Fold Thunder

by Gregory Ashe

  Chapter Six

  Irwa woke. She did not remember falling asleep; she had lain awake for a long time, eyes trying to see through darkness and stone to the other side of the fire pit, searching for the Fourth Corner child. As though she could understand herself if she could only understand Maribah.

  The sky had lightened, and the eastern horizon was a deep lavender that faded to pink, then to blue-white, the color of the sky just before the sun rose. In the gray light, Irwa could see her companion much better. No child, she admitted to herself as she sat up and caught sight of Maribah again. But a very, very young woman.

  Maribah sat on one of the flat stones, her eyes focused as she peeled a large orange with her knife. Rips and stains, visible in the light of day, marred the hem of her beige dress, and the red cloak—hung over the line next to Irwa’s stockings—had ash and singe-marks all along it. With a quick glance at Irwa, Maribah said, “Want one?”

  Irwa said, “Yes, please.” Maribah tossed her the peeled orange. Irwa tore back the last bit of skin, relishing the smell of citrus as the remaining oil from the fruit misted onto her hand, and ate a wedge. “These are delicious,” she said, swallowing. “We haven’t had oranges for a long time in An-Dabar. When they do come, the Manc traders want an azan each, it seems.”

  Maribah finished peeling the second orange and popped two wedges into her mouth. The girl wrinkled her nose and swallowed. “They’re not that sweet,” she said. “The merchant said they were sweet.” She ate another slice, this one by itself, and another.

  Irwa ate the rest of her orange in silence. It tasted wonderful to her; sweet and juicy and fresh, a pleasant change from the hard bread and cheese. What doesn’t she like about it? Irwa wondered. When both had finished, Irwa said, “Thank you. I have some bread and cheese, if you’d like it.”

  “No,” Maribah said. “I’m alright.” She wiped her hands on her dress and started rolling up her blanket.

  “Would you like to join me in the orisons?” Irwa asked.

  Maribah hesitated for just a moment, only long enough to make Irwa wonder if the young woman preferred her privacy, before saying yes.

  Irwa seated herself on the blanket, legs crossed under her, and fished out the brass medallion from under her gray robe. Maribah took up a similar position opposite Irwa, folding her hands in her lap. “Shall I?” Irwa asked. She was not sure how she ranked next to a member of the Fourth Corner; the orders almost never interacted, and the Fourth Corner’s own hierarchy was a mystery to outsiders. Irwa doubted the girl could be anything beyond an initiate.

  “Yes, please,” Maribah said, in a soft voice.

  Irwa spoke the ritual prayer. It was simple; an invocation of Ishahb, a plea for sun and rain in their season, for His protection of the empire. The orisons always brought Irwa comfort, and as the initial awkwardness of Maribah’s presence faded, Irwa felt the same warm sense of peace fill her as she added her own words at the end—protection in their travels, the strength to do His will, the destruction of the empire’s enemies, and the punishment of the pagans. The last two, in particular, she spoke carefully. Destruction. Even in my prayers I bring death.

  When she had finished, Irwa opened her eyes. The sun had crested the horizon and the first rays of morning light fell across the plains, through the alders, to warm her face and arms.

  “It’s time to go,” Maribah said. Her voice broke the stillness of the morning air.

  Irwa gathered her belongings and slung her pack over one shoulder. Maribah stood waiting for her near the road. Irwa joined her and walked on ahead. After a few paces she turned and looked back to where Maribah still stood.

  “Are you not coming?” Irwa asked.

  “Are you walking?” Maribah returned.

  “Of course; you don’t see any horses do you?”

  Maribah frowned, confusion evident in her expression, but hurried forward to join her. As the two women set out along the highway, Irwa shifted her bag and eyed the young woman. “I don’t suppose,” she said, “you have this all planned out?”

  Maribah shrugged and said, “I assumed you knew.” She looked back over one shoulder. “We’re going to Greve Sindal.”

  And so the secrets continue, Irwa thought. Are we seeking the same end? Has the shaik put me here to watch her? Or is she here to watch me? The questions rolled through her mind, turning over and over again, as they walked. Greve Sindal. Ishahb’s hand had almost guided her to that conclusion last night; a land full of heretics, of pagans who worshipped earth and stone, would naturally detract from the Return.

