Текст книги "Fire Logic "

Автор книги: Marks Laurie

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“Well, it’s not getting warmer,” said the angry man. “I might as well go feed the beasts. They’ll whine like dogs today.”

The poet only grunted. His poetry he reserved for speaking of his native country. Like Zanja, it seemed he was a refugee. The two men separated, and for a moment, a shadow blocked the dim light at the top of the stairs, then passed. Zanja felt Karis begin to breathe again. “I wonder what they were talking about,” she murmured.

“The weather,” said Zanja.

“Do you speak their language, or are you just guessing?”

“I do speak it, though with a terrible accent.”

“You speak this language with an accent too, though I’d not call it terrible.” Karis stepped out into the wide corridor, into which opened double doors wide enough to admit a wagon such as the one that had carried Zanja to this place. Karis ignored these massive doors, and went out through a nearby postern door, around which mud and slush brought in by the guards’ boots puddled.

At first, all Zanja could see was snow. Then the walls took shape, a solid gray against the white sky. The low stone buildings to the right looked like stables; those to the left the guards’ quarters. One set of buildings looked no different from the other except that one had chimneys and smaller doors. The wind picked up and for a moment the entire scene disappeared behind blowing snow. Karis started boldly across the yard. The snow on Zanja’s face felt like sparks from a fire.

They reached the wall. Karis lifted a hand to the rough stone, and for a giddy moment Zanja thought she would simply push her way through, like a mole through earth. But she was testing a gray, snow‑speckled rope that lay nearly invisible against the stone.

Already shivering, Zanja felt as though she were drowning in snow. The prison building was nearly invisible. Karis took hold of the rope, dug her toes into the thin cracks between the stones, and began to climb. She did it gracelessly, hastily, almost carelessly. Zanja hung upon her back, helpless as a bundle of laundry. When she turned her head, she could see portions of the compound, made ghostly and distant by the gray light and the falling snow.

The snow cleared suddenly, and the central building appeared, squatting sullenly under its dusting of snow. On each corner of the square enclosure stood a guard tower, whose guards surely could see Zanja as clearly as she saw them. Then the snow began to fall again, but not soon enough. She heard the distinct, echoing report of a musket shot.

Karis muttered a curse, and hauled herself up to the top of the wall. There was a blare of alarm horns. Zanja imagined what she could not see: the doors of the guards’ quarters bursting open, and soldiers in their uniforms rushing for the stables and for the gates.

The sky swirled as Karis swung down the other side of the wall and swarmed down the rope to where a huge horse waited with stolid patience. And then she stood in snow, breathing heavily, holding Zanja by the wrist as she cut the rope with a sharp knife, until Zanja dangled loose across her back, feet dragging in the snow. The rank sheepskin doublet that Karis wore kept Zanja from feeling the muscle of that back, but after these demonstrations of strength she was not at all surprised when Karis simply picked her up and set her upon the horse’s back, then dragged herself up behind her.

The horse jumped as if she had flicked him with a whip, and lunged headlong into the woods and down the hill, spraying clots of snow around him. No horse could keep up such a pace for long in snow so deep, but by the time he slowed, Karis seemed satisfied. “They already are turning back,” she said. “They have no stomach for this foul weather.”

Zanja lay slumped against Karis’s shoulder, too weak to sit up on her own, hardly able to even hold up her head or lift a hand to brush the snow from her face. “This has been a very strange day,” she murmured. And then sleep overwhelmed her.

Chapter Five

Snow was still falling when Karis hid Zanja and the horse in the hills, and went on foot to let herself into the barn of a fine farmstead near the edge of the forest that hems in West Hart. Like everything in this part of Shaftal, the barn was built of stone and mortar within a sheltered hollow, with a roof so low the beasts sheltered there could scarcely lift their heads. Two cows this farmstead owned, and two horses, and a dozen or more sheep. This farmstead was far off the beaten track, far enough that perhaps it had never been raided by Sainnites, who had been known to butcher the milk cows and strip the cellars to the walls. The dark day and shuttered windows had fooled the chickens, who had gone to roost in the low rafters though the sun would not set for some time yet. No doubt the numbers of this substantial flock would be sadly diminished come spring.

