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read,” said Tanish. It was just something to say, I think, but once he got it out, it sounded forlorn.
    â€œMy sister taught me,” I answered, trying to sound cheerful. “Not Rahvey. Vestris.”
    â€œHow come I’ve never seen her?”
    â€œShe’s too fancy for the likes of you,” I said, unable to suppress a genuine smile now.
    â€œFancy?”
    â€œGlamorous,” I said. “Rich.”
    â€œI’d like to see her one day,” said Tanish. He had heard me talk of Vestris before and had caught a little of my reverence for her. “What does she do?”
    â€œDo?”
    â€œFor, you know, a job?” he asked. “I mean, why is she so rich if she grew up like you?”
    â€œOh, she’s just sort of special,” I said airily. “She’s not rich because of where she works.”
    â€œWhy, then?”
    I laughed, waving the question away. “She’s just different from the rest of us,” I concluded.
    â€œSpecial,” he said, uncertain.
    â€œExactly.”
    And I felt what I always felt when I thought of Vestris: a kind of vague privilege that I knew her. It was like sitting in a shaft of sunlight on a cool day, a private warming glow that made me the envy of everyone around me.
    â€œOne time when we were little,” I said, “the mine where Papa worked had been closed, and he had no work, which meant we had no money. Vestris brought food home every night. Rahvey asked her how she was paying for it, and you know what she said?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œShe said, ‘I just ask nicely. I explain that my sisters are hungry, and people give me food.’”
    â€œSo she was begging.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “It wasn’t like that. She’s just the kind of person people want to please. I can’t explain it.”
    Tanish looked at me for more, but I said nothing.
    The city was walled, and though urban sprawl had long since outgrown the old fortifications, the walls still marked the limits of Bar-Selehm proper and they were routinely patrolled. It was clear as we approached the West Gate, however, that something different was going on this morning. One of the ancient iron-bound doors had actually been closed—the first time since the city had quarantined itself during a cattle death outbreak three years ago—and people were being funneled through a gamut of dragoons. The soldiers wore their scarlet jackets and feathered helmets in spite of the mounting heat, and they carried rifles with sword bayonets. Two were mounted on striped orleks—local, zebralike horses—which stamped and tossed their heads restlessly. The troops on the ground were white, but there were members of one of the black regiments up on the walls.
    This too was about the Beacon. Not Berrit.
    The soldiers checked papers, but the only people they detained were those carrying bags, baskets, or crates. Me and Tanish they practically ignored, though I flinched away when one of the orleks stooped toward me, its nostrils flaring. I’m a city girl, and am not good around large animals. Once through the checkpoint, I increased my pace till Tanish was almost running to keep up.
    The residential streets of the Drowning had no official names and did not appear on any map, rather coming and going from season to season as the river dwindled and flooded, shifting its course and turning what had been a bustling tent city to marshland. There were no sewer lines but the river in the Drowning. The street corners sprouted ragged produce stands, huddles of itinerant laborers hoping to be hired for a few hours, and makeshift barbecues fashioned from scrap metal and fueled by homemade charcoal. This was where I had grown up. The hut in which I was born had long since turned to firewood, and no one could remember exactly where it had stood, but this was, I supposed, home.
    Once . When Papa was still alive.
    The Drowning smelled different