  Neither woman spoke after that brief exchange until they stopped for lunch. Occasionally a carriage would race past them, rocking unsteadily across the broad stones, and more frequently they saw imperial post-men, riding hard and fast. A lone merchant, seated at the front of an old wagon, waved when he passed, but he was the only one to acknowledge the women.

  Late in the afternoon, as they passed another way-house, Maribah suddenly broke the silence. “Why don’t we stay in a way-house?” she asked.

  “To avoid notice,” Irwa said.

  Maribah frowned and said, “Who will suspect us of being anything more than two women traveling?”

  Irwa laughed. “Two women traveling alone, with money to stay at a way-house, but not enough money for a carriage and guards, or even horses? We’d be lucky to make it a mile the next day before we were robbed and killed.”

  “I don’t like sleeping on the ground,” Maribah said. She turned back toward the way-house.

  “Come now,” Irwa said. Maribah had admitted to her own naïveté; why did the girl not accept Irwa’s guidance? “People will notice us, even if we aren’t robbed. Better to just stay off the road; the sky looks clear enough, we won’t have rain.”

  “Go on then,” Maribah said. “I’ll catch up to you. This is a ridiculous way to travel; we’ll never get there if we walk the whole way. Why didn’t you hire a carriage, or even get a horse, if you insist on traveling this way?”

  “What way? Why do I travel what way?” Irwa asked. “The shaik barely gave me enough money for the trip as it is, and I’ll be lucky if I don’t have to beg on the way home, without hiring carriages and staying at way-houses. Why didn’t you hire a carriage if you hate walking so much?”

  The vehemence of Irwa’s response, or something else about it, must have surprised Maribah, for she did not respond. Maribah returned to Irwa’s side, and they continued down the road.. “We’ll hire a carriage at the next town,” Maribah said after another mile. “I will pay for it.”

  Irwa did not respond. Their travel to the next town took longer than she expected, although, without a map, she had no better reference than the way-houses. When they stopped for water at the stout stone buildings, she would ask about the next town, but the answers inevitably varied. The two women saw the next town, a collection of brick buildings named Hazan, long before they reached it. It sat next to a narrow river at the bottom of one of the many low, rolling hills they had entered a few days before, and although a few small farms began to appear along the road, they did little to break up the monotony of the hills and the scattered clumps of trees and brush.

  No walls surrounded Hazan, and the buildings had the worn look of prosperity long since faded. The highway passed straight through the town, and the broad paving stones were broken and tilted in many places, so that Irwa had to watch where she stepped. A small market sat just off of the highway, with enough people buying and selling to convince Irwa that, even in the midst of this vast emptiness, people found a way to live.

  “Strange how the empire fought so hard to take these lands and then lets them wither away into dust,” Maribah said with a hard look on her face. They stopped at the edge of the market, watching as a woman in a brown robe pulled a screaming child behind her.

  “The empire conquered this place generations ago,” Irwa said; the only war in decades had been with Apsia and Cania. “And what makes you say it’s withering?”r />
  “Look around,” Maribah said. “How many travelers have you seen? How many farms? The land out there is rich; farmers could do very well. But there is nothing else; everything moves in toward Ghiynmar, or the provincial capitals.”

  “That’s not true,” Irwa said. “I live in a place even smaller than this, and the people do just fine for themselves. And these people look like they’re all right—they’ve got trade along the river, I’m sure, even if not much comes in by road.”

  “Perhaps,” Maribah said, her young face dark. “Perhaps An-Dabar is a different place, though.”

  Irwa had nothing else to add; clearly the Fourth Corner had made the girl far too used to a life of ease and luxury. These people might not have everything, but I’d swear before Ishahb himself that they look every bit as well off as the people in Lajil, and if the land is as rich as she says, they should be fine. She just wants a carriage and an inn with a down mattress and a maid to wait on her . . . Irwa trailed off to herself; there was no point getting angry over a spoiled girl.

  “Will it be all right to stay in town?” Maribah said, as if confirming Irwa’s thoughts. “Surely with the river traffic we won’t stand out as much.”

