The Dominion of Man is far smaller than it once was, or is believed to have been—from a world-spanning empire, it has shrunk to a network of cities and dependent towns clustered around the watersheds of a few large rivers. It is home to perhaps five million people in all. Life there centers on the pyres, city-sized communities built around enormous magical fires. Each pyre has a dozen or more satellite settlements, known as hearths, which have their own, smaller fires derived from their pyre’s. These fires are linked to the yellow sun; they wax brighter in daytime, and dim at night. Consecrated handmaidens can redirect portions of their power for any number of purposes, giving humans in the Dominion a virtually unlimited source of energy for cooking or industry. However, since the fires are ultimately controlled by the pyres, the men and women of the hearths do not find that power nearly so limitless.

If he tried, Ram could still just barely remember his last visit to Dul Karagi. He’d been about six, and all he could recollect was an impression of overwhelming vastness. That impression, it turned out, was largely correct. Father might tell him to hold on to his pride, but he had the feeling that the pride of a hearth boy wasn’t worth much here.

Ram lost count of the hearths they passed on the way, most very similar to Urapu: wide fields and pastures, and a little fortified area set well back from the floodplain. Dul Karagi was first visible as a great glow on the horizon, like the last light of the setting sun, that appeared in the north on their second evening out. Ram gave it little thought; he was worn out from rubbing the green tarnish off three sets of bronze equipment. It wasn’t nearly so visible on the morning of the third day, so that he almost forgot about it entirely until they turned a bend in the river and he saw the pyre itself.

It was plain to see from ten miles away, a pillar of golden light that reached into heaven, diffusing a warm glow over all the countryside around it. The great temple it rested on was a barely visible smudge at its base, surrounded by trees—trees! Ram had never seen so many. At this distance, they looked like little more than moss, but up close they would be larger than any he had ever seen. Everything but the Temple was hidden beneath or behind them.

Farther out from the light were acres and acres of fields and orchards, studded with barns, stables, and granaries. Every bit of it had a direct line of sight to the Temple’s fire. Already their barque was passing through the pyre’s outermost fields, used for pasture. Bondservants, many of them younger than himself, worked among the herds and flocks. All very picturesque, until you reflected that the white sun wouldn’t rise for another day yet, and there was a manned watchtower every quarter-mile. The two men atop the nearest had crossbows. For hearthless thieves? Marauding Moonchildren? Or the bondservants, in case they felt like snitching?

It would do no good to ask any of his shipmates; he’d agreed to shut up, and besides, they’d think it impertinent. The three assessors had been gossiping like the kept women they nearly were for the whole trip, occasionally joined by the handmaiden. Just now they were going on about some banquet or other. The flamekeepers had passed the time with intermittent bouts of wrestling, tile games, and tasteless jokes—they seemed to know an astonishing number. Ram had been left to do whatever menial chore they felt like giving him; he’d finished scouring the deck shortly before the pyre came in sight. Now he stood by the railing and leaned out to watch.

The open fields soon passed them by, yielding first to the groves of olives, figs, and dates, then to the looming stands of cedar, oak, and cypress, the pride of Dul Karagi. It was an embarrassment of wealth, worked by an army of enforced laborers who likely never set foot in the pyre itself—many of the little buildings in the fields looked like dormitories. Ram tried not to wonder how much work they’d have for a half-trained mason, with this amount of manpower to draw on.

The pyre’s port was hidden until they made the final turn. They’d spent more wood on its docks alone than Ram had seen in all of Urapu, and at least as much more on the boats moored to them: a half-dozen sunbarques, three great oared galleys, and a motley collection of rafts and skiffs. The long strand of offices and warehouses on the quay was half the size of the hearth itself. At the far end was a little shrine of Kuara in blue-green stone, for voyagers to come and give thanks.

The port was backstopped by a twenty-foot stone wall, faced with mosaics of leaping fish cavorting under the watchful sunburst insignia of Haranduluz. Above the wall, Dul Karagi began in earnest; little boys and idlers leaned over a railing at the top to watch them come in and dock. Past that, Ram could see only the imposing bulk of the Temple, a man-made mountain crowned with glory. The only way up was an arched gate in the wall, leading to a broad staircase.

