Текст книги "Fire Logic "

Автор книги: Marks Laurie

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She got up and made her way through a haze of darkness and pain, until she could actually see him, a thin, still silhouette against the stars, the Man on the Hill. Her affection for him washed over her and brought her to a standstill. Wasn’t he already making his precarious way between the fragile and competing loyalties that held South Hill Company together? Already, he had to know the minds of his people, the minds of the enemy, and his own mind. Surely it would do him no good if she imposed her burdens upon him, in the selfish hope that somehow they would become easier for her to bear.

“Zanja,” said a low voice. “Are you having trouble sleeping? Sit with me a while.”

It was Mabin. Like Emil, she sat alone m the darkness, waiting for the dawn. Zanja went over to her reluctantly. “Councilor.”

“It’s not a good night for sleeping. I’ve been watching the torch bugs swarm. Sit down, sit down.”

Zanja squatted nearby, wishing that she’d had the sense to stay in her blankets until sunrise. Even with Mabin just a dark shadow, still she felt too closely watched, as though Mabin were a fox, and she a mouse.

“I hear that fire bloods are often tormented by nightmares,” Mabin said.

“Yes, madam, so I hear.” Was Mabin lonely, or troubled, to be inviting a total stranger into intimacy like this? She added, lest she seem too rude, “But I am just tormented by my headache.” A swarm of torch bugs swirled in a nearby bush, like sparks in a wind, except that the air was warm and still.

“Emil seems to think highly of your abilities.”

“I think highly of his.”

“So do I,” Mabin said after a moment, as though she’d had to think about it. “Yet I confess, I am concerned. Like that man tonight–Willis was his name?–I wonder that he is willing to let an opportunity go by like this, just on your say‑so. How can we even be certain of the existence of this Sainnite seer?”

“How can we not be certain of it?” Zanja said reasonably.

“Because it seems so unlikely! And it’s always possible that the Sainnites are just better strategists, or luckier than we. And perhaps the whole point is to make South Hill Company cautious, so that at the very moment when you mustact, you will hesitate. And we must not lose control of South Hill.”

For a dizzying moment, Zanja realized how likely it was that Medric was using her for this very purpose Mabin had described– that he had discovered in a vision her closeness to Emil, and so had realized that he could subvert the entire company by subverting her. This was the nightmare that caused Zanja such dismay, but she could not endure to consider it directly for longer than a moment. She said, though she was sick of explaining herself, “I can never depend upon my prescience to serve me when I need it to. But when it does serve me, it has never been completely wrong. And Emil’s and my talents seem to complement each other, for when he forms the questions I can form the answers, and he has the knowledge to interpret those answers, and I in turn can sense whether or not his interpretation is the right one. So we are more certain together than we would be separately: certain of each other and certain of what we know.“

“ ‘A steeliness disguised in ritual humility,’ Norina wrote of you.”

Irritated by this reminder of the Truthken’s heavy hand, Zanja said, “My people believed that courtesy comes from strength, not from weakness, and that it was no shame to be constantly reminding each other that without this fabric of ritual courtesy our tribe would have fallen apart.”

After a moment, Mabin said, “Norina also wrote that you are wasted in South Hill. I want to bring you with me, to help me plan strategy for all of Shaftal.”

“Thank you, madam, but Norina is wrong. I belong where I am.”

Mabin’s head lifted as though now she was surprised. If she had ever been turned down before, which seemed unlikely, certainly it had never been so promptly and directly.

“Well then,” she said, with ill‑disguised irritation, “It is your choice, of course. Let me ask you directly what concerns me. What makes you think the Sainnites have a seer?”

“The glyph cards told us.”

“It was a divination?” Mabin sounded appalled.

Zanja rose abruptly to her feet. “Madam, Emil surely is better qualified to explain our method. I know you will excuse me, for I feel quite dizzy and must go lie down.”

But as she returned to her blankets, Zanja heard Emil utter a grunt of surprise from atop the pile of boulders where he kept watch. She reached him in a few strides, in time to see the fading aftermath of a rocket’s faraway explosion.

“Oh,” Emil said, “it was beautiful. Did you see it? That Annis is a genius.”

Mabin had come up behind Zanja, too late to see the fireworks. “What happened?”

Emil said, “One of the scouts set off a rocket. Not over trees, but over the river. That explains why we’ve seen no sign of the Sainnites on the road. They came up the river.”

