The boy's voice went up, and as they walked among the houses, a few faces peered out from behind doors, lit by lanterns and shadowed by

suspicion. He met with a knot of other boys, pointing at them. Jiriga snorted.

"Looks as though we'll be the talk of the town once again."

"Which cover should we go with this time?" Sidri asked, keeping her voice low, nodding and smiling at the people they passed. A short way down the path, she could see an elderly couple sizing them up, the man hefting up a lantern of his own and walking towards them. They reined their mules to a halt and dismounted.

"Let's go with bounty hunters," Jiriga said. "Use what the merchant told us about stagecoaches disappearing. Looks like this is the head man."

"Good evening." The old man gave a closed-lip smile, raising up his light and peering at them carefully. He arched a brow at Sidri and pointed to the furs about her waist and shoulders. "You are a shaman?"

"A shaman and a bounty hunter," Sidri said, cocking her head at Jiriga. "We work as a pair."

The elder shook his head slowly, running his free hand through his thinning hair. "A shaman chasing heads? Forgive me for saying, teacher, but that's, well. . ."

"Fewer and fewer people care for the old ways anymore," Sidri said, shrugging. "It's hard to make a living at their practice, and I have to eat."

"That's true. Just a sorry state the world's come to, you having to do that." He sighed, then overcame his sorrow. "What brings you to our village at this hour?"

"We were hoping we might find a place to spend the night and a little food," Jiriga said. The elder regarded Jiriga with harsher eyes than Sidri; he had pity to spare for the learned shaman forced by the vagaries of life to take up arms, but without any such excuses, Jiriga guessed he'd bear the judgment for both of them. No point in speaking unless spoken to, then.

Sidri watched the wheels turning in the man's head. There was his prejudice against bounty hunters, not to mention the odd time of their arrival. But it was also a chance for him to impress his neighbors with his skillful handling of the situation, always so important to these village head types. He was just waiting for them to say the right words to tip him over the edge.

"If it's too much trouble, perhaps you could tell us where to make camp safely?"

"Hmm. How about this; my wife is just finishing preparing dinner. Join me for a meal and tell me a bit more about your situation, and then I'll decide."

Sidri caught Jiriga giving her a near-imperceptible nod from the corner of her eye, and bowed her head to the elder. The people still watched them as they went, their fear tempered slightly by curiosity.

"My name is Dinchal, by the way, and my wife is called Priya," the elder said, leading them to his home near the heart of the village. There were few signs of active life; a goat pen here and there, but none close to full. There were the shells of what had once been a smithy, a tannery, and a cobblery, but judging from the dust, wood rot, and the creep of brambles, they'd not seen use in years. Though darkness was falling, no lights could be seen in most of the houses.

"We've got guests," Dinchal said as they reached his doorway, pointing to some posts and waiting for them to tie off their mules before ushering them in. Priya turned from the kettle she was tending on the cast iron stove, briefly frowned at her husband and went to a nearby shelf to grab two more bowls, setting them on the squat table in the middle of the front room. "This shaman here is . . . what did you say your name was?"

"Shruti," Sidri said. "And my partner's name is Pran. Thank you for your hospitality."

Priya gave only a halfhearted 'Mm,' in reply, and if Dinchal thought anything special of two such common names, he didn't show it, handing his wife each bowl in turn as she reached back for them and ladled in a thin orange curry. With everyone served, she sat next to her husband, and fixed him with an expectant look. Dinchal urged them to eat, and they passed a few minutes in silence.

"Ahem, well," he said, sitting up straighter, "I'm sure you noticed that the people were suspicious of you two. Setting the uncommon hour aside, you should know that this village has a curse on it the past year or so, so I hope you'll understand the cold reaction to unfamiliar faces."

"Truth be told, that 'curse' is why we're here," Sidri said, setting her bowl down.

Priya and Dinchal looked at each other skeptically. "Begging your pardon, teacher," Priya said, in a voice that didn't give a whit for anyone's pardon, "But we're cursed by the dead. Travelers disappearing, strange noises, strange dreams. What good's a shaman for that?"

