Bachi scrambled into the shadow of the fired-brick wall, his heart in his mouth, silently cursing his thick limbs and heavy paunch. I’ve been eating like a starveling child for moons now. I can see Zulimaya’s every bone through her skin, and even that hateful rat spoor Kanga is looking hollow in the face. What Song-cursed luck do I have that I’m still waddling about like a capybara? Zulimaya shot him a glare in the bright moonlight, and he tried to quiet his panting. Neither of them was even breathing hard. It wasn’t fair.

“Nobody within a stone’s throw,” Kanga whispered. With his superior sense of the Song, Bachi could have told him that there were twelve rats and three times that many mice within that range, and four humans lying still in a hut perhaps two stones’ throw distant, but by the time he’d be able to get the information past his own blowing gasps, the fool would have certainly stopped paying attention already.

“Good enough for me,” Zulimaya said. “Let’s go.”

They crept into the broad, stone-lined clearing among the buildings. Bachi felt terribly uncomfortable in this strange new place and kept looking over his shoulder. His Song sense would let him know if anything approached, of course, but everything here was brick, stone, and sand, and his power felt strangely muted. He’d never been in such a dead place.

That was why they’d risked entering this place at all, despite the risks of sneaking into a huge dwelling of strangers that would likely do them harm: the terrain had turned to nothing but sand and dust the further north they went, and both Bachi’s food gathering and the others’ hunting had dwindled to nearly nothing. They’d run out of food four days ago, and out of water two days after that. When they’d spied the great sprawl of buildings on the horizon, they hadn’t even had to discuss it: they would sneak in and take whatever they could.

Now Bachi’s dry mouth had as much to do with the fear of being caught and killed as it did thirst, and he found himself wondering if there might have been some other way to go. Not only were the foreigners likely to be unfriendly to anyone caught sneaking in during the moonlight hours, but as Bachi and the others had spied on the great village from behind a tall sand dune the evening before, they’d seen a group of no fewer than fifty of those fearsome riding warriors pound into the gathering and disappear amid the hubbub.

Zulimaya led them first to the great fountain in the center of the deserted square clearing, both the green and white moons reflecting in its still waters. When they’d seen it during the day, a great fall of water had been cascading down from the hand of a man’s statue mounted in the middle, but whatever mechanism brought the water up the statue’s height – nearly twice that of a living man – had been turned off when the market shut down at nightfall. Bachi sank gratefully to his knees and put his face to the water, slurping shamelessly. The water was warm, tasted of sand, and was a little brackish, but after nearly two days of thirst, it was as good as a clear mountain stream. Zuli and Kanga were more careful, keeping an eye out as they lifted handfuls of water to their mouths, but after three or four sips, Kanga got on his knees and copied him.

Once their bellies were sloshing happily, they approached the cloth-covered stall not far from the fountain, the one that Zuli had pointed out from their hidden vantage earlier: it was full of fruit, dried fish, and smoked meats. During the daylight hours an incredible number of people had come and gone, their bits of metal flashing in the sun as they handed them over and walked off with armfuls of food. The stall seemed to have an inexhaustible supply. Surely they wouldn’t miss a few scraps of meat and a handful of grain if they happened to disappear during the night.

Zuli’s knife flashed in the moonlight, and one corner of the heavy cloth covering the stall came free from its rope. She plunged an arm into the darkness and withdrew a green melon bigger than Bachi’s head. His mouth watered, and he reached for it eagerly.

“Don’t eat it yet,” she whispered. “We get what we need and we leave. Once we’re safe we can have all we want.”

His stomach cramped at the thought, but it was only good sense. The melon went into his bag, followed by a handful of round tubers one at a time as Zuli reached into the stall over and over.

“Too slow,” Kanga grunted, moving to the far side of the stall and severing the rope on that side as well.

“Wait,” Zuli hissed, but it was too late. He reached down and threw back the heavy cloth, exposing the whole front of the stall. Bachi heard a tiny snap as the expanse of cloth lifted, and at the peak of the pyramid tent-top of the stall, a strange fire flared to life. It came from a tube no more than two hands high and gave off sparks of deepest red which shot high into the air. Bachi gaped at it, uncomprehending, and then the tube gave off an inhuman shriek like the world’s angriest bird. On and on it went, and still the tube spewed those impossible red sparks.

“Sa sa melimbe!” bellowed a man’s voice from high above. “Um zara ha pishkaney!”

Bachi’s chest clenched, and he reared his head back, looking instinctively toward the voice. It came from one of the spindly stone towers that flanked the four corners of the market square, and he saw the sudden flare of a torch or flame, and then a bright, focused beam of light as someone up there directed a polished sheet of metal in their direction.

Kanga hauled on his arm. “You said there was no one here!” he cried.

