Pyres are ruinously expensive and time-consuming to establish; every new human settlement must begin with an organized effort to erect a massive temple in a barren wilderness, followed by many years of intensive cultivation to make fertile soil out of dust and sand. Once the pyre is established, however, it will be largely self-sufficient, with a regular and inexhaustible source of power, and therefore independent of whoever paid to found it. For this reason, new pyres are rare, although their creation is universally lauded. Instead population pressure is typically relieved by the establishment of dependent hearths; when hearth sites are exhausted, war and exile make up the deficit.

Gelibara had told Ram, long ago, that Mana had a very forceful way with her fire. He hadn’t lied; the barque took off like a frightened frog, nearly knocking them all down. The center of the main sail had a distinctly singed look to it, from what Ram could see past his sister’s conflagration. “You have her run the ship?” he asked Shennai in a low voice.

“We require three handmaidens; we have four, and the last is needed where she is,” Shennai answered. Though the craft was flying low and slow by normal standards, they were all hunched down close to the deck for stability. “Erimana’s fire is more than adequate to lift us, while Tenrinti steers. I supervise, and correct as needed. But none of us had handled a barque of any kind at the beginning of this bloom.”

Tenrinti, the third handmaiden, didn’t look that much older than Mana, perhaps eleven or twelve. She was a trifle stout, with shoulder-length hair, and kept an eye on her partner as she worked. “Why do you only have four, though? Couldn’t Shimrun persuade more of you over?”

“It is not a matter of persuasion, Ram. How much do you know about the true state of affairs at the Temple?”

“Karagi’s line is a fraud, the ensis were random unwanted kids raised in a dark room and threatened all the time,” Ram summarized. “Some of them went crazy and got murdered.”

“Yes. It should not surprise you to learn that the relationship between ensis and handmaidens is complicated. We can hardly help being aware of the current ensi’s presence and ultimate supervision, and our haranuu feel it is only right to obey him. At the same time, few of us ever meet him, and we are taught, from our earliest youth, to regard him as a figure of menace.”

“Menace? What kind of menace? Would his spirit even let him hurt you, if he wanted to?”

Shennai pursed her lips. “I do not mean direct physical aggression. Nor any kind of blatant … propaganda campaign against our master. Subtle insinuation is far more effective at spreading fear. Our education emphasizes that, at any time, the ensi may choose to command any of his handmaidens, and completely override her will. The prospect is not pleasant. There are other stories as well, which we hear later. The least lurid involve simple rape; the others I will not repeat. Many of them are lies, but not all.”

“How do you know?” Darun asked.

“I was one of that unlucky few who dealt with them directly, as a caretaker. I have raised whole generations of them; many I loved, many more I feared. It is difficult to say whether rearing them differently would have rendered them more or less monstrous.”

“A caretaker?” Ram said, taken aback. “But, that means … that thing you do to kill people, you learned it there, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I did. For kindlings. I know better than you how inadequate it would be to say that I regret it. I have killed children. Every failed candidate. My only comfort is that they felt no pain.”

“But you’re helping one now, huh?” Darun put in.

“I assume you have no children, young lady?”

“You assume right.”

“Then you will have to take my word for it, that a woman can only raise so many children, and see them grow, only to put them down like mad dogs when they err through no fault of their own.”

“So why were you doing it in the first place? If you’re just not a kid person, I can sympathize.”

“Darun, knock it off.”

“No, it’s all right, Rammash. I have made peace with my past. I did what I did for the same reason all handmaidens do their duty, miss: because I was a daughter of Dul Karagi, born to a good family, and I knew I would advance that family’s interests if I served the pyre well. I did not wonder what it truly meant to serve the pyre. Those are not the kinds of questions a girl asks, when she is young and powerful, and knows her life is planned for her. Who would think of choosing, when there is only one option? Tenrinti, further to port, if you please.

“My presence here is not a matter of reason. I have not performed any elaborate moral calculations. For all that I know, our Ensi will make matters worse. I am moved purely by revulsion. I have drunk poison; now I must vomit. That is all.”

For all its erratic handling, the barque made steady progress; the glass spires flew past them at reckless speed. Mana never took her eyes off the firestorm she was brewing overhead. “That’s why you’re here,” Ram said. “What about the others?”

“Pimna, who remained behind, is our Ensi’s aunt, and feels some responsibility. Rinti, our steerswoman, is a good friend of your sister’s. I will leave it to the master to explain Mana’s part in this.”

“Four women loyal, out of hundreds,” Ram said. “Do all of you know what’s really going on?”

