Archive of Our Own

Ziza Iyarinu was half-asleep, nodding over an alembic of butter of antimony when the bell on the outer door rang. She woke fully from her meandering thoughts of her father's research with a start and carefully made sure that everything was turned off in the work room before going through to see who it was, tossing her heavy, acid-pitted leather gloves onto the table by the door.

A young man, somewhere in his early twenties, stood in the shop looking around with interest. He seemed strangely familiar, although she was sure she hadn't seen him before. Perhaps he had recently moved into the area and she had passed him in the street? But no – he reminded her of home. She was instantly wary, looking at his dark hair and light eyes. His pale olive skin showed he was rich enough to have afforded a lifetime of proper sun protection and wasn't a local, with their deeper skin tones. He was dressed nicely, if plainly, in a dark red jacket with black trousers and boots. Good quality, better quality than most of her customers could afford but nothing flashy. His dark-brown hair was tied back in a simple braid, like he was a man of low status, but his ears were pierced and even with his sun protection there were some paler bands across his fingers. He wore no jewellery that she could see.

"Good day, Mistress, may all the gods keep you," he said politely, and there was an accent she hadn't heard for years. The cool plains and forests of the north were in that voice. She felt a niggle of something at the back of her mind, saying it was more than just the general accent of home. Maybe he was from her home town? "This is the shop of Iyarinu the alchemist and apothecary?"

"It is."

"I was hoping to speak with the alchemist. If it's convenient for him."

For a fleeting moment Ziza thought she would indeed claim an absent husband or father as a respectable shield for her work, then knew there was no point. A few minute's questions in the neighbourhood would bring him back to her door.

"I'm the alchemist."

He just looked at her. Then he took a step back.

"Oh," he said. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you." He turned to go.

Ziza felt a bitterness in her heart that she had all but forgotten. Things hadn't changed, that was obvious. What was learning and admirable in a man was still witchcraft for women. In sheer perversity she made sure her voice was cheerful as he reached the door.

"May the sun shine on your ways, sir!"

It was a pious wish and a language that hadn't passed her lips in years. He paused, his hand on the door, then left. Ziza went back to her work. She had customers and her studies to think of.

The next day she saw him loitering in the street. He passed her shop four times before he vanished. Ziza tidied away anything that might be remotely incriminating, although the local laws were nothing like those of home. Perhaps she should hire some security – this young man didn't have the air of a witch finder, but you could never be too careful. He might decide he had to rid the area of evil, now that he knew what she was. It was easy to conceal a knife. He could be carrying a weapon this very moment, ready to burst in on her. She should keep the shop door locked and open it only to trusted, known customers. Her shoulders sagged; if she did that she would lose the walk-in trade in people who wanted love philtres and abortifacients. And then not only would she lose money but the customers would go to someone who would give them something that wasn't just coloured sugary water for the first, and something very dangerous for the second. She decided that all she could do was hide a flask of oil of vitriol under the counter, and hope she got the chance to throw it at him if he came in to attack her.

He wasn't there at all the next day and she breathed a little easier. The vitriol got shoved a little further under the counter. Trade was brisk: there was a wave of minor illnesses in the city and people wanted cures and preparations to ease their aches. It left her no time for her studies, but it financed them nicely. She smiled as she thought of her father. What we want, Ziza, is for the people to be just poorly enough to want something to help, but not for them to be actually ill - Sungoddess forfend! - and need a doctor. She'd laughed at him and said he was as mercenary as a learned man as he'd been as a swordsman. She'd had high-minded ideals of always providing her services for free until she'd had to make her own way in the world. She missed him so much.

The next day the young man was back, still in his red jacket, which was looking creased and dusty by now. He stood outside the shop for a long time, shifting from foot to foot, until Ziza asked a customer to send him in. She took a good grasp of her flask of oil of vitriol as he entered.

"Can I help you?" she said firmly. "You seem to have need of an alchemist, the way you've been haunting my shop."

He looked everywhere but her face, his eyes shifting over the shelves with their jars neatly labelled in the local script, the stack of papers for wrapping prescriptions and writing charms, the door leading to the work room.

"Yes. I – that is, I was wondering if it's possible to buy oil of roses here?"

She looked at him.

"Oil of roses. Of course it's possible. How much?"

"Oh. I'm not sure. The smallest amount?"

She lifted down the large dark-brown glass jar and opened it, letting the smell of roses suffuse the room. In annoyance at his continued existence, she took a size up from her smallest vial and filled it with a dropper before putting the large jar back in its place. She handed the stoppered vial to him.

"Oil of roses. One star, please."

He dug out a handful of coins and began sorting through them carefully.

"It's the smaller of the two silver coins," she said. She hoped her voice adequately conveyed the sentiment of Bloody foreigners.

"Thank you," he said, and very carefully put the money away, along with the little vial. "It smells very nice."

"It does. I'm very skilled at its distillation. You can have it tested, there's nothing harmful in it."

He looked at her in surprise. "Why would I have it tested?"

"You didn't come in here to buy oil of roses! If you're looking for evidence of witchcraft you'll have to try harder. Take that to any other alchemist you like and they'll all tell you it's harmless. If you take me to court on a false charge I'll countersue."

"Oh no, I –"

He came forward, right up to the counter, and she pulled out the flask.

"Back off! There's nothing harmful in the vial, but there is in this. This will eat through your flesh down to the bones, and then it'll eat through your bones. And it isn't witchcraft either – ask your other alchemists about oil of vitriol."

He stepped back at once, his hands held up placatingly.

"Please, Mistress Iyarinu, I mean you no harm, I'm not here to cause trouble, I swear. I just heard that there was a Neshi alchemist in this part of the city and I came to visit. I admit I was surprised, but I should have remembered that the Musri have different views on what's proper for women."

She looked at him until his pale skin reddened in shame. She could own property in her own name here. She could leave that property to whomever she chose. She could attend classes in whatever subject she chose. She could practice alchemy. She could do many things she couldn't do at home, even if she had not been able to openly worship her own gods.

"What do you want?" she said, hating how good it was to speak her own language after so long, hating how it felt odd in her mouth. The last person she had spoken it with was her father, and she hated that the next time the forms for addressing men came from her lips it should be for anyone else.

