The Gift

3: THE SHADOW OF WAR

SURVIVORS from the siege of Baladh and the conquest of the Nazar Plains began to straggle into Turbansk over the next two weeks. First came a fleet of craft fleeing across the Lamarsan Sea, a motley collection ranging from tiny skin coracles to the long sailing dromonds, bearing as many as could be crammed inside them. A day or so later the remains of the mounted forces sent by Turbansk to reinforce the Baladh defence rode through the City Gate; they had been wildly routed, and little more than half of their original strength returned home.
Next came those who had been able to escape overland in the chaos of the battle. The first wave came on horseback, wild-eyed and gaunt, carrying many wounded with them; then families perched on wains drawn by exhausted horses and oxen, with thin, wide-eyed children who did not speak, and yet more hurt and dying; and lastly those on foot, filthy with the dust of the road, carrying children and others who could not walk because of hurt or age in makeshift sedans, or even on their backs.
By the time the first survivors arrived, the evacuation of Turbansk was all but complete. Those students at the School younger than seventeen were among the first to leave for Amdridh, many with loud protests; among the loudest were Chyafa's, who resented it mightily when he heard that Hem alone, among all the children his age, was to stay behind for the defence of the city. Hem enjoyed a sweet feeling of revenge when he saw Chyafa's gaze turned upon him with rancorous envy, but he found he did not feel the need, this time, to rise to his sneers. Hem merely smiled at his enemy and said nothing, and saw with satisfaction that it made him even more annoyed.
For days there was a stream of wains and carriages and horses on the western road, carrying supplies and precious goods - the rarest and most irreplaceable scripts from the Library, treasures from the Turbansk palaces, the chief riches of every household - and all those who were not needed to defend the city. There were many grievous farewells; families were divided, fearing they would never meet again, parents from children, husbands from wives, brothers from sisters, lovers and old friends. Hem witnessed many despairing partings in his duties about the streets of Turbansk, and counted himself the luckier for staying.

And so Turbansk changed: there were few children playing in the streets, and then none, and the adults who made their ways through the city were solemn and preoccupied. Saliman's Bardhouse seemed empty, as only a few people remained there; he had been mentor to mostly younger students. Hem's chamber no longer echoed with the faint sounds of conversation and music and laughter which usually filtered through from its many rooms. He was unsettled by the quiet; it brought home what was happening in the city, and sparked a growing sense of foreboding.
And as the stream of people pouring out of Turbansk towards the west dwindled and then ceased, others came in from the east and filled the empty houses, pausing briefly before they too, those who were not too ill or exhausted to move, or who were not staying to defend Turbansk, took the long road west. Now there were also people from the villages and hamlets of the Balkir Plains between Turbansk and Baladh, fleeing from the advancing armies. The forces of the Nameless One were burning everything in their path, house and vine and orchard, and a faint black smudge was visible on the eastern horizon, turning the sunrise the colour of blood.
The Healing Houses were not large enough to house all the wounded from Baladh, and so the empty School was used as well, and Bards in white robes moved between rows of beds in the cloisters where only days before students had run and shouted and laughed. Hem was asked to help the healers, and he threw himself into the work with a good will. Even Irc was pressed into service, and when he was not on his usual perch on Hem's shoulder, flapped around the buildings bearing scribbled notes or messages.
Hem saw a lot of grim sights. There were many people, including a dozen Baladh children, with terrible burns which had not been attended to properly in their flight, and they suffered terrible pain. The healers used a strong drug distilled from poppies and exerted all their Bardic arts to dull their agonies; but many of them died.
When Hem first saw the shocking burns, on a tiny girl who could not have been more than three years old, he thought his heart would burst with anger. She did not cry, but held hard to her mother, staring at her with black eyes full of a mute, unanswerable appeal. Even when she died, beyond the help of even the greatest healers of Turbansk, she still held on to her mother, and the woman's hand had to be gently untangled from the dead fingers, which grasped as tightly as a vice. It was then that Hem asked Oslar, the chief healer, what had happened to the burned children.
Oslar was an old man even by Bardic reckoning, his hair very white and his skin very black, and his strong face was lined with a deep and patient sadness. Hem reflected that he must have seen a lot of suffering in his long life. "She was caught by one of the worst weapons of the Dark," he said. "It was the dogsoldiers."
