Countless kindlings in the past, it was said, a small colony of tinapi had set up a creche at the spot where the Agamenti river flowed into the Teshalun. There, deep under water and out of sight, they had hatched their eggs and reared their young, and the creche had grown under Kuara’s blessing until it was known to tinapi from thousands of miles away.

Where there are tinapi, there is money to be made, so before long a more or less permanent camp of human merchants appeared on the banks above, to supply hopeful pilgrim-parents with everything they needed before they returned to their schools, and equip their children before they set out into the world for the first time.

The area was a desolate marsh, and the humans needed food of their own, with protection from the white sun. A contract was drawn up, in terms both communities could approve, and sealed with the life of a single human man. Alone among pyres, the new arrangement was known not by its first ensi’s name, but by his title among the tinapi: pilupura, “negotiator.”

Now Dul Pilupura was the most populous pyre in the Dominion, a massive, convoluted grid of canals and artificial islands just north of the river junction. Below the surface lay not one but three separate creches, vying for honor and tithes from every tinap who visited the Dominion of Man. Only the matriarchs and guards of the creches lived in the area permanently, but between all their young wards and visitors the pyre’s aquatic population was always at least as big as that on land.

It took Ram, Bal, and Darun a full day just to get to the middle of it, passing through a bewildering succession of hearths, checkpoints, and satellite facilities. It was difficult to say where Dul Pilupura proper ended, and where its hearths began; there was no empty space between one developed area and the next, only a single swath of floating gardens and towering apartment buildings stretching too far for all of it to be seen at once, even from the top of its own temple.

Ram’s perspective was not nearly so good, on the day their boat finally landed. Since they had few good men’s clothes, and he knew little of upper-class manners, he had reluctantly agreed to a demotion from pretend-flamekeeper to pretend-bondservant before they got on the galley at Dul Tenzen. This entailed regular duty at the oars; it would have been out of character for men of such low status to pay full ticket price to get out of it. Darun, of course, got to remain a fine lady throughout, ordering her two lackeys about with sharp words and finger-snaps and apologizing for their poor oarsmanship.

By the time they finally moored at Pilupura, Ram was distinctly sore and out of temper. They were far enough from Dul Karagi that the spirit was griping at him again—how did the Ensi expect him to keep his distance, and deal with that bother?—and his aching muscles and blistered hands healed only slightly faster than a normal human’s. He could take some comfort from the reassuring weight of Beshi thunking onto his back again, secure in his bedroll.

More comforting still, they had deposited a full ten gold in Zasha’s account at Tenzen, over Darun’s strenuous objections that they needed more for their trip and that Zasha was all talk anyway. No doubt she’d have been a kinder “mistress” if they’d only dropped off five, but he’d rather placate his parents’ jailer than Darun. She’d enjoyed the impudence of it more than the money itself, anyway.

There were no gatekeeping acolytes to demand bribes; the pyre saw far too much traffic to bother trying to control it, and being surrounded by water there was little point. Besides, a fee at the door might discourage people from coming and spending money there. So when they got off the boat, they were greeted only by an enormous map of the place, done up in mosaic on a curved forty-foot wall. It was the clearest invitation possible to go and do as they pleased.

Their present location—a round island with an equally round, flat-roofed structure on it to welcome visitors—appeared as a tiny gold dot in the lower middle. The rest of the map looked like a cluster of spiderwebs, each centered on the Temple or one of its hearth-fires. The straight lines would be shops and residences, long five-story buildings lined up to minimize the blockage of sacred light. The arcs between were curved mounds of dredged mud and compost, the source of most of the pyre’s food.

“You sure they’re still going to be here?” he asked Darun as they looked around the map.

“How many times are you going to ask me that? Yes. This place was like our headquarters, we did more sales here than anywhere else. Designated spot to meet up if we got separated. And it’d be hard to keep the old man away from it for long.”

“He likes the place, huh?”

