The sounds of the city filtered up to her, and she felt, beneath her bare feet, the millions of footsteps that echoed across time - the daily commutes of farmers bringing grain and livestock, the oxen pulling loads, the excited children racing along with dogs, and long before then, the birds and the beasts who roamed the area in ages passed.

She felt the ebb and flow of past millenia, her eyes rolling vacantly behind her closed eyelids.

She was dimly aware of someone calling her name, but there were so many names; she couldn't remember which was hers. She couldn't guess when she was. The 'where' was still the same - the dusty little oasis that had sprouted a city amid the desert stretching south of the Sierra Midgradias. The name, like all names, didn't matter.

History was in her footprints, and she belonged to it, pulling, pushing, lost and losing, somewhere.

She felt her twin open her eyes on her cheek, eyes that tried and failed to work beyond underdeveloped eyelids. "Many beasts walk the path," she said, not sure to whom she spoke or why. "Many more run them."

"But what of the harvest!" someone shouted, but it could have been a voice from anywhen.

"The rains were dry, the winds were wet," Janice sing-songed quietly. "We'll get our harvest yet."

Someone touched her shoulder, and she fluttered her eyes open, feeling the briefest history of a single soul, all the dirty little secrets she kept for them. She never even let on. How nice of her.

As she came out of her trance, someone shook his head and sighed. "Mark us down for a famine," he said.

Someone else nodded, and Janice tied on her sandals.

Camphor stared up at the roof of his tent, an oxymoron to its very core. He was awake again, because he didn't need sleep. Casketmakers inherantly did not need sleep. Some slept because it kept them in touch with the mortal life. Some slept because they liked to sleep. Some slept because there was little else to do in a day. Some slept because it attracted less attention from mortals.

Camphor slept because it gave the copper ring less time to pull him places and drag him about.

Except now, his body would accept no more sleep. He had to move on. He couldn't stay one place for too long, and it would be only a day here, but there was no way he could explain an extended stay to travellers.

He rolled up his blankets and got dressed before stepping out into the daylight, a man-sized green dragon narrowing its eyes into his tent.

The tents stretched out as far as the eye could see. It was the Time of Trading, and the traders from all the tribes gathered to sell their wares. This was Gershwin's territory. He could turn a profit selling the air they all breathed.

Faivish's territory was still a hard ride, two days' westward, to the sprawling temple of the Hand of Fate.

Gershwin switched horses to a dun mare, and Faivish directed the stormy grey roan after him. They parted without a word, simply a twitter of whistles, and Gershwin was off to sell stolen horses and gather the news he knew was to be had.

Faivish had his own news to gather at the sanctuary. They had orders to receive, prayers to say, offering to give. Usually, they went together. At the Time of Trading, however, Gershwin came later. He would catch up, as always, in two days, if nothing went badly.

It hadn't yet, and they'd been doing this for three of the five years since they came to the Those That Stayed. Fate had made this so, and Fate could change all that in the briefest of instants. No amount of praying or worship would make it otherwise.

It was futile to explain it to an outsider. Fate simply replaced the shamanistic deification of nature that they left behind when they left the tribes. The pointless worship, the meaningless prayers, the well-won-or-lost offerings to a goddess who was deaf, dumb, and blind, yet the onlyi constant in this life.

If a man won the heart of his woman, it was Fate. If he died the next day, it was Fate. No other hand had been so interventionalist in his days.

And he'd felt her drive him.

He would never admit it to anyone, not even Gershwin. He felt her push, her not-so-subtle, jolting way of leading. She'd led men to their deaths, pushed them towards their own failings, or even rocky precipices before.

If he was to be a monster, to destroy everything he ever loved, so be it. If he was to burn the plains every inch of them in the height of summer, so be it. If he was to steal horses for the rest of his days, so be it.

They all had their parts to play, and Faivish was more than willing to take on the mantel of whatever duties Fate would thrust upon him.

He trusted her. It was the only thing in this universe he could do. She would put him where he needed to be, he would do what she needed. It was all he could hope to do.

...

He couldn't explain it to an outsider. What would be, would be. Life was not in his hands. He couldn't explain it any other way.

So he drove the horses to the west, towards the sanctuary of the Hand of Fate.

Camphor stared at them and sighed. "What?" he asked in a slightly testy manner.

"We wanted to be certain you were okay," Faline said, "so Quetz tracked you down. Are you okay? I mean, you were in there for two days at least."

"I was?" Camphor blinked. Well, no wonder he couldn't sleep. "I... uh... I've been a bit under the weather. It's no concern of yours."

Faline nodded. "Well, then we'll help you to your destination."

Camphor stared openly at her. "I'm not that sick that I can't walk with a cart to the next city."

"Well, no," Faline admitted in a sprightly tone. "But, then, we don't have to worry about how to occupy ourselves. And we won't have to worry about you in the back of our heads wondering, whatever became of that guy with the ..." she trailed off.

*Tent,* Quetz supplied.

Faline was staring around the little camp that Camphor had made for himself.

"Tools," said Quetz.

Faline stared around more, at the lack of fire, the tiny tent, the cart that very obviously used to be a casket, before he remembered how the joints worked in that style and he didn't need it anymore. Camphor stared at her patiently. The odds that she could guess at all were absolutely astronomical.

*Caskets,* Quetz continued to supply.

"I was going to say 'weird and surly disposition,'" Faline said, "but yeah. Any of those could work in its place. What kind of work do you do, Camphor?"

"I'm a Casketmaker," he said, wishing they would just go away and leave him to his misery.

"Huh. Where're you headed? Don't casketmakers usually set themselves up in one town their whole lives? Work with undertakers and stuff?"

"I make special caskets." Please, please, just... just go, he thought, feeling the despair start heeping upon him. He moved even more frequently than the usual Casketmakers did, mostly because people gave him pitying looks every time he started talking to them, hoping to outdistance himself from whatever forces pulled him around by this ring on his hand. He couldn't take the pity. He couldn't stand it.

But he couldn't stand the possibility that someday, he'd slip up, and things would start happening. What kind of things, he had no idea, but he was certain they wouldn't be good. He could still hear those words echoing through his head from when the ring fit his hand.

"And you drag all this stuff around with you?" Faline asked, staring at it.

Camphor nodded.

"Well, if you're sick, we'll help you move it to the next town!"

"I'm not that sick," Camphor continued to protest. Quetz glared over at him and snarled. Camphor met his gaze calmly. "I'm not."

*Do what the lady says,* Quetz threatened, *or I'll tear you limb from limb.*

Camphor considered this a moment. He could easily survive that. But, on the other hand, he would also give up his secert, which he didn't feel like sharing. "Fine," he said. A few days' worth of pitying looks and doting whatever by this girl and her pet dragon were going to be by far a good trade for keeping his secret safe.

"Fantastic! I'll help you pack!" Faline declared merrily, and began to do just that.

Camphor sighed and started taking down his tent. It was going to be a long couple of days.