Naimenka’s Garden was at least twenty kindlings old, and so well-known that Ram had heard rumors of it while he was growing up in Urapu. To them, it had been a byword for the profligate arrogance of foreigners, who wasted a good hearth-fire that could have supported farms by wrapping an inn around it. In Dul Karagi, by contrast, it was a legend of elegant luxury, and a symbol of the prestige and power of the world’s most illustrious pyre. As Piridur’s hired sunbarque approached it, Ram wondered which of the two accounts was more accurate.

To call it an “inn,” he thought when he first saw it, really didn’t do it justice. That word conjured up images of a modest structure like the Red Flute; the Garden was a seven-story colossus, larger than Lugal Jushur’s palace in Dul Karagi. It took the shape of a regular figure with so many sides that it was little different from an exact circle, its angles decorated with giant flowering vines done up in enamel. The facets between were deep blue, decorated with aquatic life in the same style. Even the windows were fitted with stained glass. The roof was invisible from the outside; it sloped inward, towards the famous pool at the center of the structure. Only a wisp of cloud spilled over the top.

The Garden was run directly by Dul Pilupura, under the joint authority of its ensi and lugal. Every ambassador from another pyre was lodged in its bottom floor, while the lugal himself was content with half of the second. The rest of the rooms were open to anyone who cared to pay for them, but the worst in the house, on the seventh floor, were two silvers a night.

Piridur had kept a substantial suite on the third floor reserved for the entire month he had been waiting for Ram, just in case he showed up to use it.

Ram could hear Mother’s voice in his head, dispassionately and precisely offering her opinion on such blatant and shameless favor-currying. But he could also see Darun perched on the barque’s prow, her veil cast aside, bouncing with anticipation like a small child. He leaned over so his mouth was right next to Imbri’s ear; she’d cast aside the mask, but pulled down the hood over her face the way she’d done with her old cloak. “Don’t tell me you guys never stayed here, with the way you threw money around.”

“Believe it or not, we didn’t. Dad thought it would be tasteless for blackbands to stay here, in the same building as most of their clients. He said it would be like moving into your mistress’s house with her parents. No decorum.” Her voice was calm, but flat and cheerless.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought that up.”

“Will you stop apologizing, already? It’s fine. Dad and I were never really that close. I only knew him for five blooms, and you know what he was like; he bought me because he guessed I’d be useful, and kept me because he’d guessed right. I only called him Dad because he wouldn’t let me call him Ushna.” If anything, she sounded gloomier than before, but Ram couldn’t think what to say that wouldn’t make it worse.

The barque passed in through the main gate, between a pair of decorative cascades spilling down from the fourth floor, and down a tunnel. Bright gold and blue light shone from the end of it, but Ram couldn’t see anything clearly; there was a mist or fog in the way. There was a strange hissing noise as well, which got louder as the boat advanced. Then the tunnel ended, and Ram found himself floating over paradise.

Where most of the channels outside were shallow things, just deep enough for tinapi to duck under boats, the waters of the Garden went down more than a hundred feet below them, all of it as marvelously clear as the rest of Pilupura’s waters—one of the many advantages to living with tinapi. Several of those tinapi bobbed about beneath them, tending to the tiered banks of exquisite plants their school had been breeding for generations. Those iridescent fronds, and the equally brilliant fish playing among them, lived nowhere else in the world.

At the center of the great pool, submerged just below the surface, was the hearth-fire itself. Ram couldn’t see what, if anything, was holding it in place for the boiling cloud of steam that surrounded it. The mists rose in a plume to the top of the courtyard, past seven floors of crowded ring-shaped galleries where men and women ate and talked and played and drank. Flowering vines twined around pillars and railings all the way to the top; birds and butterflies flitted between the blossoms. The air was alive with perfume, spiced food, music, birdsong, polite conversation, and the gentle hiss of rising steam, all mixing together into a powerful intoxicant for every sense.

He couldn’t say if it was worth tying up an entire hearth-fire for, but he had to admit that it was a more beautiful place than Urapu had ever been. Even Darun, for once, was speechless, frozen in place at the prow with her hands clasped in silent prayer to whatever god had invented beauty. The barque moored at a landing to the right of the entrance, and they got off: first Ram, leading the way at Piridur’s insistence, then Imbri and Bal, with Darun trailing behind in a daze, and finally Piridur himself. He didn’t seem to feel the need for any bodyguards or bailiffs. He was probably right.

You could look across from the reception area where they’d landed, and see the seals of every pyre in the Dominion, hanging on their emissaries’ doors, right beneath a far larger Pilupuran seal to mark their lugal’s quarters on the second floor. The symbolism was far from subtle, and it seemed as good an explanation as any for why the pyre bothered with the expense of this place.

