“I left Melsa there,” Manrie said.
Old Yesaera smiled at her and said, “She may not be far away.”
Manrie looked at the hole in the floor of Old Yesaera’s weaving room. The cloth had been drawn up but the hole still gaped with darkness, and she imagined a hand reaching over its lip and the last manifestation of the Immortal pulling itself into the room.
She was alone with the weaver. The others were still asleep in Old Yesaera’s small bedroom, Maedreth and Little Praeda curled on the bed, Koenbahki spread out on the floor. Manrie had slept, but not deeply. The stew that the weaver had fed them sat heavily in her belly and all of her joints ached. Her mouth felt endlessly dry, and Cloedeya, stirring inside of her, wanted to feed her and mourned the fact that he couldn’t. So she had risen at last and walked with her haunted head into the weaving room, where the old woman sat as if she were waiting for her.
Early morning sunlight was slanting in through an open door that looked out on a city. The weaver’s house sat at the summit of one of the six hills, and a river split apart at the northern edge of the city and poured its tributaries along the base of the east and west walls, embracing the citizens in the low murmur of its passage over sandy rock. Yenceyan. When Old Yesaera had named the city the night before, Koenbahki had broken into hysterical laughter. Manrie had said, “So we didn’t journey to another world. Did we travel through time?”
But they hadn’t done that, either, or at least not in any significant way. Three moon cycles had passed since the Battle of Mueslahvin’s Fort, and that seemed about right. All that time, trapped on the farm, journeying to Hasra, traveling through the immense and unforgiving darkness, and they had arrived at the place they started for. Only without Cloedeya, without Big Praeda, without Melsa. Manrie stared at the hole in the floor and began to weep.
Old Yesaera didn’t shush her. She handed her a piece of fine cloth and set a tea pot over the coals of the fire. When Manrie was done crying she said, “It wouldn’t work.”
“What wouldn’t work, my dear?”
“Summoning Melsa up through that hole. The discs are still down there. The spirit stones. The ghosts won’t leave them.”
The water boiled. The weaver poured a cup of tea. She handed it to Manrie. Then she went to a wooden chest that sat under the window and opened it and drew out the backpack. It was ripped along the seam, and the edge of a disc peered out of it. Katemzan Daturi sharpened within Manrie’s mind. She was annoyed that she hadn’t heard the backpack speaking into the room.
“I went down into the cave while you were sleeping,” the old woman said. She opened the pack and drew out the bestiary. She held it in her hands lovingly. “It seems that one of you is an artist. Perhaps you?”
“It must be me,” Manrie said, her head throbbing with tiredness and thick with never-ending hunger. “It can’t be Cloedeya or Big Praeda or Katemzan or Magda.” Confusion came into the weaver’s kind eyes, and Manrie realized that she was speaking of the wrong people. She gave a little laugh and tried to sip from her cup of tea. Her hand was shaking. Old Yesaera gave her time. When she had managed to take a sip, she said, “But if you brought that up here, the ghosts must know about it.”
The weaver nodded. “They do. They crowded about the house in the night. I’m sure that it’s caused comment. I am expecting a visit this morning.”
The cup froze as Manrie was lifting it to her lips. It protested. Its rim wanted to be tickled by her lips. “Are we in danger?”
“It depends on who decides to visit us. I will say that you are weavers, come to learn my techniques. Not an unusual occurrence, although I may sound vain by saying so.”
“There was…there was someone chasing us.”
“So I gathered. But whoever it was did not come near me when I went down into the cavern. It is an odd place, that cavern. Sometimes it seems quite familiar, and other times I feel like I am standing in a strange land. This time, I did not recognize it at all. If the person who was chasing you is still down there, it is possible that the cavern took them along some twist of tunnel, and that they are lost.”
Manrie considered this. The ghost of Big Praeda was whispering something in her ear. At last she said, “We’ll need new names.”
The weaver sat back down on the bench of her loom. Her fingers played with the taught strings of the warp. The cloth she was weaving was of red and blue yarn, wound with silver thread. It was quite beautiful, and the thread caught the light from the door and sent it chiming against the ceiling. “Why?” she asked softly.
“Koenbahki is known here. She was a baker’s daughter.”
“Was?”
“Her family is dead. There was a revolt.”
“Yes.” The old, swollen fingers played at the warp as if trying to make music. “They followed Mueslahvin, then. A tragedy.” Old Yesaera sighed and shook herself. “Yes. You’ll need new names.”