“You said there was no one here,” Bachi protested, his head whirling. How did I not feel them up there? He knew the answer as soon as he asked himself the question: The high towers were made of brick and stone, both the little booths themselves and the tall pylons that supported them. There was nothing green that high up in this parched place that could alert him to any human presence. They’d seen men up there when they’d scouted it from afar the evening before, of course, but they’d seen them climbing down at sunset and agreed that no one would bother staying up there in the dark. They’d been wrong.

Clutching his heavy, precious bag, Bachi stumbled after the others toward the street that led back out of the village. By the time they reached the wall that surrounded the square, four men stood in the breach. Zulimaya went at them first, throwing herself at one with a savage cry. He didn’t bring his spear up in time, and they crashed to the cobbles, Zuli hissing and spitting like a panther. One of the others pulled a club from his belt and brought it down on her leg, and she gave a growl of pain, clinging to her opponent even tighter. Bachi couldn’t tell with the reflected light flashing all around him, but it looked like she was biting the man even as she pummeled him with her fists.

Kanga leapt in with a battle cry, swinging the unstrung bow like a club. Two others engaged him, spreading wide to stay out of his range. Bachi danced from one side to the other, but there was no safe route through. No matter which way he spun and stutter-stepped, there was someone holding something sharp or heavy that he didn’t want to get too close to. Looking past the scrum up the road that led back to the dry wilderness and safety, he saw four more men coming at a run. Three had bows already strung. A glance behind him showed more coming from the far side of the square.

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“Stop,” he yelled, reaching in and bodily pulling Kanga back from his assailants. Kanga cursed and jerked free, but Bachi caught one wrist, holding on tight.

Kanga raised his bowstaff to strike, lips pulled back in rage, and Bachi quailed. When the big man saw who was holding him, outrage painted his face.

“There are too many,” he said. “We have to stop. They’ll kill us.” He turned to Zulimaya, not daring to get too close to where she grappled on the ground with one of the men. “Zuli, stop! You have to stop!”

She was past hearing, and he saw one of the men, now free of Kanga, level his spear. With a cry, Bachi stumbled forward, but he was too slow. The man’s speartip buried itself in Zulimaya’s thigh, and she howled in pain and rage, curling herself around the haft of the weapon that had her pinned.

“Get off her!” Kanga bellowed, charging in. He never even got close. One of the others cracked him across the back of the head with the haft of his spear, and he went down on all fours, groaning.

“Stop, please stop,” Bachi said, his words coming out with a sob. He knelt down and put his hands out in a gesture of submission. “Don’t hurt them, please!”

They didn’t understand, of course, and as soon as they bothered to notice him, they hurt him too.

* * *

They slumped on the floor of a dark room sometime later and did their best to bleed quietly. Bachi’s face was tender no matter where he touched, and blood kept dribbling from his split lower lip. Kanga looked even worse in small patch of morning sunlight that came in from a tiny barred window high on one wall: one eye was swollen shut, his leathers were torn down the front, and purple bruises bloomed on his ribs. He was holding one hand like a couple of the fingers had been broken. Remembering the time Kanga had broken his finger, Bachi didn’t feel too much sympathy.

It was Zuli he was worried about. She was conscious again, which he was glad to see, but she sat there silently and pressed on the crude, bloodstained bandage someone had wrapped around her thigh. The cloth was dark, and when she moved at all, she left smears behind. She was sweating more than the heat could explain, and her eyes were unfocused. If a healer didn’t see to her soon, she might lose too much blood or get an infection. He kept humming the Song, but hardly anything here sang along. It just made him even more lonely.

“You shouldn’t have stopped me,” Kanga croaked.

“I should have stopped you faster,” Bachi said. “Look at you. They could have killed you.”

Kanga snorted. “You think they’re planning anything else? As soon as they realize they don’t speak our language and can’t torture anything useful out of us, they’ll slit all our throats. My way would have been faster.”

“You don’t know that.” Bachi shook his head, trying to ignore the sudden chill he felt. Kanga might be a hateful man, but he wasn’t stupid, at least not about violence. He had the right of it this time. They’d been caught stealing in a strange land full of warriors that burned farms and went where they pleased. There was no path out of this room that didn’t have a sharp blade at the end of it.

“Shut up,” Zulimaya muttered.

Bachi scrambled to her side, hands hovering uselessly over her wrapped, oozing wound. “We shouldn’t talk about it,” he said to Kanga. “You’ll upset her.”

“No.” Zuli fixed him with a pain-bright eye. “You. Shut up.”

Bachi sat back with a pang of dismay.

“Always running,” she muttered. “Always hoping.” She reached up and gripped his dirty shirt with a bloody hand. “When they come, you attack. We attack. All of us. Make them kill us.”

