Daniel Abraham - THE

said. "There's a man in Acton putting together women who want to come

over. We had an arrangement with him. All the money's been taken, but we

still have the lists. God's word, we're going to keep our end of the

thing, if we can just get back to Saraykeht."

"You stole from them," Eiah said, pulling a leather waterskin from her

satchel. "They stole back from you. Seems to me that leaves you even.

Here, drink from this. It's not only water, so don't take more than a

couple of swallows, any of you."

"Eiah-kya," Irit said. Her voice was high and anxious, but she didn't

say more than the name. Large Kae's mount whickered and sidestepped,

sensing something uneasing in its rider's posture. Eiah might as easily

have been alone.

"These ... put out your hand. These are lengths of silver. I've put a

notch in each of them, so you'll know if someone's trying to switch

them. It's enough to pay for a passage to Saraykeht. The road you're

following now, it will be about another day's walk to the river. Maybe

longer. Call it two."

"Thank you, miss," one of the other two said.

"I don't suppose we could ride on the back of your cart?" the tall man

said, hope in his smile.

"No," Maati said. There was a limit to what Vanjit would allow, and he

wasn't ready for that confrontation. "We've spent too long at this. Eiah."

Without a word, without meeting his gaze, Eiah turned back, climbed into

the cart, and went back to the wax writing tablets she'd spent her

morning over. Maati climbed back up into the cart and started them back

down the road, Vanjit at his side.

"She shouldn't have done that," Vanjit murmured. Soft as the words were,

he knew Eiah would hear them.

"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