It was all well and good that they had learned from the letter that Amir Sameer was guiding the Risen. That provided only more vindication for Fazil's dedication to eradicate the amir, as if the devastation of Qaragarh and the slaughter of Puruzam Company were insufficient by themselves. Iwa demanded just vengeance, and Fazil would be its instrument.

The others around him in their shared room at Tipaluru Fort had talked and conjectured and planned almost until the Morning Prayer drums had begun to beat from Ghazanfar Masjid's minarets. With no windows to show the lightening of the night, morning had crept upon them like a thief. He had not missed a Morning Prayer since he proclaimed the faith 325 years ago and he would not miss it today, even if it meant leaving the fort and risking his life. It wasn't his life, it was Iwa's to do with as he pleased. Iwa'bahen, he would reach the masjid. If not, so be it.

The drums alerted the other Muwahhid in the room. The stern ghazi's head turned toward their sound, and the little painter stood reflexively. But they froze like jerboa in the shadow of a falcon, Bahuchara as well, stretched out on one of the gilded-leg divans. They watched him to see what he would do, and when he started for the door, Ruqaiya took a few steps after him. Yet even she stopped, he was disappointed to see, so he continued alone.

The door burst open before he could reach it and Chanri Kumusapura flounced as much as a half-ogre could into the room. Golden chains bounced on her…he averted his eyes from the low cut of her choli. Golden bands circled her exposed thick, grey arms and wrists, and delicate gold bangles hung from her pointed ears. Even her tusks were capped with golden filigree.

"Good morning, delicious," Chanri cooed in delight at the sight of him.

He shied respectfully away. "Ambassador Kumusapura," he addressed her formally, "please pardon me, but the Morning Prayer has been called."

As he prepared to slip by her and away, she blocked the door with her arm. "Those wretched Tigers are still out there, little rugged man," she said, "and Bhima's soldiers are with them. As much as I'd love to watch you take them on," she shivered her large frame, "I'd rather keep you alive. So come on. I'll show you to the musalla."

The prayer rugs were silk, and the staff for the Eye was jewel-encrusted gold, but the sun pierced it just the same. His paper prayer burned with those of Laksha, Ruqaiya, and Bahuchara, along with the few Gayakutans at Tipaluru who had proclaimed the faith as well. The smoke and uttered prayers centered Fazil's spirit. The tusked orcish imam who scooped a bit of the cooled ash into Fazil's small travel vial placed his large hand on Fazil's chest in blessing, and the thick ridge of his brow rose in surprise at the light that the touch evoked. Fazil was not surprised. Rather, he wondered that he did not simply burst into holy flame from the intensity of his devotion.

They returned to their sanctuary to find another there, an elderly woman. When Bahuchara spotted her from the doorway, she gasped and at once prostrated herself with her hands reaching toward the woman.

"Beti," the old woman chided her, "get up, you silly girl, you'll sully your dress."

The woman was small, even for a human, and slightly bowed, causing the folds of her midnight blue sari covered in silver-picked stars and moons to hang loose in the front, but nevertheless revealing her thinness. Her dark brown face had wrinkled and puckered like a dried apple into which had been placed two cloudy sapphires as eyes. The thinning grey hair under her dark dupatta seemed pulled back into a braid. A frail hand gripped a wooden staff carved top to bottom with what appeared to be clapping hands, which she leaned upon to keep her standing on her bare feet. Thin, scarlet lips curled as if at a wicked, secret jest. She was very old for a human–how quickly they decline. When Fazil was her age, he had barely taken his adult name Erijan and left his youth behind.

The woman rapped the end of her clapping-hand staff sharply against Vikrim's knee and motioned for him to move so she could sit in his chair.

"Let's get started. Time is short." She pointed the end of her staff at Ambassador Chanri and then at the door. "You can go," she directed brusquely.

Sent away in her own house, Fazil chuckled under his breath at the Gayakutan's startled affront.

The old woman pointed her staff at the wererat next. "I'm sorry, Your Highness, but I must ask you to leave as well," she bid kindly. Your Highness? "Though I am pleased to see you looking so well."

"Auntie," Rishar Nahida bowed low to her. "More beautiful every year. Janipradan."

When he had gone and the door closed, Bahuchara voiced the question that Fazil had only thought.

"Are you more blind than me?" the woman scoffed, wrinkling her tiny nose in disdain. "The eyes, the nose, such regal bearing. He is a Sathanam as much as his cousins Firuzeh and Bhima, though I doubt they know he exists. His grandfather saw to that," she sniffed in disapproval. She tapped the staff briskly on the stone floor. "We have more urgent matters to address."

Bahuchara had risen from the floor and drew closer. "Maan Chakravaat, Qaragarh has been…" she began.

"Tut tut tut." The woman waved to her to lean down close. She took Bahuchara's chin in her hand and gave it a light shake. "You think I don't know." She gave a pat to Bahuchara's face just shy of a light slap. "You think Thoda Chakravaat has stopped dreaming and seeing because her eyes are cloudy. You think Thoda Chakravaat can no longer dance on her knobby feet."

