“What is it?”

“A book, of course. It will tell her what she needs to know. You’ll see.”

Standing in the doorway, Zanja watched J’han, bowed under his heavy load, limp down the track to the apple orchard, where the apples were starting to become visible as they blushed red. She could hear, distantly, the swinging chant of the people cutting hay, who made a noise all day long so as to know where each other was without having to look. The sky was soft, hazy with warmth. The rich land moved languidly toward harvest.

In the orchard, J’han paused to shout at the ravens in their tree. Apparently hearing no answer, he continued down the road. He was out of sight when one of the ravens lifted up to follow him.

Zanja went back into the kitchen. Emil, frowning absently, sipped his tea. Medric, now that he had started to dust the dishes, was methodically emptying the cupboard. Norina, still on her stool, made a concentrated study of the blank wall.

It was possible, Zanja realized suddenly, that Norina might not ever see husband or daughter again. As though Zanja had spoken her thoughts out loud–and she might as well have, for the Truthken would know them soon–Norina turned to her and raised an eyebrow. Zanja said, “Don’t youthink that we’ve lost our minds?”

“The three of you have always seemed mad to me.” Norina added dryly, “It’s kind of you to pity me, Zanja. But it’s also a waste of energy. Unlike you, I know exactly what I’m doing and why.”

“But you’re supporting us and not opposing us?”

Norina smiled, very slightly. “How do you know I’m not opposing you?” she said.

Chapter Twelve

Before the Sainnites introduced smoke addiction to Shaftal, the land had surely not been entirely free of ne’er‑do‑wells. Yet, examining the wretched woman who had rowed herself in through the water gate in a leaky old boat, Clement felt the vague guilt she always felt in the presence of a smoke user. The people who know such things had informed Clement of the shocking amount a smoke user must pay nowadays for the drug, and Clement lay out on the table enough money to give her guest a week without worry. The half‑starved woman’s fingers twitched eagerly.

“Tell me what you know,” Clement said.

The woman leaned forward, and Clement simultaneously leaned away from her stink. “They said the G’deon was coming,” the woman said earnestly.

“I’ve been hearing that story for years,” Clement said. “If there were a G’deon, then why would she linger so long? If she bears the power of Shaftal in her flesh, then why hasn’t she laid her hands on me, or on you, and done whatever it is G’deons do? Kill, heal, whatever.” Clement put her hand out to gather up the coins. “You’re wasting my time.”

“One of them saw her. Talked to her.”

Clement held up a single small coin, pinched between her fingertips. “One of them? What is this group?”

“Death‑and‑Life, they call themselves.” The woman watched avidly as Clement lay the coin onto the table and pushed it towards her. A swift snatch, and the coin was gone.

Another coin: “And who is this one the G’deon spoke to?”

“Their leader, of course!” Seeing that Clement would not relinquish the coin, the woman added reluctantly, “His name is Willis.”

“Willis? What kind of name is that?”

The woman tightened her lips until Clement handed her a coin and held up another. “A South Hill name, I hear.”

“What does he look like?”

“Brown hair, muscular.”

“Like everyone in Shaftal. You never saw him, did you?”

“These were just people in the streets! How was I to know if I saw him or not? They gave us food, but only if we ate it while they watched. No money. The bastards.”

“No money,” Clement echoed, closing the coin in her fist.

“They say he was a vagabond,” said the woman desperately. “A vagabond from South Hill. And then he had a vision. How many people like that are there in the world? The South Hillers look after their own!”

Clement grunted and let her have the coin. She would send an inquiry to South Hill, which was too far away for a casual journey, and see if the name Willis was known to the garrison there. Perhaps she might even get a decent description. “What did this supposed G’deon say to Willis?”

“Ha! A lot of nonsense, I guess. That she was coming, of course. That she had chosen him to announce her coming and to mobilize her people. That there would be war, and you Sainnites would all die at her hand.”

“At her hand? How?”

“Well, not from pleasure!” The woman leered at her in a dreadful display of gums and occasional teeth. “By fire,” she said, “and plague, and floods. By mountains falling on your heads and trees crushing you under their weight. By freezing wind and heavy snow and–of course–by bloody battles.”

Sweating in her filthy uniform, Clement felt a chill. Wasn’t this in fact how Shaftal was killing them, quietly, steadily, irresistibly? She said, “Such things happen naturally in this bloody, bitter, hostile land.”

“Is that a question?” the woman asked. “You expect an answer?‘

Clement contemptuously tossed the coin to her. “Yes, do tell me why I should be afraid of this supposed G’deon’s supposed threat.”

The smoke user said, “Because the supposed G’deon can make these things happen onlyto you.”

“I’ve heard enough nonsense,” said Clement. “This soldier will show you out.”

But after the smoke user had gone, her stink remained. Clement had left the windows in Cadmar’s quarters closed to retain the cool of morning, but now she flung them open, and looked out over the wrecked garrison. As she watched, the crazy, tilted remains of a building collapsed in a cloud of ashes and dirt. Two months after the fire, debris was still being cleared, even as, here and there, a few buildings gradually rose, the construction fraught with error and delay. Ellid’s rebuilding strategy was dictated by the rapid changes of Shaftal’s seasons. On the foundations of the burned buildings, new timber frames were constructed, and on those went the roofs, so that the walls and windows could be built during the rain of autumn and even the snow of winter.

By freezing winds and heavy snow we’ll die,thought Clement, remembering the smoke‑user’s hollow, ravaged voice. To this drug‑addicted informant, there had been no reason to make a distinction between the acts of an individual, this supposed G’deon, and the acts of nature. Gilly had more than once called the abilities passed from G’deon to successor as the power of Shaftal, and what was Shaftal’s power, if not the very powers the smoke user listed, of fire and plague and generally rotten weather? Powers of irresistible destruction, whether slow or sudden. Looking out at the evidence of the burned garrison, remembering the horrors of that night, Clement saw the full scope of her own lingering despair.

The summer was already two‑thirds passed. At the main gate, a crowd of witnesses maintained their vigil, but their numbers were few enough now that the siege gate had been opened, and it was usually possible for a guarded wagon, or a company of soldiers, to pass in and out. Clement went out a postern gate, though, alone on horseback. The bored gate guard, an old man whose job it was to ring the bell for help if the iron‑banded gate happened to be assaulted, had no choice but to let Clement through. No doubt her exit would be reported to Ellid, who later would berate Clement as much as she dared. Clement went out into a lavender twilight that suffused the narrow streets of Watfield with an unearthly blend of vivid light and purple shadow. Late shoppers, hurrying home with baskets of bread and eggs, pressed themselves to walls decorated with blooming vines to let her pass. Drinkers in taverns, who escaped the outdoors into the cooling streets, looked at her askance and, scowling, nudged their neighbors.