Baba Yrrta sat on a massive cube of stone and watched the slaves, who were harnessed to it like dogs to a sled. “One and two and heave!” Fivefingers sang. The block barely budged, and his weathered face creased into a frown. “Put your backs into it!” Dangling her dirty feet over the cube’s edge, Baba watched Root in particular. His back rippled with dense cords of sinew. Toil had made him strong, in a wiry sort of way. A thrall’s diet of barley grist and ass’s milk had kept him lean—and so did a lack of sleep. He and Eresh-Kigal, who had become friends out of necessity, as outcasts often do, slept in turns to keep from getting strangled. Baba slowly shook her head. She would have nursed Root back to health in leisure, on honey and cream and meat, if he had stayed. She would have made him into a giant, a hero from a song. At least he no longer looked like a ghola. He’d sprouted a patchy beard, and a lank mop of dark hair—nearly ready to be cut and sold, as slave-hair often was—peeked out from his cap and reached the nape of his neck. And she’d let his wits return to him, and he was no longer pale. Khyre’s burning chariot had baked him without mercy, cracking him and peeling him until finally he set, as dark and glossy as clay.

  “One and two and heave!” Fivefingers sang. And Root’s nose whistled. It had healed as crooked as a crescent moon. Sweat coursed down it and dripped into the dust, and as he strove, grinding his callused soles against the earth, he lathered it to mud. Then his strength failed him. The men slackened their halters and, gasping for air, leaned against the block. It had moved by the breadth of a hand. The overseer scratched his scalp. The old man had some wisdom. He knew that something was wrong. But he was only mortal. He looked and did not see. “Korrak does not favor us today.” he said. “One and two and heave!” And Root heaved.

  The witch watched him strive and snorted. He who had dared disobey the magnificent Baba Yrrta now obeyed a mortal. She knew Root’s mind. He was innocent, but he’d made a ghastly first impression, and the people of Whiterock—who like others tend to think that a man’s god-given looks reflect his inner spirit—wouldn’t hear him out. Scouring this first impression would take hard work and time. Once they liked him, though, he could plead his case. Fool. He failed to realize that there was another way in which a man is measured, far more important than his looks. His god-given place in society. And the gods had made him a thrall. Baba grinned. She had made him a thrall. When he met the Chosen, she had befuddled his mind and seeded Tal-Humche’s with covetous thoughts of treachery. And to mortal men a thrall is an idiot, morally depraved, as inherently untrustworthy as a scorpion. It didn’t matter that Root had toiled away the better part of a year—long enough for a child to be conceived and born. The witch caressed her belly and frowned. She almost pitied the wretch. Perhaps he’d worked the quarry long enough. Had suffered long enough. Yes. She had far greater work for him and far greater suffering. Baba stretched her short legs, stayed her sagging breasts, and hopped down from her perch.

  “Come on now!” Fivefingers said. “One and two and heave!” Root’s thighs strained and the stone lurched suddenly forward as men slipped in the mud. None could hear Baba Yrrta cackle. Leaving no footprints, she paced the quarry and pondered. All Root needed to escape was a way to speak with Ogri. But how could he reach the distant god? She gazed at the town wall and at Bartoulme’s tower. The magus had a way. She just had to get Root inside. She looked past the thralls, who were rubbing welts the rope had made on their shoulders, and at the free men. Among them was a youth named Havil—not a quarryman but a sculptor. An apprentice of Bartoulme’s. Long ago the magus had become a renowned engraver of golems, but in pursuit of his mastery he had grown dissatisfied with his sculptors’ work. They were the best that silver could buy, but they were ignorant of the Firstborn tongue. How could they ever match their discipline perfectly with his own? For the magus to teach them his craft was heresy, so he decided to study theirs. Abandoning Circle politics for the low art of sculpture, he moved his household to Whiterock, where he built a studio and supplied it with men. Havil was one of his best. He’d just finished his masterpiece, a life-sized statue of Inanna the Homesteader, and had won not only his master’s grudging approval, but also his rare praise. Bartoulme promoted him to journeyman and gave him a paid commission, for which he had the privilege to choose his own material. Havil had walked down for this purpose, to peruse the blocks and, reading their grain, to compare them with his charcoal sketches. He’d been taught how to see the sculpture he imagined within the raw stone.

  The witch spoke in the Firstborn tongue. “Korrak! Baba Yrrta summons thee.”

  “Milady,” the god of the quarry said, “Korrak heeds thy call.”