"I need help," he said. "The Musri have killed all my friends and they're trying to kill me. Please, I beg you by the merciful Sungoddess, help me!" He held up his hands, empty and pleading, like a petitioner in the Temple of the Sun.

"Why would the Musri want to kill you?" she said. "There are Neshi merchants who live in their cities, one more can't make a difference. I've lived here openly for years and no one has ever said anything to me." It wasn't quite true, but he annoyed her with his pleading eyes and his dramatic turn of speech.

He looked at her in misery and hope, and she suddenly thought that this was a young man who hadn't eaten much that day or the days before, and that the silver star had perhaps represented more of his money than he had wanted to admit.

"I'm not a merchant," he said, and she recognised at last the fine accent of the high born in his speech, that she hadn't heard since her youth. "I'm Ayale, the son of the Great King Harranamuwa."

Ziza put the flask of vitriol down very carefully. She hadn't seen a royal portrait in years and had no idea how the Great King was shown in the current time. When she had last seen them – and they had been everywhere - the king had been a young man, some few years older than this young creature. His face had been on public buildings, in schools, on the money.

There was no denying the family resemblance. She had a prince of Neshi standing before her.

Ziza closed early for lunch, locking the door and pulling down the blinds. She kept sneaking looks at Ayale who stood there looking exhausted, as if telling the truth of his identity had worn him out. Finally she ushered him out of the shop and into the work room at the back, where he stared around in fascination. It was too intrusive for her liking, but she didn't want to take him up to the rooms over the shop where she lived. At last she brought him out to the tiny courtyard, and made him sit in the shade on the rickety bench she had always meant to replace. He sat there amidst the earwigs and spiders as politely as if she had offered him a seat in the greatest palace of the King of Musri.

"I'll get some food," she said. "Stay there. Please," she added, no longer sure what to say to an actual prince.

She fled indoors and up to her kitchen. In her icebox she had some small fish she had bought that morning for her dinner and more yoghurt than was sensible for any one woman. She fried the fish quickly, smashing a cucumber to mix into some yoghurt as a dressing. Bread. Bread. She couldn't have forgotten the bread again. Light of the Sungoddess – there it was. She tore the loaf in half; she'd need something to eat tonight. She poured hot water over a pot of dried lemon rind and herbs that she particularly liked, and got out her best glasses. Finally, in case he did not like the tea, she shook more yoghurt with water and rose-syrup and poured it into taller glasses, then piled the fish onto one plate, the bread on another and the yogurt dressing in a bowl and carried everything down on a tray.

Ayale had nice manners, beseeching her to eat first though he was obviously hungry, and needing to be persuaded to eat first as her guest. He ate carefully, sparingly, not devouring everything although she could see the difficulty of restraint. Blast. She might have to give up the other half of the loaf.

"Thank you," he said at last, leaving a few fish and a good chunk of bread. "That was very good." Yes, very polite. He'd been brought up properly.

"I'm mainly an alchemist, not a doctor," she said, "But as an apothecary I can write simple prescriptions. And the simplest of all is for hunger: please, finish the food. There is no need for social niceties."

"Thank you," he said humbly, and ate what was left.

They sat there and looked at each other wordlessly. A spider climbed on to his jacket.

"You'd better tell me what happened," she said at last. "I don't know if I can help you. I'll tell you that now. I've lived here for over twenty years, I don't know anything about politics back home."

"It's not politics at home," Ayale said. "You know the Musri king died?"

"Yes," she said dryly. "That I knew. It was hard to miss." The broadsheets had all had wide black banners printed across the top of each page; anyone involved in government work in any way had worn mourning from the moment of the official announcement up to the announcement of the new king; schoolchildren had sung hymns to the dead king for three months instead of receiving lessons and anyone with any sense had gone around with a long face in case their neighbours thought they looked too jolly and reported them. It had been very hard to miss.

"The queen," Ayale said, and licked his lips nervously. "The Musri queen wrote to my father and asked him to send her one of his sons. To marry. She said she was the only member of the royal family left and a commoner would force himself on her to gain the throne; she'd rather have a Neshi prince in her bed than a Musri commoner."

Ziza found that she had pressed a hand over her mouth. She hoped that his voice hadn't carried over the wall.

"But that's treason," she hissed. "The kingdoms have never made peace!"

Ayale nodded wearily. "My father had the matter examined and determined she was telling the truth. He thought it was a chance to influence Musri at the very least. He had no intention of sending an important son on such an insane mission, of course, so I was chosen." He laughed bitterly. "I'm just the son of a very minor wife, one where no one can even remember the reason for the marriage. My father packed her off to be dedicated as a devotee of the Sungoddess years ago."

"The queen changed her mind, then?" Ziza said. "We expect a new enthronement within the month, as soon as she's finished her ritual purification. It's in all the papers."

"I have no idea," Ayale said. "We – my people and I – we were met at the borders by a unit of Musri soldiers, and twice their number of officials and priests. They were all dressed like it was a holiday, in bright colours and with flowers in their hair. The soldiers' pistols were tied up in their holsters with ribbons, their swords were tied in the scabbards. I thought that was a charming detail. I'm such a fool. We travelled together in peace then – when there was no chance of anyone making it back to the border - the captain just yelled an order. They cut their guns free and started killing us. They'd been laughing and joking with us for days and they started killing everyone. I'd been told that Musri guns can fire more often than ours before reloading but when I saw what that meant for my people -" He looked at her with an expression of deepest guilt. "My chief bodyguard took my horse's reins and forced me to ride with him as fast as we could. I left everyone else to die."

"What could you do?" Ziza said numbly. "Where's your bodyguard?"

"I don't know. We got to the city and he sold the horses and my jewels. He said they were too distinctive. He bought us different clothes and some food and found a room. He went out a couple of days ago to get us more food and never came back."

"Would he betray you?"

"No," Ayale said, with the fervency of someone who had never seen torturers at work.

Ziza chewed her lip. There was a more important question.

"Did you ever tell him about wanting to come here?"

