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Fantasy! Magic! Jackals doing jackal things, when an ancient discovery threatens to upend the order of the world...

This is the first of two parts of a project I worked on for National Novel Writing Month, uh... uh... *coughs* months ago. It's set in the fantasy steampunk universe of The Road to Mandalay_, although if I have done my job--God, I hope I've done my job--you should be able to jump right in. The story covers the intertwining narratives of a colonel in a mercenary army and a merchant from across the river that divides their continent. It's a short novel; I'm breaking it up here to make reading easier. Let me know what you think! And please thank Spudz for his help with this, and also for being a good dog :)_

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

---

A Waste of Desert Sand, by Rob Baird

I. Korlyda

She was having a jackal's luck. The more readily she could admit that, the more readily Havsa could admit that it wasn't the sort of thing one gambled on improving. She waved her paw--lightly, easily, though the wave was neither. "It's yours."

"Sold!" The auctioneer cared little for her fortunes. "For one kil, three taliç per measure to Odabash Gölkö."

Further upriver, the copper might be worth as much as two kiliç apiece. Odabash would still make his profit on the deal. She would not, and it wasn't much of a consolation knowing that she'd made him pay for beating her.

He looked unhappy, though, so Havsa made herself scarce. On better days, with better fortune, she loved the waterfront in Körlyda--barges thick with trade goods coming upriver from the Dominion, and Aernian trading steamers, and the slender Otonichi craft built with the same unerring skill with which the mountain-dwellers did everything...

One of their tiny boats, Havsa had heard, was worth half a million kiliç--a shah's ransom in gold or Dominion cotton. The jackal had almost been able to afford something like that... once.

She flipped the bartender a five-kiliç coin as though it meant nothing to her, collecting a helping of roasted fire-bread and a cup of cold derinshe to take the edge off the spice and her mood alike.

Derinshe was traditionally served in copper mugs, the bartender was a traditionalist, and the red metal didn't help her forget the affair at the docks. She was into her second serving when her sensitive ears caught the muttered growl behind her.

"Knew you'd be here."

"Guessed," she answered, without looking. The voice spoke in Aernian, and she obliged the man by using his own tongue. "You guessed I'd be here. You're back, I see."

He pulled another stool up and sat down; his Tiurishkan was just barely good enough to get him a beer, and when one was ordered he gave up on speaking her language. "I'm never gone for too long, Tess."

"What brings you to Körlyda this time, Pathis?" She only knew him by his first name--or, rather, she didn't know which of the rangy wolf's many last names he truly owned. "Choice?"

"For once." The bartender returned with his beer. Pathis tapped the clay cup against hers, then took a drink. "Cheers. Gölkö was fuming about something, and I wanted to know what--particularly when I heard rumors about a bidding war."

She shrugged her shoulders. "It was really more of a bidding squabble. I wasn't expecting him to show up. It's been a day of old faces, I suppose."

"Who was your sponsor? Was it the Guild?"

"The Hasköyal? No. A freighter captain was willing to front me two thousand pazariç if I could get the copper. Frankly, it was extortion, but..." She growled into her derinshe, and the sweet scent of the liquor bubbled back into her nose. "I wasn't expecting to pay more than ten taliç."

"Still go for two or three times that in the Confederacy or to the mountain-folk," Pathis mused. "Might've been worth it."

"If I'd had the money, yes, it might've been. Obviously, it was worth it to Gölkö."

"Two thousand pazariç is nothing, Tess. If that's all you need, I could get it to you by nightfall. I've been doing better than usual."

"Good for you." She lifted her nose from the cup, and tipped the rest of its contents into her long muzzle. "There's always a new tide. It was nice seeing you, Pathis."

He put his paw on his shoulder when she rose to leave. "Forget about Gölkö. He's trying to ingratiate himself with an Ellagdran margrave--that's why he's willing to pay so much for copper. He's gambling that the Guild will let him get away with it."

"His friends aren't that high-placed..."

"No, they're not. But like I said, forget about him. Look, Tess. If you're interested, I need your help with something."

She was halfway off the barstool. For the moment she stayed where she was, neither retaking her seat nor abandoning the wolf. "With what?"

"It's fairly simple. I need to broker a deal with a certified merchant. He won't deal with me, nor any foreigner. I can clear three thousand pazariç on this from my buyer. If you help, a quarter of it's yours. In coin, if you like."

In certain towns--and for certain, more settled, jackals--that would be enough for a house. Havsa sat back down. "Which merchant is it?"

"Vasha Antïl."

He could only have meant Antïl Spartakül, who specialized in machinery. Havsa twitched an ear. "Weapons? Antïl involves himself in dangerous pursuits. I'd rather not lose my tail to the Hasköyal for helping an outsider with something like that..."

"I'd rather not ask you do so," Pathis said, patting her shoulder. "It's farming equipment, Tess. That's what I was told, at least, and I trust my buyer. If you're not comfortable..."

Seven hundred and fifty pazariç paid for a lot of comfort, though. She agreed to accompany Pathis to Antïl's premises on the upriver side of the city. By the time they reached it, the sun was setting; the silhouette of the Great Gate spanning the Sheyib River was stark and black and reassuring.

Antïl's cloak was just as dark; the obsidian of his bracelet as sharp as the sun-framed stone of the bridge. The merchant had been in the Hasköyal long enough to call himself 'vasha,' as though he were a minor prince, but when he saw his fellow jackal Antïl beamed, and bowed in greeting.

"Havsa Itess-Kanyr! The rusty-boned one told me he was finding a local to help him. If he'd said it was you, I would've let him have whatever he wanted without going through all this trouble."

"You flatter me, vasha Spartakül," Havsa told the other canid. "Has business been well?"

"Better than it has been in years," he said, nodding. "Not since the last war. I share my fortune with many others this season... though not all. Odabash Gölkö calls out for blood--or at least, his purse-strings do." Antïl grinned; the two of them were rivals.

At higher levels of the Hasköyal, though, everyone was a rival. Havsa took the grin as it was offered, and returned it. "His mistake. Now, what is it that Mr. Pathis is after with you?"

Pathis had hung back; the wolf's ears perked at the sound of his name. Antïl eyed him warily. "Nothing much. I'll show you--alone."

When she asked him, the wolf said that he had no problem staying behind. She followed Antïl into his warehouse. It was ornate as any palace, with marble and brass highlighting the columns and extravagantly large windows nearly as tall as the jackal himself.

He led her to an apparatus the size of a wagon, most of which appeared to be a stack of brass-rimmed wooden panels. Antïl unfolded a few of them, which took some effort. Now she saw that the wood was lacquered and shiny; behind each panel were intricate coils of copper wire.

Havsa shook her head. "I don't know what this is, vasha."

"Water," Antïl explained. "It extracts water from the air. This was installed on a quinquireme in the Dominion Navy. These..." His claw traced a length of copper. "Are enchanted, somehow. They draw the water to the panels, where it can be collected for thirsty sailors."

"Pathis knows what it is?"

The merchant nodded. "He asked for it by name, and he offered twice the value. I hoped to stall him by asking for a Hasköyal-certified broker... in truth, even though it came from a warship, there's no requirement that it not be sold beyond the Dominion."

"And that's a handsome price. There's a catch," she ventured. "What is it? Is it with Pathis?"

"More with his benefactors. I wouldn't confess to calling myself unsettled, Havsa. And I don't mind getting my paws dirty. You know that, don't you? You remember the uprising in nyöm Hedysh..."

"You sold half your muskets to the sultan, then crossed his blockade to sell the remainder to the rebels." Highly profitable: for her minor part in the scheme, she'd bribed the dockmaster a decade's pay and still had enough left over to lay low in the Dominion capital for a year.

She'd had to lie low: after his eventual victory, the sultan had seen fit to put a price on all those who opposed him. Her name hadn't been among them, but it was only a few degrees' removed and trust was an expensive luxury when one's head was at stake.

It was the closest she'd come to involvement in armaments, and the closest she hoped to come. Antïl lacked her scruples, but something obviously still left him uneasy.

"Yes. Your friend claims that the water-extractor is going to Meshüsh Gürun. A mining settlement, two thousand people in the highlands. They're led by a northern prince."

Havsa listened for a hint of what might have given Antïl pause, and found none. She hadn't heard of Meshüsh Gürun, but plenty of towns like that were too small for any notoriety. "But not everyone in the north is a cotton farmer, vasha. And of those that are, surely some must grow tired of it."

"Perhaps, perhaps. Last year, they exported sixty thousand pazariç of tin, and the year before that seventy. Two years ago, seventy-seven. Their production is dropping. Where do they have the money to buy this, Havsa? What do they need it for?"

She knew nothing of mining; nothing of machines. "Could it be used for something else? A weapon?"

"I don't see how." Antïl looked at the machinery, his eyes drifting over the polished lacquer. "But nor do I see what the town wants with it."

"The mines aren't doing as well; they're having to dig deeper. Their water has become contaminated, and they need something to supplement their supplies. Could that not be it?"

"It could." Sighing, Antïl began the process of folding the panels back up. She helped him, as best as she was able. "Something about it still leaves me unsure. I suppose I've been listening to too much rumor, though. Too many of these half-heard stories."

"What if I gave you another rumor to quiet the others?"

He folded the last panel into place before turning to look at her. "What do you have to offer?"

"Pathis tells me that Gölkö bought the copper for an Ellagdran warlord, the prince of Kallinborg. Allies of Kechet Marl, apparently."

"Dubious ones. The shah of Kechet Marl is an idiot if he doesn't see that," Antïl replied, the scales in his head already weighing the value of what he'd been offered. "But it wouldn't be the first idiot ruler they've had, and it certainly wouldn't make the Guild happy to hear of a trade like that. Do you have proof?"

"He can tell you the name of the intermediary, I'm sure."

Antïl led her back to his front office, where Pathis had taken a seat. The wolf rose eagerly to meet them, tilting his head. "Well? Were you able to reach an agreement, Tess?"

"Tell him a name would make me quite pleased," Antïl said. "And then we can deal."

II. In Proper Order

"Well, what excitement do you have for me today, sergeant-major?"

Sergeant-Major Sennis plainly understood the sarcasm in his voice; the badger returned it with a measure of her own. "Two matters, sir. Both of them have the good fortune to be internal ones. I must assume they are, therefore, quite critical."

Rossean shook his head. "I'm listening, then. Go ahead."

"Major Perring wishes you to provide some guidance on a corporal in his company. One Barner Whullach--caught having abandoned his post yesterday to go foraging for bird's eggs along the river."

He recognized the name; allowing his memory to work backwards, it seemed as though Corporal Whullach was fond of getting in trouble. Nothing terribly serious--late for a shift here, sneaking an extra ration there.

Further investigation would, no doubt, confirm that the young corporal had 'abandoned' his post by a matter of a few yards only. And were he inclined to be charitable, there was no reason why the post required manning whatsoever.

But it had been ordered, after all; no further justification was really necessary. "The next train is scheduled for... day after tomorrow, sergeant-major, is it not?"

"Yes, sir. Approximately half-ten in the morning."

He'd known that. He knew the trains, like everyone in the Iron Corps knew the trains. Corporal Whullach, who probably lacked for excitement, no doubt expected that the Iron Corps would've involved a good deal more movement than the languor of Fort Hanham.

The implication of that was hidden in Rossean's orders; over the previous three months he'd committed most of the letter to memory.

To Colonel Fletcher Callen Rossean, 6th Regiment-- You are directed to report at once to the Lightward Terminus, arriving no later than the 12th of Deyrnsev, where you will take command of the garrison at Fort Ruovan C. Hanham. Inform Lieutenant Colonel Tasher Daverty that he is to assume temporary leadership of the 6th Regiment until such time as a replacement can be appointed. I am creating a Special Detachment, with you as its first commander. As you are no doubt aware, the Lightward Terminus is of grave import to the Carregan Transcontinental Railroad and, in particular, to the Lodestone Meteor's operations. I have received concerning reports around the operation and discipline of the garrison. These are to cease. By the end of Janasev, I expect the garrison to be in proper order. Based on your history, I have great faith in your ability to accomplish this task. Signed Gen. Rescat Carregan, Commander of the Iron Corps 2 Deyrnsev, AF901

The end of Janasev was only a week away. "My recommendation to Major Perring is that the corporal be recommended for discharge and sent back to headquarters for disciplinary review to that effect." Rossean paused, chuckling ruefully. "Something tells me he won't have the money to pay back his advance."

The badger shook her head. "It's doubtful, I agree. That touches on the second matter. One of the patrols accosted an... interloper. She claimed to be with a merchant caravan, but on further investigation, she's been seen around before. Searching her possessions revealed nearly twelve pounds in scrip."

"Maybe she was part of the merchant caravan, and did some good business in trading," Rossean suggested drily; they both knew the merchants refused to accept Railroad scrip as a matter of course. At substantial loss, it could be bartered for more valuable currency with passing trains--presumably what the 'interloper' was doing. "Do you suppose she'd be up for a chat?"

Sergeant-Major Sennis brought back a woman who turned out to be, more or less, exactly what he'd been expecting. She was probably a caracal, although her ear-tufts were scanty. The feline wore the long, dark robes common to the Menapset Desert; she could've come from nearly anywhere in the central continent.

"Why I'm kept?" she asked, as soon as she caught sight of the rank insignia on his uniform. "Why you me prison?"

Her Aernian was thickly accented. On a whim, Rossean tried Kamiri instead. "Jadaban das. What's your name?"

"Kennerit, daughter of Enirim Sol. You're from the coast? You don't look it." This was an understatement. From his mother's line he'd inherited a sturdy build and a stout brush of a tail, but not the wolf's aristocratic bearing. His black and white pelt, broken by tan on his cheeks and upper limbs, could've come from his father--who had not, however, seen fit to give him a Border Collie's piercing stare or rough coat.

He was thoroughly a mix, but equally thoroughly a man of the Iron Kingdom--as thoroughly, certainly, as the slightly built feline and her sandy fur hailed from beyond its borders. She spoke Kamiri better than Aernian, though haltingly enough that Rossean suspected Kennerit was not a native of that region, either. A great deal of wild emptiness yawned between Aernia's eastern pale and Fort Hanham. "I'm from Aernia. What are you doing here, Kennerit?"

"Making a living."

"So I see. Not here, though. You need to move on."

Kennerit bristled, perceiving an upset in the old balance of affairs. "You have no claim on the land outside the fort. It's open territory."

Colonel Rossean smiled thinly; she was perceptive, and he had to wonder if the discussion was one his predecessor had also had. "My responsibility, however, is to the garrison. I can't have my soldiers consorting with... well, any old visitor drifting by."

"Then forbid them. Not me."

"I have. I'll continue to," he assured her. "But let me be blunt. If an accident were to befall you, on my orders, who would call for vengeance? The prince of Karlied? The Dominion? No. None of those who lay claim to this desert would so much as stop to shove your body out of the way of their mules."

"You're threatening my life, rust-bones?"

Rossean nodded. "I am--for what it's worth. And we both know full well that my threat is worth a good deal more than your life is." Kamiri, like the Tiurishkan language with which it shared much in common, was fond of proverbs that reduced questions to their monetary components.

"This is my livelihood," Kennerit continued to protest. "If you take it away from me, then..."

"You'll find something else. This time, I'll even buy the scrip off you at fair market prices. That should hold you for a while. There will not be a next time."

"Or maybe the 'next time' will be different than you imagine. From what I've heard, other visitors from the east might be less accommodating..." Her eyes had narrowed. In their hateful glare, Rossean saw other eyes. Older eyes. Fixing him, damning him--then losing their focus, dimming, an oath left on wordless lips.

The dog managed to banish the vision before it made him flinch visibly. "I'll take that chance." He switched back to his native tongue. "Sergeant-major, have the guards return her belongings and escort her from the fort."

"Yes, sir." Sennis nodded curtly, gripping the caracal by the shoulder to guide her out the door of the office. A minute later the sergeant-major had returned. "Do you mind if I ask how you came to understand their language, sir?"

"Mind? No. Another time, though. I'm supposed to speak with Lieutenant Colonel Pembæra, I believe. I'm sure that will be... every bit as important as a disorderly corporal and a troublesome whore."

"Good luck," Sergeant-Major Sennis replied. "I suppose."

Pembæra requested the meeting because he wanted to take his battalion out on an exercise, and he'd chosen to make the request in person. Such requests made for a common refrain from the fox, who also volunteered for most of the furthest-ranging patrols.

As long as he had the man before him, Rossean took the opportunity to confirm that Kennerit hadn't actually been onto anything with her vague threat. "Anything to report from your pickets, colonel?"

Pembæra shook his head. "No, sir. It's been quiet all week."

