Quickening

By Peter Gribble

How could the City of the Magicians, avowed pacifists, embroil themselves in a warriors' battle to the south? For the nefarious 5th School it's the lure of becoming an imperial capital; for Purdu, the Barbarian leader, it's proof of his divinity; for others, it's an exciting adventure. Back in the City, Shoan, Council Strategist, urges Lalya to make a public repudiation of the 5th School. She would love to, but Sas warns it is premature. Hyur, suffering from a curse sickness, tells anyone who will listen that his venomous sword is "returning to the place of its making"––but he's mad, so no one believes him. Gleswea, recovering from a knife attack, is being coached into a position of safety, but her chance comment wrecks the plans and puts her on a show trial for heresy. Gamblers set the stakes high that she'll be found guilty and sentenced to death by rending. Sas, disillusioned with his part in Shoan's manipulations, puzzles at a shadowy phenomenon drawing the City towards an unseen destiny. Are the underpinnings of existence––the sentience of Reality itself––beginning to show? Unexpectedly, the battle in the south unleashes a second––for the City's very soul!Quickening concludes the City of the Magician's first trilogy, where complacency and compromise have brought Citizens to the cliff edge of change. They ask themselves, Do I slow, stop, step away . . . or jump?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Mar 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9780228868811

Peter Gribble

Peter Gribble has written for NUVO and other magazines in British Columbia. He currently writes a monthly gardening column for a local, online Vancouver journal. This is his first published novel.

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Copyright © 2024 by Peter Gribble

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-6880-4 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-6879-8 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-6881-1 (eBook)

Table of Contents

Chapter 1    Awakenings

Chapter 2    The Comet of Victory

Chapter 3    The Discovery

Chapter 4    Taken

Chapter 5    Interrupted Journeys

Chapter 6    Repudiant

Chapter 7    Rapprochement

Chapter 8    Family Matters

Chapter 9    Courtship

Chapter 10  Arrested

Chapter 11  Lady Mother Decides

Chapter 12  Lord

Chapter 13  Return

Chapter 14  Thoughts in the Dark

Chapter 15  Vrupu’s Bad Day

Chapter 16  Flight

Chapter 17  Preparations for a Fight

Chapter 18  The Governor Acts

Chapter 19  The Trial

Chapter 20  Northern Arrival

Chapter 21  The Visitor

Chapter 22  False Labor

Chapter 23  Fire!

Chapter 24  Change of Heart

Chapter 25  Invitation

Chapter 26  The Sword Sharpens

Chapter 27  Second Courtship

Chapter 28  The Maker and the Manifested

Chapter 29  Last Sending

Chapter 30  Brothers

Chapter 31  First Day

Chapter 32  The Wedding

Chapter 33  Last Day

Bibliography

THE CITY OF THE MAGICIANS

THE 1ST TRILOGY – THE GOD

BOOK 3

QUICKENING

by

Peter Gribble

Until you stand outside your manifestations and originalities, you are captive to the forgetfulness of the froth and foam of existence. Observe the vigilance of reverent wonder lest you practice Magic from the wastelands of vanity.

– The Instructions to Mages, anonymous manual translated from the Hli-Ma-Sa The Interior Trellis, attributed to the First Mage. Translation by Kemua of Uatesne House, Director of the Salon of Copiers

The old Hli-Ma-Sa legend of ’Eu-’Ua, the deadly desert witch, had its origins in the south. However, with the events in the City prior to the start of the Hegemon Period, the myth would undergo a far-reaching metamorphosis. It would be established from reliable sources and without equivocation that ’Eu-’Ua dwelled within the City.

– The History of Magical Practice in the City of the Magicians: Revised & Expanded Edition edited by Men-lik Na-zma, Senior Editor

. . . a terrible sound, like an enormous gong. It tremors my body and fills me with profound sadness. Then a large, deep pool breaks open to the sky. It too is part of the grief I feel, but I have no understanding of what any of this means.

– The Dreams of Crone Muara, compiled by Elder Ingall (uncirculated)

Chapter 1

Awakenings

Fire, blood and steel had him by the throat. He was their source, yet they were sinking him from a great distance in a drowning that would kill him.

Thrashing against them woke him, ablaze with fever and frantic for air. Gasps were spasms, movement a squeeze. His body: a swelling abscess bloating with poisonous heat, his night robe a strangling shroud.

Something damp and fibrous clung to hands and face. He clawed it off—bedstraw.

He had ripped his pillow. Mangled straw spread like clumped guts. Metallic-smelling sweat fouled the linens.

Revolted, he tumbled from the divan to find he could not stand. Crouching on the floor, wheezing coughs had no effect, chest constricting into an agony. Fever-taut skin would split with one rash move.

He felt each killing swing of the far-distant sword stoke the fever hotter, choke breathing into airlessness.

He would die if it did not stop.

Waking was no escape—the dark dream burned too bright. A nightmare in his forge: he, naked, hands and feet sunk into the wall behind, witnessing a volcanic furnace spewing rivers of blood.

At Eiasa House, Lalya woke to sounds of distress from Sas’s chamber. She rose, awkward in pregnancy, threw on an outer robe and tiptoed in. In the gloom of the mothlamp he was sitting up, swaying and moaning in his large sleeping divan.

Sas, are you sick? She rushed to the divan and held him. Quieted, he slowly slumped in her arms and fell back. Shall I call Aunt Eiasa?

Oh, Lalya, it’s terrible. He’s no longer himself. They’re surrounded by flying fire.

Flying fire? She was gripped by the horror on his face as he stared at the ceiling. Is he awake? This a dream? Poison?

"They’re dying . . . dear Beku, the horse, is gone . . . fire from the sky has trapped them. Oh!" Sas lurched to his side, curling where he lay.

Sas!

The wound, the wound! Vrupu has killed me! he groaned, clutching his side.

Vrupu? But he’s in the desert. Purdu’s second-in-command . . . Wait! This is a sending! It’s Purdu who’s wounded! Fatally!

He shook his head to throw off his confusion and cried, Purdu, I am coming!

In seconds his body straightened as it stiffened, eyes frozen wide, fixed on the ceiling.

She touched his arm.

His body was wooden—the slightest residual warmth. His breathing stilled.

Nothing to do but wait.