“We need to find Melsa.”
The sharp eyes regarded her from their bed of wrinkles. “So you’ve said. You seem to flit from topic to topic, like a butterfly. How did she die?”
“I don’t know. A ghost was riding me at the time.”
The old woman picked up a smooth wooden shuttle and began to turn it in her hands. “What does that mean? A ghost rode you?”
“They…they enter me. They possess me.”
Old Yesaera drew a sharp breath between her teeth. “Possess. That is a cruel world. A slaver’s word.”
“That’s what it feels like. Only, they aren’t cruel like that. Well, some of them aren’t cruel. But they do take me over with their memories, so I don’t know which memories are theirs, and which are mine. They force their moods on me, their suspicions, their angers. Their desires.”
“And is it painful to you?”
“Not painful. But I sometimes can’t remember who I am.”
The gnarled fingers turned the shuttle. The old woman was silent a moment, then turned her head to regard the loom with a kind of pleasant antagonism. “I suppose it’s like the warp and the weft. I often think that the warp is the part of oneself that belongs only to you. And the weft is all of the encounters, the friendships, the loves. The enmities. But there’s no cloth without both of them. Only no one sees the warp when the cloth is done. And by itself it is not a beautiful thing.” She glanced at Manrie and smiled apologetically. “It’s very boring, weaving. You sit here doing the same thing again and again, and your mind begins to wander. You create metaphors.”
“You’re very brave.”
“Because I sit here weaving?”
“Because you went down into the cave.”
“Ah. I have known that cave for many years. I built my house here because of it, because it drew my attention and I thought that it would be pleasant, to sit here and weave and let my mind wander down into it. Caves are marvelous places, you know. They have their own voice and they fill me with a longing. Some say that it is wise to avoid longing, but that’s not in my nature. I have heard that cave whisper to me day after day, and for a long time I thought that I could simply study the longing it inspired in me, and sit in a posture of resistance as I wove. I doubt that I’m explaining this very well. People don’t need to act on every thought that tumbles into their minds. We don’t need to find release from every emotion. So I sat within my great emotion, my yearning, my desire for the cave, and chose not to act, and it was far more tiring, more taxing, than acting ever is. The weaving helped. It anchored me, as I floated on a sea of my own desire. But then, one day, I went down into the cave.”
“You gave in.”
“No. No, I don’t think so. I think I knew that I was ready. That all of that resistance had prepared me for the moment. As if I had been arranging my warp on the loom. Another metaphor, I’m afraid. Or an expansion of the same metaphor. Anyway, I had sat, day after day, making the warp taut and ready, and now it was time to weave. And the cave would be my cloth.” She smiled and ran a hand over the half-finished cloth on the loom. “When I came back up, I wove a new piece, and it dazzled the mind. It was dangerous. And people came far and wide to look at that dangerous cloth. The king came and studied it with a worried look on his face. He begged me to let him have it, and I could see no reason why I shouldn’t, so I gave it to him, and he hung it on the wall beside his throne.” She sat back and dropped her hands in her lap. “A bad mistake, I’m afraid. He would glance at it throughout the day, and it infected him with longing. With my longing. My longing woven with the dark essence of the cave. He became very spastic, and worse things would have happened than those that have actually come to pass, if the fox didn’t bring him the fleece.”
Katemzan Daturi was fluttering inside of Manrie, anxious and angry. She wanted to rise to the surface. She was listening to the voice of the loom, and she wanted to fill Manrie’s mind with its babble. Manrie summoned Big Praeda to calm her, and for a moment her mind filled with nakedness, with love-making, with the consummation of desire. She flushed, and said “the fleece?” to cover her embarrassment.
The old woman regarded her. She seemed to miss nothing. “Surely you’ve heard of the Ram of Yenceyan, and its famous fleece?”
Manrie nodded, then frowned. Cloedeya was asserting himself. It was as if he were standing at the window of her mind, and one part of him was looking back at Big Praeda, noticing with surprise and gratification the exact composition of her passion for him, and the other part was looking forward, into the outside world, and thinking of roasted lamb, and mustard, and rosemary, and spiced wine. Manrie’s stomach growled. “I can’t,” she breathed.
“Can’t?” Old Yesaera asked her.
“I can’t live with all of them inside of me.”
“And yet you want one more.”
