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In this conclusion to the novel, Havsa the jackal merchant and reluctant soldier Callen finally meet and confront the danger facing them.

And here is the second part of the novel. It's a short novel, but after, uh, six months of editing and kicking it around I'm pretty happy with how it turned out. Plus we finally get to see the True Evil of this particular setting, which has to be honest been a very long time coming.

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

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A Waste of Desert Sand, by Rob Baird (Part 2 of 2)

A map of the setting to ground you. Most of the action takes place in the very small area to the far southeast, around Körlyda ("Karlied" in Aernian). The Carregan Transcontinental mainline, the "Lodestone Meteor," is the thick line running along the coast of the White Sea.

XII. Rumors

For some reason, Colonel Rossean didn't find himself terribly surprised when Daaria Anderech told him the Lodestone Meteor's schedule was being cleared for military traffic. He'd yet to receive any explicit instructions from Iron Corps' headquarters to that effect, and the Meteor now being unloaded at the Lightward Terminus carried only trade goods.

But.

Anderech said the change would take place in the months to come: a growing number of cars were to be reserved for men and materiel. Obviously, Rossean's superiors were trying to solidify their plans. Trying to figure out just how concerned they needed to be--just like the colonel.

He'd doubled the strength of his patrols, and ordered them further away from the fortress. Like the telegrams he received, like the warning from Anderech, the patrols told him nothing useful but left the dog with a sense of unease. Something hid in the lines of those reports.

"Or am I losing my mind? I hope you'd tell me if I was being paranoid, sergeant?"

The color sergeant nodded. "If I saw it? Yes, sir."

They were standing in front of a map of the sector, updated with the very latest surveys. Sergeant-Major Sennis pushed a pin into the wall, tagged with the number and location of the last patrol's report. "What do you see?" Rossean asked.

She tapped her claw next to the pin. "This farm was inhabited two months ago. So was this one, I believe. But we can't be certain; we weren't ranging that far."

This was a strategic error he could attribute to his predecessor, but blame was less important than results. "So we weren't. You know what I notice? Where's the army? How have we not encountered one Karliedan picket in a dozen patrols? I'm positive they used to come out this way."

"They did," Sergeant-Major Sennis confirmed. The badger frowned thoughtfully, her finger wandering over the map. "Maybe as far as this bend in the river. But you're right--not for some time. Did it stop being worth their while?"

"When have you ever known a Dominion prince to give up their claim on a territory?"

"Maybe by now they trust us." The badger obviously didn't believe her own words; obviously didn't intend for Colonel Rossean to think otherwise. "I don't know, sir."

Putting all the pieces together, the most logical answer was that Karlied was planning for an attack. They were gathering their forces from the more remote outposts, marshaling them within the city walls where Iron Corps scouts wouldn't be able to observe their preparations.

High Command knew something--clearly that was why he was being reinforced. But they didn't want to tip their hand--that was why the reinforcement was slow and gradual. If Rossean allowed himself some optimism, he imagined negotiations were even underway to prevent a cataclysm.

The other rumors, the fanciful stories that came from upriver, were all a distraction. Karlied would know the Iron Corps was woefully unequipped to validate the truth of such deceptions, which made them all the more powerful.

Did they think the Iron Corps would adjust its defensive posture to protect against some vague threat in the north? No, he supposed, it was unlikely they'd be so optimistic about the effect it had on him. But they would expect his attention to be divided, so instead he set himself to evaluating the defensibility of the fortress.

Without insight, without Core Operations' network of spies or trustworthy experts in Dominion affairs, it was all he could really do. Check that there were no weaknesses in the palisade, and reinforce the walls so that a few more Darveleigh guns could be put on them when an attack came. Housing the new soldiers had required expanding the palisade, and an opportunity to update the construction methods that had been used.

With the added manpower he ordered everything else brought up to the same standards. That work was well underway when someone announced that riders were approaching from the south. One of them was an Iron Corps soldier; the other wore the uniform of an Ellagdran soldier.

Curious, Rossean put on his formal attire and went to meet the party outside the palisade. The Ellagdran soldier was a muscular bear, with strong paws; his mount was a warhorse whose bearing conveyed the same martial prowess and design as its rider.

"I represent the Grand Army of the North, as does this." He snapped the breech of his carbine open, turning it so that Rossean could see. "My arms reflect the peaceful intent of this mission, if as my host you will receive that intent as it was offered."

Rossean gestured for the gate to be opened. "Welcome to Fort Hanham. I'm Colonel Callen Rossean, of the Iron Corps. If you don't mind the boldness of trying to read your insignia and language, you're a major? Major... Ittenfall?"

"Issenvar, colonel. Major Tamut Issenvar." The bear allowed a faint smile to crack his stern expression. "It is a pleasant surprise to find one who can even read that much of our tongue."

"I try to stay informed, where I can. We do expect Ellagdran visitors in this area, from time to time." He summoned a guard to escort the major to his office, ordered food to be brought, and turned to find the scout who'd been dispatched to the Confederacy in the first place.

Their report was problematically brief. She'd heard nothing out of the ordinary in the streets of Randurshöhn, and the Ellagdran princes hadn't wished to volunteer any information of their own. The only unexpected outcome was their request to send an envoy back.

Rossean suggested the proper term was 'spy'; the scout could only give a noncommittal shrug. It was possible that they were merely curious, and wanted to see what had become of the garrison. Colonel Rossean decided that he would keep that possibility, too, in mind.

"Your horse has been seen to," he told the major. "And dinner will be coming. I'm afraid you might find our beer objectionable--but it's yours, if you want it."

"I must decline. In our office I am said to be the foremost authority on the Iron Kingdom, yet I must say... I did not ever learn how you can stand to drink it warm."

"Have you visited?"

"I was stationed in New Jarankyld for five years, as a military advisor to our consulate. There I could still occasionally find something from Issenrik around the docks. I promise I tried to understand your customs."

"I appreciate it. What brings you from your homeland to the Lightward Terminus, major?"

"We heard a briefing from your representative, updating us on the posture of the Iron Army and the fortress of your frontier, here. I must say there were some questions raised about why you felt the need to tell us that you had no plans for the south."

That, he reflected, was understandable. "I was told the commander before me hadn't spoken to any of you. I wanted you to know that this was an unfortunate oversight, and I felt that it would be better if I overshared to you, in the interests of transparency."

"Yes." Major Issenvar grew contemplative, choosing his words carefully. "On the ride back, we met two patrols. I can see your walls have been reinforced, and the depot is much busier than I was told to expect. There are more men here than before, they are better-armed, and they travel further. How should I take this?"

"My charter is the readiness of the fort. That doesn't imply any aggression from the Iron Corps."

"But you are being prepared for war. Now, colonel, I know we're not in your sights."

"No. That would be complete folly. The Railroad and the Confederacy are as close to allies as any of our partners. We've been in discussion for years to extend the line south. We purchase arms from you."

"Years of discussion that amount to nothing," the major countered, his smile gone. "And weapons you purchase from us to mimic--poorly--in your own workshops. Yes, of course, we know the Carregan Railroad will not attack us. But we do trade with the upriver towns and principalities, too, if your eye wanders mountainward."

"It does not."

The bear shook his head. "I hear that you range in force as far as the foothills. Five years ago your railroad tried to overthrow your own government in the old Damissian Empire. Five years before that, you did turn Kamir into a puppet state. What other direction do you have to expand but east? And what wouldn't you give to bypass these feeble towns and trade directly with the Otonish?"

"That's not our intent, I swear."

"Do you, or do you not, have gunboats capable of threatening the Great Gate over the Sheyib? Is a flotilla not even now deployed on 'patrol' just a few days' travel away?"

Is it? Nothing Rossean had heard of. "I have not been told of that, major. I... allow me to be honest with you. I would ask for your confidence, or at least, your judgment in what of this you choose to report--understanding the difficult position I'm about to confess."

"Very well..."

"I sent my representative south to you on my own initiative--my superiors don't know, and I'm not officially supposed to speak with representatives of foreign governments without their authority. So I'm going to speak to you as one soldier to another. If the Railroad intends a war of conquest, I know nothing of it and I want no part in it. If I thought that it was our intent, I would not be here, and I would not have sent someone to your capital to lie about goals."

"Then why did you?"

"Because I don't know enough about what's going on, and I hope that you can help. I believe the opposite of what you suspect. Karlied is planning to take the Lightward Terminus. They won't hold it--they have no reason to--but it would be a bargaining chip for them to reassert ownership of trade into the Dominion and remove our influence in the area. Now, the Railroad may reinforce my position here, but it's to raise the stakes for Karlied, not to launch any invasion of our own."

"You use metaphors of gambling," Issenvar said. "But that would be an even worse gamble for Körlyda. The ruler depends on the wealth he can extract from cross-river trade. With you, with us--through us, with Damissia, Madurai, Issenrik. If you were provoked to damaging the Great Gate, they would have the shah of Körlyda's head dipped in gold and given to you as a peace offering within days."

"I don't know how else to read the information I have, major. Unless you know differently about the shah's goals."

"I do not."

Rossean sighed. "How well do you know the Dominion, then? How well do you know the upriver towns, or the non-aligned territory on the north bank?" Receiving no answer, the dog decided he had no choice but to keep going. "I hear about unrest. The last rumor claimed an Otonichi warband was massacred in the hills. Did you hear that?"

"No," Issenvar said. "And I would doubt it. The Otonish fight between themselves, but they would not send an expedition this far from the mountains. They've never done so before."

"The refugee we spoke to claimed to have witnessed the aftermath. Fifty or sixty Otonichi, wearing red armor and carrying... well, cargal'th, I don't know. Magical, rapid-firing crossbows--he bartered one to our patrol for food."

The bear stared at Rossean, eyes searching the dog's face. "Hm. You've never seen the Otonish, have you?"

"Once or twice. We've never been able to connect with them, much as we've tried. The Railroad uses Otonichi technology in our locomotives, and for surveying, but... always through brokers. You're right, major--I'm sure some bureaucrat would love direct trade with them, but they've never been willing."

"They are a superstitious, cautious folk. The crossbows are not magical. Do you still have it?" Rossean shook his head; he'd sent it north on the train for the Iron Corps to investigate and glean whatever they could. "Did you see it yourself? Were the sides black?"

"Lacquered. Painted--letters, maybe? I think?"

Major Issenvar gave a short, sharp sigh. "Almost certainly not a personal weapon, then--the black ones are meant for warriors, designed to fire bolts tipped with the Otonish 'spark.' But they should not be down here..."

"Maybe it was an heirloom. Maybe they were bandits, and stole the weapon from someone better. My point is that I don't know. Karlied is behaving strangely, they've abandoned the river pickets, and I hear about massacres and crossbows and some city on the move."

Issenvar froze. "A city?"

"You see?" Rossean shook his head despairingly. "Not the Hakasi, I think. I hope you haven't heard anything about... Angbasa."

"No. We have not. The Hakasi attack every year or so, but Angbasa itself? There's been nothing for decades." His speech was clipped, and cool. "Cities do not move, Colonel Rossean. And one should not tell stories in which they do. Anyone in the Dominion or its subjects would know that."

"Would they? Then why am I hearing those stories, major?"

"I don't know." His brow was deeply furrowed, and his eyes twitched in agitated thought. "What have you heard, exactly?"

"About half the refugees who pass by the fort tell us they've abandoned their homes because they feared an attack--or an attack had already taken place. Sometimes they say soldiers arrived, and sometimes they say they were peaceful envoys. The consistent element is of a city threatening them. Getting closer."

"Does it have a name?"

"Duniton, or perhaps Yir Duniton. I think, but it's not written down and I haven't been able to find a trustworthy interpreter of the upland dialects. Do you recognize that?"

The bear's composure slipped; he snorted. "I don't speak barbarian either. It doesn't sound familiar, but I am not an expert on Dominion culture. The town's army is on the move--approaching?"

"You see? Again. You see why I bothered asking for help from the outside? I thought they meant the town's army, yes, but the grammar is puzzling. By now, it happens too often to be a coincidence. They claim the city itself is coming."

"I don't know what they might mean. But... perhaps you were right to be alarmed, colonel. I should return to my country as soon as possible. I'll keep the summary of our conversation diplomatic... nobody has to know that you sought our help."

"I appreciate that."

"If something has changed, we... I... will try to let you know."

XIII. The Pale

Meshüsh Gürun was not where she'd left it. When at last she found the city, stopped for the night in the remains of a wheat field, Havsa sought out Shïrn Kadïnhät in the hope of an explanation.

"We're changing course," he admitted freely. "The compass is pointing us to something better. It might almost be a true prize. Kurvadï might be out here..."

"What is that?"

"It was created by Tavak, a long time ago. A richer source of magic than nearly anything else, but it's been lost for centuries. Only by comparing the compass with the old maps you've been able to track down for us are we getting close..."

"Something you think you can handle?"

The lion shrugged, and lit his pipe, saying only that he was excited to try.

Havsa returned to her apartment with nothing to settle her growing sense of unease. She'd heard nothing from Pathis, not even rumors about what might've befallen the city's exiles. Unless that's a good thing, too, considering...

What will you do? Her negotiations had been changing. The merchants and village seniors she met with clearly understood that they were no longer equals. She could see the nervousness in every word they spoke; the fear that brought their pen to the contracts they signed.

Outwardly that meant her success had only grown. She had yet to meet the city's new leader--they even called him 'shadow-prince.' Everything went through the quiet rabbit, who thanked Havsa obsequiously for her work and authorized a progressively larger share of the growing profits.

None of it could be sustained. It wasn't the Dominion way. Trade fairly, and you had made a partner you could rely on in the future. Bridges, as the saying went, could be burned only once--and they were burning more than bridges. If she hadn't heard about Pathis's fate, that was better than learning he'd been executed as a traitor.

It was a clear possibility. She could not dismiss the rumors that Meshüsh Gürun's soldiers, in her absence, had simply seized and destroyed a trade caravan headed inland, commandeering its supplies for their own. The stories no longer came from the outsiders she met: they came from within.

And now this new movement. Kurvadï and Tavak--names she did not recognize. When she asked around, the most useful answer Havsa received was a shudder, and abrupt silence. Not good. Cursed, someone whispered.

Old artifacts, remnants of the World Before, were one of the things Havsa refused to touch. She could come up with plenty of good ethical reasons to avoid the trade--the same as with selling weapons, which could be equally lucrative--but it was also a simple matter of self-preservation.

Normal people, decent people, did not quest for such relics. If they wanted them, it was only for dark purposes... the sort of thing that drew unwanted attention. The sort of thing that created powerful enemies.

The sort of thing that got princes killed, and Havsa was no royalty.

What will you do, then? She could talk to the Hasköyal, but there was no guarantee they'd listen and even less of one that they'd be willing to act. Especially not if all they had was a mysterious note from a courier kept necessarily in the dark.

No, she needed to take matters into her own hands.

She needed to get out.

XIV. Crossed Paths

Sergeant-Major Sennis told Rossean that the new arrival wanted to speak to him directly, and that they were not to be dissuaded from this end. "Railroad?" Rossean asked.

The badger shook her head. "No, sir. They're from the Dominion, but they're very... pushy. And they have a lot of money, apparently."

"Real money, or Tiurishkan money?" Sergeant-Major Sennis only smiled.

If the refugee had money, her clothes didn't show it: the jackal was garbed in the same sort of dun-colored robes that most in the Dominion wore, and they were as disheveled as any other refugee. Sennis closed the door to the office behind them. "She ran into Lieutenant Stellen's patrol this morning. When she saw that he was armed, she demanded to accompany him back."

"Yes," the jackal confirmed. Her Aernian, to his astonishment, was flawless. "My name is Havsa Itess-Kanyr, former gerz of the city of Meshüsh Gürun. This is the Iron Corps outpost of the terminus?"

"Yes, that's right. I'm Colonel Rossean, and this is Sergeant-Major Sennis."

"Has Pathis come by? Has he talked to you?"

Rossean glanced at Sennis; the badger shrugged. "Pathis who, ma'am?"

"I don't know his last name. I just know him as Pathis. He's a wolf."

"It's a western name. There aren't as many wolves in the west." Rossean tried to think if there were any canines by that name at all in his command, and drew a blank. "There's a Pathis Mercer in the engineering section, but he's a fox."

"No, he's a wolf. And not a soldier--he's a merchant; a trader."

"Ah. Probably went to the Lightward Terminus, then, ma'am. It's a bit of a walk, but you can still make it there today. I'm sure that's where he went."

Havsa frowned, her face becoming momentarily thoughtful. "Perhaps he was captured, then. I told him to find the nearest military authority. You're in grave danger, Colonel Rossean--we all are. My city is a great threat to you."