Hem had heard of dogsoldiers, but up until then they had been just a word.
"What are they?" he asked, although he knew that Oslar was needed elsewhere and did not have time to answer his questions.
"They are not human, and I do not know if they ever were," said the old Bard, speaking plainly and looking him in the eye, as one adult to another. "They are creatures of flesh and metal and fire, made by some foul sorcery in the forges of Dén Raven, and they do not know what mercy is. They have heads like dogs with muzzles of blue steel. Their very bodies are weapons. They can shoot a liquid fire, which sticks to flesh and eats into it. It's the strange fire, how it sticks, that makes the burns so bad."
Oslar looked across at the other beds in that room, with their small victims, and Hem swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "Now, Hem, I have work to do. Excuse me." Oslar nodded courteously, and Hem followed him with his eyes as he moved slowly from bed to bed. Hem knew the old Bard had slept scarce three hours in the past two nights, and yet he showed no sign of weariness.
He was grateful that his question had been answered, although the answer did not comfort him. Oslar, he thought to himself, was a very great man. Then he felt surprised at himself: he didn't usually think things like that.
As Hem ran around the School of Turbansk, bearing philtres from the herbalists or new dressings from the weavers, bringing a beaker of water to a woman too weak from childbed to walk or holding a broken arm for binding, his anger smouldered and grew bright. He hated what had been done so wantonly to these people with every fibre in his being He was no stranger to rage, but for the first time his feeling was tempered by compassion, and he discovered a patience within himself that he had not known he possessed.
Perhaps it was the example of Oslar and the other healers, including his mentor Urbika, who had stayed with most of the other Bards and was herself a gifted healer. Even if he made a mistake, which was seldom, they never spoke a sharp word to him, no matter how little sleep they had, nor how overworked they were. And so Hem learned, in those few days, how to listen to the ill, how to anticipate their needs, how to run fast in soft shoes so he made no loud noises which might disturb those who slept. Before the scale of the suffering which now lay before him, his previous complaints seemed petty and insignificant. He was too busy, in any case, to worry too much about himself; his day was filled from dawn to dusk with countless tasks and errands, and Oslar himself began to teach him some charms of healing for the less serious cases. He was so tired by nightfall that he never dreamed, and for the first time since he had been in Turbansk was not troubled by nightmares.
When Saliman told him one evening that the Bards were praising his work, and that Oslar had said that few minor Bards in his experience had shown such innate talent as Hem in the arts of caring for the sick, Hem accepted the praise, which was hard earned, with a new humility.
"Don't be offended if I say that I am surprised; I thought you would be too impatient for this work," said Saliman, with a smile which for Hem was ample reward for every hour he had spent in the Healing House. "Perhaps you will be a healer when you are grown. Every Bard has to find out how their Gift best expresses itself; for some, it is a hard road. But I think you might be lucky. Healing is one of the highest callings; and there is always need for healers, even in times of peace."
Hem pondered Saliman's words in silence. He could imagine himself as a healer. Perhaps one day he could be as good as Oslar.
"You'd have to work on your scripting, though," said Saliman, interrupting his reverie. "Imagine, say, if the herbalist made a love potion instead of a laxative because he couldn't read your instructions. The trouble you could cause!"
Hem grinned; Saliman was constantly nagging him to work on his writing, which was nearly illegible. Perhaps now he could see the point.
They were eating a quick meal before Saliman went out again to continue the endless work of preparing Turbansk for an assault. The food was plain but tasty: fresh fish from the lake baked with dates, and a mash of pulses. Outside Saliman's rooms, birds burbled in the trees as they settled to their evening roosts, and a cool breeze bussed Hem's cheek. It was very peaceful. Hem suddenly wished, with a furious longing, that he could have come to Turbansk in ordinary times.
Saliman had just told him of the first attacks on Turbansk, by raider ships sailing from the mouth of the Niken River across the Lamarsan Sea, and Hem had seen soldiers in the eating halls, on their way to harry the black fleets, or returning exhausted and grim-faced. No raider ships had yet reached Turbansk, and, Saliman told him, none would: the harbour defences were stout. But the raiders drew off Turbansk's strength, wearying their forces even before the main assault; and after the fall of Baladh, Saliman feared that a fleet of stolen ships would set out from Baladh Harbour to launch a major attack.