"No, I heard about you after Kasiyara vanished. I found a broadsheet with your advertisement in it. It didn't say you were Neshi, but your name -"

Ziza sat back. The sensible thing to do would be to turn Ayale in. He was an enemy of the state, come to overthrow the new rightful king. She had lived in Musri longer than she had lived in Neshi; she owed neither Ayale nor the Great King any loyalty. If she was found to have helped him she would suffer along with him. She tried not to think what would happen to anyone who helped an enemy of the state; she was not a brave woman. Whatever had happened politically had already happened: the queen had gone into seclusion the official announcement had said. She grieved for her lost husband. And then, suddenly: the queen had found new reason to live and would marry again and the prime minister would be king. Ayale would never be king here, never be king at home. He was just a very young person whom no one respectable wanted, an embarrassment who shouldn't really exist.

It all sounded depressingly familiar.

She closed her eyes. Why should this fall to her? She had no help to give. She was just a woman alone in the world. Her father could have helped, he had been clever and brave. In his youth he had been a famous swordsman who had known how to do unexpected things. No one had expected him to turn from the sword and become a great alchemist, or to leave his home to be an unknown foreign alchemist and self-trained apothecary in an enemy land for the sake of his daughter's education. She still felt like a child when she thought of him. If only he could be there. She should have saved him. She was clever like him even if she wasn't brave. Just not clever enough when faced with that final foe that no alchemist, no magician, no doctor could vanquish. She still should have saved him.

She thought of herself that morning, standing in the street, her hands tangled in her own hair, her mouth open, shrieking at the sky as the neighbours gathered around uselessly to try to comfort her, to say he was no longer in pain, to say she had always been a good daughter.

A good daughter would have done better.

She opened her eyes. She had not saved her father; not even the most skilled fighter or learned man can evade death for ever, but here was another person looking at her in hope, speaking the language of her childhood. She could try again. She could work for a different outcome.

"I've mentioned now and then that I have family back in Neshi," she said. "I've told my friends we have no contact and don't know each other any more. You'll have to remember to say that you're my cousin's son, who has come to meet me to try to mend the break in the family. I don't mean to be disrespectful by that, but I can't be calling you "Highness" in front of people."

"I can remember," he said eagerly. "You'll help me then?"

"I was taught to use my skills to help people," she said. "I'll do my best. First – can you leave anything back in the room where you've been staying?"

"Yes!"

"Good. You can't go back there. You have to act as if your friend has been arrested. He'll tell them everything, I'm afraid. He won't be able to help it."

Ayale's face fell, but it was better to get the unpleasantness out quickly. She picked up the tray and led him back indoors. He looked around the kitchen in astonishment as if he'd never seen such a room before. He probably hadn't. The sitting room seemed more to his liking with its low settee and small bookcase. He peered at the books and backed away as he realised they were all alchemical texts.

"That's my bedroom," Ziza said, pointing at the final room. "You'll sleep here in the sitting room. Or the shop, if you prefer. The outhouse is in the courtyard so I might have to wander through the sitting room at night. You'll understand when you're older. Now, let's get the story straight: our grandmothers were sisters, you've travelled here to visit me because you're a wild youth out to see the world. You are now my apprentice."

"I can't learn alchemy from a woman!" Ayale said.

"Probably not, it requires a certain level of intelligence. No, wipe that look off your face, that's the look of an offended prince. Try for more of a pout. I told you, I don't practice witchcraft – I do exactly what my father did. He's the one who taught me. And I'll teach you to at least know a few terms so you can survive, all right?"

"All right," Ayale pouted.

She smiled at his face and on a whim said what she was later sure she would regret.

"And call me Aunt."

After a couple of days, he moved his rug and coverlet down to the back of the workroom, sweeping out a little nook for himself where he could sleep in privacy, undisturbed by her wandering through at night in search of either the outhouse or a cup of tea, followed by the outhouse. Ziza felt a little pleasure at the thought of a prince – a real son of the Great King – sweeping her floor, then felt pride that her countrymen were so sensible and not given to putting on airs. At least, they were not given to putting on airs once they had been firmly reminded that apprentices swept the floor, not those with their names over the shop door. Ayale had grimly taken the broom and now that end of the workroom was much cleaner than any other spot.

He rose early in the morning and drank tea with her, nodding seriously as she described some common preparation: a simple solvent, or a mixture of herbs to relieve some minor ailment, or even the sights of the city that he might be expected to know. When she quizzed him later he rarely got any detail wrong.

Ayale was bright enough to make a good student she had to admit, memorising the names and prices of her common stock quickly. She made no attempt to hide his presence, cheerfully waving him over to deal with easy customers or introducing him to those who had long since become friends.

"Aneksi, dear, come and see how hard my cousin works," she laughed as Ayale struggled with a broom. "He came all the way from my family's home to get to know me and I've given him a job."

"You must be glad to be in a free country now, young man," Aneksi said. "What a nice boy he is, Ziza. He really looks like you."

"It's fascinating here, mistress," Ayale said.

"His accent is so funny," Aneksi giggled. "I don't think yours was ever so bad, Ziza! Young man, give me a wrap of headache powders, please."

"At once, mistress," Ayale said, and abandoned his broom with alacrity. He handed over the twist of paper and smiled with great politeness. "I know my aunt wouldn't want me to charge you."

Aneksi went off happy. Ziza shook her head in amusement.

"Don't do that too often. We have to eat. And save up enough to get you home."

"Wouldn't it be safer if no one knew I was here?"

"What? If you hid like a criminal? Neither of us have anything to be ashamed of, Ayale. You are my younger cousin come to get to know a relative living abroad. I am training you in a respectable trade."

"When will you teach me to transmute base metals to gold, Auntie?"

"At some point after you've mastered the proper sweeping of floors and accepting of money for goods."

Ayale looked at her with deep respect. "Can you do it? Can you transmute lead to gold?"

Ziza laughed. "If I could do that, would I sell headache powders to finance my studies? You confuse philosophical discourse with material reality, Ayale. And you're ready for neither of them. We can have another lesson in distillation tonight, if you like."

"You could just make brandy. That would sell for more money than headache powders."

"I did make brandy, for an entire year. It tasted like horse urine. I swore off it after that."

"Did anyone buy it?"

"A few desperate people. I felt guilty about selling it to them, so I drank it myself. But you can feel sorry for yourself for only so long. Now I only make alcohol as I need it for alchemical pursuits."

