As Rusper hustled me back, I had to jog to keep up with him. Even with that swollen red trail around his eyes, from the Disc’s blaze, it was as if he’d never been blind in the first place. There was vital purpose in his stride. Purpose we shared, I wondered if he knew that.

‘Show me your sandals,’ he said in the workshop. Hopping on one foot, I pulled one off. He took it, flexed at its hide, then passed it back. ‘That should last. No, don’t put it back on, I’ll have Zeek heat you a bath.’

‘I took a bath yesterday,’ I said.

‘Well, take another. It’ll be your last for a while. How are your clothes?’ The red eyes roved over me now as if for the very first time since the restoring of his sight.

‘Fine I think. Except for this.’ I plucked the collar of my swathes. The tear wasn’t all that bad, really, but it meant the cloak hung slightly loose. As the engineer frowned, I saw him guess how it might have happened.

‘There’ll be sandstorms in the desert, so no, that won’t do at all. Take them off and I’ll have them repaired in a few hours. As it is, you won’t sleep long.’

Zeek brought warm water, soap, a towel. Puffy-eyed herself, I could tell that she’d been woken for the task. I mouthed a ‘sorry’ to her; washed in my chamber, then pulled on breeches and slipped under my quilt. There I lay awake until Rusper came down a short time later. Just as he’d done on my first night in the Deep, he gathered my washing and stopped halfway up the steps. ‘There will be dangers,’ he said.

‘I know.’

He turned. ‘I didn’t ask you—’

‘Didn’t have to.’ There, I’d said it.

And it was true. What difference did it make now, anyway? They’d told us Antissa was our refuge, that we’d be safe behind its walls. Erik and Sarah had believed that. But how could they have known it wasn’t? Borderlander though I was, I now knew Antissa from within and its walls weren’t the protection we had thought, or had been promised. The Rath had been here, ready to crawl up from the Deep and, ever since, I’d known full well that no one here was safe. I knew it better than Rusper Symphin—when had his home been taken? Ours had been, twice over. And one way or another, after that, I’d run away from them. My people: last living Naemians in the world. Guilt for having made that choice still tasted bitter everyday. But this choice was easy. I could make it right. For them and Rusper and the Vedans. If there really was a river somewhere under the northern desert, secretly linked to the city’s pipeworks, we had to find it. I had to find it.

Rusper was standing very still, so I looked away from him and up at the old sealed pipe above my bed. ‘I don’t need to be safe,’ I told the pipe. ‘I don’t think I even want to be. Not anymore.’

He didn’t comment on that; just stood there quietly for a while. Then went back up.

I lay awake for a long time, turning things over in my head. Restless, my skin had gone all itchy and the mattress felt too soft all of a sudden. It was too hot to try and sleep under the red-bird quilt tonight.

I flung it off, onto the floor.

Borderlands at dusk. The huts looked smaller, but our own home was the same: the reeds and mats, pallets, brazier. There on my pallet was Sarah’s box, whole again, its treasures waiting for me. Except for one. I emptied the box out on the pallet, reached in and tried to find it. Reached my whole arm in, to the shoulder. It must be there!

Desperate now, I upturned the box to shake it out, then held it above my head and looked up. It was dark; so dark inside that I couldn’t see the bottom. But there was something in there. Something like circles—golden circles—and they moved. Wheeling and turning.

The box closed in around me then, transforming into walls all veined with pipes, but those golden, turning rings above me grew only larger and larger. I was rising now again; rising towards them.

Faster, I willed. Faster! Rise faster! But I couldn’t. My rise was slowing; the golden circles going dim.

They disappeared and then I fell.

I plunged an impossible distance, an impossible depth, as if inhaled by the earth. And there wasn’t any landing when it ended; only the discovery that I’d landed, and was somehow still in one piece.