"Bloody hell. Yir Duniton--"

"Kirvosoç," she finished, nodding frantically, her eyes brightening. "Erk ishannac! Käb bashlït va--ä kib çirusuç kibbat bash va--ans beça--"

All he understood was 'city,' 'myth,' and 'true.' "Stop! Please, stop--I don't speak your language. I speak some Kamiri, but I'm only getting every other word. At least slow down, if you can."

Her brow furrowed, and her head tilted. She went back to using Aernian. "But you knew of the cities?"

"No. I've heard of a..." He looked over to Sergeant-Major Sennis, but it was too late for discretion. "I've heard of a city that's becoming aggressive with regards to the surrounding towns. A city called Yir Duniton."

"Yir donïdon kirvosoç," she corrected him. "The cities that gallop. This one is called Meshüsh Gürun--anyway it's called that now, I don't know what it was called before. Maybe it was always that."

"And you've been there? You have direct knowledge?"

"I was one of its leaders, the gerz responsible for trade negotiations. We've been doing less of those. I feared for my safety and escaped at the first opportunity I had. I had hoped that Pathis would find you--maybe he went somewhere else? Are there other friendly armies?"

"He's of the Iron Kingdom? Then no, not before the Pale. Or Dhamishaya, if he was able to cross the mountains."

The jackal sighed heavily, lowering her sharp muzzle into her paws. "Hopefully they didn't capture him. The city won't be kind to him. Not to any foreigners." She muttered to herself in her own language; he gathered she was offering some prayer for his safety. "There are other matters. It's important that the city be stopped before they go too far."

"What do you mean by that?"

She explained to him in a rush, speaking as quickly in Aernian as she had in Tiurishkan. Meshüsh Gürun was, indeed, literally on the move: it walked on sturdy metal legs from place to place. When first built, it had been used as a mining camp, processing tin and copper and leaving when the mines had been exhausted.

Now, Havsa told them, Meshüsh Gürun was back at work. The city's leaders had discovered the location of something called Kurvadï, which had been created by Tavak--proper nouns that Rossean didn't recognize. When he prompted the jackal for more details, she said they were sources of tremendous power.

"It's still mining, colonel, but now they're after magical energy. We've done fantastic things. We crossed the Sheyib River, walking underneath it, with a great shield holding the waters at bay until we reached dry land again. We've defeated three or four attempts to capture the city, now--the last by Körlydan troops. Dozens dead, at least; many more captured. I think--I hope--we'll ransom them."

"Sergeant-Major? Have we heard anything about that?"

"Lieutenant Stellen observed barge traffic flying Karlied's flags, sir, but that's it. They would be enough for a regiment-sized expedition, if that was their aim... but he returned before the barges did."

Havsa shut her eyes tightly. "Eight barges, I think. Our guards sunk four before they could land. The rest were swiftly dispatched on the riverbank. That's what I heard."

Cargal'th. No, Rossean needed stronger oaths. Fuck. Fuck all of this. "Sennis, I need you to do me a favor. Ride to the Lightward Terminus and start running your mouth until you can draw someone from Core Operations back here."

"What should I 'run my mouth' about?"

He gambled: "Those names. Kurvadï. Tavak. Ask where you can buy them. If you're allowed to ask the question more than... three or four times, come back."

"Yes, sir." He was gratified to see that the badger trusted him enough to rely on his intuition--they'd gotten quite close over the past few months. "What does your city want to do when they reach the Kurvadï?"

"Capture it and consume its power, I imagine. It's what they've done with everything else." She fidgeted, spinning a silver ring on her right paw. "I was expecting more here. In Körlyda we always talked about the Iron Corps as an invincible foe."

"We're not supposed to be foes. Are you from Karlied?"

"Not originally. But I used to think of it as my home, before I moved to Meshüsh Gürun. I know, I know." Her soft laugh dripped, bitter. "We're not enemies, but every political hopeful in Körlyda promises to confront the grave insult of westerners on our border. They never did. You being here has even stopped them from going after the Confederacy. I just assumed..."

"How many men does your city have under arms?"

"I don't know... maybe three hundred. Not all of them are bad people, Colonel Rossean. Please, I hope you understand... it's not a city of bad people, it's just led by--by... I don't know. I don't know anymore. Prince Yeshin promised that we could build a fantastic city, a wonder of science and commerce, a beacon on the eastern continent... but now he's dead."

And, Rossean learned, she didn't know who'd replaced him. She 'didn't know' many things about the city's heritage, and its leadership, and the composition of its defenses. But the concern when she talked about Kurvadï was obvious--her brown eyes darkened; her ears went flat--and it bothered Rossean to think that she was probably telling the truth.

He brought paper and pen, and the jackal agreed to sketch the city. She drew a fortress, a hundred meters wide and three times that in length, with twenty-meter walls of stone reinforced by iron plate. Ballistas in the watchtower, and the polished shields used by Tiurishkan infantry to reflect the sun and blind their opponent.

If she was telling the truth, the garrison had defeated a Karliedish force four times larger without suffering any casualties of their own. He assumed there was more to 'Meshüsh Gürun' than first appeared. Magical--unpredictable, in other words--and against which he could not commit to any defense without knowing far more than he did.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, at last.

"Destroy them."

"Destroy who?" Havsa cocked her head at him. "Three hundred soldiers, and how many civilians? Ten times that? You said they're not bad people--just caught up in this whole catastrophe."

She looked away, but nodded. "Yes, that's true. Help the citizens, if you can. But the city must be stopped."

He didn't know if it was a good sign or a bad one when Sennis returned with company: Lieutenant Siron Wulyth, the auditor, still dressed in civilian clothes. The otter appeared to know immediately what was going on. "Ans esher salukavazlït Ruovan Hanhamal bazgac."

Havsa, too, seemed to have a perceptive understanding of the situation--at least, who Wulyth was. "I speak Kamiri," she answered, in that language; her pronunciation was poor, but intelligible, and she spoke it without hesitation. "But I think you welcomed me to your fortress?"

Siron Wulyth stared at Havsa, slowly turned to look at Rossean, and barked a resigned laugh. She continued on in Aernian. "I see. Very well, gerz, have it your way. What's this about Kurvadï I hear?"

"The cartographers of Meshüsh Gürun discovered its location using a modified Otonichi compass. They're planning on..." The jackal trailed off, smiling ruefully. "Here, my Tiurishkan does indeed fail me. The mages use a very archaic dialect. They might mean that they are extracting it, or that they are capturing it--would either of those make sense, strange newcomer?"

"'Extracting,' yes. Does that mean they have a wailing stone? How does the city handle its magic?"

"Shïrn Kädinhät is the chief mage. He is responsible for our Dobtan Loom."

"He intends to tap Kurvadï with a Dobtan Loom?" The otter briefly lost her composure; the skepticism was obvious. "He must be mad. You misunderstood, or your people have lost their minds."

"He was a well-respected scholar of academic thaumaturgy in Izkadi. He must believe that it can be done."

"Well-respected scholars can still be fools," the otter retorted. "But I've heard enough. Please come with me, gerz. We'll take the next Meteor back to Tinenfirth and have you debriefed by the Railroad's experts while we try to figure out how to address this."

Havsa twitched. Did she know what was going to happen to her in Tinenfirth? For that matter, did Rossean? The dog cleared his throat. "I need her here, lieutenant."

"Excuse me?"

He did not trust the auditor. It was something about Wulyth's immediate reaction, speaking in Tiurishkan, and how Havsa claimed instead to speak a language that Rossean also understood rather than allowing Wulyth to keep him in the dark.

For as short a time as he'd known the jackal, he felt she would be easier to work with. So he came up with a reasonable excuse, taking into account everything they knew. And taking into account the emphasis Rescat Carregan put on holding the fortress.

"She has knowledge of the city's garrison, and if I'm to be prepared for... whatever's coming... I need more information than she's been able to give me in a couple of hours. If she's truly required at Cobbler Hill, they can telegram me."

Wulyth stood up straighter. "Whatever information she has needs to be relayed to the proper authorities. You heard her: they've found the location of Kurvadï. They mean to use it. The consequences could be dire."

"There are two thousand souls at the fort. Another five thousand staffing the Lightward Terminus, even before we count the bazaars and the caravans and the camp followers. My responsibility is protecting the terminus and holding this fort. Those orders came straight from General Carregan herself. Military intelligence has to be my first priority, lieutenant." He allowed just the hint of emphasis on the last word.

The otter clenched her paw, and nodded stiffly. "Fine, colonel. If it's important, you'll listen to that telegram?"

"Of course."

"Put her up here, then. And keep her well protected." She spoke to Sergeant-Major Sennis as though she was in a position to give orders. Sennis looked Rossean, who dipped his muzzle in silent agreement. Lieutenant Wulyth waited for the room to clear. "Do you know what you're getting into? Do you even know what Kurvadï means?"

"No, lieutenant. That's why I need her help."

"You should've stopped at 'no.' I am going to give you some advice, colonel. I recommend that you listen carefully to it."

XV. A Promise of Sincerity

It's not right to think of yourself as a prisoner. Havsa needed to remind herself of this every morning when she rose and found a soldier's meal waiting outside her door. Or when she requested permission from her guards to use the barracks' showers. Be glad they even have showers...

As the water coursed through her fur, the jackal allowed herself to smile. Aernians weren't completely uncivilized: the soldiers in the Iron Corps cleaned themselves every week, at least. She had heard they bathed far less often. It was part of the reason they were known as 'rusty' or 'rust-boned,' in the Dominion, instead of as 'Iron Men' like they called themselves--that they feared exposure to water.

Cal Rossean explained the soldiers at the fort showered to get the sand of the Menapset Desert out of their fur, which, if she reflected on it, was probably where the tradition started in the Dominion as well. Havsa visited the showers every other day. The guards accepted it as one of her quirks; there was only the hassle of making sure no soldiers were using it.

It was not modesty but a precaution; Rossean proved to be extremely concerned about her well-being. And that, a week into her stay at Fort Hanham, was also why the jackal didn't want to think of herself as a prisoner but as a guest in a peculiar sort of danger.

What would've happened if I'd gone with that otter? She worked some of the Iron Corps' soap into her fur. It was unscented, and rather harsh, but it got the job done. Taken for ransom. I would've been taken for ransom, or disappeared, or...

The Ravens--thinking about it, Havsa shuddered, spattering the wall of the shower with water. Of course she knew of the Railroad's secret agents. Every time some ill befell a merchant or a politician in Körlyda, the Railroad was blamed, and even if they weren't--even if it was all nonsense--the fact remained that the otter had known who she was. She'd known about Meshüsh Gürun.

And she'd known about Kurvadï, which was the worst of it. Worrying powers were coming into play. She thought of what she'd told Shïrn Kädinhät: this is beyond your ability to control. And then she thought: at least I can admit that, right?

Havsa turned the water off and shook herself dry. In any proper bath, any civilized bath, there would be a room with a current of warm air to carry away the rest of the water and infuse her fur with something suitably fragrant. In the fort she had only towels, though of course in truth the desert heat did the job fairly quickly on its own.

The jackal had an hour before her meeting with Cal Rossean--every morning she helped him make sense of the latest information from his patrols, and the rumors that filtered over from the Lightward Terminus. Before that, though, she returned to her quarters and settled back on a bed that smelled of a dozen other soldiers who had occupied it in years before.

They're not backwards, she reminded herself. They mean well. Cal wants to help you.

Of this, the jackal remained certain. It was only that she didn't know if he could help her. She closed her eyes and thought about Pathis--lost, in all likelihood, stranded in unfamiliar territory. Or worse, for she'd heard that many of the city's emigrants had been recaptured and an Aernian among them had been killed.

It was a fourth-hand story, and the teller didn't know any more.

She believed the other rumors. She believed that more Otonichi had attacked Meshüsh Gürun, and been annihilated. She believed the city had forced a trading barge aground and plundered its contents, particularly when the sailor said the search parties were only interested in jewelry and odd trinkets.

The latest information--if it could be called that--claimed the city had stopped again. Havsa figured this meant they were gathering resources. Rossean wanted to know how much they would need. When can they move again? How far do their arrows travel? How strong an impact can their shields resist? How is the guard organized?

He was understanding, though, when she said that she couldn't answer. "We're all just doing our best." The dog sighed, brushed the piece of paper aside, and moved to the next one. "A family left the town of Yirmis Hateleç. Merchants came and asked for... what is this word? Civrashbi?"

"Brass. A particular kind of brass. Please forgive me that I don't know all the details. I believe our thaumaturgists use it in places where the Otonichi use gemstones."

"And do you know Yirmis Hateleç?"

"A fortified town in the foothills. I haven't been." She'd heard the 'fortress' part was all but ceremonial, dating back centuries to the early days of settlement. "It's on a gentle bend of the River Ket, if I'm thinking of the right town. They trade a lot with the Otonichi, or they used to."

"The family says the trading party came from a powerful city nearby, and would not accept 'no' as an answer to the request."

"There are no powerful cities nearby. Yirmis Hateleç is peaceful, too distant to be drawn into conflict. It had a very old temple. I imagine that's why the city began making civrashbi."

Rossean made some notes on the paper. "Then we'll assume this one is true. Meshüsh Gürun is drawing in supplies from a week's ride away. Do we assume they don't want to move, or that they can't?"

"If the rulers think they'll have to stay in one place for a while longer anyway, they have no reason to waste time and energy moving the city for a simple deal like that. But..." She considered other possibilities, trying to be skeptical, and nodded her head. "I think what you heard is accurate, yes."

"That was the last one." There was still one paper remaining on his desk. He held the corner up. "We have a lead, finally, and a name. Professor Denizli Bozkïr, of the University of Sarokon."

"Does it say which one?"

"No, unless this letter is supposed to be an 'i'--it was handwritten."

"Izkat. They refer to the Old University, in Sarokon. It's a very prestigious school."

"And deep in Dominion territory. Our contact says there's no way to get an audience with the professor."

To Havsa, it was all the more frustrating because she had no doubt Denizli Bozkïr would come at once if he knew what they wanted. At the advice of his superiors, Rossean was trying to locate anyone who knew of the galloping cities: academics, historians, treasure-hunters... he hoped that they might have some insight into how Meshüsh Gürun might be stopped.

The jackal knew nothing of the professor. She assumed, from his position, he was quite distinguished. Three or four layers of 'assistants' probably sat between them and Bozkïr. All would need to be circumvented, or bribed.

"We can ask Antïl Spartakül, in Körlyda. He thinks fondly of me, and he's well-connected in the Hasköyal. The merchants' guild has offices in every city--Sarokon isn't special in that regard, much as they like to think of themselves as unconcerned with matters of commerce."

"How fondly does he think of you?"

"If he sees my name, he'll read the letter until it gets to the details of my payment offer." She grinned. "Vasha Spartakül didn't get to where he was without understanding the value of gold in easing certain misunderstandings. The ones that a professor's assistant might have about someone wishing to speak to their master are a very good example."

Rossean let her write the letter in peace. Havsa kept the details to a minimum. She understood that if an Aernian composed it, there would be appeals to the consequences--possibly to their king, or to their gods. How insulting was it to think transactions could be carried out on the basis of spiritual goodwill?

She was grateful that she'd transferred so much of her profits to other banks, not all of them under her own name. Who was to say what Shïrn might be willing to do for his new masters, in extracting the details of the more obvious deposits from other merchants? It all kept matters nice and simple to know the money was waiting.

"Will he help?" Rossean asked, finally, when she was sealing the letter.

The door opened and one of the civilian assistants arrived bearing lunch. It was intended to be samsun, the traditional Dominion dish of roasted pepper and rice. To her surprise, Havsa could already smell the spices.

She handed the letter to the assistant and looked back, to where the Aernian colonel had begun scrupulously separating the plates that had been brought in. The jackal's curiosity was quickly settled: the dishes with actual quantities of flavor were intended for her.

"Some day," she teased the dog. "I will make you eat one piece of real samsun. You might like it." His expression suggested otherwise. "Thank you for the attempt, though. To answer your earlier question: of course he'll help."

"He trusts you?"

"I'm paying him."

"Do you think that'll be enough?"

"If it's not, I'll pay more."

Rossean sliced his peppers into thin strips, apportioning them enough rice to drown out even what minimal heat remained. "You're talking about a city that could threaten... at least us, if not Karlied itself. Or more. Is that really still a monetary concern?"

The kitchen, to her delight, had a native Tiurishkan in it somewhere--someone from her home region in the west, she decided, considering the faint sweetness that accompanied the peppers' fire. "Everything is a monetary concern, Callen."

