The murrush opened its jaws, and a wad of glowing red metal fell out onto a black iron plate in the floor. The beast lowered itself onto its elbows, then set to work hammering at the piece with its blunt claws, breathing on it to keep it warm and pliable all the while. Behind it, another murrush crunched its way through a great pile of brushwood, fueling its inner fires, while a third—the youngest and smallest in the chamber—ran finished blades through its teeth to grind their edges.

Dul Karagi’s Tegnembassaga was far more impressive than Urapu’s neglected shrine. The outer hall featured a rotating selection of the very best the pyre’s metalworkers, jewelers, sculptors, glassblowers, and potters could produce; the inner sanctum was a single enormous chamber dedicated to the upkeep of its resident murrush smiths. The room was set up to allow them to work without ceasing while they were awake; bondsmen, stripped to the waist to bear the heat, trudged regularly in with heavy loads of water, ore, and combustible matter. They left with small samples of finished work and great bucketloads of ash from the heap in the corner where the masters vomited it up.

In the very center of the room was a sizable pyre-light—maintained by handmaidens on rotating shifts. All three murrush were coated in a layer of baked-on clay for insulation. The eldest, Ram was told, had been at the pyre for fifteen kindlings, and personally approved every flamekeeper’s sword before it left for the indwelling.

Ram was among a sparse handful of observers who had paid a copper a head to stand and watch from the gallery above. It was miserably hot, and not very interesting once the novelty of it wore off. Murrush were methodical, unimaginative creatures; they worked slowly and regularly, chewing the impurities out of the metal before spitting it out to shape it, and managed to make it look boring. An old man twenty paces down watched with rapt attention, as if he could somehow learn something useful from it, but Ram wouldn’t have wasted the copper if he hadn’t been specifically instructed to come.

“Report to the observation gallery at the Tegnembassaga, an hour after dinner tonight.” That was all the note had said. There was no signature, and nobody had bothered to interrogate the little boy who’d delivered it to barracks.

Three days had passed since his blind interview. Three days of anxiously casual questions—had anybody heard what had happened at the Lashantu place? Three nights of poor sleep. And then an unsigned note. The voice in the Temple had said he would know the offer when he saw it. This didn’t look like an offer of anything, and Ram still didn’t know what he would say if it were. But he went anyway. It was a public place, safe enough. He’d been here since dinner let out, at least an hour and a half had passed, and he was getting sick of watching the murrush at work.

The elderly spectator started drifting over his way, keeping his eyes on the scene below, as if he wanted to catch a particularly fascinating detail from a different angle. Ram was inclined to budge over and give him his space, but he reached out and caught Ram by the arm. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Ram. But I had to make sure you were alone, you see.”

“Whatever,” Ram said, prying the hand loose. “What’s this all about?”

The old man turned his face. “You don’t recognize me, do you?” He had a long face with a prominent nose and strong jaw, and a thin white beard. Ram thought he might have been familiar, but couldn’t place him. He shook his head.

“It has been some time, and you had more interesting things to look at than one old man, so I forgive you. We met several months ago, at the Red Flute. Your cousin introduced us.”

Ram backed up three steps. “You’re a Damadzu, aren’t you? The doctor.”

“Shazru. My name is Shazru. I am indeed a physician by training, have never taken a human life, and have no intention of starting now. I came alone tonight, seeking only answers.”

“Right.” Ram remained where he was, with a hand near his new club. That had cost him a copper too, since he’d ‘lost’ the old one, but he felt it was a good deal at the moment. “Aren’t you all out of countenance?”

“Officially, yes. Which is why I am here; the girls and Balnibduka are far more conspicuous. But you will find that there is considerable flexibility built into the law. I am not wearing the black, nor engaging in trade—am I violating the law?” He shrugged. “It is hard to say. I don’t doubt that you could report me, and possibly cause me some trouble, but what do you stand to benefit from such an action?”

“I don’t know what I benefit from anything, anymore. I thought I had a good deal with your old boss, but he tried to kill me last tetrad.”

“Really? I had no notion. None of us have any idea what happened at the Lashantu estate. We know that he had planned to take you with him, to serve the warrant. We all had some inkling that he had come to a special arrangement concerning you, though we were not privy to the details. Balnibduka returned alone that night—in some agitation, but obviously powerless to tell us what had happened—and we heard the next evening that our countenance had been revoked. No explanation was given.”