  “That makes sense,” Irwa said, a bit grudgingly in spite of her own desire for a bed. “We need to buy some supplies as well.”

  “And a carriage.”

  “And a carriage,” Irwa agreed with a sigh, “if we can find one.”

  They stayed that night in an inn that seemed rather pleasant to Irwa, but Maribah seemed unimpressed. The Bluebell’s Whistle, as the place was called, was one of the few two-story buildings in town, and the upper floor, built of wood and plaster, stood out against the mostly brick buildings of the town. The owner, a woman verging on middle age named Katar, gave off a persistent air of disapproval, in spite of her friendly tone; she had thin lips and even thinner hair that started almost halfway back her head, leaving the front as smooth as a coffee bean. “Welcome to the Bluebell,” she said when they entered. Aside from the innkeeper, the small dining room was empty. The staircase—clearly a later addition—took up a large part of one corner. “What can I get you?”

  The woman chatted kindly with Irwa and Maribah as she prepared a supper for them. In spite of the many tables and chairs, Irwa guessed by Katar’s sudden hustle that customers, even for dinner, were rare. A young boy came out from a backroom at Katar’s call and hurried off, and when he returned brought a basket full of food.

  Irwa ate her fill that night, her own portion and a part of what Maribah left: wilted greens, ham, soft carrots and squash. The food tasted wonderful to her after days of travel rations, but Maribah picked at the food, finally leaving the dining room early and asking to be shown to a room. When Irwa had finished—and the plates were empty—she followed Katar upstairs to the low-ceilinged second floor.

  “Your room is here,” Katar said with a smile. “It is the largest I have, but the other lady insisted on sharing the room, and I’m sorry to say it may feel rather cramped.”

  “Not at all,” Irwa said. “It will be nice to sleep in a bed again.”

  “Of course, of course. I am told that the cabins on those boats are nightmarish—but, what do I know? I’m afraid I didn’t ask what boat you came on, but I can have my boy wait at the docks to let you know when they are sailing. Abbar is lazy, but I can have him up early and over there, and he will come when they make the call—he’ll come quick, too. And I’ll have a nice hot breakfast for you as well, if only to take with you for the journey.”

  Irwa hesitated. “Perhaps we will wait and see,” she said. “Our plans are not fixed, and my friend is not feeling well—we may stay an extra day, depending on how she feels.”

  Katar’s eyebrows climbed up her bald forehead, but she only said, “Of course, of course. Breakfast, then.”

  “Thank you,” Irwa said.

  Katar left her the small stub of candle and made her way back down the darkening hallway. With a sigh of relief, Irwa opened the door to the room and stepped inside. Maribah sat on a narrow bed under the window, reading a small book. A larger bed took up another wall, and two chairs and a washstand completed the room.

  “What is upsetting you?” Irwa asked as she shut the door. “The food was good, but you barely spent a quarter bell down there before excusing yourself.”

  Maribah closed the book with a snap and balanced it on her knee. “The food was adequate,” she said. “And I wasn’t hungry. As for what is upsetting me . . .” The young girl paused, large eyes staring at Irwa for a long moment. “I’m not sure—at least, not sure I can put it into words. The Codense Trail, the way-houses, this town and all the others like it, they make me feel . . . irritated.”

  “With them?” Irwa asked. The girl had had her nose in the air since they met. “Why? Because the woman didn’t bow and scrape to you, the way she would if she knew you were Fourth Corner?”

  “No,” Maribah said thoughtfully. “No, it’s not that, at least, not really. These people just live out their lives here, doing nothing, away from everything that’s important, and everything starts to fade away, but they don’t change, don’t do anything to stop the decay.”

  “The village where I had,” Irwa started, then said, “have my congregation, is no larger than this one. The people there think their lives are very important.”

  Maribah looked at her for a long moment and then packed her book away. “You misunderstand me,” she said. “But it doesn’t matter. I need to sleep.”

  “No wards?” Irwa asked, more to rile the girl than anything.

  “Not tonight,” Maribah said.

  Irwa snuffed the candles and lay down. Only the faintest sliver of moonlight cut through the room. That’s how much I understand of this girl, Irwa thought, looking at the sliver of pale light running across the floor. What in the world does she mean when she says those kinds of things? Irwa slept.