Thoda Chakravaat. Fazil recognized the name. Naayak of the Hijra, Maan of Vibhor Gharana, rumored paramour of Raj Duleep Sathanam, legendary for her evacuation of Gandvari during the Sa'halassa assault dozens of years ago. She was so…tiny. And frail. And mean. Among the rest, only Vikrim seemed to register the hijra's name. Mohimukta might have, but as he was obscured behind the Kesin, Fazil couldn't tell.

"Pour your Maam some tea, beti," Thoda dismissed her. "Sit," she directed the rest. And when they did not move fast enough, "Sit, sit, sit!"

As one, they all moved to sit, the wave of compulsion emanating from Thoda's staff leaving little choice. Bihaan's legs simply folded under him until he sat where he had stood.

"You have a problem," she said to Bahuchara as the woman handed her a steaming cup of tea, which she sipped then sat on the table next to her with a wince. "Too hot," she muttered, disappointed. "I saw you coming a long time ago. Your hair was different, but this is nice, if you like it," she shrugged. "I didn't see when but that didn't matter–when would come when when came and here you are. So." She planted the staff and pulled herself to her feet. "I'll dance now."

Fazil was bewildered by the ornery Thoda, but one thing became clear to him. "You saw her coming a long time ago? You're talking about divination. Iwa forbids it." The prohibition against any form of fortune telling was clear to Muwahhid.

"Would you prefer I scatter some chana on the floor," Thoda countered drolly. "Spread out some cards and have a chhadmdragon pick one to tell your fate?"

"My mother used to throw chana," Ruqaiya offered up to Fazil. "It was harmless. We thought it was funny."

"You imperil yourselves," he warned them. "You risk your soul," he said to Thoda.

"Merijaan, look at me." She spread her arms wide. "I am hijra. I have already committed my soul to become what I am."

That meant Bahuchara had as well, he realized, though she still burned her Morning Prayer, and still drank the ash water. "I cannot stay for this." It was hypocrisy, it was wrong. How could she do that? He sought Laksha and Ruqaiya, but they both turned their heads with abashment. "May Iwa forgive you, I cannot."

Bahuchara watched Fazil leave and close the door behind him, her stomach in a knot.

"My dance is still for him as well, beti," Thoda comforted her, in a voice both stern and compassionate.

Bahuchara returned to her divan, and Thoda dragged the heavy chair across the stone floor to create an open space. "No, no, I have it, don't get up," she advised the still-seated others, who had not moved to help her. "Now," she said, "a bit of a tune will do." Thoda shuffled around Bihaan to the hunched form of Mohimukta, who seemed to Bahuchara to be hiding behind the Kesin. "There you are," she said with a twinkle in her cloudy eyes. "I thought it was you."

"Janipradan, Auntie," Mohimukta murmured shyly. He hadn't been shy or hesitant or coy in any of the moments Bahuchara had spent with him. Why now? "You're looking well."

"Bah!" she chortled. "I look like a prune." She glanced over at Bihaan and back to Mohimukta. "He seems nice, I don't know. I liked Virtan, he was quite handsome. You come to Auntie Thoda if this one doesn't work out. I see you still have it?" Mohimukta lifted his rabab for her examination. "Red dragon bone and lapis inlay. Exquisite. Play for me as you did when I was young, Mohimukta. It has been too long."

Bahuchara had a whole whopping heap of questions from that brief exchange that she stored for later, as did Bihaan, it seemed, whose head bounced from one of them to the other and back. The poor young Kesin must have had no idea. Well, she didn't understand it all, but she had at least discerned that small part of it.

Thoda Chakravaat danced. As Mohimukta strummed a lively but haunting tune, beginning slowly, the Hijra Naayak put aside her staff and channeled through her dance, and it was the most glorious sight Bahuchara had ever seen. Weathered, knobby feet took such sure and elegant steps that Bahuchara slipped her own out of sight. Loose flesh quivering from her bones, Thoda shaped her arms with fierce precision and grace, and her fingers, arthritic and bent, formed mudras so precisely and so swiftly with the quickened music that they almost blurred. Needing no staff, she spun and bent her back over until her dupatta almost swept the ground, and she never faltered. It was sublime and Bahuchara was transfixed.

Around Thoda, images began to appear in the air, wisps of color that would take shape for a moment and then swirl away. Bahuchara saw her face among them, and the faces of the others, even Fazil, for truly, the dance was still for him as well. She heard gasps from the others as they saw their images appear and blow away. Other images appeared: the crystal piercing the heart of Qaragarh, Firuzeh and Sameer, but only fleetingly before they faded. Fire, she saw, and water, earth and swift clouds, in all their forms, in all their fury, as if the elements contended with one another in the air around the spinning hijra. And then a dagger appeared, a phurba, with three edges to its blade. It swept in a circle around Thoda, piercing the elements and drawing them into itself with each pass until it alone remained, glowing and powerful, spinning in time with Thoda and with the rhythm of Mohimukta's tune, until the last note was struck, the last step was taken, and the phurba disappeared.

Bahuchara found Fazil on the roof of the fort. He was standing like a statue gazing north, perhaps towards Qaragarh. Perhaps towards Khambhe, his homeland in the desert. A hot wind blew sand across the roof, and she pulled her dupatta tight to keep it from getting into her hair. Through the whistle of the wind and the noise of the city below, he must have heard her with his sharp ears, for he half turned and then returned his gaze to the north. She slipped around him and hopped to a seat on the parapet between a pair of crenellations, making herself his only view. His smooth face was rigid with tension and disapproval.