“Who wouldn’t? If I’d grown up here, instead of that grubby delver’s nest, I’d never have left.” She traced a hand up the center of the map, and tapped her finger on an irregular blot at the boundary between the pyre’s circle of influence and that of the hearth to its south. “She should be here.”

“Great. How do we get there?” From where they stood, he could see a number of bridges, but they all connected the tops of adjacent residential blocks, binding them in a ring at the end closest to the Temple. There were boats as well, mostly small rowed vehicles with a scattering of sunbarques, and a trio of skybarques circling overhead. “We’re going to run out of cash quick, if we have to pay a boatman every time we want to go somewhere.”

“Stop whining, minion. They’ve got a system here. Come on.” She led them to the back of a queue forming at the left edge of the great map. There were eight people in line already, of various social classes, all waiting patiently; even as Ram’s eyes drifted to the front of it, a kind of barge was pulling up to it. It was a wide, flat-bottomed craft a bit smaller than the one they’d ridden to Tenzen, fitted with four rows of benches, totally unremarkable except for the fact that it moved with nobody riding it.

The first two people in line—a somewhat shabbily-dressed man and his wife—stepped aboard even before it had come to a stop, followed by the rest in short order. Ram couldn’t say he liked the looks of it, but he knew Darun would be insufferable if he showed any fear. As soon as they were all seated aboard, a large green head popped out of the water and looked at the shabby couple expectantly.

It was very different from the tinapi they’d been froghitching with; the head was more angular, with more blue in the green of its skin, and a spiny frill like the start of a dorsal fin running down the center of its scalp. If the head was anything to go by, it was a good deal larger than any tow-drudge as well.

“Third fire, third lane head,” the man told it, and it turned its gaze to the next passenger, an acolyte, who requested the Temple.

They were in the farthest bench back. “Does that thing pull the whole boat by itself?” he whispered to Darun.

“No, the creche-guards just boss the spawn around. They’re too stupid to navigate just yet, so they push.” She plunked her legs up on his lap. “But my feet are sore, minion. Less talking, more rubbing.”

They’d been on boats for tetrads, and she’d not had enough walking room to get sore feet. He rubbed anyway just to keep up appearances, sparing a glance over the back of the boat to see if he could spot anything else in the water. Sure enough, there was something moving just below the surface—many separate somethings, actually. They were bobbing around too quickly to see clearly, but Ram was reminded of tadpoles. Very large tadpoles.

When Darun’s turn arrived, she requested “the Gods’ Creche,” and the little ship set off, so abruptly that Ram was pressed back into his seat.

“So, the tinapi make their kids push boats around all day.”

“Sort of. They’re miserably stupid until they’re, like, half a kindling old, so the creche-guards make them take turns at boat duty to keep them out of trouble. Gives them exercise, too, and nobody pays a thing for it. Cool, huh?”

“Mm-hmm.” Much as he wanted answers, he wasn’t looking forward to seeing Imbri again. She’d been unpleasant enough before he got her father killed, and he wasn’t sure that she really could or would help him. She’d been his only hope for two months. What if she refused, or said she couldn’t make anything of it?

He had a long time to worry; the creche-guard had apparently organized everyone’s requests into the most efficient route she could think of on the fly, and the Gods’ Creche, whatever it was, was far away from everywhere else. It was at least a pleasant trip. There was a steady breeze blowing over the water, and Dul Pilupura was a beautiful place.

Each of the residential blocks was a long row of stately townhouses of warm brown brick, with shops on their bottom floors, nicely-tended arbors on top, and several arched tunnels in the middle for boats to pass through. Their second floors had rows of spacious balconies, and Ram could see and hear well-dressed Pilupurans holding conversations over their heads.

He tossed Darun’s feet off his lap after a cursory rubbing. “Why’s this place we’re going called the Gods’ Creche?”

“It’s a joke—it’s where they put all the little gods so they don’t get in the way. They’ve got people coming here from the ass end of nowhere, wanting to pray to the weirdest crap nobody ever head of. So they stick all their temples in one place.” Their boat shot through one of the shortcut tunnels, passing through with about a foot to spare on either side. Ram tried not to wince; everyone around them took it in stride, but he didn’t like to think what would happen if another boat happened to be coming the other way. He couldn’t swim very well.