"Not everything. Don't tell that otter, if she shows up, but that's always rubbed my fur wrong about the Railroad. If it makes them money, they're happy, and damn whatever stands in their way. I don't think that's right. If you ask me."

She was in a good mood, and willing to indulge the Aernian and his peculiarities. "When you're received at a friend's house, and you offer greetings, how do they know you're sincere?"

"Because we're friends. I know--the report said that when you met our patrol, you tried to offer money to the lieutenant. He said 'no'--well, he says he did. I hope he did. Was that an insult if he refused?"

"No. It was his right. At least I made the offer."

"For us..." He paused to add more rice to his next bite of samsun. "For us, that offer is insulting. Like a... bribe, almost. The opposite of sincerity. Money is..."

"It doesn't exist. Money doesn't exist."

"What do you mean by that?"

She opened her purse and took a coin from it. "I could buy six horses with this in Körlyda. But what is it? Some silver." Havsa tried to scoop some rice up with the edge of the coin, and finally managed to collect all of two grains. "It has no use on its own."

"Not as a spoon, no. It can't be eaten, either. Can't shoot someone with it."

"True." She tapped the rice back to her plate and put the coin away. "Money is a promise of sincerity. In the Dominion, if I give this to a stablemaster for those six horses, I'm offering my sincere belief in its value, and the value of the horses to me. The stablemaster could use it for a downpayment on a new plot of land, and when he gives the coin over to the land's owner, his sincerity is inarguable."

"It's a very mercenary view of sincerity, Havsa, if you don't mind my saying."

"I don't mind anything you say, as long as you think about what you're saying. You called it 'mercenary' just now, and you mentioned that you can't shoot anyone with a silver coin. Both true. Now, what if you and the Iron Corps wanted those six horses. What would you do?"

"We'd pay, of course."

"Would you? How much did you pay the shah of Kamir for his territory? Nothing. That's the difference. If we don't agree that there is sincerity in that silver coin, the only thing we can trust is the point of your spear. Killing a man is also very inarguable."

He had set his forkful of samsun down. "I am quite aware of that, yes."

"Does it make more sense that we avoid it? It's built into our culture, our engagement with one another. The Dominion is an empire of commerce so that we do not have to be an empire of conquest. The Iron Folk do not always make a similar choice."

"You are talking to a soldier, Havsa. I fought in that war you mention. And others--some with your people. Some, even, that your people started. Tiurishkans don't always settle in silver coin."

She had, the jackal admitted to herself, oversimplified things quite a bit. And Callen had grown a little somber. "Unfortunately," she said, with a nod. "But we try. Accounts will always be settled. We can't always be successful in keeping the balance... calm."

"Your new home--for one."

"True."

"I don't know." He finally picked his fork up and took the next bite. "My brother is a businessman, actually... he's wanted me to retire and help him for years. He doesn't talk the way you do. Maybe that's why it feels different."

"Your tradition is still new. In my opinion, forgiving the slight because I hope you'll understand I speak as an outsider--I am one; I'll never get used to this." She held up a pepper. "But thank you. I mean it."

"How much do you mean it?" He cracked a smile. "One coin? Two?"

"Three or four kiliç, if you'll make change."

"I'll try. You might owe more, depending on this... slight."

She grinned. "I think your tradition is new. You are men of swords and armor. You are accustomed to think in terms of power, and for you, the acquisition of wealth is the acquisition of power. In the Dominion we are accustomed to thinking in terms of value, which is not always power. A library has great value, and very little power."

"By your argument, doesn't money make them the same thing?"

"Perhaps it is a question of approach, Callen. When I came to Meshüsh Gürun, the prince showed me his vision. With what he'd unearthed, he had the key to immense treasure. To build a bazaar where every merchant wished to trade because they all knew those deals could be made nowhere else. A university that would be the envy of every scholar, with nothing beyond their potential to study and master... he talked of finally understanding those bits of the World Before that escape us. Not the weapons, not like those madmen who are searching for the key to whatever ended that world so they can wield it themselves. The rest of it, the things they knew, the things we've forgotten... Meshüsh Gürun would be the most valuable city on the continent, and a beacon for our people. And for others. I was enraptured."

"And look what happened."

"Eventually! But for those first months, it all made sense to me. My trading made me quite wealthy, but... I could see it in the walls. How clean they were, and the new mosaics that decorated them, and the sound of passionate argument in the merchant-stalls and the library... I saw Shïrn Kädinhät, my friend, learn talents lost for generations." She sighed. "Yes. Look what happened."

"We'll get them back." He reached across the table, setting his paw comfortingly on hers. "We'll help them. This... Denizli Bozkïr, he'll have the answers."

"Some." She took her free paw, and patted him. "The rest I fear may yet come to spearpoint."

XVI. Of Demons

Callen didn't know what to think--whether it would come to violence, or not. The jackal seemed to him slightly too quick to reach that conclusion, and he doubted that she had much direct knowledge of the consequences.

But he also perceived that it came from a position of fear. She'd seen what the city had done--or could do. The jackal's direct experience outweighed his own speculation. And in truth, he simply didn't know enough about the Dominion to say for certain.

Carregan Transcontinental's relationship with the country was somewhat complicated, as the dog understood it, though he'd long been insulated from the business side of their operations. As a trade-focused nation, they spoke the common language of gold with the Railroad, and there'd never been any real fighting.

At the same time, though, they guarded their borders jealously, and their mercantilism had been a long source of frustration. The Tiurishkans refused to allow the Railroad to operate inside the Dominion, which was why the Lightward Terminus was in unclaimed territory in the desert, and the nearest city was Karlied.

What was Karlied's role in keeping Aernian influence at bay from the Dominion itself? Did the city-state have its own motivations? Did other Dominion cities also maintain such independence, or was it only those on the fringes of its cultural influence? He couldn't begin to guess.

"And worse than that? Worse than that, I don't have anyone to turn to for advice."

Sergeant-Major Sennis nodded understandingly. "I wish I could be of help, sir. But I never had anything to do with them. Permission to speak freely?" He gave her a look, eyebrow raised, and she grinned. "Figured it was best to ask. Thing is, sir, if you ask the garrison they'd already say you're as close to goin' native as we've got. Speaking their language the way you do."

"I speak Kamiri, not Tiurishkan. They're not mutually understandable." Kamir shared common heritage with Tiurishk; originally he, too, thought perhaps Carregan had sent him to the fort because of his experience in the war. Now that seemed unlikely. It gave him no insight. His history left him in the dark.

"I speak the Iron Tongue," Sennis countered. "And not a damned word of Dalrath barbarian, for all the years I spent on the Whistling Pale."

The dog sighed heavily. "Fair enough. But what am I supposed to do?"

"Do you trust your guest enough to ask her?"

"Havsa? I..."

"You trust her more than you trust that Raven, don't you?" She let the question hang, pointedly. "If you asked my opinion, she's not trying to take advantage of us, sir. She's worried about her people. And if you wanted to know more about them, that's a good place to start."

The jackal appeared to be settling in to her life at the fort, though she kept to herself; she was busy leafing through the books in the library when Callen found her. "It's a peculiar selection," she told him. "Where does it come from?"

"What the soldiers bring, or what they leave behind." That meant the library was full of simple adventure stories, and old tactical manuals, and a few religious books for the faithful of the Iron Corps. "What were you hoping for?"

"Something closer to home." She slid the book she'd been holding back into its place on the shelf. "Can I help you, Mr. Rossean?"

"I'd like to know more about the city. But... I'd also like to know more about your homeland. My experience was in Kamir. I know almost nothing about the Dominion. You were willing to explain a little about your culture, and..."

"Was there something in particular you wanted to know?"

"To start with, where are you from? I remember you told me that you're not from Karlied, right?"

"No. I was born to Cayirvar, where my father runs a trading business: a small network of caravans and merchant ships and the like. They work with the farmers, mostly. My mother's line is farmers. The givers-of-life."

So he sat down and listened to her talk. The jackal described something not quite like a caste system--more a means of ordering the world. Farmers were esteemed, but not as much as craftsman and merchants, and these were not as highly honored as priests and academics.

Callen asked if hers were a religious people--he'd never seen Havsa pray, after all--and she gave him a wry smile. "Not in the way that you would accept."

"You don't know that."

The jackal laughed. "Very well. We buy our freedom from the gods. We're stewards of the land. If we take care of it, and make it prosper, then the gods are content to leave the Dominion under our control. They are... dissatisfied by fallow fields and empty marketplaces."

"Is it as... direct as all that? Do you sacrifice to them?"

"No. Our gods have no use for burnt meat or cotton. In general, we forget they exist, and the Dominion runs without them."

Setting aside the truly heretical monotheists--the Carregan family among them--everyone in Aernia accepted the existence of the Coral Valley, and the gods that dwelled within. Callen wasn't sure that he'd ever been told where the Coral Valley was, or whether or not anyone believed they knew the answer, but the valley itself was real and so were its inhabitants.

Gerenants believed that the gods never left the Coral Valley, and that their desires remained opaque and indirect. Layfolk didn't understand divine will; a trained speaker was required to interpret it. Left to their own devices, after all, common Aernians were given to worshipping a whole host of suspect heroes and demigods.

"But that's only one school. Vondeants disagree. They say the gods speak and interact directly with our world. They say that worthy deeds--and industriousness--bring us closer to the gods and earn their favor. It's not too unlike what you describe, when we take a successful harvest as the sign of Tæn's blessing."

"And is that what you believe?"

"I was brought up in the Vondeant school, yes," Callen said. "Thanks to my father. I suppose it's what I believe. I haven't given it too much thought."

Havsa had been looking at the window, growing restless; when she asked, at last, if he was interested in going for a walk the dog nodded. As they strolled the walkway that ran along the palisade, she mentioned his father again; his religion.

The Border Collie was a proud easterner--proud of his time in a bannered militia, proud of the Iron Pale; proud of how his ancestors had turned the land into something verdant and productive. That was where, Callen supposed, he'd also gotten his tendency to think of Gerenants as aristocratic, parochial in their insistence that only the elite were qualified to commune with the gods.

"But," Havsa suggested, "you don't commune with them yourself, not directly. Have you ever seen a god? Or a demon?"

"No." He'd seen plenty of what people were capable of doing all on their own, with no demons required; that was enough for him. He left that unsaid. "Have you?"

"Never... I don't think. I used to tell myself it was because I'd done well, and I have our gods' favor--they were staying out of my affairs. But I wonder... looking at the city... about what they've done, and what they're after... I wonder if I'm wrong."

"From everything you've said, they're still people. We should think of them that way. I've been curious about that, actually. If you say that wealth and prosperity--business success--is a sign that you've been blessed..."

"More complex than that, a little, but yes?"

"Wouldn't that be a better angle? A different angle. Could they be approached with a business proposition? Could they be bought off?"

The jackal stopped, and put both her paws on the edge of the palisade. The sun had set behind them; one of the moons was already high in the sky, its larger partner just now dawning above the silhouette of Karlied to the east. "With enough wealth, yes, of course they could."

"But you're hesitating?"

"I have no idea what 'enough' means."

XVII. The Broken Spell

She'd told Callen that she didn't know what would be required to purchase the loyalty of Meshüsh Gürun's merchants--let alone the ruling caste, whoever they were. A deeper worry still gnawed at the jackal.

To even guess at what might satisfy them requires knowing my own people. Do I?

Havsa wanted to be among them again. She wanted to haggle over the price of bread at a stall in some fragrant bazaar. She wanted to feel the steam of a hot bath in her muzzle, with the sound of ketesh music drifting in from the alleys beyond.

But. But she did not know whether or not the music would satisfy her; whether the derinshe would taste as refreshing as it had before coming to the fortress. She did not know whether she would feel she actually belonged.

Callen would not let her travel to Körlyda unaccompanied, in any case, and he did not trust his own soldiers to escort her, though she wasn't able to get an answer from him about why. She supposed it was paranoia: after all, he was a soldier, and she'd told him some deeply worrying stories about Meshüsh Gürun.

But her homesickness continued to deepen, and it was a welcome surprise when, several days later, he knocked on her door and asked if she'd be interested in visiting Körlyda after all. A trainload of military supplies was due in at the Lightward Terminus; he needed to be on-hand to approve them anyway.

With that business finished, he hailed a Railroad carriage to take them towards the city, a few kilometers away. He'd never visited: Havsa saw the astonishment grow in his eyes as they drew nearer, and Körlyda shifted from abstract form to undeniable reality.

Centuries of weathering left its granite walls pitted, but no less imposing. "We don't even really know who built it," the jackal explained. "It shouldn't be lost to history, but it is."

"It must be newer than the fall, though, right?"

And indeed, presumably, it was. "But who knows, really, when the World Before ended? It's... the tenth century for you, isn't it?"

"One year into it, yes." They had entered the queue of wagons waiting to be admitted through the thick, reinforced-wood gate. The gates never closed--there was always traffic into the city--but it retained the impression of an impregnable fortress.

"Our history is murky that far back. Someone built the Great Gate--today the line of the Lapis Emperors claim that their ancestors were responsible, but that doesn't seem very likely; they're just idly boasting."

According to the Tiurishkan calendar, it had been sixteen centuries since the founding of Shereflik, the first capital city, and the historical record hinted that Körlyda predated even that. On the other side of the Sheyib River, and the Great Gate that bridged it, Irskailik marked the edge of the Dominion's territory, and Körlyda was already ancient at the time the first merchants set up that trading post.

Some Körlydans were even bold enough to suggest the city predated the fall: this, of course, Havsa considered ridiculous. Whatever ended the World Before, it was cataclysmic and total.

"But your people are older than mine," Callen said. "Do you have theories? What do they teach you? They teach us it was the mages--they became reckless and power-hungry. They enchanted their weapons in an attempt to seize control of the world."

"And that's why you don't trust them, even today?"

"That's why we don't trust them," he agreed. The Iron Kingdom's antipathy for all but the most trivial thaumaturgy was legendary. "Not that we'd say it was their fault. Their..." He gave a quiet laugh. "Forgive me, but I'd call it their avarice. Their avarice doomed them. The lure of so much wealth became impossible to resist."

There was, at least, a certain simplicity to that worldview--a certain definitiveness. Scholars in the Dominion were more content to argue endlessly over the World Before, never coming to a real conclusion.

They prided themselves on transcending the rest of the continent's superstition. No academic thaumaturgist would be blinkered enough to reduce ragnarok to merely the reckless blending of magic and technology. All would agree that the two could be used symbiotically...

But, in general, they didn't do so. Examples were few and far between, like the water-extractor she'd helped Pathis buy from Spartakul. Shïrn Kadïnhät understood that. Wasn't that why he'd risen to the challenge of becoming Meshüsh Gürun's chief mage? The opportunity to deal with something more than theory?

She tried to put it from her mind. There was a sea of movement around her, a din of voices in her own tongue for the first time since leaving the city. Havsa wished to enjoy it. Some Tiurishkans claimed the Körlydan dialect was crass, or even unintelligible.

Nonsense--or jealousy, perhaps, given the city-state's unchallenged independence remained an affront to some of the more chauvinistic in the Dominion. She understood Körlydan just fine, and it comforted her.

"You," someone called out from a bazaar stall. "What madness drives your choice of clothes, woman? Do you need something new?"

"I've traveled far," she answered the lion, padding over to see what he had to offer. "Most recently, on a trading mission to the Iron Kingdom. I wished to pass among them."

"And did you? Is that your trading partner?" He was pointing over her shoulder at Callen.

"No, just someone I met. He'd never been to Körlyda, and as it never fails to impress me I thought he might be interested in a visit, as well. What do you have here?"

The lion grinned, and told her that he, too, had been trading with the Aernians. "They're not very smart," he added, chuckling, and set a wooden box upon the table. Its lid was decorated in ornate Tiurishkan script: da erkyr ä kahish shanvaz mazezev.

"'Give to me knowledge, that I may become wealthy'? What is it?" He gave her a small sculpture: dense, grey metal in the form of a tortoise. Puzzled, Havsa tilted her head. "What am I to do with this?"

"The leaden turtle? Put it in the box."

When she did so, a glowing flourish traced the outlines of the lettering. The lion opened the box again, grinning at her expression. "You've turned it into gold."

"Indeed!"

Certainly it no longer seemed like lead. The metal glowed invitingly in the light as she turned it in her fingers. "How? It seems so... impractical." His grin widened; his eyes took on a conspiratorial look. "I see. How long will the enchantment last?"

"Long enough that I'll be gone by the time they discover it. Körlyda is a good place to work my talents. The Aernian railroad station is even better... but they've decided I'm no longer welcome there, for some reason."