He’d half-expected Piridur to play guide, but he showed them up to their rooms in courteous silence, letting them take it all in as best they could. It was glorious, all of it, but at the same time faintly oppressive. Piridur only spoke once they had entered their suite—four bedrooms around a common area—and shut the door behind them.

“I’ve paid for this place till the end of the month, so we might as well use it. That’s through the next tetrad, Ram.”

“I know. Thank you.” A dulsphere hung from the ceiling, illuminating a long table of dark wood over an enormous fluffy carpet, with a full set of matching chairs and bas-relief sculptures on the walls. As a crowning touch, the window was a stained-glass masterwork, depicting Haranduluz wedding Kuara against a sun rising over the sea. It was the sort of picture only humans could have come up with; the tinap mother-goddess looked like an attractive, full-figured woman with sea-green skin and hair. Briefly, Ram wondered if the tinapi had an equivalent carving over their creche doors, with a sun-colored fish fertilizing a huge pile of eggs. Probably not.

He didn’t like to think how much all this cost, but he wouldn’t be paying, and every day he got before moving out was a day he could spend planning. Imbri evidently felt differently; the little bit of her face Ram could see was plainly scowling. “Will Shazru be able to find us?” he wondered.

Piridur chuckled. “Easily. He’s been living here since the day we met him. He’ll be back later. I think it’d be best if we had dinner served here,” he said, gesturing to the table.

“Mm-hmm. Which room’s mine?” he asked, just to end the conversation. He spent the next few minutes exploring the suite, and discovered that the management had neglected to provide chamber-pots, instead furnishing both bathrooms with a bizarre contraption involving several pipes and a large metal bowl engraved with a facetious charm against constipation. Fresh water came down from a pipe through the ceiling—presumably fed by some of the steam off the central pool, drop-mill style.

Dinner arrived within the hour, and unfolded much as Ram expected: Piridur had ordered a magnificent spread, with roast beef and five types of fish, and said nothing of pyre politics, sacrifices, or anything more stressful than the annual galley regatta, in which Karagi’s team was expected to place fifth or sixth this bloom. Ram nodded, made agreeable noises, and gestured for the bondswoman to pour him another mug from time to time.

His sense of awe had long since faded, leaving behind a cold and morbid malaise. All this was only Piridur’s more quiet and tactful variant on Lashantu’s old bargain; if he played along, Ram could live like this for some time, until (if the flamekeeper was telling the truth) he burned himself alive so Dul Karagi could carry on and kill some other hapless fool in ten blooms. The best he could hope for was that it was all lies … in which case he would have to escape and find out the truth alone.

Because just one look at Darun was enough to tell him that he would, in fact, be alone. She chatted gaily with Piridur about everything she’d missed at his pyre, in between dainty bites of delicacies Ram couldn’t even pronounce. This trip had been an interesting interlude in her life, now it was over, and if that was inconvenient to him, she wouldn’t lose any sleep. Imbri, beside her, was quieter, but ate steadily and made no effort to talk with him. As for Bal, he would follow the Damadzus’ lead whatever happened.

Shazru came in halfway through the meal, greeted Ram graciously, then sat down and ate. He inquired after Ram’s health, got a neutral reply, and launched into an inane spiel about all the marvelous things there were to see in Dul Pilupura, as if Ram were visiting for the sights. Any more serious or relevant conversation, Ram guessed, would have struck him as indiscreet. Imbri was probably right; the old man might be a fine doctor, but he would be no use at all as an ally.

Ram was glad when dinner ended, and retreated to his room without bothering to thank his jailer for the fine meal. He shut the door, kicked off his boots, and collapsed onto the magnificent bed. He had been lying still on top of the covers for about ten minutes, and was pondering whether he cared enough to get undressed before he fell asleep when the door flew open and Darun strutted in.

“Do you even know how to knock?”

“Of course I do,” she told him with a smile. “But why should I knock? This is my room.”

“That’s not what Piridur said.”

“No, he’s too polite to talk about it. But you might remember how, all of two months ago, you were telling half the pyre how I was your woman? It turns out he heard all about it.”

“Ah, hell.” Ram put a hand over his eyes.

“And,” she went on, very clearly enjoying herself, “since he’s such a good host and all—“

“I get it! I get it!”

“Good. It’s a nice big bed, isn’t it? Budge over.”

He lifted his hand. “Get serious.”

“I am. There’s four rooms here, lover. The other three are occupied too. Somebody’s going to have to share.”

“I’m not sleeping on the floor.”

“I wasn’t asking you to.” She flicked her slippers off next to Ram’s boots, and threw herself down beside him, so hard the bed creaked. “Ooh, cozy! Isn’t this incredible?”

“Wonderful,” he agreed sourly. “What are you playing at now, Darun?”

“Who’s playing?” she said, rolling over and propping herself up on her elbows. “It’s a big bed. Plenty of room for two.”