Because of the war, Saliman had not even had time to take Hem, as he had promised, to see the Lamar Falls in the Lamarsan Caves, the sacred heart of the Light in Turbansk, which he had said were one of the wonders of the world. If times had been different, perhaps they could have ridden there with Maerad ...but Hem quickly shut off his thoughts about his sister: they were too painful.
"Will there ever be peace again?" he asked, a little sadly.
"Of course there will be." Saliman leaned back and closed his eyes, and Hem could see how weary he actually was. The skin under his eyes was purple, as if it were bruised, and his face was drawn. Hem wondered how long it was since Saliman had slept; he was willing to warrant it was more than two days. "If not in my lifetime or yours, then in someone else's."
Hem, depressed by Saliman's answer, didn't answer, and Saliman opened one eye and stared at him. "Forgive me, Hem; I should not jest. I am so weary, and the storm has not even hit."
"You must rest," said Hem sternly, with his new authority as a healer.
Saliman smiled wanly. "We will be ready soon," he said. "Then I will rest. For a short time."

Over the next few days the black smudge of smoke in the east grew closer and the Healing Houses began to empty. All the sick were to leave Turbansk, even the worst injured, although Hem saw the anxiety on the healers' faces as they were placed in the special wains which were to transport them. He knew they should not be moved, but he also understood that it was impossible for them to stay in Turbansk. Many healers went with them, to care for them on their long journey to Car Amdridh, although Oslar and Urbika were among those who stayed behind, and, very suddenly, there was very little for Hem to do.   He spent a day in the Bardhouse, bored and lonely but too depressed to go out, feeling a sense of doom growing inside him. His patience seemed to have disappeared with his work at the Healing Houses, and he was even irritable with Irc. That evening he asked if he could stay with Saliman the next day.
"Perhaps I could help?" he said. "Irc was really useful in the Healing Houses, too..."
Saliman studied Hem's face. "It might be as boring as anything you are doing here," he said. "But yes, I should have thought of it myself. It is a little gloomy waiting alone for war to break over your head. Of course you can come."
So the next day Hem became Saliman's shadow, as he had in his first week in Turbansk, except this time the slender boy had a white bird on his shoulder. The Bards and captains and city consuls did not object, if they seldom took notice of him, and the sick panic which had begun to stir in Hem's stomach eased back slightly; when he looked at the faces of the men and women who talked so earnestly, at their determination and strength, he did not see how they would be defeated.
As a member of the First Circle of Bards, one of the ruling bodies of Turbansk, Saliman was in charge of many aspects of the city's defence, and by the end of the day Hem began to understand why Saliman had been so tired. That day he went to several different meetings at the School and at the Ernan, the great palace which stretched gracefully under the shadow of the Red Tower, listening to reports from scouts and the captains who had been attacking the raiders on the Lamarsan Sea with fire boats, and conferring with the other leaders of Turbansk to co-ordinate strategy. If any of them thought it odd that Hem was present, they didn't say so.
Hem hadn't been inside the Ernan before, and was awed. Most of its riches had been stripped and sent away to Car Amdridh, but it still possessed a breath-taking grandeur which surpassed even Norloch. Norloch was a high tower of guard built into the living rock above the Norloch Harbour, tower above tower of white stone topped by the Crystal Hall of the Machelinor, and it spoke of majesty and authority. The Ernan was not a tower but an ancient palace, and it was built for pleasure. It had been added to and changed by successive rulers over countless centuries until it was the largest single building in the city, surrounded by wide gardens planted with perfumed trees and rare flowers.
The palace spiralled luxuriously inside high walls of stone, room after graceful room connected by archways or doors wrought of brass or iron in intricate grilles. The floors were of polished marble or mosaics of glazed tiles, depicting abstract patterns of flowers or stars. The rooms opened onto countless courtyards, each different: one contained nothing but white sand, carefully raked into patterns, with black stones placed carefully upon it to induce contemplation; another held a fountain and a lawn of a pungent herb which refreshed the mind when it was walked on; yet another was full of roses of every colour, spilling in artful disarray onto marble paving. Some chambers had large windows which opened onto wide terraces, from which the sun could be watched as it set across the Lamarsan Sea.