In the quiet she smoothed his sleeping blanket, the one with three lines of indigo woven around the borders. Every time she saw it she knew she should recognize its origin but, out of place here, its signifigance had eluded her until now. It was a blanket worn by the Silent Ones who kept the winter vigils at the Temple. She was surprised he had ever sat the vigils. There was much to Sas she did not know. How tawdry, superficial and selfish the 5th School intents and purposes were, fraudulent at their pith and core, when compared to his quiet acts of Citizenship.¹

Lalya tried other small measures to preoccupy her without disturbing his trance—anything to avoid his horror-striken face. She gave up and sat by him, holding his rigid, cold hand, staring at the wall, comforting herself with the thought, Encryption cloths will be found in ossuary jars . . . they’ll find them. I’ll burn mine and be free of 5th School magical reprisals . . .

After how long she did not know, warmth flooded him and she snatched her hand away.

Breathing started, eyes fluttered, rolled up white and alarming then came to rest. He blinked several times, growing sorrowful. Slowly focusing on her, he whispered, He’s gone.

He turned his head to the pillow and began to sob. Lalya bent over him, enfolded him into her arms, raised him and gently rocked.

The sword had receded from awareness. He felt it fall from Purdu’s grasp as if into a mist and its curse slept once more—yet neither his condition nor the dream burning in his sight changed.

Just before dawn, Hyur dragged himself down the short path from Hugurneth House to the forge—an interminable journey that had to be made.

Pulling himself halfway up to unlock the door, he fell in when it opened. His head was never so heavy as he raised it, his body a seething boil incapable of bursting, robe too tight to pull off.

The place empty, the furnace dark. No one present.

Silent. Bloodless. Desolate.

Waking and dreaming worlds did not match.

He pulled himself in the rest of the way, pushed the door shut with a foot, lay exhausted on the floor and waited.

The nightmare slowly receded. Breathing eased. Heat evaporated off him. Gradually his body deflated and the robe loosened.

The nightmare’s ebb exposed the bones of the here and now.

This hearth where he trained as a boy under his father, and in his turn produced his own beautiful pieces of metalwork, was a dark and lifeless place. The forge had shape but was fragile as ash after a fire—a draft would blow it to dust.

Imagination, invention, skill—atrophied, withered, dead.

If a fire could be lit, the heat would never color up to work metal.

He knew it.

His tools, samples, the ingot bar and metal scrap inventories, the materials and substances for treating them, his two anvils, the water tub, the bluing and oil quench tanks—all were burial markers like Trees of the Dead, a mass grave where inspiration and every hard-trained technique lay buried, rotted and decayed.

Desolation welled up from the pit of his stomach.

The forge: an ossuary of empty jars.

Everything: dead, dead, dead.

He would never be able to work here again. The receding echo of the curse as he forged the sword—with every kill, the wielder is cursed with misery, loss and death—told him he had been purged of all skill.

She had taken her revenge: Fuyva, barbarian goddess and protectress of blacksmiths everywhere.

What’s that? Muelesa could not believe what she was hearing.

Distant heart-stopping cries.

She had stuck her head into the room, already made wary by his ruined pillow and stinking linens. When the cry came again, her blood chilled. He’s hurt himself!

How possible? Except for two small burns apprenticing under his father, Hyur never had an accident. He was too careful. Yet the wailing grew.

She dashed down to the forge, threw open the door to find him, hands to his face, writhing on the floor.

"Finished! I am finished. Finished! Oh, Sas, my life is over. I am Citizen of nothing. Nothing! Only a forge of blood!"

Writhing crunched into a convulsion of devastated grief.

*

It was fortunate for her one of the guards answered the doors.

Must speak with Master Sas! It’s urgent! Truly urgent!

They did not know her and were about to refuse her entry when Muelesa said, It’s about his friend, Hyur of Hugurneth House, the God Lord Purdu’s Master Bladesmith! I am his companion.

They let her cross the threshold but no farther. Zaya, Eiasa House’s servant-cousin, came with a puzzled frown and the guards Duryed and Samozur looked to her to confirm Muelesa’s identity.

Mistress Zaya, I need speech with Master Sas. Hyur has gone mad.

Zaya gasped. Uncertain a moment, she beckoned Muelesa to follow. As the two started up the stairs, Aunt Eiasa’s head popped up from the second-floor landing. "What are you doing here? she yelled. Zaya! What are you thinking? You know she has no permission in this House! That hateful creature insulted the Family, breaking up Sas and Hyur’s companionship. Push her out!"

But, Lady Mistress, pleaded Muelesa, overnight Hyur has gone mad. Over and over he calls for Sas. I can’t do anything—only he can help!

Aunt Eiasa glared at her the longest moment until Muelesa burst into tears.

Well, finally, thought Aunt Eiasa. That one now sees the error of her ways. Zaya, come up here. You! she barked at Muelesa. Not another step!

It was, Aunt Eiasa considered, another item adding to the morning’s peculiar events. Several members of the City’s Divine Council—Elder Shoan, the Elder Sender Ingall, Adjudicator Mezanlipat as well as Governor Sir Nresurap and Lady Somaladea—were in Sas and Lalya’s chambers discussing subjects of great import. While Lalya was being sent from the suite, Aunt Eiasa had overheard something concerning the forces to the south. Sas had seen some disaster, and now Hyur had gone mad? Overnight? Uncanny. Those two friends were still bound and connected, despite Muelesa’s efforts to the contrary. Despite the lack of augury, it was clear the dispositions—maybe the dictates—of the froth and foam of existence were manifesting.

As Zaya reached the landing, Aunt Eiasa ordered, Guard these doors. I’m going in there. Keep an eye on that one. Not one step is she to take until I return. I’ll have to spend hours tonight calming the Family ossuary because of her presence in this House today.

Taking a deep breath, she knocked and entered the suite, pulling the doors shut behind her.

---

¹ Lalya does not know the blanket was bestowed by High Priestess Bhekla on an unconscious Sas to keep him from a chill after the second sending to Purdu. Threat, chapter 19 – The 2nd Sending, pg. 187.

Chapter 2

The Comet of Victory

The soft, vibrating hummings came again in gentle waves—pleasant, unusual yet familiar. She had been hearing them recently, possibly the last time she was conscious. She had been sleeping for lengthy periods—but was it sleep?

No. She had been attacked . . . but that was preposterous. Maybe it had not happened at all. Some half-remembered dream perhaps . . .

Now that she was aware of it, her left shoulder and arm were stiff, achy and tender. The area just left below her neck was hot, prickly, itchy. She shifted carefully. The rest of her body felt dulled, distantly feverish.

She’s awake!

The words were Hli-Ma-Sa—where had she learned such an outlandish, tedious language?

Dearest Ma-Mu, can you hear me? Please don’t try to move.

