By the light cast from

beneath the waters

By the light cast from

 the rim of the world

By the light cast from

 within the mountain

By the light cast from

 the vault above

By the light cast on the fields of

Uruk

By the light cast on the fields of

Ur

By the light cast on the fields of

Eridu

By the light cast on the fields of

Umma

By the light cast on the fields of

Shurrupak

By the light cast on the fields of

Mesolimeris

By the light cast on the fields of

—

But of course, Lagash did not answer.

“Does no light shine on the fields of Lagash?”

“The light of Lagash has not risen.”

By the water cast on the fields of

Uruk

By the water cast on the fields of

Ur

By the water cast on the fields of

Eridu

By the water cast on the fields of

Umma

By the water cast on the fields of

Shurrupak

By the water cast on the fields of

Mesolimeris

By the water cast on the fields of

—

“Does no water flow on the fields of Lagash?”

“The fields of Lagash lie barren.”

This went on for rather a lot of formulaic time, in Sargon’s estimation. Long enough, presumably, for the dead to rise, hand-over-hand up the mountain. But Lagash’s days of rock-climbing were over. Old Lagash had left it too long to induce a successor; had nearly died giving birth to a stillborn rat, and the mourning howls had been heard all the way to Mesolimeris. Rumor had it that all but the bedside Warriors had already been put down, and it was only a matter of time.

Finally, the ritual invocation was done. “Let us rise and deal justly with the ar of Lagash.”

At which point the accountants really got into it. Sargon ignored most of this juridical clamor: depositions from wailing dependants of every stripe; reputed creditors; their antagonists. Of more interest was the Farmer’s Council. Farmers didn’t talk much; when they did, it was generally worth listening to. Interesting was a green, weedy stalk of a lad, more like a planter than a Farmer, who was quietly but furiously clacking the fingers of all three hands. Finally, at a lull in accountancy, the stripling chirped. All heads turned.

“Lagash Post 3,” he said. “Eighty ar. Two planters.”

Most of the Farmer’s Council rumbled amusement. Umma and Shurrupak flipped back their hands: no sale. Interesting, thought Sargon. Lagash Post three was a useless bit of scrubland abutting the northeastern periphery of Mesolimeris. The stripling was offering to hold it, to the value of eighty ar, and to throw a payment of two planters into the bargain.

Sargon looked over at Farmer John. Farmer John was very, very carefully staring at the floor, and sitting on his hands.

“Assessment?” barked Sargon.

The estate Accountant looked shocked. It was a worthless scrap of land, but heavily indebted. Sargon would be mad to settle the ledger. “Two post, five span, five hand small cattle. Freehold”

Had his face been capable of such an expression, Sargon would have smiled. Instead, he flipped his gripping hand.

“Well, my young Farmer. Let’s see if you can earn some get.”

A low murmur circled the room. All attention was on Sargon. Which had rather been the point.

“On the subject of Lagash Post 3,” he flipped the gripping hand again, “that is, Mesolimeris Post 27” —accountants scribbled furiously— “may we move on to new business?”

There was no dissent.

Sargon stood. He used The Voice. The Voice rumbled and screeched in registers above and below the human range of hearing.

“Anathema has come. Their vermin have arrived at my western Posts! John, inform them!”

A moment of chaos, and then a hush, as John tipped back his head and trilled an amazing, sophisticated, detailed data stream, most of which was lost on the Masters present. But they gathered the critical points. For two side less two hand years, Post Watchers had observed these creatures. At first they would arrive by ones and twos, then, every two hand years, their numbers would swell. Hands, Sides, Grips—half of a Master’s Hand—would trek from the wastes by various paths, through the badlands, into the realms of the mountain light. They passed respectfully, carried their bowls, left their beasts to graze the wilds, and returned whence they came again. They never crossed into Council lands: by the wastes they came, by the wilds they went. The Council had discussed options; made contingency plans, but in the end agreed that they had done no harm, and posed no threat, and therefore were not worth wasting an ar of regard.

But Sargon, with Lagash as his ally, had never been quite content with that. He’d had them followed. Had them followed, at incredible expense, by relays of Runners, and Porters carrying a Farmer, the last of whom had reported on their deathbeds, collapsed from starvation. And what they had reported! These creatures—these anathema—had laid waste to their own lands! Clearly, they bred Engineers. Monstrous machines had crushed entire mountains. They planted without regard to ar. They kept cattle in such abundance that soil was laid bare. They flooded their fields, then despaired when the inevitable salty crusts caked in drifts across the furrows. Then they wept, and watered the ground with their salty tears.

The Council was horrified; the Farmers nearly berserk. So they had agreed: the day anathema threatened the western ar, they would act as one. Every Master would breed Cavalry. Every Keeper would open a storehouse. Every Farmer would tithe provisions. And the Counsel would appoint from among them a Commander.

Sargon flipped his hand again. Sargon, Procurator of the Northern Protectorate, Master of all wilds and wastes between the mountains; Master of all lands not accounted to any city’s ar, now had a Master’s Grip. He had begun with wasteland, and created plenty. The Keepers still held the storehouses. The Masters still commanded the city walls. But by the end of the Meeting, Sargon commanded the Army that protected all.

They disbanded the Meeting. They climbed down the cliff-face. They marshaled their trains and continued to the levees, where many piled into pole-boats. Some set out for their island cities in the delta: Shurrupak, Umma, Uruk, Ur, and Eridu. Sargon’s delegation zigged and zagged through a mesh of reed-choked byways, until they abandoned the waterways completely for the dust-cloaked hinterlands of Mesolimeris. Everywhere, as far as they went, exhausted pannes bloomed anew, the checkerboard aquamarine shimmer a living testament to the miracle of Sargon’s ar. In Sargon’s train, the saying went, there was no waste. Ar blossomed where Sargon stepped.

Or shat, more like, snorted Farmer John. It’s the Farmers do all the steppin’. Good call, though, on that young one. Young’un’ll be an ar-buster, and no mistake.

The Barrens, New Utah

Collie shook his head emphatically. “Young missy, I really think you’d better let me—”

“Uncle Collie, it is the duty of every island to give aid and support to the Seers, that they may be of aid to all pilgrims. My mother gave her life to make me a Seer. I think they will—”

“Missy, your mother didn’t ‘give’ anything. She was just a venomous old cow who refused to listen to reason. She insisted on Gathering even though—”

“You can’t talk about my mother—”

“No, missy, but I can talk about my own sister. I loved her like my own eye. But she had no business trying to conceive a Seer at her age. There’s plenty of younger women more fit to trek. She’d already seen one Gathering, and she was a late-comer to that. She’d no business trying to schedule your birth at her age, let alone schedule it to happen on top of a mountain!”