The Dominion of Man is not the only civilization on Ki. Many miles away from the fertile rivers, the winged and deathless bazuu maintain their own society, a vast colony of hostile Kur life ensconced in a series of mountain fortresses known as rookeries. It is not known why they stubbornly remain in a world whose sunlight is deadly to them—or why they chose to cross the gap from Kur in the first place—but countless generations of men have tried and failed to dislodge them. Yet the war continues.

All in all, Ram reflected, things could be worse. And would be, when the harvest was over. He stood atop one of Dul Karagi’s hundred or so watchtowers, as he had every yellow day since he signed up, with a loaded crossbow in his hands and nothing to do with it. Beside him stood his watchmate Izilbeshi, a short and prematurely bald man of twenty-five blooms; Beshi wouldn’t have been his first choice of companions, but he didn’t smell bad, was mostly right in the head, and didn’t prey on the bondswomen. He was the closest thing Ram had to a friend in the company, and they always took the same tower.

At present, they were watching over several dozen bonded families as they cut down the last of the wheat. A handful of their masters moved among them, masters whose families had been supervising the field hands for generations and took great pride in being the pyre’s only working free men of standing. Their duties, as far as Ram could tell, consisted of looking out for shirkers, thieves, and malcontents. These people had been doing the work their whole lives, and required no other supervision.

Unfortunately, their jobs required them to have sickles, and to vastly outnumber the caretakers, whose jobs required them to be the most hateful presence in their subordinates’ lives. Which made it Ram and Beshi’s job to stand with crossbows and shoot anyone who attacked a supervisor, which never happened because Ram and Beshi were there. This had been the general pattern of Ram’s life for the past twelve tetrads, following a brief tutorial in the use of a crossbow—a weapon chosen for its extreme simplicity of use. He had never tried to fire it, and was not sure it worked. He only stood in place, and watched.

Ram and Beshi had had ample time to discuss their work, and more or less agreed that they did not have a particular reason to feel ashamed of what they were doing. Nor proud. Really, Beshi was prone to remarking, they were only doing their one small part to keep the pyre going. If their role in the great chain of being required them to stand in one place talking all day and get paid for it, that was nothing to complain about. Of course, that was Beshi talking; his parents were reasonably prosperous shopkeepers, but he’d been born with a preternaturally low level of ambition. Much of his pay went to purchasing mind-altering herbals and beverages. At least he wasn’t violent.

As for Ram, he could only feel gratitude that Mother and Father had not been reduced to the level of these wretched field workers, or worse. They were treated as two-legged cattle, and acted the part; their constant diet of cheap starches made them bloated and dull-witted. They were seldom whipped, but most of them had been born into their condition, and had every reason to expect they’d die in it. Even if Ram and Beshi shot their masters for them, where would they go? The desert would kill them, if they tried it.

Ram had settled into life here well enough. He’d crossed paths with Kamenrag once, in the street, a few days after being sworn in. But the flamekeeper had only asked him how it felt to hide behind a fat man with no balls, then walked on smirking. He was, so far as he could tell, safe, and money was already flowing back to the hearth.

His comrades were tolerable, in that they mostly kept their distance. At least a few of them were former petty criminals on parole, after all, and there was no guessing how many of them would still be around after this bloom’s campaign. Going out of his way to make friends didn’t seem advisable. He might be a touch lonely this way, but he was used to that.

“Hey! Urapu! You got visitors! Get your ass down here!”

Ram sighed. On the other hand … a month and a half, and he was still “Urapu.” He turned around and looked down; his commander Perikalla was walking through the fields toward him, trailed by a pair of men Ram didn’t recognize offhand. Whoever they were, they must have paid Peri at least a silver to get him to show them all the way out here. That meant Ram had no choice but to humor them. “Sorry, I’ll be back soon,” he said to Beshi, who merely hummed agreeably; whatever he was chewing smelled potent.