“By boat?”

“No, not against the current, surely. More likely they simply walked up the riverbank.“ Emil’s teeth showed in the darkness; he was grinning with relief. ”The Sainnites are nervous now, I’d wager, after seeing that rocket. What do you think they’ll do, Zanja?“

“I don’t know,” Zanja said. She was sick of her talent, sick of being asked questions and then being challenged for knowing the answers.

“Well, let’s pretend they continue onward and find the camp empty. They’ll take the road home, won’t they, rather than walk home on rocks?”

“Then they’d follow the edge of the fen and come out just below where we are,” she said.

“So we’ll get a good look at them, anyway, and be able to see how they’re judging our strength.”

Perhaps just to be certain that the message had been received, or perhaps out of sheer delight, the scout set off another rocket over the river. “Oh,” Mabin said when it exploded, “that is a sight. We could set those off just for show. A waste of good gunpowder, though.”

The sun had fully risen when the soldiers finally appeared. They had not fled the woods in panic at the prospect of an ambush, and instead they seemed to have spent the time since dawn scouring the woods.

Mabin, peering at them through a spyglass, muttered as they marched away, perhaps repeating to herself the advice in Warfareto never make a direct attack on a large company in broad daylight. She turned on Zanja a glance that was almost a glare. “Well, your prescience seems reliable enough. So perhaps this business of a Sainnite seer is also to be believed.”

Emil rescued Zanja, taking her to the fire where camp porridge cooked in several porringers tucked into the hot ashes. Emil used his own porringer to mix up a horrid, bitter concoction that he made Zanja drink.

“I dared not give this to you last night,” he said, “for if it’s your old injury doing this to you, I feared you would sleep so deeply you would never wake up. I’ve seen it happen.”

They were sitting by themselves, so Zanja said in a low voice, “Did you hear my conversation with Mabin?”

“Most of it. Apparently, she’s got some kind of hornet in her hat.”

“Is it so bizarre to practice divination?”

“Not at all. Mabin probably played at it herself when she was a girl.”

Zanja was beginning to feel very odd, as though her head were separating itself from her shoulders. The nearby Paladins seemed very distant, and the birdsong seemed to come from another world entirely. “Emil,” she said, carefully shaping the words lest they come out strangely, “I think she wants me dead. Since I will not come with her.”

“I think that you’re delirious,” Emil said gently.

“She wants me out of South Hill. I don’t know why.” The pain abruptly drained out of her and she stared at Emil, stunned by the suddenness of it.

“Finally!” he said.

“This is a very strong potion.” Her words came out like polished jewels. “Sometimes your knee hurts a great deal, doesn’t it?”

Emil pretended he hadn’t heard, or else Zanja was so confused she hadn’t actually said anything out loud, but only in her head. Emil said. “I have to tell you, I see nothing sinister in Mabin wanting to snatch you away from me. I wish I had a hundred more like you, myself.”

“A frightening prospect,” Zanja said seriously, but Emil laughed out loud.

They traveled through the forested heart of South Hill. As she walked, Zanja imagined the ambush they could have planned. In her mind, they killed some twenty soldiers. Those twenty could never be replaced. And now that she thought of it, Zanja realized she had never seen a Sainnite child, and precious few soldiers who were younger than Medric. Were the Sainnites, like katrim, forbidden to bear or beget? If so, then they depended upon outsiders to bear and raise their children for them. Of course, the whores of Lalali were one example of how to make this happen, though a brothel village was hardly the place to raise soldiers. The babies would be taken away somewhere, perhaps to a garrison operated by disabled and retired Carolins whose job it was to raise and train the next generation of soldiers.

If the Paladins could find and kill those children then that, surely, would destroy the fighting spirit of the Sainnites.

“Dear gods,” Zanja whispered.

“Careful.” Emil, who had not been out of arm’s reach all morning, caught her, for she had nearly fallen.

“Do the Paladins make war on children?”

“Of course not.”

“The thoughts I’m having.”

“Here.” He moved her aside so that others in their party could pass. “The potion I gave you to drink sets the thoughts askew, like a fever.”

The black‑garbed dignitaries, with their audacious earrings and upright attitudes pushed past them, one by one. How simple life must be for them, Zanja thought. To never have to distinguish right from wrong, and simply follow the law.

