They had emerged from the Maze onto the edge of a still lake. A flight of white birds rose like a scattering of petals on the dark foliage.
“What kind of world is this?” said Csorwe, because it seemed childish to say Where are we? The birds were the first living things they had seen for days.
“An old and quiet one,” said Sethennai. “I’m afraid to say I don’t know its name.”
“Do people live here?” she said.
“No,” he said. “For the moment, I think it’s best that we avoid company.” His eyes were sombre, but when he saw Csorwe was watching he smiled again. “In the colleges of Tlaanthothe, there are dozens of scholars who catalogue the worlds and give an accounting of their peoples. I’m afraid I tend to leave them to it. But when we get there, if you still want to know, we can ask them.”
“Is that your home?” Csorwe didn’t want to try pronouncing Tlaanthothe. With her tusks, she worried it would come out as more spit than word. “Are we going back there?”
“Of course,” said Sethennai. “In good time. Tlaanthothe is the jewel of all cities. You’ll love it.”
He stalked along the lakeshore, inspecting stones. Once or twice he picked up a flat one and skimmed it across the water.
“What’s it like?” said Csorwe, running to catch up to him. In the House of Silence, it was unseemly to ask many questions, but Sethennai seemed to enjoy explaining things.
“Tlaanthothe is a university town,” he said, then frowned, realising the word wasn’t familiar to her. “A place of learning. Or at least, it was. I don’t know what my enemies have done to it.” He grinned at her. “I owe you a confession, Handmaid of Desolation. You’ve put your trust in a vagrant. Tlaanthothe is a long way off, and I am as much an exile as you are. The ways are closed to me. My enemy stole my city and banished me.”
Csorwe watched the ripples spreading in the water and tried to make sense of this. “Is your enemy a wizard, too?”
“Not a particularly skilful one,” said Sethennai.
“So you are a wizard,” said Csorwe, feeling cunning. “Everyone said you were, but I never saw you do any magic.”
Sethennai laughed at that. “I am too far from my patron,” he said. He tilted his head to consider her for a moment. “Magicians among your people call on the Unspoken One. They draw their power from the Shrine. But my goddess is very far away. She might not hear me if I call, and I don’t want to exhaust myself by calling without success.”
“Am I—I mean, are you—do you want me to learn magic?” she said. A twinge of anxiety gripped her. She did not want to call on the Unspoken One for any reason.
“No,” he said. “Magic is not like other trades. It runs in the blood. Of course, a practitioner must study and hone his skills like anybody else with a gift, but the gift itself is something that cannot be earned. Nor can it ever be cast off. I was born into the regard of my goddess and I will never be free of it. The Unspoken One has no such hold on you. It spoke through you, but you never used its power for your own ends.”
He tried another stone, which bounced only once before dropping gracelessly into the lake.
“In some ways it is a mercy for you,” he said. “The use of magic levies a heavy tax on the body.”
“Even for you?” said Csorwe.
He smiled. “The thing with taxes is that one can be clever about when and how one pays. But I do not use magic without need.”
He bent to select another stone from the shore.
“My enemy thinks that if I can’t get into Tlaanthothe, I will be cut off from my patron altogether. He has thrown every possible obstacle in my path. But he underestimates me.”
This stone skipped three times before sinking, and he turned to Csorwe, exultant. “And I very much doubt that he will ever see you coming.”
* * *
At the far end of the lake they found their next Gate and travelled back into the Maze. Csorwe soon got used to this. They passed through many maze-gates, across greying deserts and bare hillsides, into other worlds and back again into farther reaches of the Maze, skipping from one to another like a needle looping thread from one side of the cloth to another. Occasionally they saw birds and trees, but never other people. This made sense to Csorwe now that she knew that Sethennai was avoiding some powerful enemy.
And then they came out of the Maze of Echoes, and into the first city Csorwe had ever seen.
Her first impressions of the city were grubby and confused. Dull, punishing heat. The smell of dung and sweat and sawdust. Dust in the air, choking her nose and mouth. Worst of all, everywhere was a senseless jangle of noises and voices, all interrupting and cutting across each other.
Csorwe covered her ears with her hands and buried her face in her clothes. They waited in some kind of stable yard while Sethennai negotiated for a wagon. Once the wagon materialised, Csorwe curled up in the back and subsided into misery.
The boardinghouse was somehow worse. You could hear every cough, every grunt, and every burst of ugly, angry laughter in every room. Night brought no relief. Surrounded by voices, Csorwe couldn’t help feeling she was being watched.
Sethennai woke her the next morning. It was easy to tell when he was excited: his pointed ears fluttered, his eyes twinkled, and every fibre in his body became springy. Arriving in the city had restored something to him. Csorwe pulled the blanket over her head.
“We’re going to the market,” he said.
The market was dirtier and louder and more chaotic than she could have imagined. A many-headed crowd surged around them, shouting, staring, grabbing. Csorwe clenched her fists at her sides. She had heard from the priestesses how terrifying and corrupt the cities were, and she saw now that they were right. She didn’t see how anyone could live in such a place without going mad.
Csorwe prayed for the Unspoken One to open up the earth and devour the city, and tried to keep her balance.
“You do get used to it,” said Sethennai.
She doubted it. The crowds reminded her of the presence of the Unspoken, only more aggressive. It ate mindlessly at her, threatening to sweep her away.
She refused to reach for Sethennai’s hand. If he realised how helpless she was then he would certainly regret saving her from the Shrine.
The crowd swelled and surged and Csorwe tripped over a stranger’s foot. She fell flat on her back and at once the sky was blotted out by the swarm—cages of chickens, three dogs on a chain, a gang of children almost completely naked—but before she could be trampled to death Sethennai was there. He buffeted the chicken-seller out of the way and lifted Csorwe to her feet.
“Keep hold of my arm,” he said. “You’ll learn to find your way. Once you know how it works, it will be easier.”
He cut a path through the crowd for them, leading her toward a flight of steps that wound up the side of a building. She stopped at the bottom of the steps, shaking her head.
“Come on,” he said. “Trust me.”
She followed him, hanging on his arm, and they came to a roof garden, thick with ferns and strange bulbous flowers. There was nobody here, and Csorwe’s panic began to abate. In the centre of the garden, an old bell tower reached toward the sky. Sethennai beckoned her up the steps.