The Ascendancy Veil by Chris Wooding

their muzzle bags, nudging her with their heads. Mishani was surprised to hear her laugh at their impatience, and she looked up from her book as Asara playfully berated one of them. A smile curved Mishani’s lips. The manxthwa’s drooping, ape-like faces made them look mournful and wise, but they were in reality docile and stupid. They stared at Asara in incomprehension before beginning to butt her again.
    The manxthwa had carried them from Muia, across the rocky paths of the desert and up into the mountains. They were seven feet high at the shoulder, incredibly strong and tireless, with shaggy red-orange fur and knees that crooked backwards. Since their introduction to Saramyr, they had become the most popular mount and beast of burden in Tchom Rin. Their spatulate black hooves, wide and split, dealt with smooth or uneven ground just as easily, and spread the manxthwa’s weight well enough for them to walk on the dunes; they had evolved in the snowy peaks of the arctic wastes where the ground was soft and treacherous. Though slow, they were nimble enough for narrow passes, they could go for days without rest as long as they were fed often, and they could survive extremes of heat without discomfort even beneath their thick pelts.
    Once Asara had fixed on all their muzzle bags, she sat down next to Mishani and began rummaging in her pack. She was wearing furs, for winter at this altitude was cold even in Saramyr. Presently, she pulled out a small, round loaf of spicebread, tore it down the middle and offered one half to Mishani. Mishani put her book aside, accepted it with thanks, and the two of them ate companionably for a time, looking out across the hard, slate-coloured folds to where Mount Ariachtha rose in the south, its tip lost in cloud.
    ‘You seem in high spirits,’ Mishani remarked.
    ‘Aren’t you enjoying this?’ Asara replied with a grin, knowing full well that Mishani hated it. She had been born a noble, and unlike Kaiku she disliked giving up the luxuries of her position.
    ‘I can think of better ways to spend my day. But you seem glad of the journey.’
    Asara lay back against the rock and took a bite of spicebread. It was baked with chopped fruit inside, and made a refreshingly sweet snack. ‘I have been in the desert too long, I think,’ she said. ‘I need a little danger now and again. When you get to be ninety harvests, Mishani, you will know how jaded the old thrills can get; but risk is a drug that never gets dull.’
    Mishani gave her an odd look. It was not like Asara to be so effusive. She usually avoided mention of her Aberrant abilities, even with those, like Mishani, who already knew about them. ‘The gods grant I get to ninety harvests at all,’ she said. ‘Still, we have been fortunate so far. Our guides have kept us out of trouble. We may yet cross the mountains without running into anything unpleasant.’
    ‘The Tchamil Mountains are a very big place, and I think there are not so many Aberrants out there as the Weavers would have us believe,’ Asara said. ‘But I was thinking of the danger at our destination.’
    ‘That cannot be the only reason you chose to come with me,’ said Mishani. ‘There is danger enough in the desert.’
    Asara gave her a wry smile. ‘It is not the only reason,’ she replied, and elaborated no more. Mishani knew better than to persist. Asara was extremely good at keeping secrets.
    ‘Do you like my present?’ she asked, out of nowhere.
    Mishani picked up the book again and turned it in her hand. ‘It is strange . . .’ she said.
    ‘Strange?’
    Mishani nodded. ‘My mother’s books . . . have you ever read any?’
    ‘One or two of her early works,’ Asara said. ‘She is very talented.’
    ‘Her style has changed,’ Mishani went on. ‘I have noticed it over the previous few books. For one thing, she now produces much smaller tales, and has them printed faster, so that it seems a new Nida-jan book arrives every few months rather than every