To Ram’s surprise, nobody ordered him to unload all the cargo once they’d docked. That was left for a gang of ten bonded stevedores, overseen by an acolyte and three militiamen to make sure they didn’t pinch anything. The assessors meandered off to one of the dockside facilities; the handmaiden and the flamekeepers headed for the gate. Ram was left standing on the deck, alone and ignored, as the bondsmen emptied out the barque’s hold.

The next challenge would be making his way through the gate. It was wide enough for three or four abreast, and a regular stream of people passed through going either way. Yet another acolyte stood watch beside it, together with two more flamekeepers in full kit. By the way they were standing, they didn’t expect trouble, but they were looking at everyone who came in, and stopping the ones they didn’t recognize. Ram saw no hope of sneaking past them.

Best not to try, then. He paused a moment to put on his shoes, and the Heart of Tegnem—so as not to seem too disreputable—before striding boldly up to the checkpoint. The acolyte passed a dubious eye over him, but said “Name, station, and purpose?” with perfect apathy.

“Rammash im-Belemel ta-Urapu ni-Karagi,” Ram answered. “Free apprentice stonemason. My sister is a handmaiden in training here, and I’ve come to see her.”

“And your sister’s name is?”

“Erimana.”

The acolyte frowned. “I don’t remember any Erimana among the junior handmaidens.”

“She’s only eight blooms old, and looks younger. She’s got hair like mine?”

The eunuch’s face cleared. “Ah,” he said carelessly. “The idiot child.”

“It runs in the family, I think,” said a voice from the stairs behind him. One of the guards snickered. Ram looked up and saw the flamekeeper Kamenrag, leaning against the wall with a snide look on his face. Apparently it hadn’t been enough to bully the hearth rube all the way down here; he had to watch him try and fail to talk his way into the pyre as well. That would complicate things. Well, one problem at a time.

Now the gatekeeper acolyte sized Ram up. “There will be an entry fee,” he said. “Two coppers.”

All of it going straight to the acolyte’s pocket, Ram was sure. He hadn’t seen anybody else pay any fee. But he’d been expecting this, and there was no hope of talking him out of it. He pulled the silver tanbir out of his bag and handed it over. The eunuch blinked, but recovered quickly, and snipped a quarter of the hoop away with a pair of shears, right on the eighth marks. The two guards snatched the bag out of Ram’s hands and rifled through it without so much as a please; finding nothing contraband (or worth stealing), they handed it back to him, then motioned for him to go through. There was already a small line forming behind him.

That left only Kamenrag to deal with. Ram had suppressed the urge to look at his face when he pulled out the silver, satisfying as it would have been. But now, as Ram trudged his way up the long steps, the flamekeeper pushed himself off the wall and fell into step beside him.

“Well done!” he said, sounding like he meant it. “Welcome to Dul Karagi, little man.”

That was a bit much—Kamenrag might have been two inches taller than Ram—but he said, “Thank you, sir,” and kept walking up the stairs. He was pretty sure Kamenrag wouldn’t try anything in a space with lots of traffic like this; it wouldn’t be worth it for three-quarters of a silver and the pleasure of slapping around some hearth kid who’d tricked him. A deserted space would be another matter, and he didn’t know his way around. He had to get to Mana quickly, and get countenanced by somebody with pull, or he’d be a walking target.

“This your first time here?” said Kamenrag. “It’s a big place, you know. Easy to get lost.”

“Oh, I’ll be okay, sir. Don’t let me keep you.” Trying to go back to the hearth-hick accent would only irk him more at this point.

“Hey, it’s no trouble at all. No trouble at all, after you did such good work on the way here. The least I can do. Besides, we get some leave time after trips like that.”

