As Hope dwelled on matters of stellar navigation, Brunhilde found her way through the terrestrial maze that was Sissine. The city was filled with merchants, and every one had a deal that could not be found elsewhere- dust from sorrow-moth wings, gold coins embossed with forgotten emperors’ faces, sorrow-moth repellent, red juice, fine cloths.

But Brunhilde had no interest in spending coin. She sought news of Alexander and his family, a quest that proved impossible. So many travellers passed through that none could remember who they talked to an hour ago, the city was a constant mass of changing faces. ‘What arrives in Sissine, leaves Sissine’ they all said to her, some kind of saying that made no sense to her. She started every time she saw a young woman and boy together, expecting to see Yusuf and Miray. But they had gone south. She knew they had gone south, but where?

Brunhilde stalked Sissines large open courtyards that were lined with vendors of food and drink. Travellers spread out sitting mats to sample the profusion of delicacies and ancient recipes. Brunhilde rested amongst the crowds, drinking tea or wine with caravan guards, listening to the rumours of the land. One tale that came up again and again were the ghouls that roamed the night. Cursed undead who hungered for human flesh patrolled the roads east of the city, preying on unwary travels and beasts of burden in the dusk.

“Why not find their lair, and flush them out?” she asked one of her drinking companions during a dice game. She had joined a group of guards resting before their caravan carried on south.

“Who would pay for that?” he said. The bone dice clattered in his hand and rolled. Grumbles and cries of joy sounded at his roll. Coins changed hands.

“Who would pay for that? Is there no lord here? Who rules this city?” Brunhilde said.

“Nobody. There used to be a merchant council, but they made their fortunes here and left. What arrives in Sissine, leaves Sissine,” he said. His hair was grey and patchy, but his eyes and hands seemed young still. He took the dice again and caressed them with his fingers for luck. Another roll, another round of upsets and victories. Trivial fortunes travelled between guards.

“No, they were so corrupt that they were unseated,” another man said.

“No. There never was a council, Sissine has always been free and independent. Come and go as you please. What arrives in Sissine, leaves Sissine,” yet another said.

The dice game continued as they argued over the history of Sissine. Brunhilde found it perplexing that a strong leader had not seized this city in order to profit from its riches. She had a distant cousin, Arne Goldhand, who had ruled over a city of minotaurs somewhere in the wastes, purely by accident. He had bested their cheiftan and was forced to become their leader.

“Are you still playing?” the guard asked Brunhilde. She put her coin on the marker for nine on the wooden board. The dice clattered.

“Is there nobody with the courage to take up leadership of Sissine?” she asked. The dice settled; nine. She swept up her winnings.

“Courage? Courage is fighting ghouls and starving cats on the road. Taxing and organising don’t take courage,” one of the younger guards spoke.

“Responsibility takes courage,” Brunhilde said.

There were chuckles at her response. She frowned and their laughter stifled. Though they had their swords and axes with them, and had all seen battle, there was the wild air of danger about Brunhilde. She bore her scars unconsciously, not dyeing them as some warriors did. She sat with her furs open, due to the heat of the sun and the gathered crowds, and lean muscles and scars showed everywhere on her body. She took the dice and peered at them. Simple dice of bone. A small but potent tool for contesting the fates. She rattled them in her hand. If she were not on a quest after Alexander she might stay here and try to conquer the city. If the guards were more used to rolling dice than weilding swords she would have no opposition.

She rolled. One dice landed cocked against the board.

“What’s the rule here?” she said.

“Roll again,” the young guard said.

“Or ride the wave. Keep everything beside the board for the next winner,” the older man said.

“Who keeps the gate tax I paid?” Brunhilde asked.

“The gatekeepers. The East Gate lot keep all the money they take from their gate, and the West Gate lot keep their money.”

“Yeah, the North Gate are poor. Nobody goes North.”

“Take a look, they all have their colours. If you want them to protect you, you pay them to wear their colours.”

She took the cocked dice and rolled again, but she was looking around the square. The East Gate was painted bright gold and so the guards of it had kerchiefs of gold around their arm or tied to the end of their spears. The West Gate was a deep purple of the dusk sky and there amongst the crowds were men with purple colours on them. Crimson for the South Gate and silver for the North Gate were there as well. Now she knew the meaning of the colours she saw them everywhere, bands of guards sitting together all shared the same colours, and stalls had pennants or stained cloth hanging from them.

