to find Ilasin so swiftly. Who could tell where she had been taken?
Still, she was probably safe, and that was worth so much more than the caravan to Adarpa. This was Nerkut, her city, and the High Priest’s daughter was not Wardum. If the Hounds still had her, if she was still to be given to the Shimurg, she would almost certainly be the talk of the town.
But who has her now, and what do they want with her? 
He raised the cup again, only to realize, to his surprise, that the koumiss had mercifully disappeared. He stood up and left, nodding to the old men, who looked at him impassively.
The next afternoon found Leonine strolling close to enough to Kutuanu’s temple grounds to see the great tents that had been set up in the courtyard. A bandaged Sarvashi soldier wandered the grounds beside three men in the sumptuous robes of the temple’s own royal physicians. Of Ilasin there was no sign, but he no longer feared that the Hounds had taken her. 
What he wanted to do, while he awaited tonight’s meeting with the Kardash Umamum, was to gauge the strength of this Hunt. If Ilasin had been taken from them, it was only a matter of time until they tried to reclaim her. If their Hound still lived, drawing too near was foolish, but the number of healers walking the grounds implied heavy losses.
Good.
He turned away and began to walk in the direction of the inn. He would eat something first, this time; his stomach rumbled once more. Earlier that day, Akushu-Ti had treated him to a fine meal followed by Bachiyan tea, while Leonine lied about last-minute difficulties and asked him to delay the caravan’s departure. The merchant had not been happy at the change in plans, but a handful of coin had predictably mollified him.
As he drew closer to his destination, he realized that the streets were busier by far than he had expected them to be. Men and women in brightly coloured clothing walked together from one merchant’s stall to the next, while their children pulled at tunics and begged for sweets.
The festival. He remembered the complaints of the man outside the gates. But which festival? Leonine realized that he had entirely lost track of the date. The last month had passed in a blur. The Rain Days were still here, he guessed, but he could not say for how much longer.
How long has it been since I stole the vase? Three weeks? A month? Longer?
He debated posing a question to one of the revelers, but the pluck of a harp interrupted him. The crowds quieted, and the harpist bowed his head. He was a man in his middle age, seated with his back to a store wall, the instrument between his legs.
As the musician played a few introductory chords, Leonine found his fingers itching. How longed to play! How he pined for the lost lyre with its false bottom, and the snake-harp he had bought in Numush at Ilasin’s urging. His fingers bent and flexed, picking from the air the same chords the harpist drew from his instrument.
Leonine stopped suddenly, and the cold chains of memory drew tight around him. He had known the song, once. He knew it still, although he had never played it since that terrifying day when his powers first awoke. He watched the crowd sway, some with mouths open, chanting the same words as the harpist. The crowd in his memory had looked much like this one, until he had opened his eyes to fists and screams and bloodshed.
The fourth day of the month of Mamut. The Feast of Lamash. Two hundred years ago this day, the warriors of Hatshut, under the banners of their Lugal Lamash, had temporarily halted the encroaching Artalum in a battle that the Ekkadi should never have won. Six years ago this day, he had sung of the legend, and lost Farshideh to the Hunt.
And now, I’ve lost Ilasin.
Leonine’s fingers still bent and flexed, but now he saw them through a film of tears. His shoulders shook, and he wept, as he always did on this hated, accursed day. He felt a small hand on his shoulder and turned, hoping against hope, that the gods had granted him a miracle, and saw instead a small boy with brown curls and concern in his brown eyes.
“Why are you sad?” the child asked.
Leonine shook his head and tried to smile. “I … am j-just overcome.”
Ilasin, my light. I miss you so much.
“Koumiss, please.” 
The common room had changed, it seemed. Last night’s impassive old men had been replaced by a different pair, similarly grey but livelier, who threw dice and bickered. A trio of mean-looking men – the Kardash Umamum? – sat across from them, heads bowed together, muttering something he probably did not want to hear.
“Anything to eat?” The same girl.
“No, thank you,” Leonine replied. This time, at least, he had come prepared, stomach full of beets, chickpeas, and succulent lamb spiced with mint and peppers so fierce that his tongue still burned. The milk would take some of the heat from it. At least some good things could be said of koumiss.
A cup soon arrived, and he drained it, dropping a few coins on the table and standing up to leave. The tabletop had a weal in it, as though somebody had struck it hard with a knife. Leonine found himself wondering if a hand had been in the way.
The cool night air of the last few weeks had turned drier, more oppressive, signaling the slow death of spring. The Feast of Lamash was often said to be the harbinger of summer. The oracles had announced a few more weeks of rain, a healthy planting and a healthy harvest to come, but people in the streets – and in the inn – muttered of drought and parched crops, as they had every other spring in recent memory. Too many consecutive years of good weather made the Ekkadi nervous, and Leonine could not remember the last time Ekka had faced massive flooding or sun-scorched hunger.
I, at least, will not dry up. It had been some time since he’d bathed in something other than a river. For that, at least, he could thank the pretentious thugs of the Kardash Umamum.
The bathhouse he was to visit called itself the Jade Waterfall. The walls and floors were tiled with slabs of a slick greyish-green stone that was obviously not jade, but nevertheless prettily reflected the light of oil lamps hanging from the walls. The steam, growing ever thicker as he made his way inside, carried the scent of jasmine.
A bald man that had the baby-cheeked look of a eunuch about him greeted Leonine effusively.
“Hot bath, please. I would like a private room, with oils and a pretty girl.”
The attendant’s smile widened when Leonine passed him the coin to pay for such a luxury, and waved him in. “This way, this way. Follow me!”
The man led him into a room that seemed two or three times as large as it needed to be, a lonely-looking brass tub in its centre. The floor here was still green in the main, though now inlaid with diamond patterns of glossy white stone. Still, the emptiness made it seem almost austere.
“A lady will be with you shortly,” said the attendant, clapping his hands. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Two bald teenagers scurried into the room carrying pails full of steaming water, which they poured into the tub. They bowed and left, only to be replaced by two more. Pair by pair, the water rose until Leonine judged it deep enough. He undressed, laying his clothes aside, and lowered himself gingerly into the hot water. He closed his eyes and sighed. It would take more than water to chase his worries away.
“I see the water is pleasant,” said a female voice. He opened his eyes and looked to the doorway. The girl was indeed pretty, Karhani from the look of her, with slender cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and almond eyes. She wore only a diaphanous shift that clung to her curves in the steam. Those curves were not as prominent as he might have liked. Her muscles were a little harder than he would have expected of a bathhouse girl. My contact, no doubt. “It is, yes. Would be nicer with some fragrant oils or flower petals.” 
“As you wish,” she said with a smile, walking over to the wall near the entryway and sliding a panel open to reveal a number of crystal bottles. Her hand hovered briefly, then she nodded and selected one. “Will lavender please you?”
“That sounds divine,” he replied. She swayed to the edge of the tub and arched over it, tossing her hair back with a twist of her neck. The shift fell from one shoulder – no doubt entirely accidentally – and she pushed it back up with a coy glance. Leonine almost rolled his eyes.
The girl let a few drops of oil fall from the bottle into the water, and the scent of lavender slowly and sweetly infused the air. She put a stopper back into the bottle and laid it aside, then moved behind him. She began to knead his upper back and his shoulders, her hands occasionally, teasingly, making their way lower still. Her hands ran down his forearms, and then settled on his own, fingers running over his knuckles, his wrist, the back of his hand.
“So…” he asked, “now that you’ve decided I’m a swordsman, when do we talk about the Kardash Umamum?” 
Her hands stiffened, and withdrew as swiftly as the lash of a whip.
“Don’t bother. I’m not with the guard, I’m not here to make problems, and I’m perfectly aware that you’ve got a weapon on you somewhere. A garrote, perhaps? Or a spike hidden in your hair?”
She exhaled slowly, then began to laugh. “Most men are too distracted to consider the possibility that I’m the Kardash front.”
Leonine shrugged. “I am not most men. Why all this?” He gestured at the tub, the room around him. 
“Can’t you guess?” she said. “I’ve got you unarmed and naked, trapped comfortably in a bathtub in a private room. A perfect position from which to discuss affairs. Of course, I’m also supposed to have you off guard, but that seems not to be the case.”
“No. Not especially.” 
“I don’t suppose you’re stupid enough to have carried enough coin here to pay for whatever it is you want?” 
“Hardly.”
“Very well, then. Let’s talk about what it is you want of us.”
Finally. He had no interest in banter. Not now. “I have neither the inclination nor the time to play games. I need information, and I have the means to pay for it. Yesterday, a girl sorceress was captured by a Sarvashi Hound, in a village outside the city gates. Then, as far as I can tell, that Hound’s party was attacked outside the market by somebody else. Your organization, in fact, unless I miss my guess. Now I need to know who you were working for, and where the girl is.”
The woman crossed her arms over her breast and threw him a sardonic half-smile. She had the look of a cat regarding its terrified supper. But I am no mouse. “So, let’s say your accusation is true. You think that I will simply take you to our leaders, without the faintest idea of who you are and whom you represent, and have them turn on the people who hired us? You intend for us to betray people powerful enough to work against the Merezadesh templars?”
“Yes,” answered Leonine simply. 
“Anki’s Chariot. Why in hell would we do such a thing?” 
“Because I have a purse full of minas, and your superiors will look favourably upon you when they have finished counting them. And they need never know how much of my money you kept for yourself.”
“You are not a subtle man,” she said, tracing his jaw with her finger. “And not a smart one. What could possibly make you think that I’m interested in a bribe? Do you think the value of my life can be measured in money? One little word from me, and you’ll never leave this place alive.”
More games. More games? Leonine slapped her hand away, and grabbed her by the throat. He realized in his anger that he’d opened himself to magic. Another mistake, but so be it. He was past caring. Gods, Ilasin has made you stupid.
Leonine squeezed hard, and ignored the hands batting feebly at his wrist. He wove what power he had gathered into a simple glamour to amplify his voice. 
“Listen to me very carefully, you tiresome little bitch. I am angry, and I am desperate, and it’s making me edgy and stupid. I am also, as it happens, a sorcerer. Edgy, stupid sorcerers do edgy, stupid things, and I’m a hair’s breadth from killing you and everybody else here, and leaving this place in flames. I am willing to hand twenty minas over to you play-acting children because I’ve been somewhat reliably informed that you’re actually knowledgeable. We both know that’s far more money than this information is worth. I’m telling you this not because I’m piss-poor at bargaining, but to impress upon you exactly how serious I am.”
 She sputtered, eyes wide with what looked to be genuine fear, and Leonine released her.
“Now, I will stand outside this bathhouse until your leaders come to meet me, and if I have time enough to grow bored I will come right back in and kill everybody in my path. Is that clear?”
“Y-yes,” she said.
Later that night, Leonine sat alone in a dingy room, weighing his options. The beggar was right – the Kardash Umamum had been behind the attack. If the fat man he’d spoken to outside the Jade Waterfall was to be trusted, his organization had been little more than hired muscle. 
If he’s to be trusted. The chances were good that the Kardash Umamum would send an assassin or two his way once their surprise faded. His claims of great sorcery would not stay their knives long; he was after all a witness to their betrayal of a client. Still, he had his information, and no intention of remaining in Nerkut.
The fat man had told Leonine that a mysterious man with a slave-brand had hired them. One of Ibashtu’s, no doubt. That seals it. After the ambush, they had handed the girl over to their mysterious benefactor, and thought nothing more of it. Leonine had needed a few more less-than-subtle threats, and several more minas, to wheedle from the fat man the final piece of information.
The swamp. Of course. To the south, beyond the city walls, was the great swamp that had once been Alu-nin-hura. Where better for Ibashtu’s ilk to hide than the flooded bones of Nin’s great city?
What do they want with Ila?
Leonine was not sure that he really wanted to know, nor did he have any idea how he could possibly find a little girl in a great swamp. 
But the Hounds had led him to Ilasin once, so many weeks ago, in the broken corridors of ancient Lumshazzar. He was certain that they would find her trail, and he would once again snap at their heels.
Chapter 14: One Arm, One Eye
“Can’t they make this thing go any faster?” asked Tahmin. He was seated in the stern of the ship that had carried them from Numush, eyes fixed on a limp mainsail.
“Unless you’d like to blow into the sails yourself, I think we’re out of luck,” Kamvar replied. “As you can plainly see, Ekka and wind are poorly acquainted.”
Tahmin sighed and turned his attention back to his spearhead. Boredom had gotten the better of him; he’d spent the last two hours sharpening and polishing the bronze.
“Keep this up, Tam, and you won’t have a spear any longer,” said Kamvar. “Besides, we’re making good time. The men are rowing hard.” 
“We’d be faster on horseback.”
“You, maybe,” said Akosh, who lay splayed out on the deck with a skin of wine he’d bought before leaving the inn. “Another day in the saddle, and you’d have my death on your conscience.” 
The old man grinned and took a long swig. “Besides, isn’t this pleasant?”
Tahmin shook his head. “I feel like I’ve been waiting around for something to happen ever since I was left behind in Numush to wait for you. Our brothers are fulfilling our holy duty in the face of who knows what danger, and here we are lazing about in the sun?”
“Ah, yes,” said Kamvar. “I know I’d rather be traveling with Barsam. The places I’d see! The old women I’d beat!”
“Kamvar…” Tahmin sounded weary.
I don’t much care. Not this time. The trip had been long, and like Tahmin, he was bored. Boredom made him combative.
“What? ‘Kamvar’ me all you want, Tam. I’ve read all the Scripture you have, and I can’t say there’s much in it about threatening and attacking the elderly.”
Tahmin sighed, loudly enough for Kamvar to know he was putting on airs. “You know, I don’t agree with all of Hound Barsam’s methods, but he is our superior, and a man famed for his piety. Enough with this disrespect.”
“Ahamash! Do you admire the brute?” 
“As a matter of fact,” said Tahmin, “I do. He has sacrificed so much of himself in service to the Prophet, and you judge him as though he were your peer? Maybe he does what he does because it’s necessary. It is not our place to question.”
“Oh, stuff it. We were given reason in order to use it. I don’t care how many imprecations the scriptures toss at Daiva – I don’t remember the Prophet ever tearing the fingers off an innocent man to find one.”
“Innocent man? Which one? Was that the murdering slave, or the sewer-dwelling outlaw?” 
Kamvar looked at Tahmin blankly. “Tahmin,” he said, fighting to keep his voice calm, “when Yazan ‘questioned’ … Nazimarut, I think was his name, you looked like you were going to be sick. I certainly felt that way, and I loved you for it. What is happening to you?”
Tahmin turned to him as though to retort, but said nothing. His expression seemed to fall inward, the anger leaving his eyes. “I… I’m sorry. I’m just… I don’t know. Since Majid died, and the others…” 
Tahmin took a deep breath and steeled his expression. “Enough,” he said. “I don’t want to argue about this. You’re right. Of course you’re right. It all seems so… well, vile. But we must trust our Hound, Kamvar.”
Barsam is not our Hound. Majid was our Hound.
A throat cleared behind them. Kamvar looked back at Akosh curiously.
“I don’t want to intrude on what’s become a private conversation,” the soldier said gingerly. Tahmin reddened. “But Tahmin, even great men can grow petty and fall. You’re smart enough to make your own decisions. And if you aren’t, Kamvar is. You could do worse than to put your faith in him.”
A strange expression, one even Kamvar could not read, passed over Tahmin’s face. For a moment, he did not respond. “I made my decision to join the Hunt,” he said, looking into the sky as though asking Shimurg for guidance. “Now I have duty. I would think, as a soldier, that you could understand that.”
Akosh chuckled. “As a soldier, boy, I learned perfectly well that generals shit and bleed, lie and steal. Same as the rest of us.”
Kamvar said nothing, and watched a sail that did not billow. 
Shimurg had reached the zenith of his flight, and now began to descend, swooping down to his nightly death on the side of the Serpent’s Bones that no living man had seen. There was something painful in the inevitability of it, Kamvar decided, a reminder that all things peaked and then fell, slowly or swiftly, to a shared end.
Of course, Shimurg would be reborn the next day. Kamvar’s own comrades were not so lucky. Is it not said that they will cross the Shinvat and live on forever at the right hand of Ahamash? Perhaps. But a priest’s words were scant consolation for a life cut tragically short. Was he ready to die? To leave Sahar alone, as his mother was alone? To leave Ashuz without a father, as he had been left without one? All at the insistence of men who could not possibly have experienced the things of which they spoke?
Another heresy, Kamvar? You seem quite fond of them, these days. 
Was the Tahmin he had known dead? Had anguish, anger and a too-pious Hound killed the friend so loved? And now, you’re just being stupid. Tahmin is Tahmin. He’s just as confused and vulnerable as ever. He’ll make the right choice.
Life had been so much simpler when the Daiva were murderous heretics, ready to be dispatched with a spear thrust, dinner and drink waiting afterward. Now they hunted a child in this strange land between two rivers, which hid naked hate behind a servile mask.
Kamvar sighed. “Somebody, say something. I’m trapped in my own thoughts, and need an escape.”
For a moment, the only sound was the grunting of oarsmen and the splashing of the river, and then an earthy noise somewhere between grunt and laugh.
“You’ve been thinking again?” Akosh asked. “You should probably stop that. It makes you maudlin.”
“Ha! Kamvar? Stop brooding?” He heard no rancor in Tahmin’s voice, which was enough to lift his spirits. “Ask him if he likes the taste of mutton, and he’ll think on it for three hours, then ask ‘ram or ewe?’ Lost cause, Akosh.”
Kamvar could not help but laugh. “I do like mutton, as it happens. Besides, better to think too much than not at all. There’s a reason you’re always the one cooking our meals.”
“Oh?” said Tahmin. “You’ll be lucky to cook our meals for the next month, after your little stunt. You’ll be lucky to walk away with your head still on your shoulders.”
“That’s like to be a blessing for us all. At least then, we’ll be able to concentrate on dice and women instead of having this one ruminate on the mysteries of creation.” Akosh, this time. Kamvar was happy that he too joined their fun. There was something comforting, something fatherly, in the old man’s presence. Not for the first time, Kamvar found himself wondering what his own father would look like today, what he would think of his grandson, and what he would say to Kamvar’s struggle to make sense of this awful Hunt.
They arrived in Nerkut with Shimurg low in the sky, rested and refreshed from their leisurely trip along the river, if still sore from the gallop that had come before. He was glad not to have imposed his bulk on still more of this country’s wretched horses. The thought brought to mind Lugushu, the Ekkadi nag that had carried him from Ab-Ewarad to the manor where this all began. What had happened, he wondered, to the poor beast?
What could have happened? Probably carrying some poor farmer to market, or else stewing in a pot.
The dock guards had obviously been expecting them. Tahmin gave his name, and before his mouth formed words enough to explain why they had come, one of the guards saluted and explained that he would guide them to the rest of their group. He whistled, and moments later was joined by a man leading four horses by the reins.
Looks like you’ll tire some Ekkadi nags after all. 
Nerkut seemed somewhat different from the other Ekkadi cities that Kamvar had seen. It was cleaner, for one thing – no surprise, when you’ve spent the last month dispatched to the most dangerous cities this country has to offer – and seemed to be built on a smaller scale than Inatum or Numush. Here, the buildings were smaller, and the streets narrower. They were hung with colourful banners, and everywhere was music and song. A festival?
The multitude in the streets seemed to do all it could to melt into the walls, to create a lane for the Sarvashi soldiers and their armed escorts. It was slow going still, but the dock guard’s barking commands and flailing hands made it bearable. He wondered how long it would have taken to trot through these roads without an escort.
“Where are we going?” asked Tahmin.
“The temple of Kutuanu. Your people wait there. I must warn you, there has been battle. Some of your friends are dead.”
“What? What happened?” asked Tahmin. 
The guard shrugged in response. “I do not have all the answers, but it seems like there have been more murders in the last week than the whole of last year. They do not tell us much, you understand – only that your soldiers were looking for a sorceress, and found her… but as they returned home, the sorceress’s friends ambushed them.”
Friends? What friends? 
Tahmin looked distraught. “Can we not move faster?” he asked, trying to spur his horse on. It did not seem to be paying attention.
“We will be there shortly. We turn right into that street there.” The guard pointed to a corner dominated by an officious-looking building marked with the city’s seal, three sheafs of golden wheat on a green background. Kamvar remembered having seen it during their studies. “From there, you will see the temple. It is not far.”
Tahmin nodded, but he looked tense. Kamvar was surprised at how little emotion he felt as he charted the possibilities. Who would be suicidal enough to attack a Hunt? Might this Leonine have friends in Nerkut?
They turned the corner, and the temple came into view. In this, at least, Nerkut was suitably monumental. The ziggurat rose high into the air, its top level capped with gold that glowed warmly in the fading light of the day. The remaining steps were whitewashed. One could easily imagine a god residing in this pristine house. 
What colour were Nin’s temples, I wonder? Heresy again. He had grown to enjoy its presence in the back of his mind, and the questions it posed.
They rode into the temple’s courtyard and dismounted. Attendants in white-and-gold robes bustled about them, bowing and pointing.
“I will take my leave,” said the guard, saluting. Tahmin saluted back, and the guard turned and was gone.
They were not led into the temple proper. Something of a shame, Kamvar decided. He would have liked to see what precisely was inside the great ziggurats of Ekka. Instead, they were taken to a large white tent that had the look of a hospital erected upon the field of battle.
Kamvar realized he was not far wrong. The tent had indeed been transformed into a hospital for the Sarvashi Hunt. Clean pallets were strewn about the room, and Hound Barsam lay on one of them, arm crossed over his chest.
“Well, now. My prodigal son returns to me.”
“Forgive us,” said Kamvar. “Akosh and I were sparring, and decided to –”
“Spare me your excuses.” Barsam cut him off with an imperious wave of his hand. “Your little desertion was for the best. Now we have more healthy men.”
“What happened?” asked Tahmin, kneeling down at the man’s bedside. Kamvar looked around the room. He recognized the other men under Barsam’s command – Hesam and Behrouz were here, the first waving cheerfully. And there, across the room, Yazan sat propped against the wall, his shoulder wrapped in bandages and a strange look on his ruined face. Of Parvish there was no sign.
“After we arrived,” Barsam pulled himself upright, and winced at the pain. “After we arrived, the man whose letter I received came to see us here. A temple scribe and a landowner from one of the western villages, and apparently the girl’s uncle.” Kamvar started at that. “Ah, yes, I suppose we did not tell you – the girl is from Nerkut. It’s funny. We have a hundred of our own diplomats and functionaries stationed in this city, and none of them can learn a thing. One Ekkadi shows good sense, and here we are.
“Anyway,” he continued. “This man told us the girl and her… guardian had come to stay at his home, and that it was his duty to turn them over to us. So we went, accompanied by some of the Lugal’s men. Sure enough, she was there, though the musician was absent. We took the girl and headed back this way… and no sooner had we entered the city than we were attacked, taken by surprise, by a number of people in the crowd. This…” he gestured around him, “…is all we’ve left to remind us of it. The girl was taken, Parvish killed, and many of us injured in some way or another.”