  The next morning Maribah was already gone when Irwa woke. Irwa said her orisons, praying for patience to deal with her traveling companion and a speedy journey. When she finished, she left to buy food for her satchel. The market was full of people in the morning, and Irwa could not help but feel a wave of longing for home, for people who, although different from these, still shared something with them. As she was walking back to the inn, she heard Maribah call her name.

  “Over here,” the young woman said. To Irwa’s left, down a narrow lane, she saw Maribah holding the reins of a stout, dappled mare.

  “Come on,” Maribah said. “We’re almost ready to go.”

  Crammed into the narrow alley, set perpendicular to the street, was a stable that had seen better days. Rotting straw was piled against the walls, and the stench, of horse and rot and filth, made Irwa gag and cover her nose. A portly man, his silvery hair parted down the center and hanging to his shoulders, stood inside the stable holding the reins of a gray gelding.

  “Is this your other rider?” he asked, the Jaecan words accented strangely.

  “This is her,” Maribah answered. “No carriages, I’m afraid,” she said, “but this kind man had a few horses left to sell.”

  “I’ve had them for a couple months,” he said. “They’re meant for farm work, but they’re sensible most of the time, and they won’t kick or bite.”

  Irwa walked over to the gray horse and gently stroked its nose. It had been years since she had ridden a horse; too long, in some ways, for she loved animals. Not long enough in others. “Does he have a name?” she asked.

  “No name,” the old man answered with a chuckle. “No names for either.”

  Irwa walked the horse into the alley and mounted. It felt good to be back in a saddle; she had loved to ride at court. She urged the horse forward, testing his temper, and after a few turns around the alley rode back to the stables, pleased with her new horse. He would not win in a race—any race, she imagined—but he would keep Irwa off her own feet for a while. “Are we ready, then?”

  Maribah, alre
ady mounted, said, “Yes.” Turning to the stablekeeper, she said, “Thank you again, Master Laiba. Good day.”

  “Safe travels, lady,” he said in his accented words. “Safe travels.”

  They left Hazan and traveled west all day. The horses made travel faster and, once the aches of the first few days of riding were gone, easier. Maribah seemed even more impatient, though, the further west they road. The plains slid into great swells of land, covered with thick brakes of brush and clusters of oaks, their leaves already tinged with orange and yellow, and—more and more frequently—green pines and fir trees. Valleys separated the large hills, and Irwa and Maribah began to ford more streams and, occasionally, cross rivers at toll bridges. They passed through a few towns, none much larger than Hazan, and many more villages. The villagers and townspeople alike watched them with mild interest. Their placidity, for some reason that Irwa could not understand, set Maribah’s mouth in a thin line of anger.

  Two weeks of traveled passed this way; they avoided the way-houses as much as they could, stopping for water when necessary and provender for their horses, and although Maribah made no complaint, Irwa felt a twinge of guilt, and annoyance at her guilt, as they set up camp along the road every night. Their conversations were short and amicable, talking of things along the road. They reached Jan-as-Subh late one afternoon. The setting sun hung behind the city, outlining the buildings against the dark reds and purples of the horizon. Jan-as-Subh sprawled across the eastern cliffs and slopes of the Aiyala river, the hilly terrain making the city look like a rumpled patchwork quilt. The Codense Trail ran almost to the gates of the large city before turning north along the river.

  When they reached the flagstone road that led from the highway to the city, Maribah turned and gave Irwa an inquisitive look. “We might as well,” Irwa said. “I want a bath and a hot meal.”

  Maribah said, “And a decent bed.” She smiled. “But first a bath.”

  The gate, a massive structure of wood and iron, was open, and guards with chain shirts and hauberks stood on either side, watching the wagons and carriages that passed through in either direction. Irwa and Maribah received nothing more than a cursory glance from one guard, his eyes bloodshot, before they entered the city. Stone and timber structures sat side by side, without any order, and the narrow street curved and twisted so that Irwa could see no more than twenty paces in any direction. Crowds of people surged around them. The swell of the crowd and, even more so, the impatient shouts of the wagon-drivers, urged them deeper into the city without any sense of direction.