Hem walked through the endless maze of the palace, hearing his heels echo on the floors, his mouth open. He had thought the School of Turbansk grand, but this made the School seem austere. Saliman saw his expression and chuckled.
"We give our rulers the same name as their dwelling," he said. "For the people of Turbansk, both palace and ruler embody the greatness of our city; and, perhaps, its folly. Some Ernan have taken this role too literally; the Bards and the people had to relieve one of his rule, when he became too expensive to maintain. And so we have this great palace, one of the glorious treasures of Edil-Amarandh."
"How do you not get lost?" asked Hem breathlessly. Saliman was walking very fast, and he had almost to run to keep up with him, Irc clinging to his shoulder and flapping to keep his balance. He feared getting left behind, because he thought he would never find his way out.
"I've been walking this palace since I was little older than you," said Saliman. "And that is a long time. I am sorry that I have no time to show you its marvels. There is no place like it in the world, and there never will be again... There are chambers here where the walls are decorated only with precious stones. There is a summer house built entirely of jasper, which was made five hundred years ago solely for the recitation of a certain poem by a famous poet of Turbansk. In the Garden of Helian there is a beautiful house of red marble which was made by the Ernan Helian a thousand years ago, so he could study the stars; Bards still use it for skywatching. On festival days the people of Turbansk can enter here, and they come in their thousands to marvel and to picnic in the gardens. And I suppose I feel the same pride in the Ernan's extravagant beauty as they do, although at times I wonder..." He trailed off.
Hem, dazzled by the splendours he was walking through, looked up questioningly.
Saliman shrugged his shoulders, smiling. "You will have noticed there are no corridors in this palace. In Annar, they build corridors; the Annarens like that kind of logic. This palace is built as a series of spirals. Here it is more complicated and oblique to get anywhere."
Hem privately agreed; he was hopelessly lost. But Saliman was continuing, musing as if to himself.
"Though in all the Seven Kingdoms power is complex," he said. "It is so, even in Annar. Norloch is relatively simple, because only Bards rule there... Elsewhere there are two authorities, the Bards and the governing councils. And the Bards and the other authorities do not always agree on what is best to do."
Saliman halted for a second, and looked around the colonnaded hall through which they were now walking. "But often I think that Turbansk is the most complicated," he said. "The people of Turbansk are born with politics in their blood. Cadvan would not last two days here; he would lose his temper and offend all the consuls, and from then on his life would be misery." Saliman grinned, thinking of his old friend.
"Sometimes this is a good thing; it is far better that people talk than fight. But when something must be done quickly - well, it can make it more difficult. Our friend Alimbar, for example, despite our desperation, has been making my life more complicated than it need be, for reasons of his own. But we are very fortunate in our present Ernan, Har-Ytan."
Saliman stopped outside tall doors more impressive than any Hem had yet seen: they were of cedar burnished to a deep, rich polish, with great bosses wrought of gold in the shape of the sun entwined in flames of different colours, from deep red to white gold. Saliman looked down at Hem.
"Hem, you must be on your best behaviour here. And Irc too," he added in the Speech, looking sternly at the bird, who gave a faint cark and hid his head in Hem's hair. "Just bow as I do, and say nothing."
Suddenly nervous, Hem gulped and nodded, and Saliman bowed his head to the two palace guards, who opened the doors and admitted them.
Hem paused involuntarily at the threshold, blinking with dazzlement. Saliman was striding forward, so he rapidly collected himself and followed. He cast covert glances about the room, doing his best not to look as overwhelmed as he felt. The rest of the palace was, he realised, merely a rehearsal for the throne room.
The Ernan sat on a wide, low dais at the far end, on a throne of black enamelled wood carved in filigree patterns with a marvellous delicacy so that, despite its size - its back stretched high behind the Ernan - it gave a impression of weightlessness. Behind the throne, stretching up to the ceiling, was a giant golden sun like those embossed on the doors, which cast a golden glow about the whole room. The walls, which were pierced by long, narrow windows that ran from floor to ceiling, were faced with plain panels of dull gold punctuated by murals painted with an exquisite delicacy, each framed in the same black enamelled filigree of which the throne was made. They depicted, Saliman told Hem later, famous stories of Suderain: one was of the Battle of the Dagorlad Plains, in which the Ernan of Turbansk had held back the forces of the Nameless One in the days of the Great Silence; another was of the meeting of Alibredh and Nalimbar, who were fabled lovers, in the water gardens of Jerr-Niken.