“So you think you’ll get one from me?” Shazru lifted an eyebrow and smiled. “Well, he violated his ‘special arrangement,’ that’s what happened, and he died for it. It wasn’t me. I didn’t touch him, though I would have done it myself if I could. He’s dead now, I didn’t do it, and that’s all I’m going to tell you.”

Shazru was only briefly taken aback. “Our business relationship need not terminate, Rammash. The Damadzus have lost leaders before—indeed, I am now the only member who ever met the Damadzu brothers themselves. If Ushna failed to meet his obligations, I believe we can make good.”

Ram laughed. “I don’t want to be a Damadzu, you hear? I only took him up on that because I thought I’d get killed if I didn’t. And now that I know what you guys get into, and what gets done with it? No. Hell no. Go form a business relationship with Nidriz, if you want. I’m not interested.”

Shazru looked back down at the murrush. “Were you really ignorant of what it is that blackbands do, Ram?”

“Yes, I was. By choice. Same as everybody else. I’ve been learning a lot more than I wanted to, lately. I saw what Lashantu does with your merchandise the other night. Even before that, I had a feeling there was something damned funny going on. You buy bazu stuff, right? With what? They can’t use money—you don’t see them shopping at the hearth fair. There’s only one thing they want from people, and I think I know where they get it.”

“Not from us. They buy men from Moonchildren. There is no need to use specialized merchants like the Damadzus to acquire something as common as human beings who will not be missed. We pay in tanbirs.”

“Which they use to buy people from somebody else, right? And you’re fine with that?”

“Ram, if you have ever bought anything at all in this pyre, your money has found its way into the hands of a man very like Lashantu, who has used it for every gruesome purpose you can conceive of and many others you can’t. You are as thoroughly implicated in the bloody commerce of human misery as any of us; you only play a less prominent role.”

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that if you want.”

“I’m quite serious. If you are looking for a way to free yourself from all complicity in other humans’ misdeeds, you will be looking for a very long time. As I recall, Ushna said you are from a hearth?”

“My father was a mason, my mother sewed, and we did honest work, and cheated nobody.”

“And you ate the common meals, didn’t you? Grown by the work of bondservants. Would you like to be a bondservant, Rammash?”

“That’s got nothing—“

“No. No, you would not. Nor would I. You know what the life of a bondservant is like, but I don’t imagine you have ever done anything, in the kindling and a half of your life, to make their lives any easier. Which is to say, you continually profited from the unpaid work of the most wretched and miserable people in your community. And your father’s masonry—tell me, who cut the raw stone from the ground, and how much were they paid? Who made all the bricks?”

“There’s a big difference. I can’t change the way the whole world works!”

“What is the difference between us, Ram? I can see none, save that the work of a militiaman is broadly deemed respectable—an arbitrary distinction—while that of a blackband is not. And yet we do little harm. Our typical customer is after status symbols; he wants what we sell because his neighbor has got them, and he has not.”

“Why don’t you tell that to the hundred people Lashantu killed, old man?”

“He was far from typical. Although I have found that there are men like him in every pyre, who see no point in having power over men’s lives and not using it. Those who do not care for tinkering with sorcery will slake their bloodlust by other means. I know men who buy bondsmen, and have them fight to the death. Others prefer to collect women, or boys. Lashantu’s designs were at least, in spite of all appearances, ostensibly altruistic.”

“So you’re happy with all this, are you? You’re neck-deep in a business that gets people tortured and killed at both ends, but as long as you’re the guy in the middle, your hands are clean?”

Shazru shook his head. “I don’t think we will see eye to eye on this any time soon, Rammash. I’m not unsympathetic to your point of view; I felt similarly, forty blooms ago and more, when I lived in a faraway pyre and had a promising career ahead of me. I saw an injustice, and acted as I saw fit. It did not stop the injustice, in the end, but I was no longer welcome in the pyre, and could not complete my training in medicine. I have made my peace with it, but looking back, I might have done better.”

“Do you really think you could have lived with yourself if you hadn’t done anything, though?”

“Why not? Many people do the same every day. It seems rather arrogant, to me, to assume that my conscience is so precious as to demand a feeding when so many others’ go about fasting. Who gave me responsibility for the world?”

Ram felt that he knew the answer to that question, but couldn’t quite put it in words. Instead he leaned on the railing, and watched one of the murrush gnaw the end off a lump of pig iron. “I’m still not interested. Your boss tried to kill me. As far as I’m concerned, that ends the relationship right there.”

