Fire Logic

Zanja had braced her pistols, one upon each knee. As the angry guard disappeared from sight, she slid the guns back into their holsters. Emil, whom she had thought was asleep, said, “There will be a way in.”

“Guns make killing too easy. It becomes a habit, like it has with Willis and with Mabin. It keeps us from thinking of other ways.” But she could not take her gaze away from the gate, which had been open, and now was closed. The new guard began pacing across the courtyard, in the pouring rain. She could hear his boots ringing on the stone.

“Rockets!” Medric exclaimed suddenly, his voice blurred with sleep. “Who made the rockets? On Fire Night?”

“You mean A

The raven leapt from Zanja’s shoulder and dove into the ram. They followed, but lost sight of him. They circled around into the alley, and finally spotted the raven, sitting miserably in the downpour upon a second floor windowsill, tapping patiently on the glass. The men ducked into the shadows, but Zanja stood in plain sight, with the rain ru

A

“Have you got a moment for an old friend?” Zanja said.

“Zanja!”

“Myself.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Emil’s in trouble. I think you can help.”

A

Knots tied regularly in the rope gave Zanja better purchase than she might have expected on such a wet night, but climbing the rope to the window was no easy task, and hauling herself over the windowsill was even more difficult. A

“I’m making big, nasty ones now.” A

“Would you make a fire for me?”

“Oh, sure.” A

A

It was easy, almost natural, to embrace her and kiss her. A

“Well,” Emil said, as he came over to the bed, breathing heavily, “an unconventional solution.” He helped Zanja to contrive to bind A

The raven flapped heavily on sodden wings to the windowsill. Zanja patted his feathers with a towel to sop up the worst of the wet. Medric had knelt on the hearth to take apart and clean his pistols and reload them with dry gunpowder. He did it as if he had an impatient commander screaming at him to do it faster. As Zanja came over to put on her wet shirt, he asked, “Now what?”

“I don’t know. Any ideas, raven?”

The raven shook his wet feathers and brooded.

Karis lay rigid in the too‑small bed, with the rain sound rushing past her. From far away, she watched three bedraggled rescuers crawl through an open window. One was like a knife blade white hot from the forge–one was like a knife blade tempered and honed– and one was like the forge itself. Fire and earth makes the forge; fire and earth makes the blade.

She must not sleep. Oh Shaftal, she prayed. Oh Shafted I must not sleep. She could not remember why. Oh Shaftal I must not move lest the watcher awaken. Oh Shaftal.

The raven turned his head and now she saw Zanja: wet and thin and grim as death. Zanja–implacably loyal– Oh Shaftal protect her heart, she is so true, the truest blade I ever forged. Zanja save me I am gone to smoke, I am gone.

Karis. I know you can hear me. Karis, I am at your door.

The rain whispered now. The voice whispered in her raven’s ear. Karis do you feel me I am here. Silence. Presence. Do you remember when I was imprisoned doubly imprisoned and you freed me. In bed, Karis remembered what a good night that had been, how tired she had been, and then the hunger that drove her was sated and she could rest for a while. She remembered Zanja, limp as an exhausted child, sleeping in her arms as the snow fell. For a few hours, for a night, the world had been as it should be, and her heart had been at peace.

Now I am here for you but you must unlock the door.

Awhisper: Unlock the door. Dear gods Karis unlock the door.

Karis touched stone through plaster, the stone of the wall which was rooted in earth, and breathed in. Presence. She sat up in the bed.

Dear gods Karis unlock the door.

She stood up. Her body was stone. She could not move except when pushed. The white hot blade, the forge, the pumping bellows. Fire and earth makes the forge. The room swirled around her, dark and blurred with smoke. She stepped. The floor shall not creak. She stepped. The watcher shall sleep. She stepped. I am the key. Open. Oh Shaftal. And now she is looking at herself and the room is full of smoke and she opens her eyes and she sees the raven looking at her. Presence. Zanja has touched her. Dear heart.

“Dear heart,” Zanja breathed.

Karis opened her mouth. The raven croaked, “Zanja.” Emil whispered, “There is someone in the room.” With Karis’s limp, cold hand clasped in both of hers, Zanja listened. She heard even, deep breaths. She looked around the door‑jamb. A candleflame flickered on a tabletop; a woman’s head rested on the table, her arms dangling, as if she had been hit from behind with a hammer. Zanja gri

“Hurry!” Medric hissed. Then Zanja felt nearby, a faintest stirring, the restlessness of a time‑tempered intelligence and a bitter, ruthless heart. Someone was awakening; someone had heard something. Mabin.