Dawn broke. A red line flared across the horizon, turning the stars into afterthoughts. Kaleb staggered into the Upper Market with bleary eyes and a mouthful of yawns. His spine ached from yesterday’s labors.

  Something told him he’d fare little better in the quarries, but what choice did he have? He’d all but promised Baqareb. Besides, whenever he closed his eyes, he saw his mother’s gnarled hands. If his being in the quarries meant sparing her from hard labor, then that was no choice at all. She needed rest; Kergalon needed masons.

  Kaleb could please both parties.

  “Be respectful today,” Jaspeth warned. “Bow to the Kergalonians, and for heaven’s sake, don’t act a fool.”

  It was early enough to smell dew rising from acacias and terebinths, their leaves beaded with droplets. A good, clear morning. The sun was always the worst part of the brickyards, not the work itself. It burned your flesh, melted your will. That’s why Kaleb woke early every day, savoring these precious few hours when he wasn’t a festering hunk of meat.

  Oxherds drove yokes of oxen down the windswept path, stirring clouds of dust. Kaleb waved to clear the air. He passed pens where donkeys strained against tethers, baring yellow teeth. A trader canopied his stall and displayed rank on rank of glazed pots, ready for passersby.

  Kaleb needed permission to become a mason, but he’d no idea where to find the master-builder. He needed to hurry, or else he’d be late to the brickyards, and that would earn him five lashes. He didn’t need more wounds. The others had yet to heal.

  Especially the gash across his cheek.

  Without it, last night felt like a dream. It throbbed as painfully as his whip marks. That spear had been real, along with the creature holding it. Late last night, Kaleb had cast both Gilgamites into the river. Their corpses had doubtless been picked clean by now, with no one the wiser. Kaleb vowed to keep that ordeal a secret.

  Date palms stood heavy with fruit in the crowded square, their fronds dappling the ground with shade. Kaleb squeezed through a maze of carts and stalls, squinting in every direction, craning his neck to see above countless heads. Each time he glimpsed a bearded face that might belong to a Kergalonian, the crowd jostled him and made him lose his footing.

  Smoke wafted from a stall where skewered cobras sizzled over flames. Kaleb traded three shekels for a single skewer. Though the meat was gamey, the honey glaze made it bearable.

  The merchant at the stall had a sour look on his dried, jerkied face. His fingers were stained with the grime of countless deals. “You a shepherd, boy?”

  “Do I look like a damn shepherd?”

  “Nay, you smell like a lamb.”

  “Are you mocking me?”

  “Only if I’m mockin’ myself. No shame in joinin’ the flock, knowin’ your shepherd protects you from wolves, jackals, and worse besides.”

  “I’m no sheep either,” Kaleb said, gnawing on the skewer.

  “You're either sheep or shepherd, boy, and the world’s a sheepfold.”

  Another merchant shouted above the din, his raw skin and sweat-stained robe marking a hard life. He waved incense balls, proclaiming, “Once you chew this myrrh, your breath’ll smell sweeter than a flowerbed!” He also flashed an alabaster vial. “Apply this to any wound, and watch the flesh heal before your eyes!”

  Kaleb would’ve bought some if he hadn’t squandered his last shekels. When he thought he’d never find the master-builder, something glimmered ten paces away. Kergalonian soldiers loitered outside a lean-to, leaning on their spears.

  Kaleb sauntered closer, tossing the skewer over his shoulder. The soldiers donned helmets and raised spears at his approach.

  “I’m here to join the quarries,” Kaleb said. “Where’s the master-builder?”

  The nearest guard spat. “He wants no truck with scum like you.”

  Someone inside the lean-to cleared his throat. “Who asks for me? Show him in.”

  The guard frowned and waved Kaleb forward, but not without muttering, “When am I going home?”

  Kaleb pulled his sleeve over Jaspeth’s face before entering. It was dim inside, dawn’s gray light peeking through gaps in straw-woven walls. The man here was cross-eyed, looking permanently confused as a result. He breathed through his nose, stroking the oiled ringlets of his beard. His shawl was patterned with bright, dizzying zigzags. He sat on a tasseled carpet, one hand buried in a bowl of almonds.

  Kaleb bowed. “My name’s Kaleb.” No answer. “Kaleb ben Zohar.” Again, nothing. “Anyway, I was told I could find you here. I’m thinking about joining the quarries, and…”

  He trailed off, realizing he’d already made a fool of himself. Sorry, Jaspeth. Since this man wouldn’t deign to look at him, he tried a different approach. “Are you Dukalag?”

  “Most know me as the master-builder,” the man finally said. “What’s this about the quarries?”

  “I must join.”

  He shoved a fistful of almonds past his black beard and pink lips. “What are you, anyway?”

  “A bricklayer.”