There were people all around me: standing together, still and silent, hundreds upon hundreds of people. All gazing up. And I wasn’t scared when I saw their chalky hands and chalky faces, black beetle eyes, long wispy hair. They stood erect. Their hands were still, their faces grave, their dark eyes steady. Their wisps of hair were tied in tails, and they weren’t wearing scraps of cloth, but rather sleek jerkins of hide. These weren’t the Rath as I knew them.

When I followed their gaze, I saw another, taller figure stepping forward on an overarching rock. That was a man, a slender man with charcoal hair swayed by the wind that somehow reached us at this depth. He wore a mask.

Was he my ghost?

I stood, surrounded by the Rath, and waited for him to say what I knew he would; watched him place a hand over the mask and start to peel it from his skin.

Yes, he was speaking, I knew, even though I couldn’t hear the words he spoke. Couldn’t hear the call . . . not this time. There was no “little spark.” No voices at all, until . . .

‘It’s time.’

I sat up and rubbed my eyes. He was a shadow.

‘Get dressed. There’s food on your workbench. When you’re ready, meet me at the goods depot on the west side. I’ll be with a cart and driver.’ Blearily, I nodded and the shadow was gone.

For a few minutes I just sat there on my mattress. As I slowly woke up, I found the little round of charms that had been taken from the corpse of a Ratheine female; somehow it had got under my pillow in the night. I toyed with it: the deadwood man, the strip of hide, the hollow crab. Not so unlike Sarah’s necklaces all those years ago. And out of nowhere, I wasn’t sure I still wanted to be part of a mission. Or go out into the desert.

Shake it off, I told myself. Fumbled my shirt and sandals on. My swathes were on their hook: true to his word, he’d had them mended, and a scarring of red twine coloured the collar. Like a true Antissan, I had them wrapped fast round my body within a minute.

Upstairs, he’d left a box-lantern. By its meek light, I ate my tashi, doubts shrinking smaller with each mouthful, and then got ready to leave. I took the torque from my sling-bag and secured it on my left forearm, slung the bag across my body, then found a simple folding chib ‒ a keen, flat blade and grip of bone that fitted snugly in my hand. Wouldn’t be much as a proper weapon, but it was something, so I tucked it into my swathe-belt.

The moon symbol hung low on the clepsydra’s dial. There was no sign of the sun symbol, or even the beak of the gryphon that climbed before it. I looked around once more. A tan-brown cloth was looped over the arm of a machine. To keep the hair out of my eyes, I tied it tight around my forehead, then swept my hood up, took the lantern and left. Closing the door.

The Deep was ghostly. At least an hour earlier than I’d ever been up for hotting lights, its emptiness felt much more threatening. And so it should be, I thought, if it weren’t for the soldiers at its core all through the night. My lantern beams played eerily with brickwork and pipes, joining a game of even taller shadows at the top of the rubble-shaft spiral. My own shadow made me jump, looming against the Deeping Door like a tree.

My steps were soft over the stone. As I passed the grand citadel doors ‒ still closed, this early ‒ I heard the mutter of some guards. I passed the empty, silent kitchens and from there took the stairs that led down into the underpass roads.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Night air touched my skin. Head low, I hurried into the sprawling goods depot, ready to cloak my light at the first sign of movement anywhere. But there were no guards to be seen as I moved among the rafters, timber posts and sleeping carts and wagons.

Two shadowy figures stood by a cart by the entrance of the depot. The harnessed donkey gave a snort and shook its head; one of the figures set its hand against its neck. Guild-ring glinting. At the crunch of my sandals in the straw, Rusper turned and glared out from a headdress. The skin at his eyes looked no better. ‘Into the cart. Quickly now and keep that hood up.’

He joined me aboard. The second man, our hooded driver, hoisted himself into the front and flicked the reins immediately. The donkey walked, cart rolling out of the depot and veering left into the underpass. Hooves clopped, wheels trundled and this all sounded far too loud.

‘Her name is Javairea,’ said Rusper after a little distance.

I looked at him. ‘The donkey?’