“Right.” Her smile was perfectly innocent and friendly, but she had to know she was showing a lot of cleavage like that. So, what did she want? It wasn’t Ram himself; she’d made that perfectly clear, and if she’d changed her mind since she had a damned strange way of showing it.

She poked him in the ribs. “Hey. You’re sulking again. Haven’t I been telling you to try and relax a little? It’s not healthy, to keep worrying like that.”

“I’ve got plenty to worry about, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Like what? All that stuff Piridur told you? That’s good news, Ram.”

“What?”

She rolled her eyes. “We’ve been losing our minds all this time, thinking they were out to kill us. I was half-expecting you to die by the end of the bloom. But now? He’s going to do everything he can to keep you alive! You’ve got it made.”

“I’m going to die!” he said, sitting up so he wouldn’t have to look at her anymore.

But Darun followed him up, kneeling on the bed, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Everybody dies sometime, Ram. A lot of them die at your age, or younger. Back in Misishi, half the miners get killed by thirty-five, from rock-falls, or knife-fights, or just getting whipped to death. And your buddies in the militia, who go up against shabti every bloom? If you offered all of them a shot at thirteen easy blooms, how many of them would take it?”

Most, if not all. But he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of hearing him say it. “What about my family? Remember that whole Zasha situation I told you about?”

“Oh, Zasha,” she sneered. “That old man? He’s got no teeth left. I know him. A little money will smooth everything over. And you can get a lot of money now, Ram.”

“You know him, do you? Did you know he paid those four men to kill you at the theater?”

From the look on her face, she hadn’t, but she got over it quickly. “Huh. Wouldn’t have thought he had that in him. Anyway, this isn’t just me talking. Piridur says—“

“You told Piridur? Shit!” He threw her hand away and went to stand by the window—this one had the two deities dancing in slightly suggestive poses—leaning against its frame to steady himself. Piridur knew everything now. How would he use it? Did it give him any leverage over Ram? He couldn’t think how, but it didn’t seem like this would do him any favors.

What would Zasha do, if he got a message from Piridur offering to bargain? Or would Piridur bargain at all? If Zasha were just after money, this would be a perfect way to extort the pyre. He could get a lot more than twenty-five gold by holding the En’s family hostage. But he hadn’t seemed to want this situation at all.

A pair of arms wrapped around his chest from behind, and he felt a weight settle on his shoulder. “Get off me, Darun,” he growled. The arms didn’t budge. “I mean it!”

“What will you do, if I don’t?” she said. Not in a taunting way; she sounded genuinely curious. He reached down, ripped her hands off, and flung them down. So she flitted around beside him instead, and took his face in her hands. The knife-scar on the side of her face had done surprisingly little to mar her looks. “Ram. It’s bad enough being a walking dead man, without acting like one too.”

Only his haranu kept him from hitting her. “Stop pretending you give a damn about anyone but yourself.”

“You first,” she replied, running a teasing finger down his face and neck. “In case you haven’t noticed, I didn’t agree to haul ass all over the Dominion to do whatever you needed, Ram. I’m in this for long-term profit. That was the deal. Now you’ve got the option to get me my business back, and I notice you’re not rushing to take it. Who’s the selfish one here?”

“Is that what this is about? I need to put my family in danger, and live my life in a stable, so you can go back to selling bazu trash to people with too much money? That’s what you want, right?”

“You keep asking me what I want. It’s such a boring question; the answer never changes. You know I’m in it for the good times. Have you ever asked yourself what you want? Not who you’re running errands for—your parents, the Ensi, Ushna—but what you really want? You’ve got thirteen blooms, Ram. What are you going to do with them?”

All the smirking cleverness had disappeared from her face. It was bizarre, to see her look calm and serious. “It doesn’t matter what I want. I won’t get it. I never do.”

“That’s because you’ve never even tried. Why don’t you live a little, dead man?” She shoved him in the chest, hard, so that he tripped over the bed and fell back on it. She was straddling him a second later.

“Darun, what are you doing?”

“Isn’t that obvious? You hearth-kids are way too sheltered.” She reached down and grabbed the bottom of her dress with both hands; he slapped his own hands down over them.

“Darun!”

“You don’t owe this shitty little world a thing, Ram. It’s not going to thank you. If you give it all you’ve got, it’ll only ask for more, so stop giving already. Tell you what, let’s just you and me die young, together. It’ll be fun!”

“Get off of me!”

“I don’t weight that much, honey. You could throw me off if you wanted to. But you don’t, do you?” And she pressed down with her hips, grinding against him.

She was beautiful, and wild, and totally alive, laughing down at him through a curtain of thick brown hair while he gripped her hands. Through her eyes he could still catch a glimpse of the riotous world he had seen, so long ago, on that night at the Red Flute. She lived in that world, all the time, wherever she went and whatever she did. All he had to do was let go of those hot hands, and he would be there with her, in a place without a future.

