“Nor I,” said Ischade, sounding almost cheerful as she led them on through the
under-Downwind. Indeed the place looked very little like hell just now. Downwind
or not, this place was looking remarkably good: the buildings less rotten, the
shanties sounder, the people all around them shadowy still, but strong and fair
and looking surprised at that. The sky had begun to blaze silver, and Siveni’s
robes and Mriga’s own were back to normal. Mriga looked at Siveni and saw that
even her ‘smelly goatskin’ looked fearsome and deadly-beautiful rather than
ragged. Ischade’s dark beauty burned more perilously than ever. And were her
robes not quite as dark as they had been? And Harran …
But no. Harran looked as marvelous as he always had when Mriga was crazy. She
smiled at him. The prospect of life with him, some kind of life-though the
details were vague yet-shone on everything, and from everything, in a patina of
anticipation and joy. The world was beginning all over again.
“There’s no garbage in the gutters,” Harran said, astonished, as Ischade led
them along a little Downwind street toward the river.
“No,” Mriga said. Every minute the old decrepit houses were looking more like
palaces, and every curbside weed had its flower. “It’s as she said. One makes of
this place what one chooses. Hell-or something else. And the upper world is the
same … just a little less amenable to the change. More of a challenge.”
They walked down a slope, along the riverbank, being careful of their footing.
The river had brightened from black to pewter-gray, though still it smoked