As it had been explained to her - by a soldier, crouched on his heels, searching her face for understanding - the Captain was looking for a show, and the scheduled act had abruptly taken ill. Here were the robes and kohl, and here was a bed of coals. A gold coin if she could make it across without flinching.

With her silks fluttering in the cold wind, headscarf wrapped twice around her mouth so she wouldn't choke on the smoke, she took twenty-seven precise steps. She hummed a tune to keep pace. Many years ago, on a fever-drenched night, the same melody had lulled her to sleep like a ship on moonlit waters.

Over the hooting and hollering of his men, the Captain asked her name. It was embarrassing how long she struggled to remember.

The Pharaoh's Army had swept through the desert, devouring all they fell upon in the name of tithe. Those it left in its wake fluttered from shattered cities into the ranks of the Rebels. Kit counted herself among them. Adjusting to this many people was difficult. So many hands to clasp, faces to learn, mouths to feed.

The Captain led them in a march on the capital. There, they would demand cause and restitution from no less than the Pharaoh Himself, and take the city if it proved dissatisfactory.

Kit saw it all as they marched, from the craggy mountains and their tribes hiding from the sun, to the vast expanses of surf that bracketed her home. Hers. She had forgotten what it felt like to belong.

Every night, as they set up camp, she would take off with the other children, scrounging for cacti or the odd hare. Then, full as an army of peasants could be, they lay around the fire and told stories. One told her of the Northern edge of the desert, where the dunes fell away to an endless expanse of green. Another showed her how to conceal a knife on her person, and lent her one of his - though she forgot to return it. Yet another handed her a conch, and told her to hold it to her ear. Under the pulse of waves, she heard voices.

Sly whispers echoing through dusty streets, gossip as they crouched under multicolored lean-tos. Regarding with suspicion traders decked in strange clothes, or the boy who claimed to have dashed a rattlesnake against the rocks near the river. Fleeing through the market-stalls if they were caught looking. And a voice, above the rest, telling her to run home if she wanted her dinner warm.

The Pharaoh's Engineers had dammed the rivers. Blown the bridges. Planted mines along the road. Torched any village that might have bartered for food, cut any tree that might have provided shade. After two weeks rationing, they found an oasis. Two men died drinking from it. They'd poisoned even the water.

From then she saw no camaraderie within their ranks. It was purely a matter of survival. And she knew survival, of course, just as well as she knew death.

For she had died, already, many years before she first joined this hopeless cause. No matter how real this pride, those conversations, that hope, had felt. What remained was no more than an eidolon in a legion of eidolons, marching towards a city she wasn't sure even existed.

An army of thousands had marched across the continent, only to fall apart at the Pharaoh's door. A surprise attack in the night had shattered the companies that remained.

As they were swallowed by the serpent they hadn't seen rear up, as their improvised farm tools clashed against brilliant steel and brass, as she was cuffed and dragged into a cart - she saw the men fight. None of them soldiers, not one, except in the only way that mattered. A blow for barley, a blow for their homes, a blow for their families.

What came to her then was a distant memory. Fire on the horizon, the distant sounds of cannonballs, and a few bars of that same, lilting melody. Then silence, as the Pharaoh exacted justice on his people.

When they reached the capital, Kit did what she always had. A whimper here. A wobbling lip there. It was no trouble to slip among the prisoners, adopt a new face, a new voice. How much does it take to convince a Guardsman they've made a mistake?

With her skills, not much.

It was the Summer Lantern Festival, and the palace was decked out in lights. Passionfruit from the jungles, apples from the north, coconuts from the coast, all piled onto platters to be poked and prodded. The pitch lighting the lanterns alone could last a village a year. It was like watching a pig gorge itself. But despite it all, Lei was exactly where she wanted to be.

She bowed to the court, the other performers, and last - the Pharaoh. His lip curled in a sneer, but he'd think it a commoner's ignorance, not insolence. He'd seen her on the tightropes, watched her performance with raised head and snickering comments to the courtiers beside. Yes, all present. As they should be for her final act.

This knife - the same one given to Kit, so many lifetimes ago - would see blood tonight. This close, it was everything she could do to hold herself back. Not until He answers. He must answer.

The Pharaoh sighed impatiently. "Yes, yes, anything you want. What is your wish?"

Her mouth curled, mirroring his. "Give me back my mother."

A glint of steel was all the warning he got.