“Could they have been working for this Leonine, or whatever he calls himself?” asked Tahmin.
Barsam seemed unconvinced. “It is possible, I suppose, though I would think he’d be among them. Yazan tells me he was not. It seems obvious to me that there’s a traitor somewhere in this temple, though who precisely he is working with and what his desires are… that eludes me, still.” There was a mutter amongst the white-and-gold. Kamvar doubted they enjoyed being accused so openly of treachery. Still, it’s not illogical.
“Why do we not talk to the uncle?” asked Tahmin. “If he is a temple scribe, perhaps he would have some idea, and he seems willing to help us.”
Barsam’s mouth quirked. “I am not quite so old yet, my dear Tahmin, as to skip entirely over the obvious. We tried that. The man’s throat was cut. That was definitely our Leonine’s doing, although happily, he spared the wife and child.”
“Maybe he’s developing a conscience,” said Akosh.
Barsam turned to him and snorted derisively. “I would not read too much into it. Do not let your heart grow weak, thinking him a man. He is Daiva. That is all.”
Akosh rolled his eyes – quite exaggeratedly at that, thought Kamvar. “I care nothing for your superstitions, priest. Sorcerers are nothing new to these lands, and our cities still stand. I’ll do my duty, for Ila-uanna’s sake, but spare the sermons for your own men.”
“I could have you whipped for that, if I thought it would serve any purpose,” Barsam said, turning to Tahmin. “Take these friends of yours and start investigating the city. We have questioned the dead man’s – Uchu was his name – wife and son, and they had nothing of interest to tell us, nor have any of the priests here. There is more, but I tire of this. Scribe!”
Barsam clapped his hand against his chest and a man approached. His white-and-gold kilt was emblazoned with the slogan that had taken on such a sinister meaning in Kamvar’s memory. “Take these men to the High Priest, and have him tell them the rest of the story.”
“Begging your pardon, holiness, but the High Priest is saying his evening’s prayers. He cannot be –”
“He can pray to whatever little godling you people venerate later. Take these men to the High Priest, and take them there now.”
Anger tensed the scribe’s features, but he nodded and favoured them with a tight smile. “Very well. Follow me.”
They left the medical tent and crossed the courtyard. Some of the city-folk had filed in to share in the evening service. They sat at the foot of the ziggurat, chanting, watched over by bearded warriors who held drawn swords to the sky. The scribe led Kamvar and his friends past the courtyard, towards what appeared to be a doorway at the left side of the stepped staircase that led to the ziggurat’s peak. 
Two warriors, attired similarly to those watching over the mendicants, greeted the scribe at the entrance, with what sounded like a ritualized chant in a dialect Kamvar had never studied. The scribe responded, and they bowed, swinging the large wooden doors open in front of them.
They followed a hallway hung at intervals with smouldering braziers and cascading ferns of a sort Kamvar had never seen before, overgrown with a thick tangle of green and purple leaves and dotted with tiny white flowers. The braziers made the hallway hotter than was entirely pleasant, but the plants seemed not to mind.
“I apologize for our Hound,” said Kamvar, breaking the silence. “His is a very small world.”
Tahmin looked at him, his expression almost comically aghast. Kamvar chose to ignore it.
The scribe did not say anything at first, then: “I will never understand a people that worship only a single god. But it seems, these days, that I must try.”
They walked quietly a moment, following a path of green tiles edged in gold leaf. Kamvar elected once again to break the stillness. “What manner of plants are these? I have not seen their like.”
“Rach-hachu,” said the scribe. It sounded like a sneeze. “It is said that this is the plant that grows in Kutuanu’s orchard. The leaves dull pain, and the flowers grant visions to the faithful… and a slow death to others.”
“And how do they know the difference?” asked Tahmin, his voice somewhat more mocking than curious.
“Our mysteries are not for you to know, Sarvashi.”
Silence again. They walked the rest of the way without a word, until they reached a staircase in the very heart of the temple. At its end was a hall similar to the one below, except that here there were small chambers between the braziers and plants. Kamvar peeked inside one, and saw tables and stacks of clay tablets. A library? At the hallway’s end was another staircase, and at its end another hallway.
They continued in this manner for three more levels, the hallways growing shorter each time, until they reached a set of bronze doors engraved with a winged man whose feet were like the talons of a hawk.
“You may not go further,” said the scribe. “Turn your backs to the door, and wait here.”
They did as instructed, and heard the doors pull open behind them with a creak and a scrape. They closed again, leaving them alone.
“Why did we not simply climb the temple?” asked Tahmin.
Akosh answered. “Oh, aye. Nothing like a pair of Sarvashi and a Karhani climbing the holy stair up to Kutuanu’s chamber to disturb the High Priest’s devotions. That would go over ever so well with the crowd below.”
“I don’t really care what the gathered masses have to say, Akosh. We are on a holy mi–”
Kamvar interrupted him. “Then start, Tahmin. Start caring. The more we anger the Ekkadi, the more needlessly difficult this mission of ours will become. Shimurg can not stop an irate crowd from tearing us to shreds.”
Tahmin started to say something, then thought better of it. “Sorry. You have the right of it. I’m not thinking.”
The door creaked open again, then footsteps, then it closed.
“You may turn now,” said a new voice, rich and melodic.
They turned to see a man dressed in ornate robes, his beard curled and oiled and hung with jewelry. He seemed younger than Kamvar would have expected of a High Priest.
“Brother, leave us.” The scribe bowed and turned around. When his footsteps grew quieter, the High Priest sighed. “Normally, I would ask him to stay, and perhaps bring some wine or beer for us. But these days it is difficult to know whom I can trust. You’ll have to forgive the indifferent reception. I am Ananta, High Priest of Kutuanu.”
“Not at all,” said Kamvar. “I am Kamvar, and these are my friends Tahmin and Akosh. We are sorry to disturb your devotions, Holiness, but it could not wait.”
“Yes, yes, I know. How much has your priest told you, I wonder. Do you know that Ilasin, the girl you are following, is my daughter?”
Kamvar stared at the man, agape.
“I suppose not. Here then, is the tale. I will keep it a short one. Ilasin always seemed an ordinary child, but when her mother was taken by disease, strange things began to happen. The other priests began to whisper that the temple cats had begun to avoid her, that ghosts followed her path…”
He sighed. “I knew what was happening, or thought I did. It is known to the priests of Kutuanu that hardship can unlock a person’s vision, and grant them access to the spirit world. In other days, we would have sent her to the priests of Nin, who knew more than we of such matters. In these days –” he looked at them pointedly, “– that is no longer an option. I tried to do nothing, for a time, to keep my daughter by my side… but soon, that opportunity was taken from me. She lost control. I do not know what happened, to this day. I suppose some children must have tried to beat her, for they were found dead by the guards. I should have imprisoned her and called for your Hound, but I could not. I cast her out instead.”
Kamvar understood. He too was a father. “I would have done the same.”
The High Priest regarded him quizzically. “What father would not? I wanted to make it look as though conspirators within the temple smuggled her out, and I asked my sister’s husband to ensure it. But at the same time I felt I had to make Ila hate me, so that she would not try to return. It would have been unsafe for all of us.”
“And that uncle was the temple scribe who sent for Barsam?” asked Kamvar.
The High Priest’s expression darkened. “Yes. I am not sure what to make of his betrayal. It is true that some priests believe I should have given Ilasin up. They connected him to me, and to her escape. It was hard for him. Uchu had always wanted to rise in the ranks, but that door closed. Still, to betray his own niece…”
Something about this whole situation bothered Kamvar. And I think I know what it is. “Why are we here, then? Surely, you did not ask the Hounds to find your daughter? And why are you even telling us this?”
“As to the first question: of course not. I never wanted you here. However, our Lugal is of the opinion that Nerkut must align itself as closely to Sarvagadis as possible. Your coming here was his doing.”
That unlocked the puzzle. Suddenly, Kamvar began to understand.
“As to the second,” Ananta continued. “It is ancient history. I could lie to you, but your charming Hound knows the truth. I suspect he enjoys making me repeat the tale of what he likes to call my treachery.”
Kamvar was almost there, standing on the cusp of knowledge. “If this treachery, as you call it, is so well known, how is it that you have remained in your position?”
The High Priest smiled wanly. “As you said earlier, you are a father. Who could blame me for doing as I did, in the heat of the moment? Oh, I was asked to step down, but a High Priest has some clout of his own. And besides, I am past caring who knows the truth of this. I would prefer that all of my people know, that they may all understand what has been done to me… to us.”
Kamvar nodded. “Tahmin, Akosh. Don’t repeat a word of this, or I’ll kill you.” That was aimed more squarely at Tahmin than the Karhani – he knew full well that the old man cared nothing for Barsam’s plans.
Kamvar continued. “I think I may have some idea of what is happening. How many people in the city, and in Kutuanu’s priesthood in particular, know that your daughter is a sorceress?”
“I do not know. Few, I should think,” said the High Priest. His expression was curious, and he measured Kamvar with his eyes. “There are rumours, of course. And who knows, perhaps they have spread further than I am aware. But I had men repeat a tale of my own – that she’d run away from home because I was so strict a father.”
“They want to capture your daughter, and make a spectacle of her,” Kamvar said. “I can think of no other explanation. They will kill… Ilasin, was it? There will be a trial, she will be found guilty, and then she will be staked out in the desert. That’s why we’re here.” 
Kamvar felt sickened. It made sense. Sarvagadis had everything to gain from a puppet priest in a great city such as this. “We’re being used to humiliate you, to break you, to punish you for not betraying your own daughter. And to replace you with someone friendlier to the Lugal, and… well, us.”
“Kamvar, what in the world has possessed you?” Tahmin, incredulous, but he would be made to see. “We are simply doing our duty. We are catching a Daiva. All this… all this nonsense about politics is only that.”
“No, lad.” Akosh, his voice slow and thoughtful. “No, I think Kamvar has the right of it. Power struggles between priests and Lugals are as old as the hills, and there could not be a better opportunity to strike. Look at the man! Look how young he is. He will tend this temple for years to come if he is left alone.”
The High Priest looked suddenly older, Kamvar thought, as though he had been drained of vitality. Ananta composed himself, and spoke. “I know,” he said. “I have suspected that this was the plan for some time. Not that I am not impressed with your powers of deduction, soldier.” He chuckled. “But I am no stranger to politics.”
The High Priest started to pace, back and forth, shaking his head. “And what,” he asked, “am I to make of you? You talk as though you disapprove, but you are soldiers, sworn to an oath. Bluntly, we are closer to enemies than friends.”
Kamvar looked at Akosh, then at Tahmin. Then, he sighed. “I do not wish to be a part of this. I am a father too. The thought of my Ashuz being killed over politics, and being used against me, no less… it is shameful.”
“Kamvar,” said Tahmin. There was a warning in his tone, and then he sighed.
“But it is as you say, High Priest,” Kamvar continued. “We have sworn an oath.” 
And I will break it.
There was an uncertainty in Tahmin’s face. Akosh and the High Priest both looked deeply disappointed.
“I am sorry,” said Kamvar. “Truly, deeply sorry. I wish we had never been put in this situation. But I cannot go back on my word.”
Akosh turned away, sighing heavily, and Tahmin looked to the ceiling, mouthing a prayer. Only the High Priest looked in his direction.
Kamvar winked to him, and grinned as the man’s eyebrows rose. 
Oh, I will break it.
Somewhere outside, a frenzied dog started to bark. A hiss came in response, and then two sets of claws scrabbling against the paved street. Moments later, Kamvar heard a high-pitched yowl cut raggedly short.
It was enough noise to wake the dead, but Tahmin remained asleep in the cot beside him. Kamvar had already been awake, too weary in both muscle and mind to drift into dreaming. Too many decisions, all of them bad. Ananta’s story had shaken him, but it also had in some strange way steeled a resolve to make the decision he knew in his heart to be right. He did not know how, or when, but he did know that he would not allow the girl, this Ilasin, to be a sacrifice for the basest political gain. Ahamash would understand. Ahamash the merciful would have to understand.
Will Tahmin? Kamvar looked over at his friend, and tears began to well up. He would betray Tahmin. He would have to. The Tahmin of a dozen years ago could have been reasoned with, but this one… could he understand? Could he…?
Oh, no more. Just sleep.
Kamvar drew a deep breath and blinked away tears. He closed his eyes and composed himself against the onslaught of doubt that assailed him. I will close my eyes, and I will sleep, and that will be the end of it.
And what of Sahar and Ashuz? If he betrayed his oath and his Hound, would they not be in danger? The Temple could be petty and vindictive. Was he damning his love, and the child that was their flesh and blood, to atone for his sins? A letter. He would have to write a letter, and somehow contrive to have it delivered to Ashavan. Perhaps Ananta could arrange such a thing, if he spoke to him. Or perhaps he could…
This isn’t sleep, Kamvar.
Kamvar rolled from his back to his side, burrowing more snugly under the clean linens and giving the weary muscles of his back some respite. The weary muscles of his side could take their turn chafing at their ill use. The motion drew an unintelligible mutter from Tahmin, but he did not awake.
More barking, this time with a response. Another dog – a bigger one, judging from the sonorous timbre of its greeting –accosted the first, and broke Kamvar’s much-desired silence. No doubt they argued in their doggish way over the corpse of whatever unfortunate had bled out moments ago into Nerkut’s streets.
I give up. There was no sleep to be had, not now, not with his mind whirling as it did. Kamvar shook his head and sighed wearily, then edged as quietly as he could to the end of his cot, where the too-heavy night tunic he’d shrugged off earlier lay crumpled. It was too hot for bed, but perhaps it would be cooler outside. Kamvar dressed quietly, and tiptoed out of the room with sandals and money pouch in hand, noting as he did so that his was not the only empty bed. It seemed he was not the only man with something weighty on his mind.
Kamvar left the battlefield tent that had been turned into the Hunt’s barracks and hospital, and stretched out in the pleasantly cool night air. The lower reaches of the night sky were beaded with light, above them inky emptiness slashed with the crescent Eye he’d once found so baleful. He reckoned that two, maybe three, hours remained until dawn and winced. Another sleepless night presaged another bone-wearying day.
He thought back – how long ago it seemed now – to the pleasant nights of Inatum, when his grief over the death of his comrades had been assuaged, perhaps too easily, by tussles with Akosh. Had the empty bed belonged to the old man? Some sparring would not go amiss. But no, had Akosh not taken the bed beside Tahmin? He’d gone to bed too early, and too tired, to remember their sleeping arrangements.
Perhaps it doesn’t matter. I am hardly fit company for anybody just now. I am – as Tam would say – too busy brooding.
Sometimes, it would be nice to see the world with the certainty and simplicity of his old friend. And yet, might not Tahmin be reasoned with? Could he not…
Ahamash! Stop it, already.
Kamvar shook his head and bent down, yanking the sandals he carried onto his feet and drawing the cinches tight. If these maudlin thoughts would not leave him be, he would sweat them out. 
Kamvar broke into a jog that changed swiftly into a desperate sprint. He did not know where he was running, nor did he much care. The rhythmic slap of sandal leather against stone was comforting, and his breathing soon grew ragged and laboured, driving everything from his mind except the fierce burning in his lungs. 
Thus cleansed, and now mindful of his protesting body, Kamvar slowed his run to a more methodical thing, breathing deeply and calculatedly. In his nightclothes, he must have looked a madman to the revelers that still swayed and stumbled in Nerkut’s streets.
When he’d had his fill, and his mind stopped trying new doors to see what worry lay behind them, Kamvar turned back. He was not certain how far he’d run, or how long, but he’d taken as straight a path as was possible. It would not be difficult to retrace his steps, even under a sky that had almost emptied of night-fires in the time he had spent outdoors.
The return trip was calmer. Kamvar’s mind turned again to Sahar and Ashuz, and the letter he would write to them, but his were now the clear thoughts of a man calmly planning, and not wild-eyed harridans that tore at the sleepless. He would not return to bed this night, Kamvar decided. If he were to lie down now, he’d awake to the morning bell no sooner than he managed to close his eyes. Instead, he would write the letter while there was still time, before the demands of this most despicable Hunt began once again to dominate his waking hours.
It would be a simple letter, one scrawled of necessity. “Leave town with Ashuz,” he would write. “Go to your uncle and have him arrange passage to…” Where? If he did what he planned to do, Kamvar had no doubt that he would be pursued. It would not be safe to meet his family, not for some time, and he doubted it would ever be a good idea to return to a city like Inatum, where his face was known. Perhaps one of the northern cities on the Hapur – Hatshut had a heavy Sarvashi presence, but why not Ab-Ewarad?
Perhaps he would ask Akosh for advice, or even contacts. He and Sahar had little money, and her uncle Farouz not much more. And besides, he was almost certain that Akosh would agree with his decision, or at the very least support it. But can I draw the old man into my treachery? No, I need to do this alone… or with Ananta’s help, perhaps.	
When he awoke from thought, Kamvar found himself nodding to a burly guard who tended a brazier outside the doors of a pleasure hall that marked the borders of Kamvar’s recognition. He had returned to the part of town where he’d find the white and gold temple of Kutuanu, and the Hunt’s tent.
Kamvar briefly considered whiling away what remained of the morning inside the hall, with a pipe to smoke and perhaps a cup or two of beer, but he decided against it. The guard’s eyes betrayed the sort of uncertainty one normally reserved for the crazy and potentially dangerous. Which, Kamvar supposed, was an entirely natural response to a sweaty, bearded soldier wandering the streets in his nightclothes. Besides, nightly excursions had already landed him outside of the Hound’s good graces. Ahamash knows the last thing I need is a reputation for this sort of thing.
Not that it mattered much, he supposed. The plans in his head where still hazy, but if he carried out something even close to what he was considering, debauch and licentiousness would be the least of his sins in the Temple’s eyes.
“So be it, then,” he said to nobody in particular, drawing a deep breath of cool night air.
The temple courtyard was not far. The walls and storefronts that had been at his right hand were suddenly replaced by well-tended garden boxes aligned in a neat row, punctuated at regular intervals by palms. Kutuanu’s imposing temple loomed over the square. At its foot, priests had already begun to congregate in preparation for the predawn service.
Kamvar decided to sit down and watch the bustling priests, his back leaning comfortably against one of the many palms lining the edges of the courtyard. This was as good a place as any to choose the right words for his letter to Sahar.
Dearest Sahar, he began, composing in his mind the letter he intended to send, Our work here in Ekka is nearly complete, and I wish for you and Ashuz to join me in celebration. The cities of this land are gleaming pearls, and it will do Ashuz well to see new things… 
It was a good enough start, he supposed, though he’d have to find a subtle way to impress upon his wife the importance of following his request to the letter, and without informing too many people of too many particulars. If the letter was intercepted… Who would bother to read a letter from a little-known man to his wife? Still, stranger things had happened at the borders to Sarvash, and with the political nature of this Hunt, it was not unthinkable that his name, and those of his brothers, would be known at the way stations at which a messenger would stop.
As Kamvar sat thinking, his back against the smooth bark of a palm, he became gradually aware of a noise that had nothing to do with the droning of priests. There came a shuffling noise, that of a leather sole being dragged clumsily along the cobbles, and then a lurching clatter and silence.
A drunkard, Kamvar realized, and his hand fell from instinct to the spot on his waist where a knife would have hung had he not run from his tent in the middle of the night wearing nothing but a nightshirt. Unlikely to be dangerous, but one never knew with besotted men.
Slowly, Kamvar peered around the bole of the tree against which he sat, and started when his gaze met the gleam of a single eye. Barsam? Drunk?
“K… Kamvar?” Barsam’s gravelly voice was at first uncertain, but the commanding imperiousness returned swiftly, even if he slurred his words. “What are… what are you doing o-out here?
“I… I went for a stroll,” he answered. “It was too hot to sleep.”
Barsam’s eye narrowed as though in suspicion, but the Hound was clearly having some difficulty keeping his gaze steady. He sighed and waved his hand, as though giving up prematurely on what might have been a series of pointed questions.
“H-had too much to drink,” he said. “This fu… fucking festival. Not sure I can make the trip.”
What?
There was a plaintive quality to Barsam’s voice that absolutely did not belong. Was the man cracking? Had the deaths of his men broken his stone-hard heart? One-Eye? You must be mad.
“H-help me walk, Kamvar,” said Barsam. His tone was almost friendly, as though it was more a request than order. Kamvar took the Hound’s arm and draped it over his strong shoulders. He could not find any words.
Barsam leaned against Kamvar, blowing drink-laced air into the young man’s beard. He was heavy, almost surprisingly so, certainly more soldier than priest. Kamvar started walking gingerly toward the tents, setting a pace slow enough for the inquisitor to match.
“I’m not… not a monster.”
“What?” Kamvar asked. “What do you mean, why should you be–  “
“Spare me, y-youngster. I’m drunk, not s-stupid. I know you think me a monster. You all do. Even my own men, sometimes.” Barsam’s voice cracked; he sounded like a man ready to burst into noisy tears. 
How had this happened?
“Did they t-tell you I killed my own sister?” asked Barsam. 
Kamvar did not answer, hoping against hope that his silence could buy respite.
“Well, did they?” Anger, now. Kamvar knew he had to be careful. There was not much room for error with a man like this, and the wages of insult were too great.
“I heard the rumours,” Kamvar answered, slowly. “I… I know that if they are true it is because you did what you had to.”
Barsam stopped in his tracks, his heavy arm quivering. A strange wail rose as though from the bottom of his throat, growing higher in pitch as it met the dry Ekkadi air.
Ahamash, he’s weeping.
“It’s… it’s t-true. All true. Oh, Ahamash.”  Barsam pushed Kamvar away, and turned his face from him as though to hide the tears. “I… watched. Three days, I watched, while she c-cursed my name. It was all I could do. I had to do it, Kamvar. I had to.”
Kamvar, bewildered, stepped towards the weeping priest and laid what he hoped was a comforting hand on his shoulder. Barsam did not recoil, or shrug it away.
“D-do you have any idea what it is to kill your own sister?” Barsam was no longer weeping, though his speech remained thick with wine-soaked clumsiness. “My only sister. I loved her, Kamvar. I did. I am just a man.”
Barsam shook his head, then continued, more quietly this time. “Do you know, Kamvar, what it is like to have every s-stripling in our order repeat the rumours, as though he knows a damn thing about w-what I’ve done… what I’ve been through? Do you know what it’s like to have even the fucking Temple priests, those useless, sanct… sanctimonious… to hear them praise your ‘great sacrifice’. To be made a slogan? ‘One arm, one eye.’ Pfah.”
Barsam was growing angrier, but somehow Kamvar’s balance had returned. He no longer felt as though the priest might at any moment swing a meaty fist at him, or order him flogged. There was something altogether human about the man, an entirely prosaic self-loathing that at once stirred Kamvar’s pity and made him want to laugh.
One arm, one eye. The legendary Hound Barsam, stinking drunk, weeping at a soldier. It’s ridiculous.