"You burn your Morning Prayer," he said without preamble, "you drink the ash water."

His eyes were like polished gold, so clear she could see herself reflected in them.

"I admire your clarity, Fazil bin Thariton." She dared playfully tap his leg with her foot. "Others among us are still looking for that clarity. That must be worthy of some dignity."

His turmoil told only in the quick flicker of his stoic eyes. "Did you learn anything valuable?"

"Thoda's vision…"

"In the book that you were reading," he clarified abruptly.

She wasn't reading a… She turned to look at the city so he wouldn't see her face as she realized what he was saying. What he was asking her for. "The book I was reading…" she began. "It said that in a situation such as this, the best course of action was to find something called the Phurba of Mandal Jad. It's a blade that has three edges, and Jad was an ancient Circle of the Mandela yaksha."

"And we use it to kill someone like Sameer. According to the book."

"No, the book was a little vague," she played along. "The phurba isn't really a weapon. It's more of a stabilizer, something to fix what's wrong by being sheathed in it. It's the city that's unstable."

"That doesn't make any sense. How is sticking a dagger in the earth going to kill Sameer?"

"You know how books can be sometimes," she shrugged. "They don't always explain every little detail."

"So we get the dagger and go back to Qaragarh."

If only it were that simple. According to Thoda's vision, once they had the phurba, they needed to infuse it with the elements, and that could only be done by genies of each element. Only then would it be capable of fixing the wrong.

"Then we find four genies," Fazil summed up, "and convince them to give part of their power to the phurba. According to this book."

"Genies, you believe in," she teased.

"Genies are real," he assured her in all seriousness. "And dangerous. Did your book tell you where any might be?"

Book or vision, he would see it through, she realized then, and was glad of it. "We'll find them. After we retrieve the phurba from the Jalna Caves."

"Jalna!"

Oh, yes. She had saved that piece for last. The Jalna Caves, which the Sa'halassa yuan-ti had overrun and established as their new pit. Ready for him to scowl and stomp away, she was unprepared for the crinkle of his eyes and the slow smile that turned into a barking laugh. It was good to see Fazil laugh; it had been many years. She joined him in laughing at the absurdity of it all, teetering dangerously on the fort parapet until he reached out a hand to hold her steady. Awkward at their contact, he dropped his hand and his eyes, his smile fading.

Fazil was fragile, so much had been lost to him and tested of him. Bahuchara lowered her dupatta and shook the hair of her braid loose. "Would you like to see Suraj?" she asked, slipping down from the parapet.

He tilted his head quizzically, weighing what it would cost her. And himself. "If that would be alright."

It had been a while, and she wasn't dressed for it. But it would have to do. She closed her long-lashed eyes and steadied her breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth, her arms and hands hanging loose at her side. There was no dance required for this, no mudras or mantras, for everything she required was within her. Body thickening, hair shortening to her shoulders, whiskers emerging, a bit heavier, sturdier, hairier. Eyes open.

Fazil looked a bit puzzled. "You're older."

"It's been eight years," Suraj answered, his voice much lower than Bahuchara's. He scratched his fingers in his beard. "It's coming in nicely."

Fazil laughed, "Yes it is." He extended his hand to the man before him. "It is good to see you again, Suraj. You've grown into a fine man."

Suraj clasped his hand in return. "I had a good role model, Fazil."

Fazil didn't let his hand go. "You're still her," he acknowledged.

"And I'm still him," Suraj answered, afraid to let go.

Fazil pulled Suraj into his arms and squeezed him fiercely. The wind swirled sand around them and howled, and Suraj didn't care. He held onto Fazil and let the wind blow. "Want to find some genies with me?" he laughed into Fazil's shoulder.

The journey to the Jalna Caves would take the better part of two and a half days. One, to walk south through the Traps toward the face of the Southern Plateau to Changurti Port, and then a day and part of another to take a boat down River Bhagavaan southwest into the jungle around the caves. Caves that, millenia ago, have been carved into the face of a large mound. Not so much caves as a collection of temples cut into the basalt prominence. Long a holy site dedicated to myriad Pradani devas, the Jalna Caves had become the seat of the Sa'halassa Pit that had overrun the south, including the holy cities of Gandvari and Tharan, nestled in the jungle by the river.

Ambassador Chanri provisioned them for the journey. Bahuchara grimly accepted a pair of sturdy boots to replace her slippers, but she refused to change from her lehenga into something more practical. They had escaped from Aanandamay Gharana with only what they carried or wore, which meant little. Laksha left behind the abaya she had used after stealing the vajra. Vikrim and Ruqaiya were already equipped for travel and camping–it was how they lived. Bihaan insisted on continuing on barefoot, as he said footwear was constricting, though he promised he wouldn't slow them down. Mohimukta looked positively resplendent as if ready for dinner with a raj, and even his black boots retained their shine. Deland explained that Proclaimers spent much of their lives wandering, so the less they had to carry, the better.