Tears ran down her cheeks. “I need the caravan. I would find Taeyaho, too, if I could. It took the caravan from me. The Immortal did.”
The weaver went very still. “That is the third famous name that you’ve spoken,” she said softly. “Really just the ghost of a name. Are you telling me, my dear, that you have knowledge of Cloedeya, and one of the Daturi ladies, and the Immortal of Taokeihla?”
“Yes,” Manrie said softly.
“They possess you?”
She looked down at her tea. It sloshed in the cup as her hands shook. “Cloedeya and Katemzan Prahmpara Droegee Daturi, the former Lady. Not…not the Immortal.”
“And yet he chased you through the caves?”
“He is not…he. The Immortal doesn’t know who it is. It says it can’t remember.”
“More lost to shifting lives than you are, then” Old Yesaera said softly. A pause. Manrie looked up at her. The weaver was leaning forward intently, studying her. “Child,” she said, “you need to learn to anchor yourself.”
“What does that mean?”
“I would like to teach you how to weave.”
She stood and patted the bench, and after a moment Manrie set her cup on the floor and went to it. Old Yesaera smelled slightly of bleach as she bent over her and put the shuttle in her hands. She taught in silence. Insistent silence, as if silence itself was the object of the lesson. Manrie worked, shifting the shed, beating the yarn into place. She went haltingly at first, then fell into a rhythm. The great ocean of tears inside of her began to still. The ghosts inside of her were quiet, as if she were rocking them to sleep. She fell into a kind of daze.
At some point Old Yesaera left the room. Manrie was aware of her whispering voice, and Koenbahki answering her. The others woke and walked silently through the weaving room into the sunlight outside the door. There was the odor of sesame and ginger, the sound of plates clinking together. Soft conversation. She heard the weaver ask Koenbahki about the Immortal, and heard Koenbahki answer. It all fell into the great and growing silence.
Manrie was weaving only with the silver thread. It grew and grew on the loom, without pattern. A single, shining light, a sparking foil. She stared at it, and it grew around her, huge and full of moonlight, and she fell into it, and was asleep.
Koenbahki woke her. A hand on her shoulder, the fall of soft hair across her cheek. Koenbahki had bathed. She smelled of sunlight. She was holding a plate beneath Manrie’s nose. “Sweetheart, you should eat.”
Manrie allowed herself to be led out into the bright morning. There was a little table set up at the edge of deep shadow beneath a camphor tree. The tree was old and gnarled and very smooth. Its crown rose above them and caught the light, and Manrie’s love went out to it. She felt that the tree could hold her, that it would if she asked it to, that it dreamed only of protecting her. She shivered and Koenbahki kissed her forehead.
“We have chosen new names,” Koenbahki said. “I will be Bahnkayavaela, and Maedreth will be Muejdahki.”
Breakfast had been cleared away, but a place setting had been left for her, a pair of chopsticks, a napkin, a cup of cold goat’s milk. She sat, and saw Maedreth, reclining deep in the tree’s shadow as Praeda played about her. The little girl was trying to climb the tree, scrambling a little way up the trunk and sliding back down again.
Manrie sat and stared out at the city stretching below them. She felt Magda’s sharp interest. Her amazement. The whisper of a thought. *You built this? You built all of this?* Manrie picked up a bun and chewed. At last she said, “What about Little Praeda?”
“What about me?” the girl called from the shadows.
“What’s your new name?”
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
“I don’t want a new name. And I want to be just Praeda again.”
“Yes,” Manrie said.
“And you should just be Manrie.”
She felt the tears start again. “Can I be? Just Manrie?”
“You can when you’re with us,” Koenbahki said, kissing her again. “You are known, now, Manrie. Throughout the Sand Hills, and beyond. And we are known to be your companions. I still have a husband, and Maedreth has children. And my family is known, here.”
“You chose a hard name to say.”
“You can call me ‘Bahki. Both names shorten to the same thing.”
“It’s clever,” the weaver said, emerging from around the side of the house. “It will do.” She went to the doorway of the weaving room and looked in. “You have used most of my silver thread.”
“I ruined your cloth. I’m sorry.”
“Not ruined. You changed its pattern. Now it is different. But not ruined. I had hoped, as I started weaving it, that I could bind the king to it. But I lack the intricacy of the Ram. My friend is lost, and I cannot draw him back.”