  “A mason’s life is no better,” he said, chewing like an ox. “Your back will ache twice as hard. Why do this?”

  “For my mother, so she’ll no longer work the fields.”

  He chortled in a most condescending way. “Always for one’s mother.”

  “Is that the wrong reason?”

  “Careful, boy. No less than the King of Kergalon tasked me with fortifying this land.”

  Kaleb swallowed. “I’m a good worker.”

  “You all say that, but the brickyards have never looked worse.”

  “I’m not to blame. Let me prove myself.”

  “Most drop dead within the first month. I need recruits, not corpses.”

  “I’ll do enough work for ten men.”

  Dukalag frowned down at his nearly empty bowl. “Scribe!”

  A woman placed a cylinder and tablet before the master-builder. Dukalag lifted the cylinder, which was covered in cuneiform—the script his people used for sealing contracts—and rolled it across the tablet, stamping its clay surface. He handed the tablet to Kaleb.

  “Bring that with you tomorrow,” Dukalag said. “From there, my men will escort you and your mother to the quarries.”

  Kaleb sank to his knees. “I’m in your debt.”

  Dukalag snorted, brushing crumbs from his lap. “I don’t need a Toraphite’s debt. You’re lucky I need workers, and damn lucky to have caught me on a good day.”

  Outside, the crowd had swelled to twice its previous size.

  Kaleb didn’t have time for this, damn it. He needed to reach the brickyards. He pressed onward, cradling the tablet, but hadn’t taken three steps before a huge hand clasped his shoulder and pulled him back.

  Baqareb towered over him.

  Holding a hammer and chisel in one hand, Baqareb wore an apron and somehow already reeked of dust and sweat. “Well? What’d the master-builder say?”

  “Not much,” Kaleb said, lifting the tablet. “He did give me this.”

  He gave a broad smile. “You donkey’s whore! When will you join me?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Baqareb tousled Kaleb’s hair. “Told you they were desperate, eh? Dukalag may be the only Kergalonian I wouldn’t whip bloody!”

  “Don’t say that out loud, fool.”

  He beat his chest. “You’ll love the quarries, and it’ll be all the better knowing your mother won’t work the fields anymore.”

  Kaleb really felt he’d accomplished something, meager though it was.

  Baqareb cast around, squinting.

  “What?” Kaleb asked.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Ateb and Omeb promised to meet me here.”

  “You know how they are. If one doesn’t want something, neither will the other.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Baqareb nudged Kaleb. “They’re the ones who should’ve been attached, not you and Jaspeth.” He chuckled at his own remark. “Say, what happened to your cheek?”

  “Nothing,” Kaleb said, turning away. “We’ll talk in the quarries.”

  Kaleb’s last day as a bricklayer had passed with unnatural calm, and that somewhat irked him. Couldn’t something happen, if only to mark the occasion? Entunki hadn’t even bothered showing his face. Would that pouting, strutting fop ever visit the quarries to torment Kaleb?

  Dusk approached, marked by copper-streaked clouds. Gusts occasionally swooped down and blasted the camp. Tents barely held their ground, skin and canvas snapping, ropes and poles creaking with strain.

  Kaleb paused before entering his tent. Here was the moment he’d been waiting for. He didn’t know what to say, but he didn’t want to overthink it, so he entered, knelt, placed the tablet at his mother’s feet.

  She lowered the pestle she’d been holding in her right hand, and parsley flakes tumbled from the mortar in her left. “Did you steal this from the Kergalonians?”

  “They gave it to me,” he said. “I’m leaving the brickyards.”

  Her eyes widened. “You lie.”

  “Not today, Mother.”

  She unwound her headscarf, letting her frayed hair tumble loose. She studied the tablet, lips drawn tight together. “What’s it say?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m returning it to the master-builder tomorrow.”

  She pushed to her feet. “Master-builder?”

  He nodded. “Starting tomorrow, I’ll be in the quarries.”

  “Why would you—”

  “Better lodging, and you won’t have to work the fields anymore.”

  She handed the tablet back to him, shaking her head. “This isn’t right. A son doesn’t sacrifice himself for his mother.”

  “Why not?”

  She sank to the straw-stuffed pallet that’d cradled her weary body night after night. “I’ve nothing left to give, Kaleb. My labors have ground me to dust. Saving me now won’t do you any good. Why rush toward your grave?”

  “I’m keeping you from yours.” He laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Besides, a Toraphite doesn’t die so easily. Trust me.”

  Her eyes glistened. She took his hand in hers, squeezed it gently. “Swear to me you won’t die.”

  “I won’t, not while you live.”

  Kaleb strode into the night. The earlier gusts had softened to hushes, and the husks of locusts and cicadas skittered across the ground.

  “Forget Ateb and Omeb,” Jaspeth said. “Those cravens aren’t made for the quarries. Hell, neither are you.”