"I can't imagine why."

"Would you like one of these? You look like a smart woman. I can tell you where you got it from."

"Does the Hasköyal know of this?"

He was no longer welcome in the Hasköyal, either, it transpired; the merchant's guild didn't like outright fraudsters. They tended to make life difficult--swindled foreigners rarely wanted to deal with Dominion traders a second time.

But, clearly, the lion felt the sacrifice had been worth it. He thought it was quite the trick, and rolled his eyes dismissively when Havsa told him she wasn't interested in acquiring a box of her own.

The encounter was still on her mind after samsun and a glass of derinshe, when Callen told her it was time to head back to the Lightward Terminus. The soldier laughed at her story. "Doesn't surprise me. There's plenty of hucksters in the Iron Kingdom, too."

"What do you do about them?"

"When they're caught--if they're caught--they pay restitution to those they defrauded. We ignore fortune-tellers, but it used to be that if you claimed to be a healer, or you were selling fake medicine, that was enough to get you hung."

"But not anymore?"

Callen shrugged. "They don't do it anymore. I presume the gallows had something to do with it."

"I suppose it worked, then." She sighed, glancing at the receding walls of Körlyda. "I believe my faith in the value of trade as the solution to all problems has... gaps. It's hard to account for those who would deliberately exploit others. Worse..."

The dog caught her stillness, and the way her ears splayed. "Yes?"

"Worse, I can see that--once--I might've tried a scam like that. I'd have told myself that my victims deserved it for being so naïve. But that's just an excuse, just... just me trying to defend taking advantage of them because I can. Clearly we're not more enlightened than that. I should've seen it earlier. I should've known."

Callen reached over, gently taking her paw. "From everything you've said, Havsa, Meshüsh Gürun isn't like anything that came before. You shouldn't blame yourself for taking a while to realize what was going on. You won't be the only one, either. Right?"

"Who've had their eyes opened?"

"Yes."

Hearing him say it reassured her. She'd first expected he would be like Pathis, eager to seize new opportunities, and that his willingness to take on the walking city came from a desire to defeat a potential rival. Instead, she was growing to believe, Callen's concern was genuine: he worried on behalf of his own people, yes--but he feared for the city's residents as well.

And she could come to hope that he was right: everything would work out. She could go back to her normal life, begin rebuilding, repairing the damage Meshüsh Gürun had done. The longer she spent with him, the more the jackal was convinced she'd made the right choice in coming to the fortress.

And when does that illusion fade? When does the gold turn back into lead? When do you raise your voice in anger and find the one who injured you has long since escaped beyond hearing? She asked herself those questions, her fingers intertwined with Callen's while she turned them over in her troubled mind.

What if it stays golden?

XVIII. Alea Iacta Est

"You're still concerned," Havsa said. She ruffled the fur of Rossean's paw softly. "What concerns you? I can translate for Professor Denizli, if he doesn't speak Aernian."

This seemed fairly likely--though his Kamiri had improved enough with regular practice to bring with it a working comprehension of Tiurishkan, and language was no longer the barrier it had once been. "No, that's not the issue."

"What, then?"

He unfolded the letter, briefly debating how much of its contents to tell her. Rossean had grown to trust the jackal over the previous weeks--despite her idiosyncrasies and the alienness of her culture, Havsa was smart and her goals aligned with his own.

And if the rumors were true, they couldn't be kept secret indefinitely. At some point, and soon, they'd burst into the open. Then, he might regret not having told her the moment he'd been made aware.

"A message from our military liaison in Ellagdra came in this morning. A Confederate force sent to provide assistance to one of their trading outposts was turned back by the attackers. They think it was the Hakasi."

Havsa at once withdrew her paw from atop his. "How many?"

"It doesn't say. There isn't any confirmation, either. And maybe... maybe it means nothing. I was told that these kind of raids happen every so often and everyone expects it."

"But you're concerned," the jackal said, nodding. "That makes sense."

The letter lingered in Rossean's mind when they went to meet Bozkïr Denizli--the order of his name had been mixed up by the Railroad's correspondent, which didn't exactly reassure him about the quality of their intelligence.

Professor Denizli looked like he might've been a desert wolf, at one point, before a housebound life softened his frame and age turned his muzzle and wispy mane completely white.

"It is a pleasure to finally see the inside of the Iron Kingdom!" The professor's exclamation, in impeccable Aernian--indeed, a Tabisthalian accent--was Rossean's first impression. "I assume you consider this your territory."

"I suppose, yes."

Havsa gave a more demure greeting. "Professor Denizli. Welcome. Permit me, Havsa Itess-Kanyr Orgevash Basbashkale, to settle the honor of this meeting?"

"Is that how this is?" the professor asked, with a grin. "As a visitor, I expected to be the one paying."

"Considering your station..."

He chuckled. "Yes, considering it. Well, go on, young lady--if you're going to make the offer, I expect it to be fulfilled."

Havsa produced a coin, dipping her muzzle and closing her eyes with a quiet whisper, then handed it across to him. "I hope this is sufficient. I repeat my welcome."

"So you do!" The wolf chuckled again--but, all the same, he pocketed the coin.

"I hope you will also permit the conversation to be carried out in the Iron Folk's tongue. Colonel Rossean speaks Kamiri, but--"

"Rubessat?" Is that so? Denizli switched languages at once; his Kamiri was equally flawless. "How did that come to pass? One of those bloodthirsty savages that went chasing after the shah's property, I imagine? Oh, goodness!" He was watching the colonel's expression with open delight. "You do speak it! That's marvelous!"

"Even a bloodthirsty savage can manage some new tricks." The literal phrase, as it left his muzzle, he realized meant not 'savage' but 'bankrupt in coin and manners.' "Havsa does not speak it quite as well as I do."

"Aernian, then. I hear you have a walking city for me?"

Denizli didn't even want to wait to settle in to his quarters; they went straightaway to Rossean's office, where every wall had now been covered in maps and updates from the distant patrols. The most recent came within eight kilometers of the city's supposed location: two soldiers, by themselves, trying to avoid detection.

"Meshüsh Gürun, it says?"

"That's the name it was given," Havsa confirmed.

"Straight from Fallen Tiurishkan. Zalekkal Maheshesh Irkezruna: the Watcher of the Maheshesh. What we call now Maruss Lake, in Battalteve."

Havsa tilted her head. "Isn't that in the far northwest?"

"It is. Knowledge of how to build the walking cities was centered in the northwest. The richest source of primary information was the tablet archive in the library of Shereflik. I transcribed many of the tablets myself."

Havsa leaned closer to Rossean. "The library was destroyed in an earthquake," she explained to him. "About sixty years ago."

"In the middle part of my career, after I'd already established myself as a researcher of the cities." The wolf offered a good-natured grin. "Fortunately my memory holds better than the library's columns. Many of the tablets were destroyed, and most of the rest went missing--I spent four decades chasing them in black markets before the last finally vanished. Or so I thought."

Rossean asked him if there were other cities; if he knew how many might have remained. In the professor's recounting, the Third Dynasty built as many as sixty walking cities, during their peak. It was a 'peak,' he was startled to learn, that came twenty years after Tabisthalia's founding. Karlied was not the only city whose past stretched beyond Aernian history.

"You were not the first to rebuild," Denizli reminded him. "I know the Iron Kingdom thinks that the history of the New World begins with the First Concord, but there are six centuries of recorded Dominion history before that."

"I knew the Dominion was an old country," he said, trying to defend himself. He'd heard that from Havsa, too. "But not that its power had such extent back then. They told us that Esfer was a newer city."

"Yes. Our capital moved late in the Fifth Dynasty, and the first of the Lapis Emperors were the ones to truly cement Esifyr as the center of our wealth. Before that, Shereflik was the greatest city, and Esifyr was a fishing town--just like Tabisthalia. But centuries older."

"I mean that I'm genuinely impressed, professor. That your people were able to build something like that when we were struggling to remember how to smelt iron."

Professor Denizli noted, however, that the knowledge of the walking cities had been lost. In popular culture they were thought to have been mythological, even. Tiurishk had gone through its dark periods of infighting and strife, and much of the older knowledge had been lost.

Among this was construction of the 'Dobtan Loom,' at the city's heart, a device for processing magic so that it could be used by trained mages. In the years since, Denizli told them, Dominion artisans relearned the art of crafting such looms, but they were pale imitations.

"The older ones were strong enough to power... well, a walking city. I believe the techniques used to make it date from the World Before. In Kurishkele, on the Isra, there were two Dobtan Looms. One of them sat at the top of the falls. It caught every drop of the Isra, leaving a placid, motionless reservoir. The other fed from the western wind, adding life back to the reservoir and cleaning the city's refuse. By the middle of the Fifth Dynasty, both had failed. The falls are captured by waterwheels now. Looms of such perfection, today, are a lost art to nearly everyone."

"Nearly?"

His laugh, grandfatherly as it was, hid darker fears. "I am not so naïve as to hope that."

"What of Kurvadï?" Havsa wanted to know. "What happens when they take the loom to Kurvadï?"

"I hoped you were mistaken when you said that," the wolf sighed. "But I should not be so naïve there, either. Do you know what Kurvadï is?"

"A source of energy for them. That's all."

"Wailing stones? The Nakarians?"

Havsa's ears splayed, but Rossean was utterly lost. Denizli asked for a drink; when it was brought--Tiuriskhan derinshe, bartered from Karlied for Havsa's benefit--he downed half the mug before giving a soft, sad laugh.

"Elo Hazam Nakari," he began. And then he finished the rest of the derinshe. Even for the garrulous wolf, it was a topic of some difficulty.

In the professor's account, Nakari belonged to a religious sect that predated the Fall of the World Before and survived the timeless, tumultuous centuries of the rebirth before civilization slowly began to reassemble itself.

Like most of the survivors, their culture took as a lesson from the Fall that the spheres of technology and magic had become too closely intertwined. It was a superstition that endured in the Iron Kingdom, where thaumaturgy was suspect and many of its uses remained banned.

Nakari--a Tiurishkan translation of his name, Denizli said; nobody knew where he had truly come from--preached the opposite. In his view, the purity of the supernatural realm had been compromised by machinery. Even the walking cities, magnificent though they were, betrayed their potential by incorporating practical engineering.

The Nakarians emerged having mastered powerful enchantments, strong enough to turn lightning storms and split the earth. They warred with the Dominion princes, sabotaging their cotton gins and splintering the ships in their harbors.

Eventually it became too much. In what Rossean would have called the third century, around the time of the First Concord that unified the Aernian princes and during the long decline of the Tiurishkan Third Dynasty, Nakari's cult was cast out.

"They were expelled from Izkadi, and the crucible they used to forge their most fearsome artifacts was destroyed. These were the warped alembics, each with a name. Like a Dobtan Loom, the alembic extracts and converts the essence of the magical world. But the creator of the loom still had some of his decency about him. Whoever first devised a warped alembic did not."

Havsa, who'd been eyeing the bottle of derinshe, finally broke and poured herself a small helping. Denizli watched her. "The wailing stones?" she asked.

It satisfied his unasked question, about why she'd poured the liquor; the old professor nodded in acknowledgement, and approval. "The warped alembic can unwork and consume that most forbidden of energies. The name comes from those who said that the voices of trapped souls can be heard from within the artifact."

Rossean knew of such things from stories, particularly the ones told to frighten children into obedience. He was not yet to the point of wanting to sample the Tiurishkan alcohol himself. "Can they?"

"I don't know. I've never seen one. By legend, the heart of each alembic comes from some ancestral artifact created before the Fall; not even the Nakarians know how to create them. And in all, there were never many such stones: twenty, or a few more, kept by the most senior of Nazari's fellows. Zarovan is believed to live at the heart of Körlyda. Sebgeti may have found its way to the Iron Kingdom, where I doubt anyone understands the trinket they own. Golmar and Dishir disappeared before the exodus. The rest, the cult carried with them."

Havsa swallowed heavily, speaking with a faintness that said the derinshe was yet to take hold. "Is it possible that... that they have one?"

"I doubt that very much. I'm quite sure things would be much worse by now if they did. The Dominion chased Nakari and his followers from our territory. Across the Sheyib River, across the wasteland, into the Bakun--which were swamps, back then. The word hakas, in their language, means 'diaspora.' The Hakasi are the exiled."

There was truth, Denizli told them, to all the stories. Stories that the Dead City levitated, stories that the Hakasi sacrificed their captives to the alembics they still retained. And he told them stories that Rossean hadn't heard: how the Hakasi saw clothes as unnatural, and instead wore condensation drawn by magic into billowing cloaks. How their voices, never raised above a whisper, carried across any distance to their intended audience.

How in their quest for purity they had stripped the Bakun of any life, leaving it cracked and barren, the rivers that once fed it evaporating into miasma. "And this," Denizli finished, "brings us to Kurvadï."

"Which is?"

"The exodus ended in the Bakun, when the Dominion exceeded its supply lines and stopped chasing them. Nakari settled there for a time, and built a temple, called Kurvadï. His followers used the wailing stone Tavak to fill the stone idols with great energy; he thought it could be their new redoubt. But the prince of Körlyda raised an army, along with a few Ellagdran tribes, and defeated them. Somehow."

Rossean gathered there was more to the story. "It's unknown?"

"They didn't put up a fight. They fled onwards. Between their dispersal into the Bakun, and the ease of the victory, we grew complacent. Nobody knows what happened. Tavak vanished, during or before the battle, taken by Farish the Mad."

"They were betrayed, you mean?"

Denizli shook his head. "As I said, nobody knows. Wailing stones exert a powerful corruption on their owner. Kurvadï was buried--it might have the key to Tavak's fate, and I'm sure the Hakasi would like it back, but it's remained lost... until now."

Havsa took a sip of derinshe and licked her muzzle apprehensively. "Meshüsh Gürun could absorb Kurvadï's power, couldn't it?"

"Yes. If they speak of doing so, they betray their hubris. Like the Hakasi, they have no respect for their own limits... or they are convinced they can remain in control of this power."

Later, Rossean told himself--later, and perhaps with some whiskey of his own--he would separate truth from Denizli's more fanciful stories. For now, he tried to bring them back to the crux of the issue. "How can we stop them? Does the city have a weakness?"

"Of course. I just said it, young man. They have no respect for their own limits. To use the Dobtan Loom on something like the ruins of Kurvadï would take a tremendously skilled operator, and many keshtermïzumuç."

"They have both of those," Havsa said.

"By definition someone willing to undertake this madness is not tremendously skilled," Denizli replied. But, with this point made, he kept going. "If the keshtermïzumuç were compromised, the unleashed power of Kurvadï would destroy the Dobtan Loom, and much of the city."

"What would it take to 'compromise' the... keshter... keshtermïzuç?"

Denizli suggested waiting until the city's mages had begun to turn the loom on Kurvadï, and then 'distracting' them. He looked pointedly at Rossean when he said that; the dog understood what was being implied.

Rossean hoped Rescat Carregan knew enough to put his telegram in context. Surely the Ravens would have been feeding her information, too--telling her about the defeat of the Karlied expedition, and the city's predations on the other caravans. He kept it brief:

Analysis concludes City will exploit thaum reservoir KURVADII. Attacking City in force may overwhelm and prevent this. Ellagdrans inform Hakasi on move. Have 1300 men and 37 guns. Request instructions.

Denizli had gone to rest. He wanted to do the same, but sleep evaded him. It was midnight or so--Jana was high in the sky, her sister moon just creeping above the horizon--when Havsa found him, sitting on the edge of the cot in his room.

"Do you mind?" the jackal asked. He shook his head, and she sat quietly next to him. "What will they say?"

"They'll tell me to hold position. They can bring more soldiers down on the next train. General Carregan isn't the type to act rashly, at least. I hope we have time..."

Havsa put her paw on his knee, squeezing softly. "Are you worried about fighting them?"

"They turned back Karlied's army without batting an eye. Yes, I'm worried. It would take a month to assemble a proper force here, and we don't have a month."

"Haven't you faced worse odds before?"

"Yes. But only at terrible cost."

The jackal patted him reassuringly. "We'll manage. We'll be able to stop them."

"I wanted to retire." The admission, reflexive as it was, didn't feel like a non-sequitur. "I was sent here to fix discipline at the fort--that was all. Nothing about fighting. Certainly nothing about fighting... that."

"I think you told me that you wanted to retire. To help your brother with his business?"

"To help him, yes. Maybe to settle down... think about a starting a family. This is the only thing I've ever really known." He trailed off and then, once more, started speaking before he could stop himself.

