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  To her right, a man cleared his throat, and Eily turned to see Ijon gazing at her with deep-set eyes. As far as Haldanians went, he was okay. He even wore a tunic and short pants in deference to the Order’s modesty, unlike the other nearly naked Haldanian observers. But he still followed Protectorate protocol. “I’ll have to take him in,” he said.

  She stood straighter. “He’s in a precarious state of mind right now—”

  “The Protectorate has been discussing changing our policy on reversions.” He rocked back on his heels, the nuvoplast sandals on his feet squelching against his skin.

  Her stomach tightened. “Give Lisius more time to acclimate. He’ll be fine.”

  He held up a hand. “I don’t want to argue. The Board’s talking about it. I just wanted you to know.”

  “He’s not a danger to anyone but himself, here. Let me do my job. I’ll help him figure things out.”

  Ijon scrubbed his face with both hands. “This was too public. The incident report will come back on me.”

  She glanced at the small crowd of green-skinned Haldanian tourists watching from the end of the dirt lane, bedecked with beads and baubles that did nothing to hide their nakedness. Haldanians embraced their photosynthesis with a vigor the Order found more than shameful. Eily had no issue with the human body, but although she had photosynthetic skin, she wore the full and modest dress of the Order, right down to the bonnet over her hair. She didn’t need to expose her skin to photosynthesize as long as the Order could feed her.

  Turning her attention back to Ijon and his aide, she caught sight of Gid watching her, face closed to emotion in front of the Blattvolk. An idea came to her. She locked her gaze with Ijon’s. “Are you familiar with the tradition of barn raising?”

  He and his aide exchanged a blank look. The Order was closed about its religious practices, and Haldanian sociologists were infatuated with what they considered a primitive belief system. Ijon asked, “Is there a ritual involved in this process?”

  “A new barn is an important event. Lisius volunteered to be part of the roof-raisers, but misunderstood some of the process. The height frightened him, and he could not come down with the others. I’m just glad I got here before he passed out and fell.”

  “We would be interested in this ritual—”

  “You know how secretive the Order is about their practices.”

  The liaisons again exchanged glances, lips pursed in disapproval. But the agreement the Protectorate had with the Holdout protected religious rights. Ijon tilted his head toward the Haldanian tourists. “What am I supposed to put in my report?”

  She grimaced. She hated writing reports. “Why don’t you let me write it for you? You’ll have final approval, of course. But that way the matter is handled delicately—and you’ll get some inside information.”

  Ijon rolled his eyes. “All right, then.”

  Chapter Two

  The Tox

  Jubal brushed his fingertips over a palm-print the color of dried blood: the mark of the Red Hand Tribe. How long had it been since he’d seen that symbol? At least three winters, maybe more. The sign on the rock wall hadn’t been there long enough to flake or fade. His chest tightened. Home.

  The nanny goat next to him bleated and bumped her head against his hip. He clutched one of her short horns to hold her at bay while he squinted toward the opening he’d cut through the wall of amarantox leaves.

  “Rann, Pops, Red Hand camped here,” Jubal called as his father emerged from the trail onto the sandstone beach. The old man’s back hunched even without a pack. Pops refused to ride in the cart, but damned if Jubal would let him carry a load. Behind Pops followed a tether of more goats, top-heavy with items from the Sunset Shore. “Where’s Rann?”

  “Fighting the wheels.” Pops limped to a ledge of stone and sat, one leg out stiff in front of him. The left side of his mouth drooped in a perpetual grimace, his left hand curled against his thigh. When the pain got too bad, he would take the Knife and feed his family, but Jubal was in no rush to honor his father’s flesh-feast, especially on the trail. Pops spoke toward the river. “Give me my pack, and leave the damn cart. Autumn trade will be over before we get there.”

  Jubal glanced back to the opening. A man in a pack could walk the Tox without much need to clear the trail, but the cart required more room. They’d used a machete to widen the path, lopping the towering amarantox stalks at the base so the cart could pass, and Jubal’s hands were sticky with the milky sap. All that work, and the goats wouldn’t even touch the stuff. He tied the nanny close to a stand of bulrushes she could nibble and lowered his pack. “I’ll go help.”