He went back to sweeping the floor, muttering something about a wasted opportunity. She had never suspected the royal family of being such eager barkeepers.

Ayale had been in the shop for nearly two weeks when the first sign of trouble came. The door opened and a man and woman entered. They were outfitted in anonymous, government homespun tunic and trousers. It was meant to show the humble nature of the government, the servants of the people. It was widely taken as the uniform of the secret police.

"Good afternoon," the man said. "You are the alchemist?"

"Yes," Ziza said. "I'm Ziza Iyarinu."

"We're carrying out a survey in the area. To assess the success of the broadsheets in providing news on the upcoming enthronement."

"I've certainly read about it," Ziza said.

"Excellent," the man said with a slight smile. "Might I see your registration papers so I can tick your establishment off?"

Ziza took her papers out of the cash box and handed them over.

"And you?" the woman said to Ayale.

"I saw the news in the broadsheet too," he said. He'd managed to tone down his accent a bit, thank the Sungoddess.

"You're both Neshi? Could I see your registration papers too, please?"

Ayale calmly walked to the cashbox and pulled papers out. The woman looked very disappointed as she scanned through them and handed them back.

"You're registered as the alchemist's apprentice," she said. "What would you recommend for troubled sleep?"

"Perhaps a tincture of valerian in water, mistress," he said. "It's quite effective. Or oil of lavender, sprinkled on your pillow. Shall I fetch them for you?"

"Not today," she said.

They turned and left. Both Ziza and Ayale let their breath out.

"And that's why we didn't hide your presence from my friends," Ziza said.

Ayale nodded faintly. They had gone to the local registry armed with sworn statements from Ziza's friends as to his identity and good character to make up for his own lack of documents. The scribe on duty that day had enjoyed his chance to lecture a young foolish man for losing his purse in a drunken gambling match with his documents still inside it, and Ayale had been convincingly contrite. Afterwards, Ziza had excused herself and thrown up from sheer stress, but Ayale had his documents, stamped and sealed.

"They know you're somewhere in the city," Ziza said. "They want to wrap things up neatly before the enthronement. A stray Neshi prince is embarrassing and dangerous."

"My father must know that things have gone wrong," Ayale said. "Why doesn't he do something?" He leaned on the counter, glaring down as if the wood held the secrets he sought. "He doesn't even want peace with Musri. He could accuse them of my murder and go to war!"

"Is that what you want?" Ziza said. "A lot more people than your friends would die then. Maybe my cousins at home would die. Maybe your brothers would die – maybe you want that. You might end up as Great King."

"No thanks," Ayale said. "Look what that did to my father."

Ziza emptied out the cashbox. This, plus the savings she had for her studies would get them much of the way back to the Neshi capital on donkeys. That was far too slow. Would it be enough to buy horses? She wasn't even very skilled at riding a horse. She'd come to Musri sitting on a cart. She put the money away again.

"You could stay in Musri, you know," she said. "Maybe not here, but in another city. You have documents, you could live however you wanted. After the new king's enthroned you'd most likely be left alone. Especially now that you've been seen to be a harmless alchemist by those two."

"What about my family?" Ayale said.

"You wouldn't have to worry about your father using you like this again."

"He's my father! And the Great King! I might not like it but –"

"His laws make it illegal for women to be alchemists or doctors," Ziza said in irritation. "Exactly the same actions as a man does are classified as witchcraft when performed by a woman. I could be hanged for being educated."

Ayale didn't say anything. After a little he tidied things up and even swept the floor, more or less. He looked at his hands, at the walls, at anything but her. Then he said, "This isn't my home. I'm sorry. I know it's yours, but I just want mine."

Ziza nodded. "Yes. I know. Come on, let's go into the work room. I want to teach you some distillation. We're making more oil of vitriol. You never know when it comes in useful."

"I heard of some Neshi being picked up by the police in the area," Aneksi said two days later when she came in for more headache powders. "They weren't decent people like you, young thugs from what I heard. Ayale here is making something of himself but some men his age are just hooligans."

"I'm sure we're better with people like that off the streets," Ziza said. I needn't tell you I feel a lot more Musri than Neshi after all this time! And I'm sure Ayale will feel that way too." She glared at Ayale behind her friend's head and he made a polite, noncommittal sound.

"Oh, Ziza, I don't mean to offend you! You know no one thinks of you as anything but local! Oh dear," Aneksi said, looking alarmed.

"Don't be silly," Ziza said and gave her friend a hug. "I could never think anything but the best of you. Ayale, fill a large vial of oil of roses for Aneksi."

"Oh, no, no."

"I insist. Look how much is in the jar! Ayale, have you transmuted into a snail?"

"Sorry, Auntie. Now, Mistress Aneksi, use it in good health!"

When Aneksi had gone Ziza looked at him defensively.

"She didn't mean to be rude."

"I know. She was warning us to keep looking respectable."

Ziza rubbed at her face, wondering if the two young men would ever be seen again, or if they would have all their fingers and toes if they were released. She was going to have to be braver than she was being. She couldn't bear to have the death of who knew how many young men laid on her. She had to get Ayale out of the city and visibly back in Neshi, as soon as possible. She had the money in the cashbox, and what she had laid by for her own studies and – She drew breath. If she sold her equipment. Not all of it. Just what she didn't need for her everyday life. She would build up her savings again, buy more equipment in time. She would keep the books. And Ayale would go home and be safe.

"Are you all right? You look sad."

"I'm about to transmute metal to something far more precious."

"What? Can I watch?"

"No. You need to stay here. And pack my books up in satchels. All of them. I don't want them on view."

She made a list, neat and annotated, and then went to her nearest competitor, to offer him her equipment. She bargained hard and came away with two of his strongest men to guard her carrying a large bag of money, pulling a handcart behind them. Ayale watched in silent alarm as she directed them in what to pack onto the cart and they left.

"What have you done?" he said in horror when they were gone.

"I'm getting you out of here. It's obvious that you'll be picked up sooner or later. We leave at first light."

That evening she went to Aneksi's house and pressed a key to the shop into her friend's hand.

"I don't understand, why are you going so quickly?" Aneksi said.