“Do you know,” Barsam continued, “w-what it is to be reminded constantly of the worst day of your life… by idiots who want to make you an example? They throw my sister’s death at you children… children… as though it’s something laudable, as though I’ve done a great service to God. M-men who have never been faced with the decisions I curse having made, using my name to inspire young fools like you to throw their l-lives away.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Kamvar asked. The scene that had unfolded before him was unthinkable. Not only was Barsam tearfully confiding in a mere soldier, but he also spoke imprecations against the Temple that, coming from anybody else, the very same Hound would have punished with a flogging at the lightest.
Barsam turned to fix the younger man with a gaze Kamvar did not quite recognize, somewhere between sad and solicitous.
“Because you’re no fool, Kamvar. Not … not like the others. No, don’t look at me that way. You think I have no inkling of your little crisis of faith? You think I don’t know h-how often you’re out on nights like this, alone or with that Karhani you’ve so completely tamed, thinking great big thoughts about your place in this world?” Barsam’s tone was mocking, but it was not mean-spirited; one could almost believe he was jesting with a friend.
Barsam’s voice softened, and he grew serious again. “Don’t turn into me, Kamvar. That’s my advice to you. W-when we are done here, leave the order and live a normal life… among family and friends. And take your idiot friend with you, because he’ll get himself killed in moments if you’re not there to stop him.
“I know that they… they tell you – hell, I know I would tell you – that doubt is weakness, lack of faith. Those are lies to children, Kamvar, and you are no child. What if I’d had a little more doubt, eh? Wh-what if I spent more time in thought as a young man than I do now as a sad old fool who doesn’t know any other way.”
I have done a great deal of thinking.
Barsam sighed, and turned his head to the black sky. He met the Serpent’s gaze, eye to silvery Eye, and said in a tremulous voice, “Maybe, if I’d been a little less sure of myself, Farshideh and her child would still be alive today.”
The Hound’s moment of introspection had ended. “I think I can walk now, without your help,” he said. “N-not a word of this to anyone.”
“Of… of course not,” Kamvar replied.
“And Kamvar? Take my advice. Good night.”
After Barsam left, Kamvar returned to his palm tree and watched the sky grow light with the birth of the Shimurg. Barsam’s confession – was there truly any other word for it? – had unsettled him. Having now taken some moments to reflect, and to chide himself for his naiveté, he found himself wondering how many others were aware of the resentment lurking beneath the Hound’s grotesque façade. 
Don’t turn into me. Years of pain and guilt, distilled so neatly into advice Kamvar had every intention of following.
It would begin with the girl.
No, he corrected himself. The letter. It would begin with the letter.
He stood up and walked to where the priests had begun to gather, and asked around for a scribe. 
Not long after he had finished his dictation and paid the scribe, he heard a bustle from the tent. Barsam, his words no longer slurred, shouted for a messenger, and said something Kamvar could not hear to an Ekkadi boy that answered the call. As the boy sped away, Tahmin stepped out of the tent, fully armoured. Kamvar waved, and jogged to his friend. 
Tahmin nodded at Kamvar, “Morning, Kam. Couldn’t sleep again, I take it? Get your things together. We’re leaving.”
“The girl?” asked Kamvar. 
Tahmin nodded in response. “Maybe ten minutes ago, Barsam felt her sorcery and roused us,” he explained. He took a quick look around and beckoned to Kamvar to come closer.
“Kam, is it my imagination, or has Hound Barsam been drinking?”
Kamvar chuckled in response. “You have no idea.”
Chapter 15: Wall, Wall, Wall
Ilasin was cold. She was cold, and something was creaking. Her eyes opened slowly, laboriously, and then she winced as the dull and distant memory of pain grew clearer, until it was neither dull nor distant but a red, throbbing rawness at the base of her neck, pulsing in concert with a second ache in her jaw. 
I can’t see.
Panic took her, and she felt her blood grow hot as it had so many times before. She felt the promise of ecstasy if she only let the power in her sing freely, and then the familiar guilt that gnawed at her, whispering of the consequences, and the lives – so many lives – that she had never intended to take.
“She’s awake.” An unfamiliar woman’s voice, heavily accented and tinged with menace. Ilasin screamed, her guilt forgotten as she reclaimed the memory of last night’s terror. Her blood burst aflame, and coruscating waves of deadly fear leapt from her throat. A hand grasped at her throat and cut the scream short, and she felt the clench of long-nailed fingers digging into her skin. The outline of a head – she could see! – came into her field of view, inky blackness against what she realized was a naked night sky. The creaking that had awoken her was gone. She heard nothing but the distant call of a night bird.
“You needn’t bother, child,” said the voice again. It came from whoever bent over her, tickling her cheek with hot breath that smelled of jasmine. “Your untutored sorceries cannot harm us. And neither do we wish to harm you.”
The dark figure released her throat and disappeared, leaving behind a darkness that faded from black to grey as Ilasin’s eyes grew accustomed to the night. Whatever was beneath her lurched forward, and the creaking started again. Ilasin realized that she was lying atop a wagon of some kind, her arms and legs tied back. 
Where am I? Navid?
He was not here. He could not be here, or she would not be bound. Ilasin struggled to make sense of what had happened. She remembered soldiers breaking through Uchu’s door, rough-looking men with spears. One of them had pointed at her, and then something hit her from behind. The last thing she could remember before everything went black was Awasha’s mouth beginning to open, concern and shock plain in her matronly features. And now… this? The cool night air brought the brackish scents of still water and rotting vegetation to her nose. The swamp?
Ilasin lifted her head, grimacing through the pain, to look around her. She could see a few dark shapes, but only one of them wore what she thought, in that darkness, to be a guardman’s bronze panoply. The others were too slender. Nowhere could she see the silhouettes of spear or shield, but the dim outline of a thicket of reeds at least confirmed her whereabouts.
This is bad. Alu-nin-hura, the ruined city within the Flooded Land. It had belonged to Nin, once. Her father had always told her that the Crescent hid here, among worse things still.
Ilasin tested her strength against bonds that held her, trying in vain to pull her hands through the rough loop of rope that held them. She succeeded only in drawing her manacles tighter and rubbing her wrists raw. Defeated, she tried instead to puzzle out what exactly had transpired. Uchu’s house. A blow from behind. The whites of her aunt’s eyes, widened by shock. Betrayal. She had been betrayed.
Oh, uncle. How could you?
There had been screams. She had flitted briefly back into consciousness when they began, and then a yelp of pain echoed somewhere above her. Then she had fallen chin-first to the flagstones. She remembered a blaze of pain, then hands grasping at her, and the image, burned now into her mind, of a sweet-smelling vial. Awasha’s eyes. A little bottle. Blackness had followed both.
Her eyes had now grown accustomed to the night, and she shifted painfully in the wagon to get a better view of her captors. Even in the darkness, she could see that her prior observation was right. These people, whoever they might be, were no soldiers. She’d been taken by men with spears, grim and broad, and now fate had delivered her into the hands of a motley band. Following the wagon was a tall man dressed in what looked to be the hooded robes of a desert nomad. Beside him walked another, stocky and small, with a sword conspicuously dangling from the rough-spun labourer’s kilt he wore. She could just barely make out the drooping folds of an old man’s face, hidden behind a busy hand.
The taller man nudged the shorter. “Stop picking your nose, you oaf,” he said, each word ringing with the sing-song brightness of an accent she did not recognize. “What sort of example is that, eh?”
“Go bugger yourself,” said the other without a whisper of friendliness.
“And now cursing. Excellent.” The taller man shook his head and stepped closer to Ilasin’s wagon. “You’ll have to forgive my unpleasant companion. I am Renjiya, of far away. Do not be afraid, little one. We won’t harm you.”
“Let me go,” Ilasin said, steeling herself for the all too predictable response.
“That is not a request I can grant. But we are not your enemies. Did we not save you from the guardsmen that captured you? Surely, you are happier and safer with us.”
“I don’t want to be with you. I want you to let me go, so I can go back to my… father. What do you want with me?”
Renjiya nodded his head vigorously. “Of course, we will return you to your home. It is at your father’s behest that we helped you.”
My father? Do they mean Navid, or…
“If you really were sent by my father, what is his name?”
“Oho,” said Renjiya with a chuckle, “a test of honesty, like Nithya posed to Ranish. You, my dear, are the daughter of High Priest Ananta. Yes?”
My father? Was it possible? Would he really have sent people – and such people, foreigners and sorcerers and cutthroats – to assail his own allies in the streets? The very same father who would have watched her die at the hands of hard-eyed Merezadesh priests if Uchu had not smuggled her out of the temple?
And then Uchu betrayed you. It was too much to believe, but what a pleasant fiction! Her father, with his gentle eyes and the long, oiled beard that she’d once loved to twist around her fingers...
Don’t be stupid. Navid is your father now. He wasn’t, not really, but he had protected her and comforted her, and at such risk to himself. He could have left – had even wanted to leave – but instead he swore to protect her. She believed him... and missed him. Navid would have known exactly how to make sense of this tall outlander and his kind voice.
My father. Maybe this Renjiya was telling the truth. Maybe he was not. Maybe it did not matter. Would she place her trust in the man who had given her the bitterest betrayal of her life, the man who had forsaken his own daughter? It was too late, much too late, to make amends now.
She had to escape. But how? And to where?
“Why am I bound?” Ilasin asked. “Can you not release me?”
“We feared you would try to run away. This swamp is too dangerous, child, even for you. There are ghouls here, man-eaters. We wanted to be sure you would not try to leave before you knew we were friends.”
“Ghouls?” she asked, rolling her eyes. She had heard of the creatures, of course: monsters, said to have been men once, that captured and devoured naughty children.
Renjiya tossed a furtive glance over his shoulder and nodded, his brow knitting.
“Yes. They have been following us for some time.” He made a gesture she did not recognize, and spat. Ilasin glanced at the shorter man, and saw unease in the thin line of his mouth.
“Ghouls?” she asked again, somewhat less sure of herself. “Flesh-eating monsters from children’s stories that no sane man has ever seen? You believe in ghouls?”
“Perhaps I am not a sane man, then,” he replied. “For I have seen them. We are near a place in the marsh where the reeds thin, and the mangroves grow more sparsely. Look behind us then, and you will see the truth for yourself.”
Unease crept into Ilasin’s stomach, twisting it into a knot. Could it be true? “Why have they not attacked us, then?” she asked, glancing behind Renjiya and seeing nothing but the feathery silhouettes of weeping trees.
“The sorceress. She wards us against their attack. But enough. This is not a subject for little girls to discuss. We are safe, and we will keep you safe also.” 
He stepped back and nudged the bald man who continued to trudge nameless behind her wagon. Renjiya mumbled something to Baldhead that she could not hear, and they began to converse. She listened intently, but they backed further away from the wagon, and spoke quietly enough that she could catch only a few words – ‘temple’ was one, ‘day’ another, but they were no more than fragments and images, divorced of meaning.
Ghouls were... unexpected. This marsh had always carried an ill reputation, and many whispered of those who entered the swamp never again being seen, but she had always – since she grew old enough to roll her eyes at tales told to scare children, anyway – credited the ‘mysterious’ deaths to crocodiles, bandits, disease or any of the other hundred dangers that normally lurked in dark places such as this. Ghouls were not among those explanations, and yet here was a grown man who seemed convinced that monsters from the old legends dogged their steps.
It’s a trick. He said it himself. He means to keep you from running away.
But what if it wasn’t? Could ghouls really be more dangerous than what she had already faced? More dangerous than murderers and priests, crocodiles and soldiers? Perhaps not. Perhaps so. But if she protected herself, she risked giving away her position to the Hounds.
And to Navid.
“So will you untie me or not?” she asked.
Renjiya whistled, and then called out in a language she did not understand. A woman – the same voice from last night – responded in the same unfamiliar tongue, her intonation questioning, and the tall foreigner replied. The woman spoke again, a single word.
Renjiya turned back to Ilasin. “Your wish is my command,” he said brightly. Ilasin could feel rough hands tugging at the knots at her wrists, and then relief as the ropes fell away. “Better?” asked the tall man.
Ilasin shook her hands, wincing at the wave of pinpricks that signaled her limbs waking from their pinioned slumber. “Better,” she said, smiling up at the man named Renjiya. He tousled her hair and smiled back, his eyes kind. But she would not be taken in. Not yet.
Ilasin sank back into the wagon and stretched luxuriantly, then closed her eyes. The pain had not abated, not completely, but as she lost herself in thought, the ache grew more remote. The last images to flit through her mind before she drifted into a deep sleep were an empty golden pallet on which a god was said to sleep, and her father’s red, anger-twisted face.
She awoke to a grey-green evening and the scents of rot and porridge.
How did I sleep so long?
“Get up, girl,” a female voice, one she had not yet heard. “The swamp is too wet here for your chariot to continue along with us. Eat something. We leave shortly.”
Ilasin sat up and rubbed her eyes. The woman who had spoken thrust a bowl of thin gruel into her hands. She looked to be a local, with thick-lashed almond eyes set in a sandy brown face that may once have been pretty but was now jagged and weathered. A miasma of power hung in the air around her, neither so faint as to be imperceptible nor so strong as to be noticeable until she drew close. The sorceress.
The woman watched critically as Ilasin scooped the porridge into her mouth with a rough-hewn wooden spoon, then smiled when she swallowed it and put a hand on Ilasin’s shoulder. The girl’s flesh crawled at her touch, but she fought down her revulsion in the hope that she would give nothing away. “There, eat, eat. It may be a long journey.”
“Where are you taking me?” asked Ilasin. “I think it is time for me to know.”
“Not far now. We are nearing the edges of the marsh. There, we will hand you over to some men sent by your father.”
“Why did we go through the swamp at all? There must have been an easier way.”
The woman chuckled without warmth. “Don’t you ask a lot of questions? Those were our orders, and a fat purse of coin means we follow them. Your father must have wanted you to be as difficult as possible to find. Handy, that. I wish my father had been a rich priest.”
The sorceress took the bowl when Ilasin had finished, and walked away. 
“Good morning,” said Renjiya, who took her place. Her captors may have removed her shackles, but they were less willing to leave her unattended.
“Hello, Renjiya. Where are we?”
“Not far from the meeting place. We have boats concealed nearby. Maybe a two-hour walk from here, the ground turns from mud to river. From there, the trip is easy. I will feel much better if I’m in a boat before night falls.”
Boats? She would have to escape before then, or it would grow far more difficult.
“What happens at night?” she asked. Renjiya shuddered in response.
“Ghouls.” Baldhead approached them, scowling. “Is she ready to go?”
In the dim light of evening, she could see the sword-brand of a war-slave on his forehead. A slave? Had Leonine not told her that the Manacle and the Crescent worked together? Her father had the coin and reputation to hire freed men – why should he choose an aging, out-of-shape war-slave when he could hire a hundred mercenaries from Karhan or Aramayin? The doubts and afterthoughts of the last day evaporated. These men had not been sent by her father. How could they have been?
The Crescent. She would not be fooled.
The walk was long and tiring, over treacherously slick stones and through thick mud. Ilasin pretended to fall and twist her ankle. The longer it took to reach the boats, the more time she would have to find an opportunity to escape. If night fell and drew ghouls upon them, so much the better. She could use a distraction.
Her slowed pace lasted only as long as the sorceress’s patience. She commanded Renjiya to pick Ilasin up and carry her; he smelled of musk and a perfume she did not recognize. He carried her until after night fell, and he was visibly tired from the exertion. 
“I think I can walk now,” she said. When he lowered her to the ground, there was gratitude in his eyes. He looked past her, and the gratitude turned to fear. She had her distraction.
Ilasin started at the sound of a hiss of in-drawn breath and the familiar heat rose in her blood. Cold fear and hot desire commingled, and set her stomach roiling. She realized that she was holding her breath and expelled it, then followed the tendrils of power to their source: a coruscating wall of power behind which dark shapes loomed.
In sick fascination, Ilasin watched the shapes approach the wall and recoil from it, grunting and hissing, waving rope-thin arms. She caught the gaze of lantern-yellow eyes gleaming cat-like in the light of torches and the night sky. 
Still the creatures approached, and now she realized their numbers – they swarmed, one atop the other, pushing and clawing like piglets fighting for a teat, only to be rebuffed time and time again by a sorcerous wall that strained and wavered before their hungry surge.
A dozen paces from her stood the woman who was their rampart, barely upright, bracing herself against Renjiya’s wiry frame. She muttered a mantra Ilasin could not make out in a language she would not have understood, a nonsensical litany that gurgled and rushed like a swollen river.
What are you waiting for? Nobody was paying Ilasin any mind. The mercenaries’ attention was consumed by the spectacle unfolding before them. Baldhead stood to her right, a torch in one hand, a curved sickle-sword gripped tightly in the other. His shoulders rose and fell with ragged breaths, and she could see the terror in his trembling body. Renjiya’s sultry countrywoman was near him, still as a corpse, her eyes wide. 
This is your chance. Ilasin tore her gaze from the writhing wall of flesh and tried to steady her breath. She backed off slowly, keeping an eye on her abductors, with an occasional glance over her shoulder to ensure the way was clear.
It was not. She hit her heel against a sharp rock, and fell over with a yelp of pain. Baldhead turned towards her. His eyes widened, and he drew in a breath. Ilasin grasped at the rock, a sick clarity beginning to take hold of her. She could not just run. Not like that.
“The girl!”
The rock was heavy, but fear gave her strength. Baldhead started to move towards her, and now the foreign woman was turning with him, but they were slow and surprised. Ilasin was neither, and she knew exactly what had to be done.
Ilasin raced, the stone in her hands, towards her captors. She heard another yell, and now Baldhead chased after her. He was too late. 
Ilasin’s blood began to sing as she drew power from her fear. The sorceress stumbled over her words and turned towards her. The woman’s eyes grew wide, and wider still as Ilasin leapt. An arm extended to grab her, but too late. They were all too late.
The rock came down, hard, and her arms almost went numb from the impact. Arms grasped at Ilasin, but her fear turned into waves of pain that made them weak. She twisted through them, dancing to shrieks of horror and the feverish exultation of starving ghouls. The sorceress had fallen, and with her, the wall.
Ilasin ran blindly into the underbrush behind her, away from the horrible noises of the feast she had left behind her, tears streaming down her face. She did not dare slow or look back, expecting at any moment to feel bony claws curl around her ankles. The screaming stopped, and soon there was no sound but the sucking of mud around her ankles, but still she ran, until her lungs burned with exertion. She glanced over her shoulder, then, and saw nothing but the deceptive calm of the marsh, heard nothing but the chirping and buzzing of insects. Only then did she dare stop.
Ilasin sank to her knees and drew ragged breaths while her heart drummed.
Every Hound for miles must have felt that. And Navid.
How would she find one, but not the other?
The ghouls had not followed her, but Ilasin did not feel safe. She had no food and no clean water, only fears of what else this swamp might hide. She had to find Navid, and quickly.
Can I even protect myself if the ghouls do follow?
The sorceress had managed it, but she was trained. Ilasin remembered the shape of the wall that had warded them from the beasts, and its feel, but could she replicate it?
I don’t know the words.
She remembered the sewers of Inatum, her first meeting with Navid… and with the Hunt. The Hound had prayed to Ahamash, and in doing so had protected himself from her scream. Navid did not pray when he needed protection, but he had it all the same.
Maybe the words aren’t important.
She took a deep breath, and concentrated. Navid could not find her, in any case, not if she stayed quiet. She had to use her sorcery. And if it draws the Hound? She would have to risk it, and trust in the gods.
Ilasin tried to open herself. She visualized the great Shalumes to which Navid had once compared sorcery, pretended that a river flowed through her veins. “Wall, wall, wall,” she chanted. It seemed as good a spell as any.
Nothing. Of course there was nothing. I can’t do this.
But she had to.
She tried again and again, each time visualizing something different. If the river had not worked, what of rain? When rain failed, she imagined the heat and flavour of jasmine tea. When that failed, she sat down, fighting away tears of frustration, just as she had the last time, outside Inatum. 
Navid had laughed at her, then. He had apologized, but it still hurt. If it’ll just happen when it happens, what good is it? I need it now.
That night, Navid had trusted her with the name he no longer used. It was not until he warned her never to use it in public that she’d understood just how much that had required of him. He did not trust people easily; he’d asked her, on the way to her mother’s grave, if Uchu was trustworthy. She’d been wrong about that.
But I wasn’t wrong about Navid. She’d felt comfortable with him from those first moments, when she learned that he had the same talent, and that he too had been hunted. But it was not until that night, when these same sorcerous frustrations had her in tears, that he had begun to trust her.
The pain of Navid laughing at her tears had been fleeting compared to the peace she had felt afterward. She had held his hand and told him a secret, and he – a sorcerer like her, who shared her pain, her confusion, her frustration – had trusted her.
Navid, I miss you.
That same peace came over her now. She would not – could not – force it. Navid had told her that it would come when it was time. And Navid had told her that he would protect her, that he would never let them take her. Surrounded by ghouls, in a swamp she did not know, with neither water nor food, she nevertheless felt safe and warm.
Warm?
Ilasin was too surprised by the sudden heat in her veins to remember why she had been trying to gather it. She expelled power into the fetid air, and tried once more. She opened herself to sorcery, thinking not of the flooding Shalumes that tore huts apart in its wake, but of the gentle river that had lapped at her feet while she held her protector’s hand and learned his name.
Her veins grew warm, then hot, and she was in ecstasy. 
“Wall, wall, wall!” she cried, calling to mind the shining globe of light that had warded away ghoulish pursuit, and a wall came into being around her. She laughed delightedly and let it drop. 
She could not know if it would hold against assault, but somehow, that no longer seemed important. Ilasin got up and began to walk in what she thought was the direction of Nerkut.
When Anki’s Chariot rose over the swamp and she was certain the ghouls were no longer in pursuit, Ilasin fell into a fitful sleep, hidden away by the delicate boughs of a willow.
She awoke at noon and continued her trip, stopping periodically to draw sorcery into herself in the hope that Navid would catch her trail.
That evening, hungry and frightfully thirsty but unwilling, still, to drink the fetid swamp water, Ilasin felt another presence as she prepared her spell.
“Navid?” she asked tremulously, closing herself and allowing the energies to disperse.
“Is that his name?” 
A black-skinned woman emerged from the underbrush behind her, trailed by a fat man who flashed a vicious grin.
“I… Ibashtu?”
The woman clucked her tongue. “Leonine talks too much. A shame he’s not here with you. Luwa-Shagir here was quite anxious to see him again.”
“What do you want from me?” she asked. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She had not considered that there might be another sorcerer in this swamp, who was neither Navid nor the Hound.
“Compliance. Luwa, take her.”
Power flooded Ilasin, and she screamed, but the Hakshi woman had already erected a barrier. Her spell struck it and dissipated into an eldritch mist.
“Is that all?” The Hakshi drew more power into herself, until she blazed with it, and spoke a single word.
Ilasin was torn from her feet. She sailed through the air, eyes wide with fear, and fell painfully to the ground near the fat man. She tried to scramble away, to erect a ward, but a thick arm grabbed her around the neck. A heavy weight pressed into her back, pinning her helplessly to the moist ground.
“Not too rough, Luwa. She can’t die yet. Give her the salts.”
No. Oh, no. Navid, where are you?