Hell. This guy was definitely planning something. All Ram could do was walk quickly with his eyes open. If they got to a sufficiently open space with the right kind of crowd, he could run for it; he wasn’t weighted down with armor, after all. “That would be very kind, sir,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound too insincere. There was still just a chance that Kamenrag really thought he was that stupid.

They’d reached the top of the steps, and Ram allowed himself a few seconds to gawk. They stood at the end of a long, brick-paved boulevard, lined with grand oaks and two- or three-story buildings. Every house had a brilliantly colored mural on its walls, and a written sign over the doorway. Presumably they advertised the owner’s name or profession; Ram wished he could read. In the distance, over to their left, he could see the Temple looming overhead.

“You want to see your sister, right?” Kamenrag asked. “The handmaidens live over this way.” And he pointed to their right. It was a lie, or possibly a test; the handmaidens would live in or near the Temple, under heavy guard.

Lie or test, Ram had no intention of playing along. “Ooh, look at that!” he shouted, pointing at nothing in particular, and darted off up the street. He didn’t think he could slip away from Kamenrag here, but it would keep him off balance, and wear him out trying to keep up.

Or so he thought. He didn’t even have time to decide what he was pretending to find exciting before the flamekeeper’s hand came down on his shoulder like a vise. “Whoa, there!” Kamenrag said, laughing—but his fingers dug painfully into the muscles on Ram’s neck. “The pyre’s not like your little hearth, you know. You can get in big trouble if you don’t watch where you’re going.” He squeezed a little harder at the words big trouble, and Ram gasped.

“Come on now,” he said, dragging Ram off to the right. “Let’s get you to your sister, she’ll set you right.” He could do nothing but stumble along; the only way to get loose would be to deck the man, and aside from being armored, that would give him an excuse to hit back. With his sword.

But they were headed towards an alley between two houses. A narrow, deserted alley, where little of the Temple’s light shone. In desperation, Ram said, “Whoops!” and threw his bag as hard as he could, but it only flew about three feet, and Kamenrag barely even slowed down to scoop it back up. He chucked it down the alley ahead of them, and hauled Ram after.

Ram kicked out at his ankle, as hard as he could, but Kamenrag was wearing boots. He didn’t stumble, only hissed a little, and swung Ram around, face-first, into the wall. Ram barely had time to turn his face, and take it on his cheek rather than his nose; he had some experience getting beaten up. Still, it stung, and knocked the wind clean out of him.

“You’ll find we’re friendly folk here,” Kamenrag said casually, throwing him back against the other wall. “For instance, I’m not going to cut your hamstrings, throw you in the seep, and watch you drown in liquid shit.” Ram could barely stand up, and Kamenrag took his time pulling the buckler off his sword hilt and fitting it to his left hand. “But mostly because you’re too fat to go hauling you so far.”

The buckler hurt every bit as much as Ram expected—like a big shiny brick. It hit him right on the temple, knocking him down to the ground with a head full of grey fuzz. He thought he heard a sword being drawn, but he was too woozy to do much more than get up on hands and knees. “Ah-ah! You shouldn’t be trying to stand up in your condition!” Something heavy came crashing into Ram’s right shoulder. He screamed, and flopped back down to the ground.

His shoulder felt broken. That was almost a good thing; he barely felt the barrage of kicks to the ribs which followed. Or maybe Kamenrag’s heart just wasn’t in it, because he left it at that. Ram could hear him pick up his bag. “The fellow at the gate was being forgetful, by the way; the entry fee’s actually a full silver. Why don’t I just make up the difference, now?” Another, even lazier kick. “And a copper a day as a residence fee for uppity hearth trash.”

There followed a few clanking noises, as Kamenrag put sword and buckler back. Then his voice and footsteps receded down the alley. “I’ll waive the first five days’ fee, since I’m feeling neighborly and you’re new here. I see you in my pyre on the sixth day, it’ll cost you a copper. Or a finger. Something like that. Take care of yourself, hearth trash!”

Ram waited twenty seconds before looking up. The contents of his bag, minus the tanbir, were scattered across the ground. But Kamenrag, at least, was gone.