Hem and Saliman walked towards the throne on a path of black onyx tiles which bisected a wide and shallow pool that stretched for the width of the throne room and half its length. The pool, filled with flowering waterlilies, was stepped in three shallow terraces, and water spilled over the lips of the higher levels into the lower pools so the room was filled with its constant music, and the lilies gave off a subtle perfume.
To Hem, it seemed to take a very long time to walk the length of the pool, and then across the plain expanse of polished black stone which stretched before the dais. About the throne were set several low stools, of the same marvellous filigree as the throne itself, on which sat five people. They turned and watched as Saliman and Hem approached and Hem recognised, with a flutter in his stomach, Alimbar, whom he had last seen holding his ear outside the door of Saliman's house. He also recognised Juriken, the First Bard of Turbansk, and Il Hanedr, whom he knew was the captain of the city soldiers, the Guardians of the Sun. A tough-looking, thin woman, Har-Ytan's chief guard Menika, stood silently by her right shoulder in Turbansk battle gear, and another woman in formal robes sat nearby, her head bowed.
The Ernan sat very still on the throne, watching their progress. Hem dared a swift glance, although by this time he was so awed he scarcely knew where to direct his eyes. The Ernan was the most regal human being he had ever seen.
She must have been fully Saliman's height, and her body was at once voluptuous and strong; if she had been less tall, he might have thought her stout. She wore a close-fitting dress of silk dyed craftily in many shades of red and orange, which shimmered against her black skin as if she were sheathed in a living flame, and her long hair was braided in tiny plaits in the style of Turbansk, beaded with rubies and gold so it fell in a glittering fountain down her back. A huge ruby was bound to her brow, and on her breast she wore a torque of gold emblazoned with the sun. Her powerful arms were bare, apart from bands of plain gold about her wrists, and a naked sword lay across her lap, in token of war.
When they reached the dais, Saliman genuflected on one knee and bowed his head, and Hem hastily copied him, wishing he had half of Saliman's grace. He was glad that he had been told not to speak; his mouth had gone completely dry, and he was sure that if he had said anything it would have come out as a squeak.
To his amazement, the Ernan addressed them in the Speech; he found later that the Speech was used in the Suderain for all debates of high policy, and although she was not a Bard, Har-Ytan spoke it well. Her voice was deep and musical, and seemed to resonate through the entire throne room.
"You are tardy, Saliman," she said. "We have been waiting."
The hair prickled on Hem's neck. He hoped fervently that she did not blame him.
"Forgive me, Har-Ytan, Fountain of the Light," Saliman answered. "I was detained by other urgent tasks. And only the most urgent could keep me from your glorious presence."
The Ernan laughed, a melodious ripple of mirth which sent a strange shiver down Hem's back.
"Consider yourself merely rebuked, then. Welcome, Cai of Pellinor." Hem was startled that she knew his name, and then blushed at being addressed. "Sit down. There is much to discuss, and little time."
Hem scrambled to his feet and followed Saliman to the bench, hardly daring to look up from his feet. Irc was infected by his abashment and didn't even squeak when the movement almost tipped him off his perch on Hem's shoulder.
Hem was surprised, after the grandeur of their entrance, by the discussion which followed (it was a while before he remembered that the First Bard and the Ernan were, in fact, equal in authority over Turbansk). All formality was put aside, and a discussion of the current defence of Turbansk was conducted briskly, with reports from each present on the latest developments.
Il Hanedr, captain of the city guard, said that his scouts reported the Black Army was two days' march distant, preparing to assault the Il Dara Wall twenty leagues south of Turbansk, the last major barrier before the Black Army. The Wall was manned by some ten thousand archers and infantry, mainly from the regions around Baladh, and four ranks, six hundreds in each rank, of the Sun Guard. It was a giant construction made in the days of the Great Silence to resist the forces of the Nameless One, and Har-Ytan had ordered this ancient wall rebuilt and extended five years' previously, when it became clear to her that an assault from Dén Raven was all but inevitable. It was a strong deterrent: a high double wall of granite with deep foundations, fortified with many towers. It stretched for a league across a strip of dry land which divided the Neera Marsh, and an invading army could be delayed there indefinitely, or be forced to march for leagues around the marshes.
