Iron Jaw and Hummingbird by Chris Roberson

and atmosphere mines.
    â€œIt occurs to me,” Temujin said, his few teeth chattering in the cold, “that it might be time to take a little vacation from the trickster life. Maybe see what life is like for the masses who sweat and toil for a living . . . not that I plan to sweat and toil, mind, but I’m sure we can come to some sort of accommodation.”
    â€œYou are a tiresome old man,” Gamine said, shivering. She huddled closer to Temujin to conserve their warmth, and looked at the dark sky overhead, the twin moons moving gradually across the backdrop of stars. Then she sighed. “North? Well, I don’t see that it could be any worse.”
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    They had been walking for days on end, and Gamine was hungry, thirsty, and tired.
    There was nothing as far as the eye could see in any direction but rocks and hardscrabble dirt, rising and falling endlessly, like frozen waves, with the unbroken sky stretching above. They subsisted off what they could catch with their meager skills, and drank from shallow pools after the all-too-infrequent rains.
    They didn’t talk. There wasn’t much to say.
    Most of Gamine’s thoughts were concerned with putting one foot before the other, making slow progress toward the north, where Temujin insisted that somewhere, just beyond the next ridge, or the one after that, they would find sanctuary and salvation.
    So far they had found only rock, and dirt, and sky.
    Gamine didn’t think she’d ever been so hungry or so tired.
    Late the night before, as they had tried to catch a few moments’ rest beneath the stars—curled up shivering on the cold, hard ground—Gamine had realized something. She’d never put it into words before, but at that moment—her hands and feet numb with cold, her teeth chattering in her head, her stomach knotted with hunger—Gamine realized that she wanted to live.
    She had no desire to die, and she wasn’t about to lie down and stop trying. She was going to survive. And more than that, she was willing to do whatever was necessary to make sure that she did.
    She remembered all those who might have stood in her way, or not cared if she lived or died. She thought about her mistress, Madam Chauviteau-Zong, who had cast her aside like rotten fruit. Gamine wouldn’t die. No. She would live. She would survive in the hopes that one day she might see her former mistress again. First, Gamine would ask why she had been taken off the street and educated only to be thrown back again. Then, her questions answered, Gamine would take her revenge.
    Now, in the cold light of day, Gamine wondered whether she’d be able to go through with it. Would she be able to kill? If her life depended on it, even?
    Perhaps. She wasn’t sure. Perhaps not.
    But one thing was certain. She had no intention of giving up. Would she con again, and cheat, and steal? Most definitely, if that was the only way. She would feel guilty about it, more than likely, and would try to make it right later on, but she would still do it, all the same.
    Gamine put one foot in front of the other, trudging over the unforgiving landscape.
    Survive. No matter what.
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    It was some weeks before they reached the first settlements of the north plains. Both had lost a considerable portion of their body weight, and as they walked down the hard-packed dirt road that was the main thoroughfare of the little farming community, their hollow cheeks, gaunt faces, and vacant eyes drew worried stares from the villagers as they approached.
    Lips cracked, throats nearly too dry to swallow, Gamine and Temujin stumbled into the village, desperate for a drop of water and a crumb of bread.
    â€œPlease,” Gamine croaked, approaching a woman carrying a small child, her voice almost too faint to hear. “W-water.”
    The woman drew her child tighter to her breast and hurried away without sparing Gamine a word.
    â€œNoble . . . sir . . .” Temujin