and drank the noxious tea. Vanjit, Irit, and Small Kae lay in the bed of
the cart, their robes wrapped tightly around them. The andat sat beside
its poet, as still as a stone. Eiah and Large Kae had taken the first
watch, and were sitting with their backs to the fire to keep their
unnaturally sharp eyes well-adapted to the darkness.
You have to kill her, it had said, and when Maati had reared back, his
fragile heart racing, the andat had only looked at him. Its childish
eyes had seemed older, like something ancient wearing the mask of a
baby. It had nodded to itself and then turned and crawled awkwardly
away. The message had been delivered. The rest, it seemed to imply, was
Maati's.
He looked at the bowl of dark tea in his hands. The warmth of it was
almost gone. Small bits of leaf and root shifted in the depths. An idea
occurred to him. Not, perhaps, a brilliant one, but they would reach the
river and hire a boat in the morning. It was a risk worth taking.
"Eiah-kya," he said softly. "Something's odd with this tea. Could you...?"
Eiah looked over at him. She looked old in the dim light of moon and
fire. She came to the tree where he sat. Large Kae's gaze followed her.
The sleepers in the cart didn't stir, but the andat's eyes were on him.
Maati held out the bowl, and Eiah sipped from it.
"We need to speak," Maati said under his breath. "The others can't know."
"It seems fine. Give me your wrists," Eiah said in a conversational
tone. Then, softly, "What's happened?"
"It's the andat. Blindness. It spoke to me. It told me to kill
Vanjit-cha. This is all its doing."
Eiah switched to compare pulses in both wrists, her eyes closed as if
she were concentrating.
"How do you mean?" she whispered.
"The babe was always clinging to Ashti Beg. It made Ashti-cha feel that
it cared for her. Vanjit grew jealous. The conflict between them was the
andat's doing. Now that it thinks we're frightened of it, it's trying to
use me as well. It's Stone-Made-Soft encouraging Cehmai-cha into
distracting conflicts. It's Seedless again."
Eiah put down his wrists, pressing her fingertips against his palms with
the air of a buyer at a market.
"Does it matter?" Eiah murmured. "Say that the andat has been
manipulating us all. What does that change?"
Eiah put down his hands. Her smile was thin and humorless. Something
scurried in the bushes, small and fast. A mouse, perhaps.
"Is all well?" Large Kae called from the fire. In the cart, someone
moaned and stirred.
"Fine," Maati said. "We're fine. Only adjusting something." Then,
quietly, "I doubt it changes anything. Vanjit's more likely to side with
Clarity-of-Sight than with us. If it is scheming against her-and,
really, I can't see why it wouldn't be-it's better placed to get what it
wants. It is her. It knows what she needs and what she fears."
"You think she wants to die?" Eiah asked.
"I think she wants to stop hurting. Binding the andat was supposed to
stop the pain. Having a babe was supposed to. Revenge on the Galts. Now
here she is with everything she wanted, and she still hurts."
Maati shrugged. Eiah took a pose of agreement and of sorrow.
"If she weren't a poet, I'd pity her," Eiah said. "But she is, and so
she frightens me."
"Maati-kya?" Vanjit's voice came from the darkness over Eiah's shoulder.
It was high and anxious. "What's the matter with Maati-kvo?"
"Nothing," Eiah said, turning back. Vanjit was sitting up, her hair
wild, her eyes wide. The andat was clutched to her breast. Eiah took a
reassuring pose. "Everything's fine."
Poet and andat looked at Maati with expressions of distrust so alike
they were eerie.
THE RIVER QIIT HAD ITS SOURCE FAR NORTH OF UTANI. RAINS FROM THE
mountain ranges that divided the cities of the Khaiem from the Westlands
flowed east into the wide flats, gathered together, and carved their way
south. Utani, the ruins of Udun, and then far to the south, the wide,
silted delta just east of Saraykeht.
At its widest, the river was nearly half a mile across, but that was
farther south. Here, at the low town squatting on the riverfront, the
water was less than half that, its surface smooth and shining as silver.
Eight thin streets crossed one another at unpredictable angles. Dogs and
chickens negotiated their peace in bark and squawk, tooth and beak as
Maati drove past. Two wayhouses offered rest. Another teahouse was
painted in characters that made it clear there were no beds for hire
there, and grudgingly offered fresh noodles and old wine. The air
smelled rich with decay and new growth, the cold water and the dust of
the road. There should have been children in the streets, calling,
begging, playing games both innocent and cruel.
Maati drew the cart to a halt in the yard of the wayhouse nearest the
riverfront itself. Large Kae dismounted and went in to negotiate for a
room. After the incident with the andat, the agreement was that someone
would always be in a private room with the shutters closed and the door
bolted, watching the andat. If all went as he intended it, they would be
on the river well before nightfall, but still ...
Vanjit's scowl had deepened through the day. Twice more they had passed
men and women with pale skin and blind eyes. Two were begging at the
side of the road, another was being led on the end of a rope by an old
woman. Eiah had not insisted on stopping to offer them aid. Happily,
there were no Galtic faces at the wayhouse. Vanjit paused in the main
room, her hand on Maati's shoulder. The andat was in her other arm,
concealed by a blanket and as still as death.
"Maati-kvo," she said. "I'm worried. Eiah has been so strange since we
left the school, don't you think? All the hours she's spent writing on
those tablets. I don't think it's good for her."
"I'm sure she's fine," Maati said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
"And giving silver to those Galts," Vanjit said, her voice creeping
higher. "I don't know what she means by that. Do you?"