"Ayale has been asking every day since he arrived for me to go home and make peace with my family," Ziza said. "He says my great-aunt is on the point of death, but can't die happy without seeing me. I'll go to visit them, but I'll be back. This is my home, Aneksi! Please, look after the shop for me. The headache powders are clearly marked, in the yellow box, help yourself."

"You are coming back?" Aneksi said, bewildered, and in a small, shamed voice, "It’s not because of what I said earlier, is it? I'm so sorry, Ziza."

"Oh, Aneksi," Ziza said. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Of course it's not because of anything you said. I just need to see my family while I can still travel."

She kissed her friend and hurried home. Ayale had packed up all her books. Good – she was unwilling to leave them behind. Who knew when she'd be back, the new king might close the borders. She opened a chest that she had left closed for years, and drew out plain, respectable men's clothing. It was very out-of-style but the moths had been kept at bay by her sachets of cedar and her own concoctions.

"Ayale," she said. "Wear these, no one will have seen you in clothes like these."

"There's a reason for that," he muttered, but quietened down at her look.

She took more for herself, holding them up to herself to see how much she would have to shorten the legs. At the bottom, under a long jacket and a neatly folded short cloak was a sword. It could never be mistaken for a Musri blade, its long slender double-edged blade coming to a needle-like point.

"Can you use this?" she said, holding it up. Her father had foresworn it when he turned to the arts of learning, but he had never been able to bring himself to sell it, even when they had needed the money.

Ayale looked at it in her hand, still in perfect condition, a sword that had cost as much as a fine horse and that had seen a lot of battle and something in his eyes flickered.

"Iyarinu," he said slowly. "Your father was Paiya Iyarinu."

"Yes," she said, still holding the sword that had once saved his grandfather's life. "Do you want to take this?"

Ayale gently took it from her, the hilt fitting his hand as perfectly as measuring tools and scales fitted hers.

"Yes," he said.

At dawn they stood in the centre of the shop. Ziza was weighed down under satchels of books and could hardly move. She wanted to cry. There was no way she could bring the books. Ayale looked at her and seemed to come to a decision.

"Can you give me some of the money?" he said. "I won't be long."

"We have to go!"

"Yes. But we need a way to leave. I promise I'll be all right. Everyone knows me in the neighbourhood. Pack up more food or something, Auntie. I'll be back before you know it."

"Don’t treat me like a doddering old woman," she muttered as he took some of the larger silver coins and slipped out the door. She stalked back into the work room and in sheer pique filled a carrying box with straw and nestled flasks of vitriol in it. There. Let the police come for them now. As an afterthought she put the razor-sharp heavy knife she used for cutting elements into small pieces through her belt. Then she packed some more bread. Then she used the outhouse. Then she stood there and fretted.

When the door opened again she almost shrieked in fright, but it was Ayale, grinning in triumph.

"Ready?" he said.

There were two enormous horses standing outside. Ziza gaped at them.

"What are these?"

"In my country we call them horses."

"Don't be so cheeky! I can't ride all the way to Neshi! How are we going to put the things on them? Do we tie the bags to the saddles or what? Don't tell me you do that yourself at home," she said in their own language.

"Auntie," Ayale said in the same language, hoisting her satchels up over one horse's back. "I may be a prince, but I'm a Neshi prince. I promise you I know one end of a horse from the other."

The bags seemed to magically be staying where he'd attached them. Ziza still had no intention of getting up there herself. Ayale linked his hands and looked at her expectantly.

"Come on, Auntie."

"I regret ever telling you to call me that."

"One foot in my hands. No, the other foot. The other leg goes over the horse, all right?"

"All right," Ziza said in trepidation and he boosted her straight up. She landed in the saddle and he shoved her feet into the stirrups one after the other.

"Just follow me," he said. "I can put you on a lead rein if you need it, but you should be all right." He mounted the other horse and moved off. Her horse went after him as she clung on for dear life. By the time they were in the outskirts of the city she was feeling more confident and less like the motion of the horse was designed to make her fall off.

"How on earth did you buy horses and saddles so quickly?" she said. "The market must barely have been open."

"By not really bargaining," he said. "How much do you want? Done! I bargained a little, just for the sake of pride, but I didn't waste any time. They're good animals, though. I might not be a natural alchemist but I do know horses."

"We're going to be very sore by the time we get to Neshi," Ziza sighed.

Ayale laughed. "You'll get used to it. Hey, what's in that long box?"

"Vitriol."

He whistled. "I'm glad I put it on my horse if we have to have it at all. Do we have to have it?"

"No. But we might keep it until the border."

"Whatever you want, Auntie."

The first evening was agony. They stopped early as Ziza couldn't go on a moment longer and needed to be lifted down by Ayale. He helped her lie down on the grass and unsaddled the horses, stacking the bags neatly. She thankfully accepted a piece of bread as the horses cropped the grass peacefully. It was such a relief not to be sitting in the saddle any more. After a while she stiffly got up and walked around to try to prevent her muscles from seizing up completely. Too much time spent sitting at work benches, that was her problem. A young, active creature like Ayale had no problems at all. It was dispiriting how very bouncy the young could be. Finally, having walked and tried some painful exercises she sat again and they ate some more of their stores and drank a cup each of the wine brought for the journey. It made it seem more like a picnic than a hurried flight.

"Don't stint with the food," she said. "We'll buy more along the way. We need to keep our strength up."

"I just really hate boiled eggs," Ayale said sheepishly, and handed his share over to her.

"You have only yourself to blame when I fart all day tomorrow," she said and grinned at his expression.

The next day's riding was even worse, and she dosed herself with her own painkillers. At noon she got down and walked, slowly and painfully, for a mile, rather than stay in the saddle another minute. That evening she carefully applied numbing creams to her legs and buttocks and felt ill at the merest touch to her flesh. The next day was somehow not as bad, and by mid-afternoon they had reached a small town. Vacancies a sign read in a window and by wordless agreement they stopped at once. Hot food for dinner and a bath and soft bed worked an alchemical miracle and in the morning she felt renewed. Swallowing the last of her breakfast she found she could grin at Ayale, eager to be on the road again. He went to fetch the horses from the livery stable while she settled up in the boarding house and they were soon heading out of town, stopping quickly at a shop to buy more provisions.