His father was a soldier, but also a pragmatist. When Callen's older brother set out to start his foundry, their father gave approval and what advice he could manage. A recruiting poster for the Iron Corps had caught Callen's eye, instead: a train receding for parts unknown in the background, and a smart-looking young man standing attention before it.

It quoted one of the doggerel verses from the Ballad of the Lodestone Meteor, the ones everyone thought the Railroad themselves added as propaganda. When she pulls into the station, then we'll loudly raise a cheer, to our sons who wear the uniform and the railman's bandolier. But it sparked Callen's sense of adventure, and service. When he told his father he was joining up, the Border Collie had nodded:

Makes sense.

And it had. The training and the drills had given him a sense of purpose. He was good at it. His field commission, in a hard-fought campaign against the Sujetai, was under extenuating circumstances, but everyone told him it would stick. Everyone told him he'd found where he was meant to be.

After that, his studies in Stanlira were almost agonizing. He picked the courses he thought might be most useful. For literature, he read the epics of Jarnkyld's founding and eventual loss rather the lineage of ancient Iron princes. For history, he studied the borderlands. For science, the architecture of the frontier palisades. He'd even found a Kamiri tutor, rather than learning Ellagdran or Old Aernian like so many others.

The whole time, writing his essays and attending those tedious lectures, he'd thought about the Corps. He felt the quill pen in his fingers and thought about much more appropriate it felt when they were curled about a trigger. Life made so much more sense with clear orders and the knowledge that he could achieve them...

"And now," Havsa suggested, "you don't know what else you'd do?"

"No. But it doesn't seem to be this anymore."

The jackal nodded. And then she hugged him tightly. "You'll be a good businessman, Callen," he told him. "Responsible. Not like your kin. I hope I didn't give you the wrong idea. You have a good heart."

"Thank you." Without knowing what else to do, he hugged her back. "I guess when this is over, we'll figure something out."

She leaned back, canting her head. "We?"

That wasn't what he'd meant, of course. He'd meant that, as individuals, they'd be able to chart their separate courses when the threat of Meshüsh Gürun wasn't looming over them.

Her tone, though, was difficult to read. The result was that he paused to consider it, and in that space of time one of the Iron Corps interrupted him. The corporal's anxious look immediately gave Callen something else to focus on.

"Message for you, sir. It's from headquarters."

He took the telegram, which was headlined "received 1145PM 6 ardasev lcpl tegren message priority HIGHEST"--only the last word was emphasized; Tegren hadn't even bothered to capitalize his own name--and opened his codebook. Focusing on translating the letters kept him from allowing himself to read the message until it was completely decrypted--ignoring the glimpses of words like 'immediately' and 'destroy.'

Col. Rossean-- Assembling relief force now. Expect elements of 3rd regiment tomorrow AM, 6th and 16th regiments by noon 8 Ar. You are to move immediately against the city to prevent its capture of Kurvadii by any means necessary. Destroy city completely if possible. If attacked by Hakasi hold your ground. 6th/16th informed their first responsibility is to fort and Terminus. By time you are engaged, they should be in place to secure that position. Col. Avarth will send runner forward to link up with you and receive update on state of your mission. I have faith in your ability to carry out this order as outlined. Good luck. Gen. Carregan, Commander of the Iron Corps

He set the telegram down and closed the codebook. A second later, he felt Havsa's paw on his shoulder. Rossean turned, looking at her. Her ears were back. "It was orders for you, then?" She hadn't been able to guess the message's contents, but she'd seen its effect on the dog.

"We're to attack. At once. I am, I mean. Not 'we,' sorry." There, at least, the plural was grievously incorrect.

Her grip tightened. "How soon is 'at once'?"

"It says 'immediately.' The general wants to make sure that we prevent the city from making use of Kurvadï. They must be close--maybe they're already there, even. I don't have a lot of time."

"Tomorrow?" she guessed. He shrugged; with luck they could be on the move by then. The day after seemed more likely. "I need to go back."

"You can't. The orders are pretty... explicit. If we can't stop them, destroying the city completely is the only other option."

Havsa nodded. "Of course; it would be. That's why I have to go back. There are still hundreds of people there who don't know what's coming, Callen, maybe even thousands. They don't know the first thing about Kurvadï or what the new rulers are trying to do."

"I know. And it's unfortunate, but... we don't have a choice." He got back to his feet, sighing heavily, already turning over in his head the work that would need to be done before they could march out.

The jackal stood in his way. Her eyes locked on his. "I wasn't asking your permission. If there's a chance to save them..."

"What would you do?"

"Talk to Shïrn, the thaumaturgist. I'd let him know that I spoke to Professor Denizli, and warn him how risky it would be to use the Dobtan Loom on Kurvadï. If that doesn't work, I'll tell him the Hakasi are probably coming." She frowned, shoulders slumping. "If that doesn't work, I'll at least try to convince the merchants."

"What if you're captured? What if they torture you, and learn that we're planning to destroy the city?"

"I don't think they will. But even if they do, Callen, what do you think they'd learn from me? What do you think I know? The Iron Corps is marching on them from the Lightward Terminus? At some point? They're already aware that they might be attacked; you'd hardly be the first."

Strategically, she was probably right, Rossean admitted. The jackal had shown no interest in the fort except that it seemed a place of relative safety. Guards followed her at all times. She would not likely prove to be a liability, in that regard.

This left the other objection, and she read that in his face the same way she read the import of the telegram. Havsa wrapped her arms around him, hugging gently. "I'll be safe, Callen. It won't take me more than a few hours, and if it doesn't work..."

"If it doesn't work?"

Her ears lowered. She tightened the embrace, squeezing him hard. "There's too much at stake. I still have to try."

XIX. Scraps of Better Men

She hadn't wanted to leave Callen, but saw no choice in the matter. He had been ordered to attack Meshüsh Gürun, and had every intent of carrying out the order. Havsa understood. Part of her wished to stay with Callen, who was already organizing his soldiers for battle.

There were still people in the city, though. They deserved to know what was going on. They deserved a chance at escape, an opportunity to flee before it was too late. To be somewhere else, when at last the city prepared for war.

The jackal's fears that these preparations were already underway proved to be warranted almost immediately, when she met some of the city's former residents coming the other way. A few of them she recognized: one in particular stood out, a merchant she'd befriended when they both became wealthy on a load of Dominion silk. Bolts of it crowded his wagon.

"Headed back, gerz?" He shook his head. "Why?"

"I have to. They're going to be attacked."

"By someone who can stop the shadow-prince?"

"Yes."

He shuddered. "Good."

"Why are you leaving?"

"Saw it coming. You don't know the half of it, Gerz Itess-Kanyr. How bad it's gotten--when they killed the prisoners, the guildmaster of the bazaar spoke up, and--"

"The prisoners?"

He explained that the prince of Körlyda demanded the release of his captured soldiers, and for an envoy of Meshüsh Gürun to be sent to discuss terms for the walking city's repayment of the debt the battle incurred. This was simple enough, a common transaction between Dominion rulers.

Meshüsh Gürun's leadership had the captives killed, instead. The merchant said they'd been set against one another, forced to strike their former comrades down. The last survivor, his fur still sticky with blood, had been draped in a diplomat's robes and sent back to Körlyda as the requested 'envoy.'

"The guildmaster said we'd be sabotaging our relationship with Körlyda for generations and called on the shadow-prince to show his face. One of the guards gutted him in the middle of the bazaar, and threatened anyone who went to his aid."

"The Hasköyal will never stand for that..."

"The Hasköyal don't matter anymore," the silk-merchant shot back. "Nothing matters. We left the next day. A few hundred have already escaped, but they're beginning to crack down. It's not safe for you, gerz. The city isn't safe for anyone, not if the shadow-prince takes the wrong fancy to them."

As she approached the city, she heard more stories. Some were more graphic than others, but all painted the same picture. Most disconcerting was the woman who told her that immigrants still came to the city. Drawn by the promise of wealth, or opportunity, or power...

Meshüsh Gürun looked as it had on her first sighting: stately, proud, and quiet. The gates were open; an assistant came to welcome her, and to take her horse. Guards were waiting on the other side. "Gerz--you return. I admit that we weren't expecting you."

"I had business to attend to."

"I imagine you'll have even more, now. We've been making great progress. Welcome back."

Her apartment, so far as she could tell, was untouched. Havsa went over her mental checklist: collect her Hasköyal registration papers, destroy the rest of her financial documents... find Shïrn and warn him about what was going to happen...

She was burning the last of the ledgers when the door opened. Havsa turned to find a familiar figure--in her surprise, she nearly dropped the candle. "Pathis? Is it really you?"

He smiled. "I didn't know what to expect when they said you'd come back. Just gathering your belongings, or did you intend to stay?"

"I don't intend to stay."

The wolf nodded. "I figured. I guessed where your true loyalties were when you fled. But you're wrong."

"About?"

He turned towards the open door. "Saraya ä batish. Sadagyr bash hanelvaz aliz bash hanelätï arel." Lock the door. Nobody enters or leaves this room.

"What's the meaning of this?"

By habit, she spoke in Aernian; Pathis replied in her own language, though, and his voice was smooth and fluent. "Of what part? You can't leave, Tess. We have so much to do. I think you'll understand that, eventually."

"The city is going to come under attack. They know what the new leader is planning. They know about Kurvadï."

"And what will they do to stop me?"

"To stop--" Havsa caught herself abruptly. "To stop you?"

Pathis grinned. For a moment he was his old self, mirthful; always a new scheme waiting. "Who else? Yeshin never understood what this city could really be. It took someone with ambition... the kind of ambition you have, too. That's why I chose you."

"You're not talking of ambition anymore, Pathis; you're talking of insanity. Kurvadï should've been left untouched--it has to end here, old friend. Don't you see that?"

"End? No. Tess, my dearest--Gerz Itess-Kanyr--this is only where it begins. When we've harnessed Kurvadï, I can turn the city on Körlyda. Their army already knows what to expect from fighting us. They'll surrender--more than that, they'll join us."

"And the whole of the Dominion will rise against you!"

"Will they? I'm not sure. Would they threaten the Great Gate? No. And when we have the heart of Körlyda in our possession, nothing stands between us and Esifyr. The Dominion's armies are mercenaries, Tess--and I have the better deal."

"You'll try to take the emperor's seat..." she realized aloud.

"Oh, Tess, I'll do a lot more than try. I'll have it."

Her ears were flat; no sooner had one shock settled than another replaced it. "The Dominion won't accept a foreign ruler."

"Meshüsh Gürun did. The Dominion will have no choice, Tess. There are other walking cities to be found and resurrected, too. I can't even guess at what rich secrets they're hiding. We can own the continent. You see that, don't you?"

She saw worse than that, which was the sincerity of his own belief. Pathis had complete conviction in his own words. Utter certainty that he was meant for the palace in Esifyr. And beyond: Tabisthalia, and the other western powers. Perhaps even the Dead City itself...

But his perception lagged. He read the wrong emotion in her face--bewilderment, instead of horror. "A sort of destiny, Tess. Perhaps someone of the Dominion was never bold enough to take this city to its full potential. But if they weren't able to lead, by the gods, they're able to follow. Will you?"

Havsa gathered her wits. If he did not already know her decision, she could take advantage of the opportunity. "I'll need to think about it. At the day's end, Pathis, I'm but a simple trader."

"No." He took each of her paws, squeezing tightly. "You see the world like I do, Tess. You see that it can be ours. Anything we want. Anything can be bent to our desire."

"Time," she begged again.

"Fine. We don't have much of it, though--there are forces gathering for an attack. I'll be back in an hour."

He left the door open, and two guards posted outside. The guards didn't stop her from closing the door; she understood, however, that she would not be permitted to leave. Another guard was waiting below the window.

An hour. For the first few minutes of that she sat, stunned, and tried to compose herself. She could've anticipated many things--even that Pathis might have returned to the city--but this...

The worst of it was, beyond everything else, Havsa's uncertainty that anything had actually changed in her old friend. Had he fallen? Perhaps he'd always been like that, always thought that way.

Always thought that he was owed more than he had, and taken any opportunity to reconcile the imbalance. Now, with Meshüsh Gürun behind him, he had the means to become... wealthy? That was not enough. Godlike.

He returned with Shïrn Kadïnhät, who looked more pleased to see her than Pathis did. The wolf's question was a single word only. "Well?"

"I have to decline. And Pathis, I have to hope that you, too, will understand what's happening. You can still turn back before it goes any further."

"Turn back?" The wolf snorted, his muzzle twisting in a brutal smirk. "To what? To live my life bartering again, living off the scraps of better men? Gerz Kädinhät, Havsa thinks we're overreaching."

"Far from it," Shïrn said. "We've already made contact with the first artifacts of Kurvadï. It's even easier than I thought it would be, Havsa. We can do this... he can do what he says he can. Don't worry."

"You--we--are provoking forces greater than you can handle. You're poking through the bars of some beast's cage with sticks, and you don't realize the cage is already unlocked. Shïrn, you're brilliant, I know it, but last year you were an apprentice scholar of thaumaturgy. Now you think you can command something Nakari himself enchanted?"

"I have so far."

"And you're closer to your limits than you admit. Closer than you admitted to Pathis, I'm sure. The loom was never meant for something like Kurvadï. What if it fails?"

Pathis spoke up. "You're insulting him? I'm shocked that you'd treat your friend this way--you're expressing such doubt of his abilities, when he's done so well for us..."

"I doubt his abilities less than I doubt his awareness of the stakes. What if it fails?" she asked again.

Shïrn looked unconcerned. "What if it does?"

Havsa did what she could to recall Denizli's warning. "What if one of the keshtermizumuç was damaged? A simple question--what would happen?"

"I don't really know."

"A cascade--an avalanche, overwhelming each of the stones in turn and then the loom itself. Right? And when it does..."

"It would be unpredictable. I suppose Kurvadï might also amplify the effect of whatever spell had been cast, and was dissipating... but the keshtermizumuç won't fail--I checked them myself."

"And I trust you, no matter what Pathis says. But the damage could be almost imperceptible. Sabotage, even. My aim could have been sabotage--but instead I came back to warn you about what you're doing. The Dead City is listening to you, Shïrn. The Hakasi are on the move."

To his credit, at last, Shïrn betrayed some reaction. "Really? The Hakasi are coming this way?"

"Yes. They've swept aside the Ellagdrans. Kurvadï was lost for centuries. They want it back. They'll take it from you."

"You don't know that..."

"I do," she told him. "And you know that I do, or you wouldn't sound so uncertain. Did you tell Pathis that? Did you tell him where Kurvadï came from? You would've--you're a responsible man. You would've urged some caution."

Shïrn twitched nervously; his paw went for a pipe he wasn't carrying. "He said they wouldn't find us because they were so far away. If they're closer... if they're listening..."

"So what if they are?" Pathis snapped. "Angbasa is a legend. Its strength is a myth, made more powerful because nobody's been here to challenge them. Things are different now."

"That's... very bold," the lion answered carefully. "If the Hakasi do attack--"

"Let them! You can manage it. You're stronger. So are you, Tess. You can't run from it; stop trying. Stop trying to deny that hungry young woman, on the rooftops in Bashiek... looking at the gilt spires of the Hasköyal and telling me you agreed that they'd be yours one day. This is that day, Tess."

"Some things cost far more than I can ever repay." She stared at him, trying to look deeper into the wolf's eyes, into whatever bit of her old friend remained there. "You're a good person, Pathis. The man on those rooftops would never have thought that he'd have the blood on his paws that you do. He certainly would never have thought to add more."

The wolf's answer was a derisive snort. "I never thought you'd be so spineless. There are others, you know? More willing partners. You can be replaced."

"You'll have to do so."

"Every bazaar in the Dominion has a silver-tongued jackal bitch or two. I'll manage."

Two sharp raps on the door; a guard leaned his head in. "Sire, the watchmen have spotted soldiers approaching. The city is about to be under attack."

"The Hakasi?"

Pathis gave Shïrn a withering stare. "The ones she mentioned immediately after threatening sabotage? Forget this traitor's lies, Shïrn. It's not the Hakasi. Get back to the loom. We need to be ready to defend ourselves."

Shïrn followed Pathis as he left; at the last moment the lion turned, locking eyes with Havsa. Good fortune, she mouthed--but he was gone before she could tell whether he'd even seen the futile wish.

XX. The Field of Battle

Even completely stationary, Rossean could tell there was something strange about Meshush Gurun. Like any ordinary Tiurishkan fortress, its stone walls were steep and sloping--four meters thick at the base, probably, and two meters at the top.

Unlike any ordinary fortress, two bands of polished metal circled the city. Between them, the stone took an unnatural gleam. The metal wasn't part of Professor Denizli's drawings of a walking city, and must've been a later addition. What was their nature? He had no idea.