These people were not wholly hostile to strangers, for a loaf of pauper’s bread, wrapped in wax cloth, rested upon a shelf just inside the door. A wide‑mouthed jar with a stopper hung there as well. Karis milked a cow into the jug. She found some hen’s eggs in the hay and tied them up with the bread. She could find nothing to carry oats in, and finally took off one of her shirts and made a bag out of it by tying the sleeves together and pulling tight the neck string. She left some coins in compensation for having taken more than was customary, and returned the way she had come, walking in her own footprints.

In a goat’s burrow hidden in the nearby hills, Zanja lay as Karis had left her, wrapped in the horse blanket, watched over by the raven. She still slept like a child, her skin flushed as with fever, her hair a matted tangle, her hands limply open against the earth. Her fingers were thin as sticks, and every bone stood out harshly in her sharply angled face. Karis lay down the fistful of oats she had reserved for the raven, and sat in the opening of the burrow, just out of reach of the falling snow. She heard faintly the horse crunching dry oats with his big teeth. He needed to be stabled and fed properly, but a good bit of grueling travel still lay ahead of them this night.

Zanja had slept the entire day through, collapsed in Karis’s arms like a jointed puppet with the strings cut loose. While she slept, Karis nourished her, and felt herself slowly emptied, and knew the giddiness that comes from too much generosity. When the raven rejoined them, he crept inside the shelter of the blanket that wrapped them both, and he muttered in Karis’s ear all he knew, every word Zanja had spoken during that strange night. It had been genius to send the raven, Karis supposed, but now there seemed something diabolical in his masquerade. She had created him intelligent, but he was also without compunction.

Now sunset was approaching and Karis still could not decide what to do. When she turned her head, Zanja was looking at her.

Zanja awoke in a cramped cranny between two boulders, which was blocked at one end by brush and stone, and at the other end by Karis, whose extraordinary length folded impossibly into the narrow space. Her back bowed to match the curve of the stones; her legs fit tightly to her chest, and her arms tucked to her sides, bent at the elbows, with her hands atop her knees. Her shirt hung loose at the neck and wrist, and oat grains were stuck m the weave of the fabric. Slush and melted snow puddled at her feet and dripped from the curled tips of her hacked‑off hair. She looked as worn as her stained and poorly patched clothing: a used‑up woman on the verge of going to rags.

Why did her kith and kin let a woman of rare and valuable talent go hungry, cold, and poorly clothed like this?

Karis turned her head, and Zanja caught her breath. She sat up, tossed off the heavy horse blanket which covered her, and took off Karis’ sheepskin doublet.

Karis said hoarsely, “No, you wear it.”

“Not while you are cold.”

“I’m not.”

“But you’re trembling.”

Karis lifted one of the hands with which she clasped her knee, and examined its tremor without surprise. “It’s nearly sunset.”

“It is?” Puzzled, Zanja examined their droppings‑strewn shelter: the raven, who ate oats greedily, the plain round loaf of bread and the jug and eggs that waited beside it on the ground, and Karis again, who gazed at her steadily, as though waiting for something. Zanja remembered how the day had begun, but she remembered nothing else. Now, a green and raw energy pulsed in her wasted body, like sap rising in winter’s skeletal trees, and Karis, who that morning had seemed gigantic in spirit as well as body, now seemed diminished, exhausted, worn to the bone. It was as though she had poured herself into the wreck of Zanja’s flesh until all her reserves were exhausted.

Zanja said, “ Serrain, I don’t understand you.”

Karis slid into the cleft and crouched close to Zanja, so close that drops of melting snow from her hair stung the skin of Zanja’s hand. “Why do you call me ‘Serrain’? What does it mean?”

“I–honor you. I don’t know how it’s proper to address a Shaf‘ tali elemental…”

“So you’re making me a stranger.”

“No, my people value formality–”

Karis looked away, the line of her body a cipher of frustration. “But if you were being impetuous, even foolhardy?”

“Karis.” It did seem foolhardy, even to call her by name like this. “You could have my servitude, for surely I owe you whatever you demand. So why demand a friendship, which requires an obligation in return?”

“How else could my behavior possibly be explained, except as fulfilling an obligation? Well, madness, I suppose.”

“It does seem like madness,” Zanja said.

“Do you think so?” In body and in spirit Karis filled a great deal of space, and Zanja was fighting with herself to keep from backing away. There was something of the raven in Karis’s way of waiting for Zanja to speak: intent, expectant, almost apprehensive. Unlike the fire bloods, earth bloods normally were stable as stone, but it appeared that Karis doubted her own sanity.