Ziza found her good mood ebb away as she noted a woman in government homespun sitting on a bench outside the shop as she exited. The woman didn't say anything, but looked at her as she passed the bag of food to Ayale to be secured with their other belongings.

"Did you see her?" she murmured as he boosted her into the saddle.

"Mmmm-hmm," he said. "She's paying close attention."

"Let's go," Ziza said anxiously.

An hour into their travel they knew they were being followed. They kept moving, hoping to put as much distance between them and their pursuers as possible, but they could see the group of people following growing closer.

"We're going to have to speed up," Ayale said. "And maybe lose some weight."

Ziza thought of her books in agony. Her father had never been able to give up his sword; how could she give up her books, which had been his too?

"Can we just go faster?" she said hopefully.

"Hold on," Ayale said, and urged his horse to a trot.

Ziza groaned at the new gait. It was very uncomfortable and jolted her spine with every step. Then Ayale's horse moved into a canter and hers followed to keep up. It was less of a jolting movement than the trot, more like she was being rocked, but she felt terribly uneasy, as the ground was eaten up with every stride of the horse's legs. She was going too fast, she would fall and break her neck. Ayale looked back, his face grim and his horse suddenly lengthened its stride, its hooves hitting the ground in a fast 1-2-3-4 rhythm and she shrieked as they galloped full out.

"I can't hold on!"

"Yes, you can!"

There was a loud report from behind them and she realised that at least one of their pursuers had a gun. They knew who Ayale was then, that was certain. She hung on as the horses sped across the ground, but knew it was hopeless. Their pursuers' animals hadn't been travelling for days and weren't carrying heavy bags. She'd been a fool not to allow Ayale to dump the books. Now they were as good as dead.

A man was beside her. He reached across and grabbed the reins right out of her hands, pulling her horse's head around. Both animals skidded to a stop, rolling their eyes at each other.

"No!"

To Ziza's horror, Ayale pulled up ahead and looked around.

"Go!" she yelled. "Go on!"

"Not a second time!" he shouted, and came back, fast.

"Take him alive!" a woman's voice snapped.

Ziza saw the moment had arrived, like in experiments when she watched for the transmutation of an element from liquid to gas. One had to be precise, and seize the moment when it came. At this moment, the man holding her horse's reins was looking not at her but at Ayale. She pulled the sharp, heavy-bladed knife from her belt, the one she cut up tough ingredients with, and chopped it down with all her strength at his wrist. It didn't go all the way through, but far enough, cutting through flesh and tendons, through veins and down into the bone, leaving his hand flapping uselessly from the end of his arm like a macabre decoration sewn in red to the end of his sleeve. He screamed and she tugged the knife free. A moment more and she had slid from her horse and was staggering away, making herself as small a target as she could.

She saw Ayale run another man through with her father's sword, and thought of how he had oiled and sharpened it with care. He was fighting the third man now – it was just that man and the woman who were left. The woman had the gun.

Ziza didn't want to go anywhere near the fight. She had been taught to use her skills to help, not to harm. Her father had given up the sword. But Ayale was fighting to save her, and she had said she would help him. She tightened her grip on her knife and crept closer. The woman glared at her and looked back at Ayale.

"Stay back, woman! I will shoot you, don't think I won't!"

Ziza withdrew, an expression of fright on her face. She held up her hands. Look. She was just a useless, middle-aged woman. Not like an athletic government agent. Just a sedentary, ridiculous shopkeeper not worth bothering with. She could be dealt with later, surely? Yes. So it seemed. She had managed to back off nearly all the way to the actual fight. She turned and sprinted up to Ayale's horse, which made an alarmed noise and tried to get away from her and to obey Ayale and stay where it was all at the same time.

"What are you doing, Auntie?" he yelled. "Get the hell away from here!"

The horse snorted and jittered around as if it were saying the same thing as she slipped the blade of her knife under the cord securing the carrying box of flasks to it and cut it with one swift movement. She grabbed at the box as it slid free but it still landed all too hard on the ground with an ominous crash. Oh no, no. At least one flask had definitely broken in there and there would be shards of glass and more horribly oil of vitriol loose amidst the straw. She was going to have to reach in there without any protective gloves. She used her knife to flick back the catch on the lid and to carefully open the box. It was both worse and better than she had expected. Of the five flasks nestled in the straw, two were broken, the liquid in them mostly gone from what remained of the bottom of the flasks, but both were right at the end of the box, where it had hit the ground. The other three seemed undamaged. But they could be soaked in oil of vitriol.

Ayale yelled in pain and she looked up to see the government man jerk his sword back from Ayale's arm. She had to do it. Trying not to think, she picked up the two flasks furthest from the breakage by their necks and unstoppered them. She cautiously picked one up and shuddered to see drops of liquid drip from its underside.

"What are you doing, Neshi?"

She looked up to see the woman had dismounted and come up behind her. She had a twisted sneer on her lips as if Ziza really was nothing more than a hapless middle-aged fool in her eyes.

"Seeing if the treasure is unbroken," Ziza said.

"What? Out of the way."

Ziza moved, and hoping that the Sungoddess remembered those living in far off lands, picked up the flask that had been at the very end of the box. She flung it right in the woman's face and wiped her hand convulsively in the grass as the woman started screaming in a horrible high-pitched tone. Her hand wasn't burning at all, she realised; the flask had been completely dry. The woman screamed and screamed, her hands clawing uselessly at her face. Ziza looked at the bubbling jellied mess where her eyes had been, the raw, red ruin of the flesh and the dark hollows where the vitriol had eaten away her nose and cheek to expose bone and teeth beneath. It was awful, and she should not look away. She had only ever read about the effects of vitriol, never seen what it could do to living flesh and had not pictured the truth. This was what made her people call woman alchemists witches.

"What happened to her?" Ayale said in disgust and pity, coming up behind her.

"That's what oil of vitriol does," Ziza said. She felt light-headed. He would hate her now.

"Is there a cure?"

"Not for that amount, not in that concentration. It was very pure."

"Look away," Ayale said, so she did.