  As he slipped back down the tunnel-like trail, the metal shards suspended from his trader’s staff jangled in rhythm to his footsteps, the discordant melody an announcement of Peace. He was not prey. Traders were not sacred like the Knowing, but as long as they paid the tolls, they were off limits to hunt. The only ones who didn’t honor the Peace were the Flame Runnas, green men who shot fire from the sky.

  He found the cart canted to one side while the attached goats contentedly chewed cud. “Rann?”

  Rann’s unshaven face popped up from behind the mound of goods, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Figured you might miss me eventually. Drink?”

  He held out some bitters they’d traded for with the Rice Tribes. The bota looked half empty.

  “What did I tell you about using the inventory?” Jubal had been hoarding goods so Pops could buy a place among family at the Red Hand, so he could live without fear of the Knife until he was ready, hopefully a long time from now. But keeping Rann out of the potent drink was like keeping the sun from rising.

  Jubal examined the tilted cart. Other than the half empty bota, the rest of the cargo looked intact. Blocks of salt from the Great Salt Sea. Shell necklaces from the Sunset Shore. Red clay pots from the high country tribes to the south. They were wealthy men.

  Together, the brothers freed the wagon and helped the goats pull the load toward the river. As they emerged on the bank, the old man got to his feet, the ornaments on his staff clattering. “Might make the Taguan by nightfall if the wheels don’t get stuck again.”

  Rann groaned and dropped to his knees at the edge of the water to slosh it over his hair and face. He shrugged out of his pack. “We need a break.”

  Pops worked his mouth in that way that meant trouble. He’d made this run for decades, moving from nomadic tribe to nomadic tribe with an unerring sense of season and migration. “You want to miss the trade? The Red Hand could be packing to leave right now.”

  Rann reshouldered his load and rose, dripping water and grumbling. This time Jubal kept a close eye on the cart, helping it over rocks and debris littering the river trail. The sun hovered low when the path opened onto a long beach where children chased each other, screaming. Adults sat and worked in the shade on either side of a cave opening in the cliff.

  “The Taguan.” Rann let out a relieved breath behind him.

  As they approached, children gathered around them, chattering with excitement. Parents raised their heads and stopped their chores to greet the newcomers. The stench of garbage, sewage, and other odors of human living made Jubal wrinkle his nose, but he covered it with his trader smile.

  “Jubal!” A familiar voice rose out of the crowd, and a petite woman pushed forward, a young child on her hip.

  “Rodi!” he exclaimed, bending for a hug.

  “Uncle Nido! Rann!” She greeted Pops and Rann in turn.

  “We’re glad to find the Red Hand still here. Where’s Adrul?” Pops’s gaze sifted through the crowd.

  Her lips pressed into a line. “We celebrated his flesh-feast two autumns ago after he was killed in a Flame Runna attack. Everyone at the Taguan has suffered. Red Hand got swallowed up with Long Branch, One Eye, and many other tribes.”

  Rann put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Rodi. I liked him.”

  She patted Rann’s arm and smiled. “We
all go to the Mother eventually.”

  Jubal tickled her child under the chin, eliciting a giggle. “He looks just like Adrul.”

  The boy leaned out of balance, trying to reach Jubal’s necklaces, so Jubal took him. The little one put the end of the necklace into his mouth and looked up at Jubal with sleepy, dark eyes.

  Rodi put her weight on one leg, cocked a hand on her hip, and looked around pointedly. “Why no woman yet, little cousin? Seems a man who takes to children like you do is bound to attract a wife.”

  Jubal shook his head, his gaze sliding toward Pops. Was he breathing too hard? “I don’t need some woman using up my goods.”

  She shook her head. “Stingy as ever. Come on, then. You can all stay at my fire.”

  “What’re you cooking?”

  “Whatever you brought me.” She grinned and turned on her heel.

  Inside the Taguan, Jubal paused behind Pops to allow his vision to adjust. Haphazard walls of loose stone marked a corridor to the back of the cave. The sides of the wall were broken in places, leading to small living areas or to halls with more openings. The last time he’d been here, the cave had only had boundary stones around each hearth.