Zanja said, “Perhaps it only seems like madness since you are a complete stranger and have no reason to be obligated to me. But–” The inexplicable certainty of insight rose up in her and she said in astonishment, “but in the future, I will serve you, and you will indeed be obligated–”

Karis let out her breath as though someone had suddenly slammed a fist into her back.

Zanja reached for Karis’s hand. It was surprisingly warm, and had a fluttering tremor, like a palsy. Karis’s other hand rested upon her thigh. When Zanja touched it to turn it over, it flexed involuntarily but did not pull away. Upon this wrist, as upon the other, was inscribed in faded scars an old despair. There had been a time, years ago, when Karis had tried to kill herself.

And then she remembered: the gangly, extraordinarily tall young woman, a refugee from the fall of the House of Lilterwess, being escorted like a prisoner to the waiting wagon. She remembered how she had watched her being carried away, and how the sight had laid a horror upon her heart.

She looked up into Karis’s shadowed face. That despairing prisoner certainly had been she, though she hardly seemed helpless any longer. Karis broke the silence with a voice that strained to seem indifferent, “If I simply sat here in silence long enough, would you discover all my secrets?”

“I’m beginning to think I might.”

She still held Karis’s trembling hand. In the silence, she could hear how unsteadily Karis breathed. Zanja didn’t say anything, fearing that she had already been too presumptuous. Then Karis said, “There was a time that I could not endure my life. I wish it were my worst dishonor or my greatest shame. But the truth is that I dishonor myself every day, and will do so again today.”

She had spoken these terrible words with a bleak hopelessness that defied response. Zanja groped her way out of that silence with uncertain words. “Surely … if it were true that you have no honor, then there would be no reason for you to be so tortured.”

“I have no honor,” Karis said heavily. “I would–and can–do anything for smoke.”

Three months ago, Zanja would have dropped Karis’s drug palsied hand and pulled away in involuntary disgust. But she had seen repugnance in the eyes of her Sainnite guards every day since then, as they recoiled from her crippled body. Karis, though, had touched her without hesitation or disgust. So now Zanja held onto Karis’s hand. “You consider yourself responsible,” she said. “Call it what you will, it seems honorable to me.”

A long time Karis gazed at her, until the raven said harshly, “You are in dire danger!”

“Oh, shut up.” But Karis gently eased her hand from Zanja’s grasp.

Zanja said, “What kind of danger?”

“More kinds of danger than I can begin to name,” Karis said briskly, and served without ceremony the scavenged meal of bread as hard as stone, milk fresh from the cow, eggs raw in the shell. Zanja ate like the starved soul she was; Karis ate as though she were doing the food a favor. While Zanja ate, she considered whether she might demand to be told what Karis had to fear. If she had been caught up in this strange woman’s destiny and was somehow to do her a great service, then surely she might be in a position to insist upon the truth.

When the last dry crumb was gone and the raven had pecked apart the emptied eggshells, Karis said suddenly, “Well, there’s a farmstead not far from here, where I imagine they would take you in, and even marry you into the family. Isolated places like this get hungry for new blood, and it’s a prosperous little farm. I could give you a bit of a dowry, to ease your way.”

Zanja said, bewildered, “Wherever you go, I am going with you.”

“No, you are not.” Karis busied herself with getting ready to go.

The day had succumbed to a cold twilight. Zanja looked down at her wasted limbs. “But I am no threat to you. Even in my full strength–”

Karis looked up sharply, and Zanja saw how distressed she was. “Under smoke I am utterly defenseless.”

“After you saved my life and took such risks, I couldn’t even think of harming you.”

Karis slung the horse blanket over her shoulder.

“But still, you dare not trust me? I’ll swear you an oath. My word is my honor–your raven, who knows my entire life, can tell you as much.”

Trembling, glassy‑eyed, Karis said, “An oath would make no difference. I can’t take you with me.”

Zanja said, “Then leave me where I am.”

“You’ll freeze to death this very night!”

“I do not want a life that has no purpose.”

Karis said angrily, “I’ll carry you to the farm against your will, if I must.”

Zanja waited. Ransel always said there was something uncanny about her ability to distinguish a true threat from a bluff. Karis sat back on her heels. “What oath?”

“Before my god Salos’a, She Who Travels Between the Worlds, I swear I will value your life as my own, protect you from harm when you are injured, serve your interests when you are absent, guard your back in every battle, love your friends and hate your enemies, and honor your name in life and in death.” It was the oath Zanja and Ransel had sworn to each other when they were scarcely more than children.