  Unlike An-Dabar or Ghiynmar, the people of Jan-as-Subh did not wear the traditional long Jaecan robe, but instead had light, almost gauzy, sleeveless white robes that hung open over brightly colored shirts and pants. “So much color,” Irwa said to herself.

  Maribah glanced over at her even as she gripped the reins of her horse, which, in the press of the crowd, was becoming agitated. “They get dyes from Mane and Elese much cheaper here; they’re so close to the sea and to the highway that smugglers often make Jan-as-Subh one of their first stops.” She looked around the street, trying to see around a cluster of merchant stalls. “Let’s find a stable,” she said.

  “Excuse me, sir. Where’s a stable?” Irwa asked a man wearing a deep blue shirt and pants under his white robe.

  “Ishahb’s eye, woman,” he said in irritation. “Find any burning inn, they’re all over the place.”

  Irwa flushed and, hearing an angry voice shouting to move on, urged her horse forward. Once they were around the stalls, she asked again, this time to a woman dressed in a much lighter shade of blue.

  “The Temple of Hands has a stable,” she said with a gap-toothed smile. “Keep following this road to the river gate, then south past the chapel covered in ivy.”

  To Irwa’s amazement, Maribah tossed the woman a pul. “What was that for?” Irwa asked as they rode down the street. “It’s not as though we took up her whole afternoon with questions.”

  “It’s my money,” Maribah said. “And she was helpful. It’s not as though a pul will make much of a difference.”

  “No reason to get nettled,” Irwa said. “You surprised me. Even in Ghiynmar, I never gave coins out like that—the beggars would be all over us.”

  “When were you in Ghiynmar?” Maribah asked, guiding her horse around a big-headed man who was picking up fallen apples from the ground. “I thought you came from a village in An-Dabar.”

  Irwa cursed herself silently. “I’m not from Lajil,” she said after a pause. “And I was in Ghiynmar a long time ago.” Maribah opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Irwa said, “We had better hurry; the crowds are getting worse, and I don’t think our horses have much patience for this city.”

  Maribah looked at her strangely, but only said, “Yes, of course.” With a light laugh, she added, “Burning almost kicked that man picking up the apples; he’s lucky we didn’t stop to help.”

  “Burning?” Irwa asked. “That’s an interesting name for your horse. I don’t suppose it’s religious?”

  Maribah laughed again and said, “No, I have a . . . friend at home who cannot sit a saddle for more than a mile. He’s always talking about ‘that burning horse.’ I thought I would save myself some breath.”

  Caught by surprise, Irwa burst out laughing. A large woman passing by gave her a long look, but Irwa couldn’t stop laughing. It felt good to laugh. After almost a month of travel, of sacrifice, and even more importantly, of loneliness, the laughter seemed to bring something back to life inside her.

  “I love it,” she said, when the laughter had finally run its course. Maribah smiled broadly in response.

  “Here’s the inn,” Maribah said, nodding at a sign bearing the image of a pair of clasped hands under the outline of what Irwa supposed was a chapel. The inn itself was a four-story wooden building, the upper levels hanging out over the street so far that Irwa was surprised it didn’t tip over. She could hear music and voices from inside the building, though, and the street seemed quiet enough compared to the rest of the city.

  “And the stables?” Irwa asked.

  “Down here,” Maribah suggested. The young woman dismounted and started down an alley that ran alongside the inn, and Irwa followed. At the end, behind a poorly latched gate that Maribah teased open with her knife, they found the stables, and the stable boy—really a young man, Irwa thought—asleep in the loft. Face set in a frown, the young man took the horses, and the twin puls that Irwa passed him did little to ease unhappy lines in his face.

  They returned to the front of the inn and entered the common room. Men and women alike filled the room, the tables surrounding a low stage where a pair of young women danced to the music of a tambourine and a tanbur played by two men on the ground. Equal parts locals and visitors, to judge by their clothing, the people of the common room seemed divided between their own conversations and the entertainment provided.

  A middle-aged woman with a tray of mugs nodded her head to them and then said, “Thanks for your patronage, ladies. Find a seat and one of us will be with you,” and then she was off, back among the crowded tables.