Ma-Mu . . . nursemaid? That’s their name for me. Ma-Mu-Klo-Te-T’leh, Nursemaid to the Myriad Stars. Gleswea opened her eyes and the round, improbably dark-rosy face of Baroness Tla-Ti-Thlom-’A swam into a blurry focus.

What’s that humming sound?

Humming? Oh, you mean the wind-strummer. Do you not find it soothing?

Dressed in rich robes plus an odd framing device for her hair, the Baroness elaborated an explanation as if to a child—the wind-strummer: an arm-length’s long, rectangular, wooden box with strings stretched and tuned across the top surface carved with a sound hole. When placed in specific cavern vents, the breezes breathing in from outside vibrated the strings to produce the hummings tuned to harmonics appropriate to the season. Wind-strummers were mostly found in the palace caverns’ ventilation.

She thought it an elegantly simple musical instrument, though the explanation brought clarity—she was in the palace caverns in the Canyon City, Hli-Ma-Klun-La, the City of Hli-Ma-Sa Arrival.

Her shoulder and to a lesser degree her arm pained her when she moved.

W-what has happened to me?

Dearest Ma-Mu, you were viciously attacked.

So it did happen. I remember now . . . the star party was ending . . .

We thought you were going to, to d—to leave us. The Baroness’s voice tremored.

My arm and shoulder hurt.

A militia surgeon performed a healing intervention to stop the bleeding. The Baroness sounded close to tears. The knife had struck Gleswea just below her collarbone and she was rushed to the caverns, where palace physicians were summoned. They extracted the knife, unfortunately causing her to bleed more. Baroness Tla-Ti omitted dearest Ma-Mu’s raving delirium at the time, but described how a red and a blue blood tube—an artery and a vein—had been partially severed. She was fainting from loss of blood yet given a measured dose of gum smoke and poppy to induce a more controlled swoon.

The intervention took hours. Both sides of the cut vein and artery were softly clamped then stitched together with a tiny curved needle and fine thread. The clamps were removed, the severed sinews repaired similarly and the wound closed.

Gleswea squirmed in disbelief and buried her chin into her neck to see thread ends poking up from a thick slather of chopped herbs. The surrounding skin was a swollen, angry pink. Curiosity was bringing her good hand up to brush the clipped threads when someone nearby cried out, Lady, stop! Don’t touch! The intervention must be allowed to heal as the physicians advize.

How could this be her body?

Attacked by a stranger who wanted her dead, accusing her of being a . . . a necromancing spy.

Incomprehensible.

Her body marked and scarred for the remainder of her time on this side of existence. Her subjectiva, her awareness of self: defiled.

Violated to her inmost being.

Nothing could be the same again.

She felt sick and was suddenly trembling. Heat waved over her as the fever reasserted.

Arosh! she moaned. Aroshlumnan!

I’m here, Gleswea, dear. Gles, I’m here. It was a relief to hear Mage speech. Arosh’s worried face came into view. Please rest quiet. You must get your strength back.

Arosh, I hate this place! she cried. "We must escape. Arrange it. We have to get out of here. Now!"

We can’t, Gleswea. You’ve got to get better first. To offset her desperation, he said, It’s good you’re awake. If you’re strong enough, we’ll carry you up to see the comet. Everyone’s been watching it lengthen and brighten over the last two nights. It’s at maximum now.

Maximum? How many nights have I lost?

"You can’t miss it! It’s why we came south, remember? Gles, get some rest so you’re ready for an observation tonight. That won’t be too strenuous for you, will it?"

Grimacing, she turned her head away, refusing to speak. Shortly after, she lapsed into an exhausted sleep, which the nervous physicians thought hopeful.

Her fever subsided again, and she awoke an hour or so later to Baroness Tla-Ti-Thlom-’A refreshing the herbal pack. I’m sorry, dearest Ma-Mu. I didn’t mean to wake you. How do you feel? Do you need anything?

Ma-Mu was stern, her request bizarre—a little delusional. Attempts to placate her heated her agitation.

Yes. The knife.

Dearest Ma-Mu, you’re unwell. You don’t mean—

The knife that did this to me . . . get it. From now on, its place is by my side.

It’s a demand of princely bravura!

It decided him. He postponed the assailant’s interrogation again and changed back into his clothes-of-status.

Na-Tu-Nlem, Attendant to ’Ai-Kla-Kle, Royal Family Seal Holder, knew where to scour a palace storage cavern to find a small pillow and a low table to match the furnishings of her chamber—or close enough to lift the gossip from speculation to firmer conjecture.

He carried the table back to the surgery, procured the knife and positioned it on the pillow.

His grave stride—arms raised, table and knife at shoulder height—slowed at the crowd of mostly women, somber and contrite, blocking the tunnel-halls around the recovery chamber.

Several men he recognized from upper landings and balconies, ones not pressed into emergency militias. Everyone saw what he carried and, despite the lack of space, most knelt, bowing their heads to the floor in collective remorse. Some wept.

These are the makings of an entourage!

Stepping over the threshold, his excitement fell.

Her pallor was striking—she was feverish yet it infused no color. That she could blanch more than she was . . .

She spotted him and shifted by painful increments to nod the table’s placement beside her. With her able hand she reached over with thumb and index and plucked the knife up by a quillon.

As long as I remain among you, Gleswea said in the high masculine idiom, I shall keep this by me always to remind me where I am.

It Arrives at your bidding, Lady Ma-Mu, said Na-Tu-Nlem, bowing. In equal measure, its presence shall justly shame the Hli-Ma-Sa people over what was done to you.

Good. You understand. The knife dropped to the pillow.

It is a prince’s prerogative! Great Father Empire must be told at once. She is the one He’s been searching for. She will dispel the curse without compromising the royal lineage. If she lives.

The attendant physicians informed him: The hill-herbs pack was speeding the healing. Though, since leeches were not reducing the swelling to any significant degree, the wound might be infected, necessitating its reopening and the insertion of maggots. The fever’s persistent ebb and flow was being monitored and the plan to take her up to see the comet tonight was worrisome. A chill would compromise recovery.

He was shown the side chamber filling with gifts and introduced to the Baroness Tla-Ti-Thlom-’A, an immediate witness to the attack, who insisted on ministering to Lady Ma-Mu in any capacity. She took instant charge of the entourage as it gathered. Countess Hlin-Ya-Po-Nlo, also from the star party, had volunteered as the Baroness’s Lady Attendant. It was she who issued announcements to the entourage of every sign of minute improvement or modulated the news of each hint to the contrary.