Karis said, “Now you are being foolhardy.”

“You think I would choose to sit warm and dry in some farmer’s cottage, while you go forth alone into the bitter night? That I would be content to live out my days bearing children and hoeing corn when I could have embraced a perilous destiny instead? You do not know me, Karis.”

“I know Norina, to whose house we are going. She will blame you that I put myself at your mercy. And you will indeed be in peril.” Karis crawled out of the burrow and whistled shrilly for the horse.

The snow lay deep upon the barren hills, which swelled like a lovely woman’s breasts under a gray silk sky. In the cleft between them clustered groves of leafless trees, and far away in the lower country Zanja thought she spotted a speck of light, perhaps a window of that farm where a warm fire burned behind thick windowpanes.

It was cold, bitter cold, and would be colder still if the wind picked up. Karis waded in knee‑deep snow as she carried Zanja down the hillside to the waiting horse. Trembling had taken over her entire frame, and she stumbled in the snow like a dying animal struggling to remain afoot. Her skin, where Zanja touched it, was clammy, and the color had drained out of her face. Zanja had seen many a warrior stricken to the heart who looked no better than this: dazed and shiny‑eyed as her soul already started down the last path. Karis managed to lift Zanja to the horse’s back, and stood leaning against the beast’s broad shoulder, breathing shallowly as though she might faint, fumbling one‑handed at the buttons of her woolen shirt.

Zanja worked one hand under the cinch to hold herself steady on the horse’s unsaddled back. “Can I help?”

The raven, now perched upon the horse’s rump, said, “Leave her be.”

Zanja looked hastily away as Karis drew a smoke purse out from within her shirt. Zanja once had curiously examined such a purse in the marketplace, not realizing until later what it was for. It would contain a tin matchbox filled with expensive sulfur matches, a charred pipe of carved wood, and a supply of the drug, each small piece wrapped in a twist of waxed paper.

The raven said, “The horse will be unable to carry the two of you in such deep snow. You’ll have to ride alone, while she walks.”

“I will stay on the horse somehow,” Zanja said. She would tie herself to the cinch if she had to.

She heard the crack and sputter of a match being lit, and smelled the stink of sulfur, and then a second smell, like burning mold, the scent of dark alleyways and dilapidated doorways. Karis sighed out her breath and said, suddenly and clearly, “Zanja, the raven is only clever in certain ways. You will have to use your judgment.”

“I understand,” Zanja said, continuing to gaze out at the landscape.

“And you must instruct me–much as we both … dislike the idea. I will obey you. I will–have to.”

The raven said, “You didn’t take a second breath of smoke. Do it now.” Karis said nothing, but Zanja heard another heavy sigh. “Now pack the purse–shake the ashes out of the pipe first–and button your shirt.”

Zanja took off the sheepskin doublet and leaned down to put it on Karis. Karis allowed herself to be clothed and fastened against the cold, all the while gazing into Zanja’s face with the eyes of an infant: startlingly blue and terribly, invitingly helpless. Zanja said to her, her voice strange and rough in her ears, “Good raven, does she have no cap to wear?”

The answer, it seemed, was no, and neither could the raven reassure Zanja that Karis’s boots were well greased or her stockings warm enough to keep her feet from freezing. Karis had embarked on her cold journey no better equipped than a pauper.

Zanja would have to keep Karis moving so that she would not freeze, and perhaps in the end the horse would still have to carry them both. For now, though, Zanja wrapped herself in the heavy blanket, and hoped that their journey would not take so very long.

“It will take half the night at least,” the raven said, when they had started in the direction he told her.

Zanja sighed, dismayed anew. “Is Norina her commander? Her lover?”

The raven cawed a harsh and even bitter laugh. “Lover? Smoke deprives its users of both agency and desire. And,” he added gleeful at her shock, “Norina will happily kill you.”

Some hours had passed when the clouds parted to reveal the light‑edged blades of the stars, none of which seemed to be in quite the right place any more. Zanja gazed up at them, stunned by cold and by the beauty of the night sky, which she had never expected to see again. The relocated stars reminded her how far she was from home, and how much she was altered, and how much she had forgotten. The obedient giant trudged listlessly through the snow, breaking the way for the horse and perhaps being broken in the process. The snow cracked like ice beneath her weight. The iron chill invaded Zanja’s flesh, cutting like knife to bone.

