A runner, a drawn-faced boy trembling with fatigue, meets us on the road. Makemin gives me the message to keep—Wacagan have attacked Vscriathjadze and occupied the outskirts, but they are momentarily in disarray. The assault came, not from the slopes, which would have given them an immense advantage although at some expense of time, but from the flat open land on the far side of the city from the port. It appears they underestimated the number of defenders, assuming Makemin had taken most of the army with him to Cuttquisqui, and had decided to take advantage of his absence for a rapid assault.

“But wouldn’t their Predicate have been able to make out the strength of the city’s defenses?”

“Our Predicanten would have interfered with that, and the Edeks can mask the numbers. Perhaps the ones we met on the road exaggerated our strength, to cover their own failure.”

Wacagan casualties were not heavy but apparently far more than were expected. In the time the enemy lost reorganizing themselves, the city’s defenders were able to take up positions on the slopes, from which they might survey almost the entire city. Now Wacagan are stalled; their attempts to dislodge some of the defenders from the heights were all repulsed.

“They’ll know we’re coming. If I were their commander, I would pull out, head into the mountains, and come down on the defenders and the city from above. It would be best for us to arrive before they can try this.”

We take those paths that angle up into the mountains; voices peter out as we climb and soon there is only the sound of heavy breathing. Jil Punkinflake is looking a little greener than usual and wheezing with his tongue against his lower lip. I watch this transformation with complacency; the lighter air here refreshes me, and may account for the giddy, brittle hilarity I feel. My capture seems like an accelerated dream.

Even Saskia seems out of sorts. She looks at me, her brow bunched over her eyes. Her face seems to conceal something crude, like an elusively roving phantom feature disrupting the harmony of the others from behind.

Makemin calls me forward and points to the conical peak adjacent the path. For all his stamina even he is a little short of breath.

“Someone must go up there and get a good look. You don’t seem affected by heights.”

“Affected?” I laugh. “Certainly not! I’ve lived my whole life up twice as high as this!”

I leave my wan-faced lowland companions standing lopsided on the path and trip lightly up the rocks to a high spot where I can survey the mountains and the sweep of the far edge of the city, beyond the lower folds.

“Now if only you could fight!” Makemin calls thickly to my backside. I suspect this is his idea of being friendly.