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area. It wasn’t a waste of time. I killed a few slavecatchers.”
    “Did the ghosts say what you’re saving Jandra from?”
    “No,” Bitterwood said. “I can’t hear them myself. Only Zeeky can. She says they’re tough to figure out. They all talk at once.”
    “I don’t place any faith in the words of ghosts, but if you want to chase after Jandra, she’s heading up the Forge Road. My own daughter, Anza, is with her.”
    “You have a family now?” Bitterwood asked.
    “Only Anza. Biologically, she’s my niece, but I’ve raised her as my own. She’s definitely my child in spirit.”
    “How so?”
    “Do you remember what they called me at Conyers?”
    “Kanati the Machinist.”
    “Now I’m Burke the Machinist. My name I wear lightly; the Machinist is my true identity. I’ve always been comfortable working with cogs and clockwork and springs, far more than I have with my fellow men.”
    “What’s this have to do with your daughter?”
    Burke lowered himself back down onto the bed, his weight resting on his elbows. Perhaps it was the pain in his head that weakened him. Perhaps it was the presence of the man who’d shared in his darkest defeat, long ago. Whatever the source of the weakness, there was something he had to confess: “From the day Anza was old enough to pick up a dagger I’ve been … programming her. When she was five, I captured a young earth-dragon and had her kill it.”
    Bitterwood didn’t look shocked by this confession. Somehow, this caused Burke’s guilt to well up even faster. “I’ve raised her with a single-minded focus on combat. I’ve taught her to think of her body as a weapon, precise and tireless. She fights like nothing you’ve ever seen, Bant. She’s my ultimate weapon. But there are times when I look into her eyes, and there’s something cold and mechanical staring back at me. Fate gave me a daughter. I turned her into a machine.”
    Bitterwood winced as Burke’s words triggered memories. “I had daughters once,” he said, softly.
    “I remember your story. Albekizan killed your wife and children and burned your village. It was the spark that brought flame to that time of drought.”
    “I was wrong,” said Bitterwood.
    “About what?”
    “My family hadn’t been killed. They were taken captive and sold as slaves. They lived another twenty years, beyond the day I believed they’d died.”
    “Oh,” said Burke.
    “They were executed the day after I killed Bodiel, Albekizan’s beloved son. The king ordered all the palace slaves slain in retribution.”
    “Oh,” Burke said again. What else was there to say?
    “It’ll be light soon. I should leave.”
    “I hope you find Jandra,” said Burke. “Do you… do you need anything before you go? I’ve made a new type of bow that’s going to be far superior to whatever you’re using.”
    Bitterwood grinned. It was an unsettling expression. “I doubt that.”
    “How about fresh horses?” asked Burke. “We don’t have many to spare, but I…” He let his voice trail off. Bitterwood was still grinning.
    “What’s so funny?” he asked.
    “I was thinking of what you would say if you saw my ride. I won’t be needing a horse.”
    Burke lay back on his pillow. The movement made his brains slosh. He closed his eyes, fighting back a wave of nausea. A cold draft washed over him. He welcomed its cool touch.  “If you don’t need anything from me, I guess you should be on your way.”
    Bitterwood didn’t answer. Burke opened his eyes. He was alone in the room. For a moment he wondered if he’d dreamed the whole encounter, a phantom companion to match his phantom toes. But he could still smell Bitterwood’s distinctive smell, a mixture of stale sweat and dried blood. Not for the first time in his life, Burke wondered if he’d done the right thing. He hadn’t known Jandra long, but he liked her, and judged her to be competent and sane. Had he done her any favors by putting this strange ghost onto her