Through morning and into evening, the war resumed, mounted with shouting and cursing and singing of martial airs, bluster, batting, torn hair, and flying spittle, until the ceil dimmed to brown and welcome tweenlight fell over the breathless, bruised combatants.

The seniors loved to watch fights, as long as not too many were hurt—and Jebrassy’s crew was pushing that tolerance to the edge. Many groaned and limped away—and many more grumbled on the field and off.

Jebrassy, by his own estimation, retired from the din in full glory, head bandaged, arm wrenched. In camp, he was dosed by a stolid medical warden, a drum-shaped machine with stubby lift-wings, now folded. Though almost faceless—just three off-center glowing blue eyes in an oval head—the wardens always seemed saddened by such goings-on, but performed their duties without chide or complaint. Sometimes, it was said, in the broad dark ports high in the walls or in the ceil, overlooking the meadows and fields, the Tall Ones, masters of the Tiers—in the naive conception of the breeds—watched these lovely little engagements and made judgments that would be taken into account when the Bleak Warden came to snip your final hours and fly you to the crèche. Some even claimed—though Jebrassy highly doubted it—that the Tall Ones walked among their favorite fighters, and if they were not doing well, clouded them in mist and flew them away…

But he had fought to his satisfaction, thumping and being thumped, and so be it; he was willing to be profane and think in other directions. That somehow made things better. As the warden finished its patient ministrations, Jebrassy looked up past the gleaming, off-center eyes, squinted at the mellow browns and greenish-golds of the tweenlight ceil, and wondered what the Tall Ones really thought of such idiocy. He had never known anything but the Tiers, of course, and that irritated him. His spirit felt crushed beneath that vast, rounded roof. He was an adventurous fellow, filled with ambition to exceed the sight lines shared by those around him—short, flat lines, mostly, though long enough in the fields to suggest the mysterious Wide Places some whispered about, where one could see forever. Standing beside a makeshift stand displaying sweet chafe and tork—intoxicating juice fermented in heavy jugs—an elderly male breed waited while the warden applied a last twist of bandage. Jebrassy

stiffened. The warden apologized in flat, sympathetic tones, but the ointments and glues were not what caused him pain.

A time of parting had arrived. The elderly male, Chaeto, was his second per—his male sponsor. A stocky fellow with the full spiky beard of a breed soon to make the acquaintance of the Bleak Warden, Chaeto and his partner Neb had taken Jebrassy in after his first sponsors vanished. They treated him well, yet Jebrassy had brought them little but grief.

Chaeto approached and stood by him, eyes gray with inner turmoil. They acknowledged each other with finger-taps to their necks, Jebrassy first, as required. Jebrassy then stroked the old male’s extended palm.

The gesture brought little solace.

“You did well out there,” Chaeto said. “As always. You’re a fighter, that’s sure.” He cleared his throat, then looked aside. “Not many more seasons we’ll have to raise young breeds. Mer and I think you’ll benefit no more from our instructions. Already you pay no heed to our pleas.”

Jebrassy stroked his per’s palm again, apologetic supplication. They had affection, but neither could sidestep what the old breed was about to say. “You’re determined to stick with your toughs, aren’t you?”

“My friends,” Jebrassy murmured.

“You still talk of wandering off to die away from the Tiers, without benefit of the Bleak Warden?”

“No change, Per.”

Chaeto looked up at the last glimmer on the ceil. “We’re taking in a new one. Can’t have you spread…your plans…to a fresh umber-born. Can’t have that in your mer’s niche. We’ve done our best. It’s the winding road you’ve chosen. You’ll go on now without us.” Chaeto withdrew his palm, leaving Jebrassy’s finger suspended. “I moved out your stuff. Mer’s broken up, but new young will mend her.”

The elder touched Jebrassy’s neck one last time, then turned and walked off with the limp he had acquired over the last few years. The wardens, having paused as if to listen, went about their repairs to the rest of the injured. The other breeds turned away—little or no sympathy for Jebrassy’s plight. He had delivered too many thumps and jabs.

Chaeto had likely told the high toller of their home level. The high toller would ban him from the neighborhood—even though there were vacant niches.

He was on his own. He would never see either of his sponsors again, except by accident—perhaps in a market—and even then, they wouldn’t acknowledge him. He was what he thought he had always aspired to be—a free breed. And it hurt far worse than any of his slight wounds. Jebrassy got to his feet and looked around for someone, anyone, with a generous jug. After the field had been cleared—seven injured, none seriously, a disappointment for the more

bruise-happy breeds—the walls of the nauvarchia grew high in the Tenebros, between the inner meadows and the first isle, and water gushed into the sinuous shallows. Brightly decorated boats were hoisted and rowed out, and a different set of breeds fought a rough-foot, sink-all sea battle. Those who had fought earlier—and could still walk—gathered along the wall and ate, drank, cheered, and complained, until hardly any had the strength to move. The wakelight dimmed to gray dark. The walls fell and the waters drained. The battered boats were lifted and rolled away, and the spectators who had drunk too deep and could not move were tented by their friends. The rest limped and strolled back over the meadows and fields—waved off by crop-tenders if the fields contained produce. A robust few danced and sang with their last energy across the bridges to their blocs on the three isles, happily convinced that the little wars were fine things, perfect for keeping the ancient breed amused and healthy. Jebrassy pushed himself from the littered wall, winced at the tug of his bandages, steadied himself—he had consumed a fair volume of tork—and realized only then that he was being watched—and by someone he could actually see.

He turned with what he hoped was dignified grace to meet the sharp, half-critical gaze of a glow—a pretty young female. She wore an open vest and flowing pants whose colors revealed that she resided in the middle bloc of the second isle—as had Jebrassy, until now.

The glow approached. Her hair was short and lustrous in the fading light, her eyes fixed and penetrating, so full of intent that he wondered if her mer and per would emerge from the milling crowds and retrieve her, or request an immediate testimonial from the sponsors he no longer had. That would be awkward.

Jebrassy met her gaze with puzzled dignity until she came within a few inches, sniffed him, and smiled.

“You’re Jebrassy…aren’t you?”

“We haven’t met,” he said, mustering all the wit he had left.

“They say you like to fight. Fighting is a waste of time.”

He half stumbled over an empty jug. “Is there anything else worth doing?” he asked, steadying himself.

“We have three things in common. The first is, when we dream, we stray.”

She could not have shocked him more—or come closer to wounding him. Jebrassy had told only Khren, his closest friend, about the straying. His frown turned to dismay, then genuine distress and embarrassment, and he looked over his shoulder, blinking at the crowds as they walked in chattering clusters up the ramps and off the field.

“I’m drunk,” he muttered. “We shouldn’t even be talking.” He started to walk off, but she looped her arm under his and tugged him to a stop.