When Karis tripped over the road stones and fell into the road, Zanja dazedly thought that it must be her fault. And then she came out of her daze enough to realize what danger they were in. “How close are we?” she cried to the raven, who had flown to Karis and flapped around her as she floundered to her feet again. There was blood, Zanja saw, in the snow. Earth blood. The spilling of it would bless this spot, and the road workers would curse the weeds that would displace the stones here with grand abandon, come spring, and only Zanja would know why, if she lived until then.

The horse had followed Karis into the road, and nosed her gently, as though she were a foundering foal. “Karis, come here,” Zanja slurred. Karis came, and stood quietly as Zanja brushed the snow from her shirt front and her hair, stopped her nosebleed with the help of some snow, and then felt her hands, which seemed even colder than her own. She slipped her fingers into the breast of Karis’s shirt. Karis gazed up at her, seemingly relaxed, with her lips parted, but suddenly breathing too quickly, and with her heart pounding against Zanja’s hand. What did Karis fear? That Zanja would embrace the temptation of that terrible, malleable innocence? Or that she would take the smoke purse and so take control of all Karis’s choices?

Zanja hastily removed her hand and said, “Karis, your heart is still warm–that sheepskin doublet will keep you alive, at least. But you’re too tired to continue, and I am too cold. Perhaps the smoke keeps you from even knowing that you’re tired. But you were tired to start with, and perhaps you didn’t know it then, either.”

The raven had been watching Zanja as if considering whether to peck her to pieces. But now, he said with great civility, “We’ve gone more than half the distance.”

“How much more than half?”

“Not much at all.”

“Then this journey is going to end badly, good raven. There is no shelter nearby?”

“No.”

Zanja’s emaciated frame had begun to shiver uncontrollably, with cold or with weakness. “Karis–should have abandoned me– she could have ridden. I should not have been so insistent. Now we both are in danger.”

The raven watched her, with inscrutable raven’s eyes.

“We will die without help,” Zanja said.

There was a weight and warmth against Zanja’s knee where Karis had leaned suddenly. Perhaps, in that long silence, she was considering Zanja’s words, in however slow or strange a way. The raven said, “Follow the road south to the third set of milestones, and then go east into the woods. Due east, until you reach a ridge, then follow the ridge to the southeast. You understand?”

“Yes.”

The raven still hesitated, as though he wanted to admonish her further, or threaten her perhaps. Then, the raven spread his wings, and flew into the darkness.

Following Zanja’s instructions, Karis struggled to mount the horse, and even using a large stone as a mounting block almost could not succeed. But when at last she rode behind Zanja, with the blanket wrapped around them both, they had a little warmth for a while, which they shared between them like two starvelings might share a piece of bread.

Only in winter did the sky seem at once so bright and so dark. The sharp‑edged lights of the night sky crowded down upon the frozen earth, but their fires were cold. When it came time to leave the road and go east among the trees, a steady shower of dislodged snow flung itself at them, like sparks falling from the stars’ bitter fires. Zanja began to shiver again, and all her many disciplines could not keep her attention from wandering down unlikely and devious paths, which more often than not brought her up short at a shattered ravine where something had happened that she could not and did not wish to remember.

The horse also was wandering, indifferent to the stars that Zanja wanted him to follow, trying only to find the route of the shallowest snow and fewest trees. Zanja had not the strength to force him to do differently, and she wondered if they were lost, and how they might hope to be found on such a night. Then she ceased to be interested in such questions.

Some time later, she fell into a snowdrift, and lay there in a vast confusion of mind. The horse’s big hooves stamped down not a handspan from her head, and for a moment she thought she lay once again in the Asha Valley, under the hooves of a Sainnite warhorse. There were yellow flames and an angry voice shouting, and then the horse blundered away. A lantern glared into her eyes, and beside it glared the scarred, narrow‑lipped, hard‑eyed face of a warrior, who seemed to be deciding the best way to make an end of her.

Lord Death flapped into the light. “She is under Karis’s protection!”

“Karis is a fool!” The warrior tossed the raven roughly aside. She took Zanja by the arm, and jerked her out of the drift. Zanja landed in a tangle, but struggled to her knees. The warrior was going to strike her, and if Zanja ducked the blow the woman would draw the wicked dagger that, for now at least, remained sheathed. Zanja drew herself up to accept the fist instead. The blow never landed, and so she had leisure to remember what it was like to strike someone who neither flinched nor fought back. She had only ever hit someone like that once, and never forgot the shame of it. So now this warrior restrained herself, perhaps also remembering other blows struck in rage that she later had cause to regret.