"Have you heard anything about the east? Any kind of rumors about suspicious activity?"

"No, presuming you mean rumors I can substantiate. There are always stories like that, but never anything provable."

"What are the stories about?"

"Whenever we hire a local guide, we hear about the raids--bandits hitting the caravans, generally. I've always assumed they were hoping to hire us for protection, playing up the threat... but I can make a point of investigating more closely, sir, if you'd like?"

"I would. Keep an eye out." His explanation made sense--in the northern desert the dog had been approached more than once by a tribal elder hoping to use the Iron Corps as muscle. Satisfied, Rossean reached over to the hand-written memo on his desk, lifting it up for the fox's benefit. "Now, as to this. You'd like to detach the entirety of the battalion?"

Garda Pembæra was a veteran of an elite company in the Iron Corps; Rossean had no doubt that the fox saw his posting to the fort as something of a setback, and missed proper action. In this he was like many--Rossean among them--who'd joined the Iron Corps from a sense of adventure.

Unlike the feckless Corporal Whullach, though, he channeled that desire productively. He requested to take Light Battalion Kadanian Plain out for training, with the assistance of the garrison's single Lightning Company.

As far as Rossean was concerned, signing off on the plan was a formality. Major Layleigh, the company's commander, had already agreed; if things were truly as quiet as Pembæra said there was no harm in the request. It would, even, do the men well to be out on maneuvers. Good for morale, no doubt.

And for the general readiness of the garrison, which was supposed to be his job in the first place. With the month of Janasev's end approaching, he still didn't know how it was going to be judged. On occasion he stood atop one of the watchtowers, staring at the horizon with his ears cocked. There was nothing to hear.

It was a quiet posting, at odds with the suddenness with which it had been received. Yes, the Lightward Terminus was important for the Transcontinental Railroad--five thousand people worked there; it was by far the largest depot they operated beyond the country's borders.

He'd not seen so much as a single patrol from Karlied, the nearest city-state. Rossean and his men were allies, anyway, or as close to 'allies' as one could be with the city's mercantile rulers. Karlied profited from Carregan Transcontinental, and the Railroad's presence had always been tolerated. Hundreds of merchants in the terminus's market square proved that, if nothing else.

With Pembæra gone, Rossean allowed himself to relax again. Discipline had improved, the outpost functioned smoothly, and the reflexive scaremongering of one who'd been happier with the previous laxity wasn't worth his trouble. He could finish out his time, let the Special Detachment wind down, and then...

"Retirement, though? Really?" Caren O'Garral, regimental supply officer and one of Rossean's oldest friends, was plainly skeptical. Rossean had floated the idea offhandedly: do you suppose I could do something else? Something besides this?

The proximate cause was a letter from his brother, owner of a successful foundry in Stanlira. They'd acquired yet another competitor: nine hundred people now worked for the Tevral & Rossean Iron Company.

In truth, the motivation ran deeper. The 6th Regiment was still waiting for new orders, after a successful campaign in the northern plains. Successful enough for healthy bonuses, paid in real money and not CTR scrip; perhaps O'Garral was thinking that business wouldn't be much more profitable.

Gold, though, did not move Rossean. If ever it had--and the dog didn't really think so--the luster was gone. Distance from the campaign kept the screams, and the smell of burning camps, from troubling Rossean's slumber any longer. But he didn't like how long it had taken, and the depths of his memory in which the screaming echoed.

"I've been thinking that... maybe it's time. My brother is looking for someone to help run his business. He's been asking for a couple of years now, hinting that I might move back home."

O'Garral nodded, idly working the peel of an orange free with his claw. "I don't think you'd like it, though. You were born for the uniform, Cal. Might as well be from the March, nipping saltpeter straight the way you do."

He snorted, giving his friend a hard glance. "Let's get something clear, cattleman. We may be good enough friends for you to call me 'Cal,' but I'll be damned if you'll accuse me of being from the March. Besides which, haven't you thought I might be tired of seasoning my dinner with saltpeter?"

"You?" O'Garral grinned. He said it 'ye,' though, affecting the Marcher accent that the borderlander had long since lost without consciously dragging it back from his roots. "Ye'd marry a rifle if y'could--and never stray, neither."

There wasn't much evidence with which to refute the notion. Rossean grinned back, instead. While he was trying to think of a proper reply the door opened again, admitting a civilian messenger who held up an envelope for him.

"More letters? You're a popular man," Major O'Garral teased, when the messenger left. "I don't get any letters."

Rossean laughed--and then he saw the envelope. It had been wax-sealed; the stamp bore the mark of the Iron Corps' central command. He broke the wax carefully, and took the letter from within.

O'Garral saw the change in his commander's expression. "What's the matter?"

"Do you know where Daverty is? At the officer's club, I imagine. Send 'round for him, and we'll meet back here for dinner. How does that sound?" He hadn't answered O'Garral's question, he realized, and did so with an empty smile. "He'll be a good commander, don't you worry."

O'Garral blinked in surprise. "You've been relieved?"

"Transferred. To Fort Hanham."

"The Meteor? Is that a good thing?"

The Lodestone Meteor was the pride of Carregan Transcontinental, running the whole span of the western continent. A company of the Iron Corps kept her safe against predators in the desert. Command of the guard was a prestige assignment, the aspiration of every up-and-coming major in the Iron Corps.

This was different. A fixed posting. Nothing in the letter seemed to be particularly sensitive, so he handed it over for O'Garral to inspect. The borderlander's eyes rose abruptly. "This doesn't come from the Department of Personnel."

"No," Rossean agreed.

"If the general herself wants you there..."

Rossean took the letter back. "Indeed. So what do you think: is that a good thing?"

III. The City

"I thought this was a mining outpost..."

Havsa could see the gates of Meshüsh Gürun before them--which was to say that the jackal could see that it had gates. The settlement looked nothing so much like a castle, complete with stone walls and towers.

It also looked ancient; the stone had been heavily weathered, and the ornamental sculptures that topped them at regular intervals could no longer be identified as representing any particular individual or animal. She thought of what Antïl said: it had been founded by a northern prince.

More likely, the prince had merely occupied the site, and she wouldn't have been surprised if the town was completely abandoned before that. "It is a mining outpost," Pathis said. "It always was."

A small party of guardsmen met them inside the front gate. The doors were made of stout wood, heavy and old--some sort of stonework seal adorned each, but Havsa didn't recognize the ancient emblem and if there was any writing on the stone it was no longer legible.

The guards spoke Tiurishkan: the common dialect, with a northern accent. "Welcome, travelers. Your arrival was expected."

She translated for Pathis, who nodded. "Tell them the prince should know his apparatus will arrive in a few days, by wagon."

When Havsa explained that, the senior guard smiled. "You wouldn't have been welcomed if we hadn't been informed that the mission was successful. Come along; we'll take you to your room."

Meshüsh Gürun had been carefully planned, clearly, Havsa thought. Seen from above, the walls formed a straight-sided rectangle; the main road ran without turning between gates at either end. Three more streets intersected it at right angles.

Between them were rows of straight buildings. The guardsman explained them as they walked: most of the structures were dwellings, two or three stories tall. Often the first level was a shop or office of some kind. Pathis nodded again when she translated the tour into Aernian.

"I have one, an office for my import business. My apartment is just above it. I didn't mean to presume, Tess, but I have a spare room--I figured you'd stay there until you figured out what you wanted to do in the long term."

She decided that was satisfactory, especially as the jackal didn't yet know what her plans would be. Meshüsh Gürun remained enigmatic: the Dominion didn't have many fortified settlements, and they were not often so neatly arranged.

It would've been more at home on the far side of the Sheyib, as an independent city-state of some kind. But all of the decor was Tiurishkan. The inside of Pathis's apartment had been done in mid-Fifth Dynasty style, with ornate mosaics at eye level on every wall.

"These are new..."

"Of course. Built within the city." Pathis ran his fingers along the mosaic in the entryway. Brilliant lapis lazuli picked out the glittering water of a harbor town, thronging with trade ships. "Do you remember this, Tess?"

"Bashiek?"

She remembered, though the mental image was by then twenty years old. A seventeen year-old girl, having left her father's protection to strike out on her own. There was a deal about to close, sixteen barrels of fish being traded upriver from Bashiek--a few kiliç profit, at most.

Until then she was starving, sleeping in the public baths before the guards kicked her out. That was where the wolf had found her. Pathis was not much older than Havsa, and at that moment in their lives he'd been having better luck.

"Isn't it beautiful?"

"It's a long way down," she answered.

She was thinking of the dinner he'd bought for them both, the first proper meal in a week. The spice was still on her tongue. Lamb, even, not half-rotten mutton or vegetables too soft to sell at market.

Dinner, and the wolf's grin, reassured her that he wasn't about to push her from the guild hall. The hall was six stories high, and the observation tower rose another thirty meters. From it the Hasköyal could see approaching ships, and ready themselves for the riches they carried.

"It's beautiful," Pathis repeated. His eyes lingered on the harbor, wandering dreamily from freighter to freighter. "This is our world. Those ships will answer to us, one day."

"You really think so?"

"Don't you? Don't you want it, Havsa?" He hadn't started calling her 'Tess'; she didn't know the touch of his paws, then, the way his eyes glinted when he got one of his ideas... "Anything can be ours, if we're willing to claim it for ourselves."

_When he said it, Havsa found it was easy to believe him. She'd only met the wolf a few hours earlier. But strange as it was, and as quickly as he'd decided they were meant to be business partners, something about him seemed immediately trustworthy. _

Pathis had been overjoyed to find that she spoke his language. He had a friend on an Aernian barque, due to call at Bashiek in a week's time. His friend convinced the captain that copper ingots were to be had in town, at two pounds a bar. Pathis had agreed to be the buyer.

He didn't speak Tiurishkan, and the margins on copper were razor-thin on the open market. He'd staked everything he had, less the money for dinner, on the copper trade. "You know," the jackal mused. "We could go to Armut Talanbulia..."

"A friend?"

"Someone with a contract on copper. He wants better access to the markets in Tinenfirth... I heard him complaining about having to ship goods to Irskailik just so they could cross the Great Gate to Körlyda and be put on a northbound train. It's so much work, just to get them on your side of the river..."

"Our side of the river," Pathis corrected, with a teasing smile. "Just like this one is."

She grinned back at him. "With your extensive contacts in the Iron Kingdom, you could do a great favor for Talanbulia. I'm sure he'd be willing to trade at his contract price in exchange for that. Not for me_--I'm not even in the Hasköyal yet."_

"But for me, the young son of the senior partner of an influential Aernian trading firm?" Pathis guessed. He tugged at the fraying thread of the buttons on his coat. "And you'd be my broker?"

Pathis grew the small fortune that resulted for almost a year before losing it in a cotton venture. When she saw him next he was insuring ships. They'd been in a dozen enterprises together since Bashiek.

And this, whatever this proved to be, was merely the latest. Pathis told her the city's ruler wanted to meet her in person. Havsa put on her finest clothes, such as they were, and went to the tower at the city's center.

"You will now be received." The attendant raised her paw to the door, which slid silently open at the touch. "Prince Nevshe Yeshin Bashir Basshereflit Baskarashovar Bastuzluç Basarmut."

However mysterious Prince Yeshin might have been, Havsa knew at once he was a genuine aristocrat and not some interloper. The lion's mane had been brushed straight and trimmed in the northern fashion; fine silk twined through its edges to keep them straight.

Without another sound, or any sign of how it had moved, the door closed behind her. Havsa clasped her paws and dipped her head referentially. "I come to settle the honor of this meeting."

"May it be settled with your name alone," he answered. "What is that, traveler?"

"Havsa Itess-Kanyr Orgevash Basbashkale."

"Of the western Kanyr, I imagine? A merchant family."

She inclined her head. "Yes. Gevash Kanyr has a brokering concern on the coast, in Cayirvar. I follow the family trade."

Yeshin smiled. "As do I. What do you think of Meshüsh Gürun, Havsa?"

"It defies my expectations." The lion looked at her with mirthful, skeptical curiosity. In that, he reminded her of her wolf friend. "I come representing a foreign trader: Pathis, of the Iron Kingdom. He told me that Meshüsh Gürun was a mining town. This is quite unexpected."

Prince Yeshin's smile grew wider. "You'd like to know its history, then?" He turned, walking in long, smooth strides to a window that looked out on the far end of the city. "Come. Look, those are the smelters. Old, Havsa--before our time, surely."

"Yet they work."

"They do. I heard of this town in the library of Izkadi, where the records showed that its tin mines were exhausted five centuries ago. I saw an opportunity, for our capabilities have surely advanced in those centuries."

Suddenly it all made sense to her, though the jackal had enough decorum not to ask for confirmation. Yeshin must have been a younger son, low in the line of succession for his father's realm. Occupying the derelict castle allowed him to establish a claim on its land.

That was why the town looked out of place--it was a historical relic. And that, doubtless, was why Yeshin was willing to pay exorbitantly to import machinery that would make Meshüsh Gürun more self-sufficient. And why the town had armed guards. And why Yeshin negotiated trade agreements with foreigners.

He was telling his neighbors--telling the padishah in Esifyr, too--that Meshüsh Gürun was its own, independent, viable city of the Dominion. Lacking a place in his family's lineage, Yeshin had carved out his own.

"I'm quite proud of what we've accomplished," the lion said aloud, like he had been reading her thoughts. "But it's time to do more."

"More?"

"The mines are becoming exhausted again... already we're straining the limits of unprofitability. I see a different destiny for Meshüsh Gürun. What if we were to become workers of knowledge and commerce?"

She kept quiet; it would not do to ask how in the name of the gods do you expect that to happen? Had she been talking to Pathis, the jackal could've trusted in his irrepressible scheming. To an aristocrat, the stakes were higher.

"We could bring the skills of the Otonichi and the northern tribes into the heart of the Dominion. You're a merchant, Havsa: you know our people are too insular. We trade with the outside world for our individual profit, and we guard those relationships dearer than we guard our own family. Tell me you don't have your own contacts--ones you wouldn't tell even to me, your prince."

It was a presumptuous statement from more than one angle, but perceptive. "I do. There is more to wealth than accounted on a balance book." That was how the saying went, at least, along with the wisdom that a trader's greatest asset was the number of lips his name was on.

"This will be an open city, a center of free knowledge and trade. And we will offer one thing unique in the Dominion--I promise you that. Shall I tell you what I also found? In deeper research in Shereflik, and in the depths of this city's ruins, when I came here?"

"I... am intrigued, yes," she admitted.

Prince Yeshin took a deep breath, straightening his back. He brought his right paw up, sweeping it in a broad arc. As he did the walls vanished and bright, warm sun fell on her shoulders. They were standing on a tower of polished marble; the structures of Meshüsh Gürun shone brilliantly below them.

"What is this?"

"There's a Dobtan Loom in the temple just behind my residence. The city does not simply mine tin, Havsa. It can collect and weave the essence of the world itself beneath us. We've tapped the underground river that flows beneath these hills to summon its energy."

"That's why you need the water collector..."

"Yes. It was no longer suitable as a spring, not with what remained when the loom had done its work--but the city's walls are reconstituted, and its citizens are fed. Where else in the Dominion would you see this?"

Nowhere--she could freely grant that. Others studied magic, of course; some Tiurishkans even worked with it. A similar artifact was said to lay at the heart of Körlyda, granting that city its majesty, if the rumors were to be believed. Academic, high-minded 'scientific thaumaturgy' was common to Dominion universities.

Putting it to use, though?

No, she thought to herself: nowhere else would it be so boldly admitted. With another sweep of his paw, the prince dimmed the illusion he'd created. But he kept talking of what was to come: the sages who would want to see what was traded in the bazaar, the caravans who would flock to purchase and offer those wares. The craftsman, unique on the continent, who would take the skill of the mountain-dwelling Otonichi and the intellect of Tiurishkan scholars and produce inventions unlike any before seen.

And, of course, the profit to be made in selling those goods.

"Do you know what he's planning?" she asked Pathis, when she returned to the wolf's apartment.

He must've known how the meeting had gone. Pathis grinned, snapping his fingers; when he opened his paw a gold coin glittered against the fur. Another snap, and it disappeared. "This?"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"It's hard to know how anyone will respond until they see it for themselves," he explained. "You know how the iron folk look on magic as something to be shunned. Or feared. Or both. Many of your kind are less inhibited, but I thought it would be best if the prince could show you."

"He's right about one thing. We could make ourselves incredibly rich. By the Gods--think about if we didn't have to barter with the Otonichi! Six hours of back-and-forth and bowing and hot baths just to get them to part with a single watch..."