The screaming stopped, all at once. She felt herself being helped up and looked into Ayale's light eyes. Soon he would remember that she had threatened him with vitriol and would picture himself in the dead woman's place. She tried to armour her heart against the moment.

"Are you hurt?" he said gently.

She wept, because she deserved to be hated for what she had just done. She shook her head.

"I know that you're hurt," she said.

"If you could take a look. I'd be grateful," he said. "I don't think it's much. Look, Auntie, between us, we got them all. You're a warrior!"

She looked around. The woman was lying huddled in the grass, the man whose hand she had cut had crawled off a distance and was no longer moving. The other two men, Ayale had killed. Ziza felt sick. Ayale sat her down gently on the grass, facing away from the bodies.

"I feel like I've had some small measure of vengeance for my friends' death," he said. "I hope you don't despise me for that."

"I hope you don't despise me for what you've seen my arts can do," she said, looking at the horizon. "My father used to say that vengeance wasn't worth the getting," she said after another moment.

"Forgive me," Ayale said, "But my family doesn't think like that."

"Does that mean it'll be war once your father has to officially notice what happened?" Ziza said.

"I don't know," Ayale sighed. "Please don't poison me before I get home, Auntie. Or if you have a choice, in fact please do use poison before you use vitriol. Wait, stop, don't cry any more! I was joking!"

He put an awkward arm about her shoulder until she had herself under control again. She wiped her eyes and climbed up. She fetched her stock of painkillers and salves, and looked at the cut on his arm. It wasn't deep, so she contented herself with cleaning it and smoothing a thick layer of protective ointment over it before bandaging it carefully.

"What do we do now?" she said.

"We take their horses," he said at once.

"All of them?" Ziza looked at the horses in alarm. Two of them had been enough for her, but to have another four -

Ayale nodded. "They might stay near the bodies, but they might head back to town and their familiar stables. Let's take them and hope that it gives us a little more time before anyone notices that our pursuers have vanished." He gave her dubious expression a smile of encouragement. "We'll move faster if we have unburdened horses to change to. Not hugely faster, but it will give all of them rest periods not to carry us. And we can sell them as we need the money."

Ziza nodded. "What about the gun?" she said, pointing at the woman.

Ayale looked dubious. "Is it safe to touch the body?"

"Anywhere it isn't wet."

"All right."

He knelt and cautiously unholstered the pistol and took a small pouch of bullets from her belt.

"Can you fire one of these?" he asked.

"No," Ziza said.

"I've done it a few times. Musri guns are a different design, but it shouldn't be a problem. I'll hold on to it." He looked at the box and the flasks. "Can we leave these behind?"

"Yes. They're too dangerous. And it makes me sick to think of."

She helped him round up all the horses and distribute their load more evenly amongst them. Then he boosted her back into her saddle and mounted his own horse. They rode off slowly, the four horses behind them on a long rope. Ziza watched Ayale carefully, but he seemed calm and not in too much pain. When they stopped for a rest she felt around the area of the wound, but it was cool to the touch.

"I think you're all right," she said. "If infection sets in I have a couple of things I can use, but a doctor would be much better."

"Obviously someone called ahead to that town in case we passed through," Ayale said. "We'll have to hope that further towns weren't called. They must have expected to catch us quickly. Don’t you think that's so?"

"You said we'd be faster with these horses," she said. "Do you think we could get ahead of any call that had been made?"

"We could probably outpace where they think we should be, yes. We're still going at a horse's walking pace, you've seen that, it's just we can go for longer each day."

"Then we should go on," she said in determination.

They changed to new horses and went on. It didn't gain them much more travel time, Ziza thought. The horses still needed to feed themselves, which took the same amount of time.

"We're a few miles further on than we would have been," Ayale said. "It's a help."

"I'll believe you, you’re the horse expert," Ziza said.

"That's right, Auntie."

They slept in exhaustion after their evening meal, and woke early. Ayale winced as he moved his arm and Ziza checked the wound uneasily, finding it warmer than the evening before.

"I'm going to clean it again," she said. "It'll sting, I'm going to use a powder on it."

"All right," he said. "It's throbbing. I need to be able to ride and fight if needed."

She lit a small fire and put water on it to boil, then unwrapped the bandage and looked at the liquid weeping from the cut. He kept quiet as she washed it in the boiled water and put a paste of healing powder and the water over it before bandaging it again. It wasn't much; the powders were for very minor cuts, not for sword slashes, even shallow ones.

"Take this too," she said, mixing another powder into water. "It'll help with the pain. Not much, perhaps, but it'll help."

"This is one of the headache powders," he said, looking at the paper.

"Yes. Well done. You've been a good apprentice."

"I've enjoyed it," he said. "You've been a good teacher." He put his uninjured hand on hers. "I'll try to get the law changed, Auntie. I'll ask my father. He'll have to see it's not fair to call all learned women witches."

"It doesn't matter," she said. "It's just how the world is. You should probably stop calling me that. I'll need to get used to calling you Highness."

"I'm still your apprentice," he said. "For the moment at least. Let's not worry about anything else until we have to."

"All right," she said, glad not to lose what she had found just yet. It was almost like having a small family back again. It was wrong to think that way, dangerous. She didn't give a damn that Ayale was a prince, she just liked him – but everyone else at home would care very much indeed.

They loaded up the horses and mounted. Another long day lay ahead.

Two days later they skirted a village and rode on towards the large town they could see in the distance. When they reached it they rode around the outskirts for a while, and then Ziza took the three horses laden with their belongings and went to a livery to stable them for the night. Ayale took the others and headed for another livery that they had spotted. Ziza hauled their bags out of the livery and sat on them, waiting and fretting. She had become convinced that Ayale had been arrested, interrogated and executed by the time he strolled down the street and raised a cheerful hand to wave to her.

"Let's find somewhere to stay," he said, draping two bags over her shoulders and lifting the others himself.

"Did you sell them?"

"Everything. I was robbed – a hundred and seventy moons for everything." He smiled at her worried expression. "Don't look so sad, Auntie. We've made better time than anyone could expect, and now we've made ourselves look different again. Our trail was obvious, with six horses. With three we'll be an entirely different pair of travellers."

"Should we even stay in town tonight?" she said. "You'll be memorable, selling three horses and their tack."