She and Emil walked behind them, side by side. Theirs was a far more complicated path.

Chapter Seventeen

Mabin and her entourage left with Annis in tow, and Zanja, despite her presentiments, remained unmurdered. Neither pain nor disordered delirium returned to trouble her.

It soon became apparent that Mabin had mobilized all of Shaftal to the defense of South Hill, and the steady tribute of food, supplies, and hardened veterans from all across the country rapidly transformed their rebel band into an army that Emil was hard put to organize or command. These were not soldiers, but guerrilla fighters, and Emil, though he could convince anyone to do anything, was no general. Nor, he complained rather wearily to Zanja, had he ever aspired to be one.

Zanja traveled ceaselessly among the five units of thirty that Emil, who needed no longer be so fearful of the Sainnites’ greater numbers, positioned on the high ground that rimmed the river valley. Whenever the Sainnites left their garrison, South Hill Company knew of it almost immediately, because Emil’s spies set off signal rockets that could be seen for miles around. Always conscious that each time she bloodied her blade Karis knew about it, Zanja fought in the three clashes that proved the Paladins’ new strategic dominance. What followed might have been called a siege, except that between the Paladin encampments and the Sainnite garrison lay some of the richest farmland m South Hill. The Sainnites began to do what they seemed best at: methodical, thorough, mindless destruction. While the ancient orchards were toppled and the farmsteads and fields were burned, the valley farmers, bitterly angry at Paladin and Sainnite alike, hauled their children and animals and what belongings could be salvaged out of danger. Wagons crowded the roads of South Hill. The farmsteads outside of danger were overwhelmed with refugees and their belongings. At a time when only steady, careful attention to the crops could prevent the coming year from being a hungry one, all of South Hill lay in chaos.

Though South Hill Company could not prevent the Sainnites from razing the valley’s rich farmlands, they also could not endure to stand by and do nothing. Despite their disadvantage at direct, hand‑to‑hand combat, scarcely a day passed without at least one skirmish in which the Paladins crept up on Sainnites under cover of waist‑high corn or drainage ditches choked with rushes, exchanged gunfire, and then fled in much the same way. The Paladins who spent their days crawling through the weeds took to calling these engagements hide‑and‑seek raids. It was no game, though, but a deadly, dangerous business that put Jerrell’s bone saw in high demand.

With every casualty Emil seemed another year older. Willis’s unit alone aged him by ten years, and Willis’s gloating reports of thirty or more Sainnites injured and killed did not make Emil less grim. He sent Zanja with a brusque message that she delivered, word for word: “We are not engaged in a contest to determine who can kill the greatest number of Sainnites. And the people of South Hill will not thank us for burdening them with an overwhelming number of crippled fighters. You are to have no more casualties, even if that means that you conduct no more raids.”

Willis heard this message with amazing equanimity. “No more casualties,” he said. “Well, I suppose he thinks I have his prescience, eh? Oh, but you do have it, don’t you?” He turned to his cronies, for, unlike Emil, he took his strength from numbers, not solitude. “It seems a worthy experiment, doesn’t it, to see if prescience can protect us from casualties?”

“Oh, yes,” they murmured, and Zanja did not need prescience to know that this conversation had been long planned.

“You want me to go out on a hide‑and‑seek raid?” she asked.

“We’re going out on one today.”

Zanja looked around that circle of hostile, grinning faces, and felt very tired. What was the price she would have to pay to be a full member of this company? They cared only about Sainnite corpses, it seemed. Well then, she would give them some, though she doubted it would be possible to give them enough.

So she found herself, in the company of some ten others, creeping through the corn plants towards one of the few valley farmsteads left standing. An earlier check with the spyglass had told them that the Sainnites were out in force, but once the Paladins had slipped into the valley they could no longer see how the enemy was deployed, and could not even be certain where they themselves were, in relation to the farmstead. The corn rows were as straight as a planting plow could make them, but still Zanja could not see more than a few feet ahead, and at times could scarcely see her own companions. Surely the Sainnites are expecting us to come down the corn rows, she thought, and turned to suggest to the Paladin closest to her that it might make more sense to approach from the drainage ditch. But her companions had all disappeared.