Pathis's next grin flashed his fangs, and his eyes danced. "You mean, if we made our own. Or even better things--flawless glass, metals free of the most minor impurity.... but what are you saying, Tess, that we could be rich? You mean that you could make yourself rich. Like me."

"How much?"

"I'm Aernian," he reminded her. "That's a very impolite question."

"You're not in the Iron Kingdom anymore. How much?"

"I still have a sense of--"

Glaring--grinning--she pounced him; the wolf fell to his back on the sofa. Up close, Havsa marveled at the softness of its velvet--this was not some heirloom; it had clearly been produced recently by brilliant artisans, like the mosaics on the walls. She dug her claws into Pathis's shoulders. "Well?"

Pathis growled, pushing her to the side. Rolling her--was he always this strong? Is that charmwork, too?--and pinning Havsa down. "'Well' what, Tiurishkada?"

"Tiurishka_dï_," she corrected. She grinned, jerking her head up to nip his nose. "Twenty thousand pazariç? Fifty?"

Pathis growled again; his teeth clicked sharply before her muzzle. "Really? Really, Tess?"

"A hundred?"

"Four hundred and ninety thousand, held in the bank of Irskailik." Before she could protest, his muzzle was on hers. The kiss was sudden and fiery; when it ended her head was reeling. "Did you think I asked you here just for the company?"

Havsa panted--in shock, in the slowly fading pleasure of the kiss, in exhilarated anticipation. "Four hundred thousand..." There were royal treasuries that didn't amount to a fraction of that sum.

And then Pathis was giving her something else to be distracted by, and the jackal forgot about anything but the wild promise of the future. All at once it was just like the old days--the wolf's paws tearing at her clothes, and his breath deepening to a throaty command... her obedience, rolling onto her knees while his claws gripped at her...

As quick as she'd learned to appreciate the Aernian's drive, she'd learned to appreciate his passion. And now, just like that first time in Bashiek, he was pounding into her. His hips were an eager blur, the heat of his length plunging into the jackal rapidly as she gasped and wailed.

In Bashiek he'd taken her back to some dingy inn where he was staying. She didn't remember it. Not the squalor, not the indecency of being bent over like an animal--by some outland barbarian, no less. Not his coarse words as he took the jackal--just his frantic rutting, the shock of him pumping deep into her that blotted out anything but the carnal pleasure of their coupling.

There'd been the next morning. And the private room at the bathhouse, after the deal closed. The cabin of a freighter, with its captain asleep--Pathis's paw on her throat, squeezing to keep her quiet while his tempo became erratic; she'd seen his eyes narrow and flash through the tumult of her climax as he reached his own inside her.

How long had it been--years?--and still he knew how to wring that emotion from her. She started to howl and his paw was at her scruff, her mind blanking when he clamped down, and her back arched, and beyond the ecstasy that arched her back everything was jumbled and rough.

Her muted squeal. His knot, throbbing against her lips. A jolt of emptiness as he pulled from her. A snarl. Warmth, spattering the charcoal fur of her back, and a moment later the scent of the canine seed now soaking into her pelt. And past that the thought that she was back where she belonged, and it really was her world for the taking.

She woke to a rumbling underneath her. It was morning, and soft light filtered through the drawn curtains. The fuzzy glow only added to her confusion, to the sense of some fading dream. Pathis stirred next to her, grumbling tiredly.

"An earthquake?" Havsa wondered aloud, sitting up and letting her ears adjust to the new angle. The rumbling hadn't stopped. If anything it was growing stronger, and she heard a dull booming echo from outside the windows. "What's going on?"

"Sooner than expected," the wolf mumbled. "Ah, well."

"What is?" Having reached a peak, the rumbling slowed, and abruptly halted. "What do you mean by that?"

Before he answered, the room lurched, suddenly but unmistakably. Instead of a rumble she felt a low thrumming, and a quiet, rhythmic drumming like some deep heartbeat. Pathis was still waking up--he always had been slow about it--and just grunted his exhaustion.

The jackal got to her feet, padding unsteadily to the window. The drumming... she couldn't have been imagining it. The longer she listened, the clearer it became. Shaking her head, bewildered, she pulled the window open.

Outside, beyond the city walls, the hills were moving.

IV. The Sound of Distant Drums

"Sir, according to the signaler, there's a train coming."

The dog's head cocked. "It's not on the schedule, is it?" The next Meteor wasn't due for another three days. And they generally kept on schedule, because maintaining the Lodestone Meteor took work--stockpiles of coal and spare parts needed to be laid in, and engineering crews readied...

But the messenger confirmed that the train--whatever it was--had indeed not been scheduled. Colonel Rossean left the barracks and made his way to one of the guard towers along the palisade. The ladder was a steep climb; his arms burned more than he wanted to admit when he reached the top.

The tower's occupant straightened to surprised attention. "Colonel. Are you here about the train, sir?"

"Yes. What is it?"

"A military one, I believe. But they don't carry any flags."

Rossean took the binoculars, fiddled with the adjustment mechanism until they more or less settled on his muzzle, and looked to the horizon. Immediately, he could tell the sentry was correct in his assessment.

Even without identification or signaling flags, the locomotive was obviously Iron Corps. The design, with a pair of leading and trailing wheels to either side of eight large drive-wheels, was standard across the armored trains used by the Corps.

This didn't, of course, explain what the train was doing in their territory. He counted enough cars for a Lightning Company and their equipment. Are we being reinforced? If so: why? The thought occurred to Rossean that, perhaps, something bad had happened beyond the reach of their ability to be informed. Another rebellion?

He ordered the palisade manned and summoned his staff to meet the newcomers, intending to give the best impression possible. As expected, the train drew to a halt not at the terminal station, but at the secondary platform where the tracks ran nearest to the fort.

The first one off the train was a Border Collie, who offered Rossean a sharp, precise salute. He introduced himself as Major Olmor, and started to explain their unexpected arrival--but before he could finish a second figure alighted, and it was Rossean's turn to render honors.

Fortunately he did so by reflex; by the time he recognized his surprise the dog's paw was already raised. He had served with General Carregan during fighting against the city-state of Kamir, before she'd risen to become senior commander of the Iron Corps. He could not have sworn that the vixen had aged since then: her muzzle was unwhitened, and her eyes still had a keen, youthful sharpness.

"At ease, colonel," she told him. "And please accept my apologies for not announcing our presence. I left Tinenfirth rather quickly."

"I understand. Welcome to Fort Hanham, ma'am."

"Thank you. How has it been treating you?"

"Well enough."

"Hopefully it's been better than that," she said. "Major Olmor, let's go--colonel, do you have a private room we can use?" She resumed the conversation she'd been having with Olmor as they walked: "As I told you, he's a veteran of all the desert wars. Even learned to speak Kamiri, which is a damned lot better than I managed. You still know it, right, colonel?"

He offered a greeting in the desert tongue for Major Olmor's benefit. The Border Collie, it transpired, came from the Iron Corps' military intelligence unit; he'd been deployed to Dhamishaya in the uprising there, but never more than fifty kilometers from an active front.

"With luck, it stays that way." Rescat unrolled a map, tacking it with pins to the wall of the meeting room. But Rossean felt progressively less trusting in 'luck' the longer she spoke, deferring frequently to Olmor for more details.

Officially, the Dominion controlled no territory on the western bank of the Sheyib River, and none east of the River Ket. Karlied and its two million souls were allied, and the Karliedan shah was kin to the Dominion's emperor in Esfer, but the city-state remained independent--and guarded that independence proudly.

Olmor described a growing state of unrest in the eastern towns on the Dominion side of the Sheyib: a sense that the emperor intended to formally merge the two powers. The city-state would resist, of course; the eastern settlements would be caught in any crossfire.

"Putting it all together, we've had some troubling reports. Two months ago, Kechet Marl tried to purchase two regiments of riflemen from Kallinborg, brokered through a Karliedan merchant. The Dominion intervened to block the agreement. For his part, the shah claims it wasn't his idea: a wealthy merchant wanted them as a mercenary force to protect his caravans."

"Two regiments' worth of Ellagdran riflemen?" Rossean asked. Kechet Marl, a smaller city-state to the southwest, was ethnically Tiurishkan but considered itself closer to Karlied--and in turn, the shah thought of them as a dependable ally whenever Karlied wanted to project its desire inland.

Carregan smiled; the question was obviously rhetorical--it was hard to believe the city's ruler had been in the dark. One single Tausrun rifleman is the equivalent of a company of Tiurishkan archers: that was the boast Rossean had heard. He'd also heard it came from the shah of Karlied himself. "I think it's safe to assume that they're not actually defending their caravans."

"Karlied's army is ninety-thousand strong," Major Olmor said, holding up a card that he tacked to the map. "Forty thousand light archers, forty thousand kushri, and ten thousand cavalrymen. With their local vassals, Kechet Marl chief among them, they can raise another forty thousand in short order."

"But," Rescat prompted.

"By now, they're all but ceremonial. Karlied hasn't fought a war in fifty years. They had eight hundred cannon then; we can't find evidence that a single one remains in service. We presume that's why they're seeking foreign assistance."

General Carregan had arrived with a stack of books, now sitting on his desk, which Rossean presumed he'd be able to digest at his leisure. While he had the general's audience, he asked a simpler question. "Where does this leave us?"

"If the Dominion moves on Karlied, it's logical to assume they'll try to seize the Lightward Terminus. Holding Aernian hostages--and threatening all westward trade to the Dominion--would make any action by the emperor... very costly."

"Do we want that? We want to be on the emperor's side?"

Rescat shook her head. "We want to be on no side, colonel. After the Dhamishaya affair, the Railroad can't be seen as interfering in anything political--no matter the cost. We need to stay out of it, so we need to be strong enough to stay out of it. Which is why I need the Lightward Terminus to be protected. The fort must be an imposing presence, so well-defended that it can't be seized lightly."

She was pleased, she told him, to see the orderly state of the fortifications--which Karlied's spies would surely have reported back to their rulers. Increasing the number of patrols, and the combat exercises, only reinforced that message.

He'd done well, and the general expressed her gratitude... but not well enough to be recalled. She was adding three more companies to the Special Detachment, picked from veteran regiments across the Iron Corps, and another two sections of heavy weaponry. None of them were meant to be used...

With luck, she repeated, and asked Major Olmor to leave the room. "What do you think, colonel?"

"We don't have the space for them right now, but I'll do what I can, as quickly as I can. How long will they be here, ma'am? Long enough for permanent barracks?"

"Might as well. But what do you think about the orders?"

"You said 'strong enough to stay out' of a war between Karlied and the Dominion. But even with another regiment, if they come at us with only a quarter of their army, we'll be overwhelmed."

The vixen nodded. "And?"

On the map, barely the width of two fingers separated the fort from Karlied. With one question, given the questioner, he knew what she was really asking. "We might be able to hold out for a few days."

"Do you understand why I'm trusting you?"

His ears went flat. Much as he might've hated it, he finally understood. "Yes. I do."

"Good. Then I won't let you down. I promise."

V. Nobility

Havsa had heard a few adjectives in her time. She had been called aggressive and risk-prone, but also shrewd--competent, even. Reliable was new, but since arriving at Meshüsh Gürun, the jackal had somehow established herself as one of the city's most dependable traders.

There had been a period of adjustment. Of disbelief, watching the eastern hills of the Dominion slip by the window of her apartment. By now, the city's movement was second-nature. She was no longer surprised by the gentle lurch and sway, or the sound of its stout limbs finding purchase on the ground beneath.

She had yet to learn to her satisfaction how old Meshüsh Gürun truly was. The yir donïdon kirvosoç--the galloping cities--were so aged and poorly known as to have passed into legend. Yet clearly the prince had found one, and in working condition.

"Do you know how long it took?" she'd asked Pathis.

The wolf shook his head with the sort of snorting laugh that told the jackal the question was better off unasked. "By the time I was invited to see it, the loom was already running. I wonder myself what it looked like... before."

Nobody spoke of that, either. They'd traveled a good twenty leagues--in sprints of up to three a day, if the terrain was favorable--since her arrival. By now the last of the dirt had been worn from the machinery; the plant growth had been stripped away.

Meshüsh Gürun looked quite alien no matter where it came to rest. Havsa still looked forward to it: the city was, after all, her home. And, more than that, it was the source of no small amount of good fortune. She thanked Pathis for it. He grinned and gave her a kiss. "Soon..."

In the middle of the afternoon, a new star rose above the eastern horizon. Glass, the windows of the prince's tower--the highest point of the city--caught the sunlight, coming over the hill.

Soon the rest of the city followed. Havsa heard gasps and shouting from next to her. She grinned, imagining the shock her hosts felt--the elder businessmen of Karkandïr, a hilltop town of three hundred people and the four smithies that were its beating heart.

Karkandïr was as modern as any other small Dominion town: the food was good, the conversation refined, the politics delicate and inconsequential. Belen Keski, owner of the richest workshop, had treated them to tea with a service made of the finest porcelain Havsa had ever seen.

Justly proud of the cups as he might have been, Keski was as spellbound as the rest of the townsfolk joining him to watch at the northern gate. All of Meshüsh Gürun could now be seen, plodding inexorably towards them. The main road was far too narrow, of course--more than one hapless tree found itself uprooted, brushed effortlessly aside by the city's approach.

Each of its sixteen segments were carried by four legs, made of metal scavenged from the World Before: seven meters, at full height, and thick around as a supply wagon. Metal joints bridged the segments, permitting them a measure of freedom. Stretching a clothesline between buildings of different segments was a mistake a citizen made only once before learning their lesson. Falling between the segments was a lesson that--thankfully--none of them had yet learned.

It lumbered forward like a crawling insect, its form rolling and contouring with the hills beneath it. Every movement, every thud of those massive legs driving in to find purchase added to its sense of inexorability. "Myth, surely..." Belen Keski whispered. "Surely, I had thought these to be myths..."

Pathis looked over, and Havsa translated what the man had said. "Tell him it's quite real, obviously," Pathis answered. He was smiling, flush with the same pride Havsa felt at the approach of their adopted home. "Why else would we need so much iron?"

Belen Keski shook his head, awed. "You did not ask for iron," he reminded her. "You asked for shields."

"You can see why we might need them," the jackal said; Meshüsh Gürun was close enough to make out the pattern of its stony carapace. "To bring our home to the standard of the rest of the Dominion."

"It's almost hard to believe that it is of the same people."

Was Belen Keski merely impressed? Or was there fear, too, in his words? It was beyond Havsa's concern. Her responsibility was the agreement they'd negotiated, for Karkandïr to provide blanks for a hundred polished iron shields... with only two weeks to do so.

The signature soldier of the Dominion was the ulubor kir kushri--the shining protector. Some of them carried longbows, and some spears. All of them carried a kushir, a shield designed to focus sunlight to a blinding, burning point. Meshüsh Gürun had archers, but no kushiriç.

She had not been told explicitly that this was why Prince Yeshin wanted the shields. Belen Keski believed so, and Havsa didn't dissuade him. In any case, his mind was elsewhere, captivated like the other citizens of Karkandïr.

In a wide clearing, at the bottom of the hill, the city stopped. Starting from the rearmost, each segment pushed forward until the stone walls were flush. Where they found insufficiently level ground, the legs kicked a suitable burrow.

Then they folded up, and the city sank to rest--looking for all the world like a conventional fortress, with nothing amiss but its incongruous location and the old valley road that simply ran headlong into the wall and stopped.

Prince Yeshin felt, not unreasonably, that bringing the city to Karkandïr would smooth out any suggestion of reneging on the agreement they'd negotiated. Speaking on Pathis's behalf, she reported directly to the prince once the city gate had been opened.

"You expect no trouble," the lion said.

"None, sire."

He nodded his regal head, satisfied. "You have proven to be a remarkable asset to my city, Havsa. As we move further away, and our needs grow, there will be more of these meetings--more of these agreements that need to be negotiated... I do hope that you feel valued?"

She did--indeed, she felt more valued than she had for some time. "Yes. In turn, I look forward to helping you with them."

The prince stepped closer. "'Help' is not entirely what I had in mind. This work can no longer be trusted to the good fortune of ad-hoc negotiation. What would you say to an appointment as our senior representative on matters of trade?"

Gerzal sinokesteçlït implied more than 'seniority,' but Havsa didn't want to presume. "I would be greatly honored, sire. But what about Pathis? He's worked for you longer than I have."

"Indeed. Still, he's a foreigner. He won't speak the language of the lands we venture to. And he doesn't understand our culture. You, I think, are privileged. Your father is seyyidighim, is he not?"

"He is. And the Itess, my mother's line, are yanusherkighim." Describing the Dominion's sense of place as a caste system missed some of the nuance that distinguished yanusherkighim--farmers, the bringers-of-life--from seyyidighim, the skilled-with-hands.