Chanri tried to press weapons upon them, to no avail. Anyone who could wield a weapon had one, and the others would just find them burdensome. Apart from packs of food and camping equipment, all she could convince them to take was money. A lot of it, and mostly gold, until Ruqaiya convinced her that no villager selling bread would be able to make change for a gold coin. At last, she convinced Fazil to take a pair of simple golden rings for his ears. "To remember me by, little one," she purred as he consented to let her slip them in with her thick fingers.

Rishar returned to guide them through passageways under the fort out to the east of the city. Coming up the damp steps of the Rhadataka Stepwell, they saw low, dry hills ahead, which would shelter their passing from the city as they turned south. The few people gathering water at the stepwell in clay pots shook their heads at the foolhardy assemblage who had seemed to travel so deep down the well only to ascend empty handed. Thoda and Rishar spoke quietly together before she pulled his head down to kiss his temple in farewell, and then he disappeared down the steps into the watery darkness.

Bihaan watched Rishar descend with a wistful look. He wished that he, too, were going back to his home. Back to his guru and his meditations and his exploration of the planes. Instead, he had by some twist become a part of a strange mission that seemed fraught with distraction and walking. He did much better sitting, his feet pulled up under him while his mind and his eyes travelled farther than any step could ever take him. Much of his life, he'd spent trying to go unnoticed, which had not been terribly difficult in his massive family of siblings and cousins and other relations back in Hastan in the Zheni subah. As long as he kept his head down tying the knots of the rugs he was making, he could go unnoticed for hours. Lost in the intricate patterns and the rhythm of tying and cutting, he could imagine himself anywhere anytime, and the world around him had disappeared.

"Daydreamer," Thoda called out, and he jerked out of his reverie. "Pay attention or you'll fall behind."

The others had followed Thoda over the rim of the stepwell toward the low hills in the east and they had all turned back at the hijra's call to him. Except Mohimukta, who was waiting patiently just behind his shoulder. With a quick step, Bihaan started forward to rejoin them, his well-dressed shadow half a step behind.

"Are you certain about this one?" Thoda grimaced to Mohimukta with a shake of her head. "Seems his mind is always elsewhere."

"I'm counting on it," Mohimukta quipped back in pique.

Those two. What did that even mean? As Bihaan walked over the stony scrub of the terrain with the others, he wondered for the first time who his companion truly was. Before, it had seemed a lark, this lost dandy who had attached himself to him. Mohimukta had been as unfortunate by association with the others as he had been, simply a victim of time and place. But Mohimukta knew the wizened hijra, and they spoke in riddles that somehow seemed to revolve around him. What designs, what pattern, what threads were they weaving about him? And who was this Virtan that Thoda mentioned? He didn't like being compared to anyone else. Truthfully, he preferred not to be noticed at all.

"Who is Virtan?" he found himself asking.

"Virtan?" Mohimukta mused, as if trying to remember. "A gentleman in Bashmened. Lovely Godhuli, with the most exquisite singaar. A crown of horns woven with silver stars, and a beard to make one blush, if I dare say. I rather made you petulant, haven't I? He didn't have your eyes, if that is any consolation. Nor your feet." He ended with a polite smile, as if he had been trading observations about the weather.

His feet? His eyes? Bihaan pulled his robe closer about him–if only it hung low enough to cover his bare feet!–and quickened his pace to sidle up by Bahuchara. "He's talking about my feet," he whispered to her in astonishment.

She eyed his feet as they continued walking. "They're not bad, as feet go," she shrugged.

"What do I say to him?"

She looked back at Mohimukta, trailing just behind them. "What all men want to hear," she advised him with a laugh.

Yes, but what was that?, he wondered. Best to say nothing at all for now. Perhaps Mohimukta would tire of him and move on. Yes, that would be best. Ignore him. Still, he glanced back at those aqua eyes before ducking his head as if trying to disappear.

Thoda led them through the troughs of the low hills on her bony feet, her clapping hand staff steadying each step, as Jharoda fell further behind them. Quickly, the hills became broken and craggy and the troughs deepened into barren canyons as the weathered prominences around them soared higher. The waters that had eroded the rising table mounds had carved channels that now served as paths through the high rock mounds, their visible layers in hues of red and black. Bihaan imagined that the region must be called the Traps because the passageways were sometimes narrow enough to require them to go single file, and attackers could be perched high above or lurking behind the next bend.

He was not the only one of their party losing their footing and wiping sweat from his brow from the high sun blazing relentlessly down on them, but he seemed to be the only one stubbing his toes, and he regretted his decision to remain barefoot. Like him, Bahuchara and Laksha had only ever known the paved streets of cities with their sheltering awnings and tea shops and temples and mosques. The unperturbed Mohimukta walked with sure step over the uneven ground, evading the thorny tamarind trees that grew at the edges of the canyon walls and seemed to reach out to pierce Bihaan when he wasn't looking. The others all had lived lives outside cities, and while Ruqaiya grumbled endlessly about the dust and heat, she moved like an antelope along the paths. High overhead, a flurry of colorful birds sang to the party below from their perches atop the pillars and mounds. Bihaan alternated between watching the ground for the next wayward, malicious stone and looking up, expecting to see wicked beauty winging his way to peck his eyes out.

