9: The Iron Temple by Ginn Hale

were the ones that he’d worn the last three nights. They reeked of wine houses and sweat. The water in the tunnel had rinsed the stain from his hair. John pushed the damp blond curls back from his face. He pulled the hood of his coat up over the tangled mass.
    “Is there still blood on my face?” John asked Saimura quietly.
    “No.” Saimura glanced to John’s face. “There was a lot of blood on your old clothes, but you look fine now. You don’t still have any injuries, do you?”
    “No,” John said. “I was worried that I looked strange.”
    “Not too odd,” Saimura said. “You look like you could be one of the big men the house stewards hire for day labor. I don’t think anyone will take too much notice of you.”
    Still, they kept clear of the larger crowds of people. Saimura led him west, past closed shops. Painted signs hung over doorways, advertising jewelry, feather hats, embroidered coats, and tapestries. They passed a pastry shop. The smell of the wood oven and taye flour still hung in the air. John felt a brief nostalgia for the evenings he used to spend with Samsango in the monastery kitchens.
    “We aren’t going back to the Hearthstone?” John asked.
    “No, it’s too far from the prison,” Saimura whispered as they cut across a street. They stopped at the back gate of a large squat building that seemed to be another hostel. Plumes of smoke pumped up from the rows of chimneys that studded the building’s roof. Saimura pulled a service bell and then leaned back against the iron bars of the gate.
    “The Bousim rashan’im arrived at the Gisa stables this afternoon,” Saimura whispered. “Lafi’shir thinks they’ll take possession of Lon’ahma and the other women first thing tomorrow morning.”
    “How many rashan’im?” John asked.
    “Fenn counted eighty-nine at the city stables,” Saimura said.
    “Eighty-nine?”
    “I don’t think they’re taking any chances after what happened at Yah’hali Prison.”
    Someone opened a door in the back of the building. Bright yellow firelight poured out over the snow. Saimura said nothing more as a girl in a stained apron ran to the gate. Saimura told the girl that he and John were friends of Niru’lam’s. The girl said that they had been expected. She unlocked the gate and led them back into the big, humid kitchen.
    Women crowded the kitchen. Some worked over the open fires and iron stoves, stirring pots of sauces or frying large cuts of meat. Others stood at the big wooden table, chopping dried herbs. Three of them swung big cleavers through the butchered sides of sheep and dogs, chopping the carcasses into single servings. The smell of the kitchen was at once pleasantly sweet and also tainted with the harsh metallic odor of blood.
    An older woman with faded greenish tattoos across her fingers handed a room key over to Saimura. She waved her hand up and to the left as she told them that their room was on the second floor. A very nice room, she assured them. Dinner would be ready before the next bell. Men were already enjoying cups of warmed wine in the dining room, if they cared to join them. Saimura thanked the woman and he and John left the kitchen.
    The room was warmer and smaller than the one they had rented at the Hearthstone. John noticed the single bed but didn’t bother to comment. Saimura went to the tiny, slit window.
    “You can see the prison pretty well from here,” Saimura said. John joined Saimura at the window. He studied the prison, feeling the hard dark masses of spells engulfing and reinforcing the stone chambers.
    “Lafi’shir thinks that the rashan’im will collect the women at the prison’s back courtyard early in the morning to avoid any public protests.” Saimura pointed to a distant stretch of wall between two watchtowers. “Then they will most likely follow the Fountain Road straight out of Gisa.” Saimura traced the line of the road on the window glass.
    “Can we be sure of that?” John asked.
    “No,”