"Priya!"

"It's a fair question," Sidri said. "But not wishing to offend you, we don't believe there's a curse at work here. Some of the merchants involved in the recently lost stage coaches brought their case to a judge down south and there's a warrant out for the bandits responsible."

"So it's a bounty after all," Dinchal said, frowning. "But you won't find anything. Everyone in the village can swear to it that the last bandits vanished going on a year ago. It's the dead." He addressed his words to Jiriga; easier to disagree with some no account, wandering gunslinger than a respectable shaman. Sidri swore a silent vow to give him a greater share of their next bounty for his troubles.

"Think about it this way; if we're wrong and we come up empty handed, you won't have lost anything. If we're right and the stage coaches are

being taken by bandits near here, we'll rid the area of people who would probably end up causing you trouble down the line. Come to think

of it, how many of the people in the village depend on selling things to the merchants that pass this way?"

Dinchal sighed. "I still don't see that any good will come of it, but if you're determined, then I won't object to you staying here. I can rent you the shack the manager of the mine used to live in, if that suits you."

"It does, thank you." Sidri flicked a glance at Priya; she was more annoyed than her husband by the apparent skepticism. Good, let her complain to other villagers that we don't believe in the curse, that will give us some degree of cover while we work, she thought. After they'd finished eating, Priya was the first to rise from the table.

"It's getting late. Don't you think you should be taking our guests to their lodgings now?" Little enough room to misinterpret that statement, Sidri thought. Dinchal and Jiriga both seemed to agree, and the three of them were soon walking, mules in tow, up a path that wound along the face of the hill, the mouth of the mine gaping above them. The former manager's shack, seen up close, was far-and-away the best-kept building they'd seen in the village both within and without. The rugs covering the floors, the table by the stove, the Ekbena-style chairs and bed frames looked to be made by city artisans rather than the locals. Dinchal grinned with a hint of pride.

"Even when the village was in its heyday, this was the nicest home. I've done my best to keep it that way."

"You worked for the mine," Jiriga said flatly. Dinchal's eyes flew wide open, caught somewhat off-guard by hearing his voice after he'd spent dinner mute.

"Ah, yes, that's right. Well, nearly everyone did, when the mine was still active," he said. "I was the steward; it was my job to see to this lodging, and the building and repair of homes for new miners as they came into the village."

"What can you tell us about the history of the village?" Sidri asked. She saw the quizzical look on Dinchal's face. "The bandits chose to act near this village for a reason. Anything about the area's past could be a clue."

"I came here about twenty-six years ago, not long after the mine opened, but far as I know there wasn't really a village here before that. The mine itself used to be a . . . shrine? A temple? Some folk who raised goats, gathered shrub-fruits, and worshipped some sort of local god. Not long after the Ekbena took over, one of the keepers of the shrine found copper deposits when they were digging out some expansion to the shrine. Not sure how word got out, but it reached the Kugla Mining Company; I understand there was some tough dealing, but eventually the monks or whatever they were took a fine sum of money and moved their shrine somewhere else, then the--"

There was a slight creak coming from one of the walls, and Jiriga snapped to attention.

"Oh, I'm sure it's just a breeze, the wood is getting old," Dinchal said, watching Jiriga walk straight past him and out the door. He turned to Sidri, put out by the interruption. Jiriga shouted at someone, then returned after a moment.

"Some boy was sneaking around. He was already running when I saw him, probably trying to steal our mules."

Dinchal laughed and shook his head. "Short boy? That'll be Jawal, the manager's son. Poor child. He didn't have much time with his parents,

but he's no thief. Probably eavesdropping."

"Checking up on the people staying in his old home?" Sidri asked.

"Oh no, I don't imagine he'd care to, teacher. But Mutar--the boy that raised such a fuss when you two turned up earlier--is the leader of the local troublemakers. Jawal is the errand boy, so it's probably the gang's idea."

"Should we be expecting some trouble from them?"

