They hit a steep stretch, too difficult to climb while talking, and afterward Nallo could think of no way to resume the conversation. Up ahead, Avisha had started in again.

Late in the afternoon they halted for the night near the dregs of a stream. They shared out a leather bottle full of vinegary mead and finished off a sack of dry rice cake and mushy radish, although these scraps could not cut the hollow feeling in their stomachs. Avisha got the little ones settled to sleep while Nallo went to wash in the stream, to take a little privacy to do her business. Coming back, walking slowly because her ankle ached, she came up behind the sister and brother where they had moved away from the camp to talk between themselves. She paused in the cover of a stand of pipe-brush, too embarrassed to reveal herself.

“What is wrong with that girl? She won’t shut up.”

“You’d be more agreeable if you’d look at people with a little compassion. I worry about you, Kesh. You aren’t happy.”

“We were slaves for twelve years! In what manner am I meant to be happy? Or does the goddess have an answer for that as well?”

“The gods have an answer, if you take the time to pray.”

“I pray that we get rid of them. We’re moving so slowly, Bai. Why did we have to bring them with us?”

“We had to get everyone out of sight, because if that lot marching into town saw these on the far shore they might think to cross and grab them, and then they’d find sign of our passage. I don’t want any trouble.”

“We’ve got trouble enough with these refugees. How long will you let them burden us? Or do you mean to hand out our coin to them, too, until we have nothing left for ourselves?”

She chortled, but it was a bitter laugh. “We have plenty of coin, Kesh.”

“Stolen from Master Feden’s chest! I’d have liked to have seen when you grabbed those strings right in front of his fat face. Aui! What do you think is happening in Olossi?”

“Captain Anji has found a way to defeat them, or he’s dead and Olossi is overrun.”

“Then best we not drag our feet helping every sad traveler on the road. We can’t help everyone.”

“We can help these.”

“Nallo?” Along the track from camp came Avisha.

The brother muttered a complaint under his breath while the sister laughed softly and said, “I’m going to make the prayers for a safe night. Do you want to help me?”

“No. I’ll go take a piss.”

“As you wish.”

“Aui!” That was Avisha, meeting them on the trail. “I didn’t see you here. Did you see Nallo?”

Nallo rattled the pipe-brush, then moved into view as if she’d just come walking that way. Keshad pushed past her. Nallo noticed what had been staring her in the face all along: the man had the debt mark tattooed at the outer curve of his left eye. Twelve years a slave. He had said so himself. He wore no bronze bracelets to mark his status as a slave, but those were easy to take off. Zubaidit’s face was unmarked, but that wasn’t unusual in those dedicated to the gods, which was a different form of servitude and obligation than that taken on by those who sold the rights to their labor or their debt on the auction square.