Peri turned and walked off as soon as he saw Ram clambering down the handholds in the tower’s side, leaving him to meet the strangers alone. One was moderately tall, with his head too small and his neck too long, and at least forty blooms old; his hair was all shot through with grey, both the lank mess on top and the scruffy mustache and sparse beard. The tip of a bronze tooth—a fang, really—poked out from his lower lip, while his long, baggy delver-skin coat might have been any color from red to green under all the stains and dirt. The buttons were silver, but tarnished.

His companion was huge, a beak-nosed, gaunt-faced, dead-eyed freak of man, who looked very familiar in spite of the wool cap he’d pulled down over his forehead. He’d ditched all the blades, too; civilians weren’t supposed to go armed. If he recognized Ram from the South Gate Market, he gave no sign of it—but then, that meeting had been much more memorable for Ram. He decided to follow the big man’s lead for the time being, and looked expectantly at his older friend, who promptly bowed a greeting.

“Do I have the pleasure, I say the pleasure, of seeing one Rammash im-Belemel before me?” he asked, sweeping out his arm with a flourish. His voice was a nasal honk. “You have no idea how long I’ve been looking for you, young man. How are you doing today, sir?”

“I’m fine,” Ram told him. “And you are?”

“My name, since you’re kind enough to ask, is Ushnarema. I dare say you’ve heard of me?”

Interesting. “I’ve heard of an Ushnarema,” Ram said carefully. “You’d be about the right age. If you’re him, how did your nephew Nembaza die?”

“Eeldrake got him,” the man said at once. “Very sad. His father was simply devastated. With that said, Nembaza never was the brightest fellow, if you follow me. Went swimming in untested water, and alone, no less. One can’t help feeling that it would have happened sooner or later anyway, am I right? Of course I am. Now, are you satisfied, Cousin Ram? Do we trust one another?”

“No,” Ram replied. “If you really are Cousin Ushna, I’ve heard enough from Father to know that trusting you is the last thing I should do.”

“Well,” said Ushna, spreading his hands, “I can certainly see how one might take that perspective. Fair enough. Fair enough. But, if you don’t mind, I would very much appreciate it if we might continue this charming discussion in a less bucolic setting. Getting towards lunchtime, isn’t it? I would be happy to pay for all three of us.”

Ram couldn’t see what angle Ushna was playing; he had nothing worth stealing. Half of his already-modest income was sent back to the hearth automatically. He’d set it up with Gelibara’s countenance ages ago. “Who’s your friend?” he asked, while he thought it over.

“Oh, how forgetful of me. I beg your pardon. My associate Balnibduka is not the talkative sort; you must understand that he has an old head injury. I find his company most reassuring nonetheless.” The giant didn’t look at them, or give any indication that he knew he was being discussed. He appeared to be staring at the sky. “Now, shall we?”

Ram looked back up at his post; Beshi hadn’t even turned to watch their conversation. Peri must have been paid enough not to make a bother over simple desertion of his post. And he was hungry. But he wasn’t stupid. They had a lot of witnesses here, even if Beshi wasn’t paying attention. “I’m good, thanks. What’s all this about … Cousin Ushna?”

“Well, since you ask, word has reached my ear that your branch of the family has found itself in something of a difficulty of late. Hence your current profession. As it happens, I have an occupational difficulty of my own. Bluntly put, I need help, help which you are ideally placed to give.”

“Uh-huh.” It was hard to say exactly how he and Ushna were related, given the questionable paternity common among Father’s hearthless clan, but at best they were something like fourth cousins once removed. He’d never bothered to ask what Ushna did—he and Father had parted ways when both were about Ram’s age—but if the hulk was a blackband, odds were Ushna was too. It would fit what Ram had heard of his character. “You know I’m pledged and bound to stay on the militia for the next bloom, right?”

“Certainly. And I wouldn’t dream of asking you to abandon that commitment. A man needs to preserve his reputation, of course. When that’s gone, what else has he got? Nothing. But, seeing as you are so thoroughly dedicated to your duty, if a lucrative opportunity should present itself to perform another task at the same time, surely you wouldn’t pass it up?”