“We both know what you want, little boy,” she whispered, leaning forward to kiss him. He turned his face away. “The only question,” she said, right in his ear, “is if you’re brave enough to take it.” And she bit down, hard, on his earlobe.

He gasped, and let go. The dress went flying, and landed in a heap in the corner.

An hour later, Darun slept peacefully beside him, only one bare shoulder appearing between the covers and the plait of her hair. Ram was wide awake, as far toward the edge of the bed as he could manage without falling off, torn between fear, shame, longing, and relief. Would this continue? Did he want it to? He’d crossed a line, there was no going back, and he didn’t know how he would deal with her in the morning. What little peace he’d won for himself in those few exultant moments was gone again.

But it was tempting, so tempting, to think that this could go on. Darun herself he could have refused—at least, he liked to think so—if he’d only known that he wouldn’t be alone. This way he could go to bed every night, and have someone else with him. Could he really love her? Probably not. He only knew that she wasn’t all wrong. He would go mad, if he tried to carry on the way he’d been doing.

Time passed, with no sign of how long remained until morning, and he stared at the ceiling, then at the window, where the gleam of a distant hearth-fire shone through Haranduluz’s face. It now struck Ram as ridiculous for even him to be depicted as a human. When had the everlasting sun ever been a man, or known firsthand what kind of challenges his people faced?

By and by, he drifted off into broken fits of sleep, frustrating spurts of turbid dreams interspersed with abrupt, brief, and illucid wakefulness, over and over—far more tiring and miserable than simply staying awake. Dark dreams wasn’t supposed to be until tomorrow night, though, unless he had somehow lost track of a day. But no—Darun was still sleeping soundly beside him.

It was getting on towards morning when he pushed himself out of bed, moved by the sudden and inexplicable conviction that something had gone wrong.

Air. He needed fresh air. He drew his shorts back on and tiptoed past Darun into the common room, then out the door to stare down at the great pool. Even now, there were dozens of other people in view around the various gallery levels, enjoying late-night drinks or intimate talks. It would have been better if there were an exterior balcony, so he could take in the night breeze in solitude, but nobody came to the Garden to look at the inferior and ugly world outside it.

It probably wouldn’t have helped, anyway. The feeling of unease continued as before, until he wondered if he was sick after all, or out of his head from stress. He stared into the fire under the water, hoping the light would bring peace to his mind. No luck. The disturbance in his soul was as strong as ever. So he turned instead to the north, to Dul Karagi—or tried to.

He couldn’t find it. That, it seemed, was the problem that woke him. The familiar presence of Dul Karagi, which had been with him for almost two months now, had suddenly become vague and unclear. In place of his former perfect sense for the way home, he had only an amorphous awareness drawing his mind towards the north in general. It was like his haranu’s vision had blurred.

Knowing that was one thing; knowing what to do about it was another. He didn’t suppose any of the others would have any idea what it meant, even if he’d dared to wake them up. Possibly Piridur would have wanted to know, but Ram didn’t even know what room he was staying in. A room nearby, maybe? That would make sense. But wait—he’d given him Beshi. He closed his eyes, and his brother-spirit inside the blade was instantly apparent, inside a room on the floor above them.

He was on his way up the nearest flight of stairs, wondering if he should wait till morning—or put on more clothing over his shorts—or simply keep this a secret until he figured it out for himself—when he noticed that something had changed. Much of the haze around Dul Karagi had abruptly cleared from his mind … revealing a further mystery.

The pyre, it seemed, had suddenly duplicated itself. There were two identical fires now, one right next to the other. Had it split in two? He’d never heard of such a thing, but then it seemed there were a lot of things he’d never heard of. He shut his eyes once more, listening to the hiss of the rising steam so the background chatter wouldn’t distract him.

One of the two fires was moving, he thought. Very slowly, so slowly that it was nigh-imperceptible over this distance, but they were farther apart than they had been a moment ago. And they didn’t seem so identical as they had, either. One of them, the one that had moved, was smaller. Or was smaller the right word for it? Less significant? Weaker? Something like that. Perhaps the pyre had spawned some kind of very large haranu, less than three months after the last bloom. But he doubted it.

Ram remained where he was, on a public stairway, in the world’s finest hotel, in his underpants, at the small hours of the morning, simply watching and waiting till he puzzled it out. Fortunately, nobody came along to bother him. Nobody was there to notice when he finally understood, and nearly fell down the stairs laughing.

He laughed long and hard, biting his hand to keep from waking up half the Garden with his howls, and when he finally finished he went around the rim to the nearest eatery—every level had one—and ordered a giant mug of their finest brew, so he could drink an apologetic toast to the cunning Ensi of Dul Karagi. Then he went back to his room, and fell asleep at once.