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Alyea sighed. Brief though her aqeyva training had been, she'd learned to read people fairly well; and one of these two, if not both, knew something they weren't admitting. She'd tried every way she knew to charm the women into trusting her, but even Gria now regarded her with open hostility.

She stood and crossed to the door, leaning out to speak to the guard. “Send for Micru,” she said, then withdrew into the room again. “So you're going to torture us?” Sela said, her expression bitter and her voice shrill with tension. “See the kindness of the southern lady, Gria?”
“Why do you think that?” Alyea asked.
“I've seen that look before,” Sela said, tossing her head. “I know your kind, my
lady
. Start out kind and turn to whips when you don't get what you want.” She spat on the floor.

“
Gods
, you're an idiot,” Alyea said, and turned her back on the woman.
A light tap sounded at the door; Micru slipped into the room, his flat, dark stare taking in the entire room in one professionally quick sweep. “My lady?”
“Do you know who these women are, Micru?” she asked.
He surveyed them for a long, silent moment, considering. “I know
what
they are.”
Sela stared at Micru as if beginning to feel fear for the first time. “Slaves,” she said, in an attempt at scorn. “That's obvious enough.”
“
Ugren
slaves,” Micru said, and settled into a chair. He studied the women, one knuckle resting against his mouth. “Northerners. Quasinobles. And fools, beyond a doubt.”
They stared at him warily.
“Fools,” Micru said, his tone eerily, almost hypnotically, flat. “Fools who thought they could buy their way into a place beyond money.”
“I wasn't interested in going south!” Gria shrilled suddenly. “She
made
me! She's the one after money!”
Sela moved, snake-fast, and slapped her daughter hard.
“Be quiet!” she snarled.
Micru smiled. He crossed to the door; opening it, he told the guards, “Remove the older one. Stay with her in another room.”
“No!” Sela shrieked, bracing herself in front of her daughter. Alyea forced herself not to react as two guards wrestled the woman out of the room.
Micru shut the door again.
“Now that your mother isn't here,” he said as he settled back into his chair, “tell us what you know, girl. It may save both your lives.”
His tone held an offering of hope, not a threat, as though he truly sympathized with the girl and wanted to help her. Astonished, Alyea watched Gria crumble.
“She's not my mother,” the girl said. Her gaze stayed fixed on a point somewhere past Alyea's left knee. “Don't hurt her. I'm the one they want.”
The words threw all the possibilities Alyea had considered into chaos. She opened her mouth to speak, caught Micru's sharp gesture, and stayed silent.
“I've always known I was a foundling,” Gria said, still in that lifeless voice. “It never made any difference. She always treated me as her own. She couldn't have any of her own, and her husband never produced any bastards, so I was the best. . . .” She stopped, shut her eyes, and swallowed hard.
“Best chance at an heir?” Micru said.
Gria nodded. “My children will be treated as full blood of my adopted father's line,” she said. “Would have been.” She raised her left hand, looked at the cuff, let it fall back into her lap.
“Did Sela's husband ever try fathering children on you directly?” Micru said with implacable, emotionless logic.
Gria shook her head, her expression still blank. “When that . . . that man came, it seemed so good, so wonderful, that we might gain that status . . . and the s'iopes said it was an honest offer. She's always trusted the priests. And she . . . talked me into it. Into going south. I didn't want to go, I had someone . . . but they didn't approve.” Gria opened her eyes, brimming with tears now. “Mama Sela insisted on coming. She knew I'd run away. . . and they promised she'd be sent back with my first male child. The s'iopes said it was in writing, in the contract, that it was legally enforceable and honest . . . they said it was truth sworn to under all four gods.” She wiped at her eyes, staring at Alyea appealingly now, ignoring the man in front of her.
“A southern slave trader would hold no bond under a Northern Church oath,” Micru said. “Past the Horn, those oaths and those papers don't carry the weight of a grain of sand in the deep desert.”
“We found out,” Gria said bitterly, and wiped at her streaming eyes again.
“Why are you the one they want?” Micru said.
“I don't
know
,” she said. “I really don't. I just know I'm the one they wanted. I heard Ierie talking with his guards, once, when they thought I was asleep, about killing Mama Sela. They decided I'd be more pliable if she was around.”
Micru hummed to himself softly, his expression troubled. “When and where were you cuffed?” he said at last.
“Just outside Water's End. Some men appeared. I never saw them before. They were frightening.” She shut her eyes. “They drugged us both, but I didn't fall asleep. I don't know why. I wish I had.”
“Frightening,” Micru said patiently. “Why?”
“They looked . . . cruel. Uncivilized. Some had bright blue tattoos.”
Micru sat up straight, his eyes intent now. “Was it here?” He pointed just below his right collarbone.
Gria opened her eyes to look and nodded.
“Did it look like a swirled star?”
She nodded again, mutely, and Micru stood up. “Keep her close, Alyea,” he said. “Keep her very close. And keep a dagger closer. Stay here. I'll send more guards.”
“Wait,” Alyea said as Micru turned for the door. “What's going on? What does the swirled star mark mean?”
“Chacerly's made a mistake. A very, very big mistake. Don't trust him any longer.”
“What—”
The door swung shut behind him, cutting off more questions. Moments later, three guards pushed through, their expressions grim, and took up stations around the room.
“What in the hells is going on?” she demanded. They looked at her briefly and didn't answer.
Alyea stood and walked towards the door; the nearest guard put out a hand in warning, shaking his head. She sat back down, furious and trying to decide who to pin it on: Micru, for abandoning her without answers, or Chac, for apparently creating the situation. She had just about settled on being angry at herself for ever getting into this spot when the door opened again and Chac strode in.
He nodded to the guards and crossed to the bed. Alyea rose; he ignored her, looking down at Gria instead for a long, thoughtful moment.