She turned as a breeze parted the corn leaves to reveal the soldier keeping watch at the end of the row. She dove crossways into the corn. Something like a hot poker punched her in the thigh. She turned and jumped the other direction, like a rabbit evading a wolf. Perhaps the fickle wind would not betray her again. Another gunshot. Someone shouted in Sainnese that she had gone towards the corncrib, whichever direction that might be. She headed away from the voice, cross‑row. She fell, and was puzzled that she could no longer walk. She crawled instead, until she tumbled out of corn plants into mossy water. She lay among the rushes, her pistols under water, thinking how nice and cool it was there in the ditch. It seemed impossible that she would be found. She rested her head in the crook of her arm and thought she might sleep for a while, she was feeling so tired.

The pain inserted itself slowly into her unwarranted peacefulness, irritating as a voice telling her to get up and do some more work. She ignored it–she had felt worse pain and lived. But it grew worse, much worse, and finally she sat up, and noticed with surprise that the water she lay in had turned a bright scarlet. She found a neat hole scorched into the canvas of her breeches, and pulled them down to reveal another neat, blood‑weeping hole in her thigh. Such a small wound, she thought, pretending that she did not know that a pistol ball’s worst damage was usually below the skin. She could not make a bandage–her clothing was muddy and soaking wet–and so she buttoned up her breeches and lay down again in the water, and forced herself to listen to what the world would tell her.

She heard a rapid volley of gunfire. After a long silence, she heard a second volley. The Paladins had circled around, she thought sleepily, after using her as an uninformed, unwilling decoy. She heard the sound of flames, and for a while she lay wounded in a different valley, listening to the sound of Sainnites burning a different village. I must get up, she thought, and woke to find that she already was crawling down the drainage ditch, though not until she saw the smoke and saw the soldiers did she realize she had gone the wrong direction. She watched them curiously, these angry soldiers stranded far from home in a hostile land, and understood too well what it was that made them want to burn everything to the ground.

She turned away from the burning farm, and began dragging herself down the drainage ditch again.

From the bottom of the ditch, she watched the shadows move and the sun set. Despite the summer warmth, the water’s cold set into her bones. She hauled herself out of the ditch and into the road, where she lay shivering. She heard the faraway bells of Wilton ringing the hours. Until it was too dark to see, she watched her blood seep into the dirt. At last, the search party that she knew Willis would have to send for her, if only for the sake of appearance, found her and carried her back to camp.

“I’m not going to die,” she told Jerrell, “and you’re not going to cut off my leg.”

Jerrell argued, but Zanja was adamant. Jerrell removed the pistol ball instead, which was bad enough, since it took some cutting to even find the ball, which was embedded in the thick muscles above the knee. When Zanja awoke in the afternoon, Emil was sitting beside her, with his legs stretched out before him and his back against a tree, gazing with a strained expression toward the smoking ruin that had once been one of the richest farmlands in Shaftal.

“What’s wrong with that seer?” he asked.

She began to sit up, and he turned to her. “I’ll get whatever you need. Jerrell says you are to lie still.”

“What I need can’t be gotten.”

He smiled wryly, and set himself to fetching and carrying the small comforts that he could provide: a cup of water, a bag of beans for a pillow. He checked on her clothing that hung in the sunshine, declared it not dry yet, and settled once more against the tree. “So,” he said, “in famine the Sainnites also go hungry, and famine is exactly what will happen in South Hill this winter. What seer would be so shortsighted? These Sainnites don’t behave like people with insight at all. In fact, they act like mindless brutes, as they always have. Could the seer be dead, or gone?”

“Maybe he’s lost his mind,” she said.

“Maybe he’s stopped dreaming. It happens.”

“Maybe he had a bad love affair.”

“Maybe he’s fallen ill.”

“Maybe,” Zanja said, “he’s had a change of heart.”

Emil looked out at the smoke‑hazed valley, then back at Zanja. “Surely not. We fire bloods are cursed with loyalty. To turn traitor against the people we call our own–it’s not in us.”

“Sometimes insight overrides loyalty,” Zanja said, too bitterly.

They sat in silence for a while. So long as Zanja didn’t move, the pain in her leg was not unendurable.

Emil said softly, “Every time I close my eyes, I dream the same dream. A man sits before me, with a wooden box in his lap. He holds it up to me, as if proffering a gift, and opens the lid. I can’t see what’s in the box, but I know that I want it desperately.”

“What does he look like?”

“The man? Oh, I don’t know. It’s all in shadow: a big, dark room with a single lamp flame. Why does it matter?”