  She pointed at Havil. “See that boy?”

  “Yes, my lady,” Korrak said, “I know him well. He hath never failed to strew barley for me, nor to sprinkle wine.”

  “I need him dead.”

  The quarry god grumbled and Baba put her hands on her hips. “Remember Karthyra’s wedding, when thou enraged the Earthshaker himself? He would’ve shattered thee to bits, if I had not intervened.”

  “Thou need not remind me.” Korrak said, “Haven’t I done all that thou hast wanted? I’ve made every stone heavier in Root’s hands, every block firmer underneath his chisel. Why would I disobey thee now? Still, I cannot make myself enjoy this.” And a crack like thunder split the air. The men were heedless, assuming that the noise had been caused by mortal hands, but then the earth beneath them trembled. At the quarry’s summit was a massive marble block, and around one of its corners a thin crack appeared. Then it blossomed and the stone slid free of its mother and dropped. Men stood as still as frightened hares. The jagged boulder bounced down one giant step after another, toward Havil, and splattered the white stone with his brains.

  * * *

  Root knelt on his hands and knees and scrubbed at the stains of gore. Baba Yrrta waited. The herald would be here soon, and with him Root’s salvation. The thrall dunked his filthy rag into a bucket of pink water and rinsed, squeezing crimson tendrils out. He strained the sodden cloth and absent-mindedly dabbed it against the sweat of his brow.

  “Dogbreath!” Squeaker said, glancing about in fear. “You’ll provoke the quarry god!” Root snatched the rag away and rubbed his rosy skin. Squeaker slowly shook his head. He’d been left behind to watch Root and Eresh-Kigal. Muttering curses, the Gray Wolf scrubbed not at the stone but his chest. Slick with brain matter. When they’d moved the body, Root had gotten the feet and Eresh-Kigal the shoulders, and what remained of the head. He scoured himself furiously. Then he sprang suddenly up and threw his rag, which slapped the face of a stone block and slid down like a slug leaving a trail. “Princess!” Squeaker said. “What’s gotten into you?”

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  Eresh-Kigal stepped back, his chest heaving, his eyes staring at his bloody hands and a different place and time. Then they returned to the here and now and beheld the slave. “You’ll dishonour Korrak!” Squeeker said.

  The Gray Wolf curled his lip. “And why should I honour him? Just because he’s stronger? Then I should honour Bartoulme.”

  “You should. If not from love, then fear.”

  “Slavish words.” Eresh-Kigal said. “Spoken by a natural slave.”

  “Listen. The sooner we finish, the sooner we can rest. We’ll have tomorrow off too, for the funeral and the appeasement ritual–and the feast.”

  “So that’s what loyal servants of the Magi get, for a lifetime’s labor. A single day of mourning.”

  “Oh please. You hardly knew the man.”

  “Havil had friends, family. What about them?” And Eresh-Kigal spat on the quarry’s floor and saw Squeaker wince. “You fear the god, but Havil’s end would be a blessing. You’ve got nothing to lose but a slave’s life, lived under Bartoulme. He’s a magus. Lays claim to piety and cares only for himself. Preaches virtue and abuses thralls.”

  Squeaker motioned for him to stop. “Bartoulme’s a good man. The truth is he doesn’t need us. Have you not seen a golem? Each is strong as a dozen men, and unlike men they don’t need food or water or rest. If Bartoulme wanted, he could replace us all. It would be easy enough. He makes them.”

  “So why doesn’t he?”

  Squeaker shrugged. “I guess he’d rather feed a town.”

  “So this,” Eresh-Kigal said, “is an act of charity. And it’s just a coincidence that while we toil here—”

  “Quiet!” Root said. “The eagle has landed.” Finally the herald had arrived, making his way down the ramps and leaning on his prop.

  Squeaker bowed. “What brings you here, honorable Moushe?”

  “To replace Havil. Bartoulme has promoted his assistant, but this new apprentice is now in need of an assistant of his own. I want contenders. With me.”

  “And who will watch the thralls?”

  “They’ve nowhere to run.” Moushe said. “Let’s not keep the Magus waiting.” He turned to go, and Baba Yrrta whispered a thought into his ear. What about Dogbreath? Yes, he’s a weakling and a simpleton, but he’s obedient to a fault, and isn’t that what Bartoulme values most? The herald paused. “Dogbreath too.” he said, and gave Eresh a smirk. “Princess here can finish on his own. His hands are already well-stained with blood.”