You silly boy, he chided himself. How can you expect to survive in the other planes you wish to visit if you can't walk for a day through the arid scrubland of your own country? With that thought, he straightened his back and hitched the burdensome pack of supplies tighter. And stubbed his toe, hoping no one noticed.

"Bother, that," Mohimukta consoled.

Bother, indeed, Bihaan grimaced. Always under Mohimukta's gaze, like he was being followed. Like they were friends. Some seemed to know some, but none knew everyone, and they walked in pairs based on either old bonds or new. Laksha and the Proclaimer talked of stories and books, side by side, while Vikrim and Ruqaiya journeyed together in what seemed a brooding but familiar silence. Bahuchara followed close enough behind the elderly Thoda to risk trodding on her sari. Only Fazil kept to himself, bringing up the rear of their little gathering. And Bihaan and Mohimukta. Mohimukta and Bihaan.

Miles passed under his worn and dirty feet during which the walking was all, a single-minded task that seemed to have no end and no interruption. Bihaan tried to make it a meditative practice–step, step, step, step, breath in, and so on, and for a time it worked well enough that his green eyes closed and his astral eyes opened and he stepped on a sharp stone and fell back on his butt.

"I still don't see why we can't take the road," he complained again as Fazil's hand closed the bloody wound in his foot with its healing touch. "It would be faster and easier. And don't tell me 'many paths,'" he said, wagging a finger at Bahuchara.

Healed though he was, they rested for a while under a rocky overhang, shaded by a copse of sweet-scented acacia trees. There was nothing to do but sit after they had eaten, and silence descended upon them until Mohimukta began strumming a slow, sultry tune on his rabab.

"It's a shame we can't see it," Deland broke the silence at last, as if prodded by the music. "I understand why we have to stay off the road south, but danged if it don't sound like a right eye-opener. A palace in the clouds."

Though his view of the massive table mound that was home to Bendathi Deva was blocked, he turned his eyes that way, as did others. The legendary protector of Jharoda had for eons made his home in the clouds above the temple below. But with the Risen seemingly trying to capture the deva, they couldn't risk being spotted if they went near. Still, he would have liked to have seen that airy palace himself.

"We need to leave now," Fazil said, bursting into the overhang from his scouting. "Now!" he added when they all remained unmoving in their confusion.

Bihaan didn't need to be shouted at more than once. It was a lesson he had learned working at the looms, his stern father barking at him and his siblings as they labored at their rugs. Jumping to his feet, he shrugged into his pack as the others did the same, though they, unlike him, were not satisfied with an unexplained order.

"What is it?" Bahuchara prodded. "What's going on?"

"Ankheg," Fazil said as he slapped his thigh to urge them on faster. "There are burrows and holes not far from here."

Ankheg! Those huge insects that could rip you in half and chew your head off before you could get out a decent scream! They could come up from below anywhere, and there was no inside to go to hide. Why wasn't there a nice building with a stone floor and some solid walls? Why did nature have to be so awful and dangerous?

"We can take it." Vikrim hoisted his heavy mace. The Gayakutan seemed almost eager for the chance to prove the point.

"'We?'" Bihaan and Laksha blurted together incredulously.

He scurried with the others out of the shelter and raced after Fazil down a canyon, wishing he was back in Qaragarh where his greatest danger was that some stranger would try to talk to him. And with a blind hand, he reached back as he dashed away to feel if Mohimukta was behind him.

Down in the canyons, dusk began to descend long before the sun was due to set, its rays blocked by the high pillars of the Traps. High overhead, rope bridges began to crisscross the mounds, the only way to reach some of them, apparently. Such a treacherous way to travel, Bihaan mused, unable to fathom attempting such a feat. Even more worrying, though, was who or what lived at the top of the mounds. Their tops were still lit by the bright sun, even as the party trod through growing shadows, and he watched for the glint of sunlight on arrowhead or spear, ever ready to shelter under his hands, as if that would stop a weapon. Or even a carefully aimed stone.

So it was a relief when the canyon they had been following opened up to a shallow valley cut by River Bhagavaan through the high walls of the Traps on either side. By the comforting but fading sunlight, Bihaan spied the "city" of Changurti on the near bank of the river. Only a smattering of buildings circled the half dozen or so piers lining the river, lamplight already emanating from their windows and few people evident. Sturdy but unkempt, stone weathered and paint faded, the town reminded Bihaan of his nani, worn out but comforting at the end of a hard day. If the town could pinch his cheek, he would giggle.

Changurti wasn't much of a port city now, the auntie who shouldered open the creaking door of the old inn explained, but a few decades ago, it had been thriving. As they spread out their blankets in the empty central room, she told them of boatloads of gemstones and precious jewelry ferried downriver by Katpur gnomes on their way to Jalna and Ganvari and Tharan. On a sunny day, errant gems sparkled at the bottom of the silty river, so much had passed this way. Losing the holy cities to the Sa'halassa had put an end to the traffic, and thus had left Changurti nearly a ghost town. No, no actual ghosts, she assured them. Just memories of richer days, so to speak. Where the Katpuri were sending their treasures now, she had no idea.