Another tiny bottle. Blackness once again.
She awoke lying in a place she did not recognize, her arms and legs splayed out. There were loops of corded rope at her wrists again, but this time she was not atop a wagon. She turned her head first left, and then right, in search of answers. To her left was scaffolding. To her right, Anki’s Chariot overlooked a mockery of home. The steps of a ziggurat descended before her, but at their base she could not see the great courtyard or straight streets of Nerkut – only swamp and ruins.
She tried to call for Navid, only to realize that she was gagged. Tears formed in her eyes, and as she cried, she became aware of two menacing presences behind her; one in the shape of a woman, the other a fluted vase.
Ilasin tried to pull her head back, to look behind her. She saw Ibashtu, upside-down, and beside her an orange and black urn that roiled with hideous sorceries.
“Good afternoon, child,” said Ibashtu, her voice mocking. “You will be the first to witness the rebirth of the Pale Queen’s temple, here in Alu-nin-hura. We will give you to her, child of a treacherous god, and when she is reborn in your little witch body, we will dance once more in her courtyard.”
Navid. Save me.
Chapter 16: Alu-nin-hura
The swamp’s solid wall of insects was no doubt thrilled at the opportunity to broaden its diet, and each remaining member of Barsam’s Hunt was covered in itchy welts.
They were so few now. The Lugal of Nerkut had assigned a sizeable contingent of soldiers to accompany the Hunt, but of Barsam’s men, only Behrouz and Hesam remained; representing Majid were Kamvar, Tahmin and Yazan, who despite his injury had insisted on accompanying them into the marsh. His left arm was in bandages that constantly had to be changed in the fetid conditions, but he’d grown skilled at unfurling the bandages and replacing them without missing a step. 
The temple healers had assured Yazan that his arm would heal cleanly, but they’d balked at his decision to leave the medical tent so swiftly. There was a good chance of the arm growing gangrenous out here, in the swamp’s filth. Yazan, headstrong as ever, had ignored their orders. His only concession to the realities of his injury was a change of weapon; in place of his spear, he carried a short Ekkadi blade.
“It’s incredible how quickly this place has become so… well, fetid,” said Akosh. He slapped at his neck and frowned. 
“What do you mean?” asked Tahmin, who’d once again forgotten his lessons.
“This swamp is man-made.” Kamvar had not. “In another half-day’s march, we should reach what remains of Alu-nin-hura. Does that jog your memory?”
Tahmin nodded his head. “I remember now – they dug a new river and drowned the place. You’re right, Akosh. It looks like this swamp has been here forever.”
Kamvar wondered how many of the soldiers who accompanied them were the great grand-children of Alu-nin-hura. The city had been evacuated prior to the flooding, but hundreds – devout worshippers of Nin, primarily – had famously remained behind. It was said that they died in the deluge and rose again, cursed by the Temple’s dark sorceries to forever haunt the flooded ruins of their sacred city. 
“Poor bastards,” he muttered. “The Lugal’s soldiers, I mean. They look terrified.”
“Aye, and we should as well,” said Akosh. “If the tales of this place are true, I’d feel better coming here at the head of a legion, and here we’ve been given… what, sixty men?”
“If the tales are true,” said Kamvar. “Tales are always told of places like this. Listen to enough of the old wives, and you’ll learn that every last forest in Sarvash is haunted, to say nothing of graveyards and battlefields.”
“Aye, if.” Akosh looked uneasy, which in turn raised doubts in Kamvar’s mind. After all, in his many years serving the Hunt, had he not seen things that men of a more skeptical bent would call impossible from the safety of their walled cities? Ghost stories were more often false than true, but he’d witnessed devilry enough that it was difficult to feel reassured.
They had made good time earlier. A paved road had once led from Nerkut to Alu-nin-hura. Today, it was mostly overgrown, and uneven where paving stones had been removed to serve new construction, but it was still a road… for a few leagues, until the hillocks south of Nerkut disappeared behind them, replaced by a basin of soft earth that gave way an hour later to sucking mud. They’d been warned that horses could not make the full journey, and so they’d been accompanied by a score of pimply-faced soldiers-in-training whose role in this adventure was to play hostler. Some of the more stupid boys had looked put out at being ordered back to the city, but they were few. Alu-nin-hura’s repute was too dark even for glory-hungry teenagers.
Now it was mid-afternoon, and the easy travel a half-day behind them had become a trudge through mud and ankle-deep water.
The plan was to push as close to the river proper as was possible. They would likely reach it well before nightfall, by the estimation of Adnalu, a bald-headed sergeant who knew this country as well as any man, and had as a consequence been pressed into service as their guide. Then, with some luck – and many boats – their journey would become a much easier matter of paddling where possible and portaging when the water grew too shallow.
Barsam approved of this plan, noting that they would be able to sleep and row in shifts. He paused often to concentrate and get his bearings, ever pursuing the elusive scent of sorcery. “She’s close,” he’d often mutter, or, “She certainly passed this way.” 
Barsam, Kamvar decided, was a Hound in earnest. Majid had been able to recognize and follow the use of sorcery – that was after all how the Hounds earned their moniker – but he lost scents frequently. Majid’s Hunt had caught as many Daiva with his nose as they had with threats, bribes and investigation. Barsam appeared to know precisely where he was going. He had caught the scent, and could follow it as easily as a hound could a fox.
They reached the river, as expected, perhaps two hours before Shimurg disappeared from the sky. The swamp had gradually turned from mud dotted occasionally by green rushes to a splendidly coloured garden – mangroves and reeds, purple flowers and gold, bushes with jagged leaves and red berries that the sergeant warned were deadly poisonous. The diversion from the Shalumes was impressively broad but sluggish, a deceptively sedate aspect for something that had drowned a city and killed hundreds.
Kamvar and Tahmin were first at the oars. Each coracle seated four men comfortably, but because they shared a boat with Yazan, they were forced to take on a fifth to row, a soldier who had introduced himself as Mua-tu but said little else. He and Akosh slept now, while Yazan, unable to make himself comfortable, trailed a hand in the water behind them.
Some furtive phrases carried on the stagnant air, but on the whole, few men spoke, neither in their boat nor in the next, nor indeed in any within earshot. Even the snoring seemed subdued. Even in sleep, men were mindful of what was said to lurk behind the mangroves.
“Pull your hand out of there,” whispered Tahmin to Yazan. “Like as not, you’ll be pulled overboard, or gnawed by a fish.”
A smile twisted Yazan’s ruined face, but he left his hand where it was.  “Like as not, this Hunt will kill us all. What does it matter if it’s now or an hour from now?”
Thus ended their conversation. 
They rowed in silence for a time, listening to the buzz and chirp of the marshland wildlife, while the sky darkened. Soon, the dying embers of day limned the mangroves, giving them haloes of pink and orange that were reflected in the placid waters of the murderous river. Moments later, the Shimurg passed over the Bones, and the world gradually darkened from grey to black. Three more hours at the oars, and then it would be Kamvar’s turn to sleep.
If we live that long.
He could not help but grow uncertain under the weight of a lifetime of superstition; if the dead did walk in this place, this would be their hour. The Serpent’s Eye was a slit, angry and thin as a knife scar, and under its silver light every noise took on a sinister echo. The buzzing of flies sounded like the final rattling breath of a dying man; the keening of some night bird brought to mind the unearthly shrieks of a spectre.
Sahar, Ashuz… I may die here. I pray that my letter finds you.
He felt a hand tap his shoulder. Tahmin pointed into the distance, and Kamvar’s eyes followed the line of his arm to the riverbank. In the darkness, he could see nothing.
“What?” he asked. In the quiet of the night his whisper felt like an intrusion.
“Look carefully,” responded Tahmin. “Something’s moving.”
Kamvar squinted. An uneventful moment passed, and he was about to say that he’d seen nothing when he heard a rustling and saw what appeared to be reeds bending. “It’s probably just an animal come to drink,” he whispered.
Tahmin shook his head. “I thought it had to be wind blowing through the trees, but then I realized I haven’t felt a hint of a breeze in hours. No, I saw something. Clearly, Kam. Don’t look at me like that. I’m no child. Whatever it was went on two legs.”
“If you’re sure…” Of course he’s sure. Tahmin was no green recruit jumping at shadows. “…we need to tell Barsam. Our quarry may have posted scouts. They’re sure to know we intend to pursue. Ahamash knows I’ve seen enough of ambush in my lifetime.”
Tahmin nodded, and redoubled his rowing. They overtook the boat ahead of them, and then another, drawing up swiftly alongside the Hound’s coracle. Barsam prayed while Hesam and Adnalu pulled at the oars. Kamvar beckoned to Hesam and pointed to the Hound. The bald Huntsman looked curious, but did not say anything. He laid a hand on the Hound’s shoulder, stirring him from his devotions.
“Kamvar. What is it?” Barsam sounded sharp, alert. No trace remained of the melancholy night that had preceded this one.
“We saw movement on the banks – men. I fear we may be discovered.”
“I know,” said Barsam. “But they are not men. Not any longer, at any rate. They’re all blood and death, and mindless hunger. You’ve heard the stories, no doubt.”
A chill ran through Kamvar’s body. “You mean that they’re true?”
“The night hides many horrors. Yes, the stories are true. The dead walk in Alu-nin-hura.” Barsam made as though to return to his prayers, and then turned back towards them. “Do not be afraid,” he said. “They will not want to approach us. The sanctity of our prayers keeps them at bay… and if they grow too desperate and worst comes to worst, I have a means of protecting us. It’s just…” 
Kamvar waited a moment, but it seemed that the Hound had no intention of finishing that sentence.
“Never mind,” Barsam finally said. “You did well to come to me, but there is nothing to worry about. Good night.”
Barsam turned back to his prayers. “Nothing to worry about,” muttered Tahmin later, when they had returned to their place in the middle of the line of boats. “Ahamash.”
Kamvar stifled a nervous laugh. “At least if we die here, Ahamash will see our deeds.” But will he approve?
“I hope this is the end, Tam. If this Ilasin slips through our grasp again, if again we are forced to chase after every shadow of Ekka, I think I’ll lose my mind. Ahamash, what I wouldn’t give to wake up in my own bed, with my own wife.”
Tahmin chuckled. “Aye, I wouldn’t mind waking up with your wife either. Instead, here I am, with your foul breath in my face every morning.”
Kamvar forced a chuckle, but could not sustain it. He bowed his head and breathed a heavy sigh.
“What sort of life is this?” he asked the humid night. There was no response to interrupt his thoughts, and so he continued. “We should be hunting goats in the mountains, or breaking new horses in the plains. I cannot do this any longer. Nor should you. Find a wife, sire some fat, happy babies.”
“And leave them behind for months at a time while I leap into the lion’s jaws?” That stung, and Tahmin must have realized it. “I’m sorry, Kamvar, I didn’t mean it that way. Just… I’ve thought about marrying before, and then I think of our fathers. I … I could not.”
“I know. You need not apologize. You’re right. I intend to leave the Hunt.”
“I know.”
Kamvar had expected the announcement to come as some surprise. 
“I’m that obvious?”
Tahmin’s laugh confirmed his suspicions. “Of course, you idiot. You don’t sleep, you don’t joke. Every sentence you speak is punctuated by sighs. Even the thickest among us can tell that you’re unhappy, and… well, I may very well be the thickest among us, but I know you better than anybody.”
“I suppose you do, at that. Tam, do the same. Don’t give your life to the Hunt.”
Tahmin was silent a moment. “I have thought about it. But it’s too late for that. I’ve sworn an oath, to Majid and… and to myself. I’ve sworn that I will serve Ahamash by my life and my death. I will stay.”
He added, “Not that I think any less of your decision, mind. I agree. You are not made for this life. Maybe you were, once. I blame Sahar – she’s made you soft.” If Tahmin’s words were reproachful, his tone was not. “There’s nothing left for you but to grow fat and toothless. Harrying the village kids with in-my-day tales of past glory, Kam… that’s the life for you!”
Kamvar smiled. “I’ll be sure to tell everyone that will listen about all the times I had to pull your meat from the pot. Tahmin the Bungler, I think I’ll call you. There will be songs.”
Tahmin clapped his shoulder. They rowed in friendly silence for the rest of their shift, then woke Akosh and the Ekkadi soldier. Kamvar wondered if he would have difficulty sleeping, but the last sleepless night and the exhausting journey conspired against his whirling mind. He fell into dreamless black moments after wrapping himself in a cloak, the riverbank horrors forgotten.
Kamvar woke to a misty dawn. The pink sky of morning was reflected in the vapours, painting the swamp with a palette that seemed too bright for this forlorn place. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, peering out at the riverbank. Signs of last night’s interlopers were nowhere to be seen.
“Good morning, Kamvar,” Akosh said. “You’ve a few moments yet, if you’d like more sleep. We’re casting about for some dry land to stretch our legs and eat before continuing on.”
If Akosh was still disappointed in Kamvar’s decision at Kutuanu’s temple – or, at least, in what he thought Kamvar’s decision had been – he had shown no sign of it since they’d left the city.
Kamvar took in their surroundings. The swamp’s features had certainly changed – when last he was awake, the river they followed was distinct, a green furrow surrounded by solid banks of land. It had broadened while he slept, until the swamp resembled nothing so much as a shallow lake. Here and there could be seen tiny bands of earth, but they were few. Even the mangroves that had characterized the early parts of their journey had disappeared; the only greenery that remained was found in patches of tall reeds that poked through the broad river’s surface, and below that a tangle of weeds, occasionally visible when the light was right.
Kamvar shook his head. “No, I’m awake. I wasn’t certain I would wake, so I may as well enjoy it.”
Akosh turned to him and grinned. “I’m sure your bird-god has greater plans for an august hero like you than dying at ghoulish hands.”
“Ah, so we did wake you last night.” 
Akosh nodded. “I heard your conversation with Barsam… and the other, with Tahmin. I like your decision, Kamvar. I hope you live long enough to see it through.”
“I thought you would approve.”
A cry from one of the boats ahead indicated that they’d found a likely place to stop, if only for a moment. Land, such as it was, consisted of a medallion of mostly-solid ground bisected by a reed-choked rivulet that rendered the centre of the island as muddy as its edges.
Still and all, it’s nice to stretch my legs. Kamvar passed water, then ran on the spot for a moment to loosen his cramped muscles. Breakfast was a biscuit, runny white cheese from a clay jar, and a handful of nuts; not the best of fare, but certainly not the poorest. His soldier’s stomach was accustomed to worse.
He heard a yawn behind him, and felt a hand on his shoulder. “Morning, Kam. Ahamash, but it’s nice to stand on… well, mud, I guess. Have you eaten? We’re back at the oars after prayers.”
“Yes. Get it while it lasts. Our escorts didn’t skimp on provisions, but even so we’re running out of cheese.”
Tahmin did not have much time to fill his stomach. Moments after he left in search of breakfast, Barsam called for attention. The morning prayer was brief and subdued. Shimurg was barely visible, a patch of bright haze peering down through fog and a bank of grey clouds. Rain? An ill omen.
Or perhaps a good one. Do you really want Ahamash to see you today?
After prayers, Barsam cleared his throat and spoke.
“The scent is very strong here, and getting stronger. We are nearing our quarry. Again. Sergeant Adnalu informs me that we will draw near to the ruins of Alu-nin-hura before noon, and he suspects that this is where we will find Ilasin and her abductors. I know some of you…” this was directed more to Nerkut’s soldiers than the Hunt, “… have heard many tales about the cursed city. I will not say they are not true, but I will say this: our enemies will be simply flesh and blood. There are sorcerers among them, but you need not fear their power. Ahamash will hear my prayers, and he will protect us from devilry. As they say, all you need fear is sword and spear.”
Scattered murmurs could be heard among the Lugal’s men. Their tone indicated that the men were not entirely convinced. Barsam continued, heedless.
“My Hunt… this is our chance to end this and return to Sarvagadis. Those of you who came to Ekka alongside Hound Majid will be welcome to join my Hunt, if you so wish. We have all of us lost many brothers, and you have proven yourselves dependable. But there can be no mistakes. It is my great shame that a mere girl has eluded us for so long, and I do not intend for this farce to continue. Her guardian, this ‘Leonine’, may no longer be with her, but even so, be vigilant. If indeed he was not a party to her capture, expect him to have followed in pursuit. And if you see the Shinvat this day, know that you have done His work.”
Barsam looked for a fleeting moment as though he wanted to say something more, but he decided against it. “That is all. Finish eating and return to the boats.”
The coracle lurched suddenly, grinding against a hidden sandbar. The water had grown shallow, turning their boating into a dreadful slog. Kamvar grunted, pushing his oar hard against the mud below. It sank deep before the riverbed grew thick enough for him to find purchase, but he managed to free the coracle from its earthen prison. Until the next, anyway. They ran aground more frequently with every passing hour, rendering this last shift at the oars more tiring than he’d expected.
Kamvar heard a murmur from ahead. In the first coracle, some fifty yards ahead, a figure had drawn a sword and thrust it into the air, where it gleamed dully in the occluded midday light of Shimurg. This is it. They brought the boat to rest, and leapt into squelching mud.
Two of the Lugal’s soldiers were skilled military scouts, and these men would be their eyes. They would find few hiding places in the squat shadows of noon, but the sergeant had assured them that his men were cat-quiet and prudent, that their skills were equal to the task.
They were impressive enough, Kamvar had to admit. Moments after the Hunt and their escorts had gathered at the rotted gate of a decades-old livestock fence, the scouts jogged nimbly away to survey the path ahead. They returned periodically to flash hand signals at their sergeant, which he interpreted to mean that all was clear. The company advanced uneasily, eyes drifting left and right, waiting for the scouts to show themselves once again.
This pattern continued for what seemed like hours, while the ground solidified beneath Kamvar’s feet. The change was gradual at first. The reeds and mangroves that had characterized the choking swamp thinned, replaced by signs of prior inhabitation. They soon came upon the jagged remains of a mill, whose mud-brick roof had long since collapsed, taking with it large chunks of the wall. The ruins that still stood had the look of a mouth full of splintered teeth.  
“We’re getting closer,” whispered Tahmin, pointing ahead. Their Hound looked intent, excited. He looked back at them frequently and beckoned with his remaining hand for them to hurry, breathing heavily through parted lips. He looked like a man brought to climax. Whether it was bloodlust or something else, Kamvar could not tell, but it made him uneasy in any case.
They passed another crumbled building, then another, before Kamvar felt slick stones under his feet. The water was still to his ankles, but beneath it was the unmistakable pattern of cobbled road. Akosh stopped suddenly enough that Kamvar almost walked into the old man’s broad back. 
“Look,” Akosh said, pointing ahead of them. In the distance was a high city wall, obscured by the bushes that congregated at its base and the vines that clung desperately to the cracks in its exterior. They had arrived in Alu-nin-hura.
Before they reached the walls, the scouts returned, waving their arms overhead in warning. The soldiers stopped where they stood, some looking nervously to their weapons. Kamvar feared almost to breathe, until the scouts talked to Barsam. The Hound nodded, and whispered something to the men nearest him, who passed the message to the next men in turn. Akosh turned to Kamvar and whispered in his ear; Kamvar then turned to Tahmin to repeat the same message.
“Eight armed men at least, possibly more, on the parapets. There’s a breach in the wall some twenty yards away from the gate, and it’s all they could find. Not much of a way to approach quietly by day. The Hunt and any other skilled archers are to report to Barsam at the head of the line. We will try to get in position and kill as many of the lookouts as we can before attacking.”
Tahmin blanched. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
And so it begins.
Kamvar, concealed behind the bole of a leafy tree, bent the staff of a bow around his leg and attached – too easily – the loop of a bowstring. The Ekkadi bow was a feeble thing with a weak pull, but at these distances its power would be sufficient. The sureness of its aim was another matter entirely.
He tested the bow’s draw, then peered at the walls some fifty yards away. This was as close as the Hunt had been able to come, crawling snake-like in the muck behind trees, grass and reed. 
Whoever now camped in the ruins of this ancient place had prepared for the possibility of attack. Within a stone’s throw of the walls, the foliage had been cleared away. The scouts had spoken of a breach, a collapsed section wide enough for three men to walk abreast. Alu-nin-hura’s inhabitants had not rebuilt it, but from this distance Kamvar could see that crates had been stacked up in the passage in such a way as to provide a narrow egress and cover for defenders.
The Lugal’s soldiers, less the eight of them that Sergeant Adnalu had identified as skilled bowmen, were concealed further still, where the swamp remained wild and green. They were to come running at the first signs of clamour.
Perhaps it would not come to that, but Kamvar did not like their chances. They were only twelve, eight of the Lugal's men and four Sarvashi, shooting at eight targets that they could see, who could take refuge behind the wall’s crenellations at a moment’s notice.
It would take a miracle to do this quietly, and if there were as many men behind the walls as there were atop them, the archers that had so painstakingly crept into position could well be dead before their reinforcements arrived. Still, Kamvar had not expected to make it this far without attracting the lookouts’ notice. Ahamash was watching. There was nothing left but to trust in the divine plan.
Bow strung and an arrow notched, Kamvar looked to where Hesam lay concealed in the reeds. There were not enough trees for all of them, and so the best of the group – at least, by Barsam’s estimation – had chosen the most difficult role. Hesam's rise from the foliage would be their cue to fire.
Kamvar’s heart began to race. In moments, there would be blood. The waiting was always worst. He measured his target, the second man visible from their left. At this distance, he was unremarkable, a small man with a small leather-capped head. He had made more difficult shots with his own bow, but it hung from the wall of his farmstead and he had little faith in this one. Ahamash, guide my arrows to strike true, and if this is to be my last battle, may Shinvat be steady beneath my feet.
And, he added, if it isn’t… please, guide my feet upon the path I have chosen. The path I feel is right. Grant me your strength that I may follow my convictions, and your forgiveness if my actions are hateful to you.
Hesam rose from the reeds and fired in one fluid motion, and then Kamvar’s own arrow was in flight. As soon as he released it, he knew he had missed. The shot was too weak, too low. A second arrow was notched by the time the first had splintered against the wall. It was in the air by the time Hesam’s man toppled from the parapets, an arrow through his throat. This second arrow was true, as though guided by God’s own breath.
He notched another, but by this time their surprise attack had come to an end.  Before Kamvar’s third shot could find its wings, no targets remained. He counted two heads before they disappeared. How many men had they hit? 
Two loud horn blasts split the air. Kamvar cursed in resignation, wheeling to the uncomfortably close breach. Now, they had a soldier’s duty. The Huntsmen, even with Nerkut’s help, were too few to afford casualties. If there were more men back there, behind the walls, they had to be kept from fortifying the only means of passage. 
“To me,” Kamvar shouted, hanging the bow from a branch and taking up his spear. He swung the shield he had been issued from his back. He felt clumsy beneath its weight, but was nevertheless glad of its solidity. They had prepared for a battle of ranks and files. There was no telling how many enemies were here.
Kamvar ran to the wall, the others behind him, and followed its length to the breach. He could hear the stomps and battle cries of their reinforcements, who were still far away. He was the first man to the gap – an unenviable position – but his worries were unfounded. The entrance was deserted.