“What are you asking me to do?”

“You’re aware that the after-harvest campaign is imminent? Yes? Of course you are. Well, I happen to know that said campaign will pass quite close by a location of interest to me, wherein certain valuable articles are kept. We also have a small task to perform at the same location, which need not concern you. Your part in this would be restricted to purely ancillary duties—keeping watch, removing minor obstacles, and things of that nature.”

“Being a little vague, aren’t you? I’m going to need more information than that.” Ram wasn’t looking forward to the campaign; his company had been busy at indoor crowhammer drill every white day since he joined, and none of them were eager to use those weapons for real. Ram’s top priority had been establishing himself as one of the more reliable men, so they’d put him in the back ranks when the time came.

Ushna sighed. “I generally aim for circumspection, my friend. Are you really not aware of where the campaign will take you?”

Ram thought it over. “You’re planning to loot a rookery, huh?”

His cousin winced theatrically. “Rather crudely put, but yes. Really, it’s more of a minor bazu colony than a rookery proper. Still, the profit margin for this particular venture would be considerable, and I’m prepared to offer you four silver up front, with as much again on completion. Plus a variable bonus proportionate to profit, of course.”

“Of course,” Ram echoed. He earned a half-silver per tetrad; Ushna was offering him over two months’ pay, minimum. He might not even be lying; as a blackband, he stood to make much more than that, and could probably afford to offer a full gold tanbir, especially since Ram could easily get killed before collecting the second half. “And all because we’re family, huh?”

“I take my kinship duties seriously, as I’m sure your Father told you.”

“Yes. He said you never screwed over your own kin, for what that’s worth. It’s tempting, but no.”

Ushna blinked. “Really. May I ask why?”

Ram looked Ushna over. “Your neck,” he said. “It’s not as tan as the rest of you. Is that where you usually wear your black?”

“Yes, it’s a sort of cravat,” he said. “As I said: circumspection. My profession requires me to maintain a low profile at times—“

“Like when you’re sneaking along on a campaign to steal occult contraband from the enemies of the human race.”

“That would be one of those times, yes,” Ushna said, still unflappable. “Do bear in mind that they are your enemies as well, and you would be at no point required to make personal contact with the articles in question. I understand many people have qualms about such considerations.”

“I don’t care about that,” Ram retorted. “I could still burn for this. And you don’t need my help or permission to do whatever it is you’re talking about. Whatever you’re after, it’s not worth eight silver to get myself killed, or outlawed.” Probably it would be better to be more polite about it, but he couldn’t risk getting drawn in by acting coy.

“You must understand, kinsman of mine, that I am not free to disclose all the details of my business dealings.”

“And I’m not required to be part of them, either,” Ram said. “Thanks, but no thanks. Good luck with your blackband business.” He turned back to the tower, and Ushna clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Being a touch hasty, aren’t you? You say you aren’t interested, that’s fair. But I’ll ask you to give the matter more thought. We can come to a mutually satisfactory agreement, like gentlemen.”

Gentlemen? Ram almost laughed. Father said Ushna had killed at least two men by age thirteen. He tried to keep walking, but the hand on his shoulder didn’t let go.

Ushna smiled, revealing the full length of the bronze fang. “I’ll be at the Red Flute. You know where that is? Not far from the South Gate. Stop by some time, and we’ll see about that lunch I mentioned.”

Ram hesitated. Technically, these two were violating the law merely by being here out of black; if Ram reported them, they’d have to leave in a hurry or face severe penalties. In theory. But blackbands were only tolerated at all because important men wanted their services. If Ushna’s group specialized in dangerous artifacts, he sold them here, for a good price. Ram certainly didn’t need them as enemies. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “The Red Flute.” It was a notorious blackband watering hole, and he’d never dare set foot in it.

“Good. An open mind is all I ask. There are plenty of opportunities in the world, you know, for a young man with an eye on his options. Goodbye, Cousin Ram.” He turned on one foot and strode back along the path to the pyre, the ever-silent Balnibduka behind him.