It was not rigid, and not immutable. The terms defined how one related to the world. And true, warriors were accorded more respect than carpenters, and carpenters were accorded more respect than shepherds.

On the other hand, all of them deferred to the kuraghim--those close to the water. A fisherman might be poor in coin, but everyone in the Dominion understood that water was the empire's lifeblood, and the kuraghim deserved respect. So did everyone else, no matter their place.

These divisions dated from before the Fall of the World Before, and after its rebirth the emergent merchant class had no obvious place in it. Mostly, they considered themselves craftsmen. Yeshin had other ideas. "You, I think, are tashughim."

The wise: scholars and scientists, sages, academics--the esteemed of Tiurishkan society. Havsa felt her ears flush. "I am honored at that judgment, sire."

"I don't make it lightly. You are wise, Havsa. You have an eye towards the future, and not just as it's tallied in your accounts. This gift is rare. Your friend Pathis is skilled, but far narrower in mind. You, I feel certain, will be the most logical choice. If you'll have it."

His paw had slipped into his robe; as Havsa watched, he brought forth a silver ring, holding it out to her. She could only nod. He gestured for her to extend her arm, and slid the ring onto her finger.

"It is yours, then, Gerz Itess-Kanyr."

When she left, head spinning--scarcely aware of the thanks she had offered him, the hope for successful ventures and rich profits, the pledge to his long reign--Havsa looked at the ring again.

Gerz! It was not quite a title of nobility, but nor was it far removed. Definitely the best that her family had managed, to be named the gerz of such a remarkable city's trading affairs. Unlike 'vasha,' the title Antïl Spartakül adopted, 'gerz' was one with proper, legal meaning.

She didn't know how to raise the subject with Pathis; fortunately it didn't matter. He knew at once why she was glowing: indeed, he said, the appointment had been his idea to begin with.

"Really?"

"You know the language and the territory." The wolf took her paw, examining the ring, with an ornate decoration that must've been Yeshin's family crest. "You're also more willing to bear the risks, if I'm not mistaken."

"Risks?"

"Ones that come from what the prince intends to do. He has great ambition... honestly, it's what makes the city such an exciting venture to have joined. But the stakes will go up, too. Think about the shields we ordered, Tess. The owner was obviously uncomfortable. He thought we might be raising an army."

And she had explained that this was not the case, that the iron shields were intended solely to reinforce the old city walls. It would have been Yeshin's right, as city lord, to establish a garrison for its protection...

But the idea troubled Belen Keski, without either of them mentioning anything about men under arms. She was able to sooth his concerns. Meshüsh Gürun was small, and as word spread that someone had found--and raised--a galloping city, there would be those out for its secrets.

All we want is to be able to defend ourselves, and to repair this aged stone. We are far too small for dreams of conquest, she'd said, and meant it when she laughed the whole idea off. We're merchants and artisans, scholars, businessmen... Everything Prince Yeshin told her echoed in her impassioned reassurances.

"You were able to convince him to trade with us," Pathis said. "I might not've been. And if I'd failed--me, an outsider--I think the consequences would've been great. You've always been more of a risk-taker."

"And you've always been more eager for profit."

"Yes." He slid his arm around her, pulling the jackal in to lean against his side. "But small profit earned with your head on your shoulders is more appealing than great riches left to your estate. I'm more than happy to step back and let you handle this."

It was quite a pragmatic approach, Havsa admitted, grinning and giving the side of the wolf's muzzle a kiss. And it was good to have had his support, though when she mentioned that Pathis only snickered, reminding her that she'd made more than a few friends.

"You should go see Mr. Kadïnhät, actually."

"Oh?"

"He said he wanted to speak to you... I think. His accent is very thick."

"And your Tiurishkan is very poor," she teased, kissing him again. He was trying, though. When they went to the market together he did his best to order in the city's common tongue. He wasn't always successful, of course, and the merchants were like as not to either rely on Havsa for translation or to grant the wolf favors on account of his status in the city.

And sometimes, when she teased him, Pathis told her that the city was bound to be cosmopolitan. He might as well learn to speak Otonichi, or the dialects of the towns across the eastern river--the ones that sounded, to the jackal's ear, almost more like the ancient languages beyond the Dominion's northern border.

Not that she'd give him the pleasure of hearing it, but he was right. It was almost provincial to act otherwise, as though Meshüsh Gürun were simply any other town in the Dominion. They were better than that: wealthier in knowledge and spirit. A city where the merchants were tashughim, not simple traders.

But wilder, too. The man Havsa met was far too much of an iconoclast to find peace in the Dominion's staid universities. He smiled when he saw her coming. "Hello, Havsa--Gerz, I should say."

"It's still Havsa," the jackal said, and grinned.

She liked Shïrn Kadïnhät, the city's chief thaumaturgist. He was a lion, like the city's prince, though with none of the royal affectations--his mane was wild and his eyes often glinted with at least a small measure of derinshe or silik, the smell of which often lingered in his robes.

The pipe was, indeed, stuck in his muzzle now; smoke curled languidly from the clay bowl. Shïrn was in a good mood: he tended to smoke when he'd accomplished something, as a reward for whatever work had been required.

"Yes," he answered the unasked question. "It's been a quite productive day. Would you like to see?"

"Of course!"

Havsa knew very little of magic, and had yet to look at the Dobtan Loom at Meshüsh Gürun's heart. The building itself was off-limits. But, as Shïrn pointed out with a conspiratorial smile, she was a city official now--visiting it was her right.

The stone door melted into dust at Shïrn's touch, reforming seamlessly once they were through. The pair descended into a room glowing with filtered moonlight, no matter that above the city it was still afternoon.

At its most simple, a Dobtan Loom converted charmed energy into an orderly form in which it could be 'used'--though Havsa did not understand what this meant. As a young girl she'd been taught that there was no 'magic,' per se, any more than there was 'heat' or the color 'red.'

These were merely intrinsic properties of the world; they behaved according to their own rules. Setting a fire under a pot of water changed the amount of 'heat' the water contained, and eventually it would begin to boil. And in that fashion, the heat could be put to work.

"A Dobtan Loom," Shïrn was saying, "can make an adequate thaumaturgist an extraordinary one. An extraordinary one... well, I would be fascinated to see what one of the Pala could do."

"What has it made you?"

"Adequate," the lion said. He grinned, aware that Havsa would know the degree to which he was being modest. Young as he was, Shïrn already had tenure at a respected university. "But good enough to have repaired this--it's taken most of the week in this workshop, but... here we are."

His paw brushed a crystal: it appeared to be an emerald, precisely faceted and flawless. But it was the size of the lion's head, and it floated without visible support above a cradle of lacquered hardwood, spaced at regular intervals with silver runes.

"Something cracked it, although I don't know what and it must've been early in the city's history. This is one of the keshteshermïzumuç." Havsa didn't recognize the word until Shïrn broke it down into 'charm,' 'glow,' and 'jewel': "a gem that shines with magic."

"It's not glowing now, though, is it?"

"Not yet, not yet. The stones are accumulators for what the Dobtan Loom weaves, but it is quiet for now. It will change when we reach our next destination." He started walking again.

She followed him through an archway into the next room. It looked almost like a prayer alcove; two pane of glass were embedded in the floor. One of them, smaller, protruded slightly, giving her the impression of a table, or the crystals used to bring sunlight below the wooden decks of sailing ships. The other was large and flat, reflecting the colorful ceramic tiles of the ceiling and a rectangular, polished mirror in the very center of it all. "What are those? The tiles, I mean?"

"Decoration. The night sky over... Izkadi, perhaps? If you look at the tiles closely, you'll see they're made of sand grains, individually placed. Bits of quartz for the stars--masterpiece of a lifetime for whichever artisan made it."

"You don't know who?"

"I don't."

Black stone columns surrounded the room. Half of them were topped with a keshtermïzum; the others had cradles like the ones in Shïrn's workshop, but the gems were missing.

The lion grinned, seeing Havsa's wide stare and perked ears. Then he left, darting back to his workshop and returning with a small sapphire. "Erkyr ansal rahlït çela." Take this, my gift. It wasn't clear who he was speaking to. But when he lowered his paw, the sapphire hung freely in midair.

A thin tendril, glowing soft and gold, slid from the smaller glass object in the room to wrap about the suspended gem. As she watched, the sapphire took on a violet halo, more brilliant by the second and spreading--the stone dissolving, losing form...

Havsa couldn't tear her eyes away from it. She almost fancied that it wasn't a sapphire... wasn't a gem... that she was looking inside it, at a captivating, regular lattice of something smaller. For a moment the jackal was convinced that the very universe was made up of such things, smaller and smaller particles, that she and the gem and the lion and the city itself were assembled from the same cosmic thoughts--

The sapphire burst into radiant mist, drawn along the path of the tendril to the small piece of glass. Somehow the glass concentrated it into a straight line, racing onward to the larger pane--the ceiling too dim to be seen now--and when it touched...

When it touched, Havsa gasped--a thousand clear rays of colorful light shot upwards, bounced from the mirror to the floor and back again. As they continued to reflect, the rays straightened until they were mesmerizingly parallel, nudging closer and closer together...

The sapphire was gone, the mist was gone; in its place was a broad ribbon, a rainbow given physical form. A painting, reduced from oil and canvas into the pure color of its own beauty. Fire opal, worked into iridescent tapestry.

Shïrn stepped forward, the radiance dazzling his mane. Without flinching, he waved his arm through the apparition, which rippled and folded about it. Momentum carried it towards one of the keshtermïzumuç; the light slid from his paw to wrap about the stone, coiling tighter until it slipped within.

"This is the loom," she realized. The chamber had begun to darken again, but echoes of the light still danced in the keshtermïzum. Now that she was tuned to it, Havsa saw that all of the gemstones were similarly illuminated.

"It's fascinating, isn't it? I spend a lot of time thinking about who created it--what kind of mind they must've had to come up with something like this."

"You don't have any idea?"

"No, just like I don't have any idea about the mosaic. It isn't in any of the city's records. It's a different design from the looms that I've seen before. In Izkadi I was able to practice on the very newest, the best the scholars had made. Ours only had a single keshtermïzum, the size of my fist. My mentor said it wasn't possible to make them larger."

"Maybe he was trying to keep your feet on the ground?"

Shïrn chuckled. "You know, despite appearances, I was well-respected there. If the old man had known, he would've helped me. And if he could see this now..."

Havsa, like her friend, was given to wonder about the loom's origin--how the knowledge to create it had disappeared over the centuries that followed. It was only natural that the lion's curiosity was sparked by such a thing; his desire to unlock its secrets was obvious in his every word and gesture.

Before feeding anything into the loom, he tried to learn its history. Magical objects, according to Shïrn, often carried the whole of their story with them: when they had been crafted, where they had been, what they had seen. He spoke of faint clues, and subtle hints. "Not enough, yet. It's only been a few dozen."

"We're collecting other artifacts, aren't we? Do we trade for them?"

"I think so. When we were still over the underground river, there was a constant flow of energy. Now, it's things we get from the trading parties--every few days. I hope the next one is more successful... we only have enough charge to move the city another five or six leagues, as it stands."

Havsa nodded. Collecting artifacts wasn't her job, at least as far as she knew; the prince hadn't said anything about it. "Do you know where they come from?"

"No." Shïrn's mood had darkened slightly, too. Too quickly, he stepped away from the keshtermïzum, heading back towards his workshop. "It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't it?"

The lion stopped and turned to look at her. "It doesn't. I think this is something we don't ask questions about, Havsa. Prince Yeshin knows what we are doing... where we are going. Asking sounds... a little too much like a challenge."

"I wouldn't think to challenge him," the jackal insisted. "I'm only curious."

"Keep it at curiosity, and you'll be fine. I did hear that one of the searchers tried to hold something back from Yeshin--to keep an especially potent artifact from me. It didn't work."

"What happened to them?"

"Don't ask about that, either."

The answer hardly slaked her curiosity, but if Shïrn was troubled Havsa didn't share the lion's concern. Yeshin was the city's ruler, his word was law, and a trader trying to hide something from him was a grave betrayal of trust.

The jackal chose to live there, just like all of them. If I change my mind, then I'll leave. Forty thousand pazariç wealthier, though, and the promise of much more. It didn't seem like much of a possibility.

A week later and her certainty of that had only deepened. Prince Yeshin had summoned her to a private meeting, giving the jackal instructions to travel--alone--and meet with a party of traders from the mountains.

I trust only you with this, he'd said. Do you know the value of a secret?

He implied a Tiurishkan proverb: "if every word has a price, its worth unspoken is tenfold." The strips of gold in her purse, with script denoting their redemption value at any Dominion bank, totaled seven thousand pazariç. According to Yeshin, she was to purchase a device whose value, at most, was seven hundred.

But knowing the value of a secret didn't keep the jackal from wondering what, exactly, was being kept.

VI. The Terminus

Fletch--

I hope this letter finds you well. More than that, I hope it finds you at all. The last was returned with a note saying your post had been changed, again. Needless to say, on Mother's visit this Mitaltid, she was quite worried. If it is indeed true that the army has been called up, I wish you a safe and expedient return. But I have told her that this is not the case...

"Good news?" Rossean's smile had caught the color sergeant's attention. She, too, was smiling, watching him over her teacup.

"The ordinary kind. My family is wondering what's become of me. Mum's father was an assistant to Duke Ketta... not aristocrats, exactly, but connected. They had... society airs, is the best way of putting it. They were very unhappy when she married a soldier in the eastern militia, ruining the bloodline and all that."

"Was your choice of occupation good or bad?"

He waved his paw at the letter. "Somehow mum has put up with my father for forty-seven years and not understood why his son is obliged to move from time to time. She's been one of the loudest voices in trying to get me to settle down."

The badger offered an understanding grin. "I'm reminded of when harvest season is, every harvest season... along with an exhaustive litany of my nephews and nieces."

He already knew that part would come later in the letter. First, his brother detailed the continued good fortunes of his foundry. The contract with Davish-Carray Shipworks is finally signed, a great relief I confess, though at the same time new challenges arise. We're obliged to hire two hundred new workers, and to train them before the first delivery this Talsev.

In confessing the relief, I must confess as well how strongly it reminds me that my ability to draw the best from such good men as these has never been as finely honed as yours, with your extensive service. If only it was as simple as a letter for you to teach me the art of command.

The letter ended with a charcoal drawing of his brother's home. In it, smoke rose invitingly from the chimney, and though no faces were visible something about the depiction naturally gave the impression that it was inhabited by cheery, hale souls. Mara, his niece, was barely ten years old and already quite talented.

Rossean was considering his reply when Sennis rose, telling him that she was headed to the Lightward Terminus to inspect the latest trainload of cartridges and approve its transfer to the fortress. The walk, he decided, would do him good. So would spending an evening outside the walls of Fort Hanham.

The Terminus was certainly a change of perspective. When the wind was right, they could smell the spices of the Lightward Bazaar from Hanham. Mingled in the crowd of merchants and travelers, the whole affair was almost overwhelming to the senses--but wonderful, all the same.

A Meteor had arrived earlier in the day--this was where the letter came from, as well as the cartridges. Carregan workers swarmed around the carriages and the locomotive, readying it for the return journey that would begin the following morning.

An Ætoric-class locomotive was itself a sight to behold. Forty tons of iron, painted in the special, deep glossy red of the line: Lodestone Meteor was written in flowing gold below the block letters that identified the engine as being of the CARREGAN TRANSCONTINENTAL RAILROAD. There could have been no doubt, Rossean thought. Nobody else could have laid claim to such a thing.

It was the Iron Kingdom's answer to Karlied's walls, on the horizon, and the looming towers marking the western end of the Great Gate--the ancient bridge that spanned the Sheyib River. Crossing the Gate was a journey all on its own; Rossean had heard there were shops and inns along the way for travelers to rest and resupply.

Stalwart and imposing as it might've been, Carregan Transcontinental and the Lodestone Meteor stood in challenge. He heard a few of the engineers whistling the folk song from which it drew its name. From the snowfall to the springtime, from the sunset to the dawn, tho' the world be ever-changing, still the railroad carries on.

And I've even heard it rumored that the Great Conductor swore: that the Valley holds a whistle-stop for the Lodestone Meteor.

Well before Rossean's birth the song was a prideful boast, and the train a myth... and then Carregan had decided to make it a reality. Now he was looking on the engine and its consist: no myth but pure, unchallenged fact built of iron and the willpower of the Iron Kingdom. Seeing the trains never failed to lift his spirits, even if they had yet to call on the gods in the Coral Valley--wherever that was.