With due attention, the two ladies of the Queen’s cortège itemized and stored all the gifts of sympathy and consolation arriving hourly from concerned well-wishers: jewelry, clothing, furniture, food and other articles for domestic cavern use.

Lord Attendant, said the Baroness, I’m following the rite of acceptance, since I deem Lady Ma-Mu a personage of revered esteem. I bring each gift and touch it to her better hand to confirm acceptance and possession, even though she’s not awake. Neither have I told her of this nor shown her any gifts.

Your gift of loving friendship cannot compare to these.

Thus my place, Lord Attendant. Look, here are the bestowals from your own Lord Superior.

The bolt of beautifully woven cloth he recognized—’Ai-Kla-Kle’s wife would miss her treasure—along with a small box wherein nestled several large, undrilled, unset pearls of value.

These are gifts to please a Hli-Ma-Sa woman. Lady Ma-Mu deserves different . . . what would she desire? A book perhaps . . . a rare one appropriate to her. Yes! Though what to choose?

At her Upper Balcony Evaluation she had expressed curiosity in the technics of flight, an unlikely subject for a woman and perhaps only the display of courteous interest. Na-Tu-Nlem left, mulling over titles.

Aroshlumnan was ever by Gleswea’s side but she would not talk to him. She wanted to be alone and he left.

She fumed where she lay. Beside her the knife heated the ferment. What a silly thing to ask for. What was I thinking? An act of vanity made in a fit of pique! Ridiculous object! That something so small can wreak such damage! Proves these people are enslaved to a disturbed, unjust culture. Obvious from the beginning, but City discretion kept me from creating an equation. Never thought of applying pragmatics to any of it . . . now look what’s happened!

Nothing had prepared her for an act so unconscionable. Nothing could ever be the same again even if—when—she got home. And what was the matter with Arosh? If he was succumbing to the mores of the place she would leave without him. Another day here—no! Another moment here was untenable.

She was overcome with a loathing for anything Hli-Ma-Sa.

I have to escape this hideous place! Now, now, now, now, now!

Baroness Tla-Ti-Thlom-’A returned, set down a tray of items and announced, Ma-Mu, since you’re awake, it behooves you to accept-by-touching these anonymous gifts of consolation that’ve been brought to you.

Why?

Sha! You hate us! I see it, you hate us! She burst into tears and fell to her knees. "Oh, my dearest Ma-Mu, do not judge us by . . . by one fool madman! Many of us love you, have the deepest feeling for you!"

It was unnerving having the short, round-bodied baroness heaving and shaking with heartfelt sobs beside her dais-bed. Hesitant at first, then with more consideration, Gleswea patted then rubbed Tla-Ti’s shoulder, discomfited by a growing affection.

Dear little dear. She’s been rather sweet.

Tla-Ti wiped eyes, cheeks and nose on the back of her sleeves then commenced a tentative presentation of gifts, one by one. Gleswea noticed Tla-Ti’s hands. They were discolored, bruises were healing, joints were swollen and nails chipped, her customary rings: absent.

Tla-Ti, what have you done to your poor hands?

Sha! That’s nothing! she exclaimed. It was the least he deserved.

Who deserved?

The dolt with that knife. Tla-Ti’s face darkened. He didn’t expect a fat, spoiled baroness to protect her nursemaid so.

Protect me?

Sha! I was in such a fury at what he did to you I couldn’t help myself, Ma-Mu. I thrashed him up somewhat.

"Tla-Ti!"

She sniffed, cleared her throat and, with a firm-faced reticence brooking no interruption, resumed presenting the gifts, gently taking Gleswea’s good hand to touch each one.

That someone would attack with the intent to murder and another would rush to protect without thought of danger, and still another would labor over her, repairing an impossible wound . . . and now these unsolicited gifts?

Much had been done to her, but much was being done for her.

A sigh shivered her.

The life she had known: over. The person she once was: gone. She had aged yet felt renewed. The attack had accelerated something unfolding from the very beginning. From the moment she and Arosh were discovered in the desert, the Hli-Ma-Sa had reached for her and had, despite persistent ambivalence, been laying claim to her ever since, layer upon layer, binding her closer and closer to them.

She would forever be a Citizen of the City of the Magicians, now inexplicably farther away than a moment ago. Something indefinable was eclipsing it—the intangible, relentless intent that some called destiny.

Dear Tla-Ti, said Gleswea lightly to offset a weighty resignation, will you come with us tonight to view the comet?

Always, my precious Ma-Mu. Tla-Ti sniffled through freshly welling tears.

The comet of Lady Ma-Mu-Klo-Te-T’leh, Nursemaid to the Myriad Stars, appeared precisely as she had prophesied.

Despite her injury, she was carried up in a litter-bed to the very spot where she had been attacked. Her cousin and traveling companion from the City of the Magicians, Aroshlumnan (known here in the Hli-Ma-Sa Canyon City as Ku-Cheo-Hla: Tall Pale Man), insisted on the excursion to the top of the eastern cliff face. The Arrival of this rare comet was too important, appearing once every hundred and nineteen years.

Her bravery and strength of character on returning to the place of her near death were spoken of in respectful whispers­­—approval extending to the litter-bed carriers taking special care not to jar her. A lady of consequence walked in front, carrying a low table on which rested the Knife of the Attempt.

The night was ripe for legend.

At the top of the mesa, the size of the crowd surprised Lady Ma-Mu. A group of women came forward, displaying a new fashion created in her honor. Inspired by her prediction, their comet hair was braided simply, without frame or festoon, plaited through with gold and silver threads and fine ribbons.

As the lamps were shuttered, Lady Ma-Mu’s gracious nods were twitched by tics and shudders. She did not extend fists and fingers to set the celestial grid—not even with her good arm.

Gles, you all right? asked Aroshlumnan.

Bright stars were milky and blobby. Faint stars previously clear and sharp were dim, foggy or absent. The River of Stars and nebular clouds: blurry wisps and faded hazes. The sky’s rich black had mutated into a quivering film of dark gray jelly.

The comet: a pale, diffuse swash.

Shock and rage re-ignited.

I can’t see!

She jerked her head to throw it off, to no avail. Aroshlumnan stared, anxious at her uncharacteristic movements, and she stilled herself with difficulty. Her left arm went numb and her chest tightened as breathing became an effort. A low-level fever readied to assert itself.

I can’t see!

It was due to the shock of the attack, of course, and strained minutes had to pass for her to unclench her teeth and ease her breathing.

My sight better come back.

She resurrected one of the first exercises taught her when a child, which had transformed her innate Seeing ability into the unrivaled talent she was renowned for: shutting one eye, scanning with the other, then reversing and comparing the differences.