"Imank is slower than we judged, then," said Juriken, raising his eyebrows.
"If he were not so concerned to burn everything in his path, they might be swifter," Il Hanedr answered. "But the destruction has bought us a little time, although we might count it dearly bought. We would not have had time to muster so many had he moved more quickly."
"Each small advantage we have is bought dearly," said Har-Ytan. "So must we use it well. Is there any point, think you, in harrying the army as it approaches the Wall?"
Both Il Hanedr and Juriken shook their heads. "Nay, it would cost us more than it gained," said Juriken. "It would be to send our fighters to almost certain death, and such are the forces arraigned against us, it would not slow them."
"There is nowhere they would not face death," said the Ernan.
Juriken hesitated, and nodded. "There is always hope," he said. But his expression was grim.
Hem heart froze, and he stole a secret look at Saliman. But now it was Saliman's turn to speak.
Hem now learned that Saliman was co-coordinating the shoreline defences. He said that the fleet of Black Army ships he feared was imminent from Baladh had not been sighted by his scouts.
"Perhaps the fireships we sent against the raiders have made their own argument against attack from the Lamarsan Sea," he said. "But I think that is too much to hope for. I cannot believe that Imank, the captain of the Black Army, does not plan an attack from the Lamarsan Sea; those fleeing Baladh were not able to destroy all the galleys they left behind, and it is not beyond their power to build more. I fear three score at least being sent against us. What seems most likely is that they plan to send the galleys at the same time as the Black Army, to block our harbour and draw off our forces. We will not be able to flee over the water, if we do not hold the passage. And I fear the caves will only serve for few."
There was a glum silence, and then the talk moved on to a general discussion. The city fortifications, Alimbar reported, were almost completed. Within the city were Alhadeans from Nazar and Cissians and Bilakeans from the plains between Turbansk and Baladh, as well as the remnants of Baladh's defence, all experienced at fighting back the incursions from Dén Raven which had become common over the past three centuries.   They had retreated stubbornly before the advancing armies, harrying the outriding forces with some success, and had swelled the ranks of the Turbanskians by nearly twenty thousand. Juriken estimated that with the forces now at the Wall, the city had some two score thousand fighters, and supplies enough for all of them for three months, even if the harbour was closed off.
Hem brightened at the numbers; it seemed so many, more than he could imagine in one place. But Juriken was gloomy; he estimated the Black Army was ten times that size, and of that number, a large number was dogsoldiers. He was also uncertain about what kinds of sorceries Imank might be planning to use. After that, Hem noted that no one talked about victory; and he shifted uncomfortably on his seat.
Lastly spoke Lamar, a woman who had had listened silently and intently to the entire discussion. She was an emissary from Zimek, a large School to the south of Turbansk.
Zimek, Hem learned to his shock, was to be abandoned, and all its peoples were now on their way to Car Amdridh. "Not all like it, naturally," said Lamar, her face sombre. "Many are angry at the thought of leaving their homes, and say we flee like cowards. But we all know our fate otherwise would be Baladh's, to be disembowelled by the Black Army as crows tear a carcass: we are strong, but not strong enough. This way, we choose when we leave, and what we take with us, although it breaks our hearts. We take all we can carry, and are burning all crops and stripping all orchards. There will be nothing for the army to pillage."
Juriken and Har-Ytan nodded. "How long before Zimek is emptied, then?" asked Har-Ytan.
"Two days, no more," Lamar answered. "And then it is done."   While she had been speaking she had shown no emotion, but now her voice broke, and she covered her eyes. Har-Ytan reached out and pressed her hand gently.
"It is well done," she said quietly. "Alas, all our hearts will be riven, ere the end of this."

After the meeting in the Ernan Hem felt deeply exhausted, so Saliman sent him home and continued to the harbourside to speak to the ship captains who were now coming in from yet another raid against the raiders of the Black Army. He came back many hours later, and after greeting Hem went to bed without eating anything. Saliman did not stir from his chamber until late the next day.
The smoke rose in the east, closer again. But the defences of Turbansk were now ready.

That day Hem found himself at a loose end, and hungry. Saliman was nowhere to be seen. Instead of heading for the butteries, Hem wandered towards the marketplace of Turbansk, wondering if he might find Saliman there, near the harbour.