"Sir!"

One of the workers had noticed his presence, snapping to attention. Rossean grinned. "Calm down, lad, that's not necessary." The mechanic was still a boy--a pup whose grease-stained fur had until recently been white--and a civilian to boot. "How's it looking?"

"Quite well, sir. We'll leave on time tomorrow."

"Don't you always?"

"Yes, sir, of course."

Rossean laughed. "Good work. Where are you from, anyhow? Your accent sounds western."

"Canleyshire, yes sir," he nodded with youthful enthusiasm. "My first time past the border. It's been such an adventure--we even saw some riders at the midway stop, but the guard frightened them off. They didn't hurt anyone, but... then the next day, there was a flock of quail and... by the gods, sir, you men can shoot!"

"Did they let you try?" Somehow he guessed the boy's energy would've been irresistible to the embarked garrison.

"Yes, but... it was my first time doing that, too. I'll practice."

"What do you think of the frontier?"

The mechanic looked about, taking in the activity all around them. Words failed him for a spell. "It's magical, sir."

"Not magic, lad. It's work. Your work, too. I'll let you get back to it."

When he nodded again his cap lifted briefly, and Rossean saw that the energy of the boy's excited salute earlier had dabbed a bit of grease on his snowy forehead. He chuckled and kept moving; Sergeant-Major Sennis was towards the rear of the train, flipping through the bill of lading for the Hanham garrison's supplies.

Another soldier stood with her, waiting; they both saluted when they saw him--theirs were practiced, though, and crisp. "At ease. Captain..."

"Captain Ondaris, sir. Logistics officer, Severn Island Battalion."

"Welcome to the Lightward Terminus. It's in order, sergeant?"

The badger nodded, straightening the paperwork and handing it back to Captain Ondaris. "Yes. Ten thousand rounds of needlegun cartridges, and twenty crates of ammunition for the repeaters."

"If you don't mind me saying, sir, it's the second time this month we've restocked you. Is the frontier that active?"

"Training, captain," he told Ondaris. "I want to keep the garrison in fighting condition--else it's all... well." He turned, tilting his muzzle back towards the bazaar. "It's all just this festival. We have a job to do."

"That makes sense. It doesn't bother me personally, but... you should've seen the chief engineer when we put two more cars in the consist."

Rossean laughed. "Was it the same old routine? Bloody Iron Corps, think they own the damn Railroad, take up good space for paid freight and don't give us a bloody cent--something like that?"

"Something like that, sir," Ondaris confirmed with a laugh of his own. "Well, we'll get it all on wagons by nightfall and then it's yours."

He agreed to go along with Sergeant-Major Sennis's suggestion that they head back with the wagons. There was a bar nearby, they were both in good spirits, and a few hours spent getting to know the color sergeant hardly seemed a bad idea.

It filled in the details of her service record, for one. She'd fought in some of the same frontier campaigns as he had, in different units. And on the Whistling Pale, among the castle-thick trees of the Dalrath. My first assignment. Quite an eye-opener, for a girl from the South Coast.

"Do you ever think of going back?"

"To the farm?" Sennis laughed. "Never. And I didn't have the sense you were about to be domesticated, either, sir. Something of your father about you?"

"Not quite that bad. You know the men of the march, though."

Half a pint removed enough of the badger's inhibition to ask the question she must've been sitting on for most of the afternoon. "Was the civil war difficult for you?"

"Well... I was still in Kamir, and he'd retired two years earlier."

He hadn't answered her. Jonham, Lord Gyldrane, had become the senior royal official in Dhamishaya following Duke Sidley's death. When Rescat Carregan and the Iron Corps threw their weight behind a native rebellion in the province, Lord Gyldrane opposed them. Most of the fighting had been between proxies--but on several occasions, men of the Iron Kingdom had fought other Aernians directly.

Like Rossean's father, Jonham came from the march, and it was a borderland militia that had finally ridden to his assistance and put down the uprising. That was their right--the border provinces exercised a great deal of autonomy--and his father's clan was one of many that contributed soldiers to the expedition.

Sennis looked at him expectantly.

Rossean finished his beer and flagged the server down for another one. "It was difficult. In Kamir... I imagine it's the same way on the Whistling Pale, too. We've always been defending the Railroad. The sand-folk still attack the Meteor--cargal'th, they were at the midway stop this very run, apparently."

"Heard that from Captain Ondaris, too, aye."

The dog took his beer, distractedly tipping the server nearly a full half-crown. "I spent most of the civil war on a punitive campaign against Ülen Kara. Wasn't easy, but... they'd sunk the Granleigh and we all thought about those stories, what they did to the lifeboats and all. Even to me it... it felt different to hear the Iron Corps was supporting a rebellion against the sovereign."

"It wasn't against King Chatherral, it was against the ruling Dhamishi castes after Duke Sidley passed. The king never appointed a replacement."

The king had not appointed a replacement, of course, because the head of the Railroad was stalling for time, and by every rumor from the capital city King Chatherral and Tokeli Carregan were rather more than simple business partners. "Do you believe that?"

Sennis shrugged. "Are you asking me, or an Iron Corps sergeant?"

He put his paw over the insignia on his uniform. "You. Do you believe it?"

"No. I imagine your father didn't, either."

"Of course not. So... yes, it was difficult. But he understands. We follow orders. I don't set policy. You don't set policy. I'm not always sure that General Carregan sets policy, though I think she's more inclined than we are. We still have to serve, that's the important thing. We don't get a choice in that."

"Not as long as we're here, no. True enough."

VII. Bargains

One of the Dominion's greatest strengths, Havsa felt, was the breadth of reach that commerce gave it. An army, after all, could only march so far--but trade? Trade bound the whole of the continent together. She had never met anyone from Dhamishaya, but she knew the taste of Dhamishi alat. She'd never visited the Ellagdran Confederacy, but she knew how the sturdy heft of their wagons made them ideal for transporting great, heaping loads of ore.

And she'd never been to the Ishonko mountains, the high-altitude home of the Otonichi, but she knew that they were unmatched artisans when it came to clockwork. It stood to reason that this was why she'd been sent to meet with them, though getting to the point of the meeting itself was proving to be rather difficult.

First there had been a bath, conducted in preparation for any further discussion. An Otonichi assistant directed her with gestures into the basin, which had apparently been brought down along with the trading party. When she left, dripping, the assistant returned and--with more gestures--ordered her back in the water. By the third time, the Otonichi overcame their distaste and scrubbed the jackal's fur directly.

And after all of that the water was changed and Rishi Takaga, her contact, joined Havsa in the basin. The snow leopard sat silently for quite some time. Havsa finally broke the silence, asking if there was something she was supposed to say, and Rishi raised an eyebrow. "Is it not sufficient to relax?"

An hour of relaxation followed, during which no further words were exchanged. Then tea, poured from an Otonichi automaton in the form of a crane that held the clay pot on its back. It spun to face each teacup in turn, spreading its wings and bowing until an exact measure of tea spilled from its beak. "It's beautiful," Havsa murmured, stunned by the wondrous precision and fluidity of the machine's movement. "I've never seen anything like this produced in my own country. The complexity is... amazing."

"Yes," Rishi answered.

Night had fallen by the time the tea was poured, dinner was over, and the second tea ceremony had concluded. In all of it, Havsa learned only that the Otonichi craftsmen were indeed unparalleled, and that their obsessive hygiene came from the practical need of living in the extremely confined space of their mountain caves.

Finally Rishi guided her into the snow leopard's tent. It was a temporary construction, Havsa thought, and probably portable. But its bamboo frame gave it the image of remarkable sturdiness, and the felt walls were ornately decorated. It could just as easily have been someone's home.

The two of them sat, and Rishi bowed her head. As she did so the decorative embroidery on the walls glowed softly, giving the interior a dim, welcoming light. It was enough to read by; enough to see the change in Rishi's expression from distant to purposeful. "So. You wish to trade with us, is that it?"

"Yes, madam. I've been sent from my homeland to conclude negotiations that--I understand--were underway well before."

"Yes. The chain of rumor and intrigue that brings us together stretches many leagues," the leopardess reflected. "Dozens of links. Some hidden, some plain as day. Which are you?"

Havsa smiled disarmingly. "I hope that my intentions are quite plain, madam Rishi. I was told that you have something my buyer desires. In return, I have money that he desires to give you."

Rishi glanced behind Havsa to the open door of the tent, speaking a short command in her own language. A robed feline approached, with a hardwood box held in his paws. Rishi took the box; he bowed, and slipped away into the darkness.

Inside, the box was lined with inky felt, on which the contraption within seemed to float. Rishi picked it up, and the illusion broke. Havsa first took what she held to be a clock of some kind: a disc, with a single hand inlaid in mother-of-pearl and ending in a quartz arrowpoint.

There were no markings on the disc, though. It was framed by two perpendicular brass rings, and when Rishi pushed the disc Havsa saw that the arrangement allowed the center to rotate freely within the outer disc, and the arrow to point in any direction.

"You do not know what this is." The leopardess said it as a declaration; there was no doubt in her voice. Nor was there any judgment, though she followed up with: "You should. But you do not."

"Will you explain?"

"The crystal is enchanted." As she said it, the disc began spinning; the hand fixed to the same axis stayed motionless. The contraption hummed softly, the disc was a blur, now. A few seconds later the rim of it took on a glow, which spread inward through mysterious channels to form the outline of what Havsa took to be an Otonichi rune.

Bit by bit the disc tilted, and the arrowpoint swung. Rishi twisted her paw, but no matter which way it moved the hand held its orientation, angled towards the mountains. "To what is it pointing?"

"A home. Someone's home--the markings are of the Mitsuni clan. No matter where one of the clan's children are, no matter how far they travel, the arrow points them home."

"How can that be a secret?" Havsa didn't really even understand the point. "Don't you live in mountains? Those aren't very difficult to find--they can't very well be hidden, can they?"

"True, they cannot." The disc came to a halt, by some unspoken command, and Rishi placed it back inside the box. "It is often more a thing of sentimental, personal value, like the stones carried by our traders. The charm is weak, but extremely complex. A Mitsuni could unwork it--I can't. Is it going to a Mitsuni?"

"It must be."

"The chain of rumors does not end with one of our own," Rishi said. "But with a Dominion prince: a collector of strange artifacts. Leader of a city that is said to move..."

"It does. I've seen it. Meshüsh Gürun, an ancient fortress from the early days of the Dominion, well before the current dynasty and the one before that."

"I've heard that when he finds these artifacts, your city consumes them. To some, this might be considered sacrilege. It is not the end to which I would see this put."

"It's true that the city destroys some of what we find. That can't be the purpose here, obviously." 'Obviously' piqued Rishi's interest: the leopardess folded her broad paws, waiting to hear the explanation. "You said the enchantment is weak--that means it's no use to us. I think there's a simpler explanation. My city has many inhabitants, from many different cultures. One of them must be from the mountains. Someone of this family--the Mitsuni. Someone who wants to go home."

"Why are you buying it, then?"

"Our prince wanted this to be discreet. Perhaps it is a close friend of his, or a servant--someone for whom he is doing a favor. Someone, perhaps, he's manumitting."

"He would be so generous?"

"I don't know the circumstances. But in the Dominion, we take our debts seriously. It could be great, indeed."

They were at cross purposes--neither truly understood the other's culture. Rishi agreed to sell the artifact: Havsa started from a higher price, gambling that if she overestimated its value, Rishi would be reassured that the treasured device wasn't simply fuel for the walking city.

It worked.

As she started back, though, Havsa had to wonder: what was it for?

VIII. The Displaced

The Lodestone Meteor ran from Sidley, on the western coast of Aernia, to Tabisthalia and along the banks of the White Sea, down the western bank of the Sheyib River to Karlied and the Lightward Terminus. It was scheduled weekly, and this meant that news from Rossean's home was always at least a week old and often much longer.

He found himself looking at a well-creased newspaper, shaking his head. It was never a good sign when Daaria Anderech was smiling, and this time he'd come in with a toothy grin. The train's purser, a wolf he'd gotten to know fairly well, had brought him the news already telling him he wouldn't like it--even by the headline, Rossean was grumbling.

"He's getting old," the purser said, and laughed. "The look on your face, Cal."

"Ruddy bastard. Six throws! Cargal'th, I could've made a better show of it in six throws." He tossed the paper back at Daaria. "Fine."

"Just 'fine'?"

Rossean rolled his eyes and got a two-pound coin from his desk, flipping it towards the wolf before his grin could become any more irritating. "Swear to the gods, Westenreth was having a better season before you started bringing me the scores..."

"Magic powers," Daaria suggested. "They're just very limited ones. You should look at the article on the Kendon-Laudarmas match. It was a slaughter! What I wouldn't have given to see that one in person..."

Rossean flipped through the paper until he found the writeup. "Kendon by twelve posts? I wonder if the Laudarmas boys were even allowed back into the city."

"Definitely not into bed, if they made it that far. Kendon's lead sling is a man named Arn Meissenfalk--a man after my own heart, if I do say so myself."

"You're Aernian, remember?" His family had immigrated from the Ellagdran Confederacy, but as Daaria was quick to point out, the wolf himself was born in Ketta Bay--as Aernian as any of them. "Someone you know?"

"No. He's from Karepeth, and from what I've read, his accent is so thick they don't even bother with interviews. I imagine he's like my father, doesn't speak much if he doesn't have to. It's always the way that--"

He stopped at the sound of a knock on the barracks door. "Come," Rossean commanded, nodding to acknowledge the salute of the lieutenant who entered. "At ease, lad. What's the matter?"

"The sentries are asking for orders, sir. There's a caravan approaching."

"I'll make myself scarce," Daaria promised. "Two pounds says Asheth takes it by more than four posts."

"I'm done with you," Rossean grunted--but Daaria waited until he growled, and gave up. "Fine."

The 'caravan' described by the lieutenant was three wagons, two pulled by worn-looking mules and the last by a group of men and women in ragged, sand-scoured robes. The Lightward Terminus was closer; he wondered if they'd been turned away from it.

But the caravan's leader, a red-furred cat wearing the exhaustion of a long and arduous journey, said they'd come directly to Fort Hanham. The cat spoke in broken Aernian, but his native language was far enough removed from anything Rossean understood that the colonel resolved to make do. "Why? Why the fort?"

"Soldier. Fight," the feline said. "Maybe... maybe fight."

"There was fighting? You were in battle?"

He turned and looked behind him, where the Sheyib River glittered just before the horizon. "No. You. You maybe fight. We chase six days to... to... homes?"

It took half an hour, but with the help of another interpreter Rossean gleaned that the caravan had left the week before from a town further upriver. It was not part of the Dominion, and the interpreter said they spoke an unrelated language; it was a matter of luck only that he'd studied some of it in school.

Southeast of the Dominion, most of the towns were unaligned--or their allegiance drifted from warlord to warlord as fortunes changed. They farmed, or traded between the Tiurishkans and the Otonichi clans of the eastern mountains. The caravan's leader said that he had been a well-regarded smith.

"And then?"

"I don't know, sir." The interpreter had been growing frustrated. "He keeps saying that 'the city was coming.' I suppose an attack, but when I asked how many men, or who the army is loyal to, he repeats: 'the city.' The city desires his town's... salouk, salouk azir--fuck, now I can't think straight. Its heart?"

It all sounded straightforward enough to Rossean. The town owned something valuable, and one of the neighboring warlords intended to take it from them. That was not his responsibility: indeed, the Carregan Transcontinental Railroad had been expressly ordered not to interfere in local politics, as General Carregan herself made clear.

The interpreter shook his head when Rossean suggested that explanation. "That's what I thought, but he says the heart is not of great value. I think he says that he brought it with them?"

What the man presented looked like a wooden charm, carved in the shape of a perched eagle with obsidian eyes. Maybe its worth is purely sentimental, then? Maybe it used to belong to someone else, and they're asking for it back. The exhausted feline apparently thought it was worth fighting over--more, that the Iron Corps might want to do so--and on this point Rossean felt quite comfortable disagreeing.

He could provide them clean water, he said, and enough food to continue their journey upriver. And a day's rest for the mules, although formally speaking Fort Hanham was supposed to be occupied only by Railroad employees. Nobody had raised any concern about the previous caravans; he felt that nobody would be concerned now.

Major Calchott agreed to organize the affair, and Rossean returned to his other duties. He did not pay the man much heed--it all sounded like so much of the tribal squabbling to which he was more than accustomed. As the Railroad's reputation spread, more than a few wanderers came to the Lightward Terminus seeking aid, or simply because they'd heard it was an opportunity to make a new life for themselves.