The dice game continued and she played for a while but her thoughts were on the strange balance of Sissine. In her lands, strength and generosity made a leader. Warriors banded under the leadership of a wise tactician or generous conqueror, trusting their vision. Her father was a wise seer of the fates, even after he parted ways with the great warlord that he advised, men followed him to start a community up in the mountains. Travellers came from all the clans to visit her mother, who could carve runes of great power into their weapons and armour. Most left on their own adventures, but some stayed to become part of the family. They saw the strength in her father and mother’s leadership. But here is Sissine, it seemed they left their rules up to the fates, as if they were all playing dice.

She left the game with thanks to the men for their company and money. She walked the streets as night began to fall. Tired merchant arrivals were seeking lodging, caravan guards were drinking and singing, and the locals were peddling and inviting newcomers to try their wares. The city would never truly fall asleep.

Her wandering through Sissine took her to the splendid East Gate. The gold gate was rosy in the evening light. A group of guards were shooing in the last arriving caravans. Inside the walls four men worked at two immense wheels, preparing to close the gates. Each wheel bore a chain as thick as a man’s chest, which disappeared into the walls.

A guard captain shouted an order and the men heaved at the wheels. Slowly the gates moved shut.

“There are still caravans coming.” She pointed to travellers still on the road.

“They camp by the walls,” the captain said.

“What about ghouls?”

“That’s their problem.”

“I’ve never fought a ghoul.”

“You don’t want to,” the captain said. The gates finished closing with a thunderous crack.

“You could take some men into the hills in the day, flush out the ghouls while they sleep. Make the road safe.”

“Why do that? The wilds are dangerous, everybody knows that.” He motioned for Brunhilde to move away but she ignored him.

She considered the great gate and the walls around the city. Guards were lighting lanterns along the wall. Outside she heard sounds of caravans setting up to shelter for the night.

“How much would you pay for the head of a ghoul?”

“What? Nothing!”

“Think about it. If a caravan falls on the road it never passes through this gate and their coin never passes through your hands.”

Some nearby guards slowed their patrol, to listen in to this strange giant of a woman.

“The less ghouls the more caravans and the more caravans the more coin. For you,” she said. She punched the captain in the shoulder to punctuate her point. “Pay me a silver coin a head.”

“No. Go and dance in the square if you seek to make some coin.” The captain lowered his spear between them. Its point was not towards Brunhilde, but the meaning was clear.

Brunhilde grasped the spear haft near its metal tip. The captain tugged. The spear stayed still.

“I’m a warrior, not a dancer. Don’t mistake my skills.”

The captain sweated in his armour. He was aware of his men watching him. He tried to wrench his spear free inconspicuously. The spear stayed still.

Brunhilde rotated his spear back into an upright position, gently but irresistibly. His legs weakened as he felt her pull the spear, for a fraction of a second he fancied his feet left the floor.

“I fight for the glory of battle, not coin.” She grinned suddenly and let go of his spear. “But coin is always welcome. Let me out. I’ll do some hunting tonight.”

“The gates are closed, we won’t open them until morning,” the captain said.

Brunhilde squared herself up to the gates. He felt panic rise as he imagined her pushing the gates open with her hands. Impossible, but she looked confident enough to try.

“I’ll have one of our men let you down by rope. Erhan, take this warrior up and let her down!” One of his men stepped forward and indicated for Brunhilde to follow him.

“Is she going to come back, sir?” one of his men asked when she was out of earshot.

“I think,” the captain said. He watched the strange barbarian climb up the ladder after Erhan. She had no weapons on her. “Probably.”

The night for the East Gate guards passed, uneventfully. There was no sight of Brunhilde, until she returned in the morning. The golden gate was already open and the caravans outside the walls were making their way in. Other travellers were leaving. She dropped a stinking sack at the foot of the guards by the road.

“Brunhilde, the Red Sparrow, who hunted ghouls by moonlight. Took seven heads. Remember it,” she said.

They pushed open the sack with their spear butts, gagging at the stench. One of the ghoul’s heads rolled out. They recoiled at the sight of grey stringy flesh, bulging eyes and black pointed teeth.

“Seven,” Brunhilde said. She strode past the confused men, who thought better of asking for a proper gate tax.

Inside the gate she turned and looked back. In the light she could see the road wind through the low rocky terrain all the way to the horizon. Far away there were kingdoms and places she had never heard of. She wondered what gods ruled over those lands. She could take up guarding one of these caravans and go with them into the unknown. Leave Hope and her strange moods behind. But she had made a promise to Alexander. After she delivered her loot maybe she would come back here, step out onto the road and follow its lead east. She imagined at the end of the road a fellow adventurer gazing west, wondering what lay at the end of this great trade road. She saluted the wind, and the imagined fellow, then turned back into the city.

Far away at the great gates of Len-ten, a young soldier gazing west felt a strange compulsion to salute the wind.