Gles? asked Arosh again. Aren’t you going to fist up the grid?

She kept her silence, focusing where she could on the near distance, then the middle distance then the far, then reversing the procedure. Around the comet, the brightness of stars that she knew was compared and contrasted. After she started, not once did she consider her acuity might not return, but methodologies could not be forced—despite upset and anger—if they were to fulfill their intent.

Arosh might suspect something was wrong but she could never mention the difficulty—revealing it would only firm the condition to its current state.

Her rage, fiercer than before, fired determination.

Everyone knew of it, yet none spoke of the coming battle against Pul-Du, the Northern Interloper in the desert, lest a chance comment determine a terrible outcome. Particularly since the latest rumor had the armies riding to a place infamous for the last Hli-Ma-Sa defeat. Comets—harbingers of disaster—intensified the constraint to an agonizing stringency.

Late next morning after the comet, relay riders Arrived exhausted from an all-night journey with staggering news.

Victory! It was victory!

Word swept the Canyon City with sandstorm force. The enemy was completely routed.

Screams of joy and disbelief erupted—every plaza and terrace throughout Hli-Ma-Klun-La flooded with exultant crowds. Although, after the initial surprise, celebration grew confused in the muddle of stunned triumph.

Flushed with excitement, the Baroness hurried to Lady Ma-Mu and her cousin with the news.

Gleswea let her talk until Tla-Ti said, And the Interloper died where the battle was fought and won: the ’I-Ke-Kau-Khun, the Sands of Blood!

Where?

A few days’ ride or so west of the Canyon. We were vanquished there three hundred sixty some years ago by the Necromanc—by the Li-Ta-Shla Empire. Everyone’s saying, with the victory, our old defeat of long ago has been washed away.

So the barbarian was defeated, she remarked, gradually sitting up on her bed. It is more than our people could do. Thank you, Tla-Ti, for telling us.

You needed to know what the noise was about. I must now go help my husband. He’s in charge of many of tonight’s victory celebrations.

May victory bring Arrival, said Gleswea dutifully.

Caverns were quiet after Tla-Ti left.

We’ve been gone months, said Arosh, depressed. Who do you think survived?

Those who stayed home.

The 5th School instigated this.

Yes. A Temple-sized fiasco. I hope Oselum escaped it.

Who?

The Golden Palace Healer who told me to come south and observe the skies.

Foam! Everything’s changed—so have you.

Yes.

Now that Purdu’s gone, do you think the City can return to its former life?

Pray for it.

As the sun set on the day of victory, celebrations were reinvigorated with torches, lamps, free food and millet beer. Men, women and children laughing, singing and dancing filled every channel, tributary, plaza and terrace throughout the Canyon City. Lady Ma-Mu’s comet was declared one of victory—a baleful judgment on the Interloper! A party of celebrants decided to climb the east cliff stone stairs to have another look at it.

Only a few managed to reach the top when, with a chorus of cries, they descended in a rush, shoving those halfway up aside.

"Fetch the Lady Ma-Mu at once! At once!

Lady Ma-Mu! Lady Ma-Mu! echoed from the tunnel-hall.

Countess Hlin-Ya-Po-Nlo and Baroness Tla-Ti-Thlom-’A burst in so out of breath they could scarcely speak.

What is it? asked Gleswea.

Tla-Ti was completely winded; it was Hlin-Ya who gasped out, Your comet . . . we must . . . make you ready. You’re to come at once! I’ve . . . I’ve ordered a litter-bed for you. We must hurry. We haven’t seen it though . . . though others have. Your comet has broken. There are two now!

Celebrations died, and while many were climbing up the eastern cliff face and elsewhere, most streamed out through the western entrance of the Canyon City to see the catastrophe in the skies. The Royal Family was reported watching from the Private Plaza adjoining the Royal Warrens.

Gleswea was enthralled—nothing existed in her mnemonic files of a celestial event so singular. The comet had fractured into two fragments plowing increasingly divergent furrows across the western sky.

The heavens were calmer and darker than the night before, the River of Stars more defined and stars crisper. With her vision improving she lay on her litter gazing up, performing her eye exercises with happier expectations.

Between brief periods of visual rest she determined the difference between the two orbital equations was too negligible to calculate, despite the separate trajectories becoming more apparent—the breakage was repelling the fragments from each other. The larger, following the original path, was the brighter of the two, but the smaller, slightly behind and distinctly irregular, had longer, varied filaments. The secondary up-angled tails fanning vaporously away from both main trails substantiated the hypothesis of strong celestial currents or winds in the upper reaches—given the high angle: blown off by the sun below the horizon. She wondered if the waxing Mother Moon, recently new but now set, might have assisted the breakage.

Contentment filled her. She was meant to be here to witness this, however impaired. It was a deepening of yesterday’s sense of destiny.

While she was content, the crowd surrounding her was not. Anxious mutterings and ceaseless jostling were building a restless fear impossible to ignore. Inventive conjectures, every one of them dire.

A comet already a harbinger of disaster, breaking in two—none other than the eyes of Mo-Wo glaring a judgement from the Great Above!

Will the pieces fall on us? What are we doing here, exposing ourselves to these baleful perils?

Is Lady Sorceress protecting us? Two comets from one: a fearsome omen of division! Marking a victory ultimately not a victory, one instigating dissention, separation, a falling away from what was before, a failure in Doctrinal Assertions, a breach of Symmetry and a compromise to Arrival!

If the broken comet was directly overhead, visible from within the Canyon City itself, immanent destruction would have already struck . . .

Countess Hlin-Ya-Po-Nlo struggled up the courage to ask, Please, with most humble deference, Lady Ma-Mu-Klo-Te-T’leh, can you tell us what this breaking of the comet means?

The responsibility was irksome—whatever she said would have repercussions. Delicacy and courtesy were essential. Yet the situation was convenient to emphasize a certain point.

Anxiety saturated the air as she paused to reflect.

One man had seen her in close caverns before—anxiety did not touch him. He had been present at her Evaluation by the Upper Balconies of the Learned. Rapt and expectant, his face was a mask of concern. These are signs—signs my desires approach fruition. Speak, oh my darling Lady Sorceress! Give voice to my calling . . .