  “Their father’s taken ill,” Kaleb said. “That should be enough to convince them.”

  “No one wants your pity. I swear, you’re the strangest Toraphite to have ever lived.”

  Ateb and Omeb’s hut waited at the next turn. There were sheep outside, penned within a rickety fold. No one had sheared them in years, all matted, crimped. Nor had they been bathed, stinking like death. Their troughs were empty, spotted with flies.

  Kaleb pinched his chin. “Where are they?”

  “They’ve deserted camp,” Jaspeth said. “If you weren’t known for your loose lips, they might’ve invited you! We’d be in Hezebel now, drinks in hand, whores on our laps.”

  Kaleb started toward the hut. “No, they have to be inside.”

  Indeed.

  Ateb and Omeb dangled from the ceiling, nooses around their necks—nooses made from their own intestines. They’d been gutted, livers and kidneys and bladders heaped beneath their swaying feet.

  “You’re Kaleb ben Zohar?”

  A figure stood. Kaleb jolted back. The man had dreadlocks, some black, some brown, all tangled together like a nest of mating vipers. His dark, sunken eyes belonged to a corpse. A mask shaped like a leopard’s maw covered the lower half of his face, hammered from bronze. Medals and talismans spangled his breastplate.

  Kaleb’s teeth chattered. “What’s all this?”

  “You killed two of mine last night.” Not a trace of warmth in his voice. He brandished a sickle longer than a man’s arm; blood trickled along its edge. “Gilgamites are hard to come by.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He stepped hard, his sandals cleated with bronze. “Don’t lie, boy. Before dawn, I followed your tracks to those ruins. Your friends returned at the same time, looking for wineskins they’d forgotten yesternight. I made them sing, and they offered up many names, including yours, Kaleb ben Zohar.”

  “There’s no need for this.”

  “‘Course there is. Killing’s the only thing I’m good for.”

  Kaleb weighed his options. “An eye for an eye, right? I can live with that, but only if you drop the sickle. Fight me fairly.”

  Better, he tossed the sickle to Kaleb. “That’ll make this fair. Die with pride, boy.”

  Kaleb snatched the sickle without blinking, tested the blade’s weight. One blow was all he needed.

  The man’s eyes smiled above that fanged mask. “Don’t think about running. Your fate will be worse than that of your friends.”

  “I’ll gut you!”

  Kaleb hacked at his foe, as if slashing through reeds by the riverside. The man sidestepped every stroke, evading the blade time and again. Kaleb’s throat burned before long, his arms aching.

  Another slash, the result the same. Damn it! How could anyone move like that? It made no—

  The man drove his foot into Kaleb’s gut and knocked the wind out of him. The sickle slipped from his grasp. Kaleb picked himself up, red spittle dangling from his lips.

  “You see how this ends,” the man said, cracking his neck, his knuckles. “Damn shame, right? There’s no place in the world for your kind.”

  Kaleb reclaimed the sickle. “At least tell me your name.”

  “Apharoth. Now, I’ve a question of my own, Toraphite. I’m looking for someone. I have reason to believe he’s here in Toramesh.”

  “Who?”

  “His name is—”

  Kaleb hurled the sickle, and it sliced through the intestine from which Omeb dangled. The boy’s dead weight crashed down onto Apharoth, forcing him to his knees.

  Kaleb sprinted into the alley outside the hut.

  “This won’t work again,” Jaspeth said.

  “I know. I’m finding Chieftain.”

  “You’ll get him killed!”

  “Let him clean up this mess,” Kaleb hissed.

  He pushed through the Eastern District, nearing the Northern. There, he passed the Lower Market, the Well of Dachaph, and the Tomb of Yageah. Ahead loomed the Tabernacle, two guards posted outside. They couldn’t stop Kaleb from darting past them. He tripped on the other side, landed, then wheezed like an old shepherd dog. The air here was warmer, seasoned with myrrh and frankincense.

  Kaleb stood.

  Golden lampstands flickered throughout, and cedar tables groaned under the weight of burnt offerings. A draft stirred two veils that hung from the ceiling. What lay beyond? Perhaps the Holy of Holies, where the Most High awaited sacrifices.

  Kaleb didn’t belong here. The priests seemed to agree, gasping at his intrusion.

  Nearby stood His Holiness Chamoreb ben Kofimeb. “Kaleb ben Zohar, how did you know?”

  He patted dust from his shoulder. “Know what?”

  The chieftain approached, leaning on his staff. “Did you muster the courage to surrender?”

  “Why would I—”

  When the guards leveled their spears, Kaleb understood. He was the reason they were dressed for battle. He turned, and more guards blocked the exits.

  The chieftain coughed into his hand. “I knew this would come to pass.”

  “I don’t understand,” Kaleb said.