Bihaan was weary from the day–they all were–so he bedded down as far from the doorway as possible after they had eaten. The chanting of the Muwahhid as they celebrated the Ash Prayer lulled him to sleep. His river-washed feet ached and the pack straps had rubbed his shoulders raw. Though he had broiled under the sun, the night by the river was chill and he shivered for a while. He woke in the morning to find an extra blanket had been laid over him by someone. He knew who.

Vikrim and Deland were still curled under the blankets but the others were missing. He slipped out the inn door and nearly bumped into Thoda Chakravaat, who was sweeping the inn's wide porch with a broom that looked as if it might fall apart in her hands. She swatted him off her clean porch with it and he walked in the light of the rising sun toward the river just down the path to see if he could spot any sunken gems sparkling up at him.

On the bank just past the piers, he spied the rest of his companions–and a couple town folk, it seemed–at their Morning Prayer, the iron kettle oversized for the few paper prayers sending their smoke to Iwa. Bihaan walked out on a rickety pier and dangled his feet in the water. He didn't spot any winking gems through the murky water, but the water felt good on his feet. Slipping his robe off, he slipped into the shallow river to wash away yesterday's dust. He shook the wild pile of his braids under the water, and when he surfaced, he found Mohimukta standing on the pier.

"Nice day for it," the man smiled, and began taking off his clothes to join him.

"I was just getting out," Bihaan lied as he pulled himself back up onto the pier, quickly gathering his robe around himself, his heart racing. He didn't care that he was soaking wet, he just wanted to slink away.

Mohimukta wrapped a hand around his arm to hold him back gently. "Bihaan…"

He blinked and he was on the bank, several feet away from Mohimukta, who looked sadly at his now empty hand before turning to gaze into the river.

"Neat trick, that," said a voice behind Bihaan, startling him from the pang in his stomach as he watched Mohimukta's rigid back. "I hear you need a boat."

"What?" Bihaan finished closing his now-damp robe around him and turned to the man. He was short and bald, weathered by the sun, sinewy as an antelope. Patterned tattoos covered his arms and bare torso and perhaps even the legs under his brown dhoti. A thick mustache spread from under his nose like the bristles of a well-used brush. "What?" he repeated, unable to refocus his thoughts.

Fortunately, the others had finished their prayers and came to the pier. Fazil took charge of the conversation, explaining to the man their need to ferry down to Jalna. The captain's eye widened at the very idea, but widened even more when Fazil put a gold coin in his hand, sealing the deal.

"At least if this journey kills me," the man named Dhopat said with a wide smile, "I'll die a rich man."

Bhagavaan was a slow, shallow river, not much deeper than a tall Gayakutan. Dhopat guided his vallam with a long, sturdy pole, keeping it in the middle of the river, far from any submerged branches or sand banks that could impede them. The long boat was wide enough for them to sit only two-by-two, making any conversation difficult. Thoda stood close by the tall, thin prow, which was wrapped in bits of colorful silk ribbon and glass beads and strings of dried flowers. A long knife blade projected from the front of the prow. "To cut through any bad luck," Dhopat explained. The captain talked to the boat as if it could hear him, and Bihaan wasn't sure it couldn't. He had seen stranger things in his viewings.

Once Changurti was well behind them, Fazil spun on his bench to face the others. A child carried by a woman not much beyond being a child herself. A hijra in a silken lehenga and sturdy boots. A Godsbreath diplomat with grandchildren. A withdrawn young Kesin and his aristocratic musician friend. Only Ruqaiya and Vikrim besides himself had ever wielded a weapon. And they were going to Jalna, heart of the Sa'halassa Pit, to steal an ancient artifact. He rubbed his hairless jaw and sighed.

"This is madness," he declared at last. "I'll go in with Ruqaiya and Vikrim. The rest of you will wait on the far side of the river."

So used to giving orders and having them followed, he was unprepared for any push back. Bahuchara shot to her feet to protest, before sitting down quickly once the boat started rocking, but she refused to stay behind. Deland shook his head in silent rejection of the order. Even Laksha started to protest, before looking down at the child in her arms.

"None of us has even been to Jalna," Fazil countered. "We have no idea what to expect."

"I do beg your pardon," Mohimukta spoke up, "but I have been to Jalna, several times. I'm sure I could prove essential to the effort."

Fazil scoffed at the absurdity. "You couldn't have been more than a child when Hestha captured Jalna."

Mohimukta waved him away. "I assure you that you are quite mistaken. I have visited the Caves many times. As has Thoda."

"Just how old are you?" Fazil heard the Kesin mutter under his breath, and he wondered the same.

Thoda stepped down from the prow. "You'll get lost without us," she wagged a finger at Fazil. "If I go with you, you'll save me the trouble of going in later to try to find you in the maze of caves and tunnels. No time for that brave nonsense."

"There is no way I'm letting you go into Jalna," Fazil corrected her.

"Letting me,'" Thoda answered with a cackling laugh, her brows rising in affront. "Do you speak to your maan with such disrespect? I hope she pulls your ears to teach you better." Her hand snatched out as if to do it herself, and Fazil pulled back. It had been over three hundred years since, indeed, his mother had last pinched his ear. "I'll tell you now. Will you listen, I don't know. But I will tell."

