"She has been watched diffidently, my lord. There has been no formal assignation to her."
"I suppose we should make one then, just in case, though I find it inconceivable that my daughter…"
"Even you are not completely apprised of the River's will," his vizier reminded him.
"Yes, yes. Assign someone to watch her, then."
"My lord," the priest chirped. "That is the business of the priesthood."
"I suppose it is," She'lu grudgingly admitted.
"If you will permit me, I will bring this to the attention of the order."
She'lu drummed his fingers on the arm of his throne, looked tiredly around the chamber. The black columns that supported the roof and gave the court its name seemed to mock him, somehow. Like the priest; nothing he could overtly do anything about. Yet. "Very well," he said at last. "But I want to know who it is."
"I suspect I know who will be assigned, my lord, if you will permit me."
"Go on."
"A new Jik has recently been initiated. He shows enormous potential. He will be very discreet."
"Why a Jik?" She'lu asked irritably. "I see no reason for an assassin to watch my daughter."
"Please, my lord. The Jik are not assassins. They are priests."
"Yes. The sort of priests who assassinate people."
De darkened again. "It is common practice, my lord, when the child is a direct descendant of the Chakunge. You yourself were certainly watched over by a Jik."
She'lu aimed a smoky stare at his vizier. "Is this true, Nyas? You were my father's vizier."
Nyas nodded yes.
She'lu ceased tapping his fingers and glowered at the priest. "Very well. Send him to me, and tell him to have a care. I have high hopes for a good marriage for the girl."
"Very good, Lord," the priest acknowledged. "If you would but give me your leave…"
She'lu sighed heavily, drank some power from the River, felt it course and shimmer in his veins. He sent a finger of it out to the priest, touched his tiny, fragile soul. He stroked it a bit harder than necessary; the man shuddered and his eyes rolled up.
"You may speak of the matter of my daughter, and that only," he commanded. He held the command there for a moment, then pulled the touch away. The priest sagged in his chair, sweat beading on his forehead. She'lu smiled, feeling a bit better. He could have merely released his Forbidding entirely; it would have been less painful for the priest. Nothing that had been discussed was of any real importance, after all. But it pleased him to bring the man discomfort. Indeed, the fellow had been allowed to take notes on much of the court's business—the financial matters, for instance—and he would be allowed to keep those notes, so that the priesthood would not register a complaint. But leaving him Forbidden to talk about those same things would make the priesthood suspect he held unknowable secrets. It would keep them guessing.
"Now," She'lu snapped. "Is that all, Nyas?"
"No, my lord. There is still the matter of the Southtown Levee…"
Suppressing a snarl behind a courtly smile, She'lu settled back into his throne, resigned to an even longer day than usual.
II
The Alwat and the Gods
"They slow us down," Eruka complained. "Why did they have to bring children?"
"They would have slowed us down no matter what," Perkar pointed out. "They have no horses."
"We almost have none ourselves," Eruka reminded him. He felt a brief flash of anger at the flaxen-haired singer, but it quickly passed. They were in the same predicament—both had lost horses they could ill afford to lose. But Eruka was trying to keep in good spirits about it, as opposed to sulking; Perkar supposed he should do no less.
At least they were back on a trail now, though one that was clearly the result of Alwat feet and thus not comfortably broad enough for a horse. The branches sometimes grew low and that also made it difficult to ride, so they spent much time walking, anyway. The Alwat walked far, far in front. He only now and then caught a glimpse of them, as a matter of fact. He had been astonished when all seven of them came along as guides: two men, two women, an infant, an older child, and a gnarled creature Perkar guessed to be an old woman. For traveling they donned soft shoes of deerskin and long cloaks of the same substance, tanned white but with many odd figures and designs burned into them. It was the first thing like adornment Perkar had observed; they wore no jewelry that he could see. They did carry weapons, or at least tools, in little pouches slung over their shoulders on straps. Each adult bore a long cane-pole spear, sharpened and fire-hardened at the end. One of the women also carried a sharp stick. Now and then she would stop, dig some root out of the ground, and place it in a net on her back. She chattered to herself all the time that she did this. Usually she was through by the time the Humans had caught up to her, and she would scramble up and run back to the other Alwat, short legs pumping. Once, instead, she ran circles around the men with horses, chattering what almost seemed like a little song. The other Alwat were more aloof and sober, though when they took breaks to eat or rest they would come back down the trail and watch the Humans, muttering to one another now and then.
Eruka and Apad were proving poor company. He guessed that they were both shaken by the events of the previous day; Eruka by his paralysis, which no one had mentioned, and Apad—his eyes darted here and there, a shadow of fright over them. Given what had happened to Atti, even wearing armor, it was a miracle that Apad had survived unscathed, and that thought seemed to be lodged in his mind. Perkar had tried to congratulate him on his good fortune, only to be rebuffed by a scowl.
Both of his friends wore their armor today, he noted, and both cut fine, heroic figures; Apad in a mail coat of two layers, one steel and the other brass, brass greaves, and a hemispherical cap with a long, lozenge-shaped noseguard. Eruka wore black chain over a scarlet gambeson; rather than a shirt, his armor was a long coat divided into a split skirt that allowed him to straddle his horse. They looked wonderful, warlike; but the air was thin here, and he noticed them puffing and panting. For himself, he had decided to trust the word of the Alwat, who said there was no further danger of attack. As weird and disgusting as they might be, they lived here, were as intimate with the spirits of the land as he was with those of his father's pastures. If there was real danger, they would tell Ngangata—after all, they must think of him as one of their own—and Ngangata would tell them.
After a few more stabs at conversation with the sullen pair, Perkar spurred Mang up ahead to where Atti rode.
"How is that today?" he asked the older man, gesturing at his bandaged torso.
"Very stiff, very painful. But there is no fever in it, I think."
"Good. If you feel any, let us know. We can prepare a decoction of some sort."
Atti nodded. "The Alwat gave me something last night. It helped me sleep, anyway."
"Doesn't that worry you?" Perkar asked. "No doubt their intentions are good. But medicine intended for a dog does not work as well on a cow. Why should the potions of the Alwat not poison us?"
Atti shook his head dismissively. "That isn't the way of it, Perkar. Look; a cow and a dog cannot mate, cannot get offspring from one another. Human and Alwa can; Ngangata proves that. They are much like us, Perkar, much indeed. And I've had their medicines before."
"They seem very different to me," Perkar admitted. Atti shrugged. The two of them rode along in silence for a while. The wind picked up a bit, and the sky began to hint at darkening as a carpet of gray cloud slid in from the south. Atti shook his head at that.