"I'll talk to them tomorrow and make sure they leave you to your business." Sidri had her doubts, but Dinchal seemed to have every confidence in his promise, and she decided to let it pass. "Now, where was I? Oh, right. The mine opened, the village formed around it as workers came from all around. But after the revolts started, the Kugla people just packed up their fancy Ekbena equipment and left. Without that, there was no way to get at the deep reserves, so the mine just became a hole in the ground. A few years later, well, it's as you see. It's a sad thing, really. The village I grew up in was--"

"We shouldn't keep you from your wife so long," Sidri said, smiling. "How much do we owe you for the night?"

Dinchal again looked stunned; how could anyone not want to hear his story? With some effort he overcame the shock enough to speak. "Let's

call it two silver sagebrush."

Jiriga reached into his rucksack slowly; with his usual delicacy, he would sort through their pouch of coins with the least possible noise; Dinchal tried to look past Sidri's shoulder in curiosity, but she acted as though she'd forgotten something and the old man jumped at her sudden 'Oh!'

"That's right. I was meaning to ask you: were there any fatal accidents in the mines?" She could already see the question forming on his face. "Bandits are often children of men who died doing dangerous work. They get into thievery to care for their families, then end up with a taste for it. A major accident and a tally of who died could give us names to work with."

"Oh, that makes sense. I think there might have been two or three men who died in the mines over the years, but the manager took pride in

keeping it safe. He'd been a miner himself when he was young, you see."

"And you said he's dead now?" Sidri stepped aside as Jiriga placed two silver sagebrush coins in Dinchal's waiting palm. They took a few steps towards the door, gently urging him along as they did.

"Well, most likely, but nobody's sure. After the mine shut down, he was convinced that if he could prove the reserves were big enough, he

could get another company to start work again. He would set out with his mining gear and a map and disappear into the mines for a while. One day he went in and nobody ever saw him again."

"I see. Well, thank you for the information, you've been most helpful. We'll let you get to sleep now. Please thank your wife for the fine dinner." Once Dinchal was over the threshold, Jiriga closed the door slowly but firmly before he could speak again. They counted out a few seconds before Jiriga drew back the rough linen curtain of the window facing downhill and saw the old man well out of ear shot. He relaxed slightly; as much as he ever did, Sidri thought.

"What are your thoughts?" he said, pulling a chair up to face the window. He was already assuming his watch posture.

"Well, both the merchant and Dinchal make the haunting sound very recent, but the mine's been closed for years. Unless there was something else going on with them, I doubt it's any dead miners. Accidents don't bring many ghosts," Sidri said. She looked around the house, thinking of its former owner. "If we take Dinchal at his word, the manager is the most likely candidate. If he was so obsessed with bringing the mine back that he lost his life over it, that could tie his soul here, but it doesn't explain why there would be multiple ghosts."

"If we take him at his word," Jiriga repeated flatly. "You buy what he said about the shrine keepers taking the money and leaving?"

"I think he believes it, but no. Maybe some took the deal, but I wouldn't put it past the Ekbena to have sent soldiers to handle the

ones who didn't. That would fit more with the scale of what I saw in the trance."

"Which means we need the identities of a bunch of hermits that people in the village only know of through stories." Jiriga sighed. "It's

staying in one place working on things like this that are going to get us caught."

No use responding, Sidri thought. It's not like he's even wrong. Not about this, not about the risks I'm taking or the shape I'm in. She studied her hands; if she let her mind separate ever so slightly from her senses, she could see the hands of her own ghost trailing after the movement of flesh and blood. Each year, they moved more and more out of time with each other.

At the edges, her ghost was stretched in the direction of the mine. She was nowhere near a trance, and yet she could feel the cries of the dead resonating, seeping into her. She focused on Jiriga's hard face; he was saying something but she could barely distinguish it. Trying to read his lips gradually strengthened her grip on herself, and her senses returned. He had been saying 'But it's too late to walk away now.'

"That's true. Far too late," she murmured.