Elsewhere was a dismal cellar. Light filtered through broken stone blocks above to illuminate an uneven dirt floor scattered with vegetable debris. A collapsed arch might once have been an entrance to some other part of this ruin. A thick tangle of vines above had rooted in the crevices of a pile of rubble against one wall. There was one major improvement: it was blessedly warm, humid even. Gherrit could feel his goosebumps shrinking and his toes uncurling.

“Better than the last,” remarked Fremin, rubbing her arms. Gherrit watched the outline of a door in blue fade from the air and then turned to eye the vines warily.

“Perhaps,” he said. “The plants in the Hansippif are murderous. So if that’s where we are, we are trapped. Unless you can talk to greenery?”

“Not at my level in craft,” Fremin said. Gherrit picked up a dry stick and cautiously poked at a root. It did not react, so he stepped on to a block poking up from the dirt and touched a vine. Again there was no reaction. He listened. From outside came the noises of woodland creatures going about their day – trills, caws, cheeps and rustles. The Hansippif had been devoid of animal life in his observation. Emboldened, he climbed the rubble and gave the tangle a hefty poke. A shower of dead leaves and dirt fell on his head.

“You are too fearful,” Fremin told him and hauled herself over to hack away with the knife. A short time later they emerged into a shallow glade, dusty and adorned with leaf-litter. Their exit prompted an anteater to gallop away in alarm but neither plant nor animal had offered hostilities. If broken stones and a short mossy stretch of squared stone hinted that a bank behind them had once supported a building there was no other sign of human habitation. From the sun’s angle it was late afternoon. After the threatening oddities of the delving it was absurdly normal.

Fremin looked around at the ancient trees dozing in the sun, at the hummocked ground and shrubbery at their feet, snorted, picked up a stick to lean on and set off, staggering slightly. Gherrit had his first clear view of her leg and did not like what he saw.

“You have a set of blue lines running down your leg from where you were stabbed, and they overlie a set of black lines that look very like one of the demon’s legs – haunched and furry and ending in a long foot,” he told her. Fremin cursed vigorously in several languages then hobbled faster.

“Where are we going?” asked Gherrit.

“South. If this is the southern edge of the old Haness Wild, we should soon come to settled country. Some place I can get this cured. And buy a shirt and check the date. And get some food.”

Gherrit handed over his last All-Day Sucker – had he really spent only three days in the Hansippif and the delving? It felt like more, much more. Did time run the same in that place?

“Can the Archivists help? They have chapters in most places, and that must include the Brahnzhever.”

“Maybe. What’s the Brahnzhever? Talk to me – it helps take my mind off things.”

Gherrit explained that some two hundred years ago Sebres Brahn had argued that there must be an ultimate source of truth and justice, one not evident in the world and hence ‘known in absence’ by its works. His teachings, that this being could be reached by right thought and conduct – the so-called Path - had gained many adherents who had followed him across the water to Old Reghen. That land was now called the Brahnzhver in his honour. The folk were all firm in the Brahnak faith and obsessive in their concern to follow Brahn’s teachings about the Path.

“They are fine to deal with, if sometimes a bit strait-laced. They have stronger notions of gender roles than most folk and have less use for word-magic,” Gherrit summarised. Fremin had more questions about the changes in the world over the last two centuries, and Gherrit was doing his inadequate best to inform her when they walked into a patrol of Brahnak soldiers.

The small squad stepped out from behind the trees with spears levelled and crossbows spanned, five men in dulled chain, round helmets with cheek-guards firmly strapped in place, short heavy blades by their sides. Gherrit immediately held out his hands, palm up, in token of surrender. Fremin spun around as if to escape, then settled back as she reckoned the odds. Her hands were held low in front of her body, and Gherrit wondered again how much she knew of fighting.

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“On behalf of the Faithful I must ask your names and purposes,” demanded one, a brick-faced fellow with a blue star on a white background pinned to one shoulder. Gherrit hastily complied, adding in his broken Brahnak that he was from Daruz Alman and had come from a Brahnak ship. The leader turned to Fremin, who had been listening with a frown.

“Brahnak! It’s just Regh with a funny accent. I can speak that. I’m Fremin Dtaie tel Jhaugusis, and I’ve been in stone for two hundred years. Does any of you know where to find a member of the Healing Hands? Or what Year of the High Councils it is?”