  Pushing her way through the crowd, Irwa finally found two chairs at a small table in the back, and she and Maribah sat down quickly. “Poor Katar,” Irwa said. “She would have smiled to see a tenth of this many people in her dining hall.”

  “Who?” Maribah asked, leaning closer to hear over the noise.

  “Never mind,” Irwa said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  The woman who came to their table, her white robe spotted with gravy, was younger than the first one they had met, but not by much. “Evening, ladies,” she said. “What can I bring you?”

  “Dinner,” Maribah said. “And we need a room.”

  “And baths,” Irwa said. She had caught more than one woman covering her nose or mouth when she and Maribah had made their way to the table. “Please tell me you have baths.”

  “Not here,” the woman said. “But the
re is a bath-house down the street, a little closer to the river. Will you eat now, then?”

  Maribah nodded, and the woman disappeared through a door. She brought back two plates filled to over-flowing. Vegetables, swimming in butter, and some sort of white fish, made complete with a loaf of warm, black bread. She set the plates down and said, “That’ll be one azan,” she said, “and if you want something to drink, ale is two pul a mug, wine is three.”

  “Wine,” Maribah said. “For both of us,” and she pulled out two of the silver azans and pressed them into the girl’s palm.

  The woman smiled, much friendlier now. She left to fetch the wine, and from across the room, a dark-skinned man caught Irwa’s gaze and smiled. Irwa flushed and turned her face to Maribah.

  “What is it?” Maribah asked.

  “Nothing,” Irwa said, raising one hand to shield her dusky cheek.

  The serving woman returned then with two glasses of wine. “I’ve got your rooms upstairs, third floor,” she said. “Come find me when you’re ready.”

  “Our bags are in the stables,” Irwa said. “Could you see that they’re taken up to the rooms?”

  The woman nodded and left them to eat. Irwa’s mouth was watering. She ate quickly. “I’ve never had much taste for fish,” she said as she took another bite. “But Ishahb bless me, this tastes incredible.”

  “It is good,” Maribah said. “I haven’t had good fish in a long time. It reminds me of home.”

  “Where’s that?” Irwa asked. Maribah seemed happier than she had in their entire trip.

  “Tahab,” Maribah said.

  “Along the coast?” Irwa said in surprise. “Is it far from here?”

  “Not far,” Maribah said. “Perhaps a week.”

  “I haven’t asked you much about yourself,” Irwa said. “I’m sorry about that. It’s just that . . . I’m afraid that your . . . affiliation makes you intimidating.” She glanced around, trying to measure her words. It was awkward enough to make the apology as it was, but discretion made it more difficult. “I apologize for how I’ve treated you.” She paused. Maribah made no response, and, eager to change the subject, Irwa asked, “Do you live there still?”

  “No,” Maribah said. “I haven’t lived there for a long time now. I see my family every year, though. The abbey was good about that. My family has all moved on with normal lives—my brothers are married, my sisters have children. I’m the second youngest, and so only my baby brother still lives at home.” After a pause she said, “And don’t worry, you’ve been perfectly kind to me.” For a moment, the young girl’s composure slipped. “My life has been difficult lately; I don’t think I’ve been very friendly either. I’m sorry about that. I know I can be hard to please sometimes.”

  “I’m glad you’re here with me,” Irwa said. She genuinely meant it; the younger woman’s presence was companionship at the very least, and Irwa now felt the beginning of friendship growing between them. At the back of her head, Irwa still felt a prickle of concern, the old stories of what the Fourth Corner really did for Ishahb’s church—assassination, kidnapping, blackmail—rising in her mind, but she tamped it down and ignored it. What troubled Irwa more than the Fourth Corner, though, was the similarity between her own life and the younger woman’s.

  Maribah said nothing for a long time. “Thank you,” she finally said.

  Irwa pushed back her empty plate, her stomach full for the first time in weeks, and said, “I’m going to go find that bath-house. Care to join me?”

  “Maybe later,” Maribah said. “I’d like to see a bit of the city before I wash up.”

  “Well enough,” Irwa said. “But don’t expect me to wait for you.”

  Maribah shrugged and smiled and said, “Go ahead, I’ll be along soon enough.”

