“Very tender,” said Rigg. “Huge rats? No wonder the Visitors blow Garden to smithereens.”

“They just burn off the surface,” said Ram Odin. “Hard to smither a planet.”

The flyer carried them that night to the place Ram Odin had chosen to begin their experience as itinerants. They slept in the self-adjusting beds of the flyer and it occurred to Rigg that people from Ram Odin’s world all slept on beds like that, not the rough places Rigg had grown up sleeping. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe such beds were only for the elite, but the elite were the ones who traveled in space so they demanded beds like this. Was this Ram Odin’s whole life? In beds that shaped themselves to fit you?

Yet he came here to make a world—nineteen worlds, as it turned out—where people slept on straw, or on the ground, or on a hundred other kinds of bed. Worlds where people kept ­reinventing everything, but still did the same human tasks. The same animal tasks. Eating, drinking, defecating, urinating, reproducing, sleeping, finding or making food, finding or making shelter, and finally dying. Animal life, with clothing. Animal life, with better explanations for what we do.

All the animals Rigg had trapped and killed and skinned during his years with Father, Rigg had known they were his kin. That they, too, were only hungry or cold, libidinous or sleepy, seeking a way to satisfy whatever need their body made first priority. I used that against them, to lay traps for them because they weren’t clever enough to foresee their danger.

That’s all we are—animals who are better at telling the future, better at understanding causality in the past. We see how things got how they are, or guess at it, and use that information to make better choices for the future. Not good choices, just better ones than the other animals.

He thought of how he made traps of string and sticks and realized: Brains and fingers, that’s what we have.

But then he felt the mattress under him, and the light sheet over him, and thought: Brains and fingers have wrought marvels in these worlds.

They woke and dressed in their tunics and strapped on their walking sandals and made small packs out of the other things Ram Odin had bought—a pot, a ladle, a spoon, two blankets, needles and thread, rope and string, some cheese, some crusty bread, a bit of dried meat—of which rodent Rigg didn’t bother to ask. They hitched the packs onto their shoulders. They weren’t that heavy, but Rigg could tell right away that he would hate the way the pot bounced against his back when he walked. But he also knew that in time he’d get used to it. Or find a way to repack so that the pot didn’t shift so much with each step.

From the flyer it was a two-hour walk to get to a road. Ram Odin called it a road. He called it the King’s Highway, in fact, but it was barely a track.

“Ah, but you can see it clearly, and it goes from the Wall in the northwest to the Wall in the southeast. We’re a hundred kilometers from the northwest Wall, so it’s only a track here. Farther on, it’s wide enough for two coaches to pass. In two cities, it’s paved and four carriages wide.”

They walked along the track till, coming over a rise no different from the past few rises, they saw a cluster of houses and wide, well-cultivated fields. A few of the houses were rather substantial, with two stories; one had three. From the crest of the rise, they could see that there was another, larger village in the shimmering distance. They were in a wide valley now, and a river twisted its way through the level ground. Rigg saw no boats on it.

“No point in boats here,” said Ram Odin. “There are falls not far behind us, and falls again after the lake a few dozen ­kilometers on. They’re not much for fish.”

“Humans need fish.”

“They grow the substitute vegetables,” said Ram Odin. “And by the way, let’s start speaking this language.” He switched to the one they had heard on the streets of the town the day before.

“They speak that here?” asked Rigg, in that language.

“Not at all, but they speak it somewhere in Yinfold and so if someone is hiding in the brush along the edges of the fields, they’ll hear us using a language from this wallfold.”

Sure enough, there were soon children darting out of cover and running down the track ahead of them. “I guess we don’t look too threatening,” said Ram Odin. “If the children are willing to run openly down the road ahead of us.”

“But they still ran.”

“To give news of our coming,” said Ram Odin. “We’re the most exciting thing in days, I’ll wager.”

Rigg remembered life in Fall Ford. The children there noticed the arrival of strangers, but didn’t run to tell. That’s because strangers came several times a week and always went to Nox’s boardinghouse for a meal and news and perhaps a bed. Then they would go up the stair beside the falls into Upsheer Forest, or along the road—much more of a road than this King’s Highway—that ran east and west below the face of Upsheer Cliff, to the other towns that lived in its shadow. He had thought Fall Ford an isolated, sleepy place, but now he saw it as a hub of traffic, compared to this.

Fall Ford was also five times as big. More houses. More tradesmen’s shops. Rigg wondered if they thought of themselves as a village or a town? There was an open square in the middle that might be a weekly market. Or might not. It could simply be the place where they hanged strangers.

Ram Odin was making it a point to nod—but not smile—at the faces peering out of windows. “These aren’t smiley folk,” Ram Odin explained. “In this region, a smile means you’re a liar.”

Rigg noticed that people weren’t peering through cracks in curtains. They were fully visible in open windows. They returned Ram Odin’s solemn nod, some so slightly as to hardly be visible, some sharply, clearly, as if putting a bit of punctuation at the end of an unspoken sentence.

People must have gone out back doors and made their way to the square, because as Ram Odin and Rigg stepped into the open space, so did about twenty people, mostly adult men but some women, coming from behind houses on both sides, but only one man and one woman from the far side, where they hadn’t walked.

“Good morning,” said Ram Odin, glancing at the sun to be sure it wasn’t yet past noon. “We’re hoping to earn a bit of bread and ale in this place, if you find us worthy. And if you have enough work for us, a place to pass the night.”

“That’s what you want,” said the man who had come from the far side of the square. “Why do we want you?” Rigg figured him to be the mayor or headman. He seemed to have authority. Or at least none of the locals thought it out of place that he spoke first.

“What’s wrong with the young one?” asked a woman.

“Two questions deserving of fair answers. May I answer the second one first, seeing how you’re all looking so curious at my grandson here?”

Ram Odin directed his question at the mayor, who gave him one of those sharp nods. It was an answer.

“The boy was a baby, not three days old, when the house caught fire. It was a thatchy roof and the whole thing was ablaze at once. Inside the house, too. My son was screaming in pain, but the mother, my daughter-in-law, she was from a strange folk. My son brought her into the village from afar, and she knew a blessing, I think, because she came to the window and she was also aflame, but the baby wasn’t burning, not a lick. She dropped him out the window. Nobody was close enough to catch him, the house was so hot afire, but the baby didn’t burn even though she did. My son screaming, but her making never a sound.”

So Ram Odin was a storyteller. Rigg saw how the people were spellbound. He also heard how Ram Odin was speaking the local language perfectly, but he was bending the vowels to be a little like the language in the town where they spent yesterday. So he sounded a little foreign, but they could understand every word.