‘No,’ he blinked. ‘The woman. The one you saw.’

‘Oh,’ I said.

A long pause. ‘We’ve known each other some years now.’

Even though I’d never meant to—it had been the Disc that had showed me—I knew I’d invaded his privacy by seeing them together in his quarters. I waited for him to say something more, but he didn’t. ‘She’s . . . harem-senah,’ I said, ‘isn’t she?’

‘Yes, from Ospégath. Brought to Antissa very young, as is tradition. She became a prized jewel of the harem. But our relations are no longer bound by Antissan harem regulation. She’s not my girl, you understand. We care for each other.’

Hearing him say that both warmed me and shamed me at once. ‘I’m sorry I spoke about her in front of the Commander and the Marszal.’

He met my eyes. ‘It’s alright, Flint. You needed my attention and you got it. Besides, the wittering rumours had already begun.’ Looking aside, he shook his head while toying with something in between his fingers.

Javairea. It was the most beautiful name I’d ever heard in my life. ‘Why don’t you marry her?’

His laugh sounded mechanical. ‘Because she is still bound by regulation. It is against the law of our land to wed a harem-senah. They belong to the Satrap.’

‘Like everything,’ I said softly, but still hoping he heard.

We rounded the hindquarters of the citadel, our cart passing through faint bars of reflected light from the higher estates. One by one, we overtook the soldiers leading their mounts at a stroll. All were cloaked darkly as well; too darkly for me to tell how many of them were women too. The company had been instructed to assemble very slowly through the small hours, so drawing as little attention as might be drawn by their movements. These must be the last ones, I figured.

Passing underneath the council hall and then emerging from the darkness, we travelled alongside smaller estates beside the citadel wall and past the turret that branched from its southern side. As we neared the low wall of the gravel yard, voices sounded ahead: ‘Soldier’—‘Shieldman.’

‘Stop. It’s the Shield,’ whispered Rusper.

The driver halted the donkey and turned slightly in his seat, speaking low. ‘We are close to the Iron Keep, ekharan.’

‘Not that close,’ Rusper replied, then turned and vigorously signalled a halt to the soldiers walking behind us. ‘Must be a wide night patrol.’

We listened, sitting very still. Farther off, some guards were talking, but there were no more nearby voices; only the breeze and languid clop of hooves approaching.

Rusper nudged me. ‘Run ahead. Stay low and keep close to the shadows. Signal back if it’s clear. Go boy, be quick.’

I tugged my hood and hopped down to hurry out across the cobbles, quickly closing the distance to the gravel yard wall. There I pressed my back against the stone, took a breath and peered around the corner. The yard was empty and the Deeping Door was shut. As I knew. To the right was the narrow gate that led into the lower Southeast District: that gate was open. The hooves clopped closer. A mounted figure appeared and, before I could duck behind the wall, looked straight at me. Then turned his horse, raising an arm.

One of ours, then.

I looked back and waved to Rusper’s cart. It moved forward, Rusper coaxing to the soldiers behind, and as it veered into the yard I climbed beside him again. We lowered our heads from the gust of wind that swept the gravel yard, then met the eyes of the cavalryman at the gate. He dropped his mouth-guard: not a he. Marszal Savhar. ‘Viceroy.’ Her face was barely distinguishable in the black headdress.

‘Shield?’

‘Yes sir, opposite gate. Just one. Moved on.’

Rusper’s nod was uneasy, and no more words were spoken. Our little cart trundled down into the broken Southeast District. Here was where some of the Verunians had been given shelter after their evacuation; the lower part was derelict. The Marszal and last soldiers, now also mounted, stayed close behind us. I heard the district gate close, and then another pair of riders came to join us from ahead. They remained either side of our cart until we reached the Crop Yard, where I would daily come to arrange my people’s supplies from the Yieldmaster.