He didn't know what happened to them afterwards. Aernia fancied itself friendly to immigrants, although this was probably more myth than fact. The most likely outcome was that the man traveled onward to the Terminus and then stayed in Karlied or crossed the Great Gate back into his homeland.

Calchott returned later to report back on her progress. "I've done as you asked. If I understood them right, they'll leave tomorrow evening and travel at night, when it's cooler. I suggested--I think I suggested, anyhow--that they try for Karlied, but I don't think they liked that."

"Bad blood, I suppose. Thank you, major."

Major Calchott took a breath, steeling herself. "Sir, if I may?"

"Yes?"

"This is the fifth group of immigrants in two weeks. I've been posted to Fort Hanham for almost a year, and I've never seen so many, not at once. This one in particular bothers me, sir."

"To be honest, I don't know what's different. Most of them look the same to me, major--tired, confused... they don't know where they're going, or what'll happen to them."

The stoat licked her lips nervously. "The others, they just talked about moving. This group is worried about being attacked. It reminds me a little of the Bhiranate."

That got Rossean's attention. He tilted his head, perking his raised ear higher. "The civil war. What about it, in particular?"

For a moment the major hesitated, looking almost uncomfortable. "To be clear, I think that the viceroy's administration was clearly incompetent, and Governor Gyldrane didn't make anything better. Our intervention in Dhamishaya was absolutely required, of course."

"You don't have to say that for my benefit, major."

She nodded. "My point is that... there were warning signs in the riots, and the towns being cleansed. When we heard about that, if we'd been listening--if we'd known what to listen for--maybe we could've stopped it before it came to fighting."

Before the Iron Corps had taken up arms against the Aernian government's deputies in Dhamishaya, and a conflict that left tens of thousands dead--most of them civilians. Odd how often that happens with those... 'absolutely required' interventions, Rossean mused. "We should be alert for signs of a new conflict in our area, then. Correct?"

"We should at least know what's going on. What city is attacking this man's town, Colonel Rossean? Why does he say 'the city' and not the city's men, or its militia? That's not how their grammar works. And... well. No, I'm sorry."

"Out with it."

"He's protecting a--something, a wooden carving? A bird, perhaps. One of the locals saw it and I watched her hackles come up. I believe it's a charm. Please--colonel, I don't truly believe this--my fitness reports will confirm I'm not mad--I've never had any signs of madness. I'm a skeptic, I don't--I'm not--I don't give myself to flights of fancy, ask anyone. You'll understand?"

His brow wrinkled. "Hell of a preamble, Major Calchott."

"But you won't judge me?"

"I don't know yet."

She sighed shakily. "If it is a magical artifact... if they're worried about 'a city' coming after them for it, and about fighting... might it not--could it--what if it's the Hakasi, sir?"

"Do you have any evidence for that? Any whatsoever?"

Calchott shook her head. "But I don't know what's going on in the south. The Confederacy might know."

"I can't talk to the embassy in Karlied without permission, major. And if I ask permission, Core Operations will find out, and they'll want to know why. Now, major, I won't judge you. But do you truly, honestly believe that it's a possibility? Do you want me to bring Core Operations in?"

The division was responsible for everything in the Carregan Transcontinental Railroad that did not involve trains, tracks, or depots. The research department reported in to Core Operations, as did the Department of Foreign Policy, and the Department of Arbitration.

Technically, so did the Iron Corps, but when someone meant 'the Iron Corps' they said it: 'Core Operations' referred to the shadowy and impenetrable rest of the Railroad's inner workings. Invoking its name had been purposeful, and as expected Calchott backed down. He left her to finish up dealing with the refugees without passing judgment on her suspicions.

Did he think it was a possibility? For the most part, he did not. The Hakasi were at least as much myth as they were reality. Supposedly Angbasa, the Dead City, was still floating somewhere above the desert wastes. And supposedly, when they took captives from frontier towns, whatever they did was worse than simply killing them.

But Rossean's military career put him up against more than a few magic-using cultures. Whatever could be said about the entertainment value of conjuring and parlor-tricks, a Darveleigh gun did the same thing to a mage as it did to anyone else. Enchanted shields certainly hadn't saved the shah of Kamir.

What gave him pause was that the Ellagdran Confederacy took the Dead City as a serious threat. Maybe the Hakasi tossed their captives into some twisted thaumaturgic furnace that stripped the life from them, and maybe they did not: the Ellagdrans fought them without remorse, just the same.

If Angbasa was truly reawakening, and if they were after the outlying towns...

I would've heard, Rossean decided. He was startled at how quickly the thought had come to him. General Carregan would've told me. Cargal'th, for that matter... for that matter, if it was a possibility at all, she would've found someone else to take command of the fort.

On that point he felt quite certain. And he went back to his paperwork, the thought of tribal paranoia pushed from his mind. Questions of who to recommend for promotion occupied his afternoon, and he was making decent progress when his door opened and a smartly dressed otter let herself in.

"Good evening?" He had no idea who she was.

"Yes," she answered. "I don't mean to bother you, but I noticed there was a group of foreigners within the palisade. Travelers, I imagine."

"Migrants, yes, from upriver in some direction. I couldn't find out, and it doesn't really matter, I suppose; they'll move on soon enough."

"I see. To Körlyda?"

He shrugged. "To Karlied, yes, or one of the other towns. We have guards posted--it's not a security concern, miss."

"This is Railroad property, though. For our use, not for the use of any passers-by who demand shelter. That isn't our job--particularly not without getting anything in return."

The way she spoke--the faintly imperious tone, and the focus on the Railroad's mandate--convinced Rossean that the woman was at least a Carregan employee, probably one of the budget-obsessed bureaucrats who fought him over every extra box of cartridges he spent in training the garrison. "We've given them a space in the palisade, a measure of water, and some food for the mules. Not more than twenty pounds, altogether, miss. I appreciate that they don't make us money, but..."

The otter's muzzle took a thin, unwarranted smile. "But?"

"Consider it a matter of discipline. I'm spending the money to keep them here, where they can be watched, rather than hassling the train or begging my men for handouts. Do you mind if I ask who you are? Is this... any of your business?"

"I'm an auditor for the Railroad, Colonel Rossean. Strange migrants drifting through, taking our resources... from God alone knows where, at that. They said nothing of where they were from, or why they had left it?"

"It was difficult to understand them. Fighting, I guess. Look, miss: this is an Iron Corps outpost, and I'm responsible for it. In my judgment, they can stay the night."

"Fighting over what?"

Something about the conversation was beginning to put him on edge, clipping his words. "To repeat: it was difficult to understand them. Some concern of theirs--not of ours."

"Are you certain?"

"I have a lot of work to do, so if you don't mind, I'll ask you to leave. If there are concerns about the expense, we have some money in the general fund--I'll consider it well-spent. Please, enjoy the rest of your evening."

She stayed exactly where she was. "Are you certain their concern was not one of ours?"

Rossean had taken up his pen; the tip hovered over his inkwell--he'd hoped the gesture would convince her that the conversation was over. Sighing, he set the pen back down. "May I see your identification, please? I'll make a report on what we know of them directly to your supervisor."

She nodded smoothly, reaching to a lower pocket of her waistcoat. She handed him the thin, stamped metal of her Carregan Transcontinental badge. The otter, Siron KE Wulyth--Lieutenant Wulyth--said nothing while he read the engraving, and his blood cooled.

Colonel Rossean was modestly grateful that he kept his bearing in returning the badge. "I'm not sure why you didn't tell me. Alright. You're that sort of 'auditor,' then."

"Think of me as you like."

"Am I to be sanctioned for shielding the refugees? For disrespecting you?"

Her expression, with its faint smile, stayed unwavering as she pocketed her identification card. "Was there disrespect? I heard only the justified skepticism of a dedicated soldier with an impeccable service record."

Her words didn't do much to convince him that some hidden threat wasn't lurking beneath the reassurance. "I don't deal very often with the Department of Internal Security." That was the proper name of the Railroad's secret police--the Ravens, whose name most employees kept themselves from saying aloud. The supervisor's name listed on her badge would be an alias for someone else in Core Operations; asking for them would raise immediate suspicion.

"You'd prefer this to remain the case. I understand. What are the refugees running from? What do you know, colonel?"

"'Know'? Nothing. They claim that a city was moving to attack them--they didn't say which one. They didn't say when. It's possible that they have some artifact their enemies desire... but once more, I admit I don't know why. It seemed like a minor concern, Lieutenant Wulyth. These refugees... we've had more than a few, over the last month; we give them water and send them on. They all... kind of look the same to me."

"They shouldn't," she said. "You should know better, colonel. Consider this advice, not sanction," she added, after a pause. "The artifact: a weapon? A jewel?"

"A sculpture. A wooden carving. I didn't get a close look, but it seemed like junk. I've been fighting on the frontier for almost thirty years--half the time we were keeping the peace after some trinket got stolen. I imagine it's that."

"You imagine? Or you know?" She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. "Hm. My advice would be that you spare a platoon to escort them as far as the next settlement. Include an interpreter, and see if they're willing to say anything else."

"Anything in particular? Are there developments I need to be aware of? For the safety of the fort--of the Meteor?"

"We don't know. We can only seek. If you were under threat, I'm sure you'd be informed, colonel. Good day."

Weighing her 'advice,' he summoned Major Calchott back and ordered her to keep the caravan under guard for the following night's journey. She accepted his explanation--that it was a precaution, based on the possibility they might be attacked. "A good chance for the men to get some air, too," Rossean said. "Survey the scenery, and all..."

"Shall I also plan to update our maps, sir?"

"Yes. Yes, that's good thinking. And. One more thing, major." He hesitated, chuckling under his breath. "I don't give myself to flights of fancy, you understand. Are there men in your company you would trust without question? If you... if you stole the king's crown, are there soldiers who'd keep that secret to the grave?"

Taken aback, the stoat took some time to answer. "Yes. The company is loyal, sir; there's nothing to suggest otherwise."

"I know. I know, major. Select one of them--hopefully someone who can ride. Send them to the liaison office in Randurshöhn. Have them brief the Ellagdrans on the disposition of our forces here. If their spies don't know about the Special Detachment, and my command, feel free to tell them it's a simple matter of reorganization. We don't intend to further militarize the Lightward Terminus."

"Yes, sir."

"Just a friendly update. Include apologies that I haven't contacted my Ellagdran counterparts since arriving at the garrison. It slipped my mind, and I'm very sorry for the breach of protocol."

"Yes, sir."

"If your man has some time--I hope they will, this is all quite a formality... have them make some discreet inquiries around anything the Confederacy may know about... unrest, in this area. If their posture has changed. If they've heard any... rumors. About anything."

Calchott swallowed heavily, her voice faltering slightly. "Yes, sir. Have you informed Core Operations, sir?"

"They know."

IX. Alarm Bells

Havsa had been a civilian all her life, and the towns she'd called home were safe ones. Even still, the moment her ears caught the sound of alarm bells she knew, somehow, that Meshüsh Gürun had come under attack.

In the street outside, soldiers were mustering. She pushed the window open to eavesdrop. No more than thirty, waiting in the trees. Have the company assemble on the eastern wall.

The jackal pulled on her boots and left to join them. She hadn't seen the town guard before. For that matter, now that she thought of it, she hadn't really known they had one.

Of course we do, though. I told the ironsmiths in Karkandïr that--someone might want to attack us. We need to be able to protect ourselves. It only makes sense.

Not only did it make sense, it had obviously been worth it. At the top of the eastern wall she saw sixty or seventy archers waiting. They were of the typical Dominion style, with armor made of many-layered silk, and longbows nearly as tall as the jackal.

"Get back," someone barked. She turned; the order-giver was a captain in the guard, with a cowl ringed in eagle feathers and a ceremonial scimitar in place of a bow. "No place for a civilian."

"I'm a city official," she told him, raising her paw so he could see the ring on it.

He scowled. "Gerz, apologies, but we're under attack. You need to find a different place to be."

Fire burst across the wall above them--a narrow cluster of explosions, shattering one of the windows and bringing a scream from whoever had been within. Seconds later, another barrage rattled: lower, just barely missing some of the kushriyiç on the wall.

The captain tugged one of the feathers from his cowl. "Return fire at once. Tell me if you see anything the horses can go after." The edges of the feather glowed and rippled; with a snap of his paw he sent it arrowing towards the wall.

"Who's attacking--"

He raised his voice. "Karamai! Get this noblewoman to safety."

A hulking lioness began to stalk towards her, and Havsa raised her paws. "I'm leaving. Taking cover." One last glance behind her: the longbowmen were beginning to fire.

Pathis wasn't in his apartment, but her paw undid the spell on his lock and she let herself in. And then, with nothing else to do, she let herself wonder: what, exactly, was going on?

A smart trader understood her surroundings. She read not only the shipping news but politics from every corner of the continent. For a smart trader knew that when an eastern province in the Iron Kingdom quarreled with its neighbor over coal prices, that was liable to mean a decrease in the output of Aernian factories and punitive measures from the aggrieved.

That meant farmers in the south of Aernia would have a more difficult harvest, and a more difficult time getting what they reaped to market. A smart trader would promise to purchase grain from Dominion sources before the following year, when demand would push the prices up.

What did it mean that Meshüsh Gürun had an army? A functional army, at that: these were not the ceremonial troops who guarded the Padishah in the Dominion's capital city. No, these looked to be well-trained and competent.

It meant Prince Yeshin knew he would provoke trouble, and intended to be ready for it when it occurred. That must be why we purchased the shields from Karkandïr, Havsa decided. But how could she take advantage of it?

Pathis returned before she'd come to any conclusions. According to the wolf, the fighting was over: the skirmishers had been turned back without apparent loss on either side.

"Who were they?"

"The Otonichi, apparently. From what I could hear."

Her head took a reflexive tilt. "What? Why?" The mountain-folk were inscrutable, with their jealously guarded craftsmanship and their unfathomably deep traditions. Strange, yes... but aggressive?

"No idea. Perhaps it was a misunderstanding. Maybe they wanted their compass back?"

"If it were a misunderstanding, why didn't they send an envoy?"

Pathis didn't know. She didn't truly expect him to know, either; he wasn't especially well-connected to the city's politics. And, from what she'd gathered, the Otonichi remained a complete enigma to the Aernians: he'd have no special insight on why they might've decided to show such aggression.

But it certainly left unanswered questions, and Havsa felt a slight sense of discomfort. Rishi Takaga had been wary of dealing with the jackal, and with her masters. In the end she still didn't know why she'd been sent, or what it was she'd actually retrieved.

Presumably that was what Pathis meant by "compass," but its actual purpose still escaped her. Shïrn, she decided: Shïrn Kadïnhät would have a better idea.

The lion was busy in his workshop when she found him, but he set his tools down and rose to greet her with a smile and a bow. "Gerz Itess-Kanyr! You've brought us some excitement, now, haven't you?"

"Have I? Do you know what happened?"

"That's a very broad question, Havsa." He decided to take her visit as an opportunity to relax, and set about packing the bowl of his pipe with silik. "Which part first?"

"You know about the attack?"

He nodded quickly. "Of course. I was working on an enchantment to protect the walls, already. Prince Yeshin..." His brow wrinkled in frustration at the pipe's stubborn resistance to lighting. "I do wish we could get better silik here."

"You're from the Duragan Mög valley, Shïrn; it will never be as good as what you're used to. What is this about Prince Yeshin?"

He waited until the bowl finally caught and he could take a careful puff. Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair. "Prince Yeshin asked me to try it out before it was ready, but I think I did a good job against all those bolts."

"Bolts?"

Another nod. His paw felt around on the bench behind him and he brought forward a short arrow with stiff fletching. "Tipped with atnai--'Otonichi spark.' It explodes when it hits something... they say it was meant for firestarting, but it makes a rather spectacular weapon. You've seen one of their crossbows?"

The only Otonichi she'd seen were traders, like her, and not inclined to fight. "I have not."

"Masterful, like everything they do. They use a magazine of bolts--they can fire ten or twenty times faster than one of our archers. Absolutely wonderful--what I wouldn't give to have one!"

"The Dominion doesn't fight the Otonichi," Havsa pointed out; given his expression, Shïrn didn't see any cause for concern. "Don't you think that's odd in the slightest?"

"No. Not really."

"My friend Pathis said they might have been after a compass."

Shïrn perked, getting up from his chair with an eager nod and a boyish smile around the stem of his pipe. "Yes! I expect so--let me show you."

The 'compass'--it was indeed the same contraption she'd purchased--was floating above the Dobtan Loom in the center of its chamber. The disc was motionless; the arrow pointed to one side of the room.

When Shïrn nudged the point, it swung back at once. "Marvelous."

