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“Not our problem,” Cafad Scratha said, some hours later. “Absolutely not. Don't even think about it this time, Idisio. We've enough problems as it is. Don't add a randy northern sailor to the pile.”

“But—” Idisio started.
“
No
,” Scratha said. “He'll have to find his own answers.” “You're a desert lord, though,” Idisio said, persistent against Scratha's gathering scowl. “You could get answers he couldn't.”
“I swore I wouldn't hit you again,” Scratha said through his teeth.
“Don't make me break that promise. Let it go, Idisio. You don't know what you're asking.”
“Then
tell
me,” Idisio said. “How am I any good to you if you have to protect me from my ignorance?”
They matched glares; then Scratha sighed.
“I should have left you in the streets,” he said, without any real force. “Asking for anything, whether it be favors, goods, or information, carries
a price in the southlands. I don't want to be indebted to someone for the sake of a foolish northern sailor.”
Idisio breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The strangeness had left his lord for the moment, the dark track of his thoughts diverted to something less important. And this language he understood; the street thieves of Bright Bay operated in much the same way.
“I'll pay it,” he said.
Scratha stared at him. “You can't. You have nothing to pay with, Idisio. It's a generous offer, but it's not possible.”
“I can,” Idisio said, sure of himself now. “What kind of things would another lord ask for?”
“It could be anything,” Scratha said. “And it's not the lords that you need to worry about; it's the hirelings and mercenaries. Some of them are. . . not kind. Idisio, no. Let this northern find his own answers.” “What's the worst thing they could ask for?” Idisio pressed. “What's the worst you've ever heard of being asked in exchange for this kind of information? It's pretty trivial, isn't it, asking after a lost child?” Scratha drew a deep breath and shut his eyes. “You don't want to know.”
“I do.”
“You
don't
,” Scratha said without opening his eyes. “It's foul.” Idisio waited, not speaking, until his lord finally looked at him, then said, in as emotionless a voice as he could, “I've probably done it already, whatever it is. That's part of growing up in the streets.”
Scratha stared at him, looking horrified.
“The people that raised me didn't give free handouts,” Idisio said. “They wanted a profit out of their effort. That's how it is. That's why I jumped at the chance to go with you.” He paused, drew a deep breath, and forced his tone to become flat and hard. “If you don't help Red, I'll go asking myself.”
“
No
,” Scratha said, and it was an order, carrying an unspoken threat that Idisio would be lucky to escape with bruises if he disobeyed. Idisio swallowed hard and threw his last die, praying his hunch about Scratha's one vulnerability turned out to be right. “I used to dream, at night, that my father would come find me,” he
said. His voice wouldn't obey him; it wavered and stuck. At least he wasn't crying. “I used to think one day, everything would be all right, it would all turn out to be a bad dream or a mistake. Someone would rescue me. But nobody ever did, my lord; I pulled myself out on your tail, and you were kind enough to let me. Not everyone is that lucky.” Scratha started to speak, stopped, swallowed hard, and said, “There's nothing saying he's on the streets, Idisio.”
“There's nothing saying he's not,” Idisio shot back.
“
Sessii ta-karne, i shha!
” Scratha spat, suddenly furious; the moment passed quickly, and he rubbed his temples as if to ease a headache. “Fine. I'll ask around. If you
swear
to keep your own mouth shut.”

“I promise,” Idisio said readily. “What did all that mean, just now?”

“If you ever learn the old language,” Scratha said, his expression still sour, “you're welcome to punch me for what I just called you. Now go away.” He tossed Idisio a gold round. “Take Riss out for a good meal, and buy yourselves some proper desert clothes. I don't have time to see to it now. If you run out of money, tell them to send me the bill. And go find Red; tell him to come see me.”
“Yes, my lord, thank you, my lord,” Idisio said, and bolted before the man could change his mind.

He went after Red first, reasoning that the search would be quicker without a girl tagging along. It didn't take long for Idisio to be glad of that decision. Several of the streets and taverns he passed through in his search made him nervous, and a female face would have caused a riot in at least one of them.

He finally found the sailor, sitting alone in a dark and musty-smelling wine shop, staring at an almost-full glass of wine. Judging by the bartender's expression, the sailor had been sitting without drinking for some time.