“No. We are as divided by faction as any other large group, if not more so—the daughters of lugals will avoid fraternizing with those of mere merchants. I spent most of my life associating mainly with a small cohort of other caretakers. Word travels, but not quickly or clearly.”

They were definitely getting closer to Shimrun; Ram’s usual away-from-pyre anxiety was receding. The Ensi was not the fire, but his haranu was reassured that something was going right. Ram didn’t care for its obsequious certainty. “Why did your spirit let you do what you did, for all those blooms? I don’t think mine would let me do something it knew was hurting the priesthood.”

“Haranuu are not clever, Rammash.”

“I know. They can want and act, but they can’t think.”

“Correct. I was tasked with taking care of young candidates, and quietly disposing of those who grew too psychotic or malicious to be usable. I never struck any actually indwelt men—I couldn’t. So long as I was able to rationalize my actions, my haranu was pleased to be keeping the vital office of the priesthood away from unworthy candidates.”

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“Okay, but somebody had to know something was rotten. You people are responsible for a lot of things—almost every kind of work in Dul Karagi has handmaidens involved. The Lugal doesn’t coordinate all that, and the Ensi can’t. Who does?”

“No one person, so far as I know. Every aspect of government which requires quick or forceful decision-making has been delegated to the lugals. The management of the kitchens, or the barques, or the pottery kilns is in the hands of various committees, coteries, and cabals, who keep to their own business and guard their rights jealously.”

“Sounds like a perfect setup for Jushur. What do you think would happen, if you tried—“

“To break the silence? To spread the story that the priesthood is a toy of usurpers?”

“Yes.”

“It could not be spread quickly enough, and most of those who heard would be reluctant to believe it. Picture yourself a woman, Rammash, who has lived with the same body of other women for her entire life. You can’t marry, and there is no place for you outside the Temple, but common people bow in awe wherever you go. When you visit your kin, they are immensely proud and make much of you for the work you do. They, and your sisters, and the acolytes, are your entire life.”

“Okay, I get it. Nobody wants to believe they’ve been living a lie.” That just left one other objection. “But say the Ensi decided to make them help.”

“He would not. By the time he is indwelt he has spent fifteen blooms being trained against assertiveness.”

“But what if he did?”

Shennai didn’t quite suppress a shudder. “We have exiled ourselves from the pyre, and spent tetrads in the wild, to avoid doing just that. I told you months ago, on the streambank, what such a decision would mean.”

He thought of Urapu. “War in the streets.”

“An understatement. The Ensi cannot control hundreds of handmaidens at once, even if he wished to, and he would forfeit all their loyalty by trying.”

They had left the green pastures and crystal spires of Dul Jatu behind, bearing almost directly south across dull brown sand. “How are you navigating, anyway? I can tell you’re headed for the Ensi, but I thought you couldn’t see haranuu.”

“He controls us, gently and in very brief intervals, to indicate the proper direction. He used a similar technique to guide me to you at Dul Karagi.”

Several minutes passed before Darun broke the silence again. “So, if you’re not going to take over, or try and talk them over, what’s the big plan here? Do you even have a plan, or are you just hiding out?”

Ram gave her a warning look; she rolled her eyes back. Shennai answered as unflappably as ever: “That will be for the Ensi to tell you. Look.”

The ground had been rising beneath them for the past minute and more; a very large and steep-sided hill, almost a mountain, lay dead ahead. It looked as bare as most everything else in the desert. “Looks like a big pile of rocks,” Darun said.

“The Ensi’s there,” Ram said. He didn’t know if his heart was beating faster on account of his emotions, or the spirit’s.

The hill had a conveniently flat top, and Mana managed to land on it somewhat more gently than she had in the fields. As Ram descended, he saw that the flatness wasn’t natural—while it wasn’t perfectly level, the surface was hard and smooth, almost glassy. Shennai led them away from the barque at a brisk pace; the two girls lagged behind, chattering on the desolate mountaintop. The girl Tenrinti had yet to say a single word to Ram. “How long have you been here?”

“Since two nights after we left the pyre. We had some difficulty finding a suitable location.”

A crude set of steps had been blasted into the mountainside, winding around its eastern face. As they descended, he saw a great deal of broken rock scattered over the slope below. The stairs ended in a good-sized terrace, about as polished as the landing-field above, with a tunnel leading into the mountain. “Somebody’s been busy,” Darun observed.

“We have had to learn a great deal about the manipulation of stone,” Shennai said. “This vestibule is larger than we originally intended; our first several efforts collapsed. You’ll have to excuse me, now—the girls and I have a number of daily chores, and retrieving you caused a considerable delay.”