“And, uh, our friend is going to be hanging out there because?” He’d only had one conversation with Imbri, but she hadn’t struck him as the devout type.

“Because she can’t do our old business without countenance and by herself. The only other thing she knows how to do is fortune-telling for rubes.”

“She did that with you guys?”

“Nah, the profit’s too low. It’s what she was doing before the boss bought her. Learned it from her mom, I think.”

“Bought her? You mean she used to be bonded too?”

“This is our stop,” Darun said, ignoring the question. They were drifting up to the shore of a large island cluttered with smallish buildings in mismatched styles. It was as well-tended as anything else in the pyre, with brightly-colored tile walks between ornamental shrubs, but still seemed out of place. He let her lead the way out; his legs had fallen asleep.

She led them straight to the largest building on the island, a sinister-looking black granite affair topped by a tall spire. Its windows were circles flanked by crescents, with dark circles of flat black iron inset in their middles; the result looked something like an eye. As they drew closer, he could see night-black reliefs of Moonchildren carved at twice life size between them. It seemed, on second thought, a very Imbri kind of place, if you ignored the irony of the windows.

“Wait. They worship Nidriz here?”

Darun shrugged. “The Moonchild version, anyway.”

The door led down a short passage to a small and dim rotunda, where windows set in the base of the spire shone down onto a circular altar of white marble in the center of the room. The light was tinged slightly green by the windows; it wouldn’t do to have golden pyre-light coming in here. It made the inside of the shrine still more ominous than the outside—the kind of place where you didn’t want to raise your voice.

The altar was very short, about knee-high, and broad enough that Ram could have lain down on it if he dared. Its surface was half-covered with visitors’ offerings, mostly small glass objects. Ram thought a moment, then knelt down and set the little chunk of Misishin obsidian Bal had given him on the altar. He wouldn’t worship the bazu goddess, but this was her house, he was her guest, and he didn’t need her as an enemy.

A colonnade wrapped around the inside of the building, with a shadowed doorway behind every arched opening. Someone was sitting at the base of one of the pillars to their right, a Moonchild in the traditional dark blue coat. Its mask was silver rather than iron, but the once-graceful feminine features were mostly obscured by dirt, dents, and tarnish. There was a plain glass bowl on the floor in front of the creature, filled nearly to the brim with clear water.

It lifted its head when they entered the room, and nodded approvingly when Ram laid his little offering on the table. A small, delicate, pale left hand emerged from its robes, dipped its fingers in the water, and began tracing them around the rim of the bowl to make it sing. But it said nothing until Darun came within two feet of it. Even then, it began in Moonchild, a long, low, gargling invocation full of rolled r’s and hisses that went on and on without ever seeming to pause for breath. It—she?—had been speaking for the better part of a minute before Ram realized it had switched to Flametongue, but in such a thick accent that it made little difference.

“Nythrys wanders over all the earth, ever watchful, seeing all, knowing all. Past, present, future, all alike, for she blinks her eye but thirteen times a year. The goddess knows no sleep nor rest, has many cares, and does not give counsel lightly. But she is not silent, nor barren of love, even for you of lesser race who follow lesser gods. What would you know?” It extended its right hand with the palm up.

“I’ve got a tough one for you, sister,” Darun answered. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

The Moonchild startled, so violently that it sloshed a bit of water out of its bowl. The keening of the glass stopped abruptly. “Darun?” it asked, in a very different voice—young and clear. The same voice he’d last heard outside the Red Flute, demanding to know why her father thought Ram was blackband material.

“None other. But you didn’t answer my question. You people are worse cheats than me.”

The mass of robes trembled. “Darun, for—if you’re here, that means—oh, hell. You haven’t brought Ram with you, have you?”