Thul-Chen, Assistant to the Electro-static Balcony, was not one who stood on a rung of seniority, yet he had narrowly evaded conscription into emergency militias sent to defend against the Interloper. Glad of it even after the noise of victory. The attack on Lady Nursemaid and her anticipated comet were of greater gravity. Word of the comet breaking spreading like a fall sickness wind was a summons. New rungs and ladders would appear and multiply the possibilities to him, somehow or other. It did not matter how—they would come! Hearing the Lady Ma-Mu-Klo-Te-T’leh was about to be carried up the east face cliff stairs to the mesa top—he had to be there.

Upon ascending, the anxious crowd was disagreeable to him as he forced small steps towards the space reserved for her. In the sky, the two menacing comets were thrilling. Magnificent upheaval portended in those two ruptures of malign light distending their soul-blighting paths across the Upper Firmaments.

The crowd’s murmuring signaled her coming. The frontmost lady was carrying the Knife of the Attempt—a compeling object. When Lady Nursemaid to the Myriad Stars was at last hoisted up the final step, he, like everyone else, could not take his eyes off her.

She lay in a litter-bed, her pallor ghostly in the light of partially shuttered lamps. Her loose, pale hair falling over her shoulders and her semiprone position aroused his imagination—what raptures existed to take pleasure from this large, exotic woman.

Speak, oh my beloved necromancing Sorceress! Speak my wish, my deepest desire. Send me north to your people-race!

The lamps were shuttered and she spent a long time—a torture to all save him—gazing at the two comets. Finally a woman’s silhouette bent to ask her to explain their meaning. Lady Nursemaid remained thoughtful in another protracted silence before answering. When she spoke there was none of the sly authority he recalled from the Evaluation, though amidst the courteous reserve he recognized her note of amusement.

You wish to know what the breaking of the comet means? My own people to the north are finding official augury—the trained interpretation of phenomena, based upon centuries of archived observance—is not as dependable as before. Still, when a major comet appeared over our City three hundred and fifty-five years ago, it was seen as the unquestioned indicator of an impending liberation from the Ritashra Emp—pardon me, as you say: Li-Ta-Shla Empire. Within days of the comet’s appearance the Empire did indeed collapse, and we were free of them without the loss of a single life. Every year since then, in the late spring, we celebrate the memory of that comet and our treasured independence in a festival we call Jubilation. Tonight, under these skies, instead of saying the comet has broken one could as easily say it has doubled.

Those near her gasped.

Is this not a happier interpretation? she continued. A comet of victory becoming two could well mean, as much as anything, two victories: the first over the Interloper and your old defeat, the second over old, outmoded ways.

Extraordinary! Electrifying, he would say—he shivered at her audacity. As her words were relayed throughout the crowd, the reaction was no different than the static charge of buffed amber held over a spread of sand grains. Her statement crackled everyone with excitement.

Two victories! Breathy chuckles escaped his lips. Outmoded ways! Her inference decorously—nay, gloriously, brazenly—unspoken: She was freshly famous—or infamous—for weaning the planets from false courses to true. A conclusive demonstration the long-held Traditionalist and Doctrinist understanding of planetary motion had been laughably flawed. He had been a witness to it!

And now witness to this.

Two victories! The second over outmoded ways! Oh, my Lady Revolution, how sublime of you to declare the intervention publicly. Cha! Trellises and lattices shall burn from this night!

"She said what? Victory over old, outmoded ways?" His face darkened. The blood vessels of ’Eh-Thwo-Thun, Arch-Dean of the Doctrinists, swelled at his temples.

His two attendants’ short bows were sympathetic.

It’s as overt an attack on Traditionalist values, if not Doctrine itself, as I’ve ever heard! said the senior attendant. That travesty of a woman means to destroy Arrival. Every chance comment of hers shakes the trellises and lattices. She’s been a boil of interventionist error since she got here.

Yet may one inquire, said the junior attendant, "what the Doctrinist explanation of the doubled comet would be, if in its singular form it was a comet of victory to begin with, as is now commonly held?"

A minor detail, replied the senior. Of more pressing urgency: We must bring her to a Trial of Discovery at once to put an end to her catastrophies.

You want to attempt that now? exclaimed the junior. It appears you don’t appreciate the delicacy of the situation. Nor, I fear, would you make much of an arbiter or judiciar. Have you not factored this Entourage of Sympathy now surrounding her? Minor details are the essential rungs on the uprights in our ongoing Inventory of Scrutiny.

Before his colleague could reply, the junior added, Minor details such as her ever-surprising instances of exceptional knowledge substantive of Perfection. Minor details such as Great Father Empire’s rumored interest, possibly prerogative interest, in her. You must’ve forgotten the minor detail that she was presented to him the moment of her Arrival.

While you are scrabbling after minor details, replied the senior, do not neglect the major ones such as it was we, the Doctrinists, who placed the Black Pearl Dynasty on the Royal Dais three hundred sixty years ago—and helped it stay there a scant generation ago. It would be unwise and impolitic for them to forget it.

As unwise and impolitic for us to remind them, returned the junior. The Dowager Queen Mother Ma-Ma-’A-Hli, Mother of the Nation, has never forgotten.

"I might concede your point, cher colleague, said the senior, though are you suggesting inquiries be made to the dowager for the loan of her consequence, if she hasn’t already rolled the dice for her own purposes?"

Curious suggestion, said the junior. She bested us twice, and when it counted. Someone of your experience might’ve judged by now, and for our own safety, the dowager be left to her own finesses. Or do you judge this a minor detail? She can’t be pleased with the endless interventions this Northern woman instigates. Our better recourse for the moment is to keep the dowager uninformed, at a distance—and watched.

I concur, said the Arch-Dean. Continue.

The junior bowed. "My humble thanks, Lord Arch-Dean. Since her first month among us, it was I, as my cher colleague may recall, who first infiltrated the first witnesses around her and—I presume I did not o’er-leap the railings of my balcony—I judged it expedient to quickly filter some additional ones into this new entourage of hers. A mention of merit perhaps, minor details no doubt: Baroness Tla-Ti-Thlom-’A has assumed the hostess role of this entourage with the Countess Hlin-Ya-Po-Nlo as Lady Attendant, both women inner intimates of the Queen Wife’s cortège. These women are capable of determining and fending off finesses and intrigues. Some time may elapse before we gain a superior rung over this new lattice."

Perhaps . . . dare I say this? The senior attendant paused, half an eye on the Arch-Dean. Instances of mischief could be instigated outside this entourage, and outside of that fat Baroness’s purview, yet aimed at the heart of the entourage?