I’d never seen it at night: a barren space where so much crowding was by day, though maybe those might be the pegs of the Yieldmaster’s bivouac, outlining the old crone’s humble office in the middle. The Crop Yard gave onto the back gate of the city, or Trader’s Gate, which would take us down through the farming quarters to the foot of Antissa’s hill.

Now the square was alive with the quiet movements of seventy soldiers and their horses. I dismounted from the cart, my eyes drawn to the row of lantern posts above us, jutting right out of the fortress wall like four long javelins. Their diffuse triglycerate shone a murky, milky green over the place. Behind their glare moved silhouettes. Watchmen, I hoped.

Rusper melted into the shadowy confusion of men, women and beasts. Three other carts, these ones much larger, were being loaded by some servants. And there in his saddle was Plamen, black cloak concealing the white.

Minutes passed in the early cold before I heard the first scrape of metal; a shutter dropped over one lantern. Murmurs grew furtive, movements brisker. I heard short orders to the servants, and as I started to feel like I shouldn’t be here at all, Rusper wafted out of the throng.

His fingers clicked at my face. ‘Open your sling-bag,’ he said sharply and stood quite close. When he grasped my shoulder I thought he was going to pull me into a hug—I don’t know why—but of course he didn’t. Instead he reached into his cloak and produced an object wrapped in hide. As soon as I felt its solid weight, I knew it.

I gaped at him. ‘But—’

‘But nothing, boy. I want it back.’ The second lantern scraped shut then, leaving the Crop Yard darker by half. I buried the fusil and its holster in my bag. ‘You’ll find three capsules of schot, though I don’t intend you should need them.’

I looked up and offered a shrug: ‘Dangers.’

‘Yes.’ Patting my shoulder, he looked up and the third lantern went out.

‘Your honest faith in the Captain seems to have been well-placed after all,’ remarked Plamen as he rode up beside us. Behind him, the soldiers were mounting and moving into formation round the carts.

Rusper addressed him from the ground, his voice discreet: ‘Do not engage. Not unless absolutely necessary. I want fifty men posted at Chidh Eshipas before nine days are out.’

‘So you shall, Viceroy.’

Plamen veered the great shadow of his horse away from us and Rusper ushered me towards the supply-carts. Before I climbed into the seat, he gripped me tightly by the shoulder. ‘Under no circumstance are you to place yourself outside the protection of this unit, do you hear me?’

‘Yes, Caliph Symphin.’

The breath he pushed out made a cloud. ‘Do what you can for us, Flint, only what you can.’

He let me go, and as he did the yard went black. Sitting beside the vaguest outline of a driver, I could make out only heads and dim movements. Plamen’s voice sounded out just loud enough from somewhere: ‘Open the gate.’

A figure jogged towards the gatehouse; soon enough I heard the grind of a winch and the slow crank of lifting iron. Against the deepness of the dawn I saw black teeth rise out of earth. The shadow at the head of the group wheeled his tall horse before the arch and called attention. The column moved. Our own horse whinnied and, with a pull, got our wheels turning. I was leaving Antissa.

Something poked my shoulder. When I turned to look back, behind my seat, someone was there among the canvassed-over cargo. Slim and very dark. I guessed, one of the hands. ‘You’re the Elmine?’ A young male voice.

For a moment, I hesitated. You’re Naemian, she’d said. So many times. Naemian.

This I would do for them, my people . . . my . . .

My people! A tremor juddered through me. How could I be so distracted, forgetful and stupid?—who was going to arrange for their supplies everyday now I was leaving the city? With frantic eyes, I panned the Crop Yard behind the shadow of the boy, but there was no longer an engineer standing there. Rusper was gone.

‘Yes,’ I said, the panic strangely numbing. ‘I’m the Elmine. Who are you?’

‘Kobi,’ he said.

I shook the hand he held out ‒ bony and rough, but still quite warm despite the chilly morning air ‒ then turned around and hugged my swathes. Over the heads of fifty soldiers, a blue desert stretched towards me.