The warrior said, after a moment, “You’re a smart woman, whoever you are.”

Zanja would have gotten to her feet then, if she could have, and faced this worthy opponent eye to eye and blade to blade. Even were she at the peak of strength and skill she likely would be defeated, but it would be an education worth its price in spilled blood and injured pride. Scarcely had she thought this when the warrior’s scarred face creased with a grim amusement, and she unceremoniously hauled Zanja up and dragged her to the lightweight sledge that stood nearby, and dumped her into it like a load of potatoes. “How is Karis?”

The man she spoke to knelt at Karis’s feet with a lantern nearby, feeling her bare toes with ungloved hands. He seemed unsurprised by the warrior’s abruptness and violence. “She’s fine, Norina. A touch of frostbite, nothing serious. Why did you never tell me your friend is a smoke addict? It explains so much…” He glanced over at Zanja, and his eyes widened. “Shaftal’s Name!”

He left Karis to the brisk attentions of the warrior, and beat the snow out of Zanja’s clothing, then wrapped her in a bearskin robe. “What happened to you? You’re naught but bone in skin.”

“Captivity,” Zanja said.

“Drink some of this, if you can.” He uncorked a small jug and gave it to her to drink. “I am J’han, of the Order of Healers.”

Zanja let him feel her hands and breast, but stopped him when he reached for the heavy socks that Karis had given her. “Don’t touch my feet.”

“What?”

She could hardly blame him for being so bewildered, but the warrior’s hand appeared suddenly on the healer’s shoulder, and the woman said, “J’han, I guess I need to talk privately to–”

“This is Zanja,” he murmured automatically, as though introducing friends at a festival.

“Just a few words with her.”

The healer climbed out of the sledge and walked out of earshot, shaking his head all the while. “What did Karis do to you?” Norina said.

Zanja said, “When Karis found me, I was paralyzed. My back was broken. My flesh was rotting. Half my toes had been hacked off.”

Norina snatched off one of Zanja’s socks and looked at what Zanja did not want the healer to see: the incongruous, soft pink toes that lay against the others like replacement boards in a weathered barn. She muttered, “Karis, I will eviscerate you.”

“You’ll have to kill me first.”

“And how difficult would thatbe? Listen: You were wise to keep J’han from realizing what power is at work here. And you’d be unwise to irritate me further. The way to guarantee that I don’t simply toss you back into that snowdrift would be for you to promise to do whatever I tell you to do.“

“I give you my word that I will do as you say,” Zanja said.

“Good. Start by continuing to keep your mouth shut.” She put dry socks on Zanja’s feet, and called the healer back to the sledge. He came leading the hang‑headed plow horse, which barely seemed able to drag his feet through the snow, and tied the lead to the back of the sledge.

“We’ll go now,” Norina said.

The man seemed to know better than to demand an explanation from her. He simply got into the sledge, and drew up a lap robe over his legs.

They reached a small stone cottage tucked among the hills, which had a chimney wall dividing its two rooms, kitchen at one side and bedroom at the other. In the bedroom, Norina stripped Karis naked beside the fire, tossing her wet clothing onto the floor, carelessly revealing a magnificence of muscle and form that might make a sculptor weep. With Karis folded into the too‑small bed, then it was Zanja’s turn to be stripped and dumped into a scalding bath, where she could not avoid seeing what the Sainnites had done to her. Beneath the grime, which at least could be washed away, her loose skin bagged over wasted muscle. Her joints seemed too big, like swollen knobs on slender branches. Her breasts had fallen flat upon her rib cage; her face, which never had been soft, felt like a skull under her fingertips. Her teeth even were loose, though by some stroke of good fortune none had fallen out. This alien form was made only stranger by the restoration to which it had been subjected. All down her back and buttocks, sensitive pink skin patched the brown.

Norina had left her alone, and came back in to find Zanja worn out with washing, too tired to resist or even to object when the hostile stranger washed her back and took on the project of her hair. Neither of them spoke, and Norina offered no gestures of pity, no matter what the sight of Zanja’s devastated body made her think. Brusque and efficient, she hauled Zanja out of the tub and sat her upon the hearth wrapped in a blanket, and called in the healer to help carry away the tub. She returned again in a while, with a bowl of broth. The smell of food brought Zanja out of her daze.