The colonel could only hope that it would still be vulnerable to explosives. And for that--damn the bloody Iron Corps. Sodding Lightning doctrine. Send it to the fifth hell. He stared for a good, long time at his map, but it was hard to change that opinion. Damn it all.

The Iron Corps had been created to guard the trains of Carregan Transcontinental, and to protect the depots and watering stations. On occasion, their mission expanded to include punitive expeditions against the raiding parties who preyed on those trains, depots, and watering stations...

It did not include sieges.

General Carregan herself contributed to the latest edition of the handbook; the tactics remained the same. Mobility and maneuver, using nothing that couldn't be transported by men alone if necessary. Strike with "rapid and overwhelming" force at the enemy's weakest point.

What was that supposed to mean when the enemy was a proper fortress, with well-equipped defenders and perfect command of the surrounding terrain? He had no cannons--outside gunboats, and a few armored trains, the Iron Corps owned no cannons.

Thirty-seven Darveleigh guns, and their seven thousand rounds of fire a minute, would accomplish exactly nothing against the city's walls. Fuck all would be more apt, but Rossean kept himself from being quite so explicit. Carregan was right, after all: they had to attack before the walking city became too powerful, difficult or not. "What about the rockets, Major K'nRaelah?"

"No." Rossean had appointed K'nRaelah as overall commander of the artillery because he expected the Border Collie's eastern sensibilities to keep her bluntly honest. She didn't disappoint. "From that distance, we'll hit the city about half the time. When we do, expect light damage to the stone and a bad time for anyone in the immediate area, if they're not smart enough to get out of the way of a 28-pound Wismere."

"You'll hit the city only half the time?" Sergeant-Major Sennis sounded incredulous. "We've been equipped with the Mark Fours, though. They're supposed to have a range of three thousand meters, aren't they?"

K'nRaelah nodded. "Supposed to do a lot of things. Til Wismere was a nearsighted son of a bitch, though, and he was the one judging. Same's always, sergeant: they're as accurate as the end of the launch rail, on a good day."

And so they would rely on the Darveleigh guns to suppress the city's defenders, while Major Calpathish's sappers approached close enough to set up powder charges. Hopefully Calpathish would take down the walls, and soldiers more experienced in close combat could exploit the breach.

If not, at least the damage would tax the city's defenders. Rossean didn't know how much they could absorb before the city's thamaturgic 'loom' would be overwhelmed. Professor Denizli wasn't even willing to guess.

But it would come to that. They would need to learn. There'd been no sign of Havsa, and Rossean was forced to admit that she had plainly been unsuccessful. that meant that it would come to fighting, against an unknown foe.

Sergeant-Major Sennis picked up on the other aspect of her absence. "You look... unsettled, sir."

"Havsa, the jackal woman, went back to the city so she could warn the civilians to leave. She hasn't returned, so I suppose she must've been captured. If she's not dead now..."

The color sergeant searched his face. "You were fond of her."

"Yes, I admit. But I also regret that her sacrifice didn't amount to more. Most of the men and women in Meshüsh Gürun are unarmed. They're trapped."

"They're willing confederates of a city you said yourself could end our civilization, if they're not checked," Sennis countered. "They could've left weeks ago."

It was true, of course; it did not sit any better with Rossean. He nodded when the badger said that perhaps the city would surrender; perhaps Havsa would yet escape. If so, he knew already, she would be among precious few.

Rossean managed a few hours of sleep--forced it, by any real definition. He could not allow himself to command the assault after two nights without any rest, and they needed to be ready to attack at dawn. Better to be shooting into the sun than to have it at their backs. He didn't know if the city's infantry used the same shields as Tiurishkan kushri, polished to a mirror finish and used to blind their opponents, but he couldn't take the risk.

He rose well before first light; around him shadows drifted and clung together, murmuring quietly. Talking. Planning. Getting their affairs in order. Rossean had tasked six companies with supporting Major Calpathish; it was hard to imagine more than three quarters of them returning safely.

The eastern sky was starting to glow when he gathered them together, trying to decide what exactly could even be said. Rossean was painfully, deeply aware of how poorly he could honestly prepare them.

"It will be dawn soon. To our east, atop the next hill, is a city. By noon, it will be in ruins. What happens in the hours between is fated to be our affair. Soon you'll be looking upon Meshüsh Gürun, a walking city. A predator whose reach is nothing but terrifying. They are well-armed, they are prepared, and they must be stopped.

"We're far from our home, a thousand kilometers beyond the borders of the Iron Kingdom. You might wonder why we've been chosen to fight. None of you have asked me, but I'm sure the question is in your minds. It would be in mine. You deserve an answer. Let me try.

"This city is a threat to all of us. Their aim is to capture secrets, and powers, locked away for centuries. They share this goal with the Dead City, the Hakasi they seek to emulate, and who even now stir in kinship with--or hunger for--these newcomers. Every person in the Known World is in danger.

"They have defeated a force of the state of Karlied, and of the mountain-folk--a taste of their martial ambitions--but their prey has mostly been softer. Taking what they wish, slaughtering those innocents who protest their pillaging, growing with each day more bold, more vicious, and more immediate a challenge to the very order of civilization.

"So we are called upon to do battle not because we are Aernian, not for the Railroad, not on behalf of any foreign power, but because we share common cause with all victims, past and future, of our foe. Were we to fail, there would be nothing between this city and every consequence of its lust for power.

"This is why I know we will not fail. They will fight, yes, knowing the consequence of their defeat as you now know the consequence of their victory. I cannot say--I wish I could--the exact nature of the struggle to come, or the shape of the arms they will bear against you. Nor can I say that all of you will see the next dawn. But know that you are honored to be that resolute host that in sacrifice today stands as the guard of every sunrise to come.

"You will meet this challenge. There are no better souls in any army, in any time, than gather before me now. Trust in your courage, in your conviction, in the strength of those beside you. And know, as I do, the certainty with which you shall prevail. Good luck."

They would need it. Much as he despised that cold reality, they would need it. Major K'nRaelah had deployed her section close to the edge of their effective range--there was no point in bringing them nearer to the city, particularly not without knowing what was in store for them.

That made her position safest. Major Layleigh's assault soldiers, for example, would of necessity be highly exposed. Major Calpathish's sappers needed to reach the city walls directly; they'd be under fire the entire time, aided only by whatever suppression the line infantry and K'nRaelah's guns could manage.

Colonel Rossean allowed himself one last moment of hope that it could be avoided--that they'd spot a rider approaching, and Havsa would tell them that the city had agreed to stand down. The thought lingered for a few seconds only, and then he gave the order for the guns to open fire.

At once there was a flurry of activity amongst the Darveleigh gunners. Sparks and smoke gushed from the barrels of the repeaters, and a few seconds later the sound of the report reached his position. It was a low, coughing, constant roar.

The barrage was also the sign for the others to begin their advance. The first few hundred meters would be, for all intents and purposes, unchallenged--they were still hidden from the archers on the walls. In turn it meant they could not see what Rossean saw.

Every impact was plainly visible. K'nRaelah had her attention on the top of the wall, and where the rounds hit a brilliant gout of color splashed and sprayed. What they were hitting, Rossean had no idea. It didn't seem to be the fortification, or the archers. It seemed, indeed, to be nothing so much as empty air.

He expected the confused report of the messenger who arrived from K'nRaelah's section.

"Major K'nRaelah," the runner panted. "Is unable to confirm the battery is having any effect on the city or its defenders."

Colonel Rossean was quite sure the report had been more colorful on the Border Collie's side of the message. "How much ammunition does she have left?"

"At present rate of consumption, sir, another two hours."

It all seemed as though it was being wasted. Nothing had changed in his spyglass; every round still burst in a flash of colorful sparks just short of the wall. The top of the city's fortifications was a dazzling, flickering line of fireworks... but behind them, the wall remained impervious.

What am I supposed to tell her? To keep it up, just in case the city's mage becomes overtaxed? Is the city's mage becoming overtaxed? Rossean swore, and checked his watch. Twenty minutes more, and the assault companies would be leaving cover and exposed.

"Keep firing for another half-hour, then have her check back in with me," the dog decided. In any case, half an hour and he'd have to commit to the attack one way or the other. There was no point in sacrificing his soldiers without a chance of breaking through.

In the end he saw no choice but to order Calpathish forward. They came over the last rise, in view of the city's defenders, and at last they answered. Through his spyglass Rossean saw the first salvo of arrows, which missed their targets. The second was no more successful.

"Bloody hell," Sergeant-Major Sennis muttered. She was watching the high towers of the city.

Rossean turned his attention in time to see the next arrow loosed from the towers. It seemed to blur--to be not one arrow but a thousand, each seeking their own path. It ended just beneath the helmet of one of the sappers. Six more fell in quick succession. "What are they doing?"

"Magic. It's magic." Her voice was clipped; her gaze was fixed on the battle. "Guiding the arrow to our weak points."

"Have K'nRaelah adjust her fire to concentrate on the towers. Maybe we can at least... at least we can blind them, can't we?"

At least. Conveying the new orders was simple enough--the Border Collie could see what was going on as well, of course. And it did, for a few minutes, seem to give the closer infantry a sense of reprieve. Now, though, they were exposed to the longbowmen on the wall, and what those archers lacked in skill they made up in number.

Sennis warned him that, in her estimation, they would lose half the infantry before they could even reach the city. Rossean was given to concur. Half of Calpathish's company might be enough to take down the walls, but it was an awful cost. Call them back? Have them take cover, at least...

Some of that was still to be found. The fighting ebbed; his riflemen lacked for targets but, at least, Meshüsh Gürun was equally deprived. Someone reported that the archers were changing their position, shifting from one wall to the other. Preparing for something...

"Planning to dislodge us," Rossean realized. Sennis saw it too, nodded. He sent word for Layleigh to move forward, and to be ready to support the northern flank of the attack.

Just in time, for the attack came sooner than he expected. Twenty minutes later, the first sign of Meshüsh Gürun's horsemen appeared. The light cavalry swung around the city, already at the gallop and hidden from K'nRaelah's sight. The gunners were packing up their repeaters, rushing them forward where they could be of use, but in that time the newest threat already closing on his pinned soldiers.

Iron Corps doctrine privileged the small unit. Their companies were commanded by majors, with extensive combat experience and formal education at the Corps' military academies. It was held that only those local commanders, close as they were to the fighting, could make effective decisions about the shape of the battle.

So Layleigh didn't need to be told before swinging into action. Her soldiers spread out, dispersing to keep the spear-armed horsemen from having one solid body to meet. And then, staring down twice their number, they held their ground.

The other soldiers were armed with needle-guns, precise at long range but unwieldy in close quarters. A Lightning Company represented the elite of the Iron Corps, though, trained to bring the fight to the enemy. From Rossean's distant vantage point the sound of bursting grenades was muted and dull.

He knew all too well what it was like to be among them, though. The impact it had on startled horses, and the devastating effect of the short-barreled fowling-pieces discharged at close range into a rider. The cohesion of the cavalry charge was already breaking apart.

By now Calpathish was back in position, her repeaters pouring fire into the swirling chaos. The assault withered, then collapsed completely. What remained swung away from the defending Iron Corps, headed for the safety of the walls. Many, victims of Calpathish's heavy weapons, wouldn't make it.

The position was secure again, but even from a cursory glance Rossean counted far too many grey-clad bodies lying still on the ground. A third of Layleigh's company? More, perhaps. He looked back at the towering bulk of the city.

And he shook his head.

XXI. Reckoning

The sound of fighting outside had stopped. The streets outside had gone quiet, too; she heard neither jubilation nor panic. Havsa cracked her window open, leaning her head out, but the walls were just barely hidden.

Surely if the city's defenders had been beaten, though, there would be more activity? Her ear flicked--the door to her apartment. "Gerz?" It was the guard stationed outside.

"Trying to find out what was going on," she explained, pulling the window shut and stepping away from it.

"Our guards repulsed the enemy... I haven't heard if they're going to try again."

"I wouldn't know." She thought Callen would not give up easily, though. It depended on what "repulsed" meant. How many of them were left? What of Meshüsh Gürun's losses?

"I wouldn't either. The shadow-prince has begun to assemble the rest of the guard, though. He probably intends to strike back."

"I see."

The guard cleared his throat, licking his muzzle nervously. The caracal had an eastern accent, and calloused paw-pads. It was easy to imagine him on a wheat farm, far from the intrigue in which fate had snared him. "They'll be taking whoever they can to bear arms..."

"It's serious, then."

"Yes. But also, if... if someone--anyone--were to try escaping, now might be the time. While the guard is distracted..."

Havsa tilted her head, examining the caracal's young face. "How dangerous would such... distraction... be for you?"

"I don't know... some of us... some of us, we have the feeling that it's coming to an end soon. Like that perhaps we got into more trouble than we planned for. I didn't want this, ma'am... they were recruiting in my town, and..."

"None of us knew what was going on at first. We should've known sooner, but... that's a sin we all share, soldier."

"That's why I'm trying to undo it. You should go."

"What will happen to you? Can you leave, yourself?"

"I'll try, at least..." He sounded nervous about that, too.

Havsa gave him a fifty-pazariç promissory-coin--enough for passage back to the Dominion and a few months' rent if he made it that far. He took it with a bow, and went back to standing outside the door.

He said nothing to her when the jackal slipped past. The guard outside her apartment nodded respectfully. "You might want to check the eastern gate."

To the west, she caught a glimpse of the town militia marshaling. As she approached the eastern entrance to the city, the guard's advice became clearer. There were others, at least a few hundred, and a growing chorus from them.

The gate itself was still barred; the guards atop it were shouting in argument to the crowd. "Keep back! The city is still vulnerable!"

Havsa fought her way to the front of the gathered mass. "Do you know who I am? Gerz Itess-Kanyr, chief negotiator of this city."

"Yes," the guard answered. "Respectfully, the gate is closed."

"And you're going to open it."

"I'm on orders from--"

"Damn it, open the damn gate. They are coming for us." Between the tone of her raised voice, and its volume, the crowd around her quieted. "We don't have much time. The Hakasi are on their way, and we cannot hope to defeat them."

"The prince says the only foe is to the west... and that we've already won..."

"And what then? The prince means to march on Esifyr. He intends to kill the emperor, and take the throne for himself. Is that what you want to be a party to? Did he not tell you that?" She looked around, gauging the sentiment of the others. "Have you heard that he's from the Iron Kingdom? He's not. He's from nowhere except avarice and a desire for power. Is that what he's purchased you with, too? What's your name?"

"Galana Äbashba. Captain Äbashba."

"Ruvanü!" Someone shouted next to the jackal. "Galana Ruvanü Ordonis. Before the shadow-prince let you leave your clan."

Bachbat--"defiant"--was a warrior's name, doubtless the source of the appellation 'Äbashba.' Havsa imagined the Ruvanü might have been farmers, instead. "What were you before? Yanusherkighim? There is no shame in that. My mother's line has tended vineyards since the fourth dynasty."

"Kuraghim," said whoever had revealed the soldier's birth name. "Her father is a fisherman in Yeshil."

"Then you know as well as anyone--better than me--the nature of water. The river is hallowed, captain. Your father's work is hallowed. What would he say of yours? What would he say if you left the riverbank to murder the emperor? What would he say he knew you'd left the riverbank to trap hundreds of people like fish in your weirs for the Hakasi to take them?"

The captain glanced to her counterpart, standing next to the lever for the gate. He shook his head; there was nothing to be offered. "I have no intention of allowing the Hakasi to take anyone," she finally said.

"If that's not your intention, then what will your action be, captain?" Havsa pressed on, because the guard was faltering in a way Pathis never could. "You can still act. You don't have to go back to the water, if you don't want--but you don't have to be party to this, either."

She looked from Havsa to the gathered crowd--another few dozen had already joined. They were restless. If I didn't persuade her, Havsa thought_, then she knows the others will act sooner or later, too. One of them must have a bow, a spear, a throwing-knife... a torch..._

The gate swung open, and Havsa was carried through on the rush of the crowd at her back.

XXII. Prey

Sergeant-Major Sennis looked grim, but the badger kept herself from complete despondency. "We're battered, sir, for sure." The scrap of paper she'd pressed into Rossean's hand confirmed that by the numbers.

Major Calpathish's sappers had been badly mauled--half the soldiers had been killed or wounded and the withdrawal cost them three-quarters of their supplies. Worse, he'd been depending on Major Layleigh's Lightning Company to force an eventual breach in Meshüsh Gürun's walls. Throwing them into battle early saved most of his men, but Layleigh had paid dearly for that.

