Chapter 17.3
Author: theredsheep

Chapter 17.3 – Pyrebound

The Tower of the Moon and Stars was a new addition to Dul Karagi’s skyline, and so easily spotted from some distance away; all you had to do was look for the building with the jagged top, where they were still laying down the fifth floor. In the daytime, you could also follow the cartloads of bricks and steel beams, or the raucous sound of construction, as its cheerful all-volunteer crew sang, cursed, and argued the way through their workday. Every militiaman was expected to donate at least one of his off days per month.

The old Moon-and-Stars tavern had been much smaller—the bar itself, plus the owners’ living space on the floor above—but then it had been merely a private business with a devoted clientele, using the revenue from a thousand or so military patrons to pay the rent. The Tower recognized the legacy of the site with its name, and there was a restaurant on the bottom, but it wasn’t sure what else it wanted to be just yet. You couldn’t expect two thousand displaced people to decide what they wanted to do with their lives in a few months.

The outside, even the finished part, was something of a local eyesore; in the rush of reconstruction, nobody had troubled to appoint a supervisor for the building’s aesthetics, so the bottom half was covered in a mishmash of amateur murals, some painted by children, as one group or another had elected to express itself with a scene of Barenmul hearth before its destruction, or militia holding their ground against shabti. In between these large swathes were smaller, more intimate productions, where a grieving refugee had painted a little portrait of his dead wife or child, just big enough to be seen from the street. The steel moon and stars mounted around the doorway were easily overlooked amid the visual clutter.

There was talk of scrubbing it all off and starting over, but Ram doubted it would happen anytime in the next few kindlings. Every inch of the mess was sacred to someone. Ram was already rather fond of the murals; they gave the building a kind of exuberant personality that too much of his pyre, precision-assembled from mass-produced bricks, lacked.

It was late afternoon on a warm spring day, almost exactly two months before the bloom. There was already a bit of a line at the door, as the fledgling staff struggled to handle the early dinner rush. Partly this was Ram’s fault; he’d been eating at least one meal a day there for the past several tetrads, paying every time over their strenuous objections, and being patronized by the Ensi had given them more prestige than they could handle. Ram was happy for them, but he wasn’t hungry at the moment, and besides, he had an appointment. So he went around to the side entrance—the one used by the Tower’s residents, which he’d never used before. A cramped set of stairs led up to a small, clean lobby.

Virtually everyone who lived here was a survivor of Barenmul hearth. All the young and fit men served in the new militia, by Etana’s decree, but the women and children were free, and as eager to assert their independence was they were desperate for money. Many dreamed of returning home some day. Tower apartments were reserved for those who wished to either work the restaurant below or to operate small businesses of their own—businesses whose chief customers were, at this point, either Barenmula themselves or Karagenes in a charitable mood.

Ram ran his finger over the small directory in the lobby. It was a set of metal rails on the wall, the rectangular clay tiles on it listing a maker of perfumes, an herbalist, a jeweler, a musical trio … all high-value, low-volume goods you could churn out in a limited space, or services performed by small groups. The pyre already had established producers for each of them, and Ram had no idea how these pitiful entrepreneurs would survive, even in the spirited, almost frenzied economic climate that attended reconstruction and the opening of the Teshalun. Many of them had no doubt taken out loans to get started. Ram winced just looking at the rows of names.

There was only one person listed who offered a truly unique service, and she was the only non-Barenmula. IMBRI, TUTOR, the tile said. Ram was annoyed to see they’d stuck her up on the fourth floor. She had to be their most profitable tenant. He supposed it was because she didn’t have to haul bulky raw goods up the stairs—or perhaps in the hope that her wealthy clients would stop to buy an herbal remedy or a silver chain on their way up or down.

Ram met one of those clients in the stairwell—a flamekeeper with a sour look on his face that only got darker at the sight of Ram. “Tym purnyet,” Ram greeted him politely as they passed. It was almost the only Moonchild phrase Ram knew. The flamekeeper responded by snarling something under his breath, and stamping his feet down the next few steps. Apparently the lesson hadn’t gone well.