She began by describing the dangers of the jungle, even as the jandi and banyan trees on the banks began to grow more numerous around them. Snakes were poisonous, insects were poisonous, trees and plants were poisonous, and even the water was poisonous. Fazil wondered how anything could live surrounded by such a toxic stew of poisons. But poison was only part of the danger. Crocodiles and blights, tigers and giant centipedes, shambling mounds and spiders, vipers and ochre jellies, and Thoda's list went on until the others in the boat began to squirm. Sure, the desert Fazil had been raised in had its dangers, but in the wide expanse of the dunes, you could usually see them coming. In the crowded gloom of the forest, anything could be hiding behind the broad leaves of a climbing vine. Why, even the climbing vine itself could be a threat.

The Caves were only a short walk from the river, but they couldn't just dock at the old piers like pilgrims come for a festival. Hestha's malisons would be patrolling the region, so they'd have to come to shore further north and hack their way through the dense jungle. Fazil nodded at her surprising insight about the best way to approach, recalling to himself that Thoda was no stranger to fighting the yuan-ti. She and the Gandvari refugees had even sheltered in the Jalna Caves for a short time in their escape from Hestha's invasion northward.

"Where will we find the phurba?" Fazil prompted Thoda. "Which temple is it in?"

"Why would I know?" she snapped at him, aggrieved. "Why do you think I would know, do you think I know everything? I tell you what I know but that is not enough for you. Find out for yourself, I'm done telling things."

"But you said…" He looked to Bahuchara for help.

"Maam Thoda," she said, picking up for him, to his relief. "In your vision…"

"Do not say vision," Thoda dismissed her. "Say what I read in a book," she pointed at Fazil, "that is what he wants to hear, no? The child who thinks that I cannot see. I can see."

Child! He had lived four of her lifetimes! Long enough to know better than to argue with an auntie, now matter how few years she had lived. Fazil clenched his jaw and ground his teeth but held his tongue, trusting Bahuchara to handle the little woman.

"It is there," Thoda waved broadly down the course of the river, after Bahuchara's gentler prodding. "All the bells and vajras, all the puja samagri, golden knives and bowls, all left behind as we fled through the jungle to Jharoda." She rubbed her wrinkled face with both hands. "All left behind. The serpents have it now. Where? I don't know. But it is there. I see it."

Thoda climbed up to the tall, up-rising prow and leaned against it, rattling the tiny bells amongst the ribbons and beads. She was staring ahead down the river, but Fazil imagined that she was looking back as well, to those days she spoke of, when the holy cities had been captured and so many had perished, so much had been lost.

The toddler in Laksha's lap had grown restless at sitting for so long in one place, watching the shoreline go by. They had passed a small herd of elephants sporting at the edge of the river, spraying water at each other and then once at the passing boat. He had laughed at that and craned his neck back at them after they had passed. He wanted off her lap and off the boat. Instead, Laksha gave him Gurkani's vajra to play with.

Deland eyed the child dubiously. "Do you think that's a good idea?"

Laksha shrugged. "I don't think he can hurt it."

"But can it hurt him?" Deland countered, his silver-grey brows knitting together. "We don't even know what it can do."

Laksha considered the child turning the vajra and touching each of the gems. He banged one of the round heads against the side of the boat. "We've had it for a few days and nothing's happened," she surmised. "There must be a mechanism or incantation or something to actually use it, whatever it does." She was just grateful the child was distracted for a few moments, giving her a break.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps they must get to know each other first. In Godsbreath, there are eldritch items that one must become attuned to before using. Sickles that never need sharpening. Aprons of cooking that provide knowledge of all the recipes of the ones who wore it before. Fiddles that never go out of tune and will get even the most curmudgeonly curmudgeon on his feet to dance." He pointed at the child. "If that vajra gets to know the child, who knows what could happen."

Laksha had heard similar tales in Suristhanam, and read them in books at the kitabkhana. Reluctantly, she pried the vajra from the child to store it in her sack again. For everyone's sake. When the toddler wailed at the loss, the Proclaimer lifted the boy to bounce him on his knee.

"We shouldn't keep calling him 'child.' People need a name. Sometimes that's the only thing left to a person when things go wrong. Can't take a name from you."

"I don't know his name."

The toddler giggled as Deland bounced him. "No child knows his name lest it's given to him."

"Mathirajna the Destroyer," Vikrim offered grandly from behind them.

"Khalik," Bihaan suggested, turning his head back. "I always liked that name."

"Ghazandur," Fazil said from the front of the boat. "For the founder of Shaandar."

Laksha laughed and shook her head. "I probably shouldn't name him after a Tayyibi saint." But it seemed she would be naming him. Someone had to. Suddenly, it seemed a serious matter, not one to be taken lightly. Long after she had found him a new home, he would carry whatever name they gave him–she gave him–with him. She looked back to Deland.

"Don't look at me." He returned the child to her quickly.

Laksha gave a questioning look to Ruqaiya, who merely frowned back at her. No help there.

"Dhopat is nice," Dhopat added from the back of the boat while he poled them serenely forward. "It's a nice name."