Large Kae came in from a dark corridor and motioned them to follow.
Maati almost had to pull Vanjit to get her attention. She glared at
Large Kae's back as they walked.
"It seems to me," Vanjit continued, "that Eiah is forgetting who are her
allies and who are her enemies. I know you love her, Maati-kvo, but you
can't let that blind you. You can't ignore the truth."
"I won't, Vanjit-kya," Maati said. The room was on the first floor.
Fresh rushes on the floor. A small cot of stretched canvas. Oak shutters
closed against the daylight. "You leave this to me. I'll see to it."
Large Kae left, murmuring something about seeing to the animals. When
the door closed behind her, Vanjit let the blanket fall and set the
andat on the cot. It cooed and burbled, waving its hands and grinning
toothlessly. It was a parody of infantile delight, and seeing Vanjit's
smilepleasure and fear and anger all in the smallest stretching of her
lipsmade Maati's flesh crawl.
"You have to do something," she said. "Eiah-kya can't be trusted with
the andat. You wouldn't ..."
The baby shrieked and flopped to its side, trying to lower itself to the
floor. Vanjit moved forward and lifted it back up before she went on.
"You wouldn't let someone you can't trust bind the andat. You wouldn't
do that."
"Certainly, I'd try not to," Maati said.
"That's a strange answer."
"I'm not a god. I use the judgment I have. It isn't as if I can see into
someone's heart."
"But if you think Eiah can't be trusted," Vanjit said, anger growing in
her voice, "you will stop her. You have to."
Who am I speaking to? he wondered. The girl? The andat? Does Vanjit know
what she's saying?
"Yes," Maati said slowly. "If she isn't fit to be a poet to wield the
andat, it would be my duty to see that she does not. I will stop her.
But I have to be sure. I can't do this thing until I'm sure there's
nothing I can do that will mend her."
"Mend her?" Vanjit said and took a pose that scorned the thought.
"I won't kill someone unless there is no other way."
Vanjit stepped back, her face going pale. The andat's gaze shifted from
one to the other and back, its eyes shining with unfeigned delight.
"I never said to kill her," Vanjit said, her voice soft.
"Didn't you?" Maati said as if making it an accusation. "You're sure of
that?"
He turned and left the room, his hands trembling, his heart racing.
He'd been an idiot. He'd slipped. Perhaps making him say more than he'd
intended had been the point; perhaps the andat had guessed that it could
make him go too far. He paused in the main room, his head feeling light.
He sat at one of the tables and lowered his head to his knees.
His heart was still pounding, and his face felt hot and flushed. The
voices of the keeper and Irit seemed to echo, as if he were hearing them
from the far end of a tunnel. He gritted his teeth, willing his body to
calm itself, to obey him.
Slowly, his pulse calmed. The heat in his face lessened. He didn't know
how long he'd been sitting at the little table by the back wall. It
seemed like only moments and it also seemed like half the day. Both were
plausible. He tried to stand, but he was weak and shaking. Like a man
who'd just run a race.
He motioned to the keeper and asked for strong tea. The man brought it
quickly enough. A cast-iron pot in the shape of a frog, the spigot a
hollow tongue between its lips. Maati poured the rich, green tea into a
carved wooden bowl and sat for a moment, breathing in the scent of it
before trying to lift it to his lips.
By the time Irit arrived, he felt nearly himself again. Exhausted and
weak, but himself. The woman sat across from him, her fingers knotted
about one another. Her smile was too wide.
"Maati-kvo," she said and belatedly took a pose of greeting. "I've just
come from the riverfront. Eiah has hired a boat. It looks like a good
one. Wide enough that it isn't supposed to rock so much. Or get stuck on
sandbars. They talked a bit about sandbars. In any case-"
"What's the matter?"
Irit looked out toward the main room as if expecting to see someone
there. She spoke without looking at him.
"I'm not ever going to make a binding, Maati-kvo. I may have helped, I
may not. But we both know I'm not going to do the thing."
"You want to leave," Maati said.
She did look at him now, her mouth small, her eyes large. She was like a
picture of herself drawn by someone who thought poorly of her.
"Take your things," Maati said. "Do it before we get on the river."
She took a pose that accepted his orders, but the fear remained in the
way she held her body. Maati nodded to himself.
"I'll tell Vanjit that I've sent you on an errand for me. That Eiah
needed some particular root that only grows in the south. You're to meet
us with it in Utani. She won't know the truth."
"Thank you," Irit said, relief in her expression at last. "I'm sorry."
"Hurry," Maati said. "There isn't much time."
Irit scuttled out, her hands fluttering as if they possessed a life of
their own. Maati sat quietly in the growing darkness, sipped his tea,
and tried to convince himself that his strength was coming back. He'd
let himself get frightened, that was all. It wasn't as if he'd fainted.
He was fine. By the time Eiah and Small Kae came to collect Vanjit and
Clarity-of-Sight, he mostly believed it.
Eiah accepted the news of Irit's departure without comment. The two Kaes
glanced at each other and kept loading their few remaining crates onto
the boat. Vanjit said nothing, only nodded and took Clarityof-Sight to
the bow of the little craft to stare out at the water.
The boat was as long as six men laid end to end, and as wide across as
five. It sat low in the water, and the back quarter was filled with coal
and kiln, boiler and wide-slatted wheel ready to take to the river. The
boatman who watched the fires and the rudder was older than Maati, his
skin thin and wrinkled. The second who took duty whenever the old man
rested might have been his son. Neither man spoke to the passengers, and
the sight of the baby struggling in Vanjit's arms seemed to elicit no
reaction.