"The traders told me that it was used to find the home of a particular clan. I think it was 'Mitsuni,' but I would have to look at my journal..."

It proved to be unnecessary. "Mitsuni, exactly. Someone of the Mitsuni clan can enchant it to point the way to their home. That's precisely right."

Her ears flattened. "And why would we need to do that? Do we--do we intend to invade them? Is that why we acquired the artifact--why we have the shields--why they attacked us?"

"No, no, no. It's nothing like that. The spell on this device can only be undone by a Mitsuni... it so happens that there's one in the prince's retinue. They were able to help me, with some persuasion."

"To what end?"

"It guides us, now, to any rich source of magic. Perhaps an underground well, or a stand of trees that's absorbed it for some reason... a sacred mineral spring... I don't know yet! I'm still getting it calibrated."

She recalled that Meshüsh Gürun had been installed over an underground river, where the loom extracted its thaumaturgic energy for Shïrn to use in repairing the city's old machinery and fixing its broken walls...

Eventually the river was spent, or it no longer produced enough magic for Shïrn's purposes. So they'd moved on, bartering for magical charms to sacrifice--but now that could all be dispensed with. They wouldn't have to trust in good fortune to find the next natural source.

"We could be so much more efficient..."

"Exactly! Based on my maps, the divining rod is pointing towards a shallow oxbow lake near a tributary of the Sheyib, two days' journey from here. It must've been quite fertile in the World Before--but without this, we wouldn't have even known about it. We've unlocked such potential... it's really quite exciting, I have to say."

"I can tell." And it was a little infectious. She felt reassured: "the Otonichi must be unhappy with your bit of, ah, sacrilege. That's what they called it when they thought you'd be feeding it into the loom."

"Yes, yes. Well, they're tradition-bound folk, you know. Our Mitsuni didn't mind, that's what Prince Yeshin said. To be honest, it's not my fault they're so insular, you know? If they want to be left behind, they can be left behind."

"True..."

Shïrn grinned--a broad smirk around the stem of his pipe. "Maybe they can use one of these to follow us into the modern era. I'll even offer to help."

X. "Latest Daybreak"

Maj. Rossean-- Indications of attack in force on Gey Çorlu by nightfall. Expect you to hold position until relief. The hill not to be abandoned at all costs while company draws breath. Oskirth will link up latest daybreak. Col. R.E. Carregan Via Thenmis Regiment--Lt. Col. Oskirth forward with all haste to A Co.

Rossean folded the order and tucked it into his tunic. He would have time--later--to reflect on its import. Alternatively he would not, but in that case Rossean would have other things to worry about... or nothing at all. The company sergeant was already looking at him expectantly.

"We're staying." Rossean kept it simple. Çorlu Hill overlooked the only road between Matakia and Kirt; Colonel Carregan had identified the latter fortress as key to bringing the city of Kamir under siege. Taking Kirt meant cutting it off from Matakia, and cutting off Matakia meant holding Gey Çorlu.

Certainly the Shah of Kamir would also have recognized that strategic vulnerability. Carregan didn't give numbers, only that an attack "in force" was to be expected. So she didn't know anything more than that, or she would've told him. Older intelligence put the enemy's strength in the sector at nearly a thousand.

Against that he had a single Lightning Company. Two days before, he'd been told to take Gey Çorlu, to dig in, and to expect reinforcements. Now they would arrive too late: something else to reflect on, later, while he remained.

He spoke only a few words of Kamiri, and the difference between a gey and a tev and their other myriad words for 'hill' escaped him. Çorlu Hill was simply that: a hill. And, with any luck at all, not his grave. Rossean sent orders for the scouting parties to be recalled, and went to survey their lines. Deep trenches ringed the hill, looking down on the road. Mines had been dug by the engineering section. Quantities of ammunition had been laid in.

And yet, when all was said and done, Rossean was outnumbered eight to one. What would his opponent do? What would I do, with six companies of archers and four hundred spearmen?

"They're good archers, too." Sergeant Cavell's eyes were on the horizon. "If the last report is true."

Cavell referred to rumors that the Kamiri shah had sent his most elite soldiers to reinforce the garrison at Kirt. Skilled longbowmen, the rumors went on to say, the best of an army that numbered in the tens of thousands.

His training manual told him a Tiurishkan archer was a threat out to 300 meters, and deadly below 100. Kamir was an independent city-state, though; did they have the same discipline? The same training regimen? What would 'elite' even mean?

"Attacking from the east would be suicide. If they trust the archers, they'll come from the south. The lower hill." It kept them in cover until they were only two hundred meters away; Rossean's riflemen and their enemy's archers would be very nearly matched.

"Move Brascea there?" Sergeant Cavell prompted.

"Can she take the pressure under direct fire?"

What choice did he have? Lieutenant Brascea commanded their light artillery: the Darveleigh guns and a small quantity of rockets. He ordered her redeployed... and waited. Night fell, and there was nothing from the sentries.

Daybreak, by his watch, was ten hours away. Major Rossean began to hope that, perhaps, Carregan was mistaken. Or Lieutenant Colonel Oskirth moved faster than they'd anticipated, and the threat of a Kamiri attack evaporated with the promise of reinforcements.

Sergeant Cavell tapped his shoulder, whispering. "The eastern picket reports that there are soldiers on the move, sir, about two kilometers distant."

"Oskirth?"

"No, sir. They're trying to stay hidden, but they looked to be Kamiri."

"Coming this way?" Cavell nodded. Rossean took a deep breath. "Send the word forward that the men shouldn't wait to open fire. As soon as they see anything, they--"

"Contact!" The call came from further down the hill.

A dozen points of light rose skyward. At the apex of their arc each burst. Then the night was banished, the hills flooded with glaring, pale violet. The rocks and trees cast sharp shadows in half a dozen directions.

He heard a shout--"arrows!" "take cover!"--and they came in a thick barrage, tiny silhouettes under the eye of the new, alien moons. The first salvo fell short. Sergeant Cavell's head was tilted skyward. "A company's worth," the lion gauged. "Nothing more, not yet."

Answering rifle fire rippled from the trenches, quick and accurate. The intensity of it checked the brashness of the Kamiri advance, heartening Rossean slightly. Perhaps all we needed to do was teach them a quick lesson. His was a Lightning Company, after all, the elite of the Iron Corps.

A second barrage of arrows fell, and a third. Then a blinding light, and a deafening scream from Brascea's battery. She'd lit off one of her two cages of Wismere rockets, forty-eight of them streaking in an arc that blanketed the lower hill in splashes of white-hot flame.

Rossean heard more screaming, distant this time and more natural. He could see shapes in the dying glare of the incendiary shot, fire licking at their outlines. Brascea's Darveleigh guns opened up next; the shapes fell, and few seemed interested in joining them.

"Have we scared them off?" Cavell wondered.

"Perhaps. I'm not sure we'll be that fortunate."

Indeed, the illusion lasted only twenty minutes. By then, the Kamiri archers had rallied. They'd zeroed in on the trenches. Their arrows were too weak to pierce helmets, but there was plenty else exposed--if nothing else they were forced to take cover, offering return fire only when it was safe to do so.

He brought his binoculars up just in time to see the crew of a Darveleigh gun fall in a group, three dozen arrows shared between them. The next soldiers scrambling to replace them met the same fate. Brascea, with her heavy weapons, was taking the brunt of the Kamiri ire--but across the whole of the line the situation verged on collapse.

To Brascea's left, Lieutenant Carrech's riflemen were still able to keep the pressure up, but that ability waned by the minute. The enemy came closer, and there were more of them, close enough that the heavy infantry and their spears were being used to deadly effect.

A messenger, some private in Carrech's platoon, skidded to a halt just before him. "Sir. Message from K Platoon. We can't hold our position more than another half-hour, at most."

When they were overrun, Lieutenant Brascea would swiftly follow, opening a wide hole in Rossean's front. The second line of defenses had been more hastily assembled, but it would have to be better to regroup there than to face complete annihilation. "What opposes you at present?"

"Spearmen--at least a hundred. Too many for the rifles, and we're losing the support of the Darveleigh guns."

"Nothing from the east? The north?" The runner shook her head. "Very well. They..." Rossean felt his paw bunch tightly, the claws digging in until the pain was almost enough to distract him from what he was doing. "Tell Carrech he's to cover the withdrawal from the first line of trenches. When the new position is secure, he can regroup with the main body. Signal his readiness by flare."

Her head jerked involuntarily towards Brascea's trench. Kamiri warriors were within twenty meters, kept at bay only by dwindling grenade fire. With the trenches abandoned, those same warriors would infiltrate between Carrech and the last barricades.

He knew that she saw it, knew that she was aware of what had been asked. He allowed the private the panting spell it took to steel herself, acknowledge his order, and take off back in the direction of her commanding officer.

Another runner. The Darveleigh guns were on their last boxes of ammunition; the riflemen were down to their bayonets. Rossean no longer needed his binoculars. A Kamiri spear flew, punching through the throat of one of the defenders. As he tumbled, sparks flew from bullets meeting the charmed armor of the spearman.

The spell broke. The man staggered and fell; two more took his place. Earth and rock sprayed skyward--a grenade had taken out the ground beneath them--one of them was motionless, the other convulsing brokenly--but still there were others, an unrelenting pressure--

Ten seconds after the red flare punched through the hanging smoke, joining the Kamiri's charmed illumination of the carnage, enfilading fire had begun to rake the assaulters. They faltered at its deceptive strength; at once Brascea's platoon started to scramble from the trench, sprinting towards Rossean.

Thirty of them, still. But as the covering fire petered out Rossean saw a spear take first one of them, then another. Nineteen of the Iron Corps made it to the barricade. Eleven men of Carrech's platoon. Carrech was among them; the runner was not.

_Water--_someone was calling for water; for aid. Men hurriedly dragged crates of ammunition from its tent to make room for the wounded--silhouettes, frantic in his peripheral vision. From one side of the barricade to the other was barely thirty meters. At that range the screaming overpowered the howls of Kamiri mages.

Sergeant Cavell crept forward. "Sixty-two, by my count," he said. Half the company had been annihilated. Twelve hundred cartridges were left. An Iron Corps' rifleman was expected to fire six times a minute.

Rossean set his jaw. Not to be abandoned at all costs. If they could not prevent abandonment, they could at least run up the butcher's bill. He grabbed a rifle from the ground, sliding the bolt back. There was still a cartridge chambered: whoever held the rifle last hadn't managed to use it.

He propped the needlegun on an empty ammunition crate to steady it. Almost immediately there was someone in his sights. An apparition emerging from the mist: a jackal, spear raised, coming straight for him.

The jackal spun, twisting as he pitched to the ground--writhing, the spear forgotten as he pressed his paws to his shattered hip. His muzzle was open, but Rossean heard nothing. Then he saw nothing, either, the jackal disappeared behind a cloud of smoke roiling from the needlegun's barrel.

And he released the trigger, working the bolt and dropping another cartridge into place. Someone else bent down to grab the fallen jackal's spear. Rossean fired again, missed, reloaded, the movements completely instinctive.

When his fingers scrabbled at the bottom of an empty cartridge-pouch, the enemy had closed to only fifty meters away. How many of them are left? How bloody many did they have? And how had Carregan thought Gey Çorlu could be held with only a reinforced company?

Rossean grabbed a pouch from a fallen riflemen next to him. Derived--stolen, really--from Ellagdran designs, the Model 878 was a master achievement in Aernian workmanship. Each was identical; the dead man's cartridges were as good as any other. That's how, Rossean found himself thinking, oddly, as he reloaded and took his place again.

That's how they thought we could hold this. Because we're so much smarter than them. So precise. He fired, taking one of them straight in the chest. No time even to know what had happened before the life was gone from him. And they're really just barbarians. None of them could make something like this.

None of them could manage to produce a million identical paper cartridges and a million identical .52 caliber rounds in a hundred forges all 'round the country and we figured if you could, if you did that, if you just stacked enough ammunition up then they'd be obliged to give up and--_he fired again, took another of them down--_how stupid was that? How bloody stupid is it that we're all going to die because some bureaucrat figured that if you looked at it by the numbers then we--

"Major!"

He had a round half into the chamber when he heard the shout, and looked up to find a spearman scrambling over the barricade. The spear came up in his hand as Rossean desperately tugged his pistol free.

He fired it without aiming and the spear was already out of his hand. He saw the impact, the spearman's helm buckling, but Rossean was already falling back, his left arm curiously heavy. The dead Kamiri toppled onto him.

"Keep still." That was Sergeant Cavell; the lion shoved the corpse off his commander; his paw was pressed hard to Rossean's shoulder. The pressure gave way to a flash of startled, chilling apprehension before the first wave of pain hit.

"Cargal'th!"

"Aye, but--keep still, sir--you'll live. If any of us do." Cavell got a knife out, slicing open Rossean's uniform and tearing a strip free as a makeshift bandage. "Sorry about this."

Somehow, Rossean kept from screaming. Or if he did, he couldn't hear it; Cavell leaned back, shaking his head and helping the major back to his feet. "Don't worry about--"

Cavell let out a bellow and sagged forward, taking them both back to the ground. Rossean caught a glimpse of the attacker, a dun-furred canid with a jackal's ears and a demon's bared teeth. Then he was gone, out of sight, and Rossean's thoughts were back on the lion.

His back arched. He howled again, reaching behind him for the buried spear. As his claws raked it the weapon sizzled and sparked. Cavell's eyes took an unnatural glow, then went completely black--the sockets blank and empty, unlit caves with nothing within.

Rossean gasped in shock, not certain he'd actually seen it, that his eyes weren't tricking him. A heartbeat later and the shadows vanished. But Cavell's expression was blank, and there was no mistaking the limpness in his body.

The dog would never know for certain whether or not he'd sworn aloud; the next thing he was consciously aware of he had managed to sit up. Cavell's killer was nowhere to be seen, but the hill was thick with moving shapes.

His arm was stiff, and pain shot through him at every movement, but with some effort he found a position from which he could still use his rifle. The first time he fired the lurch of its recoil sent a fresh shock through him. After that it was better. For how long?

At first he could trust that the men next to him were comrades by the grey color of their uniforms. Another ten minutes and everything blurred--he no longer had time to process, to see anything; the nightmare unfolded without his guidance or will.

Something lurched over the barricade; another figure lunged towards it. Light glinted momentarily off a bayonet; the Aernian's momentum carried him too far forward and he bore his opponent to the ground, the both of them vanishing. A scream rose above the din.

Then it was silenced with the roar of a grenade going off, close--too close, the impact shoving the empty crates back. Dirt rained down on them, stinging his eyes; Rossean tried at first to shove the boxes back in place before his protesting shoulder overwhelmed him.

He was firing at shadows, and mostly blind. The startled exclamation he finally heard was so unexpected that he recognized it as Lieutenant Brascea's voice well before he was able to chain the voice together into actual words.

"What?"

"They're retreating, sir!"

The shadows had begun to draw back, vanishing into the mist. As they did the ability of the remaining Iron Corps men to find targets waned, too. Gunfire gave way to confused shouts for information, and the cries of the wounded and dying around and before him.

Rossean rose shakily. There was another sound, further off. His ears strained, near-uselessly from the hours of abuse. It was a bugle. The Kamiri didn't use bugles. Latest daybreak, Rossean recalled; his legs gave way and he sat again.

"Bloody hell..."

Lieutenant Colonel Oskirth said the same thing when she finally reached them half an hour later. Her regiment had enough supplies to begin the work of aiding the injured, though even from a cursory glance Rossean knew many of them were hopeless. Whatever magic cursed the Kamiri spears had been terrifyingly effective.

So too, Oskirth assured him, had the Iron Corps. They'd underestimated the enemy's strength by half--Oskirth expected to meet a large body of Kamir's soldiers and ran into only a diversion, and the battle on Gey Çorlu unfolding when she arrived.

He heard her say something about having exacted a worthy toll on the barbarians, but the debrief came while his shoulder was being tended; pain and exhaustion distracted him. In the end he was only sitting down because someone had forced him and Rossean lacked the strength to continue protesting that others required assistance first.

The dog awoke on his back, with a woolen blanket over him and a fuzzy haze wrapped around the ache of his injury. He sat up; there was enough daylight to see two dozen others lying with him, most of them unconscious and the remainder too dazed to do anything more than whimper.

Over the next two hours, talking with Oskirth, he was able to get a better handle on how bad the company had managed. Thinking of it as unavoidable didn't soothe his conscience. Oskirth tried to comfort him and fared little better. Carregan understood what she was asking, Oskirth said.

He had his doubts, but any explicit protest was cut off by the sound of hoofbeats. They both looked over; Oskirth got to her feet and then, belatedly, gave Rossean a paw to help the dog pull himself upright. "It's her," Oskirth said.