In terms of better news, the colonel had precious little. Their supply lines back to Fort Hanham remained open, which also meant the wounded could be cared for properly. That, of course, presumed the fort was still there, and Karlied hadn't taken the opportunity to capture it. Rossean shook his head quickly: there was no point in dwelling on the most negative and unlikely of possibilities.

"What can we do about them? Their weapons--what we can we do about those?"

"Run them out," Major Layleigh said. "I don't know how those things work, but there's nothing we can do to stop them."

"The cavalry are spent. If they had more, they would've committed more." He scratched distractedly behind his ear, eyes searching the hasty map. No, he saw no other interpretation--Meshüsh Gürun left its horsemen to the mercy of the Lighting Company; they'd been wiped out, and would not return. "So it's just the kushri."

It was almost noon. The sun would soon be at their backs, and the city's defenders could use their shields to turn its light on their enemies. Against any other group of kushri, that would mean waiting until nightfall.

These, though, apparently weren't limited by sunlight. They were channeling something else, something that had been able to strike as far as the Darveleigh guns, though only intermittently. There's another bit of good news, right? They weren't very accurate. That could've been much worse than it was, if they'd actually been able to hurt K'nRaelah.

"Sir. We have a report from the sentries."

"What is it?"

"There's a large body of people moving west of the city. They're staying along the river, rather than coming towards us. They don't seem to be soldiers, sir."

"Civilians? They could be refugees from the city."

"We think so, sir, but we can't approach."

"Or partisans," Layleigh suggested.

Rossean thought it unlikely. Partly--mostly, he told himself--this was purely a matter of doctrine. The Dominion and its kindred city-states had no equivalent to the citizen militias raised by the Confederacy or some of Aernia's border towns. Havsa described Meshüsh Gürun as a town of tradespeople.

By everything the jackal said, Tiurishkan merchants guarded their wealth first and foremost. Being caught in a city under siege was an easy way to lose everything: it made far more sense that they were fleeing, not knowing when they'd have the opportunity to do so again.

Partly, his conviction came from the hope that refugees meant the jackal herself had managed to escape with them. "They don't look like soldiers, sergeant?"

"No, sir. They have bags. And a few mules, too, but no armor that we can see."

A basic sense of decency meant he was already leaning towards doing what he could to protect them. On further consideration, the tactical implications also suggested themselves. "If they're leaving, they think they're in danger. The ones we met along the way were scattered. They talked about, ah... they didn't like the new rulers, or they didn't want to anger their trading partners..."

"Now they're worried?" Sennis asked.

"Leaving with what they can carry. Maybe we've done better than we thought. Maybe we actually did some real damage."

Major Layleigh had been busy adding a marker for the refugees to the map; she finished, looking up at him. "Due respect, sir, but we can't really afford to do that well again."

She was right, naturally. But he had to consider what options were still available to him. Calpathish's rocket batteries had not been depleted, and the Darveleigh guns would be enough to support whatever he could piece together of what remained. He doubted enough could be borrowed from the other units to bring the Lightning Company back to full strength, but it was close enough that a successful breakthrough might still be exploited.

They only needed to create it, and there Rossean was more than aware of the difficulties involved. The sappers were not only badly bloodied, but the fighting had taking its toll on their morale. Another advance, under constant, accurate fire, would not do much to ease that situation.

What he needed was some bloody cannon, but of course--

"Something's coming. From the east."

"What? What is?"

"Cavalry, sir. I think?"

Rossean's blood turned immediately to ice. He took two deep, gasping breaths before he was able to form words. "Get Pembæra's men back! Dig in while we can--move, gods damn it!"

The barked order had Sennis and Calpathis scrambling at once. Major Layleigh's head turned towards the horizon. "Sir, what's--"

"Do it." Without waiting to see where she went, he took off in the direction the messenger had come from, the highest point that still offered some cover from Meshüsh Gürun and its charmed weaponry. The hill's sentry was prone, staring; the binoculars trembled uselessly in her grasp. Rossean threw himself to the ground next to her. "How many?"

"I don't know--I can't tell--gods--oh, gods--"

"It's alright, corporal." He patted her shoulder--hard, to hide the unsteadiness of his own paw--and took the binoculars. "It'll be alright. We're not the first to face them."

Fear had not been the only thing keeping the corporal from making an accurate report, he saw at once. The host shimmered oddly; eerily. If he looked away the cavalry seemed to have solid form, but with the binoculars directly on them they splintered into a dozen mirages that made counting them impossible.

Observing directly they didn't even appear to move in the same direction; it was only in peripheral vision that the course of their attack could be perceived. Rossean swallowed and forced himself to look again. "Fifty. I make it fifty or so, based on the ground they cover."

"Do--do they cover ground, sir?"

It was at once anodyne and abhorrent to conclude that the steeds were horses, or had been. They were horse-shaped, at times, shadowy and skeletal with manes that twisted in and out of visibility. They did not gallop, though--elongating, forelegs flowing along the ground and drawing the rest of the body with it, hindlegs somehow melting forward and through the dark shape to repeat the process.

He did not know if they touched the ground. He knew nothing except that they were charging towards Meshüsh Gürun. He was out of time. Carregan's order was to stand his ground, if the Hakasi attacked. There would be, Rossean felt quite certain, no actual resistance when the attack came.

The only thing sparing him was that, for the moment, they were being ignored. Someone else joined them, another body crashing to the ground to take cover. Sennis. "Pembæra will be back with the main group in five minutes. How many are they? And what's their disposition? Sir?"

"Fifty. I think. They..." Disposition. Gods, like they're something to devise tactics against. "Are there any wounded left? The wagons are gone, right?"

"Yes, sir. And there's thirty of the wounded still here."

"If they can walk, send them back to the fort. Have them tell the garrison what's happened, and that we'll cover them as long as we can." Quite possibly it wouldn't be enough; they'd be overcome before reaching relative safety. There was no point in asking them to die needlessly, though--and maybe they could get word through.

The first of the Hakasi cavalry were cresting the final ridge that brought them within sight of Meshüsh Gürun. Rossean couldn't say what happened. He watched--was hypnotized, even--but all the same, he had no idea. A jet-black eruption burst towards the city from the riders, or was the riders, and with a shrill golden-hued howl that reeked of lightning and sulfur it slammed against the walls.

A similar wail left the sentry--instinctively Rossean covered her muzzle, quieting it, his gaze staying locked on the attack. The blackness spattered and dissipated. The city remained--indeed he couldn't perceive that anything at all had happened. They're safe? Are they safe?

They were alive, at least, or enough of them were to loose a volley of arrows at the Hakasi. A beam of light similarly shot from the shield wall, sweeping the cavalry. Most of them... vanished, briefly, blinking back into ominous existence as the light passed. But it caught one or two, and when it did there was an ear-splitting shriek, and, a few seconds later, the rolling boom of distant thunder.

The Hakasi did not relent; they tried again, and again. It did not seem to be having an effect. Rossean couldn't really judge that--it was a contest of magic against magic, and all he could see was that nothing appeared to be changing.

But then the Hakasi pulled off. The fluid, serpentine dance of their cavalry coalesced into one body again. Circling, probing, the momentum shifting to--

"Colonel!" he heard Sennis's startled cry at his back and didn't stop. He was already running, stumbling down the hill towards Major K'nRaelah's position.

By some miracle he managed to keep his footing, scrambling up the slope to meet the startled Border Collie on the way down. "Open fire! Everything you have--open fire on them!"

"On--"

"On those things," he shouted back. "They're going for the civilians!"

K'nRaelah twisted around, blinking at the black shapes swirling over the field. "Cargal'th," she breathed. "Fuck me--Gara! Stand by rockets! Aryst, move the section forward!"

Meshüsh Gürun's garrison was doing its part, too, where it could. The Hakasi ignored the arrows--snapping in the blink of an eye out of the way, never flinching as they picked up speed. Rossean heard the order to open fire and was too distracted to cover his ears before the deafening shriek.

Not all of the rockets, at least, could be avoided. For a moment the battlefield blazed with the carcass shot, and though horsemen quickly emerged from the smoke at least a handful were not so fortunate--disintegrating, splintering into black mist whipped by an unseen hand into nothingness.

His paws were over his ears by the second salvo, and the constant chatter of the Darveleighs. To his left, on the hill behind him, the rest of his command took their cues from his intentions. Terrifying as the Hakasi were, utterly mysterious and monstrous, the riflemen sighted in and opened fire.

And the cavalry of the Dead City paused, and wheeled about. The momentum had been lost, for a moment, but they had new targets and he could see they were set to charge again.

"Hold your position," Rossean said. "We hold position, major."

K'nRaelah's paw clenched. "Yes, sir."

"And get your pistol ready."

XXIII. Downfall

It was impossible to know what was happening. The crowd had broken--they were running blindly, stumbling over each other, trying to get away. All around her Havsa heard screaming, and oaths directed at absent gods.

Beneath at all the sounds of the battle persisted. The Hakasi threw themselves at the wall, time and again, with a ghastly howl that tugged on ancient primal instincts of pure terror. And the city fought back, though the jackal sensed their responses were slowing.

Havsa...

The sound of her name caught her off-guard--by the time she realized it hadn't been spoken aloud she'd paused, and one of the other refugees slammed into her, knocking the jackal to the ground. She rolled away from the crowd to keep from being trampled.

Havsa. It's Shïrn. I...

Where was he? Instinctively she looked around; he was nowhere in the crowd. He must've been back in the city. Working on the loom, probably. Was Pathis there? Was he being exhorted to save Meshüsh Gürun from the fate that shrieked ever-closer?

I'm sorry I didn't listen. Try to tell them at least that I never thought... that I didn't think it would come to this. I know what I have to do now. I hope--

His voice cut off. So, too, did the wailing of the attacking Hakasi. The jackal got to her feet, staring back at Meshüsh Gürun. The others with her slowed... halted... stared. The warped, ghastly cavalry of the Dead City hung in midair in their charge, their pace so glacial that the awful fluidness of their movement was apparent.

Light itself bowed: she seemed to be looking at Meshüsh Gürun as though through a drop of water. The distortion was centered on what must've been the city's heart, warping everything around it, drawing it in closer. The world shrank, rippled, and then finally burst again.

It was as before, but now every hint of movement was gone. The longer she stared at anything, the more it became magnified in her vision. She saw the stone wall of the city down to where the roughness turned into a brilliant landscape unseen at mortal scale. She saw one of the archers on the wall, longbow drawn back, every microscopic fiber of the string thick about as an oak tree.

She glanced at one of the Hakasi. Free of the magical cloak they used to warp perception she found herself looking on some celestial interpretation of a vixen. Impossibly beautiful, with silver fur that glowed softly. Her eyes, though... her eyes were hard crystals, and when Havsa stared she realized she was falling into those eyes, staring through them and into a nameless chasm no light could ever pierce.

It was with a yelp that she broke herself free. Even at that scale, scrutinizing the intricacies of what was left of a being when the soul had been excised, nothing moved. Meshüsh Gürun and an area two full kilometers around it was completely frozen.

A handful of the slowest refugees had been caught up in it, and now a cautious crowd approached the wagon they'd occupied. Someone picked up a rock, tossing it towards the wagon. It arced as though nothing at all was the matter, and came to rest at the wagon's wheel.

At last someone summoned the nerve to approach, themselves. They looked at the wagon's contents, head cocked, reaching in and coming back with a medallion. Havsa thought it was probably one of the certificates issued by the Hasköyal, marking the bearer as legally able to trade in something privileged.

The man came back towards them. He stopped in mid-stride, eyes widening, muzzle opening in a scream that choked off before it escaped. His paw shook until the medallion fell away and he pitched forward, hard panting puffing up the dust.

Nobody else moved. Havsa growled and pushed through them, taking the man by the shoulder and pulling him further away from the wagon. Finally he regained enough of his wits to free himself, shaking his head. "No. I'm fine. I'm fine, now."

"What happened?"

He swallowed thickly, looking over his shoulder at the wagon. "It..." A coughing spell overtook him; someone pressed a water-skin to his paw and he drained it too-greedily, the liquid spilling around his shaking muzzle. "I could feel it... I could feel myself... stopping."

"This is a bad place." It was the person who'd given him the water-skin; she was too shocked to complain about the waste. "We have to leave. Gerz, what do we do?"

Havsa had no argument with either of the first two assertions. Following the river they'd eventually reach Körlyda; that, she figured, would be their eventual destination. Within an hour, though, they came to the top of one hill to find the next already occupied.

One of the refugees had a spyglass. "Foreigners," he said. "The Iron Kingdom."

"Come to take us prisoner," Havsa heard someone suggest. "We should head for the riverbank. Maybe we can sneak by."

"Don't be foolish," Havsa answered. "On either count. They already know we're coming. Are their weapons drawn?"

She'd known they wouldn't be. Even when the confirmation came back, though, the others were hesitant. Havsa went on alone. Maybe, the jackal told herself. Maybe it wasn't as bad as the guards said. Maybe...

One of the uniformed figures hurried forward to meet her. She could tell it was Rossean even before the dog broke into a run. She did the same--the embrace was so rough it knocked the breath from her, and the tight grip of his arms nearly kept her from drawing more. "Callen," she gasped.

"Havsa. I feared--"

"So did I."

The dog let her go, reluctantly. "We met a few of the fastest escapees earlier. They're headed towards Karlied. Not everyone has supplies. I'm gathering what I can. Our food and water, and there's more coming from the fort in a few hours. Tell whoever needs aid that we'll do what we can, and--"

Part of whatever word that followed vanished in a mumble against her lips. Beyond that point, he didn't even bother.

XXIV. The Cost

He'd kept writing after his paw began to hurt, only stopping when it began to affect his penmanship. Most of the letters were the same. In the days to come, I hope you may take whatever comfort you can in knowing that Corporal Thorev's sacrifice was not in vain. Nor had been that of Lieutenant Ellea Dunralt, or Sergeant Teban Hærvesh, or Private Arlen Grettle...

All of them, serving with the highest distinction. More was at stake than, it is possible, you will ever be permitted to know. Shouldering that burden was a demand no young man should have placed upon him, yet Temrel carried it willingly. Knowing what was being asked--

--she continued, joining an action that saved the lives of twenty others. Private Ardra was new to her unit, but the--

--truth is that I can no longer promise the fullest extent of my ability which you have requested, and which I have always endeavored to give. I do not regret what has happened, general, and I dearly wish to have no such regrets. But in recognizing this...

"Sir?"

He looked up from his desk. "Yes?"

"You have two visitors, sir. Um. It's General Carregan. The train--they didn't say anything."

Rossean couldn't say that he was surprised. He stood along with Sennis, waiting. Rescat Carregan was joined by an ermine in a formal suit she carried with the same poise as any military uniform. "Good afternoon," Rescat said, and turned to Sennis. "Sergeant, you'll please give us the room?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Rescat waited until Sennis was gone and the door had clicked shut. "This is Major Anguld, from Internal Security. I've done what I can to relate our history to her, but I've never been as good with superlatives as I might've wished."

"It was good enough, sir, don't worry." Major Anguld extended her paw for him to shake. "Pleased to meet you, Colonel Rossean."

"Sit down, colonel, if you don't mind." He did; Rescat and Anguld took seats on the other side of his desk. "The last telegram I received before departing was incomplete. Are there updates to the casualty lists?"

"Yes. The last figures are..." He shuffled through the folder on his desk until he could find it, passing it to the pair for their inspection. "Ninety-four dead, and one hundred and thirty wounded. I sent the most severe cases back already, but there wasn't enough room on the train for everyone."

"This all happened rather quickly," Rescat answered softly. She tapped the piece of paper with her claw, her eyes unfocused. "We didn't know how bad it would be."

"The fact that some information was kept from us made intelligence more difficult," Anguld added. "Private investigations being conducted in the Dominion, and with the Confederacy..."

Rescat cleared her throat. "Do you blame him, Greta? What would we have said? You'd have told him about Tavak?"

The ermine froze, her muzzle open with an abortive reply. "Ma'am, with respect..."

General Carregan handed Rossean the casualty list. "From a question of formal protocol, we might've been able to help--some. The truth is, we couldn't have moved faster and I don't think we would've done a better job. Our contacts at the Lightward Terminus told Major Anguld that you saved three hundred refugees from the Hakasi. And... here is a different matter of broken protocol--I'll make it up to you later, Greta."

Anguld sighed unhappily. "I'm not sure why you asked me here."

"Yes, you are. Colonel Rossean, you stopped the city. Major Anguld has come up with what she believes is the only plausible explanation: someone sabotaged their Dobtan Loom. In all likelihood, it was the jackal you sent back. Without doing that... well, we don't know. Greta has dark thoughts about the inevitable victory of the Hakasi."

