On the granite walls of the narrow river canyon, the slaves— mostly boys like Ishmael and Aliid— dangled in harnesses over the empty abyss. The young men worked far from the listening overseers, without any hope of escape. They had no place to go except down the rock face to the frothing waters far below.

The abrasive knife of the Isana had sliced a steep gorge, leaving stone walls so flat and polished that no weed or bush could gain a roothold. Though the river was fast and the waters treacherous, this bottleneck was part of the vital trade route downriver. Floating barges from the continental flatlands— loaded with cargoes of grain, fermented grass juices, flowers, and local spices— passed through the gorge.

Lord Bludd had decided to put up a giant mosaic on a canyon wall, a titanic mural to commemorate the triumphs of his noble family. The northern end of the artwork began with idealized depictions of his ancestor Sajak Bludd, while the southern expanse remained an immense virgin slate for the accomplishments of future Poritrin lords.

Ishmael, Aliid, and their companions were forced to build the mosaic. A pattern had already been laser-etched onto the walls by artists, and the boys methodically placed tiles over the design, each piece a tiny pixel of what would ultimately become a colorful display. Scaffolds hung down, laden with geometric tiles cut from fired river clay and glazed with gem-based tints imported from Hagal.

Seen from the decks of boats far below, the mural would be breathtaking. But suspended in a harness up close, Ishmael could not identify details. He saw only a blurry honeycomb of tiles, one color after another laid down with foul-smelling epoxies.

In a sling beside him, Aliid noisily trimmed tiles to fit into place. Machine sounds ricocheted across the canyon: rock saws, pointed hammers, power chisels. Lamenting his stolen life, Aliid sang a song from IV Anbus as he worked. Ishmael joined in with a similar ballad about Harmonthep.

Hanging ten meters below in his own harness, a boy named Ebbin composed an impromptu musical chant describing his home of Souci, a habitable moon so isolated that neither Aliid nor Ishmael had heard of it. The Tlulaxa slavers, it seemed, were adept at finding lost Buddislamic refugees, persecuting Zensunnis and Zenshiites alike.

On the long ropes and harnesses, boys proved more agile and energetic than grown men or women. They could scramble over the granite to lay down colored tiles while cool winds whistled through the canyon. The overseers expected no trouble.

They were wrong.

With simmering resentment, Aliid often repeated the defiant words of Bel Moulay. The fiery Zenshiite leader dreamed of a time when slaves could throw off their chains and live free again, returning to IV Anbus or Harmonthep or even mysterious Souci. Ishmael listened to the foolish talk, but didn’t want to add kindling to Aliid’s fire.

Remembering his compassionate grandfather, Ishmael remained a patient pacifist. He realized that it might take longer than his own lifespan before the slavers were overthrown. Aliid did not want to wait. He felt the slaves deserved revenge, as dark-bearded Bel Moulay promised in his impassioned speeches. . . .

Across the canyon, the flamboyant Lord Bludd arrived at the viewing platform with his noble entourage. The Lord’s own concepts and sketches had been adapted to the canyon wall by court artists, and he made regular pilgrimages to inspect the work. Each week, the viewing platform was moved down the canyon as the immense mosaic grid crawled slowly along the granite cliffs. Flanked by golden Dragoon guards, the nobleman congratulated the project masters.

Currently, the mural showed how his great-grandfather, Favo Bludd, had created unique artwork out in the great grassy plains, geometric designs of flowers and weeds that bloomed in different seasons. When seen from the air, these transient art pieces changed like kaleidoscopic images. Each season the flowers grew in patterns, then went to seed and gradually formed more random congregations as winds disturbed the planter’s palette.

From where Bludd watched, surrounded by mumbling sycophants, the slave boys looked like insects crawling along the opposite wall. He heard their equipment noises and the faint, high tones of young voices.

The work was progressing well. Giant figures, faces, and starships covered the granite: an epic depiction of the settlement of Poritrin and the intentional destruction of all computers, which returned the planet to a bucolic existence, dependent upon slave labor.

A man of great pride, Bludd knew the faces of his ancestors well. Unfortunately, as he studied the interplay of light and color on the unfinished mosaic, he found himself dissatisfied with the face of old Favo. Though the mosaic pattern precisely followed the image that had been laser-etched onto the granite, now that he saw the result larger than life, Niko Bludd was not pleased. “Look at the face of Lord Favo. Do you agree that it is inaccurate?”

Everyone in his party concurred immediately. He called over the project supervisor, explained the problem, and ordered removal of the tiles on the face of Favo Bludd, pending a redesign of his features.

The work boss hesitated for just a moment, then nodded.

DANGLING IN THEIR harnesses, Ishmael and Aliid let out simultaneous groans as the outrageous instructions came down. On their ropes they slid back over to the already-completed surface. Ishmael hung before the huge geometric pattern that formed the eye of the old nobleman.

Angrily, Aliid set his protective goggles in place, then swung a rock hammer to smash the tiles, as instructed. Alongside his friend, Ishmael chipped and pounded. Ironically, removing the tiles was more difficult than installing them in the first place. The epoxy was harder than the granite itself, so they had no choice but to shatter the mosaic and let the shards tumble down into the river.

Aliid groused at the pointlessness of their labors. Being a slave was bad enough, but it infuriated him to redo massive work because some arrogant master changed his mind. He swung his hammer harder than necessary, as if envisioning the heads of his enemies— and the ricochet was enough to knock the tool loose from his grip. The hammer fell, and he yelled, “Look out below!”

Young Ebbin tried to scramble out of the way, his feet and arms slipping as he moved across the polished rock. The hammer clipped him on the shoulder, slicing the torso strap of his harness.

Ebbin slipped, one-half of his support cut away, his collarbone broken. He screamed and scrabbled, grabbing at the remaining harness loop that dug into his right underarm. His feet slid on the polished mosaic tiles.

Ishmael tried to move sideways so that he could reach the taut cable that held Ebbin. Aliid worked just as hard to drop down to where he could support the boy from Souci.

Ebbin kicked and thrashed. He dropped his own hammer, letting it fall to the foamy ribbon of water far below. Ishmael grabbed the boy’s single remaining rope and held it, but didn’t know what else to do.

Above, slaves along the canyon rim began to haul on the cable, lifting the struggling boy. But Ebbin’s left arm hung limp, and with a broken clavicle he could do little to help himself. The cable snagged on a rock burr. Ishmael pulled the rope in an attempt to free it, his teeth clenched. The boy was only a few feet beneath him now.

Desperately, Ebbin reached up with one hand, clawing at the air. Ishmael stretched downward, still grasping the cable but trying to extend his free arm to meet the boy’s grasp.

Suddenly the workers on the canyon rim shouted in dismay. Ishmael heard a snap as the rope broke far above.

The line in his hand went limp, and Ishmael lurched wildly, grasping at his harness. The fibrous cord that held Ebbin spun through his clenched palm, burning skin. Ebbin reached up, in spite of his injury, and his fingers barely missed Ishmael’s. Then the boy dropped free, his mouth open wide, his eyes bright and disbelieving. The frayed end of the support cable popped through Ishmael’s scorched hands as the rope ran out.

Ebbin tumbled toward the waiting Isana. The thin band of churning water was so far below that Ishmael did not even see a splash as the boy struck. . . .

Aliid and Ishmael were dragged up to the top of the cliff, where the project boss grudgingly tended their rope burns and other bruises.

Ishmael felt sick, nearly vomited. Aliid was subdued and silent, taking the blame upon himself. But the project leader showed no sympathy and shouted down at the remaining youngsters, telling them to get back to work.