Act I

"Notice: All personnel required to report to the watchtower by dawn. Failure to comply results in immediate dismissal."

I read the paper twice. The ink was smudged, like a bruise. My name was at the bottom. Sunita Sengupta.

I was thirty-two, and this was my last chance. The system wanted a body. It did not care if the body was mine. I had asked for backup.

They said no. The pass was narrow. The fog was thick. I had to go alone.

I smelled the rot first. It hung in the air, heavy and sweet, like overripe mangoes left in the sun. Then I saw the shrine. The stone was crumbling.

I pushed the door. It gave way with a groan that sounded like a man clearing his throat. Behind it, the cache lay in the dark. Sacks of rice.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠‌‌⁠​‌‍‍‌​⁠​​‍‍‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍‌‌‍‌​​​⁠‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‍‍​‌​‌‌‍‍‍‌‍‌‍​⁠‌

Bottles of oil. And footprints. I knew those footprints. They were small.

Worn down on the left heel. I had seen them on the mud floor of our childhood home, the house with the shared wall where the plaster cracked every winter. I recognized the gait. It was Ravi’s.

My brother. My hand went to my belt. The weapon was cold against my palm. The bureaucracy in my head screamed at me to call it in.

To report the find. To secure the promotion. But the smell of the rot was in my nose, and the memory of the shared wall was in my blood. I did not call. He remembered, too, thirty-one of the Rope Walk — the kind of small thing a man carries for no reason he could name.

I followed the trail. Act II The valley was a throat. The fog swallowed the path.

I walked until the ground tilted under me. The air was damp, smelling of wet stone and old sweat. I heard the breathing before I saw him. Ravi stood by the ravine.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠‌‌⁠​‌‍‍‌​⁠​​‍‍‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍‌‌‍‌​​​⁠‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‍‍​‌​‌‌‍‍‍‌‍‌‍​⁠‌

He was forty now. His face was a map of lines. He held a sack of medicine. Not contraband for sale.

Medicine for the village below. The state had cut their supply. The children were sick. Ravi was carrying the cure.

"Ravi," I said. He turned. He did not run. He looked tired.

"Sunita." "I can’t arrest you," I said. The words came out flat. "You can," he said.

"The system will let you." I moved. I did not think. I pinned him against the stone.

The cold bit through my uniform. His shoulders were thin. I could feel the bone underneath. He did not fight.

He just held the sack tighter. "The city needs the cure," he said. "The clock is running." I looked at his hands.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠‌‌⁠​‌‍‍‌​⁠​​‍‍‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍‌‌‍‌​​​⁠‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‍‍​‌​‌‌‍‍‍‌‍‌‍​⁠‌

They were shaking. Not from fear. From the cold. And from the weight of what he carried.

I realized then that the enemy was not him. The enemy was the wall between us. The wall of duty. The wall of the state.

I pushed him back. I took the sack. Act III I stood at the edge of the ravine.

The fog was lifting. The landscape was vast and indifferent. The elms were felled by the ice storm, their branches stripped bare. The sky was a pale gray.

I opened the sack. I let the bottles fall. They clattered down the rocks. The rice spilled.

It was gone. The evidence was gone. I turned to Ravi. "Go," I said.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠‌‌⁠​‌‍‍‌​⁠​​‍‍‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍‌‌‍‌​​​⁠‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‍‍​‌​‌‌‍‍‍‌‍‌‍​⁠‌

"Get the rest of the medicine to the city. Tell them the cache was destroyed by weather." He looked at me. He nodded.

He walked away into the mist. I stood alone. The watchtower was behind me. The path ahead was clear.

But it led only to exile. I was no longer a constable. I was a free woman. I took the amulet of river clay from my pocket.

It was warm. I held the Quintrell brass binding-ring in my other hand. I dropped the amulet into the ravine. It fell without a sound.

I turned my back on the tower. I walked into the mist. The wind was cold. I did not look back.

The account was settled. I was free. And I was alone.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠‌‌⁠​‌‍‍‌​⁠​​‍‍‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍‌‌‍‌​​​⁠‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‍‍​‌​‌‌‍‍‍‌‍‌‍​⁠‌