  Irwa did not wait for her to change her mind. She looked forward to being alone, if only for an hour or so. Irwa was not used to spending all day, every day with the same person, and she was ready for a break. She got directions to her room from the serving woman with the stained clothes and, after grabbing a clean dress—this one a sturdy brown—Irwa followed the woman’s directions to the bath-house.

  The Temple of Hands sat near the river gate, where the land, and the city, flowed down to meet the riverbank. The city was full of life; laughter and music echoed in the night air from a few streets over—closer to the docks, Irwa imagined—and the homes and shops of the street Irwa followed, although quieter, were full of people coming and going. Whether because of the smugglers, as Maribah said, or simply good fortune, Jan-as-Subh seemed thriving, a pleasant change from the towns and villages that, even to Irwa’s sympathetic mind, seemed almost dead in comparison.

  The bath-house sat just a few blocks up the hill from the river. It was a small building built of pale limestone with a slate roof, and two women, dressed in the open white robes of Jan-as-Subh, entered the building as Irwa approached. Inside, a young woman took Irwa’s handful of copper puls and led her down a long hallway to a small room with a tub. The water in the tub was barely tepid, but Irwa thought it felt like heaven when she tested it. She barred the door, tore off her robe and underclothes, and slipped into the water.

  On the small table next to the tub sat a stiff brush and coarse soap. Irwa put them to good use until she thought her skin might come off before the dirt did. She let her mind go blank, enjoying the feel of the water against her body and noise of soft splashes. Finally, ducking her head under the water to rinse out the last bit of soap, she felt clean. She slipped on the clean clothes, pleased to wear something that was not stiff with dirt and dried sweat, and left the bath-house.

  Night had fallen completely, but the moon had not risen enough to light the street, although a sliver showed above the eastern edge of the city wall. Low, thick clouds budded to the north, dark against the stars above, but the rest of the sky was clear, and a gentle breeze off the river felt good against the sweat already beading on Irwa’s skin. She started up the street, legs protesting the walk up the steep hill, and trying to see the uneven cobblestones in the dark. A few buildings, including the bath-house, had torches outside, and they provided enough light for her to see the dark-skinned man who stepped out of a nearby alley as she approached it.

  Irwa drew back, clutching the rolled up, dirty robe in one hand, and cursing herself for having left her knife. The man smiled, his teeth extraordinarily white against his black skin, and said, “Pardon me, lady, for approaching you in this way.”

  “Just stay right where you are,” Irwa said. She began to circle around the man, glancing over one shoulder to see if someone were behind her. The alley opposite him looked clear.

  “Please,” he said. “I would have spoken to you in the inn, but I’m afraid your companion would have caused trouble. If I could just have a word with you?”

  Irwa raised her free hand. “You can say whatever you want from right there.” She was almost around him. She could turn and run, if he moved. If there weren’t more thugs nearby, waiting for a lone woman to walk by them. Ishahb bless me for being a fool, Irwa prayed.

  “I’m afraid it’s too sensitive to shout,” the man said, still standing at the mouth of the alley. “Concerning your companion and your . . . trip. Do you believe you serve Ishahb in this? Does the god really ask you to take life? Have you thought of this?”

  Irwa stopped. The man gave voice to the questions that had haunted her sleep since she left An-Dabar. Blessed Ishahb, is this your doing?

  At the top of the hill, a group of men, sailors to judge by their walk and their travel-sacks, turned down the street, laughing and jostling each other. Irwa nodded to the man and said, “Come over here then. I’m not going to walk down that alley with you.” The sailors were almost there. Someone was walking behind the sailors, the hood of his cloak pulled up, trying to stay in the shadows. “Who sent you?” Irwa asked. “What do you know about all of this?”

  The black-skinned man turned, his eyes moving past the drunken sailors. At that m
oment, a ball of fire as large as a man’s head burst through the group of sailors and, without slowing, burned straight through the black man’s chest to explode against the timber-framed building behind him. The explosion knocked Irwa to the ground. Everything spun around her, and her ears rang like the bells of her chapel back home.

  A hand grabbed her arm. Irwa fought, kicking and flailing her arms.