  “Spare me. You were seen fleeing the camp last night. Do not forget how many eyes I have in Toramesh. When we retraced your steps, they led us to a hut near the Lower Market. Do you know what we found there?”

  Kaleb swallowed.

  “A boy of eight,” the chieftain said. “His parents had been butchered like lambs, but you spared him. Why? Remorse, perhaps?”

  “There’s a murderer in this camp, aye, but I’m not him.”

  The chieftain shook his head. “Look at yourself. There is blood upon you now. Have you no shame?”

  Guards closed in around Kaleb like a noose. Worse, he had nothing to defend himself with. Did everyone in Toramesh want him dead?

  Commotion sounded outside the Tabernacle, along with clanging and thumping.

  A man slashed through the canvas walls and marched inside. Apharoth. His sickle was streaked with more blood than earlier. “Give me the boy.”

  The guards turned their spears on him, but the chieftain raised his staff to command attention. “Enough. Who is this, Kaleb?”

  “The murderer,” he snapped.

  “Know him well, do you?”

  “No!”

  One guard dropped his spear, trembling. “Everyone, stand down…”

  “What is it?” the chieftain asked.

  The guard pointed at the intruder. “Why’s he here? That’s Apharoth!”

  Apharoth swung his sickle, and the nearest guard’s head flew away. The poor bastard’s fellows encircled Apharoth. Kaleb, meanwhile, seized the fallen man’s spear and fled the Tabernacle.

  Voices yelled behind him, ram’s horns blared, and sandaled feet pounded the earth. A stone turned underfoot, and Kaleb tumbled down the hillside. He coughed, rolled over. His pursuers approached, leaving him no choice but to clasp the spear and stand.

  A man with a thick, corded neck chuckled. “No need for a trial tomorrow, boy. We’ll kill you now.”

  Kaleb held one spear to their eight. He considered fleeing, but one of these bastards was bound to be faster than him. These were blooded warriors, after all. The chieftain’s best.

  Without warning, a gust swept in from the west and knocked the soldiers off their feet. It’d only brushed Kaleb, tugging at his hair and sleeves. He spun around at the next footfalls, spear in hand.

  A woman strode past, clad in wool and wielding a staff. Kaleb’s skin prickled not with cold, but fear. Those soldiers had risen, now jeering at the woman.

  “Name yourself,” snarled the thick-necked man. “Are you with that murderer?”

  She tilted her head. “Murderer? Let’s not make accusations.”

  The soldiers, all eight of them, charged, spears extended. The woman stood her ground, gripping her staff with both hands.

  Kaleb set his teeth. “What’re you doing? Fight!”

  She ignored him. The air weighed heavier than a moment ago, making Kaleb’s head swim. The soldiers closed in, ten paces away. That was when the woman twisted her hips, her shoulders, and swung the staff with strength beyond human.

  Kaleb’s skull rattled against a deafening boom. The air itself rippled, and by the time the woman’s foes realized, it was too late. Kaleb gasped as they moved skyward, winced as they crashed earthward. Those who’d survived groaned, unable to move.

  When Kaleb found his voice, all he could ask was, “How’d you do that?”

  The woman glanced up at the stars. “Come, Sheeba!”

  One cloud broke rank from those drifting overhead, plunged, and landed with a plop. It billowed like a fleece of the softest wool, blotting out the moon, casting a shadow over Kaleb.

  The woman crawled through the cloud’s tufts and tangles. Once at the top, she leaned over the edge and extended her hand. “Join me.”

  “Don’t,” Jaspeth warned. “We can’t trust her.”

  Ignoring him, Kaleb grasped her hand and climbed onto the cloud. To his surprise, it bore his weight and floated off the ground. He breathed as easy he could, considering.

  The cloud looked to be woven from delicate strands, cool to the touch, softer than any wool. Kaleb closed his fist around one knot and tore it free.

  The cloud yelped.

  “Rude,” the woman said. “Would you pluck hair from a stranger’s head?”

  He opened his hand, letting the knot waft away into the night. “Forgive me.”

  The woman chortled, her breath heavy with wine. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Hair dark as midnight spilled down her shoulders. Her eyes looked like pearls, like they’d been plucked from oysters, and her skin was a shade lighter than his. Her mouth was framed by laughter lines beyond her years.

  “You’re not as cruel as I thought,” she said.

  Kaleb scowled. “Me? Look at what you did to my tribesmen down there.”

  “Is that your way of thanking me? If I hadn’t come along, they’d have killed you.”

  “How can I be sure you won’t kill me?”

  “I had the chance three days ago.”

  Kaleb searched his memory, coming up dry. “But we’ve never met.”

  “You were in that mob, clamoring for bloodshed. Poor, poor Sachareb. I was there that day. Remember?”

  “Help me.”

  She leaned in, licking her lips. “I’m Yasha.”