Manrie raised her head and looked at her. “We need wagons. We need to purchase food. We need to continue the caravan. For Cloedeya.”
The others looked at her. Then Koenbahki smiled and put down her bun. “The last bite is for Cloedeya,” she said, and Manrie nodded.
“But my dear,” the weaver said softly, “is he not inside of you?”
“He can be both,” Koenbahki said after a moment. “He’s a ghost, but he’s also the person he was in our memories. So is Big Praeda. And Melsa.”
“And Taeyaho,” Manrie said, and set down the remainder of her breakfast. “For Cloedeya,” she said. “The last bite is for Cloedeya.”
A line of soldiers appeared along the road. Old Yesaera’s house stood alone, as if the shadow of the camphor tree and the strange hole in the ground extended an invisible wall around the hill’s crest. The houses that came nearest to it were small and seemed diffident, as if they were shy of intruding on the weaver’s solitude. The road wound between them and emerged onto dusty ground, terminating not at the house but at a well that sat at the very edge of the tree’s shadow. There was a tall man leading the soldiers. He had a hitch in his leg and treated each step like a burden. He paused at the well and drew up a drink. The morning was already very hot.
After the man had drank he handed his cup to the soldier behind him and stood, his body tilted slightly to the left, observing the weaver and her guests. At last he came forward, resuming his walking by an act of will, his shoulders slumped, his feet dragging in the dirt.
“Those aren’t city guards,” Koenbahki whispered. “They’re mercenaries.”
“Yes,” Old Yesaera muttered. “The city is not how you knew it.”
The man came up to the table and stood over Manrie, propping himself heavily on an arm. He didn’t seem to notice her. He stared at the weaver where she stood by the door of her house with an air of simple expectancy. “They are saying in the streets that this hill filled with spirits last night. One must always pay attention to what they say in the streets.” He said it precisely, as if he were offering a lecture on occupying a city.
“Yes,” the weaver said. “There were many spirits here last night. I expect that they’ll come again when the sun goes down. Although, really, I believe that they are all around us, now. Strange, that they seem so shy of sunlight.”
Her words disturbed the man. He looked around wildly. The other soldiers were coming up behind him, and one of them muttered, “Steady on, Cap’n.”
The captain seemed to take comfort from this. He leaned more heavily on his arm. His hand was mere inches from Manrie’s plate. A down of gray hair covered his forearm, and he had a long and meandering scar that began at his elbow and disappeared under his sleeve. “I have been afflicted by a spirit,” he said.
Manrie flinched. She stared up at his jaw.
“Have you?” Old Yesaera asked.
“I was eating an apple and I looked down and saw a face in it. In the white fruit beneath the peel. Just where I had bitten it. As if my teeth had carved the face without me knowing it. So I don’t suspect poison. One must always have the kip tested for poison.”
“One must,” Old Yesaera agreed. “But it is possible to simply see a face that isn’t there. We do spend a great deal of time looking at faces. We might see their shape in any number of things. I made a pancake once and the char pattern on it looked just like the Duke of Imbero. The Old Duke. Not his son.”
“No,” the captain said. “No, my apple was haunted. I could tell because I started to feel the ghost inside me soon after. This was two days ago. Eight watches ago, to be precise. I have been afflicted ever since.”
“Was it the face of someone you knew?”
He winced, but spoke steadily. “A boy I killed. Long ago. In Drachahda.”
“But the spirits only began to rise at the beginning of summer.”
“Yes. He must have been following me. All this time. One must set good pickets, of course, but the best sentry can’t protect against a ghost.”
“I don’t know of anything that can.”
The captain looked about the hilltop. He tilted his head and looked up at the tree. “This would be a good site for a tower,” he suggested.
“Oh, King Pesijhalaeya thought so, too. He sent his engineers to poke around, but they discovered that the hill is hollow. Not a good place to sink a foundation, alas. My poor house is always in danger of sliding down the slope.”
The captain regarded the house with interest. “Is that so?”
“Yes it is,” Old Yesaera replied tartly. “One cannot build on hollow ground, you know.”
The captain regarded her. His jaw moved back and forth. From Manrie’s angle it was evident that someone had once tried to slit his throat. A long scar traced the skin beneath his jaw. “Haven’t heard of the spirits coming here on other nights. And they’ve never congregated anywhere else. One must keep a sharp eye on people congregating.”
“Yes, Captain,” the weaver said patiently. “But there have been stories of the dead being laid to rest. In other places.”