  “Stop it,” a familiar voice finally penetrated the ringing in her ears. Maribah. She was shouting at Irwa, “Stop it, we have to go.” The hood of her dark cloak had been pushed back and her dark eyes were wide, her face white.

  The sailors lay on the paving stones, hands over their ears. One of the men had his hands over his stomach, and blood, black in the torchlight, was visible on the cobblestones. The black man’s body lay just a few feet away from Irwa. A hole right through his chest, Irwa thought numbly. He’s dead.

  The night air was too still; aside from the too-distant groans and oaths of the wounded sailors, the street was silent. The city itself was silent. Irwa wondered if the blast had damaged her hearing. Blessed Ishahb, I left this life behind. Why must there always be more death?

  Flames licked the wooden building where the fire had struck. Shouts of alarm came from inside, and a scream echoed further down the street. The girl from the bath-house, mouth open in horror, stared up at them. Maribah tugged on Irwa’s arm, pulling the hood of her cloak back over her head, and Irwa followed her, stumbling up the street, away from the smell of burned flesh and burning wood and the layer of soot that covered the stones of the street.

  Maribah’s insistent tug, tug, tug was all that kept Irwa moving. Her feet slid across the broken cobblestones. She fell, her ankle turning under her, but she barely felt the pain that sent her to her knees. Maribah had her up, moving again, in a moment. Each step sent a jolt of pain through Irwa’s leg, but the younger woman did not let up. The pain pushed the shock to the background for the moment. When they reached the inn Irwa pried Maribah’s hand from her arm.

  “Let go of me,” she said furiously. “What were you doing? You killed that man.”

  Maribah said, “We need to get inside, get our things, and leave now. There are Fourth Corner agents here who are hunting us. If we’re lucky, they will do nothing more than detain us. More likely, though, they will kill us.”

  The words sent a cold wave across Irwa. “You killed that man,” she said, her voice breaking. The words were half accusation, half disbelief. Ishahb forgive me, I left this all behind.

  “I did,” Maribah said, her young face hard. “I will explain why, but not until we are away from here, not until we’re safe.”

  Irwa nodded. The horror of the street, the look of surprise on the black man’s face, they were enough to make her mind crawl back into numbness, to seek some sort of refuge in mindlessness.

  “Get my stuff and meet me in the stables,” Maribah said. “I’ll get us some more food; Ishahb burn them all, we needed to reprovision, but it will have to wait.”

  “You shouldn’t swear,” Irwa mumbled.

  “I know,” Maribah said with a deep sigh. “I’m sorry. Now, get upstairs and then to the stables.”

  Irwa stumbled into the inn. Her leg screamed with pain, muscles cramping as she tried to compensate for the injured ankle, but she made it across the common room, shoulders hunched, as though every eye in the building were turned on her. The darkness of the stairs was a relief. She hobbled up as best she could, her ankles protesting as she balanced her weight, but finally Irwa was in her room, the candle that she had left lit still burning on the hearth. Suddenly she realized she still held the soiled robe in one white-knuckled hand. She dropped it, as though it had burned her, and kicked it under the bed. Her belt knife sat just inside the pack, and Irwa tied the sheath to her waist. She crammed the rest of her clothes into the pack and grabbed the candle. Irwa hurried to Maribah’s room.

  The young woman’s pack lay, unopened, on the bed. In the light of Irwa’s lone candle, it did not look like anyone had even been there—bed still made, the candles unlit, window still shuttered. Irwa grabbed the pack and, swinging it over one shoulder so that the two bags hung awkwardly together, hurried as best she could to the stables.

  A few men swore when she pushed past them in the common room, her bags rocking back and forth, but she made it to the door. The woman who had served them looked up from wiping a table, a puzzled look crossing her face as she saw Irwa with the packs. “Lady,” she said. “Where are you going? Is something wrong?”

  Irwa mumbled something and pushed her way through the door, one of the packs catching the latch until she managed to work it loose, all the while feeling the serving woman’s questioning stare. She stumbled forward, weak ankle giving out, and caught herself against the side of the inn. What in Ishahb’s hell is a temple of hands anyway? Irwa wondered as she caught sight of the sign again. It was easier than thinking about the dead man. Easier than remembering times when fire and worse had poured from Irwa’s own hands to cut down men and women.