from the overattentiveness of his traveling companions, there was no
reason to reflect on his mortality; he had no cause to consider that
these small chores and pleasantries of the road might be among his last.
It was only days later, at the halfway point between the school and the
river Qiit, that without intending it, Eiah called the question.
They had stopped at a wayhouse at the side of a broad lake. A wide
wooden deck stood out over the water, the wind pulling small waves to
lap at its pilings. A flock of cranes floated and called to one another
at the far shore. Maati sat on a three-legged stool, his traveling cloak
still wrapping his shoulders. He looked out on the shifting water, the
gray-green trees, the hazy white sky. He heard Eiah behind him, her
voice coming from the main building as if it were coming from a
different world. When she came out, he heard her footsteps and the
leather physician's satchel bumping against her hip. She stopped just
behind him.
"They're beautiful," he said, nodding at the cranes.
"I suppose," Eiah said.
"Vanjit? The others?"
"In their rooms," Eiah said, a trace of satisfaction in her voice.
"Three rooms, and all of them private. Meals this evening and before we
go. One length of silver and two copper."
"You could have paid them the normal price," NIaati said.
"My pride won't allow it," Eiah said. She stepped forward and knelt.
"There was something. If you're not tired."
"I'm an old man. I'm always tired."
Her eyes held some objection, but she didn't give it voice. Instead she
unbuckled her satchel, rooted in it for a moment, and drew out a paper.
Maati took it, frowning. The characters were familiar, a part of Eiah's
proposed binding, but the structure of them was different. Awkward.
"It isn't perfect," Eiah said. "But I thought we could consider it. I've
mentioned the idea to Large Kae, and she has some ideas about how to
make it consonant with the grammar."
Maati lifted his hand, palm out, and stopped the flow of words. The
cranes called, their harsh voices crossing the water swifter than
arrows. He sounded out each phrase, thinking through the logic as he did.
"I don't understand," he said. "This is the strongest part of the
binding. Why would you change..."
And then he saw her intentions. Each change she had made broadened the
concept of wounds. Of harm. Of damage. And there, in the corner of the
page, was a play on the definitions of blood. He folded the page,
slipping it into his sleeve.
"No," he said.
"I think it can-"
"No," Maati said again. "What we're doing is hard enough. Making it fit
the things that Sterile has done is enough. If you try to make
everything fit into it, you'll end with more than you can hold."
Eiah sighed and looked out across the water. The wind plucked a lock of
hair, the black threads dancing on her cheek. He could see in her
expression that she'd anticipated all he would say. And more, that she
agreed. He put a hand on her shoulder. For a moment, neither spoke.
"Once we reach the river, things will move faster," Eiah said. "With the
Galts' paddle boats, we should reach Utani before the worst cold comes."
To their left, a fish leaped from the water and splashed back down.
"Once I have you someplace with real physicians, I'm going to try the
binding."
Maati drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. A sick dread uncurled
in his belly.
"You're sure?" he said.
Eiah took a pose that confirmed her resolve and also chided him. When he
replied with one that expressed mild affront, she spoke.
"You sit here like something from a philosopher's daydream, refusing to
let me even try to mend your heart," she said, "and then you start
quaking like an old woman when I'm the one at risk."
"'Quaking like an old woman'?" Maati said. "I think we haven't known the
same old women. And of course I'm concerned for you, Eiah- kya. How
could I not be? You're like a daughter to me. You always have been."
"I might not fail," she said. And a moment later, rose, kissed his hair,
and walked in, leaving him alone with the world. Maati sank deeper into
his cloak, determined to watch the birds until his mind calmed. Half a
hand later, he went inside the building, muttering to himself.
The evening meal was a soup of ground lentils, rice, and a sweet, hot
spice that made Maati's eyes water. He paid an extra length of copper
for a second bowl. The commons with its low ceilings and soot-stained
walls also served as a teahouse for the nearby low towns. By the time
he'd finished eating, local men and women had begun to appear. They took
little notice of the travelers, which suited Maati quite well.
In less interesting times, the table talk would have turned on matters
of weather, of crop yields and taxes and the small jealousies and dramas
that humanity drew about itself in all places and times. Instead, they
spoke of the Emperor, his small caravan on its way to Pathai or else
Lachi or else some unknown destination in the Westlands. He was going to
broker a new contract for women, now that the Galts had been destroyed,
or else retrieve the new poet and march back in triumph. He had been
secretly harboring the poets all this time, or had become one himself.
Nothing that approached the truth. Small Kae, listening to two of the
local men debate, looked on the edge of laughter the whole evening.
As the last of the sunset faded, a pair of the older men took up drums,
and the tables nearest the fire grate were pulled aside to clear space
for dancers. Maati was prevented from excusing himself from the
proceedings only by Vanjit's appearance at his side.
"Maati-kvo," she murmured, her hand slipping around his arm, "I spoke to
Eiah-kya. I know it was wrong of me to interfere, but please, please,
will you reconsider?"
The older of the two men set up a low throbbing beat on his drum. The
second drummer closed his eyes and bobbed his head almost in time with
the first. Maati suspected that both were drunk.
"This isn't the place to discuss it," Maati said. "Later, we can ..."
"Please," Vanjit said. Her breath wasn't free from the scent of
distilled wine. Her cheeks were flushed. "Without you, none of us
matter. You know that. You're our teacher. We need you. And if Eiah ...
she pays its price, you know that I'll be there. I can do the thing.
I've already managed once, and I know that I could do it again."
The second drum began, dry and light and not quite on its mark. No one
seemed to be paying attention to the old man in the corner or the young
woman attached to his arm. Maati leaned close to Vanjit, speaking low.
"What is it, Vanjit-kya?" he asked. "This is the second time you've