“I was right,” he said finally, “you should have killed them both. Too late now.”
Alyea pushed between him and the girl.
“You tell me what's going on!” she said, all the frustrated restlessness of the last several hours flaring into sudden aggression.
He stared at her. For just a moment, his face lit with a rage worthy of a desert lord; then it dissolved into stoniness again.
“We're leaving,” he said. “It's not safe here for you now.”
“Why not?”
“I don't have time for your stupid questions,” Chac said. He stepped back and signaled to the guards. “If she doesn't follow me, knock her out and carry her. Bring the other girl as well.”
The old man strode to the door. Two of the guards moved towards Alyea without hesitation; the third, frowning, said, “Wait . . . this isn't what Micru said—”
Chac turned and flung out a hand, almost too fast to follow; something small and dark whipped through the air and buried itself in the doubtful man's neck. The guard sagged, clawing at his throat, eyes wide and astonished. Before Alyea could do more than open her own mouth in surprise, the remaining guards moved in front of her, blocking her view. She heard gagging noises from behind them, like a man desperately trying to breathe; then a sour smell in her nose took her into darkness.

Alyea awoke hot and muzzy, with sweat pooled under her back and legs; she groaned and rolled to her side. Wiping an arm across her face to clear sweat-blurred vision, she propped herself up with her other elbow and looked around.

She lay in a wide, low-ceilinged carriage, on a low bed with thick cushions. A bench seat nearby held a neatly folded pile of clothes. Latticed windows took up most of the walls on three sides; the fourth had a simple latched door.

A tiny, thin, hot breeze wandered through the lattices. Sounds came from outside; people talking, people walking around. The smell drifting through the air set her stomach rumbling, although she couldn't place the aroma.

She ached all over, stiff and sore as if she'd been bedridden for days, but she wasn't tied or, as far as she could tell, hurt. But she
was
incredibly hungry. Alyea sat up slowly, looked down at herself, and added
naked
to that list.

“There's a jug with some water by the bed,” a voice said from outside the carriage. “And a cloth, to wipe off the sweat before you get dressed. Clothes on the bench.”