“Raesidae you mean. And Tzurfaera.”
“Yes.”
“A merchant arrived yesterday. He said that there was a caravan that had left Libreigia and was traveling east of the mountains. That this caravan had a witch with it. A witch who could tame the spirits. One must always listen to the stories of merchants.”
“That sounds like a very useful witch,” Old Yesaera said. “When did this caravan leave Libreigia?”
The captain considered. “A few moons ago, I suppose.”
“And it was traveling east? Then I don’t see how it could be here.”
“No.” He reached down and plucked up the piece of bun that Manrie had set aside for Cloedeya. He chewed it thoughtfully.
“I don’t think that’s been tested for poison,” Manrie said.
He looked down at her, as if noticing her for the first time. “No? You ate it, didn’t you? Are you poisoned?”
“No.”
“Umm,” he said, and swallowed. “There could be another witch,” he said to Old Yesaera. Then he glanced casually around. His gaze fell on Maedreth. “That one looks witchy.”
“Don’t see me,” Maedreth whispered.
“Why not? I see everything. One must always keep a look out.”
“You are mistaking the person for the tool,” Old Yesaera said. “I am a weaver. I’m not a loom.”
“Meaning?”
“Why does it need a witch? Surely you have heard of the strange stone that was used to lay the dead to rest in Tzurfaera?”
“Do you have such a stone?”
The weaver didn’t glance at Manrie. She didn’t ask permission. She simply said, “I do.”
“Where did it come from? One must always trace the source of contraband.”
“A friend brought it to me yesterday morning. There are several stones in the city right now. Haven’t you noticed?”
The captain reached down and picked up Manrie’s drinking cup. He looked into it with an air of disappointment, as it was empty. “That seems unlikely. Did these strangers bring it?” He waved distractedly at Manrie and her friends.
“How do you know they’re strangers?”
“One must keep track of everyone in a city. And you didn’t deny it.”
“I deny it now. They’re not strangers.”
“No?” His gaze roved over the upturned faces. “Where is Soenagal Street? Don’t answer weaver. I’m asking your guests.”
“Nowhere,” Koenbahki said brightly. “They destroyed it to make the new treasury.”
The captain grunted. “Could you all have answered me? Little girl, what happens on Kriyahn Hill every fourth moon?”
Praeda stared up at him. “I don’t know.”
“Why would she?” Koenbahki asked sharply. “Not every child is interested in executions.”
“Bet you were, though,” the captain said, and winked. Koenbahki reared back, offended. “Old woman,” he said, turning his attention to Maedreth. “I see you. No point in you mumbling that I shouldn’t. Who has the best flour in town?” Koenbahki tensed at Manrie’s side. The captain noticed and hissed, “Don’t answer for her.”
Maedreth shrank away, tilting her whole body towards the shadow of the tree. “Don’t see me. Don’t see me.”
The captain grunted. “Can’t answer, can you?” He turned his attention back to Old Yesaera. “Strangers,” he said.
“Maybe to the city. Not to me. They are weavers come from Hiraherra to study my techniques.”
“Hiraherra,” the captain muttered. “Are you so famous?”
“I am well known.”
“But they didn’t bring your mysterious stone?”
“No.”
“Show the stone to me now, please.”
The weaver sighed and went into her house. She emerged a moment later carrying a stone. It was striped with orange and a sickly green. She brought it to the captain and he held it, looking down. “Do you see a face in it?” she asked with sham interest.
“How does it work?”
“No one knows.”
“Maybe the alchemist does.”
“What alchemist?”
“We captured him three days ago. A clever man, but he once killed the king’s fifth cousin. Not that Old Pesi noticed when he came slinking back to the city. And one must always keep clever men about.” He studied the spirit stone for a moment more, then turned to his men. “We’ll bring them all. They’re all lying, I’m sure.”
The mercenaries moved to surround the little group. Praeda buried her face in Maedreth’s chest. Koenbahki clutched at Manrie’s arm. Manrie looked up at the captain and said, “Don’t you feel it?”
“Feel what?”
“The ghost inside of you. Isn’t it drawn towards the stone?”
The captain frowned. He stared down at the stone. “I feel nothing.”
“Then it isn’t a ghost that plagues you.”
“It must be. I saw the face in the apple, and then I fell ill.”
“You were poisoned.”
“No.”
“Yes. It must be.”
