"There's no harm in it," Maati said. "Let it pass."
Vanjit frowned, but let the subject go. She spent the rest of the day
beside him, as if guarding him from Eiah. For her part, Eiah might have
been alone with her tablets. Even when the rest of them sang to pass the
time, she kept to her work, steady and focused. When the conversation
turned to whether they should keep riding after sunset in hopes of
reaching the river, she spoke for stopping on the road. She didn't want
Maati to be tired any more than was needed. Large Kae sided with her for
the horses' sake.
The women made a small camp, dividing the night into watches since they
were so near the road. Vanjit sharpened their sight in the evenings but
insisted on returning them to normal when dawn came. She, of course,
didn't have a turn at watch. Neither did Maati. Instead, he watched the
moon as it hung in the tree branches, listened to the low call of owls,
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."