The choking screams brought the men running from the main group, to stand sickened at the sight of what remained. Blood dripped from empty sockets and from a mouth where a tongue had been and down between scratched legs.

Bossman studied the living body and hefted his ax. One blow severed the cords of the neck. “I made him feel a little easier,” he said, apologizing for his weakness.

Another man cut the corpse free from the projection. “Maybe that’s what separates the men from the chimera,” he said. “We kill before we take the delicacies.”

Do we? Aton wondered. Do we really?

•  •  •

Early in the sixth march they encountered the river, perhaps a hundred miles from their starting point. Narrow, but deep and swift, the clear water cut across the wind cavern, forming a small chasm of its own. It was the first flowing water they had seen in Chthon, and the sight was miraculous.

“The lots,” Bossman said. “If we can drink this—”

The collected garnets were produced and shuffled. Hastings handled the routine. He plunged both hands into the skin of stones and withdrew two closed fists while Bossman shaped the others into a rough line. Hastings put his fists under the nose of the first person, a dour woman. She slapped the left one; it opened to reveal an ordinary red garnet. She took it and flipped it disdainfully back into the cache and drifted away unchallenged.

Hastings returned the empty hand to the bag and brought it out again, closed. The next person in line selected the same fist: a second red garnet. He also left, relieved.

Aton was third in line. He chose the same hand—and the fatal blue fragment was his.

“One,” Bossman said, “Better take one more, to be sure.”

A woman stepped out of line and came up. It was Garnet. “I’ll do it,” she said. “Might as well move up my turn.” Bossman frowned, but let it stand.

The line disbanded. It would reform at the next crisis, with the man following Aton at the head, in fixed order, until every person in the party had drawn. After that it would begin again. The garnets were put away.

Bossman pointed to the stream. “Drink,” he said. “Good and deep. Fill your skins, too.” He spoke to the others. “Stay on the ’denser. We ain’t sure yet.”

The others needed no warning. The water could be poisonous, or there could be minute marine creatures deadly to living flesh. Or larger ones, waiting for the first unwary entry into the water. Chthon was never innocent.

Aton and Garnet drank. The water was not cold, but it tasted fresh and sweet compared to that extracted from the air. If the two of them lived, the others would know that this source was safe.

“If we traveled the river,” Hastings pointed out, “we might not need the ’denser at all. Or the skins.”