  “Who constructed these walls?” he asked. The child squirmed from his grip and ran to his mother.

  “Things have changed,” Rodi said, lifting the child back to her hip. “Keep your head down, and I’ll tell you over the fire.”

  After about a hundred paces, the main hall ended, and the area opened into a high-ceilinged room illuminated by a central fire. Smoke hazed the air despite the hole in the ceiling where the first evening stars peeked through. Against the far wall stood two wooden cages. A natural opening in the rock led to another section of the cave. Between mounds of bedding, the floor swarmed with people preparing food. Many of the men had piercings, and Jubal’s skin tingled at the thought of being surrounded by so many proclaimed hunters. Rodi skirted through the crowd like she was avoiding them in a game of tag.

  Jubal slowed behind Pops, who limped slightly but kept his shoulders back and head high. He was one of the oldest traders still doing business, and people greeted him as he passed. Pops will do well here if I can convince him to stay.

  Nearest the fire, on a natural rise in the stone floor, a bald man marked with the ritual raised scars of a healer sat on a tamarisk-branch throne. Chin high, he gazed out over the crowd like a father at his child’s naming day. Beside him reclined a dark-haired woman adorned in nothing but layers upon layers of beads. The man turned his face toward the newcomers as they wove through the milling people.

  “Visitors! Let us welcome you with a kiss, Cousins.”

  Every eye turned toward the bald man, and a hush fell over the crowd. The woman on the dais rose. Light from the fire painted her body a deep brown, and Jubal caught the subtle swelling of her stomach beneath the beads. She sauntered over and stopped before the traders.

  Away from the firelight, her skin was as green as freshly budded amarantox. Jubal’s mouth fell open, and he fell back half a step before regaining his poise. “A Flame Runna?”

  She kissed Pops’s mouth while he stood rigid, then moved to Jubal. Jubal darted a glance at Pops, relying on his father’s greater experience. Pops hadn’t objected, so Jubal allowed her to put a hand behind his neck and rise on her toes to bring her face to his. He didn’t recoil as her tongue drew a line between his lips, but he sucked in a startled breath. She smelled like fresh rain among the needle trees that grew in the high country. A twirl of dizziness swept over him, as though he had stood up too fast. He trembled. It had been a long while since he’d been with a woman, and his groin stirred in response.

  She pulled away to give her attention to Rann, leaving Jubal swallowing and blinking to clear his vision.

  Rann groaned softly, hands sliding from her pregnant belly as she sashayed backward and returned to the dais.

  “What was that?” Rann moved forward eagerly, his attention never leaving the Flame Runna as her beads swayed against her legs like wind through the amarantox.

  “This is the power of the One Tree. Spirit healing. I’m called Sefe, creator of the One Tree. Some call me King.” Several nearby pierced men cheered, and Sefe waved them down. “It’s my honor to protect the Taguan. Come, sit.” Sefe pointed to some mats near his chair.

  Jubal looked to Rodi, but she didn’t meet his eyes. Rann was already in pursuit of the woman, with Pops close behind.

  “You’d better go.” Rodi’s mouth barely moved, and she turned without another word, carrying her son from the cavern. Jubal lifted his chin and strode to where Rann and Pops had already lowered themselves to the cattail mats.

  Pops sat straight, his gaze on the bald man, but Rann’s eyes roved the Flame Runna woman without any attempt at subtlety. Once Jubal had settled in, Pops spoke. “Tell us how you came to own a Flame Runna.”

  “Not one. Two.” The man swung an arm to indicate the cages at the back of the cavern. One appeared empty, but the other contained a mound of bedding. “And we’ll have more. I brought the tribes together, many branches of the One Tree. I recognize you.” He nodded to Pops. “You’re Red Hand? You are part of the tree, and welcome here.”

  A woman set a woven platter before the King—flat, gray cakes piled high and steaming amidst a circle of roasted cattail roots. The King gestured to his guests to help themselves. “Meal cakes from the manna beetles. You’ve heard of them? They grow with great abundance among the amarantox here. We haven’t had to declare a Hunger in four winters.”