"I'm going to hope that any pursuit thinks we've split up," he said. "Maybe we should stay in different places."

"I don't think I'd be able to sleep at all if I didn't know where you were," she said.

"Why, Auntie! I thought my charms were a little travel-worn."

"Idiot," she muttered. "I'm just trying to take care of my wild-natured nephew."

They hauled the bags to a cheap hotel and soon were eating their way through more food than Ziza had ever managed to consume before their travels started. She scooped up the last of her spiced mutton and aubergines with the flatbread and gulped down the sour lemonade the maid had brought without asking. Finally they both had large plates of a sweet date and almond cake, with wine that Ayale insisted on ordering.

"Musri wine," he said quietly. "It's just sugar."

"I'm used to it," Ziza said. "Imagine: if things had gone to plan, you'd have become used to it too."

Ayale grimaced. "There's a limit to how much food made of date syrup a man can stomach."

She laughed a little as she sipped her drink, and then her laughter died. They would hopefully reach the border soon, and Ayale would be safe. She would have to stop being familiar with him; she was just a commoner, engaged in illegal activities. Once he was across the border she could head for home. She closed her eyes. She hoped that it would be safe, back in her shop. That she wasn't marked as an enemy of the state. Perhaps Aneksi would hide her. They'd known each other a long time; surely she could depend on her friends to help her -

"-tie? Auntie? Are you asleep?"

"No. I was just wondering how early we should set out tomorrow. Perhaps I should try to find an apothecary now rather than in the morning."

"Are you hoping to transmute something to gold before bedtime?"

"Not all apothecaries are alchemists! My father and I sold medicines to finance our studies."

"Sell," he said. "You sell medicines. You're not giving up, are you?"

She smiled at his serious face, browner now after days of travel in the sun. It was good to hear someone from Neshi speak approvingly of her work, not that she had any hope of him actually being able to change the situation for women in any way. Even princes had limits on their powers, especially disposable princes like Ayale.

"Go in the morning," he said. "Let's get a proper rest. In the morning you buy medicines and get the horses, I'll buy food, and we'll go."

Ziza thought she was too worried to sleep, but the moment she lay down she knew no more until morning. She took half the money that Ayale had got from the selling the horses and went in search of an apothecary after they had eaten an early breakfast.

"Powders for pain," she started, "And iodine for cuts, please, with clean cloth for bandages." As the old man arranged what she wanted she reeled off her list, and paid everything in shiny silver moons.

"It's a lot of bandages and iodine, mistress," he said. "Let alone everything else."

"I find my bones ache these days," she said with a shrug. "As for the others, I am trying to teach my youngest daughter to fillet fish. She cares only for dancing – the knife slips so often it's a wonder she has any fingers left."

He shook his head as he wrapped everything neatly. "I don't understand the young people today, mistress. I obeyed my parents in everything and I'm sure you did the same."

They both sighed a little over the wrongs of the modern youth and Ziza slipped out, secure in the knowledge that she was just another complaining, older woman to him. Was she really so old? Even though it was over twenty years since she had gone to Musri, it felt in some ways like she had left Neshi only the year before. Inside she felt as if she were still the young woman sitting on the cart slowly moving south.

She met Ayale at a shrine to the local Musri gods that was built into a wall two streets from the livery. He had somehow brought all their bags from the hotel, and had two more cloth bags with him, bulging with food.

"Are any of these the Sungoddess, do you think?" he said.

"That's the sign for the Musri sun-god," she said. "I've never seen it combined with the ox-lord before, though."

Ayale sighed, raised his hands up briefly in adoration and put a handful of sweets on the altar. "Let's hope they hear foreigners' prayers."

"I'll get the horses."

Within half an hour they were loaded and on the move again.

The air was cooler, though not by much, and the trees were thicker. People's accents were no longer full of the flat Musri vowels of the great cities of the south though they were not quite approaching the full Neshi sounds. But neither Ziza nor Ayale stood out so much when they spoke, and she found herself not so much on edge.

When they finally did cross the border, neither of them noticed. The accents in the next village they came to were the same, everything for sale was familiar. Another two days travel, however, and suddenly the food was referred to using words she hadn't heard since she was a young woman, and a shopkeeper paused when handed Musri money, before shrugging and accepting the silver, shoving the bronze coins back.

"We've done it," Ziza said. "We're in Neshi."

"Yes," Ayale said. "I'm home." He smiled faintly at her.

She felt her shoulders relax, as if she had tensed them against a blow for many days. She should rest and think about getting back home. He would be all right now. She'd done the right thing. He was safe.

"Highness, you'll be able to let people know who you are now and –"

"Highness? Don't be silly, Auntie, you can't use that title on the road! Just use my name."

Ziza shook her head. "We're in the Great King's realm now. You're his son."

Ayale took her hand. "Listen to me, Auntie. Ziza – you helped me get here, you can call me whatever you want. Come home with me, let me make sure you're properly rewarded."

"No," she said. "I should go back to my home."

"Will it be safe? Will they be looking for you? Auntie, please. If you went back and they arrested you I would mourn every day for the rest of my life."

"Aneksi can't look after my shop for ever!"

"Let her have the shop! I'll get you another one!"

"You can't! It's illegal for me to practice alchemy here."

Ayale looked down. He shook his head. "I thought that was proper, until I met you, until I saw that you were a good woman. Come home with me, please. You've helped me, let me help you. I promised I would try to change the law. Even if I can't, I will make it so that you can be an alchemist." He squeezed her hand, looking into her eyes. "Auntie, I am the least of my father's sons. He thinks so little of me he sent my mother away. But even so, my return from danger in Musri will earn me a favour. Your status will be my favour."

He looked so serious. She thought of her shop and her work room, all the work and the study that she and her father had done there. That they had done in Musri because she couldn't work at home, and her father would not condemn her to a life without her work. She would be leaving it all behind. She would be leaving her father's grave behind.

Ayale was still looking at her, serious and hopeful. Her father had left his whole life behind, not once but twice, and had made something new of himself each time. As his student and his daughter, perhaps she should do no less. She could transmute her old life into something new and unknown, a bright and unique discovery. It would be an experiment previously unthought of.

"Let's go on then, nephew," she said. "Let's go on."