“Over here,” Polyam said, going to a small, rickety cart. It and the elderly donkey that pulled it had been placed near the trees. Daja blinked at it, dazzled. The wood had been painted bright yellow; yellow pompoms fluttered from the donkey’s harness.

“I get to cleanse the donkey, too,” Polyam muttered as she helped Daja lift the plant into the back of the cart. “In every pond and stream.”

Daja got into the cart—something Polyam would have trouble doing—to strap the pot down. She fastened the ties that would keep it from bouncing with quick, efficient seamen’s knots. As she worked, she kept her head down so she wouldn’t see the Traders murmuring to each other and looking away from her.

“Are you sorry this happened?” she asked Polyam, keeping her voice low.

The wirok leaned against the side of the cart. “I don’t believe I am, qunsuanen and all,” she replied, also quiet. “It’s made me appreciate being Tsaw’ha still, I can tell you that.” She looked at her kinfolk. One corner of her broad mouth twisted down, making her face suddenly harsh. “Have you nothing better to gawk at?” she demanded loudly. “Haven’t you seen a trangshi before?”

Daja peeked at the other Traders. They had suddenly found things to do that gave them an excuse to turn away. She grinned suddenly. It was hard—almost impossible—to feel sorry for the wirok, just now, and much easier to feel sorry for the rest of Tenth Caravan Idaram.

“I’ll never see any of this in the same way, either,” Polyam admitted, her voice soft again. “I used to think they were right, and I was wrong.”

Daja gaped at her. “That’s what I used to think.”

“And now you wonder if you aren’t more right, and our people more wrong?” asked Polyam.

Daja hesitated, then nodded.

“So we both learned something,” Polyam told her. “And who knows? Maybe it was something we needed to learn.”

A lean, craggy-faced man who wore the short green-and-orange-striped cape of the journey leader raised his staff and gave a high, long, trilling cry. Women throughout the caravan added their own trills to his until Daja thought the trees would shake from the sound. Urging his horse forward, the man set off on the road south. A handful of other riders followed. After them came the first wagon, the gilav’s, roofed with canvas painted in eye-smarting colors and trimmed in brightly polished brass. Other wagons, mounted riders, and people on foot began to move as the caravan got underway.

Polyam clambered awkwardly onto the seat of the cart, cursing as her wooden leg got jammed. At least Daja knew better than to offer help. Once Polyam had freed herself and settled, Daja climbed up beside her and slid her own staff into the back of the cart with Polyam’s. For a brief, brief moment, at least, Daja Kisubo was a Trader again.

11

The meal laid for them on the high tower that Daja had climbed the day before was an excellent one, with two kinds of soup, venison, cold chicken, and fresh-baked rolls. Lady Inoulia waited until everyone had been served wine or fruit juice before she spoke. When all her lunch guests held full goblets, she rested a regal hand on Yarrun’s green-brocaded shoulder. Yarrun himself was smiling. Briar looked him over and frowned. The mage was trembling from top to toe. Daja had mentioned that Yarrun was taking stimulants; had he used too many?

“Your grace,” the lady said to Duke Vedris, who nodded, “Master Niklaren, guests. As of this morning, each and every wildfire in this entire valley is—extinguished.”

Does she want us to applaud? Sandry asked her friends through their magical bond.

“Extinguished?” asked Rosethorn, fine brows drawn together in a tiny frown. “All of them?” She went to the battlement. “Are you sure?”

“I would hardly claim they were, if they were not,” Yarrun replied waspishly. “You wasted your students’ time in preparing burn medicines, as I told you. The grassfires have used up their fuel, and the forests are untouched.”

“I think that my mage does beautiful work,” said Lady Inoulia. “I had hoped you could be more generous to him.”

“What if fire got into the bottom-most layer of mast, deep under the trees?” demanded Rosethorn. “It could smolder for days, unseen, building in power.”

“I tell you it has not,” Yarrun snapped. “Why can you not admit that academic magic does things nature magic cannot?”

Lark went to the rail. “It’s an impressive feat,” she said, her gaze on the valley. “Rosie isn’t trying to take that from you—”

“Is she not!” cried the Gold Ridge mage.

“If you would just calm down,” Niko said, his thick brows knitted in a frown like Rosethorn’s. His concern, though, seemed to be for the other man. “Take a seat—”

Yarrun was sweating and pale. He stared at Niko with bloodshot eyes. “I am not one of your child-wizards, in need of coddling,” he hissed.

The duke took a seat, his eyes on the mages. Inoulia draped herself in a chair close to his. “They have uses,” Sandry heard her murmur to the duke, “but when these people get to one of their endless debates—!”

Tris wanted no part of the fight that was developing. Walking to the eastern edge of the platform, she stared at the view. There lay the village and southern road; past them she saw heavy forest and steeply rising mountains. Behind her she could hear Niko talking softly to Yarrun, and Lark to Rosethorn.