Alyea turned her head, staring through the lattices, feeling suddenly trapped and exposed.
“Don't worry, northern,” the voice went on. “Nobody can see you, and nobody cares anyway. Hurry up.”
Alyea took a deep breath and reached for the jug.
Cleaning off the worst of the sweat gave her a sense of preparing to face whatever waited outside. The clothes turned out to be a deep-southern style she'd rarely seen in Bright Bay, and one she'd never thought to wear herself: a long silk robe, brightly colored and almost transparently thin, with a wide, braided-silk belt. The front dropped into a deep V; bending over would display everything.
She tried to remember how the women of Water's End had managed to move in these robes without being immodest, but her attention hadn't been on that at the time. She suspected she would quickly disgrace herself in this outfit.
“C'mon already, northern,” the voice said.
Alyea shrugged the robe around her shoulders and fastened the inside ties and outer belt. She didn't see any shoes or slippers; after a moment of looking around helplessly, she went to the door. Half-expecting it to be locked despite the urging to come out, she rattled at the latch tentatively and jerked back when someone tugged it open from outside.
“C'mon already,” the voice repeated. “Food's ready.”
She stepped forward cautiously, looking around, and saw a short man with dark skin watching her with amusement. His long shirt, cut from a rougher cloth than her robe and a sharp white color, draped like scarecrow clothes against his spare frame; his leggings almost matched the clear blue sky overhead. His bare feet showed noticeable calluses.
“I don't bite,” he said.
Sand gritted against her feet as she came through the doorway. It shifted and sank underfoot as she walked a few steps away from the carriage. Questions ran through her mind:
Where am I? Who are you? What's going on?
She stayed silent and studied her surroundings. The carriage had no wheels, only long poles to either side; she understood why when, looking to one side, she saw four muscular men sitting under a rough shelter of hide and wood, eating what looked like stew from small wooden bowls. Two more men were busy dousing the small cookfire and disassembling the charred cooking spit.
Sand lay in all directions; great, rolling swells of it, with only a faint haze of mountains to the west to break the monotony. No sign of Chacerly, Micru, Halla, Gria, or Sela. More questions, more worry; she set her teeth lightly in the tip of her tongue to keep from asking. If any of the rules Chac had taught her applied, she would be in debt for the answer; and right now, she couldn't afford that. Being alive and unhurt might be a debt all in itself, for all she knew.
“Come,” the man said from behind her. “Eat.”
She resisted the pull of her stomach and turned to look at him. His amusement deepened into an actual grin; she let her stare grow into a glare.
It didn't seem to bother him.
“Eat,” he said again, and made shooing motions with his hands, directing her towards the tent.
Alyea drew a deep breath and walked towards the stew pot. Three small wooden bowls and carved spoons sat on a small tray, and a large ladle hung from the side of the stew pot. She scooped out a bowl of stew, trying, as she moved, to watch the men nearby; they showed no interest in her. They ate silently, staring straight ahead, faces dull and slack.
“Over here,” the small man called. She followed him around the side of the carriage. A thick, coarsely woven mat had been spread on the sand; another, larger one slanted overhead to shade the area.
Alyea settled down on the mat as gracefully as she could and began to eat. A few mouthfuls into the stew, the mild spice taste flared suddenly into an eye-watering heat. Alyea had laughed when northerners choked on food she considered almost bland; now it was her turn to gasp and cough, and her guide's turn to laugh.
But: “Don't bite into the cactus peppers,” her unidentified guide said without any hint of laughter, glancing down at her as she sputtered. He unhooked a leather bag from his belt and passed it to her. She stared at it uncertainly.
“Hah, northern, like this.” He took it back, upended it over his mouth, and squeezed; a cloudy liquid squirted into his mouth.
She tried it, managing to get most of the liquid into her mouth, and swallowed through almost pure reflex. The fire of the cactus pepper faded, replaced by a vile sourness; she coughed and almost gagged at the lingering taste.
“What was
that
?” she said when she could speak again.
“
Perroc-s'etta
,” the man said. “Cactus milk. Fermented.”
Alyea drew a careful, deep breath, and set the bowl aside. “I'm done, thanks.”
“Finish eating,” the man said, unsmiling now. “You need it. Just don't bite any of these. . . .” He leaned down, dipped forefinger and thumb into her bowl, and pulled out a long, white strip Alyea had thought to be some sort of potato. “Cactus pepper.” He dropped the pepper in his mouth and chewed with a contented expression.
Alyea shuddered, considered refusing to eat, and decided this man would probably pour it down her throat if he had to; he had that look to him—friendly, to a point, and business after that. If that had been the expression on her own face while questioning Gria and Sela, small surprise the women hadn't trusted her.
Alyea certainly didn't trust this man: not with questions, not with answers should he ask any himself. She ate the soup quietly and set the bowl on the ground when she finished.
He picked it up and walked away. She stared out at the heat-bleached landscape before her and, on impulse, went back to her aqeyva lessons.
Let thought fade
, Ethu had taught her.
Let the questions go; fear and anger and worry all become irrelevant.
She'd never been very good at it before, but somehow, in the utter, heat-hazed stillness of the desert, it seemed simple. Soon only her breathing registered, rasping in and out of her throat. Even the sweat trickling down her face faded from notice.
At last she took a deep breath and opened her eyes. The small man squatted in front of her, an arm's length away, an odd expression on his face as he watched her.
Calm, centered, and alert now, she picked up on details she'd missed earlier: the pattern at the edge of his shirt, the calluses on his fingers—and on the edges of his hands. Micru, and some of the other Hidden, had hands like those. A dark tattoo looped around and around his left forearm in a flowing, twined line. She'd seen that mark in an old book, one Chac had saved from the Purge and given to Oruen. This man followed one of the old gods: probably Comos, the god of neutrality.
She met his dark stare without flinching. “
Nu-s'e
,” she said. “I am
sus'a
Alyea.”
He nodded slowly. “
Ka
,” he said. “I'm honored by the gift of your name. I am Juric,
taska
. Courier, carrier, guide, and watcher.”
“
Ka
,” she said. “Thank you for the food and drink.”
He smiled a little and stood, stepping onto the sand without apparent discomfort. Alyea glanced at the thick callus on his feet and stayed put, then looked up at the sky to check the sun. The endless blue sky had shifted into blazing streaks of orange and violet; she'd been in aqeyva trance for hours. No wonder he'd been looking at her like that. She'd never stayed in trance that long before; nobody she knew ever had.
He smiled at the expression on her face. “The desert tends to take time from you,” he said. “Why are you here?”
It had the feel of a formal question, almost a riddle game. She considered, watching the tiny shifts in his face as he returned her gaze; she thought about the tattoo on his forearm and what it implied, and finally said, “Am I here?”
“I am here,” Juric said. “You are here. Why?”
She drew a deep breath, let it out very slowly, and gambled. “Ask the wind.”
A moment of silence hung, while he stared at her; then he smiled again, but it held a dangerous edge this time. “You do not follow Comos.”