Colonel Carregan brought her horse to a halt and slid from the saddle in the same fluid movement. The vixen's grey uniform was grass-stained, and her fur was flecked with dust. "Colonel; major," she greeted them. "Talk to me."

"I've secured the road, as you asked. B Company encountered a mixed force four kilometers to the east, spearmen and a few ballistae. We turned them back on their side of the ford and captured the artillery."

"Your losses?"

"Seven wounded in B Company, ma'am. Major Rossean..."

Rossean nodded. "Sixty killed and sixty-eight injured, colonel, including two officers, plus Captain Fisk. We're out of ammunition for the Darveleigh guns and have no rockets."

"How's that?" she gestured to his shoulder.

"I don't feel it right now."

"The doctor told me it could've been worse," Oskirth added. "It was an enchanted spearpoint, but when the spearman died it upset the spell... somehow."

Colonel Carregan nodded. "You did well, major. I'm sorry that I had to ask it of you. I have to ask even more. Can you still fight?"

Later, at the barracks that served as headquarters for the Iron Corps, Carregan would repeat the apology. She would tell him that the Corps' leaders hadn't expected the Shah of Kamir to react as aggressively as he had; that her expeditionary force had been underprovisioned.

And then she would hand him the box containing a handwritten letter and the Carregan Shield with Tempered Device. The 'device' in question was a rifle, red enamel suggesting its barrel was aglow.

But that was still six months in the future when Rescat Carregan ordered him to join an assault on the last Kamiri encampment before the fortress of Kirt. The company was everyone who could still fight, and the reinforcements she'd been able to scrounge for. Understood what she was asking--Rossean heard the words echoing.

Coming from the vixen's mouth, though, somehow made them easier to believe. He agreed, and found himself the next day looking on the camp from an adjacent hill. Rossean's shoulder ached, but he kept the spyglass fixed on their target. We can rest later, Carregan had said. The colonel was off to his right side, along with every heavy gun she could muster. Rossean and his two platoons were waiting for her order.

Was he surprised at how ready the survivors of his company had been? No. Not really. They understand what this is--what it could be. I guess that's why I'm here, too. The attackers of Gey Çorlu were waiting on the hill, guarding the camp, mixed with its other defenders.

He estimated there were two hundred of them or so, plus two dozen cavalry. The horses stamped impatiently. Everyone, on both sides, knew what was coming.

They simply didn't anticipate.

Iru Darveleigh's gun used a sixteen-round magazine. Of its six-man crew, only one actually pulled the trigger. Four of them had no other job but to switch magazines, clean the used ones, and fill them with replacement cartridges. At this role even the gun's sergeant would pitch in, aware of its importance, though his principal task was in directing the gunner to select targets.

A single repeater could deliver accurate fire at a hundred and sixty rounds per minute. All fourteen of the ones Carregan had assembled open fire at once, and within ten seconds the camp had broken into utter chaos.

Rossean held his position, and watched.

The mules of a supply wagon bolted, tearing from their reins and dragging the wagon along with it. What must've been four guns converged at once--he saw the wooden wheels disintegrate as the cartridges shredded them, and the mules pulling frantically before they were cut down, too.

Still he held his position.

In a blind panic the cavalry charged. Three of them were dead before they'd crossed the perimeter of the camp. Its dying convulsions carried one of the horses into a tent, which collapsed about the kicking beast. A lantern within had been upended: in a flash the tent was alight, wrapping brilliant flames around the thrashing silhouette.

Still he held his position.

What remained of the cavalry wheeled, making for the batteries. This would be futile, Rossean could see it, didn't know why they were even trying... but then the flare went up, and he put all thoughts from his mind.

With two smart, short gestures he directed one of his platoons off to the left, flanking the camp and whatever defenders remained. He joined the other platoon: moving as he'd been trained to, advancing from each bit of cover to the next, the relentless fire of his men keeping their approach suppressed.

A voice he didn't recognize, one of the new soldiers, shouted that the defenders were retreating. He looked: the charge had broken; a few stragglers, unhorsed, were trying to flee. That, like the charge, would amount to nothing.

They were almost to the edge of the camp, where the fire had spread precipitously, consuming the tents and the wagons and the supply barrels. Mindful of hitting her own men, Carregan ordered the Darveleigh batteries to stop.

His company's rifle fire was more intermittent, and even that slowed as they found fewer and fewer targets. Fools, Rossean found himself thinking. Idiots thinking this would end well for them... that they could strike out at us...

They hadn't known their place. That folly cost the lives of sixty of his comrades. Now they were being paid back for it. He wondered what lies the shah had told them, what assurances of their inevitable victory had been made, what--

He came around a dip in the hill to find a still horse, and its rider sprawled beneath it. The canine's free leg was clearly broken; the other was pinned beneath his fallen mount. When he saw Rossean, the horseman's eyes narrowed.

He looked not unlike the man who'd killed Cavell. Surely this was a mistake. What were the odds he'd escaped? Made it all the way to this next, final stand? That he was a cavalryman, as well as one of the shah's dismounted infantry? It can't be. You're imagining things.

Rossean stepped forward to investigate. Within a second or two--he would never know the exact order with which it had all happened--their eyes met, he saw the man reach for his belt, and Rossean put his bayonet at the Kamiri's throat before shoving, hard.

Anger flashed in the other soldier's eyes. The knife was still in his paw as he brought it to his skewered throat. Hatred joined the rage in the man's expression, damnation for what had been done, for what was being done--then a look of growing disbelief, of panic...

Between the last moment when his grip loosened on the knife and it fell to the blood-soaked earth, and reading Carregan's letter in his private quarters in the Iron Corps' barracks, Rossean would come to hate himself for his actions. Then to decide that he'd had no choice. Then, that it had all been reflex and he could not blame himself for what instinct had done.

By the time of the medal, a warm bed had tempered his sleeplessness, and hot food kept whatever gnawed at his belly at bay. And in the ten years of campaigns that followed, other faces had joined those of Cavell and the Kamiri dog. He saw them less frequently.

But he saw it now, reading the telegram.

Col. F. Callen Rossean, Special Detachment Hanham News from Karlied confirms unrest growing. May move on the fort with intent of seizing the Lightward Terminus. You will receive further intelligence as we learn it. Expect full report on your combat readiness as soon as possible. Remember: your command is under no circumstances to be surrendered. Gen. R.E. Carregan, Commander of the Iron Corps

XI. Insurrection

Fifteen minutes before the alarm bells, Havsa knew that something had happened--the streets had gone quiet, and then thick with hushed whispers. How and who was it and where are we going?

By the time the bells had begun ringing she was headed for the prince's tower, hoping for answers. She saw no sign of the guard; the defenses weren't being manned. According to her understanding of the map, they were in the middle of the desert.

Meshüsh Gürun was stationary, she thought, hunkered down--but above, the clouds swirled unnaturally, and the ground shifted beneath her feet. At some point the city had gotten to its feet once more. Perhaps when she'd been sleeping.

Or tipsy: despite Shïrn's reassurances, crossing the Sheyib River had been terribly stressful. The brown ripples rising above them, held back only by the strength of Shïrn's enchantments... sunlight fading, the deeper into the river they strode...

By the time they'd emerged on the far side the jackal had been well into her fourth cup of derinshe. Reaching the western bank, and the city coming to rest again, had been cause for celebration. Her thoughts after that were fuzzy. But now--

There they are. The guards were gathered at the base of Prince Yeshin's tower. Seeing her coming towards them, their leader strode forward and shook his head. "Not one step closer. Turn around."

"What's going on?"

He snorted. "Maybe you can be the first one with an answer to that, eh?"

"What does Prince Yeshin say?"

The guard narrowed his eyes. "Not much of anything, does he? He's dead."

"What?"

But the guard captain would say nothing else. She pieced together the rest from scattered rumors and snatches of overheard conversation. Prince Yeshin had been found dead--doubtless poisoned--no sign of a fight--gods, I hear it was an awful scene--no idea who might've been behind it.

It only grew worse the more she heard. The city's cartographer was also dead, and a handful of others. Mitsuni, she caught the name Mitsuni: the Otonichi on Yeshin's retinue. The one who'd disenchanted the compass for Shïrn.

An outsider. She hadn't met the cartographer, but it seemed to Havsa that she'd heard he was from the north, beyond the Dominion's official borders. Were they targeting foreigners? I have to find Pathis. I have to warn him.

The wolf was in his apartment, peering through the curtains he just barely held open. He spun, eyes wide, when she entered. "What's happening out there?"

"You have to get out. The prince is dead--so's the cartographer--and one of the mages. I don't think it's safe for you."

"Captain Bazdog is a friend of mine," Pathis protested. His ears were starting to wilt. "We can go to him."

"I have no idea where the guard's loyalty lies right now. Pathis, you have to lie low, and the next time we come to a stop... escape. Get out of here. If things settle down, I'll send for you."

"I don't even know where I'd go..."

"We're on your country's side of the river, now. Head west, towards Körlyda--towards the railroad station. Or find a trading caravan--something--just not here. It's too risky."

He shut his eyes tightly, and then shook his head. "If you're telling me that, I suppose I better listen. Very well. Karlied?"

"No." She was already thinking better of it. "A military authority. Someone in your army. Let them know what's going on here, and that... that they should be worried."

His ears flattened again. "The army, though? You think it's that serious?"

"I fear what it might become. Trust me, Pathis, will you?"

"Of course."

She helped him pack hastily, shoving a few changes of clothes and some of his savings--Gods, enough money to buy a town if it came to that, Havsa thought--into a satchel. He had no weapon, not that either of them could've used a knife or a pistol if their lives depended on it.

The city's movement was slow enough that others, panicking, were making their escape, too. Pathis was skinny enough to have passed for a mixed-breed Tiurishkan. She watched him mingle into the crowd, heading towards one of the entrances with a hatch that would drop them to the ground.

With Pathis safe as she could make him, Havsa made for Shïrn's workshop, and the Dobtan Loom. More guards surrounded it. She drew herself up and curled her lip. "Gerz Itess-Kanyr. Let me through."

"A position given to you by a dead sovereign," the guard retorted. "I'm not sure it counts for much. What do you think, Karakab?"

Karakab raised his helm and looked at the jackal. "She looks like a trader. You have wares to barter, little girl?"

Shïrn's voice came from within the building. "Havsa? Is that Havsa? Let her in. Don't be horrible, captain." The guardsman smirked and stepped away, letting her through to the door. Shïrn was just inside, inspecting a set of runes along the doorframe. "The locks... probably a good idea, isn't it?"

"Do you know what happened?"

"In detail? More than you. Less than I should." The lion grinned his normal, boyish grin--utterly, perplexingly unconcerned. "I can show you, if you want. Something I've been working on..."

Shïrn pulled the door closed, ran his paw over the runes to activate them, and took her to his workshop. More artifacts had been added, she saw. Many she didn't recognize. One, a weapon, looked quite familiar. "Is that..."

"A tenku noyo," he said with an eager nod. "The Otonichi crossbow I was talking to you about. I need to disassemble it--find out how it works on the inside. It's truly fascinating technology."

"Where did you get it from?"

"Someone brought it to me. They had a few. Souvenirs, I think--I didn't ask. Some questions, Havsa, you don't ask. Well..." He snickered. "You do, don't you? Here... look at this..." He cleared an area on his desk and set a piece of glass upon it. "Erk çaaldiri shush ä shah Yeshinal salihlït."

Clouds of indefinite color swirled in the darkening glass. Havsa could not have described them, could not have said what they looked like... yet somehow the jackal knew she was staring at the prince's chamber. The mist showed her the lion taking his evening repast, stopping halfway through, growing agitated...

Papers being scattered; plates overturned. The final struggle lasted far too long, and ended mutely. And then the glass cleared again, blank and flawless. "I'm still very confused," Shïrn said. "I can't see as clearly as I should be able to. Something is making it difficult for me to see."

"You know the cartographer is dead, too?"

"Fell from his apartment window, yes." The lion gestured to his glass. "That was also opaque, and as it gets older I have a harder time recalling it. This is probably the best I can do, unfortunately. I have other work, of course."

"Are you not worried?"

Shïrn sat down at his bench and pulled out his silik-pipe. "No, not really. I think... I wonder if I wasn't behind it, actually?"

"You? You killed the prince?" She didn't even sound incredulous, she knew--more like she was trying to figure out what sort of joke, precisely, Shïrn was playing at.

"Well." He lit the pipe and closed his eyes to enjoy the first puff of silik. "No. But I had an idea about the compass. I made it... less... sensitive. And when I did, it changed its direction again. I think it's pointing at a source of energy so wonderfully powerful that it completely overwhelmed my earlier enchantment."

"What would that be?"

Smoke puffed in gentle wisps from the bowl of his pipe. Shïrn stared at them; they twisted and danced in playful shapes before fading. "I don't know," he said, at last. "But we'll find out."

"We're heading there? Is that it?"

"I told Prince Yeshin what I'd found, but he said that it was too dangerous to pursue. It's in the desert, about twenty leagues south of the river. Nothing is marked on the map--the territory is completely empty. I don't know what he was worried about. But, it doesn't matter. This morning, someone representing the new cartographer asked me for the location. I provided it to her, of course."

"Who was she?"

Shïrn puffed again. The smoke tumbled, spilling against his vision-glass and melting slowly away. "I don't know. I tried to find out. She speaks for our new masters, I guess. The ones who killed Prince Yeshin."

"You don't know who?"

"No. They share my curiosity about what might be out in the desert, which makes them my allies. To be honest, Havsa, Prince Yeshin was a bit... overcautious for my tastes. He didn't understand what we could really do with this city... with what we've found, and with what we could find..."

Without knowing what else to do, Havsa returned to her apartment. The bustle of the streets outside remained notably muted. She heard hissed rumors along the way back--rumors of other accounts being settled. Rumors that some in the city had tried to escape, and been recaptured.

More than some, though--she'd seen more than some with Pathis at the exit. Havsa told herself that the rumors referred to special individuals, perhaps even those who'd been involved in the murder. There was nothing at all wrong with leaving. None of them were slaves. They chose to live in Meshüsh Gürun, and they could choose to make their living somewhere else if they desired.

Havsa quieted her hopes that Pathis would be safe with a small glass of derinshe and the thought that of course he'll be safe. He's always got some new plan. When there was a knock at the door, she figured it would not have been the wolf. Shïrn? One of her other friends in the city? Someone with a business proposition?

Instead, there was a rabbit standing on the other side of the door. Havsa had no idea who she was; her expensive silk robes could've marked her equally as royalty or simply a successful merchant. Her fur was soft and fine, faintly perfumed.

"Can I help you?"

"Gerz Itess-Kanyr?"

"Yes. Who are you?"

The woman slipped inside, and closed the door of the apartment behind her. "It is not important," she said.

Which meant it was, and now the jackal began to see other unsettling things. She found it difficult to focus on the rabbit's delicate features; the longer she lingered on them the more her vision started to blur. Her eyes were the only safe thing to look at, soft and onyx-deep.

"What do you want?" Havsa finally asked.

"What do you want?" the rabbit echoed. "Be honest with me."

She had not, Havsa realized, needed to make the order explicit. Something about looking into her eyes told the jackal that her inquisitor would be able to see through any falsehood anyway. "I want to know what's happened to the prince, and where we're going."

"You know both of those already, from Gerz Kadïnhät."

"Then... I want to know 'why.' Why was Prince Yeshin killed?"

With a smile the rabbit closed her eyes, and then turned away from Havsa to break the spell entirely. "I should find that pleasing. Prince Yeshin was your benefactor, but he was not a friend of yours. He respected your talents."

"I believe so, yes..."

"The new leaders of the city respect your talents as well. They would have you continue to serve them. I think you would not turn the offer down, if you were to stay on as the lead negotiator for our city."

"Who would I be negotiating for?"

The rabbit turned her head, looking at Havsa from the corner of her eye. Her lip twisted into a deeper smile. "No, Gerz Itess-Kanyr. That wasn't the question you asked. You wanted to know why Yeshin was killed... but you already have the answer. He was unambitious. This, gerz, could be the heart of the Dominion. Together, we can do anything. Yeshin did not see that. He let the smallness of his desire consume him. Wealth? Prestige?"

She had stopped. Havsa waited, but the rabbit said nothing further. "Those are small?"

Her laugh was light, rising like sparks from a campfire. "The wealth he offered you has nothing on what could be. When we make our way back to the river, there will not be ships enough in Esifyr to carry the treasure we hold. You, Gerz Itess-Kanyr, can command those ships. If you like. So I ask again: what, gerz, do you want?"