“It matters,” Zanja said, but felt that she could not explain. Later I will explain, she thought wearily, but now I cannot endure any more consequences.

“Well then,” Emil said, “next time I dream of him, I’ll try to get a look at his face.” He took her hand in his. “My dear, with only one leg, you’d still be invaluable to South Hill.”

“Of course Jerrell sent for you.”

“When a member of my company chooses certain death–”

Zanja said, “Do you remember when the bridgekeeper bit me?

“It wasn’t so long ago.”

“Which arm was it?” She held out both her arms, and after some hunting, Emil found the scar, nearly faded to invisibility.

“So you heal clean,” he said. “But a pistol ball–”

“Sir, Jerrell has already lectured me.”

“Sir!” He sat back a bit.

“My brother,” she amended. “I am not choosing death out of despair. I know my leg will heal.”

He looked at her for a long time, as if studying a particularly complex pattern of glyphs. “Someday,” he said finally, “you will tell me your secrets.” He took her hand again. “I’ll instruct Jerrell to trust your judgment, if you tell me the truth about what happened yesterday. Willis says that your companions lost you in the cornfield. They realized the Sainnites were watching for them and retreated, and only then noticed you weren’t with them.”

“I’m sure they abandoned me deliberately,” she said. “But unless one of those who was with me in the cornfield admits to it, I don’t see how it can be proven.”

“One of them will admit it soon enough,” Emil said quietly, “and I’ll finally have a good reason to rid myself of Willis, though I suppose his kinfolk will hold it against me forever, no matter how good my reasons are.” He sighed. “Do you know, in the old days, the G’deon might drive a spike into the heart of a particularly irritating enemy, and from that day every beat of the heart would lie in the G’deon’s control. That’s the way to solve my problem with Willis–keep him alive, let him continue as a lieutenant, but let him know that at any moment I might choose to let him drop down dead.”

He drew up his knees, looking for all the world as if he meant to continue talking to her all day. “Unfortunately, my powers are limited, and whatever I do will have unwanted consequences. Tell me something,” he added abruptly, “Do you feel up to reading the cards?”

“I don’t even know where they are.”

“They’re drying in the sun, like everything else you own.” He fetched them, and counted to see that all of them had survived, warped and mud‑smirched though they were. As Zanja shuffled the cards aimlessly, he asked, “What characterizes the state of conflict between South Hill and the Sainnites?”

Zanja picked a card she’d not studied yet. It depicted a balance, or shopkeeper’s scale. Emil glanced at it and nodded without much surprise. “What would tilt the balance in our favor?” he asked.

Zanja could not choose a card. “Are you thinking too much?” Emil asked after a while.

“It’s as though every card is the answer.”

“So in order to tilt the balance we’d have to alter the entire Universe? Well, try this question instead: What is the most important factor in tilting the balance in our favor?“

Zanja chose a card and tossed it down before looking at it. It was the Owl. “Hmm.” Emil grinned without much humor. “Well now, this is getting interesting.”

Zanja shifted uncomfortably. Her injured thigh ached.

“So tell me, what is the Owl to do?”

Zanja laid down another card without looking at it, then saw that it was the Door. She sighed.

“What will immediately result from this decision that the Owl must make?”

She lay down another card, and Emil gave a small start, but said nothing. The glyph was one Zanja did not know; the picture showed an opening into a hillside.

Emil shook his head, and asked, “What will be the long term result of this decision?”

The last card seemed the most ambiguous of them all: it showed the silhouettes of a ridged horizon, with the sun above, either rising or setting. Emil moved the cards into an organized row and scowled unhappily at them. At last, he said, “Well, either this is a piece of arrant nonsense or a message of great portent. Based on what I see here, I want to say that it appears that you, Zanja, are a crucial factor in events with implications that reach far beyond South Hill. You are in a position where you must make a difficult decision even though you feel you cannot decide. Your decision will result in some kind of grave danger: a danger of spirit of body or both. It may very well lead to death.” He touched the card with the opening in the hillside. “This is the door to the labyrinth, the underworld. It is always dangerous but not necessarily fatal. Now, it is not clear who or what is endangered, but it may be you, or South Hill Company, or something much more important than any of us here. In the end–” he touched the Sun card “–there will be hope or loss of hope. An end of everything or a new beginning. It could go either way.”

Then there was silence.