It was the first time Hem had been to the markets since Turbansk had begun to evacuate its population. Only two weeks earlier, they had been the bustling heart of Turbansk. The markets were where Hem most often went when he was feeling unhappy at the School; here he could lose himself in the crowds of people, wandering fascinated from stall to stall.
Closest to the School were the flower markets, an ancient cloistered hall of stone which was always cool, even in the harshest midday heat, because the stone was kept wet so the flowers would stay fresh. Next to them were the food markets, with their marble counters where stallholders displayed freshwater trout and bream and crays caught by the fishers of the Lamarsan Sea, or carefully piled mounds of luscious fruits and piles of greenery.
But now the markets were desolate and melancholy. The flower markets were completely closed, the stone tables empty, the windows shuttered and barred, and the noon sun struck back harshly from the suddenly naked walls. A few stray dogs nosed down the gutters of the alleys looking for scraps, and those people who walked through them mostly wore armour and strode purposefully, instead of sauntering, as the Turbansk people generally preferred, prepared always to be waylaid by an invitation to gossip over a cup of strong, sweet coffee.
Hem realised properly for the first time that those who remained in Turbansk did not expect it to withstand the coming attack. A small hope he had been nurturing in his heart shrivelled and died; despite Saliman's bleak words, despite what he had seen and heard from the survivors of Baladh in the Healing Houses, despite yesterday's conference at the Ernan, Hem had continued to believe that perhaps all those who stayed in Turbansk did so because they thought they could defeat the forces of the Nameless One which now marched against them. But the empty markets told him more eloquently than any words that this was a fool's hope; the thousands of people who now prepared to defend Turbansk did not do so because they thought they would win.
Why did they stay, then? Hem continued his glum meandering, preoccupied with the question. Why did Hem stay? That one was easy: he did not want to be parted from Saliman. And why did Saliman stay?
Hem paused in the Street of Coffee Sellers and abstractedly bought a coffee from the single stall which remained open. As he handed over the copper coin, the stallholder said, in good Annaren, "So you are the young Bard in the Healing Houses?"
Startled out of his musings, Hem studied the man with interest. He was thickset, with the black skin of a Turbanskian. Deep laughter lines creased his eyes, and his teeth were very white and strong. A short sword hung from his waistband. Why was he staying? "Yes," he said. "How did you know?"
The stallholder laughed. "Word gets around," he said. "And everyone has heard of your bird. We do not like to use our children in war, and so I know of no others as young as you who will remain here. My daughter, Amira, was very angry when she heard about you. 'Father,' she said to me; 'you send me away, against my will, although I can fight, although I would give my life to save the city that I love: and yet there remains in Turbansk a foreign boy from Annar who is younger even than I.'"
Hem smiled, and the stall holder continued.
"I told her, it is the law: but it is also the law of my heart. And I told her that perhaps she will fight anyway in Amdridh, if things go ill here. It did not please her." He laughed, but Hem heard with surprise that there was no bitterness in his laughter.
"But you are staying," said Hem.
"Yes," he answered.
"And do you think we will save Turbansk?"
At first the stallholder didn't answer. Instead, he pressed a little honeyed sweetmeat into Hem's hand, waving off Hem's offer to pay. Hem put it in his pocket for later. Then the stallholder said: "All who remain here are afraid that we see the last days of our houses. The Bards and the Ernan do not feed us false hopes: they say, the Black Army is very great, and our forces cannot defeat them. Send all that is precious to you - your children, your valuables - to Car Amdridh, where they can be better defended. But they have called for all who can to stay and defend our city, to buy some time for those who flee, and to allow Amdridh to ready its defence and muster all its forces. We will not simply abandon Turbansk, the jewel of the Suderain, to the carrionfowl of the Dark. And perhaps we can deplete the army, so those behind us will have less work to do." He smiled grimly.
Hem studied the stallholder, wondering at his bravery. "What is your name?" he asked at last.
"Boran," said the stallholder. "And yours?"
"Hem."
"A thousand blessings on your cup, Hem," said Boran, giving him the traditional benediction before drinking.
"And on yours, Boran," said Hem. He said it in Suderain, as he had at least mastered that phrase, finished the coffee and handed the cup back to Boran. Then, thanking him, he continued his moody wandering, kicking a stone before his foot so it rattled on the cobbles.

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