“Sure I—“

“Of course you haven’t. It’s just you and a pair of hired escorts I hear, isn’t it? Even you wouldn’t be stupid enough to bring Ram here. You must have left him somewhere, like a sensible person, while you came and scouted things out.”

Darun shot Ram a puzzled look, but said, “No, he’s safely hidden. He sent me to consult the famous Moonchild witch of Pilupura. Seems he’s been sitting on a cold stone floor for hours too, and wants to know how you deal with the blisters.”

“Darun, would it kill you to stop being a snotty bitch for just a moment?”

“I wouldn’t know how, and you wouldn’t recognize me if I did.”

Imbri’s pale hand flicked water at her. “Whatever. We don’t have time for this. Do you have any idea what you’ve gotten us into, taking him in?”

“Eh, it’s been a bit of trouble, but it’s lucrative. Wait till you hear about this job we did on a boat just this month.”

“I already know about that, idiot! And so do they. They know everything. They know who you are, they know who you used to work with, they know everywhere you used to work … so, try using that vapid little head of yours. Do you really think I’ve been sitting here playing soothsayer all this time because I wanted to?”

“I—“

“No. Of course not. And now, if you want to keep living your dysfunctional and sad little life, you’re going to walk quickly and quietly out of here, return to Ram by the most roundabout route you can manage, and take him somewhere far away to try and sort out his life, which makes yours look sane and healthy by comparison.”

“Young lady,” said a man’s voice from behind them, “that is not my idea of cooperation. If you want your countenance back, you’ll have to do better.”

Ram didn’t want to turn around, but did anyway. A man’s silhouette was framed against the shrine’s doorway; four others emerged from the dark doorways behind the colonnade. Every one of them had a short sword at his side, plus a quiver full of spurs; they spread out as they came in, so they would all have room to throw. Ram could see the shadows of still more men waiting outside.

“Don’t treat me like a child,” Imbri griped. “You were never going to give us anything. I only lived this long because you needed bait.”

“If you really believed that, I expect you’d be more polite.” He stepped into the sickly light of the sanctuary. He had a broad face, a receding hairline, and an impressive mustache paired with a thick but neat beard. His eyes were deep-set, and somber. “Hello, Rammash im-Belemel. I’m Piridur zen-Mitu, Second Sword of the Dul Karagi flamekeepers. I think it’s about time we took you back home, son.”

Ram threw his pack down and tore Beshi out of the bedroll, then retreated to put his back to a pillar. Bal followed suit with a pair of his swords. Ram wished they’d dared to let him keep one of the flamekeepers’ swords as well—but there was no telling what he’d have done with one of those whispering in his ear.

“There’s no need for that,” Piridur told him, holding out his hands. “If we wanted to kill you, we could have done it. We will, if we have to, but we don’t want that. Dul Karagi needs you alive, Ram. There’s no cause for anyone else to die, if you come back peacefully.”

“Bullshit,” Ram snapped. All four of the men around them had spurs in their fingers, ready to throw. Plain spurs weren’t likely to kill him, but then how would his haranu’s healing power cope with poison, or a sleeping drug? And what if they hit the others?

“If I’m lying, what’s the truth, Ram? Just what do you think is going on here?” Ram had no answer. “I thought so. This has all been a terrible mistake. I’m just glad we’ve put an end to it.”

“I’m not ‘ended’ yet!”

“No, you’re not. Hopefully, you’ll live to enjoy another thirteen blooms. It might be only three, depending how things work out. But whether you leave this room alive today is up to you.”

Thirteen blooms? Ram didn’t understand, nor want to. But Darun sniggered. “That’s the big secret? A haranu plus a pair of balls makes you boss? You have got to be kidding me.”

“It would be a tasteless joke, and not very funny. No.” Piridur’s sad eyes looked right into Ram’s. “Ram, you should know that an indwelt man becomes, effectively, an adopted member of his spirit’s priestly lineage. At the bloom, you became an heir to Karagi—one of two now living. The Ensi being the other; he’s been indwelt for six blooms, so he has seniority, and his life will end with the current kindling at the very latest. When it does, you’re next in line.”