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’Sir,’ Kalahts ’Raraku is a holy desert A place of power ’

’Lead on,’ Whiskeyjack growled

Dust-devils swirled random paths across the barren, wasted plain The troop rode at a trot with brief intervals of walking The sun cliher in the sky Somewhere behind them, a city still burned, yet before them they saw an entire landscape that seemed lit by fire

The first corpse was discovered early in the afternoon Curled, a ragged, scorched telaba fluttering in the hot wind, and beneath it a withered figure, head tilted skyward, eye sockets hollowed pits Kala the body Finally, he rose and faced Whiskeyjack ’Kebharla, I think She was e, a delver ofodd -’

’Indeed?’ the commander drawled He leaned forward in his saddle, studied the corpse ’Apart froo, what do you find odd, Kalam?’

The man’s face twisted in a scowl

A soldier chuckled behind Whiskeyjack

’Will that funny man come forward, please,’ the co

A rider joined hi, an ornate, oversized Seven Cities helmet on his head ’Sir!’ the soldier said

Whiskeyjack stared at him ’Gods, man, lose that helm -- you’ll cook your brains And the fiddle -- the da’s broken anyway’

’The helmet’s lined with cold-sand, sir’

’With what?’

’Cold-sand Looks like shaved filings, sir, but you could throw a handful into a fire and it won’t get hot Strangest thing, sir’

The commander’s eyes narrowed on the helmet ’By the Abyss, the Holy Protector wore that!’

The man nodded solemnly ’And when Dasseht into my arms’

’And the fiddle followed?’

The soldier’s eyes thinned suspiciously ’No, sir The fiddle’show to play it’

’So who put a fist through it, soldier?’