He found Imbri’s door easily enough; she’d gotten one of the amateur artists who did the exterior to paint one of her mounted kinsmen at eye level. It was probably for the best that she couldn’t see it, but it certainly communicated the intended message. He knocked, and after a brief delay the door was opened by a skinny nine-bloom-old girl with a bright red scarf wrapped around the top half of her face.

“I am Rammash,” he announced, “and you must be Nerre.” The girl only nodded before retreating behind a folding screen to the right of the doorway. Ram poked his nose in after her, and saw her sit down at a short table littered with baked clay tablets, the kind acolytes used for durable records. She ran her hands over the recessed script several times, biting her lower lip, before picking up a stylus to copy the lines onto a metal plate covered in wax.

Imbri’s voice interrupted his snooping: “I’ve got two more appointments this evening, Ram—paying appointments—and I have to eat before then. What did you want to talk to me about?”

The apartment had only two rooms; this was evidently the part where they received visitors. Its only furniture, outside the screened section, was a somewhat battered glass-top table and a collection of secondhand chairs. A small copper oil lamp sat on the table, for the convenience of late guests. The closest thing to a decoration was the row of aromatic herbs sitting in pots on the windowsill.

Imbri was sitting in the coziest-looking chair, tucked up against the wall where the sunlight couldn’t reach her. She had on a dress of pale blue linen, embroidered with a simple floral pattern around the edges. Her hair was longer than he’d ever seen it, past her shoulders, and nicely brushed for once. There were definite advantages to not having to wander around hooded all day.

“I wanted to see how you’re getting on here,” Ram answered at last.

“Well, you’ve seen it,” she answered tartly. “Anything else?”

Maybe the last lesson had been rough on her, too. Uninvited, he took a seat across the table from her. “Are you comfortable here? Do you make enough off lessons?”

“More than enough. My rent includes meals from downstairs. And word is getting around.”

“Enough that I heard about it, from more than one person. You, teaching a pack of flamekeepers to speak your language. I never would have expected it.”

“Only about half are flamekeepers. None of them are very enthusiastic about it, but they see understanding our language as a way to get ahead. Not so they can actually use it, because it shows initiative to their officers.” She blew a stray strand of hair out of her face, and scowled. “The merchants’ kids are a bit more practical about it, and actually pay attention. It could save them from being cheated, if they can listen in on our conversations.”

“I take it you mostly focus on understanding the language, not speaking it.”

“None of them have a prayer of speaking it intelligibly. They bray like donkeys. I talk to them, as slow as I can, and they try to decipher it. So, to answer your question: yes, I’m comfortable here. You don’t need to help me. And I do as well with Nerre as anyone could expect.”

Ram looked around at the girl, who was still bent over her work, scribbling away. He lowered his voice. “I don’t suppose she’ll ever see again.”

“Molten glass is tough on the eyes, Ram,” Imbri said at normal volume. “But Nerre’s doing much better than she would have without me—as her parents tell me at every meeting. She’s my most dedicated student.”

“I can imagine,” Ram murmured. Nerre wasn’t the first bonded child to have an accident at the glassworks, but she might be the first to have a hope of a happy life after.

“An acolyte comes by once a tetrad to confirm that she’s learning to read and write correctly; I’ve never been very good at your script. I teach her the rest. She’s actually got a decent ear for the accent, not like the rest of them. She’s not quite as good at bazu, but she’s picking it up.” Ram noticed that the child had stopped writing on her tablet—and also that Imbri didn’t sound so angry and impatient anymore. “Plus everything I can teach her about magic and moonchildren. Once she’s ready, and I’ve saved up enough money, I’ve promised her a little trip into the desert.”

“So by the time she grows up, she’ll be—“

“Nerre. She’ll be Nerre. What that means is up to her. But that won’t add up to much, no matter what she chooses, if she doesn’t get back to work.” The scratching of stylus on plate resumed at once. “So, is this just a social visit, Ram? Do we need to chat a bit? How’s your wife?”

