There was no way Elariel was walking up those steps, and Gyre could see she knew it. Her face paled.
“Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll… make my way up more slowly.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Gyre said. “I’m not leaving you out here alone.”
“But…”
“Here.” Gyre knelt in the dust, cupping his hands behind his back. “Get on.”
The ghoul looked on the verge of tears. “I…”
“I’m sorry if it’s undignified, all right? There’s nobody to see.”
“I’m not concerned for my dignity. I’m supposed to be helping, not some sort of… burden.” Her brow furrowed. “Perhaps…”
“Just get on, all right?”
Elariel nodded and climbed gingerly onto his back, wrapping her arms around his neck. He caught her legs, careful of her injured feet. Gyre rose and shifted his balance, then set off up the valley, sticking to the flattest part of the path.
It made for an exhausting climb. Just reaching the stairs had Gyre’s legs burning, each step sending waves of pain through his thighs. He was sweating freely. The switchbacks loomed, somehow taller than in his memory.
“Here,” Elariel said in his ear. “This will help.”
Her hand pressed to his cheek, and a wave of cool relief ran through him. The pain in his legs vanished, and his breath came easier.
“What did you do?” Gyre said.
“A touch of dhaka, nothing more.”
Dhaka. Elariel was a dhakim, like all ghouls. It was easy to forget. “Ah. Thanks.”
She heard the hesitation in his voice. “Should I not have done that?”
“Just warn me first, next time.”
“I understand.” She settled her head on his shoulder as he started up the steps. “I have a great deal to learn about humans. Among ghouls, feeling another in pain and not taking it away as a matter of course would be considered insultingly rude.”
“You can’t do anything about your feet?”
“Working dhaka on oneself is extremely dangerous,” she said. “It can create a sort of… loop. It’s hard to explain. But it’s an easy way to die.”
“Blisters are probably preferable,” Gyre said. “I don’t need to tell you not to use dhaka where anyone but me can see, do I?”
“I understand that much, at least,” Elariel said. “You humans inherited the foolish notions of your Chosen masters.”
“No argument,” Gyre said. “And that’s what we’re trying to change, but we don’t want to get strung up as dhakim beforehand.”
The sun dropped toward the horizon as Gyre worked his way up the steps. Elariel took away his pain twice more. Without her help he would have had to give up and rest until morning. As it was, the sky was a deep purple when they crested the Gap and staggered onto the more gentle downslope of the Deepfire crater. The city was a cluster of distant lights, sprawling to either side of the sullen red glow of the Pit, like the aftermath of a giant axe blow into the earth.
Fortunately there was a hostel not far from the gap, a ways outside Deepfire proper. Gyre staggered in well after dark, Elariel still clinging to his back. The proprietor, a leather-skinned old woman, barely gave them a second glance. No doubt she’s seen sorrier bunches straggle in. Gyre paid for a room and a late dinner but collapsed into bed before the latter even arrived.
In the morning, he woke up and found himself unable to move. He’d expected to be stiff, but this was much worse. When he tried to bend his leg, it only trembled, and his arms were little better. He managed to sit up and tugged at his trousers, finding thick black bruises blossoming all along his thighs.
“Elariel.” Gyre tried not to let the panic into his voice. “Elariel. Wake up, please.”
“Mmlrg.” Elariel, lying on the small room’s other bed, rolled over. She’d stripped naked again. “What… oh.” She put her hand to her forehead. “I thought I was having a nightmare for a moment.”
“You’re not dreaming, and I can’t move my legs,” Gyre said. He lowered his voice to a whisper, aware of the thin walls. “You did something with dhaka. What happened?”
She let out a sigh and rolled out of bed.
“Would you put your shirt on?” Gyre said.
“Why?” She knelt next to him and put her hands on his thigh. “Is someone likely to come in?”
Gyre shook his head and tried to keep his eyes on her face.
“Your muscles are all torn up,” she said. “There are fractures in the bones, too. I think… perhaps I went too far. Without pain, you exerted yourself past the point of damaging your body.”
“It couldn’t be helped,” Gyre said. “We had to get over the Gap somehow. Can you do anything so I can at least walk?”
“I can speed your healing. And take the pain away, but—”
“Can you leave me a bit of pain? Enough to remind me to take it easy?”
Elariel nodded. A moment later, blessed relief swept over Gyre, leaving only a dull ache.
“I am sorry,” Elariel said. “I am not… experienced with these matters.”
“It’s… aah… all right.” Gyre managed to swing his legs off the bed and winced. Maybe I should ask for a little less pain. He gritted his teeth instead and got to his feet. “We don’t have much walking to do anyway.”
“I assume you have an agenda in mind?”
“Indeed.” Gyre let out a pained breath and hobbled to the door. “First stop, breakfast.”
After breakfast Gyre managed to flag down a rickety two-wheeler cab with a tired-looking loadbird in a harness. The driver looked like she was at the end of a long shift and merely raised an eyebrow at the disheveled appearance of her two passengers. Gyre told her to take them to the West Central district and quieted her objections to the long ride by handing her twice what the trip was worth.
That set the tone for the rest of the morning. The bag full of thalers functioned like a magic key, opening doors that ought to have stayed shut and closing mouths that ought to have asked questions. The smoke-drooling chimneys of the manufactories disappeared, replaced with respectable stone apartment buildings and glass-windowed shops. Traffic was heavy, pedestrians fighting for space with carts pulled by loadbirds and thickheads, with the occasional rider on a swiftbird or even a pony pushing through. As always, the smell of the dung was staggering if you weren’t used to it. Elariel wrinkled her nose in distaste.
Their first stop was a shop that catered to well-heeled scavengers, where Gyre was unlikely to be recognized. The proprietor looked like he was on the verge of calling the guards when they entered, but a glance in the bag rapidly changed his tune. Gyre dropped hints to the effect that he and Elariel had narrowly escaped disaster, losing all their gear but securing a big payday, and the shop owner was only too happy to help them “replace” their wardrobes.
An hour later, and the two of them walked out wearing brand-new outfits, clean and well fitted, leather padding still soft and supple. Sets of spares and other useful gear—including underthings for Elariel, a concept he’d had to quietly explain to her—he arranged to have delivered to the west gate on the morning of their departure.