“Yeah?” answered the first one, “I ain’t never met dinner before what said ‘hold off, asshole!’”

All the Warriors began laughing again, their hisses pulsing in unison. The thing was no threat—any one of them could cut it down in an instant—and Enheduanna was cautiously curious. Mimicking like a Meat? Or mimicking like a child? It seemed purposeful. Before bringing it before the Protector, its status must be known. It approached; it stopped, its bizarre skin hanging about in folds. It looked directly at Enheduanna. Like a Farmer at a Post, it took a bite of the stalk; chewed, swallowed. Then it touched the manna-eyed one. It made noises. Exasperated, Enheduanna turned to move on, but the thing spoke again, this time softly: “hold?”

Enheduanna’s disgust overflowed. The Warriors reeked of anger. How dare it? Thought Enheduanna. How dare it? And then thought, well it dares, either because it knows nothing, or because that’s the only word it knows. Enheduanna decided to err on the side of child, and waited. The thing reached inside its folds of skin. It pulled out a packet of something. It removed a wrapping. It took a bite, and chewed. Strange, but plain enough. Then it handed the packet to the manna-eyed one who, one-handed, began to devour it, like the vermin that it was.

Enheduanna was about to order them onward, when a file of tray-carrying Porters approached. There was no choice but to make way, lest they drop their load. The creature raised its hand in a rude gesture, and made a noise. It did it again, and again, and again. It finally dawned on Enheduanna that it was indicating manna drying-bowls. Enheduanna said: “khkhkh!” the aspirated “k” rolling three times, followed by a click.

The creature replied: “khkhkh! Bowls,” its mouth making an odd lip-pursing movement as it spoke.

Nearly-lipless Enheduanna replied: “Muuulls. khkhkh!”

The creature reached inside its skin again, and removed a small ewer. It touched the manna-eyed one. It pulled a stopper from the ewer, and held it to the manna-eyed one’s mouth, tilting the ewer. But the ewer was empty. It held it inverted, then shook it, to show that. One drop of water splattered and alighted on the creature’s hand. It raised the hand. It made a noise. It touched the manna-eyed one, and said: “khkhkh! [noise] khkhkh! [noise],” all the while making the same rude gesture at the water drop as it had used to indicate the bowls. It offered the ewer, then made the noise—no, said the word—again. Enheduanna thought, then said “Ater. [drip].” The creature replied instantly: “khkhkh! [drip].” It had to use one of its hands to say [drip], flicking its face with one finger, but it said it nonetheless.

On impulse, Enheduanna called to one of the crushing floors: “Dip me a bowl of manna juice.” The worker’s posture looked skeptical, but it did so. Enheduanna waved it aside, and with a twitch of posture indicated the creatures. They drank strangely. The manna-eyed one tilted its head back and drained the liquid in three large gulps. Enheduanna called for a second bowl. The skin-draped one sipped more slowly, but drained it as well, with that same lip-pursing, back-tilting gesture, then handed back both bowls. If the worker was surprised or intrigued by these beings, there was no way to tell. Enheduanna was amazed that they seemed to require sustenance after so short a time. They had only marched two days, and that slowly.

Enheduanna grasped the manna-eyed one, clenched her gripping hand in the small of its back, then pushed backwards on its torso. It was amazingly flexible. She grasped its face, and moved it side-to-side. It was shocking how its head could swivel. It was no wonder it needed to drink already. Water dribbled from its eyes. She turned to the other. Unprompted, it leaned: backwards, then forwards, then swiveled at the hips (poorly), then at the neck (amazingly). Enheduanna reached over, and pinched its loose skin. It stayed motionless. Enheduanna pinched harder. Still nothing. Enheduanna reached to pinch with the gripping hand—and the creature blurted “Hold!”

Angered, Enheduanna stepped forward, but with one swift movement the creature raised its hands to its throat, twiddled with its fingers—and whipped the skin away, repeating “Hold!” Then, swiftly, before Enheduanna could react, the creature put one hand to its midline, and pulled. More of its skin peeled away, revealing—pink skin, the same color as its face and hands. Enheduanna reached and pinched that skin, and the creature flinched. The skin felt odd: smooth, dry, nearly hairless, warm.

Laurel was shivering. Asach at least had eaten and drunk on the march, but this was the first opportunity there’d been to share with Laurel the meager day’s-worth of rations that Asach had packed away three mornings ago. Those gone, there was nothing left to offer but some warmth. Asach didn’t dare part with the cloak. While the others stared, (presumably aghast, but how would you know?) Asach peeled out of vest and tunic, re-donned the vest and cloak, and walked to Laurel. A Warrior still held one arm in a death-grip. Asach turned to the white, and, enunciating very clearly, said, “Please ask it to let her go for a minute.”

The white did not respond. Asach pointed to the Warrior’s hand, then, grasping Laurel’s other arm, mimed, and said, “Let. Go.” It took three repetitions of this little acting out, but the white responded with a chickadee-trill—and the Warrior released its grip.

Gently, Asach said to Laurel: “You’re going into shock. Put this on. Tastes like crap, but I think that water will help in a little while.”

Laurel stood mute, still shaking. With infinite tenderness, Asach helped her into the tunic, took her by the hand, and whispered: “Laurel, I think it’s going to be really important that we show some backbone.”

At this, Laurel turned her head slowly, dumbly, away, releasing Asach’s hand.

“Laurel?”

Silence.

“Laurel?”

Laurel croaked, barely audibly: “He is not a Faceless God! May we turn our Gaze from those who refuse to See, praying fervently that they may not remain Blind.”

Asach sighed. Some were harder to fix than others. “OK, kiddo. Have it your way.” Asach would have given just about anything for a dose of Collie Orcutt right about then. “When we get back, you can tell it to your uncle.” He’d have been a lot more useful. “Come on, then.”

For all her shunning words, Laurel fell in step behind Asach. The Warriors looked to the white. Enheduanna barked. They fell into a cordon, fore, aft, and sides, but kept their hands to themselves.

Enheduanna remarked this: it was no longer clear, which was the owner; which was the cattle. Enheduanna also remarked: it knew one word, but when it made that word, it Spoke. Enheduanna remarked: Not imitated, Spoke. Nothing else would ever have stopped a Warrior.

As they neared, the city seemed to swell with light. Laurel actually flashed a look at Asach, spitting: “You see! The angels have borne us to their city of light!”

It was not walled, precisely, but as the scale became apparent, it was clear that no entrances penetrated the lowest few meters. Instead, the lower surface was a polished green, darkened nearly to black, slick as glass. There were indeed other paths, all spiraling in to intersect at the one major entrance that offered admittance to the mound. Flanking that were two largish cave-like openings, with rows of laterite benches in their forecourts, and white shapes flickering in the rooms within.

There was a fair amount of traffic now, of differing shapes and sizes. There were heavy Porters, carrying enormous baskets filled with dried reed-cakes. There were whispers of light that streaked past them chittering just on the edge of hearing. There were smaller, brown versions of the white who led them. And flanking the forecourts were ranks of Warriors. Laurel gasped as a new shape trundled toward them, dense and peering like an enormous mole.