“You don’t care.”

“I’m a little curious. She’s hugely pregnant and cantankerous, I imagine,” she reflected with a smile. “Quite a change of lifestyles.”

Look who’s talking. “Yes, she’s still bearing our child,” Ram said. “Anyway, I’m not here just to talk. I also have something for you. Hold out your hands, please.” He removed her present from his belt, and laid it carefully down.

Imbri ran her fingers carefully over the curved blade in its sheath. “A kypizi? Where did you get it? Did somebody rob a moonchild, or is this some pyre-made replica?”

“Both, and neither. I got it off a poor fisherman, who was using it to gut his catch. And he got it off his cousin, who did salvage work on the wreckage of the Lashantu estate. Neither of them had any idea what it was. Just a good, durable bronze edge nobody would miss.” It had taken three months of asking around, and eventually a lot of petty gratuities to small-time hucksters, to find it.

Imbri’s hand clenched on the grip. “So it’s the one Dad carried.”

“As far as I can tell. Of course, it was battered as all hell, and it stank of fish guts. I couldn’t get the smell out of the handle—which was in rough shape anyway—so I had to have it replaced. Good Karagene oak and leather, should last a—what are you laughing at?” She’d bowed her head, but her shoulders were shaking, and he could hear her muted chortle.

She raised her face again, and it bore the biggest grin he’d ever seen on it. “Oh, Ram. I’m laughing at you. You ruined it. You meant well, but you ruined it.” She shook her head. “Anyone but me would be horrified.”

“I didn’t ruin it, I restored it!”

“Same thing, really. A kypizi isn’t primarily a weapon, Ram. It’s too short, and a lousy shape, for a man to fight with from a brute’s back. It’s more of a talisman; when a moonchild has to go into a pyre, he carries a consecrated weapon, so the Goddess will guard him from sorcery. Shaped like the crescent moon, but sharp enough to gut any sun-worshiper who tries something funny. And, to be consecrated, it has to be made in a holy place, from holy things.”

“What’s holy to moonchildren, though? Kur? You said we couldn’t go there.”

“A gate. This blade was forged in a gate, with imagined fire and equipment. Uncontaminated by anything from the pyres, good enough to purge the uncleanness from the common metal—and as a bonus, they don’t have to worry about carrying fuel or an anvil around. The wood for the original handle came from a wild tree, the hide from a wild animal. All processed outside Ki.”

“… oh.”

“You couldn’t have known that, though, could you? And so you took Nythrys’s divine protection, and made it … a common tool.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s common. It’s totally unique. One of a kind, a foot in two worlds. Just like its owner.”

Imbri smirked. “Nice recovery. But which owner are you talking about? Me, Dad, or Mom? You could say that about all three of us.”

“It was your mother’s, too?”

“For all the good it did her. She lost her first one when the hearth took her captive. When she escaped, she joined a different tribe—if you can call them a tribe. A lot of mercenary raider trash, worse than the group she started with. They let her have this one, since the old owner had died childless, but then they found out she was pregnant.”

“And they let her keep it?”

“Of course. It was contaminated, after she’d owned it. Virtually cursed. She still had it when they sold her to the bazuu, and all eight years inside. She used to pray to it, since it was all she had. Mom was a little cracked, by the end.”

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. I’m amazed she held on to it, after everything you went through.”

“Not after the bazuu kicked us out, and we got sold again. Our owners had it, after that. All six in turn. They figured out early on that she wouldn’t run away and leave it behind. They’d threaten to destroy it if she was bad, or to cut her with it. Very pleasant batch of men. When she died, I got sold to Dad, and he talked our last master into throwing the kypizi into the deal.”

Gently she set it down on the table. “It never protected Mom worth a damn, but it gave her something to hold onto, and I’m glad to have it back, ruined or not. Thank you, Ram.”

“You’re welcome. I only wish I could do more.”