“Damn.” Tahmin, behind him, breathed heavily. “They retreated?’
Kamvar nodded, and sidled along the edge of the broken wall, shield at the ready, to peer cautiously into the courtyard beyond. Save for the corpse of a man they had shot from the wall, it was empty. 
Kamvar carefully approached the dead man. His neck had been broken in the fall, and his head now lolled in parallel to his arrow-punctured shoulder. A slave-brand was etched into the man’s forehead. He was not armoured, and save for a broad knife at his side, unarmed. If this was their enemies’ first line of defense, perhaps this would be less dangerous than expected.
Remember the sewers? We lost brothers to men such as this.
“I don’t like this, Kam,” Tahmin said. “They’ve probably retreated to hole up some place more secure, or intend to come back with reinforcements.”
Before Kamvar could reply, the stomping and splashing of many feet announced the arrival of their company.
“There’s nobody here. They ran,” said Kamvar. He shouldered his spear and waited for orders.
The city was in significantly greater disrepair than its wall had been. It was said that when the full might of the Shalumes was unleashed upon the city, the waters rose to the height of the great temple of Nin itself. It seemed a fanciful exaggeration, yet the streets through which they crept were still drowned in places in fetid, ankle-deep water. 
The soldiers tried to move as swiftly as was possible without giving away their position to every enemy within a mile, but the water made this difficult. It was tiring work, wrestling at every step with moss-slick stones, facing at every turn the prospect of an ambush. 
Yet they saw neither prey nor pursuers. As far as the eye could see, there were only tumbled walls, and now and again stone buildings that had been carefully dismantled to serve in new construction. Most of the houses and stores that they had passed were less artfully ruined. The humble mud-brick buildings of Ekka were built for dry heat, not torrent and flood. They had the look of melted candles, brick having given way to clay and thus returned to the river from which it had been born. 
Barsam led them through the streets with the speed and determination of a man reaching the long-awaited end of a journey... or of a hound, straining at the leash, its prey’s scent driving it wild with exultation. Yazan shouted at the Hound to stop, to stay behind them, but Barsam ignored him. He appeared to fear neither arrow nor spear. Only the Hunt was real to him now.
The Hound stopped suddenly, beside a fish-shaped fountain from which water no longer poured, the bowl matted with lichen. He turned to the company and exclaimed that a great sorcery had happened here, then fixed his eyes on the fountain. Mouth hanging partly open, breathing shallow, Barsam looked like a man caught in the throes of a religious fervour. Or an orgasm.
“A sorcerer,” Barsam explained, wiping sweat from his brow. “Not the girl. Definitely not the girl. But strong. Very strong.”
“The singer?” asked Tahmin.
Barsam shook his head in response. “No. Too strong. That singer cannot compare to Ilasin, much less this… this force.” His enthusiasm seemed somewhat dampened as he considered the implications, which made Kamvar uncomfortable. A dark muttering rose behind him. Men intoned the names of their Ekkadi gods, praying for delivery from evil.
Barsam, having noticed, snorted and shook his head. “We’ll not need your gods, never fear. This sorcery is strong, but I have faced stronger with Ahamash guiding my hand. If we are attacked, stay near me, and protect me from swords and arrows. As long as I am alive, I can keep us safe from the rest.”
“That’s why you should be behind us… please, your Eminence,” Yazan said.
Barsam nodded. “Yes, you’re right. I shall have to be more careful.”
The Hound’s prudence did not last. The closer they drew to the centre of the watery labyrinth of Alu-nin-hura, the more feverish he became. He sweated profusely and muttered breathlessly, voice too low and too swift to make out individual words. 
It was not until they reached the base of a steep hill that Kamvar came to recognize Barsam’s litany. The words were still indistinct, but the chant had a rhythm he’d heard before, many times, in Majid’s clear voice.
Shimurg, grant me your sight, that my eyes may pierce the veil of wickedness. Ahamash, grant me your arm, that my blade may pierce the heart of wickedness.
The magical assault had already begun.
They climbed the hill by way of a winding street in better repair than those below, assailed by sorceries Kamvar knew were there but could neither see nor feel. 
As they climbed, they passed collapsed roofs and crumbled walls, but as they neared the summit, these were replaced by buildings of enduring stone. Kamvar found himself peering uneasily at windows and doorways. Behind every recess could lurk an assassin’s blade or a poisoned arrow.  
Barsam was in the thick of a hedgehog of soldiers, spears glimmering in an afternoon sun that had finally clawed its way through the clouds, shields at the ready. The rest of them had no such luxury. 
They saw nobody, but signs of passage were plain. The dust that lay thick on the streets was in places disturbed by the prints of human feet and donkey hooves. All the footfalls led in the same direction, following the road that wound its way up and around the hill. Their prey had been here. Were they here still?
Moments later, they happened upon an emptied wagon, and beside it two donkeys hitched to a post. The road had stopped winding, had turned into a stairway that led directly to the summit. It was too steep for a wagon, and too difficult for the beasts of burden to navigate. 
“Anki’s Chariot… I don’t believe it.” Barsam had ordered Akosh to be part of his human shield, but the old man had simply snorted and waved him away. Barsam had not been happy with that – nor indeed was Yazan, whose response included the choicest of Sarvashi curses – but at this point disobedience was expected. The offense had passed, like so many others, without remark, leaving Akosh free to walk with Kamvar at the head of the line. As a result, he was the first to see their final destination.
The hill was crowned with the first three steps of a ziggurat, its top obscured by scaffolding. To the left of the temple’s great stair was an enormous wooden construction, a leviathan of pulleys and winches, and huge stones sitting atop platforms. Kamvar could make out a small group of armed men standing beside the machine, too distant to count. 
“Ahamash,” said Tahmin, shaking his head in disbelief. “They’re building a temple.”
“Rebuilding,” said Akosh. Kamvar detected a note of pride in the old man’s voice. 
Here, in the upper reaches of Alu-nin-hura, had stood the Firmament of Night, the second of Nin’s great temples to be torn stone from stone. Its blocks of granite and marble were too ill-omened to be used in construction, and so they had been scattered in the marsh. Until, evidently, somebody decided to dig them up and put them back where they belonged.
“Rebuilding,” echoed Kamvar. “Ahamash, how many years must they have spent here, hidden away from the rest of Ekka?”
“Admire their craftsmanship… another time,” said Barsam, his voice ragged with exhaustion. “It seems we’ve stumbled upon something… something even more than the girl. They need men for such a construction… hundreds, perhaps. But we are many, and we are armed and trained, and their sorceries will not touch us.”
Barsam took a deep breath. Tired, head bent, he looked for a moment like an old man, but there was no hint of weakness in his voice when he spoke again.
“You have all seen, or had described to you, the girl we are hunting. She is up there. I can feel it. If you can take her alive, do so. But we have a new priority. There is a greater devilry here than anything I had expected, and this… this heresy cannot be allowed to continue. We will purge this place. We will fall upon these heretics with bronze in our fists and flame in our hearts, and when the last of them falls, this accursed temple will be torn down anew.”
His eye wild with fervor, Barsam pointed to the crest of the hill.
“Forward!”
The attack was less a charge, and more a slow, methodical trudge. They had crested the hill with no greater challenge than the tiring work of climbing so long a stair, but the difficult work began in earnest as they neared the temple steps. As they drew closer to their goal, it became clear that they were outnumbered. The enemy party was at least half again as large as their own.
The whistle of a hundred black arrows greeted their arrival at the base of the stair. Shafts splintered against the steps and ricocheted away. Only a select few reached the company, and most of these ended harmlessly embedded in the shields of prepared soldiers. Kamvar heard one strangled cry, one blistering Ekkadi curse. First blood had been drawn, but they had survived the attack. Their enemies were numerous, but had few trained archers among them.
“Company!” Barsam, his voice strained with exertion, shouted the order. “Answer back! Bristling Gate. Ekkadi, watch what my men do and repeat it.” An unnecessary order. These men were soldiers. Many had their own name for the formation, and the rest understood instinctively what was called for.
Kamvar groped for his bow, then realized he had left it behind. Shrugging, he raised a shield. Tahmin was immediately at his left, and raised his own, so that the shields formed an interlocking wall. A moment later, Kamvar felt a tap on his spear-arm, informing him that he would be the right gate.
“Fire!” 
Kamvar turned to the right, swinging his shield around; to his left, Tahmin did the same. The twang of a bowstring signaled the end of the maneuver. He turned back, closing the Gate. 
“Advance!”
Tahmin and Kamvar took the stairs in lockstep, bracing at the distant hiss of bows releasing their charge. The archer that followed the pair huddled up against their backs, simultaneously supporting them against the coming impact and hiding himself from arcing arrows. Some of the enemy archers found their marks this time. The wooden drumming of arrows striking shields was everywhere around.
“Fire!”
The Gate opened and closed many times as they made their ascent. The closer they drew, the more arrows hit their mark. Kamvar’s own shield was struck, the force threatening to send him tumbling backwards, into and through their archer. He briefly envisioned himself lying dead, neck twisted, at the bottom of the stair.
“Tam?”
“Yes?”
“We could have been farmers.”
Tahmin laughed. “It’s more tempting some days than others, I’ll admit.”
Once again, they heard the order to fire, and once again the Gate opened. 
Kamvar nearly stumbled when they reached the top of the first level of the enormous ziggurat, expecting a step and finding instead that they had reached a broad plateau. He heard another release of arrows and braced himself, heard more arrows striking shields, more cries from his companions. 
Once the volley ended, he peered over the rim of his shield to see how much further they had yet to go. 
The enemy was close enough now to be clearly visible. They were a ragtag band, reedy women and heavily muscled labourers, armoured mercenaries and robed priests, armed all of them with whatever was at hand – staves, sickles, hammers. Few among them were well equipped, though spears and gleaming armour could be seen. They had the look of a peasant militia, or an outlaw band, and Kamvar found himself pitying them. From the flat top of the ziggurat’s massive base step, the end of their climb – the finished third step atop which the scaffolds sat – looked much closer. Soon, the worshippers of Nin would be within range of the Hunt’s spears, and the massacre would begin in earnest.
Barsam’s band fired in response and pushed on. From this distance, Kamvar could see the chaos their shots had wrought. Above them, men and women screamed and fell, or shoved each other away in a desperate bid to find shelter – any shelter – behind stone or scaffold. As had happened so many times before, arrows answered their own, but the volley had grown thin. Kamvar did not know whether the temple’s defenders were running out of arrows or archers.
They reached the wide plateau of the ziggurat’s second level far more swiftly than they had the first, owing not only to the faltering defense, but also to the temple’s construction. It had been erected in the monolithic style of the most ancient of Ekkadi temples, with the first step at least twice as high as the remainder. Before them was but one more stairway, and then they would be at the top.
“Onward!” Yazan shouted. He was with Barsam at the very centre of a shield wall. The Hound was flagging. His face was still that of a dervish in the throes of religious ecstasy, but his breathing was ragged and his shoulders drooped. It was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other. So complete was his concentration that he was no longer able even to give orders.
What sorcery must this be, that has bent him so completely? It was best not to dwell on the answer. Magic enough to wear down a Hound’s God-given defenses would no doubt spell the end of their assault, if by some means Barsam’s protection was taken away. Nerkut’s soldiers – Ahamash bless them, they were braver men than he had ever expected they would be – had been made to understand the enormity of their task, and so the Hound’s wall proved impenetrable. Fallen men were replaced swiftly and uncomplainingly by whoever was closest at hand, every warrior well aware that Barsam's death meant his own.
“See how the heathen fears us!” cried Yazan. “Press on!”
They were close enough to see the desperation; close enough to hear orders shouted in a deeply accented male voice: “Cowards, hold the line!” 
Moments later, when the vanguard of their assault had made it halfway up the stair, a final surprise was unleashed. “Now!” shouted the enemy commander. Kamvar heard grunting from above, interspersed with anguished shrieks. 
“Brace!” shouted an Ekkadi at the point. Kamvar dug in his heels and supported the man in front of him, another of the Lugal’s soldiers. He could see nothing over the next man, and found himself grateful for the strong shoulders pressing into his back. Ahead there was a metallic din. The man in front of him swayed only a little from whatever impact had taken place up front.
The scrape and clatter of bronze against stone drew Kamvar’s eyes to the right, and suddenly he understood. They had been hit not by a stone or a log, but a man, one of the few armoured worshippers of Nin. Kamvar watched as he careened down the stair, and saw the splinters of a snapped arrow shaft protruding from his split helm.
The corpses. Ahamash, they’re throwing their dead at us.
Kamvar heard a woman’s pained scream far ahead, and moments later another scream in the same voice, as their column shuddered and swayed from impact. And… and their injured, he realized, a sickness in the pit of his stomach.
The morbid avalanche continued, until finally he lost count of the bodies – alive and otherwise – that he saw pass. 
They lost one man, when a dead labourer bounced unpredictably over the shields of the men in the fore and took with him a surprised Ekkadi at the edge of the column. “Nua!” called an anguished voice, and then Kamvar saw the Lugal’s man – one of the scouts, he realized with a start – tumbling down the stair. Kamvar hoped the man would live, that he would escape a broken neck or a shattered spine. If he did not, he would be the only casualty of this last desperate gambit. The line had held.
“At them! Charge!” Yazan cried finally. The column lurched onward, at first slowly and then picking up speed. Kamvar felt the heaviness in his legs drain away as he jogged up the stair, battle cries stirring his blood.
“Ahamash!” Tahmin’s shout nearly deafened his left ear, and they ran side by side, breathing like bellows. Above them, the dying screamed in concert with the shriek of bronze against bronze. The defenders did not manage to hold the high ground for even a moment. They were bowled over, hurled aside, pushed back. When Kamvar finally crested the final steps, he found a plateau soaked in blood.
The defenders fought ferociously, but they were clearly outmatched. The temple stair was strewn with the dead and dying, as many of them wearing Nerkut’s colours as not. At the plateau’s centre, shaded by scaffolding, the most martial-looking of Nin’s worshippers had formed a circle around something Kamvar could not make out through the press of bodies. 
“Protect the priestess!” shouted the accented man that had bellowed orders while they ascended the temple. His voice drew Kamvar’s eye. A Bhargat, he realized with a start. The commander, strangest of a strange company, was at least two heads taller than anybody around him. Eyes like glowing coals dominated his flame-red face. From so close, the mixed nature of the temple guard was clear. They were men and women, many slave-branded. Some were soft and doughy, others whip-thin and made leathery by the sun.
A cry alerted Kamvar to a small band of robed men with spears and long knives, who chanted prayers as they fought. At their feet were many bodies, and they continued to push forward. The battle in Inatum’s sewers, which now seemed so long ago, was brought again to the fore of Kamvar’s mind. He looked around him for support and found Akosh beside him. The old soldier followed the line of his finger and grinned lustily. Together, they charged.
The closest that Kamvar came to injury that day was a sword swing that skittered off the edge of a shield brought too late into play and bounced harmlessly from the bronze scales that covered his arms. His own spear fared better. He did not know how many men he had killed and how many he had injured, but his and Akosh’s arrival had turned battle into rout.
Elsewhere, the attacking forces pressed inexorably against the tight knot of defenders at the plateau’s centre, two walls of shield and spear, their own larger and better armed. It was now only a matter of time. The Bhargat commander seemed to be the last to realize this – he still bellowed orders, and probed the Hunt’s defenses with an enormous long-bladed spear. Still, his line of men continued to thin before the soldiers’ onslaught, and soon even he had to concede the loss.
It was said that the Bhargat did not know the fear of death. Here, at the highest point of ruined Alu-nin-hura, Kamvar saw the truth of the adage. The man from the Molten Peaks, inflamed, threw back his head and roared an unfamiliar word in a language Kamvar had never heard spoken. He leapt from the cover of his men into the enemy, a charge of one man, casting about with his cruel weapon. His prodigious strength hurled bronze-armoured men aside as though they were children, killing several. But he was still only one man. He was surrounded and brought down, Yazan’s blade in his back.
With this final loss, the resistance faded. Several of the harried defenders cast away their weapons and sued for clemency. None was granted. They were cut down to the very last, a sweat-drenched Hakshi woman who swayed unsteadily on her feet: the priestess, unarmed, but for ineffectual sorceries.
“Take her alive. We give her to Shimurg,” said Yazan, Hound Barsam leaning wearily against his shoulder.
It was not to be. Alu-nin-hura’s final defender produced a knife from her sleeve, and cut her own throat.
“It’s over,” said Barsam wearily. The sorceress’s blood pooled at the base of an altar to which a gagged girl was bound.
The Hunt’s losses, in the end, were minimal. Beyond cuts and scrapes, the Huntsmen were unharmed – at least, they were no fewer than they had been that morning, and that was a cause for some relief. Tahmin complained of a pain in his right elbow, which had been struck by an errant club, but the wound was superficial. Hesam’s chin was split with a gash that looked more painful than it truly was. 
The Lugal’s soldiers had fared less well. The temple climb had failed to dent their armour, but the battle at the summit had rent it. In the final moments of their mission, they had lost almost half their number.
As Shimurg approached the Bones, the slapdash camp they had erected at the base of the temple still buzzed with activity. 
Not a man among them – neither Ekkadi nor Sarvashi – wished to leave the fallen behind in this ill-omened place, and so they had spent the evening of a tiring battle carrying the dead and wounded down the temple steps, while men too badly hurt to lift a body contrived stretchers from spears and cloaks. Among these was the scout Nua, the only man among them to fall from the temple stair. He had shattered a kneecap and broken a leg in the fall, and howled in pain while another man splinted the wound, but he lived. By the time night fell, he was even jovial. He teased his companions for being saddled with work from which he was exempt, and made light of his impending vacation from Nerkut’s guard.
Kamvar’s last man was a grey-bearded veteran who had suffered a grievous stomach wound. Several hours ago, the man had begged for a soldier’s mercy. Now he had his repose. Kamvar lowered the dead man carefully to the street outside the camp, his owns muscles groaning in protest at a bloody day’s work. 
Can I really do this? Tonight? How far can I possibly get with my legs shaking so?
The rest of the men would be just as spent. Kamvar was making excuses, and he knew it. Still, it was so tempting to call the mission complete and return home, to forswear the idiot’s life that he was now mystified he had ever chosen. All I would have to do is… nothing.
And yet, Ilasin had well and truly broken his heart. She lay trussed and gagged now at Barsam’s feet. Her hair was matted and filthy, and her eyes were red from weeping. She was, in all, a piteous sight. For all that she remained stick-thin and saturnine, she was very different from the girl he had sighted briefly in the sewers of Inatum, before that horrific shriek had split the stillness and shown him visions of death and horror.
It was her gaze. He had caught her eye, an hour or so ago, while carrying the body of a boy who looked only days too old to have been sent back to Nerkut with the horses. The look in her eyes was flat, disinterested, dejected; that of a broken slave, not a ten-year-old girl. She was so young; much too young to have been so ill used.
Stealth no longer an issue, the company had elected to start a fire. Barsam, who was clearly bone-weary, seemed nevertheless jubilant when he rose to speak to them. His voice was no longer the curt growl of a man worn down by a lifetime of pent-up rage. Exhausted and elated, Barsam brought to mind Sahar after the birth of their son.
Ahamash, don’t be ridiculous. Can I think of nothing but children these days?
The Hound did not speak for long. He thanked the men for their sacrifice, and promised them a place at God’s table. He reminded them that their duty of vigilance had not yet ended, and would not until they returned safely to Nerkut. Then, he staggered away, a grin contorting the scar that marked his lost eye, and all but collapsed beside Ilasin. Yazan had followed him, and the two exchanged a brief word that ended in another smile from the Hound. He clasped Yazan’s hand and waved him away.
“Volunteered for Barsam’s Hunt, I don’t doubt,” said Tahmin. 
Kamvar nodded. “Most likely. They are made for each other, these days.” There was a bitterness in his voice that he had no intention of concealing. “Please, Tam… I know you have your reservations about my piety, but please. Just tell me that you won’t do it. If you must, find another Majid.”
Tahmin smiled at Kamvar and shook his head. “No, I’ll not be joining him. For one thing, I have no interest in Sarvagadis. I’ve seen enough of swamps. For another… well, we’ll see. Never mind.”
“What? Tell me.”
Tahmin shrugged. “I was thinking of joining the priesthood, actually.”
Kamvar stared at his friend, dumbfounded.
“The peaceful one!” Tahmin added, then laughed. “But don’t tell him I said that. I’ve been thinking it through. I don’t enjoy this life – of course I don’t – and I think maybe my oath to the Prophet should be served a different way.”
“You know you’ll need to… uh, learn, right? You know, read books. Prepare sermons.”
Tahmin punched Kamvar in the shoulder, and then winced as the momentarily forgotten pain in his elbow flared up.
“I won’t be far. You had best believe you’ll be helping me with my lessons again. Can you believe it, though? Me, a priest?”
Kamvar could, and said so. It seemed somehow fitting.
“What will you do, Akosh?” asked Tahmin.
“Hm?” Akosh yawned, bearlike. He had been drifting in and out of sleep. “Do about what?”
“About… well, life. What will you do now that this is over?”
“It’s not over yet, Tahmin,” he said, but the reminder seemed perfunctory. The look in his eyes was that of a man gazing far into the distance. “I will return to my post as Ila-uanna’s guard captain. And then, gods willing, I’ll show her the Stone of Lanapish.”
For a moment, Tahmin was confused. Then he started to laugh. “I hope it’s as impressive as the stories say.” 
“I’ve never heard any complaints.”
“Well, goats have a certain quiet dignity,” said Kamvar.
“Funny man,” said Akosh, rolling his eyes – still, a smile pulled at the lines of his face. “So that only leaves you, Kamvar. Have you decided what to do?”
Yes. Ahamash give me strength, I have.
“Yes. I will forswear this life and return to my homestead. I’ll spend the days eating Sahar’s too-dry cooking, tending to my horses and pigs, and teaching my boy letters. And, Ahamash willing, I’ll put another child into Sahar. Then perhaps a third. Maybe I’ll sire a whole litter.”
It was the truth, but it was not the whole truth, and his cheeks reddened. Honourable men did not lie, especially not to childhood friends, but what other choice did he have? He trusted in the night to hide his face from Ahamash and Tahmin alike. Still, his oldest friend regarded him with a look that seemed to probe at his defenses, a gaze too knowing for his comfort.
You’re being paranoid.
Mercifully, Tahmin’s attention was diverted by nervous laughter that had taken hold of a group of soldiers nearby. As quickly as it had started, it was gone, leaving the men looking uncomfortable, even bashful. Kamvar sensed a tension among them that he recognized as every victorious warrior’s curse to bear: elation at having survived, tempered with guilt. Laughter seemed an affront to the dead when the wounds of their passing still bled.
One of the men noticed that Tahmin was looking his way and averted his eyes with a scowl. I wonder how much blame they place on us for this. For all that they had fought together, there was nevertheless a palpable distance between the Lugal’s soldiers and their own men, the more so now, after they had suffered so many casualties and the Huntsmen so few.