“Idisio,” Red said, looking up with a distracted frown. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you,” Idisio said. “My lord wants to see you.”
“What for?”
“I talked him into helping you look for your son,” Idisio said, and watched the dour expression lighten into incredulity.
“Why would he do something like that? Why would you?” Red stood, leaning forward onto the table as if in need of the support. “You walked me there, like I asked; you don't owe me anything else.”
Idisio shrugged. “Better hurry, before he changes his mind.”
“Gods,” the man said, and threw a silver coin on the table. “Where do I find him?”
“Silver Sands Inn,” Idisio said. “Wait, I'm headed back there too. . .” But the sailor had already slammed through the door and was almost running down the street. Idisio sighed, offered the sullen barkeep a shrug, and followed.
Not in a hurry now, he found himself paying more attention to the people he passed, especially the younger ones. Ten to fifteen, Red had said; no older than Idisio, and with bright red hair. Something about that tugged at his memory, disturbing him. He'd known a boy with bright red hair once, in Bright Bay; could it have been . . . ? But that was ridiculous, of course. He put it out of his mind.
Once or twice his step slowed too much, and he found himself the target of coarse invitation by nearby whores, male and female alike. He'd never liked those offers, and with old memories churning fresh in his mind, liked them even less. He shook his head each time and hurried past without speaking.
He made it back to the inn without seeing a single naturally redtopped head, male, female, adult, or child. There were even more people in this town with dyed hair than there had been in Bright Bay, but the colors here tended towards blue and yellow and even white, all in strips, usually set in dozens of long, tight braids. An astonishing number of people, young and old, were shaven completely bald. Many wore thin, hoodlike head coverings that wrapped around the face, leaving only the eyes visible.
As Idisio entered the inn, he belatedly thought about what he'd just done: challenged a desert lord and offered himself as payment for whatever debt was incurred. Jumped in on the side of a near stranger, a
randy northerner
as Scratha had named him.
He'd lost his mind. What had he been
thinking
?
Traveling away from the city had softened his survival wits. He'd had it too easy, too safe, for too long; he'd jumped straight into madness without even looking first.
With barely a glance at Idisio, the innkeeper told him the room numbers, sounding thoroughly distracted. Idisio offered thanks with little more coherence. His troubled thoughts carried him blindly to the door of the room he would be sharing with Scratha. He could hear voices inside, and decided Red and Scratha were best left alone for the moment. Riss had the next room over; he moved to it and knocked softly on the door.
After a moment, he rapped harder, and that brought an indistinct mutter from inside. It sounded like an invitation, and Idisio, mind still fixed on the enormity of what he'd just done, pushed through the door and stepped inside.
More bare skin than Seshya had ever shown him presented itself.
“Ohdeargods,” he said, and slammed back out of the room, eyes shut tight. Weak-kneed, he leaned against the opposite wall and tried to think of a way to pretend he hadn't just walked in on Riss with no clothes on.
He hadn't managed anything beyond slowing his racing heart by the time the door opened. Riss stared at him, wearing a light robe and looking bemused herself.
After a moment, she said, “Your hearing's not much good, is it? I
said
'wait a minute.'”
Idisio shook his head dumbly, looking anywhere but at her.
“Gods, you're an idiot,” Riss said after a moment, sounding impatient. “Come on in; don't stand there in the hallway. You look like you're about to faint.”
“No,” Idisio said, aware that his voice was emerging at a rather higher octave than usual. “That's all right, I just. . . .”
“Oh, for the love of the gods,” Riss said. She grabbed his arm, yanked him into the room and closed the door behind him. “Haven't you ever seen a girl without clothes on before? It's
hot
here! I was trying to cool off. Sit down.”
He shook his head, still at a complete loss for words, and sank into the chair she pointed to.
“Was there something important, or did you just barge into my room for fun?” Riss said waspishly.
“Ah,” he said, intensely grateful for a question he
did
have a good answer to. “Lord Scratha wants me to take you out for a meal and to buy some clothes. Proper desert clothes, he said.” He took a chance and opened his eyes again.
“Good,” Riss said. “Everything I have makes me sweat. Did you find the sailor's boy?”
“No,” he said, staring determinedly at the floor. “He's gone. . . .”
He felt a sudden dizziness, and a hot, dry wind whispered against his cheeks and forehead. The taste of sand rolled against his tongue. A memory rose, of the red-haired boy he'd known and his odd mannerisms; he
had
been southern. He might have been Red's son, after all. Wouldn't that be funny . . . but the thought held no real humor against the continuing overlay of wind whispering in his mind.
The moment passed. Riss knelt beside him, her face white, gripping his arm hard. “I thought you were about to faint. What happened?”
“Nothing.” He blinked, trying to focus. “I just . . . I just need to go eat something. I haven't eaten today. I think. Let's get going.”
She stared at him for a moment, then cautiously released his arm as if afraid he would fall over. He stood, correcting a slight wobble before she could react to it.
“Wait outside, then, so I can dress,” she said, looking as if she held back much sharper words. Idisio left the room and leaned against the opposite wall again. Like before, his knees felt treacherously unready to support him, but this time it wasn't embarrassment and shock; it was fear.

It happened again while they were walking back to the inn.
Full, content, and relaxed, he began telling Riss about the visit with Filhane and about Scratha agreeing to help. He glossed over how he'd gained his lord's support, and although Riss gave him a hard look reminiscent of the one Azni had used weeks ago, she left it alone.
“So what now?” Riss said. “Is this sailor going to be traveling with us?”
“I don't know,” Idisio said, startled. “I hadn't thought of that. I figured they'd ask some questions locally; the boy can't be far from here, can he?”
“If he's been taken into a desert lord's family, he could be anywhere,” Riss pointed out.
“I don't think. . . .” Idisio started, and his vision blurred again.
He felt a sense of being elsewhere and other than himself. Stone walls rose around him and silence, blessed silence, and a warmth began in his chest; the faintest glimmer of hope that it was over, that he had found a safe place at last, and an
anger
. . . .
He came back to himself, on his knees, his cheek stinging as if Riss had slapped him. His throat felt raw, and the packages he'd been carrying were scattered over the ground as if he'd thrown his arms out wide and heedless.
“You
screamed
,” Riss said, her face white. Her voice trembled as she went on, “I think you made one man piss himself. I almost did.
Gods
, what's going on with you?”
“I don't know,” he said. People were beginning to gather around, staring. He climbed to his feet, brushed off his knees, and started picking up the dropped bundles.
“Let's get back to the inn,” Riss said. “Quickly.”

