Perkar missed the shift in conversation, but when he realized what the Kapaka was talking about, his attention became absolute.
"… That's why I think we need some new territory. Did you know that Anawal's son over there put together a raid against my brother? Of course they didn't accomplish much, but someone could have been killed. Too many sons, Sherye, too little land. Soon they'll be going down to join the Mang out on the plains."
Perkar's father nodded. "Maybe. But it's been a long time since land was added to the Domain."
"I know. I was thinking about an expedition, Sherye."
"Against the Mang?"
"Oh, no. We tried that a few years ago, remember? How many good men did we lose?"
"I suppose it cut down on the number of landless men, though," Perkar interjected, hoping to be clever.
"Yes, well, one of those men it cut down on was my son," the Kapaka returned. His tone was light, an old grief admirably well hidden.
"I… I apologize, Kapaka. I spoke rudely and without thought."
The old man shrugged. "What else should the young do? No, it's all right, friend. But I don't foresee going to war against the Mang again anytime soon. Too many fathers lost sons at the battle of Ngatakuta, and my powers of persuasion are limited." He smiled. "The best chief is the one who never tells his people to do anything they do not already want to do."
Perkar nodded. His mind was racing ahead, though, to the obvious conclusion. It was as if his frustration, his conversation with Angata earlier that day were both just two of a set of ripples, moving outward from where a stone had plunged into deep water. Now the ripples had come to the edge of the pool and were beginning to come together, bunch up, as if discussing the stone that made them, or perhaps the hand that threw it.
Could she have some part in this? he wondered. But it seemed unlikely. Since his manhood she had only twice come from the water to love him, and she always turned the conversation away from important matters.
"The thing is this, Perkar—this is why I had your father send for you. These men over here are going with me up into the mountains, into Balat, the old forest. I want to bargain with the Forest Lord for a few more parcels of land."
"The Forest Lord? Balati? Why not just bargain with the local spirits, the ones who live right there?"
The Kapaka raised his hands. "We've tried that, but like us, the gods in the land obey their High Chief. He has commanded his people not to give out more territory without his leave. There is also a further complication: Between our own lands and Balat there is a buffer zone of some few leagues; after that are the vast, vast countries of the Alwat. We must bargain to take land away from them, you see."
"Why should that be so difficult?" Perkar asked, a bit of scorn in his voice. "The Alwat are naked creatures, without Piraku. Why should they have the land over us?" Perkar had heard young men say this before—he assumed it was a general sentiment. But the Kapaka frowned at this and Sherye looked a little embarrassed.
"Because their claim is a thousand, thousand times as old as your people's," a quiet, almost whispery voice said from next to Perkar's ear. He jumped: How could anyone move so silently?
It was the strange man, the white-hair.
The Kapaka cleared his throat. "Perkar, this is Ngangata, from the west country. Probably the most valuable member of our expedition."
"You're an—" Perkar blurted, then stopped himself.
"My father was Alwa," Ngangata confirmed. "I have no clan."
Perkar nodded, wondering what that could mean, having no clan. Surely it made a man mean, hateful. To be feared.
Perkar would rather confront fear than back away from it. His eyes narrowed as he considered some insult he might give, to get it over with, to unsheath swords, if that was what it would come to. In his own home, this creature had made him to seem foolish.
"Perkar."
It was his father. It was his father, reminding him that this clanless halfling had the king's regard. It was his father reminding him that sometimes one did not seem foolish but instead was foolish.
"I'm sorry," Perkar said, perhaps without enough conviction, but an apology nonetheless. The white-haired man nodded acceptance. Perkar thought perhaps he should seem a little more grateful.
"I know very little about the Alwat," Perkar continued, more to explain his behavior to the Kapaka than to this strange person. "Perhaps you could teach me a bit, if we are to go to see them. May I call you by your name?"
"You may call me Ngangata, as the king does. It is not my name."
Perkar tried to ignore the slight. "You may call me Perkar," he replied softly, "and that is my name." And it may be that you and I come to blows one day, no name, no clan, Perkar felt but did not say.
V
A Forbidding and a Compulsion
Hezhi closed her tired eyes for a moment, watched the weird play of lights beneath her eyelids. The shapes that flitted there were familiar enough—the curves and angles of faded glyphs, some known to her, better than half as mysterious as the wind from the sea. How many days now had she been staring at them, scratching at their meanings as at an itch and with as little positive effect? She simply didn't know enough. Ghan was right.
And yet what she did understand of what she read would not let her stop. Her revelations were few and hard won, but they were sweet, sweeter than anything she had known in her life thus far.
Qey was worried about her, she knew. Dragging out of bed at first light, returning when the stars came out, fingering scraps of folded paper in her pocket. With a piece of charcoal, she copied glyphs she didn't understand, and at night, in her bed, by the flicker of an oil lamp, she puzzled at their meanings. The ghost in her room took notice; he came close, as if watching her, once ruffled his invisible finger across the paper. Perhaps he had been a scribe, in life, some learned man who loved writing as much as she.
I must open my eyes, she thought. I was just beginning to understand what this page was saying. But her eyes did not open, and in a moment sleep stole up on her.
She awoke falling, hurtling down into the black depths, but it was only a sleep terror, the kind caused by small imps that lived in one's head—or so Qey said. Hezhi put one small hand to her breast, to still the beating there. In her sleep-muddled state, she feared that Ghan might hear her heart. She feared as well that Ghan might have seen her sleeping; more than once she had seen him coldly expel those who did so, even those with the royal writ of permission to be in the library. A writ that she did not have. But no, if he had seen her sleeping, she would have awakened not to falling, but to the sage's sharp tongue.
Relieved, if still a bit disoriented, Hezhi turned her attention back to the book. Horrified, she saw that it lay sprawled, splay-paged upon the floor, and bit back a little cry. Had she dropped it? It seemed to her that she had laid it carefully down, handled it like the precious thing that it was. But there it was, facedown, like a dead bird with wings crookedly folded. Hezhi actually shook a bit when she reached for it. When she gently turned it over, her worry became panic, for there, just near the binding, the yellowed paper had torn. It seemed a long, obvious tear to Hezhi, as wide as the River.
If you tear just one page, Ghan had told her. Just one.
Hezhi wiped at her eye when she realized a few tears had squeezed out, and she shut them tightly, willing the salty water to stay beneath her skin. If Ghan saw her cry, he would know. He might learn anyway, but he would not learn from her. She remained there, thinking, composing herself, for some moments more. When she felt her face settle out of distress and into what she thought was a more normal mask of indifference, Hezhi carefully closed the book. There, one could not tell one torn page when the book was closed. Had Ghan even seen her take this particular volume? She was deep in what she called the tangle, a confusing maze of shelves and tables in the back corners of the library. Ghan had not seen her asleep, and he had not seen her take down this book. Satisfied with her reasoning, feeling a little better, Hezhi replaced the volume with its dark wine binding, nestled it among its brethren. She looked about once more, saw no one through the cracks and gaps between the books and shelves.