A man just tried that and failed! returned the junior. "Now that woman—you may be interested in this small detail—has ordered this so-called Knife of the Attempt be carried about wherever she goes as a reminder of this attempt and its failure. Astute act of consequence, I would say! An overt attack now would fall under the purview of fools. Any further instances of mischief must be planned with forethought and care, focused primarily on the peripheral rungs. This should keep these fresh members of her entourage unsure of the stability and safety of where they stand. Then, when we are ready for a Trial of Discovery, they will desert her, her ladder will be riddled with our witnesses with no possibility of failure! Forethought and care, cher colleague! With her terrifying skills, that monstrosity of womankind is the most dangerous threat we have encountered. I was warning you about her from the start and you did nothing!"

"Nothing! You flea-infested marmot! Let me remind you what I—"

Enough squabbling! snapped Arch-Dean ’Eh-Thwo-Thun. His two attendants were in perpetual wrangle. More often than not this provided solutions or carved tunnel-halls to them. At times the arguing was entertaining, occasionally apraising him of the state of court or parliamentary cliques and factions before anyone else knew of them. Yet he could never predict which attendant would carry the argument. It was as if they took turns. Articulate the strategy! he said, pointing his right little finger at the junior. Today’s significant little rung-up was going to him.

The crisis demands fresh-carved parameters for the strategy to succeed, said the junior. "Whatever she does must have only reliable and trusted Doctrinist witnesses to ascertain each instance before it is accepted into our private Inventory of Scrutiny. Following official form where we are concerned, of course. For outward show: Nothing is happening. When our moment Arrives, she must have no chance, opportunity or time to prepare. By necessity, I’m factoring in her prodigious memory, if such ability can be effectively countered."

The senior’s nod conceded the point. Unwilling to have the junior take all the credit, he addressed the Arch-Dean. My colleague’s approach appears to have sense and merit. We should be scrupulous to the topmost rung! Nothing can be invented—her every action, gesture and spoken word must be verifiable, at the level of an immediate or intimate witness.

Heh! gruffed the junior. I am pleased my esteemed colleague agrees with me at last. As I was belaboring him earlier, it is these small details that’ll set the very bars in her cage. She’ll have no defense against the least charge brought against her. We’ll have her undergo a Trial of Discovery—not today, naturally, which would be unwise. Yet the day we have her where we want her, her own testimony will condemn her outright in heretical error. What a knife could not accomplish will finish in her rending!

Chapter 3

The Discovery

Where’s that socket-pop of an attendant? cried the render, throwing down his tools. ’Nother day lost, an’ this morning we bin sittin’ ’ere waitin’ hours!

So you complained all yesterday, the arbiter grumbled, and repeat again today. Can you remember my answer to your whinings?

Yeah, yeah, the ’terrogation’ll be sauced by the ’ssailant’s stubborn ways and ’is wait. Don’t make me happier havin’ t’smell ’is piss an’ shit for a day an’ then some.

I would have you dwell in silence on the forthcoming delights of your duties.

The weak voice came again, Water . . . please . . . ’m thirsty . . .

Should’ve drunk your own piss when you had the chance, snapped the render, gathering up his tools. You’ll be drinkin’ your own blood ’fore we’re done wi’ you.

Cha! snorted the arbiter. It is not your rung to challenge the prisoner with threats unless the Lord Attendant is present and permits it.

Around noon Na-Tu-Nlem, Attendant to the Royal Family Seal Holder, entered the dim room carrying a lamp. With him was a young recorder, who unslung his writing satchel and desk-board, unrolled a small mat and sat down beside the lamp.

Na-Tu-Nlem, unwilling to have his clothes-of-status absorb the fumes of torture, wore a non-descript cap, a simple cotton outfit and cheap, low-cut boots, all of which he would burn afterwards. He took a deep breath before approaching the man bound to the table-slab. You, Wu-Si-Mat, assailant of the Lady Ma-Mu-Klo-Te-T’leh, have not answered a single question to satisfaction. Will you talk now?

Water . . . thirsty . . .

Not until you talk—with substance.

No response.

Na-Tu-Nlem exhaled in exasperation. Willful silence has brought you to the table of the Little Rending. He stepped back and said, Lord Render, you may begin.

Ain’t done one a’ these inna long while, said the render, sorting his awls by size and thickness. May be outta practice. Lemme see—start wi’ hands or feet? Lord Attendant, your choice.

Na-Tu-Nlem waved decision to the render.

Best be hands then, crooned the render to Wu-Si-Mat as if readying for a seduction. Easier to see. I kin work slow, more gentle-like. Hands’re a good warmup. We gets to know each other, you ’n me. Feet first makes a short session ’cause feets opens you up fast. You talk then—tho’ you’ll not walk ’gain. Not proper anyways.

Lord Attendant, exclaimed the arbiter, will you shut him up? Please?

If you will, Lord Render, tend to your awls.

The render shrugged. He forced Wu-Si-Mat’s wrists and hands into the clamps and slipped awl supports over each finger. Tossing and catching his pliers in a deft spin-throw suggested he was far from out of practice. He had the arbiter’s attention.

Na-Tu-Nlem was preoccupied.

As Family Seal Attendant, he was with the Royal Family in the Private Plaza watching the broken comet and did not hear, until too late, Lady Ma-Mu’s appalling two victories comment.

Between midnight and dawn, her Second Victory had transformed into Complete Victory—pursuing and exterminating the fleeing enemy to the last man. By morning it was flooding through the Canyon City with spring-torrent force.

Na-Tu-Nlem knew Doctrinists had pounced to push attention away from the charge of old, outmoded ways.

He went down to question Ma-Mu on her latest gaffe, but a grave Baroness informed him Lady Ma-Mu had stayed out too late and caught a fevered chill. Her wound was inflamed and swollen. She had been swooned and the incision was at this very moment being partially reopened to aid the suppuration.

He left. The rest of the morning: baffling.

Men were running, dashing through tunnel-halls, calling excitedly to others hurrying in the opposite direction, leaping and dancing amidst the chaos. It was disheartening to see colleagues, friends—otherwise intelligent, sensible—blown into the whirlwind, preparing for the call to arm and ride.

Victory’s thrill had been so easily roused to a hunger to avenge the ancient defeat, it had outrun the reach of—whatever might have countered it. Mid-morning, all mention of Lady Ma-Mu had vanished—as if the idea had birthed itself. He was fearful of the force the combatants who had won the victory would bring to bear when they returned today. Could not Great Father proclaim an injunction against it?

Unable to locate ’Ai-Kla-Kle, Na-Tu-Nlem found his own counterpart, Ni-Tla-Mu-Kne, Attendant to the Empire Seal Holder, wandering an empty audience hall.

Ah, Na-Tu-Nlem! said Ni-Tla with his customary insoucience. Strange behavior this, isn’t it?

