the university, close to the main courtyard garden. Smaller rooms contained tools, sacks, old bits of furniture, shelves of dusty pots and dried tubers. This, with its dusty bed and other rickety furniture, had looked unused.
The six monks and two nuns followed Jeniche inside and stood in hesitant fashion as she sat on one of the benches from which they had cleared piles of old sacks. It wobbled and she kicked back at the nearest leg, hurting her heel.
‘Can’t you sit down?’ she said.
The youngest one pushed through. ‘Forgive them. They are confused. A little lost.’
‘Why do they keep following me?’
The boy frowned. ‘Do they?’
Jeniche resisted the urge to scream. It had been like this for days.
The boy said something in Tunduri and the rest drifted to the edges of the room and sat in shadow, their backs to the walls. Jeniche felt like she could breathe again. For a moment, she shut them out of her thoughts and drew up her left trouser leg. The cloth at the back was torn and bloody from where her calf had been grazed by a mosket ball. With care she unwrapped the strip of linen that had been used to bind a poultice to the shallow cut. Twisting her leg in the shaft of sunlight, she inspected the wound as best she could. Although it still stung and there was some bruising, it did not seem to be infected.
One of the monks placed a bowl of water beside her and handed her a fresh strip of linen torn from the sheet she had acquired for the purpose. She tore it in two and used one piece to bathe the back of her leg before binding it up again. The nun she had pulled from the battle would have done it if she had let her, but she was determined not to get close, form any sort of bond.
When she had finished she found the young monk was still watching her.
‘We walked here,’ he said. ‘We could walk back. With a guide.’
‘Yes, but you doubtless came by the river road. In a large company. There were towns and villages along the way. You could buy and beg for food. There was food to beg for and buy. Shelter. People were generally glad to see you.’ It didn’t seem to be getting through to them, although given their passive faces it was hard to tell.
‘Then,’ continued Jeniche, going over the next point in her argument again, ‘it would mean getting you all out of a city where very angry soldiers seem intent on keeping you in. Soldiers who doubtless control the main roads. Which means the back roads and the desert. And to get you across the desert would first mean finding supplies of food and getting you properly equipped. You could not walk home dressed like that. It’s not my fault your God-King or whatever he is left you here to fend for yourselves, but I cannot help.’
‘Ah. Yes. That’s something else.’
Jeniche looked at the young boy as he sat on the dirt floor, those ancient eyes scrutinizing her. She shivered. ‘What?’
‘Like you, I’m not what I seem to be.’
The battle had gone on all day and well into the night, skirmishes breaking out all over the city, but centred on the main market. Vicious fighting, chases, deadly ambuscades, fires, moments of silence, acts of bravery and idiocy; chaos had stalked the streets and fed.
In all the havoc, it hadn’t come as much of a surprise to Jeniche to find the familiar group of Tunduri in the café to which the nun had dragged her. Mowen Nah was her name. With mosket fire carving up the street outside, Jeniche led them all straight out the back way and into a more secure hiding place away from the fighting. It was there that the boy had told her their names.
The other nun was called Mowen Bey and the two of them were sisters, of an age with Jeniche. They had sat holding hands with shy smiles illuminating their serious faces as the boy told their names to Jeniche and expressed the thanks of the whole group for leading Mowen Nah out of danger.
Jeniche was embarrassed by it all and certainly hadn’t wanted to know anyone’s name. The boy, however, was relentless as only a child can be. The old monk was Darlit Fen and he clasped his hands at his breast when he was introduced. The other four, younger monks, about the same age as the nuns, were Nuvid Ar, Tinit Sul, Arvid Dal, and Folit Gaw. All physically different but of an almost identical demeanour. The boy’s name was Gyan Mi.
With a churlish reluctance, Jeniche told them her name and they all repeated it with a slight bow of the head in her direction. After that they sat in silence a while, listening to the sounds of street battles as they waxed and waned. It gave Jeniche a chance to work out where the Tunduri could be ensconced in safety as well as pondering on her own next moves.
Three days later and people were still clearing up, tending the wounded, and burying their dead. Those that had to be out scurried about their errands, desperate to replenish stocks of food before the curfew, equally desperate to get back off the streets, keeping their heads down to avoid becoming the target of retribution. Brooms scratched at the dust, lifting a haze into the air, shovels scraped, debris-filled handcarts rumbled under the sharp, loathing eye of soldiers.
Much to the disgust of Jeniche, the rooftops were now patrolled. She had become so used to moving about the city above everyone else’s heads that she felt trapped. Perhaps that was why all those tunnels under the university seemed so inviting, even though they didn’t lead out of the city.
It wasn’t safe to be out in broad daylight, especially for someone dawdling, but Jeniche needed to think, needed to be away from the stifling company of the Tunduri. She had become so used to ordering her life on her own terms that all those people watching her every move, listening to what she said even though they didn’t understand, confused her and made her feel uncomfortable.
And the young monk translating for her with his impeccable Makamban, punctuating everything with obscure and maddening comments. The young monk. A boy. Gyan Mi. Crown of the People. Jewel of the Mountains. God-King of the Tunduri. She was still in shock.
‘I’d keep moving, if I were you.’ The voice came from behind her. ‘They don’t like people to loiter.’
She turned. An open doorway to a burned-out shop. Deep shadow within and the odour of damp, smouldering timber. Frowning, she moved away with hesitant steps. The voice had been familiar, but so much had happened in the last few weeks she could not place it. And she had much more to worry about than someone giving friendly advice.
Food for one thing. It was hard enough feeding one person, especially since the invasion. Now she had eight more, one of them a god. Not much of a god, she thought, if he needs my help. He had tried to explain, breaking off now and then to question Darlit Fen. As far as Jeniche could make out, Gyan Mi’s many lives were a test. To be a good god he must live his lives here as a good man and a good woman. He had confessed to her in a whisper that he often felt as confused about it as she looked. It had made her smile even if it didn’t help much. How did that happen, she wondered. How had she been stuck with all those Tunduri? When did saving one confer the obligation to shelter and feed eight?
When she got to the nearest bakery, Pollet was closing up. He gave the merest flick of his head toward the door and Jeniche slipped inside. Heat hit from the ovens, heady with the scent of baking bread.
‘Haven’t seen you in a while,’ he said when the door was bolted.
Jeniche shrugged. ‘It’s been… complicated.’
‘That’s one word for it.’ He looked at her warily for a moment. ‘You heard about Wedol?’
She felt her heart sink. ‘Can’t be good news, can it?’
‘Sorry.’
She spent a moment remembering his shy grin, the shared pastries, the shared moments in the early hours in the yard at the rear of the shop, telling herself she was not going to cry any more. ‘How’s Bolmit taken it? I seem to remember he was in a foul mood when I saw him a while back.’
‘I haven’t seen him since that bloodbath a few days ago. And his place is closed up and the ovens are cold.’
Jeniche