“You have to tell Lord Scratha,” she said once they were back in the inn. They'd gone to Riss's room by unspoken agreement; the packages were piled in a corner.

“No,” he said immediately, hunching into himself. Afterimages still danced through his mind at odd moments; a phantom glimpse of red hair, a tickling urge to scream and never stop.

“You have to,” Riss insisted. “He'll know what to do. What are you afraid of?”
“I'm not afraid,” he said, lying altogether; the lift of her eyebrows called him on it. Before they could argue further, a knock sounded and Scratha stepped in without waiting for invitation.
“I see where you learned your manners,” Riss said a bit sourly.
Scratha cast her a puzzled look, then shrugged it aside without asking. “It's getting late. We have to get up early in the morning. If you could manage without Idisio's company, we all need to get some sleep.”
“Lord,” Riss said, ignoring Idisio's frantic motion to stop her, “Idisio needs to talk to you.”
“No,” Idisio said, ducking his face away from the dark stare turning his way. “No, I'm all right.”
“He's had fits twice in the last four hours,” Riss said over his protest. “He's afraid to tell you for some reason.”
“Thank you, Riss,” Scratha said, voice completely calm. “Idisio, come.”
Idisio shot Riss a poisonous glare as he left the room; she shrugged and made a shooing motion with her hands.
“Fits,” Scratha said quietly a few moments later, closing the door behind them. He moved to the edge of the low bed and sat down. “Tell me.”
Seeing no point in protest, Idisio gave as much detail as he could remember of each incident. When he finished talking, Scratha shut his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, then sighed and dropped his hand.
“Have you been practicing the aqeyva meditations?” he asked.
“Every day,” Idisio said. “Hours a day.”
“Hours,” Scratha repeated, and shook his head. His dark eyes scrunched more tightly closed, then opened again. “I didn't think you'd practice that much on your own. I should have paid more attention.”
“Did I do something wrong?” Idisio said, bewildered. “I thought I was getting really good at it. Is that wrong?”
Scratha let out a half-snort, half-laugh. “Wrong? No. But you should have had more guidance. I should have been watching you. I let my own concerns distract me. You've been in trance for
hours
a day?” He sounded as if he hoped the answer might change to
“No, I lied.”
“It passed the time,” Idisio said, trying to sound indifferent. He fought an urge to cower; the very air seemed to have darkened with the desert lord's mood.
“Do you have any idea how rare that is?” Scratha said. “I've been practicing aqeyva most of my life and can't hold a full trance more than two hours.”
“It's just . . . paying attention to yourself,” Idisio said, fumbling for words. “It's not that hard. I don't understand, my lord. It's no different than seeing what's really in front of you, like when you had me look at that mug; I just never thought to turn it to myself before. And it would have been dangerous, losing track of everything around me like that. But it's not that hard.”
Scratha shook his head again, his expression bemused. “You make it sound so simple,” he said. “Only aqeyva masters can do what you've done. And these visions, and not being affected by Yuer's drugs . . .You never had anything like this before you started practicing?”
“No,” Idisio said after a moment's thought. “I've always relied on hunches, but nothing, ever, as . . . as solid as these. They're almost visions.”
“That's exactly what they are,” Scratha said. He rubbed at his eyes. “I think you have Ghost Lake blood, Idisio. You have too much northern in your face for anything else.”
“What's . . . ?” Idisio stopped, remembering Red's song. “That's the place up by Arason? Those stories are real?”
“Oh, yes. There was more truth than myth to the tales that sent witchhunters to Arason. How you came to Bright Bay I don't understand, and we'll probably never know, but you're
ha'ra'ha
, without a doubt.”
Idisio shut his eyes. He thought he might scream. “What's a
ha'ra'ha
?”
After a brief silence, Scratha said, “It's . . . well, we'll talk about it more, later. I need time to think how to explain it. I never thought I'd have to . . . well. Go to sleep. We can talk in the morning.”
Idisio accepted that decision with deep relief; but after a time of staring up through the darkness, wide-eyed and wakeful, began to regret letting it pass. At last he said, tentatively, “Lord Scratha?”
The desert lord sighed. “I can't sleep either,” he admitted. “All right. I don't suppose you've learned any real history, so I'll have to start a ways back for you to make sense of the answer. That's why I've needed to think, to find the shortest way to explain.” He blew out a gusty breath and shifted on the low bed. “You're not fully human, Idisio.”