She wanted to say I'm just a little girl! "I only used one question, before. You still owe me two."
"True," said the crane.
"What happens if I say no?"
"Irris's body will eventually die. The god will still inhabit the corpse and you'll have to dispose of it. But I can help with that." Voud sobbed twice, and sniffled. "If you say yes," the crane continued, "I can give him the strength to get up. If he finds worshippers somehow, he may grow stronger than we can handle."
"That's what you're afraid of."
"Yes."
She turned the new thought over in her mind—the village's gods, who watched over the babies, who had always in her memory been benign, even avuncular presences, were dangerous. Like fire, Ytine had said. She thought of Irris with the baby on his lap, thought of her knife. The stone beak burning her hands, shattering, and Anghat dropping dead. She had been afraid since that moment, a nameless fear that the crane just now had outlined for her. And if the crane didn't know how to deal with it, how could she? She felt more tears well, and wished she could be done crying. "Can you make him strong enough to talk?" she asked.
"That's three, and yes, I can."
Irris opened his eyes. "Voud," he said, his voice the smallest sound imaginable. Ytine dipped a cloth in a bowl of water and squeezed it over his mouth, and he swallowed. "I owe you."
"Are you going to hurt us?" She tried but failed to keep her voice steady.
"Not a good question," Irris said, his voice still a whisper. He closed his eyes again.
Voud shook her head, frustrated. "I want to help, but I'm afraid of you."
"Smart," Irris said.
"You wouldn't promise not to harm the village," Voud said.
"I knew I had an enemy in the village." He paused, and Voud leaned closer, to hear him. "I didn't know about Anghat's god, though it knew me. Another thing I owe you for." Ytine wet the cloth for him again, and he swallowed. "I don't mean harm to the village. I'll abide by village law."
"For how long?"
The corners of his mouth twitched, faintly. "As long as Irris's body lives."
Ytine made a sound. Voud looked up—she was crying, quietly, her shoulders shaking.
"Well done, Voud," said the crane.
Within a week Irris had recovered. If anyone voiced suspicions, they whispered. No one dared make an accusation; if they were wrong it would be unjust, and if they were right it would be unsafe. Certainly any time after Anghat's death, if storms or floods washed bones out of the muddy riverbank—skulls with tusks and huge teeth, gigantic femurs, snaking lines of vertebrae—the marsh gods were consulted before anyone would touch them.
Eventually the whispers died down. The headman worried briefly about his position, but Irris showed no sign of ambition. Voud was another matter—but whoever her brother was, the headman would rather have her as an ally than an enemy when she was grown.
Copyright © 2008 Ann Leckie