Distressing. Do you know what’s being done?

Our two Seal Holders are with Great Father Empire. The excitement will pass.

Doctrinists are gleeful, having harnessed the excitement to their ends.

Not harnessed—diverted. The Arch-Dean and his little helpers spent hours conferring throughout the night.

"Did they? Cha! Then they didn’t cause the change to revenge?"

No. Others of their taint.

What should we do?

Let those who desire it ride into the desert. They’ll return tired, their furor spent, chastened after their fit, while we will’ve recalibrated the factions. Our friendly Arch-Dean will continue to meet with his misadventures.

You reassure me.

Where’re you off to?

The interrogation of Nursemaid’s assailant.

Heh! My condolences attend you.

Na-Tu-Nlem’s unresolved worry: Ma-Mu’s trellis-shaking statements. If only she would talk to someone before declaring them.

It clarified the book he would give her: a rare first edition of the biography of the only queen in over five centuries to mount the Dais.

Three hundred and seventy-two years ago, Queen H’lhum-Nla-H’lhum, Pearl of Pearls, ascended the Dais. She was skilled, diplomatic and wiley, though not enough to counteract the resentment for a woman in authority. Nor did she guard sufficiently against court intrigues miring her less wary lady intimates in scandals. Adding to the erosion of her prerogative: the misspending of imperial monies by others, especially her prince-consort; the constant meddling of cliques and factions; her miscarriages; the demands of erratic favorites and, very much, the rising influence and interference of the Doctrinists. Feuding generals were a decided factor in the calamitous defeat of Hli-Ma-Sa forces in the Sands of Blood by the Li-Ta-Shla Empire twelve years after she ascended to the Dais. With Parliament in an uproar, a decisive coup by General Thle-Ne-H’lhum of the Black Pearl lineage ended the Red Pearl dynasty. After a Trial of Discovery—the first on a former occupant of the Dais—the former queen was incarcerated in two small rooms somewhere in the Royal Warrens, where both she and her attendant died shortly after from unspecified causes.²

The first popping sound and the man’s yelp broke Na-Tu-Nlem’s reverie. He looked over.

Wu-Si-Mat had been brought to them mauled by an enraged Baroness Tla-Ti-Thlom-’A, who had been standing next to Lady Ma-Mu when the attack occurred. Blinded in one eye, left ear torn, patches of hair missing from a bleeding scalp, his face was covered with deep scratches and extensive bruising. Strapped to the table for two days, he had soiled himself.

The Little Rending, properly done, left less obvious marks. Starting at the fingertips, each joint was slowly and precisely dislocated, then each bone individually broken by awl and hammer.

Right-hand metacarpels finally induced: She’s a . . . necro-spy . . . I’as doing . . . a service to Symmetry . . . in ridding us of her.

No different from what you said during your attack, said Na-Tu-Nlem, watching the arbiter blinking fixedly at each breakage, catching his breath at each cry of pain.

Sorceress . . . I’as puttin’ a stop to her ’nfection. Would’ve ’scaped, too, ’cept for the guards . . . and that bitch Baroness.

Na-Tu-Nlem said, A necromancing spy—you may be right, my friend, now that you mention it. When I first saw that bizarre Northern woman I wondered at her strange abilities. Though who voiced their concerns to you about her being so? You never saw her before that night.

Only when his right hand was rended useless did a name emerge.

Na-Tu-Nlem halted the interrogation, went to the door and ordered the guards outside, Arrest the Traditionalist Exemplar Thle-Khai-Weo at once and bring him here. He should be around the Hall of Preferments this time of day.

The render followed close behind. Lord Attendant sir, d’you wan’ I should get ’nother table-slab? You know, sir, for comparin’ and contrastin’. There’s one waitin’ in the next cell.

At a gesture, both the render and arbiter were out and dragging the heavy table into the chamber. Na-Tu-Nlem noticed the recorder was flushed and wide-eyed.

Kin he help? asked the render, nodding at the recorder.

Na-Tu-Nlem shook his head.

By the time the table was positioned an arm’s length from Wu-Si-Mat and the straps fitted to the corners, Thle-Khai-Weo was at the door, flanked by guards.

Lord Attendant, said a guard, he made no resistence ’pon bein’ ’rrested.

Thank you, Captain. You may wait outside.

Na-Tu-Nlem was surprised when both render and arbiter untied the luckless Traditionalist and strapped him onto the table. The arbiter went so far as to squeeze one of Thle-Khai-Weo’s hands into a fresh set of clamps. Beside them, Wu-Si-Mat was apologizing. Sorry, Thle-Khai, sorry. So sorry.

Oh, we’re not done with you, sweetheart, laughed the render. The arbiter panted and nodded. Stinks, don’ ’e? The render grinned at Thle-Khai-Weo. Don’ worry. So’ll you, ’fore nightfall. It was the arbiter who laughed.

A grim Na-Tu-Nlem gazed at the Traditionalist and said quietly, "Never, ever thought you and I would meet under these circumstances."

Thle-Khai-Weo’s face was set in resignation.

You, said Na-Tu-Nlem, a respected Traditionalist, an Exemplar of the Upper Echelons, seeded poor Wu-Si-Mat here. Why? Had you ever met or seen the Lady Ma-Mu before?

A full minute passed before Thle-Khai-Weo admitted, No.

Then who was the gardener who seeded you?

He said nothing more—tantamount to confessing someone equal or higher than he had done so.

The render was eager to resume the Little Rending on Wu-Si-Mat while commencing it on Thle-Khai-Weo, reveling in two victims at once. Hovering next to him, the arbiter asked, Can I do one? Can I?

The render showed him how. See? Jist like this. Pliers like so, awl at this angle, support here, pull to unlock the joint, then push your awl in. Feel the bone then hammer . . . there! Easy. Heh, Exemplar, wanna see what your hand looks like when it’s bin rended to mush? He yanked Wu-Si-Mat’s hand from the clamps, who howled and thrashed against the restraints.

Render! Enough! yelled Na-Tu-Nlem. Arbiter, keep to your legalities!

As he struggled for calm, Na-Tu-Nlem saw tears glistening the recorder’s cheeks. He was having trouble writing down the exchange.

Na-Tu-Nlem tried again. Who is so frightened of a Northern woman who has made not much more than missteps in courtesy?

Aside from Wu-Si-Mat’s heaving groans there was silence.

Too cowardly to act themselves? Content to jeopardize you with the task? As in your turn, you incited poor Wu-Si-Mat to act in your stead?

Silence.