"The report is classified, but, needless to say..."

"Tell him," Rescat urged.

"Even a very advanced Dobtan Loom is still quite inefficient. They would've captured only a fraction of Kurvadï's power. When the Hakasi inevitably overwhelmed them, the Dead City would have gained unrestricted access to Kurvadï and used their abilities to absorb it completely. From there, Körlyda and its own reservoir would be vulnerable."

"Millions of people," the vixen said. "And worse, they might have gained insight on what happened to some of the other artifacts that have disappeared since the exodus. Tavak is but the most obvious example."

Rossean recalled what Professor Denizli had told them, even if the phrase did not have much intrinsic weight for the dog. "A wailing stone, right?"

"Yes. It's all speculation, but fortunately... we don't have to speculate. Meshüsh Gürun has been defeated. If reality ever returns to normal at Kurvadï, it won't be for thousands of years. Until then, the city is frozen, and Kurvadï's... wealth.. remains inaccessible. Saying that we owe you a debt is insufficient."

"I did my job, ma'am. I did as I was asked. And my command suffered on the account of creating that debt."

Rescat gave him a gentle smile. "I know. They'll be taken care of. So will you, colonel. We have some things we need from you, Major Anguld and I, first."

"What sort of things?"

The vixen looked to her companion for the answer. "You're the first person in the Iron Corps to have seen the Hakasi fighting. The information you provide will be invaluable in helping us to protect ourselves against them. You've also become a primary source of information on the Dominion, and these walking cities--are there others? Where? So you'll visit the Internal Security complex, in the Shrouded Rocks, and help us learn all we can."

"And after that, whatever posting you want is yours," Rescat said. "I'm not sure if you've thought about that at all."

"I have, yes. And, with all respect to the division, Major Anguld, I am not certain I fancy a visit to the Rocks." He started to reach for the folded letter on his desk, still waiting to be sealed.

Rescat was watching him. Greta Anguld missed it. "Well, that's a requirement, though," the ermine went on. "You don't have a choice in that, sir, as we do need the information..."

"He has a choice." Their eyes met, with his fingers brushing the letter, and she shook her head with a movement so faint it might not have happened at all. "After all you've done, colonel, of course--the choice is yours. Major Anguld, would you mind getting us some water? After the walk from the Terminus, we both need it, I'm sure."

"Well, no, truthfully, I'm not thirsty and the question is..." The ermine trailed off, and nodded. "Yes, of course. I'll be right back, ma'am."

They were alone. Rossean's paw was still on the letter. "Later," Rescat suggested. "I can read it later. There are many things Greta would desire me to keep from you about the Railroad's intentions, and our history with magic, and our relationship with other countries. You can guess at some of them."

And he had, from time to time, in trying to figure out what he might've been missing. "The Ravens have been... well-informed about things I considered to be purely fiction."

"Yes. She can keep her secrets, Colonel Rossean; I'll tell you mine. I have seen what those arts can do--to others and to those who wield them--and it scares me. No. No, it fucking terrifies me, colonel. I thought the Hakasi might attack Dhamishaya first. God knows that the colonial administration has squandered whatever knowledge the Bhiranate had of magic. Someone more dedicated might find a whole lot that the occupation missed."

"Is that why you involved the Iron Corps?"

She flashed a sharp grin at him. "You're still a soldier for right now, colonel," she chided. "That's a very impudent question."

"Sorry, ma'am."

"We don't know enough about the Dead City. We don't know how to stop them, worst of all, and we're not ready. In the rebellion--fuck the politics, colonel, it wasn't a 'civil war,' it was a rebellion that we started--I fancied that my own skills gave me some... particular insight."

"Skills?"

She lifted her right arm until the sleeve of her uniform bared a silver bracelet wrapped around it. She snapped her finger; held her arm aloft. Slowly, as the bracelet glowed, the paperwork on the desk began to rise up. "Many years of study. For parlor tricks," she decided; the papers settled back into place. "Dhamishaya is still vulnerable. Karlied, for the moment, is not. That's worth much to me."

"You think it'll stay that way?"

"I think you averted catastrophe for now. Where will you go?" she asked, the tone of her voice changing abruptly--familiar, even warm. "Your brother's firm?"

"Probably, yes ma'am."

"A growth industry. And well-positioned. Has your jackal friend suggested expanding into the Dominion? No? She will, I think. She'll also tell you that one of the most import assets of a successful businessman is who he knows. An honored veteran of the Iron Corps would know many people in the Railroad who could help him."

He nodded. "And the Railroad is important to the city, of course."

"Suppose you were to delay your resignation for a few weeks and come back to the barracks in Tinenfirth? It wouldn't take you more than that to tell us everything that happened here, all the details you can share about the battle, and your preparations for it, all your observations..."

"Tinenfirth? Not the Shrouded Rocks?"

"For what it's worth, colonel, Greta means you no harm. But no, not the Shrouded Rocks. Tinenfirth, and that would give me time, as well. To write a suitably accurate memo on the occasion of your retirement, and for you to make sure that the measures we've taken for the veterans of the fighting meet with your approval."

"I suppose that's more..."

"Palatable, you can say it." She laughed. "They're quite enamored with their own mystique. The keep is just like you're imagining: black stone and crashing waves and thunder--the whole deal. That's why the Ravens picked it. Tinenfirth is better for both of us. And when you leave, if you're in need of transportation for your exports, or a partner in approaching the Karliedan guilds, you'll know who to ask."

"Very well."

"What's more..." She stopped to gather her thoughts, folding her paws on the desk. "I don't relax much. I don't know that I'll ever see you again. When you leave, the Iron Corps will be poorer for it--we need people like you, colonel. It's a great loss. But if I do see you, it will be with the pride of knowing that whatever you do, you'll take that course with unwavering dedication and strength, and that I was privileged to serve with you for as long that course and my own were linked. Much as I'll miss you, I'm looking forward to that feeling. Good luck."

XXV. A Jackal's Luck

"You look different," Callen Rossean told her, grinning.

Havsa raised her arm, watching the silk of the robe ripple. It was true: when they'd first met, she was wearing a traveler's cloak, staying inconspicuous--and following that, whatever spare clothes the Iron Corps could afford her.

This was, if not a special occasion, at least a special place. Rossean escaped scrutiny because he was obviously a foreigner. The other merchants in the Körlydan offices of the Hasköyal must've thought he was a prospective client; they let the pair pass.

The past week had been a busy one. As they walked through the great hall and to the staircase that led to the observation towers, Havsa told him as many of the details as she felt appropriate. Dominion insurance was loathe to pay off the value of Meshüsh Gürun's infrastructure--the claims were for absurd amounts, based on wild stories about magical artifacts and ancient treasures.

At the same time, not everything could be covered up. The Shah of Körlyda was willing to overlook the massacre of his soldiers because he understood that a worse fate had been avoided, but a host of aggrieved merchants was not nearly so willing to settle.

"I'll have to account for some of it, probably. Good standing in the Hasköyal smooths out a great deal of other trouble. They agree that the bulk of the negotiations under my watch were fair, which is... reassuring. It's why I'm wearing these, instead of less ostentatious prison garb."

Rossean's laugh put her at ease. She'd been slightly worried that, with Meshüsh Gürun defeated, he might have found cause to hold its crimes against her. If nothing else, that he would not have been able to look at the jackal without seeing the battle play out in her eyes.

It seemed not. But the jackal didn't tell him all of the details. She didn't tell him that her sleep was still restless and troubled; that she saw the oozing tendrils of Hakasi stallions crawling in the corners of her vision if she spent too much time alone. That she'd changed hotels three times because her nightmares disturbed the other guests.

On the clearest of days, the eastern bank of the Sheyib was visible from the top of the Hasköyal office. It was not such a day; haze obscured the river, and the horizon melted softly in the light of sunset. They could see the Great Gate, though, until its far edge disappeared; caravans plodded steadily onward amidst the broad stone bridge.

To the south was the palisade of Fort Hanham, and the Lightward Terminus before it. Telegraph poles strung alongside gave a rough edge to the railroad as it receded off to the southwest. "In the main tower," Havsa explained, "someone's watching with a telescope for the flags our merchants fly. This is the tallest building in Körlyda, taller even than the shah's palace. When it was built they said it let a trader see into the future."

"It's quite a sight."

The jackal nodded. She took a deep breath, and turned around. "I've tried to look east. It's too far over the horizon to see. I checked it mathematically, just in case. I was worried."

"I think it'll be a long time before we stop worrying."

"True. You said you wanted to meet me. I guess... I suppose you're leaving, aren't you? Your work here is finished."

"And I'm retiring. Thinking about becoming a businessman, perhaps."

"You're certain?" She grinned. "Think that it's something that might suit you, after all?"

"It's already agreed that I'll be leaving the Iron Corps--returning to our headquarters in Tinenfirth for a few weeks, but that's all just taking care of the details. What happens next, I'm not sure. I've been thinking that it could be an interesting challenge."

"Helping to run a... a foundry, right?"

"Yes."

Truthfully Havsa felt that he would not be happy at a desk indefinitely. Like many of his people, Callen was constantly unsettled. But he had, in her opinion, the right idea--the right sense of turning his energy to find new pursuits. "I hope it goes well for you."

"Yourself? Do you know where you'll go?"

"Not yet. Meshüsh Gürun made plenty of enemies--some of my old contacts want nothing to do with me. I don't blame them, of course. And soon enough, they'll forget." A sufficiently large account balance went a long way towards that end. The city had shown her new opportunities, too, and she had the time to explore them.

"I wondered if you might be interested in a visit to the Iron Kingdom, at some point. You could take the train back with me, even. Stanlira isn't far beyond the border, not on the Meteor."

She cocked her head. "A tour of your factory? Advice on whether or not you should take your brother up on his offer?"

"Maybe. Or just to see something new. We've been through a lot together. A vacation could be healthy for you, right?"

"It could..."

"It might not have to be business at all, if you didn't want it to be. The truth is..." He stopped. And then he reached out, taking her paw. "The truth is, I'll miss you. And if I don't have to..."

There it is. And Havsa felt her heart skip. "When does your train leave?"

"Tomorrow. Ten thirty in the morning."

She could be packed in only a few minutes. Anything important was in her room at the hotel. The jackal threaded her fingers through his, squeezing gently. "Come along, then? Let me get my things..."

Except that neither of them would stand for that--certainly not for just that, at least. Half an hour later they'd reached her rome, and scarcely a minute afterwards the dog's muzzle was pressed tightly to her own.

Havsa did nothing to resist the kiss. She was all but begging for it, anyway, and for every step that followed. They way he pushed the robes from her shoulders to let them pool on the floor. The way his paws caressed her fur. The way he guided her to her bed like it was already his own.

His weight felt almost imposing above the jackal: strong, inescapable. Except that she could tell he was going to ask again--hesitate, even--and to preempt that she kissed him deeply, wrapping her legs around the dog when his hips jerked and his hard shaft bumped against her provocatively.

Callen groaned into her muzzle and bucked again. His cock slid up, through the fur of the jackal's thighs. The tip met her lips, nudging her open with only the faintest hint of resistance. And as if they both knew how proper it was, and how inevitable, as soon as he found his mark the dog pushed into her.

The realization of how much she'd wanted him and the satisfaction of his length sliding deeply through her folds followed blissfully close. She had no chance to feel any regret for the delay. Only the wonderful, warm certainty that was having him within her. When he could go no further she pulled her slender muzzle away from the kiss.

She whispered his name, her breath tickled his whiskers, and her claws ran through the tan fur of his cheeks to the deep black that ran along his neck. Cleaner, smoother than the saddle of her own back--stately, even. Her fingers stroked him until their eyes locked, and he kissed her again, and his hips pulled away.

Havsa whimpered as he left her, the emptiness all but overwhelming. The dog must've felt it, too. He thrust again. His cock hilted, and with her eyes rolled back all she knew for long seconds of bliss was his growl, and his weight on her, and his thick shaft working gentle, insistent pleasure into her nerves with every tug and twitch.

The first thing she saw when her vision returned was the look in his eyes, the warmth that said he would've told her he loved her at the faintest excuse. That instead what she got was the steady, tender strokes he took her with. Each one pressed her firmly into the mattress, let her feel his need for her. She marveled at the precision of it, the sureness. The restrained power.

He hadn't learned yet to identify the more mischievous of her expressions, and in any case he was distracted with the effort of mating her. Havsa bit her lip and squeezed herself around him. The dog shuddered, withdrawal faltering into a sharp thrust that speared her completely full once more. A deep, uncharacteristic growl spilled from his tense muzzle.

When she clenched down on him again she wondered if she was even truly gambling. Was the outcome anything but foregone? Callen grunted, bucking hard. He stopped, every exhalation of his shallow panting heavy with the same growl. "Havsa..." The warmth in his eyes was gaining a rough edge to it, a deeper light--a flash of recognition that she knew exactly what she'd been doing.

He didn't finish the question, and he didn't ask another. His next thrust slammed her down into the bed--one heartbeat he was half-buried in her, the next their hips were crushed demandingly close and the throbbing of his cock had pushed achingly deep inside the jackal. She couldn't speak, but her involuntary yelp of approval said enough.

Put to proper use his strength was exhilarating. Thrilling--to know that she couldn't have resisted the big dog, that he could've pinned her effortlessly... and now he was hers. He was pounding her, filling her, spreading her open over and over as his cock pistoned, driving inwards.

Her paws gripped his sides, then his hips, then his rear--feeling the way his muscles flexed when he claimed her. When he hammered forward and her folds engulfed him, contouring to the hard flesh like she was meant for it instead of straining to take its demanding bulk. When he growled and his stout back arched and her hips were lifted from the bed and she felt the growing thickness, the swelling curve of his knot beginning to sink between her lips.

His expression was changing. He'd been giving her what she wanted, still in control. Now though--now as he rutted fiercely into the jackal she could see the warmth giving way. Bit by bit, until he was taking what he wanted, and there was a purpose to the swift pumping thrusts between the inexorably tightening grip of her legs holding him.

It would be a bit still before he consciously realized he was tying her but she could see the need for it on his curled lip, hear it in his panted snarls... his knot was thick enough to feel every time she took it. Pleasure was starting to spread, throbbing against the tie and finding ever-less room to escape or ebb... it was rising in her, the dog's frantic pace nudging the pressure higher... higher...

The first clenching spasm hit tentatively half a second before she realized he was buried too solidly to pull out. As if in response the second wave of her peak blotted out anything but that knowledge, and twisted it until it escaped in a gratifying rush, a cry from her open, gasping muzzle. And he kept going, kept pushing into her, kept filling her with that consuming rigidness...

Light danced behind her eyes, throbbing. She was gripping him, she knew, without any control over the way her claws dug in, no more than she could restrain her helpless bucks under the dog claiming her. Everything was heat and tightness and giddy surrender of release for some blissful extent where nothing else registered.

Somewhere in it he'd stopped thrusting; his muscles were locked, forcing their bodies together, bearing her weight on his bulging knot. It was the first thing she noticed and for a moment she thought he was completely frozen but then she felt a brief, firm shove of his hips and a strong pulse along the length of his cock that gave way to a splashing heat deep inside her.

The dog pushed rhythmically against her, grinding closer to Havsa as his seed filled her in a steady, spreading warmth and his low, breathy grunts flooded her ear. Already the tension was gone, though, the strength of his movements slackening. She stroked his ears and neck softly, soothing him until he slowly let her down to the bed.

One last shudder gripped the dog--a hitching tension, a deep throbbing--then he relaxed. His breath left him in a sated, gratified exhalation. Ohhh... and then her name. "Havsa... Gods, Havsa..."

"It might..." She toyed with his ear gently. "It might be a good idea if I did stay with you. Have you thought about the Dominion? It could be very profitable to sell your wares to us..."

Callen chuckled, still out of breath. "You'd be willing to help?"

"Sufficiently compensated, of course..."

Her paws caressed his fur, settling it back into place. Presently the dog tried to get up, to roll off her, but Havsa shook her head. She wanted him there, pinning her; wanted the comforting weight of his body as his breathing became more regular. As, finally, he began to soften inside her, and the energy of their mating melted into gentler intimacy.

She did not know that she would have told him the impression the dog had made, when they'd first met. How despite the great danger lurking constantly behind their growing friendship she could have sworn that she was falling for him. How she'd been weighing plans to get to Aernia even before his suggestion.

Because none of it had mattered. Somehow he'd known. Sometimes a jackal's luck turned. She hugged him close, and let sleep take her.