“I suggest you give the matter more thought. You may declare yourself done with the Damadzus, but that does not mean the Damadzus are done with you. Our business depends on our reputation, you know, and you have left many questions unanswered.”

“So? That’s not my problem. You don’t even have countenance in this pyre. Go ask your questions somewhere else.”

Shazru looked pained. “I don’t wish to be indelicate, but do recall that Lashantu died in the fire as well, and several members of his family. We are not the only ones with questions, and if you compel us, we will see that they are asked of you personally.”

Ram put a hand on his club. “So that’s how it is, is it?”

“I do not feel so strongly on the matter as Miss Imbri, naturally, but I see what must be done. Our good name is all that we have, and you have put us in an intolerable situation.” He glanced at the club. “And this is a public place, with numerous witnesses, so please restrain yourself. We don’t need any more attention.”

“No,” Ram agreed, crossing his arms, “we don’t. But the people who killed Ushna don’t want attention either. And I’m honestly more scared of them than I am of you, or any friend of Lashantu’s. If I were you, I’d get the hell out of this pyre, and stay out. I’m not going to tell you who they are, but if they were willing to take out Lashantu’s family, do you think they wouldn’t kill you, if you started making trouble for them?”

Shazru smiled; Ram thought he looked sheepish. “The thought had crossed my mind. A blackband’s life is seldom easy. But I believe we would be willing to take you with us, if you were amenable. You too would be safer, perhaps, if you remained away from this pyre for the foreseeable future.”

Traveling with Imbri, after he’d gotten her father killed? “Can you take a one-armed man too, and a woman with a new baby? Mother’s due in less than a month. And then there’s my sister; she’s training inside the Temple. Are you going to take her along?”

The old man sighed. “I think not. But I do hope you won’t think too poorly of us, Ram. Ushna behaved unwisely, and it is fair to say that he has paid the penalty. We, his heirs, can only do what we can to set matters right.”

“That’s not much.”

“No. It is not.” He pushed off from the railing. “Thank you for coming, Rammash. I know we do not deserve your good will, but if you wish to contact us in the future, you may leave word at the Red Flute. Much is unclear at the moment, but I believe the Damadzus will be undertaking an extended sojourn in the next few days—before word can arrive from Dul Natati concerning Ushna’s last commission.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Ram agreed. “Are you the boss now, or what?”

“That is among the unclear details. I do not know which is less desirable, to claim the position for myself, or to let the girls fight for it. I rather wish the actual Damadzus were still alive. This business is not half so simple as it used to be, even if profits have increased nicely. Another time, Rammash.” He bowed to Ram, then left without a backward glance.

Ram remained in place a little longer, staring down at the murrush at their monotonous task and wishing his life were so simple. He had no wish to be a rich man’s dog—but was it better to be a live dog, or a dead man? He’d earn no money for Mother and Father if he got himself killed. And yet, for all the wealth he’d sent back already, he didn’t think he’d feel totally comfortable looking them in the eye and telling them how he’d got it. Was this what Father meant when he said a man did what was necessary? Was this how all men lived?

He looked to the pyre-light, neither expecting nor receiving any answers from it. By and by, he saw that it was dimming; outside, the sun had long since set. The murrush would stop work for the evening soon enough. It was time to go.

The Tegnembassaga was only a few blocks east of the Palace—the Lugal, after all, ordered and paid for most of their work. He felt a twinge of regret as he passed through the outer ward, where a mighty sandstone flamekeeper stood watch. It was good work, better than Father or Tarnash could have done. Ram might have done as well, some day. But he didn’t even know where his Heart of Tegnem was now. Buried at the bottom of his dresser, or gathering dust under the bed. A shame—Tegnem was a much more reasonable and less demanding deity than some he could name.

He returned to barracks to find another message waiting on his bed for him, and several of his comrades lingering conspicuously nearby with their eyes on it. Ram could guess why; the paper—no, vellum!—was gilt-edged, and sealed in bright red wax with an impressive-looking sigil. He peered at the design before he opened it—a shield and sword, the Lugal’s own mark.

There was just barely light to read by at the window; the bulk of the Palace tended to block much of the Temple’s fire. The message said only that Rammash im-Belemel ta-Urapu ni-Karagi, in recognition of his courageous and selfless service on behalf of Lugal, Ensi, and Pyre, had been found worthy to stand as a candidate for the flamekeepers at the next bloom.