Understanding, Daja stepped away. She didn’t want anyone to think she ever needed help and support, either. “You ride well,” she remarked, thinking that might help her companion to feel less helpless.

Polyam snorted. “For short distances, like today,” she replied, rubbing the thigh muscles of her bad leg.

Daja made a face. She’d wanted to make the woman feel better. Instead she’d reminded her of another thing she couldn’t do easily, yet another thing that White Traders, at least, needed to be good at.

To her surprise, Polyam admitted, “I cramp up. It’s better to walk for long trips, even when the footing isn’t so good.”

Daja couldn’t help it—the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. “What happened to you? How did all this—” She gulped. “I’m sorry. It was rude of me to ask. It’s none of my business.”

Polyam stared into the heat-rippled air that rose from the cliffs across the river. “I used to be the best handler of horses, mules, and camels in Tenth Caravan Idaram,” she said dreamily, clearly thinking of better days. “The best in all Idaram caravans. About twenty months ago, we were crossing the Osar Mountains, in Karang. It’s bad country there, very bad. A rockslide covered the road, and I was trying to get our string of horses across, leading them myself. The rock shifted. I went down, and kept sliding, all on my side. It was shale—nasty rock that breaks up into sharp pieces. It carved my leg to the bone, took my eye—my whole left side looks just like my face.” She touched the thick scars on her cheek.

“Trader and Bookkeeper,” Daja whispered. “Your healers couldn’t help?”

“They’re healers, not gods,” Polyam told her. “I was no good with horses after that. You know we like to carry only half-broken animals, so their owners can train them as they like. Without two good legs to balance on, I tried, but—”

“I’m sorry,” Daja said.

“You’re sorry for me?” Polyam’s smile was twisted. “At least I’m still Tsaw’ha.”

“Is being wirok so much better than being trangshi?”

Polyam stared at her as if she’d run mad. “What a silly question! Of course it is! Of course!” She ran her fingers over the cap on her staff, as if memorizing the engravings and inlays that told her life story. “I’ll pray to Koma and Oti every day that you find a way to lay up so much zokin that your name will be taken from the trangshi logs, and you’ll be able to return to our people again.”

Watching Polyam’s fingers glide over her staff’s etched metal cap, Daja used a hand to cover the top of her own staff, hiding its unmarked brass from view. “Is there that much zokin in the world?” she asked wearily.

“It’s happened before,” said Polyam. “It could happen again. I feel sorry for the ship or caravan that would owe you that much, but at least you’d be among your own. That’s what matters.” She looked at Daja and said sharply, “Wouldn’t you want to return to the Tsaw’ha?”

Daja kicked the dry and sandy earth at her feet. “Yes, of course,” she said automatically. “But you can’t be Tsaw’ha and lugsha, not ever.”

Polyam blinked. “If you were Tsaw’ha, why would you want to be lugsha? There’d be no point to—”

“Daja!” someone yelled. Looking up, Daja saw Tris racing toward them, plump legs thumping the ground. “Daja, c’mere!”

“They’re all right, for kaqs,” Polyam remarked quietly. “But you can’t turn ashes to gold, and you can’t turn kaqs into real people.”

Tris halted before them, gasping for breath. “Daja, didn’t you hear me calling? Why didn’t you come?”

Daja glared at her. “We were talking,” she said, annoyed. What made Tris think people had to drop everything the moment she bellowed?

“But this is important,” insisted the redhead. “Now look. You said you came up near here through hot springs, right? Do you know where? Is it near this place? Briar can’t remember.”

Tris and her questions. Did she ever stop asking them? Trader children, as Daja knew quite well, spoke when they were spoken to.

“Daja …”

There would be no shutting her up until she was satisfied. Squinting her eyes against the glare, Daja scanned the rising dirt and rock on their side of the river. A few hundred feet up, she found the green line of ridge. A white shaggy face, long and solemn, topped by small black spikes of horns, stared down at the people below. “About fifty feet back from where that grandfather goat is, the ground rises again. Over that rise are the hot springs.”

Niko, Sandry and Briar, walking at a more sensible pace, caught up with them.

“If we had our magic, we could go into the ground under the springs and see if the cracks continue on under the ice,” Tris remarked to Niko.

“I’m sorry you don’t have your magic,” commented Sandry defensively.

Niko patted her shoulder. “It’s all right—we couldn’t have put the mapping project off, not the way the magics were breaking out. Everyone knows you worked to exhaustion yesterday.”

Sandry stuck her tongue out at Tris, who only grinned.

Niko continued, “See those giant pieces of rock jammed together, the line they form?” Everyone stared at the slabs of granite that lined the valley walls on their side of the river. The stones looked as if a powerful force had shoved them together until one piece slid up another. “Those show that two sections of the earth are pushing together here. They run through this part of the valley.”