Falija, who had been rather quiet since Grandma’s revelations on the road, made a little annunciatory noise, then: “My duty is to guide these folk in walking the seven roads of the Keeper. It is a task I was given by my people.”
All of us turned to her in amazement, Bamber and Glory with their eyes wide, the Howkels with their mouths wide, me with both eyes and lips shut tight, afraid to say the wrong thing.
“When did you decide that?” cried Glory.
“It came to me while I was thinking of the fish story,” Falija said. “You remember what I told you about my language and my mother-mind. I said you sometimes have to hear a word in context before you can understand what it really means. I had the seven roads in my mother-memory. It’s my job to help the walker walk the seven roads. I knew the story of the fish, but it didn’t connect to anything in my mind until just a few hours ago. All seven roads are one, and they must be walked simultaneously by one person.” Her voice faltered. “There’s nothing in my mind about how that’s to be done.”
“What is it, a riddle?” asked Bamber.
Falija shook her head. “All I know is, we just have to keep going.”
“On this road?” I demanded. “In front of the house?”
Falija dropped her head, shaking it slightly, saying in a sorrowful voice, “I don’t know.”
“Road you came by was a way-gate road,” said Howkel, pushing his chair back and honing his toenails together with a sound like steel on whetstone. “That road out front just goes to Gibbekotika by way of the mountains, that’s all. So, likely it’s a way-gate road that’s meant.”
“And there’s one that goes on to Thairy,” murmured Bamber Joy. “You said.”
“Well, yes,” mused Howkel. “A way-gate road as well.”
“That’s two roads that are one road,” said Glory.
I took a deep breath. “Are all the way-gates one-way roads?”
“One way,” Falija murmured. “I remember that someone long ago invented a machine to reverse them; but when they’re let alone, they’re always one way.”
“My oh my,” the Dame said, shaking her head. “That’s a lot of confusion and supposition, that is. Seems to me you’d be better off finishing your supper, having a good night’s sleep, then deciding what you’re going to do next.”
“Dame’s right,” said Howkel. “Never make plans when you’re weary, and I’m weary. Been cuttin’ hay the last eleven nights.”
“There, that’s so,” the Dame said, nodding to her husband. “No more talk of roads tonight.”
Glory and Bamber agreed, though Falija looked slightly mutinous. I reached out and petted her between the ears. Falija sighed and settled to her supper.
“There, now,” said the Dame. “That’s better. You’re a dutiful Gibbekotkin, the more credit to you, but even the dutiful have to eat and rest.” She turned to her own bowl, raising her spoon with a little moue of discomfort.
I saw that her arm was bruised. “What have you done to yourself there?” I asked. “That looks painful!”
“And so it is,” said Howkel. “And it’s gettin’ no better, neither. It’s a summer bruise, and it’s been there a time now.”
“Let me see,” I said, taking the Dame’s arm in my hands. Indeed, there was a darkness, like a bruise, except that on the green flesh it looked more like a crushed place, one that was not healing. “Tell me,” I said, after some thought. “When you are ill, does your body get hot? Do you run a fever?”
“A fever? And what is a fever?” asked the Dame. “When our people are ill, they get cold.”
“But this place on your arm is not cold. The tissue there is ruined. It needs to die and fall away, so the good tissue underneath can heal. Isn’t that what usually happens?”
“Oh, aye, it does,” said Howkel. “When Maniacal’s toes were cut to pieces on the sharp rocks, they got cold and fell off, and the new ones grew. Thankful it was wintertime, we were.”
I nodded. “But in summer, warm as it is, it would be hard for a bruised place to get cold enough to fall away. Well then, I would put ice on this. Is there any ice about?”
“Close enough,” said Howkel. “And where did you learn such thinking out, ma’am?”
“My husband was a doctor,” I said. “He always said, find out what the body does for itself and help it along.”
“Think of that,” said the Dame. “Just think of that, Howkel.” And, with a smile of great sweetness, she reached up and kissed me on the cheek.
I Am M’urgi, with Fernwold on B’yurngrad
Once we were in Ferni’s flier, I demanded to know what he meant when he said he was taking me somewhere safe.
“I overheard something,” he said. “Perhaps meaningless, perhaps not. It made me believe you might be in danger.”
“From whom?” I demanded.
He shrugged. “From someone who wants you dead, my love.”
I laughed. “That’s fairly indefinite.”
“M’urgi. Listen to me. I was in a crowded place, waiting to take a ship from one place to another. Somewhere close to me a deep voice says, ‘The word came down, all the way from the top. The orders are she’s got to be killed, soon.’ Second voice asks, ‘Why some smoke-flavored old hag from the steppes…’”
“Old hag!” I interrupted angrily. “I am not an old hag!”
He said harshly. “I’m not finished! The first voice says, ‘No hag, she’s young yet.’ Now, you tell me. Is there anyone else working here on B’yurngrad that answers that description? ‘Smoke-flavored, steppes, young yet,’ says you to me.”
I couldn’t answer. The words described me, and me only. “Who?” I said finally. “Who wants me dead?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t find the speakers. I stayed there listening for a long time, no luck. I have no idea who or what they were. What enemies have you made while here?”
“Enemies made as whom? As the night flier, the shaman’s girl? As the shaman herself after the old woman died? Since
