stairs. Her ability to speak had returned, but orange spots still swam in her blurry vision.
As she climbed another flight of steps, Francesca allowed herself to feel burning fear and confusion. Then she forced herself to relax. It was time to fall back on the oldest of physicians’ tricks: when inner composure was unattainable, its semblance must be worn like an actor’s costume and cosmetics.
“You know, my lady,” Francesca said as coolly as she could between breaths, “you might have found a way to improve medical training by making me run you up to the roof.”
Deirdre frowned. “How’s that?”
“When most clerics blunder, all they have to do is attend a funeral.”
Deirdre grunted. “But if we made physicians carry their mistakes up six flights?”
“We’d enter a golden age of near immortality. Only the very skinny would be allowed to die.”
The avatar sniffed with amusement. “Magistra, are you implying I’m fat?”
“A tiny little thing like you? Never. I could fit two of you in my belt purse.” Francesca repositioned her grip around the other woman as she turned up another flight.
“So now you are implying I’m short?”
“No, my lady, I wouldn’t dare offend an avatar.”
“Magistra, you’re an overly bold woman who’s mocking a superior to make light of a grave situation. If we weren’t fleeing a fate worse than death, I might become very fond of you.”
“I might become very fond of you too, my lady, especially if you weren’t so short and fat.”
Deirdre laughed. “I almost feel bad for dragging you into this mess.”
“And what mess would that be, exactly?”
Before Deirdre could answer, the stairwell began to reverberate with wailing; then came the distant sound of someone running up stairs. Deirdre’s expression hardened. “Hear those footsteps? That’s one of the beast’s devotees. If he catches up to us, you’ll have to kill him.”
“Kill? I can’t; I am a cleric.”
“You’ll have to kill him before he kills us,” Deirdre hissed. “Or at least stun him. In fact, start writing a stunning spell now.”
Francesca’s affected composure began to crack. She tried to pump her legs faster while composing a netlike stunning spell in her arms.
Deirdre became quiet as the pursuer’s footsteps grew louder. Francesca reminded herself that she’d trained most of her life to write spells in life-or-death situations … the problem was, this time the life or death in question wasn’t her patient’s; it was her own.
“I finished the stunning spell,” Francesca said as they topped the next flight.
Deirdre nodded. “Hopefully we can outrun him. But keep it ready.”
Francesca’s thighs ached. “Why are we headed to the roof?” she asked. “I don’t know the hierophantic language. I can’t use the kites.”
“The beast chasing us, he came here faster than I thought possible. I’ve placed agents on the street, but now they’ll be aphasic or made into his devotees. Until I know the beast’s true name, I dare not chance an encounter with him. And we can’t let the demon know I took that anklet off of you. So it’s on to my contingency plan: find the new air warden. I know he’s aloft now. From what I’ve learned, he’s our only chance.”
Francesca charged up the last few steps and burst into daylight.
A break in the rainy-season clouds revealed the wide, brilliantly blue Spirish sky. A gust of frigid wind nearly snatched the red cleric’s stole from her shoulders.
The infirmary’s roof was built of tawny sandstone. It supported five twenty-foot-tall minarets. More impressively, up from the chamber at each minaret’s crown arched thick chains that climbed nearly two hundred feet before ending in the massive lofting kites.
Deirdre pointed at the centermost minaret. “The warden’s kite will be closest to that one.”
Francesca set off. “The orange flashes are gone from my vision now.”
Deirdre nodded. “We’re farther from the other slave. The closer he comes, the worse your aphasia and vision will become.”
“Lovely,” Francesca grumbled while ducking into the minaret’s base. She discovered a hollow space with a metal ladder.
“Put me down,” Deirdre ordered. “I’m feeling stronger.”
Francesca obeyed.
The avatar teetered on her feet, but once she reached the ladder, she easily climbed onto its thick rungs.
“What is this other demonic slave who is chasing us?” Francesca asked as she grabbed the ladder.
“I can’t entirely tell you,” Deirdre replied as she continued to climb. “It’s impossible to think about what he truly is unless you have a special spell cast around your mind.”
“You’re talking about quaternary cognition, about thinking through a magical text?”
“I believe so. There are stories about the other slave. The city people call him the Savanna Walker.”
Francesca thought she misheard. “What?”
“The Savanna Walker—you know, the creature that drives men mad in the Deep Savanna.”
“But that’s an old wives’ tale!”
“Oh, dear,” she said with obvious enjoyment, “it seems old wives know something our learned cleric doesn’t.”
Francesca muttered, “Then you should’ve gone to an old wife with your bloody cursed lungs and bloody monster chasing—” She stopped as the rung in her hand vibrated.
Deirdre swore and began climbing faster. “The Walker’s closing in.”
Francesca focused on putting one hand above the other and keeping her boots from slipping.
They reached an octagonal room at the minaret’s crown. Eight broad windows opened onto upsloping ramps that blocked everything but the sky. Folded lofting kites sat before all but two windows. From both empty spaces, thick chains rose into the sky. The place echoed with the clicking and chirping of iron chain links.
Deirdre hurried to one of the bundled kites while Francesca panted. Suddenly a man’s wailing voice sounded from farther down the minaret. Deirdre turned around. “It’s the beast’s devotee.”
Francesca peered down the shaft and saw a dark figure climbing the ladder. He let out a ragged scream and started climbing faster. Something was in his hand. A knife?
“Get back,” Deirdre ordered. “As soon as his head appears, hit it with your stunning spell.”
Francesca stepped away from the shaft. Her heart racing, she examined the golden sentences in her forearm and then looked up. Deirdre had found a length of iron chain and had assumed a fighting stance.
The man’s screams intensified. Deirdre spoke loudly, evenly. “The Savanna Walker creates his devotees by spellbinding and destroying much of their minds. The poor soul in the shaft is already as good as dead. Once the Savanna Walker finishes an attack, he does something to his devotees, swallows them into his body or devours them or—”
Just then the man emerged from the minaret’s shaft. He was in his thirties, skinny, wearing a ragged longvest. He was holding some kind of crude club. With a shriek, the man climbed into the room and lunged at Deirdre. She danced back, avoiding his club, and then brought her chain around. It struck his face and he stumbled backward.
With a cry, Francesca cast her stunning spell. The net of golden sentences wrapped around