“No. I am immune to most poisons. One must inoculate oneself against them.”
“Most, but not all. Or perhaps you are simply ill.”
“No. One must never let illness affect one. Stand please. We will make this pleasant. No ropes. No chains. Not if you come peacefully. One must always treat prisoners with respect.”
“Are we prisoners now?” Old Yesaera asked. “There was a time when I enjoyed the king’s favor.”
“King Pesijhalaeya wanders in his mind. Someone must lead the city.”
“I was told that Gaelspar Banjerhae has been appointed seneschal.”
“He has. That doesn’t mean he leads.”
“And I thought that you were merely a mercenary captain.”
He regarded her cooly. “One must do many things to fulfill a contract. Come, old woman. It is a short walk. I will return you to your house by eventide.”
“And my guests?”
He looked about at the faces. “Perhaps.”
Manrie had never been to Yenceyan, and neither had Katemzan Daturi. Magda came close to the window of Manrie’s eyes and stared about with wonder. Manrie pushed her back and summoned Cloedeya and Big Praeda. They knew this city. There was the house where they had stayed three years ago. A ramshackle house at the foot of the hill, the last refuge of a once great family that had fallen from power. Plaster flaked from the walls and bricks showed through, their mortar grimed with age. But the patriarch had been full of humor and love. His many clients came for the dinner that Cloedeya made, river lobster charred and served with butter, accompanied by a paste made of carrots and peas and the distilled juices of the camarara pepper. The clients had teased their patron and he had teased them back and Big Praeda had paused in serving out the good dark bread that Koenbahki’s father had brought them and thought *This is a love world. Surely this is a love world.* A moment of bliss that contrasted sharply with the fear of Manrie’s passage through the city, the way that Koenbahki gripped her hand as the soldiers jostled her.
The road wound through the streets and faces stared out from the windows. All the windows were small, and they were hung with patterned blankets to keep the sand from blowing in. A memory from Cloedeya. Sitting in an upper room as the wind raged outside, shelling the strange, sighing nuts that grew far to the north. The voices of the shells droned a single monotone note, and it was dissonant within the whistling of the wind. The room was in semidarkness, and the heavy blanket fell in a straight line across the window, and yet the sand blew in, piling on the floor beneath the blanket’s trim. Katemzan shifted uncertainly, not knowing if the memory was hers, wondering why she couldn’t hear the blanket speak. Manrie let her come forward, and the buildings began to talk. One wall yearned for a girl who had once drawn on its smooth surface. A picture of flowers drawn in red crayon, washed away long since. In one of the houses, a scrap of rag was pondering grease in a dull, philosophical revery. They passed a chandler and a row of candles argued about fire, wanting to be set aflame, but fearing that they would disappear within the fulfilling of their purpose.
The sounds changed, the voices filled with dread. Manrie struggled to push Katemzan away. The chaplain helped her. Magda felt pride and wonder. *You made this,* she said in Manrie’s ear. *You and your people made this. Our descendants. You made all of this. How is it possible?* But she, too, fell silent, as they came in sight of Kriyahn Hill. Cloedeya knew this hill, and hated it. He had come here once to feed the prisoners. A bored guard had beaten him with languid violence and sent him away again. He remembered the eyes of a girl in a cage, watching him as he retreated. Luminous eyes, grown huge in her gaunt face.
The cages dangled from posts. They were round, like bird cages, and swung on their rusty chains. There was a guard walking among them, accompanied by a little boy who was trailing a stick. The guard was swinging the cages, setting them turning to keep the tedium at bay. The people in them didn’t seem to notice. Their collapsed forms barely moved. The guard saw the mercenaries coming up the road and stood still, regarding them. When the captain hobbled up to him he said, “Gaelspar Banjerhae has been.”
“Has he?” The captain asked with feigned insouciance.
“Took three of the prisoners with him. Said that they were here under false pretenses. Said you didn’t have no right to go arresting people.”
“Yet he seems to have left many of those I have arrested. Those who don’t interest him.”
“That’s so.”
“And he’s left the one I’m interested in, now,” the Captain said, gesturing towards a cage at the edge of the grotesque metal forest. It was turning slowly, having just been spun by the guard. Manrie watched it as it revolved. A little figure was slumped against the bars. A face came into few, peering out anxiously above a nest of dirty robes. Retoebaeni, the alchemist from Baenlaez’s farm.