After that, the other two dozed on and off, but Bachi sat in the corner and said nothing, his heart in turmoil. He couldn’t care less what Kanga thought of him, but hearing Zulimaya call him a coward cut deep, even if she hadn’t used the word. She’s in pain. Fevered, maybe. She didn’t mean it. He didn’t believe it even as he thought it. No, she thought he was useless. A burden. Incapable of protecting himself, much less anyone else. She will never care for you. How could she, when you have none of the things she respects? She’d choose Kanga over you, and she hates him. It was a bitter draught, but it was truer than what he’d thought before.

They’re right. It would be better to die quickly. He remembered Tarek’s story of being tortured by the Iktaka, and the flayed patch on his back Bachi had watched scar over all those moons before. Better a quick blade in the chest than that. So he sat in the corner, watched the door, and tried to prepare himself to die. He couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it. No matter how he tried to envision the moment, his mind betrayed him and created some escape from the scenario. Tarek would show up at the last moment, or Tavi, or even Xochil, and he’d keep living. He could not make his mind contemplate his own death.

So when the door on the other side of the room jiggled, the sound of a key sliding into place bringing him alert, he scuttled forward, fists balled, heart pounding, still totally unprepared. I can’t die. I don’t want to. But Zuli had said to attack, and he wasn’t going to let her down again. Kanga was crouched on the far side of the door, still cradling his hurt hand but radiating an air of violence. He caught Bachi’s eye and nodded once, a terse acceptance of the inevitable. Zuli was unconscious on the floor. This is it. I’m not ready.

The door swung open and Bachi leapt blindly, not waiting for anyone else to go first. He closed his eyes tight and felt a slender body give way beneath his bulk. He wrapped his arms around it and held tight, waiting for someone’s blade to plunge into his body. He fell on top of the person, a pained whoof coming from beneath him. He rolled over, clutching the body tight. “Hit him!” he screeched to Kanga. “Kill him!”

The sounds of flesh striking flesh reverberated through the stuffy brick room, and cries of pain came from the one he was holding. They were surprisingly high and feminine. Is this a woman?

He opened his eyes and found his sight obscured by a shock of bright red curls. They were the exact same shade as Zulimaya’s. For a confused moment he thought he’d grabbed her by mistake, and his grip slackened. Then an elbow that felt as hard and sharp as a spear buried itself in his short ribs, and he gasped in pain, letting go.

A hand in his throat, a shockingly hard strike to his groin, and the weight was gone from on top of him. He heard more slaps and a grunt of pain from Kanga, and then silence.

When the starbursts of pain cleared from his eyes, he looked up and saw a tiny, pale, redheaded woman holding Kanga’s arm at a punishing angle behind his back, his face to the floor. She was panting, her nose was bloody, and she looked ready to kill. She could have been Zulimaya’s sister.

“Na guriman,” she barked. “Po issaka no imbay. Huba gabast miray?”

“I don’t understand,” Bachi said, clutching his stomach and waiting for the pain in his gut to subside. “I don’t speak your language.”

She stopped, looking wary. “Old Tongue? Why speak you strange?”

He could have cried from sheer relief. “Thank the Great Ones,” he sighed, getting to his knees. “You’re the first person I’ve understood since we got here.”

Kanga grunted something unintelligible, and she shoved his face harder into the floor. “Why contest you me?”

“I…” Bachi had to think about that for a few heartbeats to sort out what she meant. “We thought you came to kill us.” He licked his torn lip, suddenly unsure. “Did you?”

“Mayhap,” she said warily. She jerked her chin at Zuli. “Her you wounded?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “She’s our friend. The men on the tower captured us and stuck her with a spear.”

She bared her teeth, and the resemblance to Zulimaya was so strong he felt as if he were seeing double. “She say other, die you painful.”

“It’s true,” he assured her. “I promise.”

Kanga groaned beneath her. His words were muffled and strained with his face smashed against the floor. “Will you quit blabbing and tell her to let me go?”

She understood him, apparently, because she slowly eased up and stepped back from him. Kanga scooted away from her, rubbing his face and glaring at them both.

“If friends you, then her heft and bring,” she said, a familiar imperiousness in her features.

“We can’t just leave,” Kanga said. “Have you talked to the men here?”

“Them pay,” the woman said, shrugging. “Jurist no arrive have month yet. Five silvers for kin already; more ten for you if friends.”

“Friends,” Kanga broke in. “You sound like a fool, but I understood that much. We’re her friends.”

“Come then,” she said, gesturing out the door. “Pay we and go. Jailer care naught but for coin, but always horselords patrol. Quick we go.”

Not quite believing their luck, Kanga and Bachi scooped Zulimaya up between them as carefully as they could and trundled her out the door in the redhaired woman’s wake. If she’d paid off their captors, they might live to see sunset.

Bachi thought back to the fingerspan before when he’d been grappling with his own approaching death. It felt like it had happened to someone else. I know I’ll die. It might even be soon. But it won’t be now, and that’s good enough for me.