The spears twitched. The leader held up a calming hand and asked “Are you of the Deniers?”

“Who are they? I am a citizen of the Haghar League, or I was. I am probably recorded as dead. Two hundred years is a long time to leave an Ancestor Book entry open. Not that I’m an ancestor.”

The leader had a rapid conversation with Fremin in Haghar, too rapid for Gherrit to follow. It seemed he was asking for the details of landmarks in Dtlag. Fremin replied readily, and her answers satisfied him enough that he gestured to the troop to stand down. While they talked Gherrit had noticed a flicker of fingers as three of the squad drew on craft, their hands drawing faint threads from the air to form delicate patterns. It was some form of scrutiny for all three gave the leader brief hand signals that seemed to further reassure him, although he did secure their knife and request they hand over their their possessions. Fremin placed her pouches in his hands reluctantly, and only after receiving an assurance that they would be returned in due course.

“This is a matter for the Assessors and we cannot know what will be evidence. We will send you and your belongings on to Word’s Gate, and they will deal with matters there. Striving, In Trust, your cloaks please, for we cannot conduct people through town in a state of undress.” The cloaks were handed over, the troop formed up around them and they set off, Fremin leaning on Gherrit.

* * * *

They reached a village while the sun was still above the horizon. A small river curled around a cluster of houses, all with steep roofs and wide eaves against the downpours of the rainy season. A hall with a tall narrow tower stood on a mound outside the boundary wall. From the broad-arrow mark on its sides Gherrit guessed this was devoted to the Brahnak faith. They skirted this, followed a winding cobbled street past a marketplace where the stalls were shuttered against the coming night and down to a square stone house beside a bridge. A pole over the door supported a blue flag that hung limp in the still evening air. There had been few folk about and none had given them more than a curious look.

The patrol leader’s name was Joyful Heart after the Brahnak custom of taking names from Sebres Brahn’s teachings. While they waited for the local healer a rummage through the watch-house odds and ends bag produced two shirts that fit and they took turns to wash and tidy up. When Gherrit came out the healer was with Fremin, only to come out after half an hour shaking her head.

“This condition is beyond my skill and knowledge. I have given the young woman a decoction that will ease the pain and calm the mind, but I recommend she seek more expert help as soon as possible.”

Gherrit was slowly learning to match changes in the colours around people with their moods and characters. When Fremin joined them for dinner he could tell she was worried despite her outward calm. Joyful Heart and two of his squad (Gherrit guessed ‘dutiful, comradely, cautious’) were at the table with them for a meal of stew over steamed grains. Gherrit spooned his up, finding tit-bits of meat among the vegetables and tiny crunchy seed-balls that released a flood of flavour when chewed. Joyful Heart let Gherrit finish the bowl before asking questions, using his decent Merllan rather than Gherrit’s inadequate Brahnak.

“We looked through your gear. Can you tell me who ‘Saensei Saore’ is, and what the tablet with the odd writing on it does?”

“Don’t say the word!” Fremin and Gherrit chorused.

“What word?”

Gherrit explained Sthirothh, to the alarm of the Brahnaks. Joyful Heart hastily left the table to remove the tablet to a secure place, returning to listen to Gherrit’s full account of his voyage from Daruz Alman to their exit from the delving. When he was done Joyful Heart smiled drily.

“We do a patrol along the outskirts of the Hansippif every second day, keeping our distance from the Wild. We check the feelings of the land, do what we can to keep it from catching the darker mood to the north. Rarely creatures come out of the Hansippif and we had to ensure you were not of that kind. Although my first thought on hearing your voices was that you were a couple going home after spending time together in the woods.” Gherrit and Fremin bridled at the suggestion. “Your story is stranger than my imaginings, yet I believe you. It fits with what you have. In any event, you, Fremin, need better help than is available here and the Seeking Forgiveness on the Waters will have docked at Brahnker City by now. If this underman is as you say the Assessors will want your testimony. We’ll send you on to Word’s Gate in the morning. I am sure you will find a cure there or at Brahnker City.”

“Will I be required to testify?” asked Fremin.

Joyful Heart turned his palms up. “I don’t know. Best you go along with Gherrit and find out that along with your treatment. It will save looking for you if the Assessors have questions.”

“It seems all roads go to Brahnker,” sighed Fremin.