"Jahid," Laksha said even as she decided. "Jahid." Her father's name, a name she would enjoy hearing and saying. At the head of the boat, Bahuchara touched her hand to her heart in recognition and blessing.

The high walls of the Traps around them declined the further southwest they floated. As the land spread on each side, the trees grew denser until they could see little on either side of the river for the foliage. Something was glittering below them in the water, but Bihaan wasn't certain it was gems. And once Dhopat had told them of the snakehead fish in the river, Bihaan had given up thoughts of diving in search of treasure. When Dhopat said that they should make their camp a little further down past the collection of crocodiles basking in the fading light of the sun near a tumble of fallen trees, they all agreed as if it were the most rational of the choices available, and not a horrifying prospect to even have to consider.

They camped back from the river in a clearing of the woods. Light from their fire reached up to the canopy of the trees, but the light of the stars and moons couldn't penetrate the leaves above, making it feel like a cave. There were no towns or cities in this area, even before the Sa'halassa had arrived. Dhopat had taken some of the lentils Ruqaiya had prepared and retired to sleep in his vallam, pulled up onto the shore. Though they spread out their blankets on the moist ground and tended to their needs and equipment, unease had settled on the camp. Tomorrow would take them deeper into the jungle and into danger. And as little as they might know about one another, they realized they had become bound in shared uncertainty and in preposterous purpose. Tomorrow, only some would venture and some would remain, leaving each party the more vulnerable for it.

In a sleep burdened by such unspoken unease, Ruqaiya felt a pang in her gut that reminded her she hadn't felt that pang for the last two days. She sat upright to find the fire had burned low and the sleeping forms around her undisturbed. The forest carried only its sounds and the river only its gurgle, but whatever had touched her was out there in the darkness and making its way closer. She could feel it. It was too late to put out the fire so she threw off her blanket and heaved branches onto the fire to stoke it higher. Deland emerged from the darkness of the trees–it must have been his duty shift–and asked what she was doing.

"Vikrim!" she shouted, ignoring Deland. "Ghûls, coming this way! Everybody up!"

Vikrim bounded up, quickly taking in the fire and Ruqaiya's agitation, and he grabbed his shishpar. The bladed mace glinted in the now-blazing firelight as he turned about looking for the creatures. Fazil followed their lead, unsheathing his shamsher. But the others were moving too slow, they were too groggy.

"Stay near the fire," Ruqaiya warned them. "Ghûls are coming. There," she pointed to where her gut guided her, even as cracking branches and gibbering howls signalled their approach.

Before the creatures even breached the clearing, fire sped over her shoulder and exploded in the forest, shattering several trees and briefly lighting up the night. Ruqaiya spun from where she had ducked to scowl at the contrite Bahuchara before leaping to plunge her katar into the skull of a ghûl coming through the trees. Like water through a sieve, near a dozen creatures spilled from the darkness through the trunks of the forest.

Toddler in one hand, flaming branch in another, Laksha beat at one of the creatures until the tattered remains of its clothes caught fire. Vikrim and Fazil spaced themselves apart and slashed and pounded at the ravening ghûls. Out of the corner of her eye, Ruqaiya spotted Bihaan blink away from an attacking creature and appear on the other side of her, only to collapse as if lifeless.

"Mohimukta!" she shouted. "Bihaan's down!"

She didn't have time to see if Mohimukta went to his aid, as more ghûls emerged from the forest. Blue energy streaked from Bahuchara at the creatures, who fell and convulsed on the ground. A wafting wave of rot and stench rolled over Ruqaiya as a taller ghûl emerged into the firelight, and she dropped to her knees amid the dead undead around her, sickened and weakened. Long claws flexed before her and the dark eyes of the filthy, bearded corpse pierced her own. She would be helpless as he ripped out her throat, and she thought of peach roses.

"Death for the dead!" Vikrim roared as he smashed his mace into the side of the ghast's head.

Ruqaiya watched the creature's body fall to the ground. "You will have to wait a little longer," she whispered to the peach roses in her head. She felt sick, but no longer the ill of the undead, merely the passing nausea of the ghast. They had all been dispatched.

"Don't touch the bodies," she warned Fazil, who was leaning over one of the fallen.

He lifted a scrap of leather and cloth with the tip of his sword. "Uniforms," he showed her. "All the same. They were soldiers."

She looked closely then, not at the creatures they had become but at what they had been before. Bits of leather with metal plating, some still in boots, one with a conical helmet still strapped to his head. What had once been white bands at their waists. "Rangampor. Khusrau's army. This far south from Sherpatta. They were trying to get back home."

"Ghûls don't retain any memories," Vikrim reminded her.

"That one," she pointed at the crumpled ghast. "He was leading them. He must have some memory, twisted as it was."

She felt something of pity, and she knew Fazil and Vikrim did as well by their silence. Which of them might have killed which of these in battle? Not for this end, no, but what life might these soldiers have had, if they had made it home alive after the battle?

She was relieved to discover Bihaan was fine; he had only been briefly paralyzed by a scratch from a ghûls claw. They had been lucky to survive. Lucky that she had been cursed by Ganraala devi. They left the dead at the camp and awaited the rising sun by the bank of the Bhagavaan.