  Jubal took a cake and sampled the familiar sweet flavor reminiscent of fresh-caught trout.

  “Four winters is long between Hungers.” Pops pulled the bota off Rann’s shoulder and offered it. “We bring a taste of bitters from the Rice Tribes to the south.”

  Sefe set the bota aside without tasting. His dark eyes danced with the light of the fire as he stroked the back of his hand along the Flame Runna’s shoulder to her elbow. “This is Ana. She was born of the tribes.” His hand came to rest upon her rounded abdomen. “Her skin is green, but Ana is not a Flame Runna. The Spirits freed her from them so she could show me the way. You felt the power of her kiss?”

  Jubal nodded along with his brother and father.

  “All Flame Runnas have the gift of spirit healing,” Sefe said.

  Ana looked away, her hands tightening into fists.

  Sefe glanced at her and laughed. “Do not fret, my Ana.” He returned his gaze to Pops. “And have you heard of the Blood-Eye men in their mountain cave?”

  “I have traded with the Blood-Eye. Fosselites, they call themselves,” Pops said. Jubal had gone there once at the beginning of his apprenticeship, helping Pops carry goods into the dark tunnel with the huge door. The man inside had indeed had eyes of blood, and the small bottles of medicine he gave them had traded for much with the tribes in the west.

  Sefe nodded and lifted a metal tube that gleamed in the firelight. “They provide us weapons—guns—to make the flying craft fall from the sky. These guns shoot farther and faster than any spear or arrow. The problem is, when the Flame Runna craft hit the earth, the Flame Runnas die. We’ve brought down two flyers, and the flesh-feast was glorious. I would show you the power of the weapon, but it would collapse the Taguan upon our heads.”

  Several people nearby laughed, nodding forcefully.

  “All the Blood-Eye want in return are a few prisoners from the Flame Runnas. Yet we’ve only captured one alive.” Sefe gestured to the cages, and one of the men prodded the pile of mats and blankets inside until a figure emerged. A pitiful green woman backed up to the wall, unable to escape the poking. The guard leered at her and she spit at him.

  Pops shook his head. “We don’t deal in slaves.”

  Rann laughed around a mouthful of food. “I’d keep her for myself.”

  The king gave Rann only a glance, then directed his words toward Pops. “I don’t need you to trade. To the east, there’s a place surrounded by a lightning wa
ll. The people inside look like us but don’t fight like we do. Their wall keeps them apart from us.”

  Pops nodded. “I’ve traded there, many years ago. They ask for salt and for metal parts from the Before.”

  “Flame Runnas now live there among them. Flying machines can be seen coming and going from inside. One with a trader’s staff would be granted access. Might take some men inside with him. We could capture many.”

  Jubal stared at Sefe, trader smile forgotten. “You think the Flame Runnas will honor the trader’s staff?”

  “Another trader who came through here has been inside.”

  Pops worked his mouth. Jubal kept silent. Pops could handle this so-called king. “We don’t take part in wars between the tribes. It’s bad for business. We honor trader law.”

  Sefe rose, casting a huge shadow on the rock wall behind him. “This is no war between the tribes. Flame Runnas are monsters, not men, and they must be rubbed from the earth if the tribes ever hope to find peace. Even Ana wants her revenge for what they did to her.”

  Jubal sneaked a glance at the green woman, but her face remained placid. The one in the cage sat with her back to the wall, bruised knees drawn up against her chest, and glared in their direction.

  Pops brushed his hands together, as if the matter was over. “Our route takes us south, where the Marsh Tribes await our return.”

  “You’re Red Hand. Your people are in danger.”

  “We’re traders. Of the Red Hand no more. We wish the One Tree prosperity.” Although they had barely touched the offered food, he clambered to his feet. “Forgive us, we have a long day of trade tomorrow. Thank you for your food.”

  The few bites Jubal had eaten churned in his stomach. Trade would likely not go well tomorrow. And it might be impossible to settle Pops here after that interaction. The next trade stop was half a moon away. An unrelated tribe would ask for more goods to keep an old man, plus once Jubal and Rann moved on, there would be no blood relation to advocate for him.