Where did a tribesman get gold? I flew on the word, on the image, the warm gleam, the soft shine, searching, finding it at last, an ancient place, buried under a landslide, tunneled now by avid hunters, guarded now by members of the tribe…So. They had found some ancient, wonderful city here on B’yurngrad, where no city had ever been found, and they had burrowed into it like rats. He had paid someone to find me, and he himself had come to get me, and his motive was not murder.
I looked around at the landmarks, the mountains, where the stars stood, then fled back, back to my body, which had by now been carried near to the forest camp. The bodiless search had taken hours.
They entered the camp. I was untied, unblindfolded. I stood up arrogantly. “Bring me watah,” I demanded. “I will go in mah own place.” And I strode into the hut I had seen, finding it as I had seen it.
When they brought the water I sneered. “Wahm it. I will not wash myself in cold watah.” And, when they returned with warm water, I said, “Go away. I am mos angry!”
Each time I was obeyed without question, but still there were five guards set around the perimeter of the hut, still there were half a dozen others a bit farther out, keeping watch. And he who had paid for me squatted by his campfire, watching the door of the hut as a starving man might watch the prey he needed to keep life within him. Something deep and terrible was happening, and every man here knew of it.
I stayed inside long enough to make it clear I did only what I willed to do, then came out of the hut and went to the fire. “Bring my chayah,” I commanded.
Someone brought the chair. I sat down, looking down on him. “Sssso,” I hissed. “You clevah boy, save yr dah, ya did. Then he go muck it all, fahget taboos. He get kill fah nothin. Now you here, now you lay hans on ghos-woman, make all tha ghos angry wit you. Whas in you head, runnah?”
He ducked his head, rolling it on his neck as though it hurt. “Don wan muck it all. Din take hohses. Din hahm man. Mean no hahm. Mean no blood. Need…need somebody hehp us.”
It was the face I had seen years ago, determined yet unsure, concerned not to make a mistake, meaning no harm, threatening no blood, no theft of horses. Ah, well, only a matter of time until the tribes got their hands on horses. Then things would become interesting.
“Tell me!” I demanded.
“Cahn you see?” he cried.
“I tiahd,” I exclaimed angrily. “I soah! Ya haul me lahk meat and spec me to see? Ya tell it, den I see.”
He leaned over the fire, stirring it with the stick in his hand. “I got woman,” he said. “Chil’ren, l’il ones. We all got women, chil’ren. We talk to tribes, here, there. They dyin’. Dis thing comes, kills ’em.”
“Ghyrm,” I breathed. “You speak of ghyrm!”
“Yesss…” Like the hiss of a serpent, eyes wild.
“Some tribes carry ghyrm! Your dah, he carry ghyrm!”
“All,” he whispered. “All tribes carry, like spear, like arrow, not hurt dah one dat carry. Now…now it hurt dah ones dat carry…”
“Tuhned on you,” I said. “Evil tuhns on da one who use it, no one evah tell you dat? You not lissen to dat?”
“You a huntah,” he said in accusation. “They say, you a huntah, findah. You kill the things.”
I stood, thinking furiously. Yes, I was a hunter, yes, I could kill the things, but if they were widespread among the tribes…then all of B’yurngrad was in danger. “Not alone,” I cried. “I mus bring moah my people! Moah huntahs!”
“Nah,” he said, face obdurately set. “They say ahl righ one huntah. No danja foah owr folk in one huntah.”
I sat down. “Yoah name?”
“Dey call me Dahk Runnah.”
“Dahk Runnah. Yah go to hunt meat, yah go alone?”
“Go wit men in tribe.”
“I hunt ghyrm, I hunt wit folk, mah tribe. Alone, I cahn do no good.”
“Iz lie!” he said angrily. “You go alone mahny times. Mahny times!”
“I go find alone,” I said. “Suah. Find one, mebbe can kill if I have special knife. Moah dan one, no. If many, cannot kill alone.”
“You find. We kill’m.”
“Dahk Runnah, you no can kill’m. You think you kill’m, but they still alive, on you body, tiny, so tiny you no can see’m. I need special stuffs, special folk to kill’m wit.”
“Nah,” he said, scowling. “Jus you. Nobody moah.”
“Tha mahn,” I suggested. “The mahn, he a good huntah. Wit the mahn?”
He turned from me and stalked away. Several of his men gathered around him, talking urgently, throwing angry looks in my direction.
I took up a brand from the fire, gathered wood from the pile, returned to my hut to make a tiny fire in the circle of stones. I sat beside it. They would do as they would do. I could find the ghyrm for them, but I could not kill the creatures without sanctified instruments or the machines the Siblinghood had to offer.
There was one thing I could do. If I could still do it, out of practice as I was. If Ferni…ah, if Ferni was only receptive.
I Am Gretamara/on Chottem
The Gardener had asked me to accompany Sophia to the city of Bray, as otherwise the heiress would be without friends or confidantes. It became obvious that more than mere friendship was needed as soon as we arrived at Stentor d’Lorn’s mansion. Even though workmen had been sent ahead, we knew it would take both of us to deal with the mess.
Battalions of men and women with shovels and buckets and washtubs were still laboring to erase what a few decades of leaking