“Sure thing. Thanks again.” The tunnel ran only a short distance into the rock before opening out into a smallish chamber. Though the ceiling and walls were fire-sealed much like the tunnels of Dul Misishi, the left half of the floor was still half-buried under heaps of debris and rock dust. The right half of the room was lit by a dulsphere ensconced in the wall, and ended in a series of irregular bays or clefts in the rock—perhaps the beginnings of other tunnels. One of them had a curtain hung across it.

The room was clearly a work in progress. A stocky man with a flamekeeper’s sword on his left hip stood directing four other men, their lower faces wrapped in rags, to clear the rubble. Two of them took a particularly large hunk of rock by either end, and started hauling it towards the door. Their supervisor turned to watch them go, and his round, shaggy-bearded face broke into an enormous grin the moment he saw Ram.

“Rammash! My man!” He clapped Ram in a powerful hug. “Good to see you!”

“Likewise,” Ram grunted, extricating himself with some difficulty. He took a second look at the man. Whoever he was, he hadn’t groomed in ages, but that face—“Busu?” His old militia watch partner, famed lecher and layabout. Not who Ram would have expected to find in any position of authority.

“Damn right. First Sword Busugarta now, brother. I’m moving up.” He laughed. “It’d sound a lot better if we had anybody else here. I’m the whole damn army. Gotta start somewhere, am I right?” There was a crash behind Ram as the two men heaved their rock down the slope.

“You could have done a lot worse. I assumed they’d gutted you.”

“What, for attacking a flamekeeper? Nah. Just spent a couple months lying low. A lot of shit caught fire the night after you left, and they stopped looking for me after a tetrad or two. Too many other things to worry about, I guess.” The two men shuffled back in, one of them shooting an irritated look at Busu as he passed. Ram was not surprised to note that his old friend had no rock-dust on his hands.

“It must be nice to be forgettable. Darun, this is Busu; he helped me out big-time back at the pyre. What are you doing here, man?”

“You name it, brother. Clearing out rocks. Fetching water. Chasing down dinner—hope you like beef, by the way. Or mutton. Never thought I’d see the day I was tired of either, but damn.”

“That’s a good problem to have. Is the Ensi around?” Ram already knew, of course; he could practically see the power of his haranu shining through the dusty curtain hiding him from view.

“He is here, Rammash dear,” came a gentle voice from behind it. Gelibara’s? “But somewhat indisposed, I’m afraid. I’ll have to ask you to wait a touch longer.”

Ram looked to Busu, who shrugged. “He don’t feel too good, most of the time. Don’t know what all is up with that. I just help ‘em snatch the cows.”

“Uh-huh.” Whatever was going on with Shimrun, Ram didn’t care to start their dealings on this kind of subservient footing. He hadn’t spoken to the Ensi in more than three months now; that was enough waiting. He shoved the curtain aside.

There was only a small space, barely more than a closet, behind it, but they’d managed to fit five people inside. Two were little boys; they blinked at the sudden light flooding in. A small man sat on a rug at their feet, bent over something on the cave floor. Someone substantially larger knelt behind him, thumping him rhythmically on the back. A handmaiden stood over both, looking down, and Ram caught a glimpse of soft pyre-light reflecting off a bright copper bowl. There was a bitter, herbal smell. The man took deep breaths over the bowl, and started coughing violently. The man behind him gave up his pounding, and hurried to hand him a small pot.

It was hard to say, from the noises he made, whether the Ensi was coughing or vomiting into the little pot. When the fit passed, he wiped his mouth, handed the pot back, and stood up.

“Hello, Rammash,” he said. “It’s good of you to come.” Ram thought it was the same voice he’d heard in the darkness of the Palace, but he couldn’t say for sure after so long. He didn’t sound quite so short of breath as Ram remembered. But there was no doubt who he was.

Ram’s haranu urged him to kneel. He stood. Ally or enemy, well or ill, he’d not bow to the man who’d destroyed Urapu hearth. “Shimrun. Feeling better now?”

“No worse than usual. Or what’s usual lately. It’s harder, away from the pyre.” He took three steps forward, bringing his face into the light at last. He was remarkably short—not a dwarf, but small and slender like a girl of twelve. He had a long, thin face, an equally long nose, a small mouth with a scant mustache and beard, and large, somber brown eyes. It was hard to picture a less intimidating man.

“Well, I’m here, Ensi. Thanks for the ride. Now, what’s the big plan? Why’d you come all the way out here?”

“To die, Rammash. This is the future site of Dul Shimrun.”