Even Akosh, normally popular with the rank and file, had avoided the soldiers’ company. Earlier, Kamvar had asked the old man why he did not join a group of soldiers dicing and drinking around the fire. Akosh had dismissed the question, claiming that he’d no money left to put up, but his broad face had betrayed a strange melancholy.
Still, not all the Ekkadi wished them ill. One of the nearby soldiers stood up, a wineskin in hand, and wandered over to the three friends with a smile. Kamvar recognized the man, though he did not know his name. They had exchanged condolences earlier, while carrying dead men from the temple stair.
The man sat down with them. “You are the three that visited the High Priest, are you not?” he asked, passing his wineskin to Tahmin on his left. Tahmin took a pull and winced, a sour expression on his face. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and passed the skin to Kamvar.
“Yes,” said Tahmin. “What on earth is this?”
“It is koumiss; a wine made of mare’s milk. We found several skins among the cultists’ belongings.”
“It’s… different,” said Tahmin, forcing a grin. “Bracing.”
Kamvar elected to sniff the stopper. His nostrils were assaulted with the acrid, salty smell of curdled milk. 
“It’s not as bad as all that,” said Akosh. “I’m sure you hill-men drink far worse.”
Shrugging, Kamvar tipped the skin back and took a swig. The drink was sour, but refreshing. “It’s unusual, but not unpleasant. Thank you.”
“You’re joking,” said Tahmin. “Ahamash, we really do need to return home.”
Kamvar ignored him, and offered the skin to Akosh, who snatched it lustily from his outstretched hand. “You asked about the High Priest?”
“Yes,” said the soldier. “The High Priest prayed with a few of us, before we left. He said that you three were honourable men, ready to do what is just, and that we should feel proud to fight alongside you.” He gave Kamvar a strange look, as though he was sizing him up.
“Some of my friends do not agree. They would be happy to slit you from stomach to throat if need be. Many of us are proud men, and do not love the Merezadesh. But I trust that High Priest Ananta is a better judge of character than we are, and you have never shown yourself to be anything but honourable. So consider this a peace offering, of sorts, between honest men. We do you a great wrong by turning up our noses and cursing under our breath. You have fought bravely at our side, and I hope that you will do so again.”
“Th-thank you,” said Kamvar to the unexpected compliment. “That is very kind… I am sorry, I do not know your name. Too many new faces.”
“I am Lubash,” said the soldier. “Will you join us in our tent? Perhaps if the men have a chance to speak to you and drink with you, they will warm to your presence.”
They drank that night with Lubash and Belshanu, Adnad and Debu, and two other men whose names Kamvar had difficulty matching to faces. Some of the Ekkadi were distant at first, but their reservations seemed to melt away when they learned that the old Karhani who traveled alongside them was, in fact and not rumour, none other than the Stone of Lanapish. It seemed sometimes, Tahmin noted, that every fighting man between the rivers knew Akosh by reputation. Akosh had reddened, but he reveled in the attention. 
During Akosh’s third tale, sleep began to take Kamvar. He nearly drifted off after Akosh’s cattle theft, discovered, turned from a small larceny into an armed standoff between two cities.
A look at the sky confirmed that it was indeed getting late. The night-fires had begun their nightly descent, and many bedrolls were already full with men who snored in concert with the piteous moans of the painfully wounded.
Kamvar excused himself, thanking the Ekkadi for their hospitality, and rose to his feet. They were steady, which was good. He had been mindful of the koumiss passing his lips. He stretched out on his furs and closed his eyes, wishing that if he opened them he would see his wife and son. He could not sleep, however. It had to be tonight, while everybody was weary and inattentive. If not, he was certain to lose his nerve.
Moments later, a hand shook his shoulder.
“Kamvar.”
“Tam? You look serious.”
Tahmin nodded. “I… just need to tell you something. Earlier, when you said that I doubted your piety, you were wrong. I don’t. I don’t at all. Ahamash, we’ve known each other our entire lives. I know the measure of your character better than any man here. It’s… this is embarrassing.” He took a deep breath. “It’s just that the things you say, sometimes, the doubts that you have, about the Hounds and about the Temple. I share those doubts, Kamvar. Of course I do. And it shames me to admit it sometimes. It goes against so much of what we’ve been taught, but…”
Tahmin trailed off, groping after the words to describe sentiments he was loath to admit.
“How well do you remember my father?”
A gap-toothed grin hidden inside a thick beard; the scent of leather and sweat; big, hairy-knuckled hands handing him a lovingly carved wooden sword on that last birthday they spent together, before Tahmin’s father and Kamvar’s died in lands they had only ever seen on a map. Kamvar felt tears coming on. Oh, that wounds so old can still sting. He took a breath and composed himself.
“I remember. He reminds me so much of you. Or the other way around, I guess. In those days, he seemed like he was always smiling. He always had a treat for us. Do you remember that harvest moon, when he pulled us from our beds and marched us into the common room, pretending all the while that he was furious that we’d dared to go to bed with the beer jars still sealed? We must have been... what, seven years old?”
“I remember. I remember him laughing at me the next morning, too, when I was too sick to touch breakfast.”
“Why do you ask?”
Tahmin turned to him and smiled wanly. “If he’d known we followed in his footsteps and became fighting men, I think he’d have killed me with whatever was at hand. He’d have bludgeoned me with a goat, Kamvar, and then he’d probably have gone after your father for letting you get away with such foolishness. He dreaded being called away to battle. He told me once, maybe a year before Dolnaya, that one day a messenger would come to our house to tell us that he would never come home again. And then, when I burst out crying, he took me by the shoulders and s-shook me.”
Tahmin closed his eyes and collected his thoughts, drawing deep breaths to steady himself. “He told me, ‘It’s too late for me. I’ve sworn my oaths. My son, don’t repeat my mistakes. I know you like to wave your sticks around and play at war, but some day – and it could be some day soon – you’ll need to be a man, and put those games away. Follow the teachings of Ahamash, of God. Not of men. There’s no glory in stepping over corpses, wondering how many friends you’ve lost this time. Live a life of peace. Tam, you’re headstrong and emotional, and you always will be, because you’re my son. Promise me that you’ll be careful, and follow Kamvar. Kamvar’s careful where you’re impulsive, and thoughtful where you’re… well, like me. Let him be your guide, and I promise you’ll do well.’ And then,” said Tahmin, thrusting a finger into Kamvar’s chest, “you went and joined the seminary to become a Huntsman, and made a liar of him. And I followed you because he was right – I am headstrong and emotional.”
Kamvar, sheepish, hung his head. “He said that? I can’t imagine Uncle being so… eloquent.”
“Well, there was more cursing and bluster, and he repeated himself a lot more. I’ve had almost twenty-five years to clean it up.”
Kamvar laughed. That sounded a little more like uncle Siyamak. “I guess we are destined to make the same mistakes as our fathers,” he said. “Hopefully, I’ve recognized mine before it’s too late. I really don’t want Ashuz to grow up like I did, without a father to guide his hand.”
“I’m happy to hear that. And… well, I still think my father was right. And I’ll still follow wherever you lead.” Kamvar thought he detected a subtle mockery in the curve of Tahmin’s smile and the sly narrowing of his eyes. Could he know?
Kamvar glanced furtively in both directions to ensure nobody was listening in on their conversation, and sidled closer to his lifelong friend.
“Tahmin,” he whispered. “What are you saying?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. Whatever you’re planning, I’m with you.”
“How do you know I’m planning something?”
“Do you really think I didn’t know you were lying, there in the temple of Kutuanu? ‘I’ve sworn an oath’ indeed. You know, you underestimate me. You always have.”
Kamvar’s cheeks started to burn.
“… And I think,” said Tahmin, “that I – and Akosh – already have some idea of the foolish and dangerous thing you intend to do. He’s with us also.”
“I… I am humbled. I really have underestimated you, and I’m sorry. I’ve been too self-absorbed to think that you might also be struggling with your beliefs.”
Tahmin shrugged. “You have my forgiveness without the need of asking it… although it is nice to hear you admit that. But anyway, about what I was saying earlier: I don’t doubt your faith, Kam. I doubt my own, for doubting you. If there’s anyone in this world that I can trust to be doing Ahamash’s work, it’s you.”
I pray that I am worthy of your trust, my friend. He clasped Tahmin’s hand and pulled him into his embrace.
“Where is Akosh?” he asked, trying to distract himself from the emotion that threatened to overcome him. “You’re right, I do intend to spend tonight doing something foolish and dangerous. I really do not want to involve you, but…”
“Save it. We’re in, and that’s that.”
“So what’s the plan, then?” asked Akosh, a half-hour later. “I know you have something up your sleeve, and unless I miss my guess, it has to do with the High Priest’s daughter.”
“Yes,” said Kamvar. “Of course. I … I don’t like this whole thing. Nerkut is playing politics with a child’s life, and I am ashamed that we have had a part in it. Sorceress though she may be, she’s… what, nine years old? Ten? I… I can’t. I have to save her.”
“So,” said Akosh, unperturbed. “What’s the plan, then?”
Kamvar looked from Akosh to Tahmin. Both men looked determined, and neither seemed at all surprised. I hope Barsam doesn’t find me so transparent.
“I… well, Barsam’s still with the girl. I was thinking to offer to take over the watch. If he agrees, I’ll wait until he’s asleep, cut the girl loose and then we run back to the boats. With three men, it’ll be easier. We can take two boats, and load one up with supplies. Knock holes in the rest. We ought to be able to reach the Shalumes before the rest of the men can even get out of the swamp, and from there we can go any place our faces aren’t known.”
“And if Barsam doesn’t go to sleep?” asked Tahmin.
“Then I’ll do what I must.” It had taken some time to steel himself to the possibility that there would be bloodshed. He looked over to where the girl was held captive, and cursed.
“Yazan. Damnation, Yazan has taken over for the Hound. Well, I suppose that changes nothing. I’ll still kill him, if need be.”
Kamvar’s voice trailed away. If need be.
They would be happy to slit you from stomach to throat if need be. Suddenly, Kamvar understood. The High Priest had no intention of trusting in the vagaries of fate.
“Ahamash, I’m such a fool.” 
Tahmin looked at him quizzically. 
You have fought bravely at our side, and I hope that you will do so again.
“Lubash, the soldiers. They’re the priest’s men. They intend to spring Ilasin. I’d stake your life on it.”
“Ahamash, of course,” said Tahmin. “We are fools, aren’t we? It’s plain as day.”
“All that remains, then, is to offer our own services,” said Akosh.
They crept to the tent where they had drunk with the Ekkadi soldiers earlier that night, careful to stay out of the sight of sentries. Barsam had posted many guards – too many, Kamvar realized, and he was suddenly glad of the possibility of help – but the dangers of which they were aware lay outside the camp.
“Lubash,” whispered Kamvar, passing through the entry flap of the large army tent. A number of huddled forms stirred beneath night linens; one of them rose to a crouch.
“Who is that? Kamvar?”
“Yes, it’s me. Lubash, I need to ask you a question.”
“Oh?” Lubash’s voice was tense with pretense; he played poorly at nonchalance. Kamvar suddenly became aware of a man to his right, who moved behind him to block the tent entrance.
I hope I’m right about this. But what was there to worry about? Of course he was correct. The signs could have been no plainer on a map.
“To whom do you owe your allegiance? High Priest Ananta, or the Lugal?”
The unmistakable hiss of bronze leaving a sheath came from behind him.
For a moment there was silence, while Lubash considered his words. Finally, he said simply, “Ananta.”
“I thought as much,” said Kamvar, sighing in relief. “We have come to take you up on your offer. We will fight side by side once more.”
Outside the tent, a marsh frog let out a long croak. 
“Oh, thank the gods,” said Lubash, falling to his knees. “Kutuanu provides. I was afraid I was making a terrible mistake when I went to you, but his Holiness was right. Kutuanu provides.”
Ananta’s men had numbered eight before entering the marsh, and had lost only two of their number. Lubash explained that they were members of a small group that had long served as the High Priest’s eyes and ears within the Lugal’s guard, under the direction of a general whose loyalty to Nerkut was both beyond reproach and largely imaginary. The High Priest was no stranger to the tawdry matters of intrigue and politics. Are they ever?
The plan, in the end, was not at all dissimilar from Kamvar’s own. Three of Lubash’s men had drawn the watch that night, and were already at their stations at the southern edge of the camp. The remaining three, with Kamvar and his friends, would creep into position near them. Two other sentries, men loyal to the Lugal, were uncomfortably near their planned escape route. They would have to be killed.
Kamvar would approach Yazan, who watched Ilasin in Barsam’s place, and offer to take over. Then, he would escape with Ilasin by the south, where the guards would raise no cry, and head for the boats.
Yazan, please agree. If he did not… Kamvar did not want to think about it. He was committed, now. He could and would bring his blade to bear. Still, the thought of murder in cold blood – of a brother, no less, a man he had fought beside for years, a man he had once loved, still loved – turned his stomach. But it had to be done.
Ahamash, forgive me. But it was night. His sins would be his own to carry, the God blind to his actions. That was less comforting than Kamvar had thought it would be.
“Barsam has to die,” said Akosh. “If we leave him behind us, he will track us as surely as he has tracked the girl thus far.”
Kamvar shifted uncomfortably where he was sitting. It was true, as far as it went, but he felt, somehow, that any such attempt would doom them, that the Hound would catch the scent of his treachery.
“We cannot,” said Lubash, shaking his head. “He is too well guarded, and we cannot risk waking the entire camp – if we do, we shall never leave this place alive.”
Relief warred with apprehension, but ultimately, relief won. There was something about the Hound that still made Kamvar feel as though he was just a silly child trying to sneak mischief past a stern father. And this little adventure would merit far worse than a switching.
Akosh did not like the plan, and he said so, but he conceded that Lubash was likely right. And so, they were decided.
“Can’t sleep?” asked Yazan.
Kamvar shook his head, and sat down beside the grim Huntsman. In the dim glow of firelight, the burns that were Yazan’s face seemed less pronounced. Kamvar imagined that he could see the old Yazan, the man who had lost neither friend nor face to a Sarvashi Daiva.
Idiot. Your guilt is making you stupid. Yazan is an obstacle; you can ruminate on the past when this is through
“Had to piss,” said Kamvar. “And after I did, I realized I’m no longer sleepy.”
“Lucky you.” Yazan yawned. “I’m two shakes from collapsing where I sit.”
“Go to sleep, then,” said Kamvar, hardly believing his fortune. “I can’t, so I may as well take over.”
Yazan looked his way – too appraisingly, thought Kamvar – then turned back, stifling another yawn. “I’d rather not. Hound Barsam expects to see me here when he wakes, and he’s not the sort of man I want to surprise. But you’re welcome to keep me company. I could use someone to talk to. Keeps my eyes open.”
Kamvar’s stomach turned. He imagined himself plunging a knife into Yazan’s throat, then looked at Ilasin in a bid to steady himself. The girl seemed to be sleeping. At least someone is. “Tam thinks you took him up on his offer,” Kamvar said. “Do you intend to join Barsam’s Hunt?”
Yazan nodded. “I have come to admire the Hound. He is strong, uncompromising. I’ll admit I was a bit contemptuous at first – I mean, we’ve all heard the stories, yes? – but I think I understand, now.
“How many deaths has this waif caused?” Yazan asked, pointing at Ilasin. “Every place we followed her to, we found corpses. And she is only a child. What could she become? Barsam understands what it means to hunt Daiva. He is pitiless because he must be, because it is the only way to protect the rest of us.”
“Majid never failed in his duty,” said Kamvar.
“It was only a matter of time. Majid was weak and undisciplined. Like you.” There was bitterness in Yazan’s voice. “Sorry, but that’s the truth. He had all these big ideas, these foolish hopes of redemption for… creatures, demons. Not men. I was with him longer than you. He was exactly the sort of man who was just waiting to ‘interpret’ the Prophet’s words and damn us all. You should join Barsam too, Kamvar. It would be good for you. Your faith is weak. He can make it stronger, like he did mine.”
He’s become a fanatic. Kamvar realized. Somehow, that made things easier.
“Perhaps I will at that,” said Kamvar. “I still don’t know what to do with myself once this mission is over.” His hand inched towards the broad-bladed knife at his side, came to rest on the pommel.
Ahamash, forgive me for what I am about to do. 
“Good,” said Yazan.
Ahamash, the Merciful. Ahamash, the Forgiving. Majid’s faith had never been weak – it was true. The Shimurg rose anew every day. Even the freshest priest knew that his rebirth carried the promise of redemption for any and all.
Ahamash will forgive me.
The blade left its scabbard with the barest whisper; Kamvar twisted where he sat and swung the knife in an arc, pommel first, striking Yazan hard in the temple. He would not kill him. Not like this. Yazan also deserved to rise anew.
His brother, struck unconscious, began to topple. Kamvar steadied him and looked around. The noise of the strike appeared to have gone unnoticed. There were no cries, and nobody stirred.
He knelt down before Ilasin, sawing at her bonds. The commotion woke her. Her eyes were suddenly open, gleaming with reflected firelight.
“Do not be afraid,” Kamvar whispered. “I am here to help you, to get you away from here.”
No sign remained of the dejection that had so affected him. Ilasin’s eyes were clear and alert. When the last of the ropes fell away, he removed her gag. She looked uncertain for a moment, and then she smiled.
It was not until several hours later that Kamvar heard a distant horn blowing an alarum. With a shrug, he concentrated on nearer sounds: Akosh snoring behind him, and the lapping of water against his oars.
When Shimurg rose that morning, Kamvar greeted him proudly.
Chapter 17: Memories
Leonine scowled. The trail had grown far too confusing. 
At first, it had been easy, even if the Huntsmen had left far earlier than he’d expected. He was hours behind them when he heard the news.
Still, horses did not pass without trace. 
He followed, and from a hiding place in a thick bed of reeds had watched as the horses turned back towards the city. 
That had worried him at first, but the trail was not lost. Hoof prints gave way to footprints in the springy earth, and shortly after into furrows and troughs in deep mud.
He had been able to follow obvious signs of passage for the entirety of his first day in the swamp. As that day drew to a close, deep mud turned to an ankle-deep pool of water, and the prints disappeared. He had resolved to continue onward, following the line he had already taken, in the hope that a trail would reassert itself. His panic at the prospect that it might not was short-lived. As night fell, he became aware of a thin but constant stream of sorcery far to the southeast.
Exhausted – when was the last time he had slept, anyway? – Leonine had allowed himself an hour’s rest near midnight, but no more. By morning, the trail was again cold, but he’d followed it long enough to be convinced of its destination. The chariot ruts, the footsteps, the faint sorceries – they were an arrow, straight and true, pointing to the heart of flooded Alu-nin-hura.
That afternoon, everything started to unravel. He could feel once again the flows of sorcery, somewhere in the distance. As the hours passed, they grew stronger and stronger, until they were as insistent and shrill as shrieks echoing in the alleys of Sarvagadis. Then, abruptly, they were no more. 
He had heard nothing since then. A cacophonous evening gave way to a night that was catacomb-quiet. When morning dawned, Leonine realized that he had no idea where he was or where he was going.
That had been four hours ago. The shadows had grown shorter since then, and Leonine, despairing of the trail he had again lost, found himself sitting with his back to a mangrove, head in his hands, praying to any god who would listen that Ilasin might still be alive.
He had thought the gods indifferent to his plight – they could hardly love him, not after the life he had led – and yet, moments later, he felt a new flush of powerful sorcery, built up and released in a single burst, like a shout. It was closer now than it had been. Another answered from deeper within the swamp, as though echoing the first.
Two trails – but which was which?
Ultimately, Leonine supposed, it did not matter. He would investigate the closer source. If it was Ilasin – dared he hope? – then all was well. If it was the Hunt, Ilasin would either be there, or they would lead him to her.
And if it’s neither? The conversation with the Kardash Umamum weighed on his mind. The Crescent was here as well, nesting, no doubt, somewhere in the ruins of Alu-nin-hura. What better place for Nin’s cult than the ruined city? Sarvagadis had been Nin-nishi once. He wondered what foothold the Crescent had in that city, so close to the centre of the Merezad's power. 
Think later. He pressed on, marching on legs weary from days and nights without rest. A part of him thought it would be prudent to sit a while and marshal his strength. If he needed to fight, or make a hasty escape, his struggle to find Ilasin might end all too abruptly. 
Yet he pressed on, ignoring the pain and the exhaustion, a cold voice whispering that any moment could be her last.
When he next felt sorcery, much nearer than he had anticipated, Shimurg was directly above. This time, there was no answer from deeper in the swamp. Two hours later, the call repeated, closer once again.
This time, he recognized it.
Ilasin. Ila, I’m here.
He could not see her face, but her shoulders moved. She breathed, lived. His chest was tight, his heart raced. His head was light, euphoric.
They were three, her guardians, around the campfire. One, seated beside the fire, he recognized as Akosh, the Stone of Lanapish. The other two were the Hound’s soldiers, faces half-remembered, glimpsed over a shoulder during the breakneck chase in the streets and sewers of Inatum. 
Leonine fingered the hilt of his knife, his breathing measured, steady. He could probably kill the soldier before either of them knew he was there. With luck, the old man would be surprised, and could be killed before he managed to stand up. If not? Well, at the very least he could buy Ila some time to escape.
Escape? Why has she not simply killed them? 
But no, that would have left her alone in the marsh, at the mercies of cultists and crocodiles alike. She was probably biding her time, at least until a city was in sight. He would spare her the trouble.
He drew his knife, cautiously, lest the scrape of blade against scabbard give away his position. He could not risk sorcery any longer. Not here, with the Hound’s men so close. There was no knowing where their handler might be. Here, he would rely on bronze.
The blade cleared his scabbard, and he was moving, creeping slowly to the end of the little grove of rushes in which he stood, to the point at which the safety of concealment would vanish, replaced by a desperate run and blood.
The last of the rushes. Leonine took a deep breath and readied himself, feeling exposed. He would have only one chance at this.
The silence broke. “I can’t believe all this trouble started over one little girl. Barsam must be mad.” Akosh said, looking down at Ilasin. 
Barsam? Barsam? A flood of memories. There was laughter, once. 
Then Farshideh, in the desert, staring with blind eyes at merciless Shimurg. 
Barsam? It was not possible. Barsam was dead. He had killed him, had felt the impact of his knife burying itself deep in the Hound’s eye.
Leonine felt his veins grew hot, heart pounding in his throat. He wanted to scream.
In her blanket by the campfire, Ilasin’s power stirred. She bolted upright, looking in his direction.
Too slow, idiot. Later! The first soldier was a fast one. Before Leonine had crossed even half the distance, he’d turned on him, bringing the spear down from his shoulder.
Leonine was faster still. He feinted to his left, as far from his opponent’s spearhead as possible. The soldier did not step back as expected, instead swinging the butt end of his weapon in a tight arc that would have ended at Leonine’s jaw. So much the better. Leonine made to dive at his feet instead, then felt a hard knee clip his jaw. 
A feint. He whirled away, trying to keep his eyes on his opponent, and felt his shoulder painfully strike a stone. The other man approached, spear in hand, and Leonine scrambled to his knees.