  The herald led them into town and up the hill to Bartoulme’s tower—and unbeknownst to them Baba Yrrta followed. Moushe left them for a while in the courtyard with the other candidates. There were no serving girls. No refreshments. Root sat down and waited. Squeaker began rolling his eyes, slumping his shoulders, and letting his jaw hang slack. “What are you doing?” Root asked.

  Squeaker straightened up and winked. “I’m practicing my idiot-face. When Bartoulme inspects us, you must look like an imbecile. When you’re asked a question, don’t respond right away, but wait until you’re asked a second or a third time. You’ll thank me later.”

  “Why?”

  “Trust me, you don’t want to work in the studio. Yes, you get a better meal there, but in the quarry you get to rest through high noon—when Princess has managed not to earn you a punishment, that is. But Bartoulme never rests. At high noon he makes his sculptors work inside. At dark by magelight. He makes Fivefingers seem like a doting mother!”

  Root adopted Squeaker’s expression. “Like that?”

  “No no that’s far too obvious. The last thing you want is to offend a magus. He’ll think you’re making faces. You must be subtle.”

  Root tried again under Squeaker’s tutelage. All chatter in the courtyard ceased. The other candidates had overheard, and they too practiced their idiot-faces, stopping only when the herald arrived to lead them up to Bartoulme’s private study.

  The door had no knob and was inscribed with wedge-shaped runes. Baba tapped Root on the temple to remind him he could read them. They were signs of opening and of closing and they responded to a hidden phrase. Moushe knocked three times. The magus inside spoke it, and only Baba’s ears caught the whispered words. Umbra forgive me. Umbra was Bartoulme’s only child, long dead. Then the stone grumbled open and the herald led his candidates through. Baba walked behind them—and cursed as her forehead bounced off the open threshold. She stumbled back blinking the tears from her smarting eyes and tried again. Three times she charged the invisible barrier, and three times she was repelled. The door slammed shut in her face. Huffing in fury, she smoothed her skirt of living vipers and stared at the stone and frowned. The only other place that barred immortals was the temple of Shindar himself. Bartoulme must have learned some of the imposter’s secrets. But why? Baba went into another room. She climbed out of its open breezeway and, crawling along the tower wall as effortlessly as a spider, found Bartoulme’s window. It was secured by a crossbar, but the drapes were open and she could peep inside.

  The study had no candles and only one window and was nonetheless brightly lit. A shining globe of marble, suspended from a chain, filled the room with a cool and heatless light, casting strange shadows all along the walls. Shadows of Bartoulme’s sculptures, failed experiments and works in progress covered by linen sheets. Outstretched hands reached out from under them as if to grasp the waiting candidates. The gaggle of slaves and freemen stood there slack-jawed and slump-shouldered, fighting the urge to look. Rather than gazing up at the room’s many miracles, they stared down at their feet to avoid offending the magus. He sat at a massive oaken desk and, lost in his work, scrawled upon a square of parchment, its corners pinned down with stones. Baba whispered a thought into Root’s ear: Look! And her minion looked. Bartoulme raised his stylus and reviewed his letter and winced. Then he spoke and the ink seeped into the white paper and vanished, and he began all over again. The candidates waited. He completed this new draft and read. Cloud-gray pupils scanned the page for mistakes. It must have passed his inspection, for he signed his name and spoke a word and the parchment began to twitch. It rippled like a shaken rug and paper-weights clattered on his desk as the corners tugged themselves free. Then the parchment stood. Its backside was covered by animating runes, miniscule and exact compared to Bartoulme’s free-flowing script, which was meant to convey meaning rather than to enchant. And the sheet crumpled and folded into the shape of a bird. A crane with stripes of ink. It stretched its limbs and tilted its angular head and hopped. For a moment it fluttered in the air, as if testing its wings, and then flew to the window.

  Baba Yrrta ducked as the bird narrowed itself and dove between the crossbars. She pulled herself up by the ledge and peered inside. The magus had finally looked from his desk to review his waiting candidates, who put on their practiced faces—except for Squeaker, who wanted to the promotion, and except for Root, who stared insolently at Bartoulme’s stack of paper. Baba Yrrta grinned. She wouldn’t need to give Root instructions. He knew perfectly well what to do. And the very next day, he would have the perfect opportunity to do it. The magus would be occupied with the funeral and the appeasement ritual and the feast. His tower would be vacant. All Root had to do was sneak in, steal a paper crane, and write a letter to Ogri.