Emil contemplated the cards. “Surely if this were nonsense I would recognize it. So what am I to make of this?” Then he grinned with a wry amusement. “Or, more specifically, how can I help you to make the right decision?”

“Anyone else would insist–demand–that I explain,” Zanja said.

“But if this is a true reading–and you would have told me by now if it wasn’t–then I have to assume that you don’t feel able to explain. If you don’t feel able to do it, then for me to insist that you do would only complicate your situation when it seems I ought to be making it simpler.” He looked up at her. “I must somehow help you without actually understanding what I’m doing or why I’m doing it. Tell me what to do.”

“In truth, I–am at a loss. These portents–they do not explain anything.”

“They tell me that you are caught up in something that’s much more important than you realize.” He turned the Door card so that it was right‑side‑up for Zanja and tapped it with his fingertip. “What can you tell me about this?”

Zanja said, “If I decide wrongly, then you are the one that will be endangered.”

“Me personally?”

“Emil–you have made yourself my friend. How could it not be personal? But it’s difficult to imagine that what happens to you won’t affect South Hill Company, our entire enterprise here, or the whole history of Shaftal which brought us to this point.”

“So. You’ve been avoiding me ever since the night we evacuated Fen Overlook–maybe even longer, since Fire Night. Something happened that I don’t know about.” He clasped his hands across his knee, as though restraining himself from doing something else: hitting her, embracing her; it was impossible to tell. “How can I help you?” he asked again. “Or is it absolution you need?”

“Tell me, in your dream–”

He raised an eyebrow. “You think my dream is relevant to this?”

“What is in the box?”

He tapped a finger on the Sun card. “Hope,” he said. “Or at least the hope of hope.”

“Would you die for it?”

“Yes, I would. So–am I going to die for desire’s sake after all, like every other fire blood since the dawn of time? Should I get my affairs in order? You understand,” he added gently, “I think it’s about time I had something worth dying for, something better than this idiot’s war.”

He held her hand for a while, then offered her a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and picked up the cards that she had let rail. Then he fetched Jerrell, who checked Zanja’s bandage and agreed to arrange for her family to give Zanja a safe place to recuperate, as soon as she could be moved. She gave her another potion to drink. The memory of Emil sitting quietly beside her, cleaning and oiling her pistols for her, accompanied Zanja in her sleep, in her dreams, into the day that followed, and into the night that followed that. It was such a small thing, and yet at the time she most needed it, it gave her a great peace.

Chapter Eighteen

In the silent night, the warm air lay heavy and still, and starlight blurred behind a lingering haze of smoke. Leaning on a staff, Zanja shuffled through the silence where accuser bugs should have shouted from the tree branches. But the trees all had been cut down, and without the intervention of their uplifted hands, the sky pressed down upon the earth like a smothering blanket. Here on the dark plain, the farmers slept by smoldering barns and clenched their fists in their dreams. It seemed the whole world had been put to the torch.

Zanja’s staff scraped gravel. Her foot dragged behind her; her patience wore thin. She had left the Paladin camp as early as she dared, but by the time she reached the grove outside of Wilton she had heard the city bell ring midnight. The grove, of course, had been cut down. She saw no sign of Medric, and sat upon a stump to wait.

She waited, listening to the clock toll out the passing hours. At last, she accepted that he was not coming. All her distress, it seemed, had been for nothing.

She thought she had allowed enough time to reach the camp again before summer’s early dawn overtook her, but her leg had stiffened as she waited, and then the wound reopened as Jerrell had warned it would if she didn’t keep it still. Her leg was bathed in warm, slow‑flowing blood, and a lassitude came over her. So the horizon had begun to lighten when she climbed the steep path through the trees, past the inattentive pickets and back across the boundaries of the Paladin camp.

As she headed for her abandoned blankets, she heard a camp cook bang a pot as the flames of a cookfire began to crackle. It still was dark among the trees. She walked in shadow, careful, worried, wondering what had become of Medric and what she should do now. When Willis rose up from beside her empty bed, she stared at him, stupid as a rabbit in torchlight, unable to imagine what he was doing there, or what it meant.

She heard the others rise up out of darkness where they had been hidden. She let her staff fall, lest they mistake it for a weapon, and held out her empty hands. Contrary to what Ransel used to say, she did in fact know when to give up.

“So you deign to return to us,” Willis said. “Where have you been all night?”