“Kamvar, no!”
Ilasin!
The man stopped, a strange look in his eyes. Leonine heard a rustling behind him as he tried desperately to make sense of the situation. Ilasin’s voice rang out again.
“Don’t you dare! If you hurt him, I’ll kill you.”
Akosh and the other soldier loomed a few feet away. Suddenly, other men came into view, wearing the livery of Nerkut.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. In his haste, in the dark, Leonine had failed to notice a war tent hidden in the trees, far too large for only three men. He tried to count the newcomers, but suddenly Ilasin was all he saw. She ran to him, and then she was in his arms, weeping. Leonine cradled her head in his hands, kissing her hair, her forehead, her cheek. He too wept.
You’re not safe yet. He took Ilasin’s hands from around his neck, and stumbled awkwardly to his feet, looking to his left and then right. The other men had drawn no closer. Akosh looked bemused. The man he’d fought trained his eyes on Leonine, his expression difficult to read.
“Did they hurt you?” he asked Ilasin. 
“No,” she replied, squeezing his hand. She was smiling now, radiant through grime and matted hair. “No, they captured me away from the others. From the Hound. Said they were going to take me back to town. I knew you’d come after me.”
Of course I came after you.
“Ila, there are many people after you. Who knows who this bunch is working for? We cannot trust them.”
Ilasin shook her head. “No, Navid. These men are friends.” 
It was idiocy, lunacy. Why was he considering it? And yet, there was no question that an escape from so many armed and trained men was likelier than not to end badly.
Leonine took a deep breath and closed his eyes. So many questions. Where to begin? From the beginning. Start from the very beginning.
“Your Hound’s name is Barsam?” he asked.
The man Ilasin had called Kamvar regarded Leonine, his large brown eyes set in a face that looked too care-worn for his still few years. “Was Barsam. He is no longer my Hound.”
“Describe him.”
“He’s seen some fifty summers, maybe more,” said Kamvar. “Stocky, well-built. Missing his right arm and eye. Scarred face. His nose looks like it was broken many times.”
Leonine remembered a sword whistling through the air, then the clang as it fell from nerveless fingers. He hadn’t cut that deeply – the arm must have grown gangrenous. Serves you right, you son of a bitch. It was scant consolation. Barsam should be dead. He should have bled his life away into the sands. Leonine remembered the fierce joy he’d felt when his knife pierced deep into the Hound’s eye. How that joy had been stolen when he realized that it was too late, that Farshideh was already gone. Barsam had killed her. He’d given his own sister to Shimurg.
His face must have displayed the chaos roiling inside him. He knew that. There was no controlling it, not now.
“Did Barsam come for me, or the girl?”
“He – we, I suppose – came for Ilasin. My name is Kamvar. To my left is Tahmin. I believe you and Akosh have met. The rest of the men will introduce themselves to you in due time. They are the High Priest’s soldiers, and came here to liberate Ilasin and take her back home.”
Leonine smirked and shook his head wearily. This was not at all what he’d expected. “Ila, I know this man they’re speaking of. His reach is long, and he will not give up. We must be away from here immediately. He must know where we are, after your spells.”
Kamvar was visibly taken aback. His eyes widened and came to rest on Ilasin. A few of the soldiers muttered to each other. Did they not notice her magic? She was not exactly subtle. What is going on here?
“Ilasin, why did you use your sorcery?” Leonine asked. “Was there danger?”
The girl gave him a lopsided grin. “To find you, of course. I knew you would not leave me, Navid.”
“Ila… but…” Horror began to dawn. “You should not have risked that with a Hound so close. Not this Hound.”
“He’s not that close,” said Ilasin. There was no hint of worry in her voice. “We stole their boats, and chopped holes in the ones we couldn’t take. They’ll be far behind by now. Besides, I can sense him, too. Can’t you?”
Leonine shook his head. “Yesterday, the first time I felt you drawing close, I felt another spell, farther away. I take it that was him?”
Ilasin nodded. Behind her, Kamvar and the other Sarvashi, the one he had called Tahmin, whispered furiously.
“But I haven’t felt anything since. Can you sense him still?”
Ilasin nodded. “It’s a warding spell, I think. The people who captured me used one also. There are ghouls everywhere in this swamp, but they can be scared away by magic. I… I was afraid that they would find you.”
“Ghouls?”
“Monsters,” Ilasin said, disgust apparent in her voice. “They say they’re evil men cursed by Nin to rise up after death. They need to drink blood, because they don’t have any of their own.”
“Pleasant,” said Leonine.
“You didn’t have them in Sarvagadis?” Ilasin asked. “I mean… I didn’t think they existed here, but now that I know, I would think the same happened to the dead of Nin-Nishi.”
It surprised him, sometimes, how much Ilasin knew of such things.
“I suppose we might have,” he said. “I’m not sure. The Sarvashi talk of a creature that needs to eat flesh to appear human. I always took it for a legend.”
There were too many legends, Leonine decided. Entirely too many of them were coming true.
Kamvar cleared his throat.
“Excuse me a moment… but what exactly did you mean by ‘other spells’, earlier? From Barsam.”
Leonine regarded the man quizzically. “What do you mean? He’s a Hound, isn’t he?” Kamvar’s brow furrowed and he closed his eyes, as though deep in thought. 
They don’t know. 
“The Hounds are sorcerers. How else did you think they could feel and protect themselves against magic? I can do the same. So can Ilasin. We all can. I thought your order knew that.”
“All this time…” Kamvar trailed off. “No, we… we did not know that.”
“Then consider yourselves enlightened. You’d catch more Daiva within your own ranks than any place else.”
“But why…?” The other soldier, the one named Tahmin, struggled to form a question that betrayed his lack of imagination.
“Ask them. If you think they won’t burn you for heresy. Anyway, I have not come to discuss your religion. Thank you. Genuinely. I thank you for what you’ve done. Come, Ilasin. Let us make our own way.”
He offered his hand to Ilasin. She clasped it and got to her feet. As Leonine moved to turn away, an Ekkadi voice called out for him to halt. Soldiers surrounded him.
“I don’t think they’re too keen on letting the High Priest’s daughter run away with some murderer,” said Akosh, a smirk on his face. “You won’t be going anywhere.”
Ilasin’s grip tightened against his outstretched hand. 
“Call your men off,” said Leonine. “I have no idea what your orders are, but I have no intention of allowing you to fulfill them. Ilasin is safe only with me.”
“Oh, aye,” said Akosh. “You’ve obviously had her safety well in hand. She will be returned to her father, and that’s that… unless you think you can defeat us all.”
“I will not go back to Nerkut!” Ilasin shouted. “I’m staying with Navid, and don’t you dare try to stop me.”
“But child, your father himself asked us to save you,” said one of the Ekkadi. “He wishes for nothing more fervently than to see you one last time. Do you not want to see your father again? It will be safe, I promise you.”
“My father threw me out! Navid is the only father I need.”
“Your father loves you,” Kamvar said softly. “He loves you as much as I love my own child. Please, everybody, put down your weapons. Let us explain this, from the beginning, while we march. We have lost too much time already.”
Kamvar spoke of a meeting with Ananta, High Priest of Kutuanu and Ilasin’s father, and as he did so, the pieces began to fall into place: Ilasin’s escape with Uchu’s help; the Hounds called in from Sarvagadis at the Lugal’s behest; Uchu’s subsequent betrayal. It was political theatre, according to the soldier – a squabble between a Lugal who wished to court the Merezadesh and a priest loyal to the old ways. A game of shukasi, nothing more, played with Ilasin in the footman’s space.
As Kamvar’s explanation came to its close, Ilasin began to cry, hiding her face. Leonine held her hand and listened intently as the Sarvashi soldier explained his growing disgust with the orders the Huntsmen had been given, his decision to break faith with his order, and the role Lubash and his men had played.
“I… I didn’t know,” said Ilasin into Leonine’s grimy tunic. “Why did he never tell me?”
After a moment of quiet, Leonine asked, “Do you want to see your father, Ila?” 
She nodded in response.
“So be it, then. We will go with you.”
“Under one condition,” said Ilasin, glowering at Kamvar through her tears. “I don’t care what Navid has done. He’s a good man, and I would be dead a hundred times without him. If any of you have plans to hurt him, think again. I’d kill myself before I let anything happen to him.”
Kamvar was momentarily taken aback, then he softly smiled. “I am willing to accept that I may have misjudged… Navid.”
“I’m not,” grumbled Akosh. “But so be it.”
“Now that that’s settled,” said Leonine, “I suppose we will be traveling together. At least for a time.”
As evening fell, they turned northeast, heading away from the river that had drowned Alu-nin-hura. 
Ananta, it was explained, would even now be awaiting them, hidden away in a loyal noble’s homestead a day’s march east of Nerkut. Returning to the city without the Hound or the Lugal’s soldiers in tow would raise too many questions. 
The Lugal would of course suspect High Priest Ananta’s hand when he learned of Ilasin’s disappearance and the treachery at Nin’s temple. As long as there was no proof of his involvement, Lubash explained, he could plausibly claim the culprits were linked to whoever had stolen Ilasin away from Barsam in the first place.
Privately, Leonine had misgivings, but he did not voice them for fear of upsetting Ilasin. The High Priest had, in his estimation, escaped the Weeper once already, when he allowed Ilasin to escape Nerkut rather than face a Hound’s trial. A second reprieve seemed too much to ask for. Ananta had to know that death was at the very least a strong possibility.
But it would be his, not Ilasin’s.
All in all, he decided, the High Priest’s plan had almost certainly turned out for the best. They had an escort now, of armed men. Ilasin would, with luck, be reconciled with her father. Leonine would convince the High Priest that the Hounds would not stop coming, and was sure Ananta would agree that she could only be truly safe outside the Merezad. With any luck, he would help them get that far.
Barsam... that was another story. One that whirled about his mind, finding purchase in the moments between other thoughts.
They made camp atop a wide sandbar that rose above the water, shielded by a curtain of cattails, and ate a meal of cold, hard bread. Even to Leonine, who had barely eaten anything since entering the marsh, the meal was distinctly unsatisfying. He went to sleep hungry and tired, but Ilasin’s rhythmic breathing chased away his pains.
Leonine did not, in the end, sleep very long. He woke to the shuddering call of a night creature. Groaning, he looked up at the sky. Shimurg’s feathers were low to the ground, but they were still visible. Several hours remained until dawn.
He heard voices nearby, and recognized the first of them as Kamvar’s. His whispers were not quiet enough to escape Leonine’s notice.
“… I know, Tam. Do you really think I’ve forgotten?” said the soldier. “Ahamash, if you only knew how ready I was to put a spear into him.”
I wonder who they’re talking about.
“I wish you had,” said Tahmin.
“He killed our brothers because we tried to kill him. And you saw the way Ilasin ran to him, and the way he held her. He loves her. It’s plain as day. Do you think I would hesitate to kill a man that threatened to take Ashuz?”
“No… I know, I just… he even killed the servant, Kamvar. In Ila-uanna’s manor. What possible wrong could that man have done.”
There was a moment of silence, and then he heard Kamvar’s voice again.
“His past is between him and Ahamash. I don’t know that I can find fault in his present. Leave it be.”
A chuckle.
“Besides, you heard Ilasin. If she decides you’ve a too-dangerous gleam in your eye, she may kill you on the spot.”
“How do we get into these messes, Kam? Ah, to hell with it. I’m going to bed.”
Leonine tried for a time to fall back to sleep, until it became clear that this was a challenge beyond his capabilities. He gently wriggled out from beneath Ilasin’s arm, which had come to rest on his pained shoulder, careful not to disturb her sleep. 
The sentries they had posted turned towards him. Kamvar waved him over. Shrugging, Leonine went to him.
“Couldn’t sleep?” asked Kamvar.
“I could, until moments ago. Marshes are noisy.”
Leonine sat down beside Kamvar. The man beside him, one of Lubash’s, scowled and turned his face away.
“I had hoped to have a chance to speak with you,” said Kamvar.
“Oh?”
“I have learned, quite recently, that much of what I know is wrong. I suppose I have you to thank, in part, although Barsam’s… nature is really just one more rung on the ladder.”
“The joys of adulthood,” said Leonine.
“Something like that. I talked to Barsam, you know. One night in Nerkut, he was stinking drunk and melancholic. He talked to me that day about ‘lies to children’. He was talking about doubt, and crises of faith… but maybe the Hounds are another such lie. In retrospect, it’s so obvious that they’re sorcerers. Why the pretense? I’ve been wondering that all night.”
“And what have you come up with?” This Kamvar seemed thoughtful; at the very least, he was sharp enough to be an interesting diversion on a sleepless night.
“Several possibilities, I suppose. One: politics. The Temple fears sorcerous power even as it covets it. They kill sorcerers they cannot tame, and spare the more malleable in return for their service as Hounds.”
Leonine nodded. “Continue.”
“Two: pragmatism. The ‘lies to children’ bit. Sorcery is damned by Holy Writ, and – begging your pardon – it’s too dangerous to be freely used. The Temple cannot admit to employing sorcerers for fear of being seen as hypocrites, but cannot root out other sorcerers in any way except through employing their own.
“Three:  The Temple higher-ups are simply unaware of sorcery on the part of the Hounds. They think it a gift from Ahamash, and draw a distinction between ‘good’ witchcraft and ‘bad’. Perhaps ‘or draw a distinction’. So… do you know the answer?”
Leonine shook his head. “I don’t. But I have a fourth possibility for you to consider. Barsam was not always a Hound. He was just a sorcerer, albeit a fearsome and well connected one. He…” 
Leonine shuddered. It was difficult to talk of the man that he wanted dead more than any other, the man that until recently he had believed was dead. He remembered an alleyway, and Barsam – two arms, two eyes – grinning cruelly at a woman who kneeled in front of him. Her eyes blinked away rivulets of sweat, as the knife in her own hand drew inexorably closer her own throat.
“… he had the power to break wills, to force people to do his bidding. Not long after we met, a Hunt took him. He returned, several weeks later, a Hound in training. He fervently believed that he had been given a second chance, that his sins would be forgiven and his damnation averted if he used his sorceries only in the employ of the Temple.”
Kamvar thought about that a moment. “And he told you all this?”
Leonine nodded.
“What was he to you?”
A friend. Then family. Then … Then…
“Family,” he said, his voice cracking. “I married his sister.”
The reaction from Kamvar was more dramatic than Leonine had expected. His eyes widened, and for a moment his mouth worked soundlessly. Finally, he took a deep breath to steady himself. “And then he killed her.”
Sightless eyes stared into cruel Shimurg’s vast sky. Her stomach, her swollen stomach in which their child was growing, had already been torn open by carrion birds that even now sat atop a nearby rock, waiting for the newest interloper to leave so that they could continue their feast. Navid – in those days, he was only Navid – had carried her away. He had built her pyre. 
Farshideh, my light.
“Why?” asked Kamvar, softly.
“She had a child inside her, and she would give neither of us up. I had no magic at first, when I met Farshideh. I was just a musician. One day, during the Feast of Lamash, I played an Ekkadi war song before a crowd that had gathered in the market square, and something happened. I remember a heat pooling in my veins, something I had never felt before, and then the crowd just… lost their minds. They turned on each other, Ekkadi against Sarvashi, and tore each other to shreds.”
Stop! What are you doing? Stop this! Nobody had listened; nobody even acknowledged his presence. Blood ran through the gutters as men and women alike clawed and bit and bludgeoned each other to death.
“I knew enough about sorcery then to understand what I had done. I ran home, to Farshideh. I knew what was coming. We had to leave immediately… but we did not even manage to finish throwing whatever was in the larder into sacks before the door was kicked down. Farshideh threw herself at Barsam and screamed at me to run… and I did. I went through a window and ran. I… I never thought he would harm her. His own sister.”
Leonine flinched at a hand coming to rest on his shoulder. Kamvar quickly withdrew it.
“Forgive me,” the soldier said. “I… I’m sorry. I have a wife and child, and…” his face contorted, “and I fear I have endangered them as well. By freeing Ilasin, I mean. I have sent a letter, and I’m sick with worry that it might not be received, that they might not leave Sarvash as I bid them to.” 
There was pain in the young soldier’s eyes. Leonine found himself pitying him, even as he admired his courage. Admiration? How long had it been since he’d felt that?
“I wish I had your courage. I escaped with my life, and yet perhaps I could have traded it for hers. Had I known… had I only known… But I realized too late, much too late, what sort of man he was.”
“You destroyed him, you know,” said Kamvar. “Barsam, I mean. He is crippled with self-loathing.”
“Good.”
“I… I know this comes as no consolation, but… never mind, I’m sorry.”
“What?” asked Leonine.
“He truly regrets what he did… to Farshideh, I mean.”
“You’re right,” said Leonine after a moment’s pause. “That comes as no consolation. I only wish I’d managed to kill that bastard when I took his eye.”
“So you did that. I suppose that’s not surprising.”
It was strange, talking of old times. For six years, he had studiously avoided any thought of Barsam. For six years, he had taken no lovers but Ila-uanna, for fear of being reminded of the wife he had lost. He had avoided drink, mostly, knowing that it brought to mind images of black days. And yet, here he was, baring his past to a man who had only days ago been an enemy.
“Do you… do you think Farshideh was able to cross the Shinvat?” Leonine asked. “I have this nightmare, sometimes, that she was damned because of me.”
Kamvar laid a hand on his arm. This time, Leonine did not shake it away.
“I cannot know the mind of Ahamash, Navid… but did the Prophet not tell us that Ahamash is love, that he knows and forgives the imperfections of this sinful world? I do not believe myself damned by my actions, even though the priests might disagree, and I have done far worse than your Farshideh. She was acting out of love. Surely that is enough.”
We will dance in the cold.
“I pray that you’re right.”
For a moment, Kamvar was quiet. Then he said, “You know, you are not at all what I expected.”
Leonine laughed and shook his head.
They ate a hasty breakfast the next morning. After the food disappeared, Kamvar and Tahmin said their morning prayers while Lubash’s men packed the last of the tents.
“Ila,” Leonine said, pulling himself laboriously to his feet. “It’s time to go.”
Ilasin didn’t complain, which was to her credit. She was no stranger to hardship, not any longer, but Leonine could not help but notice the sluggish resignation of her movements.
“Come, Ila. Take my hand. We do not need to hurry, but we must at least start moving.” He held out his hand, and she took it, nodding. There was some strength yet in her grip. He felt a certain pride in that.
“I feel like all we do is run from people,” she said wearily. 
That was difficult to argue with, even for a man who’d spent as much of his life escaping as Leonine had
They marched until dusk, making poor time, although speed no longer seemed to be of the essence. Ilasin had not felt Barsam’s sorcery since the last morning. And had Ananta’s men not destroyed whatever boats they did not need? They were likely safe, now. They probably had been since before he rejoined Ilasin. 
Still, it would not hurt to press onward. Barsam was too fearsome an enemy to be taken lightly. Leonine would not feel safe until he was in Haksh. If then.
The soft-packed mud of the last day had given way once again to stream, ponds and rivulets. They were no doubt nearing the Shalumes. With luck, they would find an island of good, solid ground before the night grew too dark. Leonine did not relish the thought of sleeping in ankle-deep water.
He felt a sting at his neck, and slapped at the source. I wouldn’t complain if we could leave all these damn flies behind, either.
Not that it was likely. Even if they were nearing the open plain, fetid water and weedy mangroves remained all that the eye could see, for leagues in every direction. It was strange to think that man could create such a thing, that flooding Alu-nin-hura would turn a grassy plain into a swamp so completely and so permanently. It was not the great salt marsh outside Hatshut and Sarvagadis, perhaps, but the Flooded Land had its own terrible grandeur.
Ilasin stopped, suddenly, her hand tugging at his.
“Navid, do you feel that?” she asked. She pursed her lips in concentration, and closed her eyes.
“What? No, I hear nothing but flies buzzing.”
“It’s something else. Like a sorcery, but really faint.”
Sorcery?
He concentrated, shutting out the insects and the mossy smell of rotting vegetation, and felt nothing.
“No, Ila, I can’t feel a thing.” But then, her power was far greater than his. “Where is it coming from?”
She shook her head, looking scared. “I’m not sure. Everywhere, I think. It feels like we’re surrounded. Most of it is that way,” she said, pointing straight ahead, at their destination. “But it’s not like usual. It’s more like a crowd, more spread out.”
His heart sank. To come so close. Were there more Hounds? Could it be the Crescent cultists that Kamvar and his men had fought with? He turned to the soldier, only to see that the apprehension in his features was every bit as obvious as his own.
“Not good, Ila. I cannot feel it yet, but whatever it is, it is unlikely to be friendly. You must be careful to make sure we do not get too close to the source. You need to tell us the instant you feel any sorcerers coming. Can you do that?”
Ilasin looked at him as though he’d asked her if she knew how to walk. “Of course I can.”
They would have to keep moving, and trust in fate. If the crowd was as thinly spread as Ilasin’s sorceries indicated, perhaps they could simply evade it. They were few, after all, and turning back into Barsam’s grasp was not an option.
“What should we do?” asked Kamvar.
“Keep moving.”
Night found them perched atop a small hill rising between two nearly parallel canals that looked far too straight to have been natural – a legacy of the flooding, he guessed, though Leonine was not the sort of man who knew such things. 
He sat cross-legged, eyes closed, concentrating on what lay beyond them in the swamp. The sorcery of which Ilasin had warned them was plain to him now, and it felt like nothing he’d experienced before – it seemed to be everywhere, all around them, as though the whole swamp was magical. Perhaps it was at that, though he had not noticed the hum of activity until Ilasin pointed it out. She said that it seemed fainter now than before. That, at least, was something to be happy about.
The constant buzz of the swamp’s too-many flies was now echoed in Ilasin’s reedy snore, a thin sound Leonine found amusing even as it kept him awake. She slept comfortably, with her head propped against his thigh.
Oh, for a clean bed and a pipe.
Somewhere in the distance, a swamp owl hooted and took flight, in search of dragonflies, shrews, or whatever other creatures could be found in a place such as this. Leonine’s stomach rumbled. The morning’s bread was all gone, and nothing else remained in their packs. If they did not find something decent to eat soon, he too would be eating shrews, and happily. Perhaps cattails were edible? 
Another hoot, further away now, then a second, a third. The owl sounded frustrated, if birds felt such things. Perhaps it was no better fed than he.
Or perhaps there’s danger?
Leonine’s hand dropped to the hilt of his knife. It was probably nothing, but in a place like this, with enemies behind and potential enemies ahead…
Leonine stood up, gently laying Ilasin’s head down on the ground, and drew his knife. Tahmin was their sentry this night. He seemed blissfully unaware of danger. Leonine tapped his shoulder and motioned for him to be silent, then pointed to the shadows beyond and bade him to stay put.
He crept towards where he’d heard the hooting, keeping low to avoid being silhouetted against the hilltop.
Leonine made it to the bottom of the hill when a wail split the air, a terrible keening that twisted his gut into knots.  He became suddenly aware of a faint energy, but had no time to consider this before the foliage ahead of him exploded. A dark shape bounded towards him on four legs – no, two. It straightened as it leapt, and its silhouette was that of a man. 