“You’ve given me enough already. Even if I didn’t appreciate it at the time.” She leaned back, resting her head against the cushion on her chair, and sighed. “I told you once that I had my principles. That I wouldn’t live in the firelight. I thought I meant it.”

“But you don’t now?”

“Now? I don’t know. But I’m starting to wonder if everything I believed was only a way of softening the blow. Telling myself my only option was the right choice anyway.”

“I understand. I’ve probably done more of that myself than I’d like to admit.” He looked out the window, eyeing the sun’s place in the sky. “I’m not making you miss your dinner, am I?”

“Eh. They’ll send it up in a little bit. Never mind that.” She picked up the sword again, and weighed it in her hand. “I’ll never be a real moonchild, or a proper pyre-dweller. Neither group will have me. I doubt if I’ll ever even get married.”

“You might be surprised.” That long hair looked silky and fine, and the dress suited her.

“Don’t flatter, Ram. You’re bad at it.” A long moment of silence passed; the workmen on the roof had evidently decided to call it a day. Imbri continued to fidget with the sword, until Ram worried that the blade would slip out of the sheath and slice her hand open. She didn’t seem to be able to leave the damn thing alone.

He was about to excuse himself, just to avoid having to watch any longer, when she spoke again: “It’s nice to have a chance to do more than just survive, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know.” He tried to say it lightly, like a joke. He saw on her face that it failed.

“I don’t think you were trying for it in the first place. That was never your style; if survival was what you were going for, you failed badly, and I don’t believe you’re that stupid.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Cut that out. You’re no better at self-pity than you are at flattery. Don’t tell me this isn’t what you wanted—not the dying part, but the rest of it. You’ve never told me your whole story start to finish, and now isn’t the time to tell it, but you know well enough how to keep your head down and your nose clean. You just don’t, most of the time. You see the way things have to be, and you throw a tantrum like a small child until they change for you. Frankly, it’s irksome, and it should have gotten you killed a long time before now. I don’t see how it didn’t. That horrid god of yours must be looking out for you.”

“Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

“I don’t mean that he’s trying to make you happy, or give you everything you want. Gods are vicious, demanding, creatures—maybe even worse than men, if that’s possible. They’re not going to let you sit idle, any more than a Moonchild will leave his brutes to eat in a stable forever.”

“Yeah, I feel like he’s been riding me all over the Dominion. If I’m his favorite brute, I could have passed on the honor. Let somebody else get saddle marks.”

“You’re not the god here. You don’t get to decide.”

“I don’t think I believe that. At least, I don’t want to.”

“What? If you were a god, you’d spend all your time making everyone happy? Leave the animals in the stable, eating and getting fat and doing nothing? People don’t act that way, so why should gods?”

“Because I want them to be better than us.”

“There’s a word for that, Ram. I think it’s ‘hypocrisy.’”

“Whatever.”

“Imagine what cows and donkeys would say about us—“

“Would you just drop it?” He said it louder than he meant to; across the room, Nerre dropped her stylus on the floor.

“I’m sorry, Ram,” Imbri said. “I’m sorry all this had to happen to you. If it’s any consolation, I do believe you’ve changed this pyre for the better. This pyre, and my life. And probably Darun’s.”

“At a hell of a cost.”

“Nothing good comes free. Darun could have told you that herself.”

“I think she has, several times.” Living by the words was another matter. At least she’d stopped stealing.

“Do you remember the house of Nythrys in Pilupura, Ram? Piridur’s trap?”

“It’s not an easy place to forget.”

“Do you remember what people left on the altar there? You don’t need to say it,” she added in a hurry.

He looked around at Nerre, who’d just recovered her stylus from under the table. He’d wanted to go and help her, but knew Imbri would never allow it. Self-reliance above all. “Yes, I remember.” Glass. Little bits of glass, scattered across the low table. He’d laid down an offering of his own beside them. “What’s that, then? A branding iron?” he murmured.

“Like I said, Ram: gods are vicious creatures. But look at what went on in your temple. Or what happened to me. They taught us well. Or is it the other way around?”