An arm arced towards him, and Leonine jabbed with his knife, stepping backwards. He felt his blade sink into flesh, but if his attacker was bothered by it, he made no sign. Another punch, and this time Leonine ducked low, dodging to the man’s – the creature’s? – side. The knife caught his attacker just beneath the ribs, and Leonine ripped it through, leaving a jagged tear.
No blood. Whatever he had attacked, it was not bleeding. Then it was on top of him, knocking him hard to the ground, battering him with its thin arms. He tried to hold it back with his left while the knife gouged and stabbed, but the creature was possessed of an inhuman strength.
He caught a glimpse of the ghoul’s wide yellow eyes reflecting the Serpent’s Eye, and then the head darted in as if to bite. Leonine dropped his chin in a desperate attempt to shield his neck, and felt a shooting pain in his shoulder. The head rose again for another strike, and he lashed out with his forehead, felt the painful impact of bone on bone. He tried to work his legs between himself and the beast.
“Navid!” He heard Ilasin scream his name, and then felt sorcery rush into her, until she was a beacon of power at the edge of his consciousness. Then he heard a sharp crack, and the ghoul flew back. A man stood over him, spear in hand, calling for help in Sarvashi.
Protect yourself! Ilasin was a flare, a fiery presence somewhere behind him, a coruscating power he could never hope to match.
He opened himself in a panic, wide and without a care for safety. His veins burned, and he burst into the Rahavashaska. 
“Rahava, heed my words, and jewels I will give!” he sang, and he saw the Crone try to coax Rahava into sin, first with gifts, then threats. The beast leapt back at the man standing over him, impaling itself on his spear. To his horror, it tried to pull itself forward. But Huntsmen were strong, bred to a life in battle. A fierce kick sent the beast, spear and all, spiraling to the ground. It splashed where it landed.
Sing. Do not stop singing!
“Crone, I have no need for jewels, my kingdom is the mountain!”
The beast tried again to stand, then fell over as the butt of the spear embedded in what should have been its lung caught against a stump. 
Then Ilasin screamed.
Waves of power battered against his feeble defense, first a few hard strikes and then a relentless assault that threatened to constrict him, to steal the breath from his lungs.
Sing. Sing!
He sang, offering and refusing slaves, thrones and kingdoms, until his voice was ragged and he knew nothing but the incandescent creature at the edge of his mind, life and death hiding in the shape of a little girl. Then, that too faded from view, and there was nothing but the black sky.
“Navid? Navid, wake up!” 
The fog cleared, bit by bit. Ilasin sobbed and shook his shoulder painfully.
“Ow. Stop,” he said, weakly, trying to bat her hands away. 
“Navid! Oh, thank Anki.” She took his hand in hers, squeezing hard. “I… I thought I killed you.” 
It certainly feels that way. His head was shrieking at him. Over its noise, he could feel, just barely, a throbbing pain in his shoulder.
“I think I almost did. Drew in too much… too much power for the Rahavashaska.” There had been no time to be careful. That he was still alive was a blessing.
So powerful. Ilasin, you are so powerful.
Something gnawed at his thoughts. Something important.
Why is she still drawing power?
“Navid, come on,” said Ilasin. “There are more. We have to go! We have to go now! Back to the boats. I have a wall up, but there are too many. It won't hold long!”
Leonine nodded and tried to stand. His head spun as though he’d had too much to drink. Then Kamvar was there, trying to help pull him to his feet. Leonine tried to reach out to steady himself, then realized he could barely move his left arm. He looked at it quizzically, and realized that he was bare-chested, his shoulder wrapped tightly in the cut-up remains of his tunic.
“Come on. I’ll help you walk.” Kamvar pulled at him, and he followed, passing the corpse of the beast that had attacked them. Now that it was lying still, killed – again? – by Ilasin’s magic, he could get a closer look at the thing.
“It looks like a man,” he said. It did, at that. Too pale, too gaunt, with too-long arms, those horrible pale eyes, and teeth sharper than any man’s had a right to be. Still and all, it looked like a man. He dimly remembered a story Ibashtu had once told him, about men deep in the forests of her homeland who filed their teeth to sharp points.
“Now, at least, we know what the sorcery was. This monster stinks of it.”
Ilasin squeezed his hand and shook her head.
“Navid, something’s not right here. I… I saw these before, and there was nothing magical about them. It’s almost as though a spell has been cast on it.”
It did not matter. Not yet. He had neither the time nor the presence of mind to consider yet another variable. They had to go.
Running. Always running.
They returned to the boats and rowed until shoulders burned, and when the water grew so shallow that keels scraped against mud, they ran a mile, walked a mile, ran another, walked another. 
Day had not yet broken when it became clear that the noose was tightening. Taking to the water had bought them a respite, but it had not shaken the ghouls from their pursuit. Sorcerous residue was everywhere around them, and Ilasin's barriers had fallen.
“Wait,” he whispered, placing a hand on Ilasin’s shoulders. She stopped, and looked up at him curiously.
There! Splashing sounds. And loud. Whatever created them had no care at all for secrecy. 
“Do you hear that?” Ilasin whispered back, eyes wide. He nodded.
“Keep moving,” Leonine said. “It might be nothing…”
Lies to children. 
“… But be ready to run, at my signal.” 
Ilasin looked afraid and weary, but resolute. Behind her, Kamvar whispered a prayer, knuckles whitening against the haft of his spear. Still, he and Tahmin appeared calm, determined. The Huntsmen were no strangers to the things that walked the night.
Lubash’s soldiers – and Akosh, who appeared to have aged ten years overnight – fared much worse. They had all known danger, but this was not a battlefield.
A keening screech rang out behind Leonine, then another. A third answered it from further away.
Ghouls. It was no surprise, and yet Leonine felt his stomach lurch. To have come so far, only to face this…
“Run!” he shouted, pulling Ilasin along. He felt her collecting power once again, but did not have time to consider where she had found such control over her sorcery.
Terror guided their steps, a headlong flight through blurred reeds and churning water. Any pretense of stalking had been abandoned. Creatures came into view behind them, screeching and hooting like apes, gleeful in the chase, tearing down one barrier of light after another.
Ilasin stumbled, jerking Leonine’s hand backwards hard enough that he too almost lost balance. He pulled back with all his strength, turning as he did so, and Ilasin collided with his chest, hard. He grasped at her and felt the shooting pain in his shoulder.
Not like this. It will not end like this.
She was not heavy. Not now, not with beasts that had once been men chasing behind them. Perhaps she could kill them all. It was a possibility, but not one he wanted to risk, not with a Hound – not with that Hound – so close.
You’ll not have a choice.
Leonine’s foot sank into soft mud, and he stumbled, pain flaring in his ankle. He hopped jerkily in an attempt to stay upright and succeeded, though he now half-ran, half-limped, Ilasin still in his arms.
Suddenly, Tahmin’s hard shoulder was there, steadying him as he ran.
“I’ll take her,” gasped Tahmin. “I’m stronger.”
He did not want to give her up. Not now, not in such danger. He wanted to clutch her even more tightly, to tell her everything would end well.
If it comes down to it… But it would not. They would escape, outrun their pursuers. Any other outcome was unthinkable.
… you cannot let them take her.
“I’ll carry her!” repeated Tahmin. He was right. Leonine thrust Ilasin into his outstretched arms.
“Navid!” Ilasin’s voice was as loud as his breathing, which came now in sharp gasps. He could not run faster, not now. He was so tired. A week, a month. How long had they been running?
“Navid, watch out!”
In front of him, the solid ground fell away. Leonine skidded to a painful stop on his twisted ankle, and turned to his right. The drop was precipitous. In the desperation of the moment, he had not noticed that they climbed a jagged hill that rose above the marsh.
More screeches, closer now.
He skirted the edge of the hill, lungs panting and gasping like a bellows. His legs burned.
He was a child again. A boy of twelve years, scarcely older than Ilasin was now, he tore at breakneck speed through the bazaar, the guards behind him howling at anyone within earshot to stop the thief. 
There were no words among the shrieks, this time, but their meaning had not changed. He’d spent his entire life running. The shouts were always the same. 
Keep running! Never let them catch you.
Trees disappeared, one by one, until the hill was naked of any vegetation but knee-high grass. A voice at the edge of his consciousness rebelled at the phenomenon. “Wrong!” it cried, but he had not the time to heed it. 
We’re free! The howls of his pursuers had fallen further behind, and their timbre changed. There was a frustration in the cacophony, a thwarted bloodlust. What does this mean?
“Ilasin… l-look back,” he said, gasping for breath.
She twisted in Tahmin’s arms. “They’re… they’re gone.”
He did not slow, could not. A euphoria borne of relief came over him, washing away the pain, the fear. They were free, and he ran headlong into the realization, expelling his doubts, his fears.
Why? Why did they stop? He was not thinking clearly. Something strange had happened, something not easily explained. What was it they feared?
Leonine slowed, panting, while Tahmin lowered Ilasin to the ground. Then he sat and listened to his pounding heart. 
“Navid, look!” Ilasin said, pointing. He followed the line of her finger to a stone tablet that lay cracked into two pieces ahead of them. It was etched with something that had once been writing, softened over the years and melted away in the damp swamp air. Further away, ancient bricks were stacked in a heap that looked as though it had once been a wall.
Oh, no. Not this.  Leonine looked to his left. From their vantage point atop the hill, he could see silver lines of water. They had come over time to bleed like dye, but he could still see traces of a regular latticework. 
No. Please, no. Once, before his people came to Ekka, men had tilled the soil here, raised dates and kamut and barley.
Far away, silhouetted against the Eye, were the colossal steps of a temple. They sat atop the skeleton of the dead city in the marsh, the city that starved and sank and ultimately fell when the fields were made to overflow.
The city that Ilasin had just recently escaped.
We’ve been herded.  The meaning of the wizardry that had affected his attacker was now all too clear.
“Listen,” he said. The company turned to regard Leonine. He steeled himself, then delivered the awful news. “We’ve been herded. The ghouls did not just cut off our escape. They turned us around, I don’t even remember when, and left us only one path through the swamp… they did not overrun us, because they had been ordered not to.”
“Barsam,” whispered Kamvar. “Ahamash, we’re being guided back to Barsam. You’re right. This is a different part of the city than we were in, but the walls, the fields... it’s unmistakable.”
Leonine nodded. 
“What do we do?”
“What can we do?” It was not a question. Leonine shook his head wearily. To have come so far. “You saw how many there were. To try to fight our way through those beasts would be certain death.”
He weighed possibilities in his mind, bad against worse, until finally a path emerged from the chaos.
“Either we wait for daybreak, or we kill Barsam and hope it breaks the spell.”
“And how do you intend to do that?” A voice, mocking and unfamiliar, followed by the blast of a horn.
A scarred man stepped out from behind the wall. 
“Yazan,” said Kamvar, his voice flat.
“You keep strange company, Kamvar,” said the man. His face was like dripping wax, melting into a scowl. “You bastard. I knew you were faithless, but this? To betray your brothers, to join with that man. I’ll enjoy giving you to Shimurg, Daiva. Maybe I’ll show you what it is to have your face set aflame before you go.”
The sewers. A Huntsman. A torch. Leonine remembered.
“I’m sorry, Yazan,” said Kamvar. “Our orders were unconscionable.” 
Leonine stepped in front of Ilasin, dropping a hand to his knife. Ekkadi soldiers had come running at Yazan’s call. They were many. So many. 
You’re our only hope now, child.
“Unsconscionable?”
He knew that voice. He hated that voice.
“Are you the Prophet now, to tell me what is and isn’t allowed? This is not what I had in mind when I told you to think for yourself.”
Barsam. He had aged, greyed, and he was bathed in sweat, barely standing erect after the exertions of his sorcery. But it was Barsam. The Hound's gaze moved towards Leonine, and he froze.
“You,” Barsam said, his voice barely above a whisper.
There had been joy, once. Coin earned with craft, a simple home, love and the promise of children.
“You!” Barsam roared, and suddenly his veins were red-hot bronze screaming to be given shape.
“Ila!” Leonine cried, opening himself to the meagre power that he could wield. She already knew, had already done the same.
For the second time that night, the Rahavashaska came to him, fury granting it strength beyond what he thought he possessed. Sightless eyes, staring up at a heartless sky. A stomach rent by carrion birds. He poured his anguish, his companion for so many years, into a song to protect Ilasin.
The power that struck him was beyond his reckoning. Barsam’s sorcery, that had so faithfully served the Temple, had nothing of the holy left in it. There was no prayer, no Ahamash, only a guttural chant in a language he could not understand. Barsam the Hound was Barsam the sorcerer, the man of a decade gone by, shattering minds with his black magic. Leonine fell to his knees, head flaring with pain. The shield wavered, but held.
He caught a glimpse of horror in Kamvar’s face before the next roaring wave threatened to shatter the flimsy defenses he placed in its way. The former Huntsman still lived. How is this possible? Had he protected them all?
No. Ilasin. Barsam’s second attack was thwarted, dashed against a barrier that Leonine could feel but not see. Ilasin staggered from the exertion, but kept her feet.
Such power. Where in hell did you seize such power? He had known Ilasin was stronger than he, and that she grew more powerful still with each passing day. But was it enough?
Sorcery is like a great river, he’d once said. Maybe that was true of Ilasin, but Barsam’s sorcery was like a tidal wave sweeping in from the ocean, that snapped centuries-old trees like twigs and carried away everything in its path. It terrified him.
“Charge!” somebody screamed. A rank of Ekkadi spearmen shouted their battle-cries and advanced, only to be blasted to cinders by powers they could neither see nor comprehend. Behind him were strangled gasps and invocations of Ahamash. Before him was that hateful Hound, preparing another bone-shattering assault.
Ilasin cried out in pain, falling to her knees. The shield wavered, but held. It would not hold much longer.
Ilasin cannot survive. Not alone, not if he were to add all of his paltry sorceries to her own. An idea came to him; a desperate, foolish idea.
“Kamvar,” he said, choking back tears. “Kamvar, tell her… tell her to never stop running. And, for the sake of your own life, get away from her right now!”
He did not wait for acknowledgment. There was no time. One more attack could destroy her.
“You will not touch her!” Navid screamed, and then he was running headlong at Barsam, knife in hand, bellowing the Rahavashaska.
Crone, I have no need of coins. My daughter is my treasure.
He heard a shout behind him, in Kamvar’s voice, bidding the soldiers to scatter. Good. Barsam leered contemptuously, sword in hand.
“Navid!” shrieked Ilasin, and his mind was seared by incandescent light. Her fear was her true power. It always had been.
A terrible force buffeted him, from ahead and behind. He was a leaf caught in the wind, at the mercy of powers greater than his own, but his shield held. Miraculously, it held. He lunged at Barsam. Suddenly there was uncertainty in the Hound’s face. He intoned the Hound’s prayer. His was the shield now under assault, wavering beneath the terrible force of Ilasin’s scream.
Barsam’s shield held. He knew it would. Of course it would. His power was beyond anything Leonine had ever seen.
Soldiers were now at Barsam’s side, spears extended as though to stop a charge. The Hound’s shield was no defense against bronze, but it would not have to be. He would never get close enough to take that second eye.
It did not matter. The knife was but a showman’s trick, an illusion to conceal the true danger. Just a little closer.
A spear thrust took him in the shoulder that had already been injured. Somewhere behind him, Ilasin screamed, burning bright in his mind’s eye.
Goodbye, Ilasin.
Navid desperately threw himself open to a power he knew he could never control, and took a deep breath. He saw a guard in a manor, shouting soundlessly, an axe cracking tiles without a noise. He attacked not Barsam, but the very air around them.
Barsam’s prayer vanished, momentarily. He mouthed the words, but there was only silence. It would not last. Navid’s sorceries were feeble. But Ilasin’s fear was power, and against such power even an instant was enough.
Ahamash can’t hear you. 
For a moment, a too-brief moment, Navid relished Barsam’s dawning horror. 
Then, the world went white.
Epilogue
Kamvar, tell her… tell her to never stop running.
He did not understand – could not possibly understand – what was happening when Navid charged, but his words had plainly been those of a man who faced his own death.
“Run!” he cried, to Tahmin, to Akosh, to Lubash and his men. He did not wait for a reply. Ilasin screamed, and he remembered a desperate flight through the sewers, and the all-consuming fear that he would never see Ashuz or Sahar again. That fear was real once more. He would die here, in this terrible ruin, torn to shreds by a power he did not understand.
He heard another scream, the heart-rending shriek of a child in agony, and turned back, in spite of Navid’s orders. What he heard then was nothing. Barsam’s intonation of Ahamash – how many times had he heard Majid utter those same words? – was suddenly cut short. Only Ilasin’s scream was real.
He watched Barsam’s mouth open in a silent wail, his one eye wide enough that even from this distance Kamvar could see the white of it, and then he fell, clawing at his own face. He died the same way Manoush died, so long ago, in the sewers of Inatum. Kamvar did not know what horrors Barsam had seen.
But he could guess.
And Navid…
Navid? Oh, Ahamash. 
He watched as Navid jerked and flailed, a marionette on tangled strings. Light flared from his eyes and his mouth, as though a fire consumed him from within. Then he fell, never to rise again.
Ilasin ran to Navid’s side, heedless of what remained of Barsam’s Hunt. None of the survivors challenged her. To a man, they turned tail and ran.
“It’s over,” said Kamvar to nobody in particular. He walked to where Ilasin lay over the body of her fallen guardian, and held her while she wept.
“Kamvar? Kamvar, are you there?”
“Huh?” He opened his eyes to find that he lay face down on an open scroll of parchment. “I must have fallen asleep reading our dear missionary’s sermon.”
Sahar laughed. He looked up to see that Tahmin stood behind her, crestfallen.
“It’s fine, Tam. I’m just weary from last night’s revel, that’s all.”
“Maybe you’ll make it through this one,” said Sahar. She handed him a clay tablet imprinted with a familiar seal that depicted men loading boats with lumber. “A ship came in today from Ekka. We heard about it at market.”
“Read it aloud, Kam,” said Tahmin.
Kamvar nodded, squinting down at the angular Ekkadi script. It was cleaner than usual. Perhaps Akosh had finally hired a scribe.
Dear Kamvar,
Good health to you, to Tahmin and Ilasin, to your family. 
The wedding went off splendidly. I wish you had been here. Ila-uanna – perhaps I should call her Lashuga now – stocked the larder with more food than I’ve ever seen in one place, and enough beer to drown a village (and we very nearly did; that no drunken brawls broke out is as much a miracle as anything else I have seen in my too-many years).
Things have changed here, in the cities at least. The temple in the swamp has been torn down once more, but I swear it only angered the people. 
There is talk of rebellion, and Nin-worship is almost in the open. There have been Hounds, of course, but they are fewer now, and many meet bad ends at night, when your god is not watching. 
They lose control, maybe have done already. Men more knowledgeable than I swear that Nin’s church will be reinstated, that Sarvash must either accept her or prepare for a struggle – not an open war, on a battlefield, but a spiritual battle, with Ekka at stake.
I am too old to believe this. I told you once that Ekka will rebel the moment Sarvash grows weak, but I do not believe that moment has yet arrived. There will be retribution, then repression of a sort we’ve not yet seen. Still, a man can dream. Even if that man’s seen enough years to know better, and enough that he likely won’t live long enough to be proved right or wrong.
In answer to your previous question, I have not faced any difficulties. The men that returned to Nerkut told the whole story – garbled though it must have been – but I think our little adventure may have enhanced my stature. Some men scowl at the Stone of Lanapish, but many more call him a hero, a figure of glorious rebellion in the face of the conqueror. I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s very stupid. Ananta has fled, by the way. I think you convinced him that Kutuanu's Temple was lost. Sarvagadis has installed a puppet, as expected, but Ananta is safe. At least for now.
I’m glad I took your advice and cast the Stone aside, even if my new name feels unfamiliar in my mouth. We sold the old manor to one of Ila-uanna’s former suitors, and bought a new one outside Hatshut. The city is beautiful, but I rarely go there any longer. Everything I need is within these walls.
I pray that you are well, and that some day you will be able to return to us. Give my love to everybody else. 
- Akosh.
Kamvar smiled and laid the tablet atop his desk. Akosh’s story had ended happily. So had his own.
“I’ll finish your sermon later, Tam, I promise,” he said, throwing an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Unless my nose deceives me, it’s time to eat.”
He left his room, and opened the door of their modest home. Outside, Ashuz giggled as their big yellow dog took off at breakneck speed after a stick. He never tired of the game. Neither did the dog. Ilasin sat nearby, watching him play.
“Ila, Ashuz, come inside!” he called. “It’s time to eat.”
The children came running, leaving their playmate to pant alone in the hot Hakshi afternoon.
Afterword
In lieu of the usual acknowledgments that nobody reads, I thought I might take an opportunity to speak directly to readers. 
Fantasy, I believe, is the descendant of myth – heroes and villains, gods and magic, tales of the wonderful and the strange and the horrific, all of them a reflection of how we see the world. We don’t believe that Gilgamesh slew Humbaba, of course, not any longer. Perhaps we never did. But we can still relate to the fear of death, the bonds of friendship. And we still joke about women civilizing men today, four thousand years later.
Myth inspired the Moonlit Cities – Hatshut, the Numushes, Nerkut – and history did as well. Amateur historians may recognize ancient Mesopotamia in Ekka, at a time when the Achaemenids swept down from Persia to build the largest empire the world had yet seen. But then, they might not. I have taken many liberties with history, some consciously and others because my knowledge of history is amateurish at best.
The greatest of these liberties is the theme of religious and cultural repression that permeates the book. To do justice to the Dariuses and Cyrii of the world, I feel I should point out that the Persians were really as benign as invaders get, if imperialists can ever be described that way.
And in any case, religious repression is a more modern conceit. When Persian kings invaded Babylon, they made a show of accepting Marduk into their own prayers, partly to smooth over any discontent at their invasion, and partly because the idea that other people’s gods were nonexistent had not yet registered in the world. Foreign gods could be weak, certainly, or evil, or undeserving of worship, but the concerted eradication of Nin’s cult depicted throughout Pale Queen’s Courtyard is an anachronism.
But it makes for a good story.
I hope you’ve enjoyed our time together, and I hope these are but the first hours of many. There will be more books about Ekka, and they will share the Moonlit Cities series name, but they are not a fantasy series as we think of them – each book is self-contained, and follows different characters. Some of the events that touch them off are the same, and some themes will be revisited, but Kamvar’s story has been told. I wish him a good, long rest.
Golden Feathers Falling is the next book. I hesitate to predict when it will be available, as such things always seem to take longer than expected, but check back in the summer or fall of 2011. When on High will come after that.
There will be other stories also, in Sinmalik and Haksh and France and Toronto. I hope you’ll be as excited about reading them as I am about writing them.

Marcin Wrona is a Polish-born Canadian author, a multiple immigrant, a passable chef, an awful guitarist, and many other things besides. Visit marcinwrona.ca to read his musings on writing, learn about upcoming books, or follow him through the Twitters of the world.