Daniel Abraham - THE

back. They had covered a great stretch of river in their day's travel,

but night meant landing. The boatman was adamant. The river, he said,

was a living thing; it changed from one journey to the next. Sandbars

shifted, rocks lurked where none had been before. The boat was shallow

enough to pass over many dangers, but a log invisible in the darkness

could break a hole in the deck. Better to run in the daylight than swim

in the dark. The way the boatman said it left no room for disagreement.

They camped at the riverside, and awakened with tents and robes soaked

heavy by dew. Morning light saw them on the water again, the boiler at

the stern muttering angrily to itself, the paddle wheel punishing the water.

Maati sat away from the noise, huddled in two wool robes, and watched

the trees march from the north to the south like an army bent on sacking

Saraykeht. Large Kae and Small Kae sat in the stern, making conversation

with the boatman and his second when the men would deign to speak.

Vanjit and Eiah turned around each other, one in the bow, the other in

the center of the craft, both maintaining a space between them, the

andat watching with rage and hunger in its black eyes. It was like

watching an alley-mouth knife fight drawn out over hours and days.

It was hard now to remember the days before they had been splintered.

The years he had spent in hiding had seemed like a punishment at the

time. Living in warehouses, giving the lectures he half-recalled from

his own youth and half-invented anew, trying to understand the ways in

which a woman's mind was not a man's and how that power could be

channeled into grammar. He had resented it. He recalled crawling onto a

cot, exhausted from the day's work. He could still picture the

expressions of hunger and determination on their faces. He had not seen

it then, but it had all of it been driven by hope. Even the sorrow and

mourning that came after a binding failed and they lost someone to the

andat's grim price had held a sense of community.

Now they had won, and the world seemed all cold wind and dark water.

Even the two Kaes seemed to have set themselves apart from Vanjit, from

Eiah, from himself. The nights of conversation and food and laughter

were gone like a pleasant dream. They had created a women's grammar and

the price was higher than he could have imagined.

Murder. He was planning to murder one of his own.

As he had expected, the boat was too small for any more private

conversations. He had managed no more than a few moments with Eiah when

none of the others were paying them attention. Something in Vanjit's

wine, perhaps, to slow her mind and deepen her sleep. She mustn't know

that the blow was coming.

He could see that it weighed on Eiah as much as it did upon him. She sat

carving soft wood with a knife wherever Vanjit was not, her mouth in a

vicious scowl. The wax tablets that had been her whole work before he'd

come to her lay stacked in a crate. The latest version of Wounded,

waiting for his analysis and approval. He imagined the two of them would

sit nearer each other if it weren't for the fear that Vanjit would

suspect them of plotting. And he would not fear that except that it was

truth.

For their own part, Vanjit and Clarity-of-Sight held to themselves. Poet

and andat in apparent harmony, watching the night sky or penetrating the

secrets of wood and water that only she could see. Vanjit hadn't offered

to share the wonders the andat revealed since before they had left the

school, and Maati couldn't bring himself to ask the favor. Not knowing

what he knew. Not intending what he intended.

When evening came, the boatman sang out, his second joining the high

whooping call. There was no reason for it that Maati could see, only the

habit of years. The boat angled its way to a low, muddy bank. When the

water was still enough, the second dropped over the side and slogged to

the line of trees, a rope thick as his arm trailing behind him. Once the

rope had been made fast to the trees, he called out again, and the

boatman shifted the mechanism of the boiler from paddle wheel to winch,

and the great rope went taut. It creaked with the straining, and river

water flowed from the strands as if giant hands were wringing it. By the

time the boatman stopped, the craft was almost jumping distance from the

shore and felt as solid as a building. It made Maati uncomfortable,

afraid that they had grounded it so well that they wouldn't be able to

free it in the morning. The boatman and his second showed no unease.

A wide plank made a bridge between boat and shore. The boatman wrestled

it into place with a stream of perfunctory vulgarity. The second, his

robes soaked and muddied, trotted back onto the deck.

"We're doing well, eh?" Maati said to the boatman. "The distance we went

today must have been four days' ride."

"We'll do well enough," the boatman agreed. "Have you in Utani before

the last leaf drops, that's certain."

Large Kae went across to the shore, two tents on her wide back. Eiah was

just behind her with a crate of food to make the evening meal. The

twilight sky was gray streaked with gold, and the calls of birds gave

some hint to where the boatman's songs had found their start. On another

night, it would have been beautiful.

"How many days do you think that would be?" Maati asked, trying to keep

his tone light and friendly. From the boatman's perfunctory smile, it

wasn't an unfamiliar question.

"Six days," the boatman said. "Seven. If it's been raining to the north

and the river starts running faster, it could go past that, but this

time of year, that's rare."

Vanjit shifted past them, brushing against Maati as she stepped onto the

plank. The andat was curled against her, its head resting on her

shoulder like a tired child might.

"Thank you," Maati said.

They made camp a dozen yards inland, where the ground was dry. It was

habit now. Routine. Eiah dug the fire pit, Small Kae gathered wood.

Large Kae put the sleeping tents in place. Irit would have started

cooking, but Maati knew well enough how to take her part. A few bowlfuls

of river water, crushed lentils that had been soaking since morning,

slivers of salted pork, an onion they'd hauled almost from the school.

It made for a better soup than Maati had first expected, though the gods

all knew he was tired of it now. It would keep them alive until morning.

Vanjit stepped out of the shadows just as Maati filled a bowl for the

boatman, the andat on one hip, a satchel on the other. Everyone was

aware that she hadn't helped to make camp. No one complained. In the

firelight, she looked younger even than she was. Her eyes flashed, and

she smiled.

Vanjit sat at Maati's side, accepting the next full bowl. The andat

rested at her feet, shifting its weight as if to crawl away but then

shifting back. The boatman and his second went back to their boat, bowls

steaming in their hands. It was, Maati supposed, all well for passengers

to sleep on the shore, but someone needed to stay with the boat. Better

for them as well. It would have been awkward, explaining why the baby's

breath didn't fog.

When they had gone, Eiah rose to her feet. The darkness under her eyes

was dispelled by her smile. The others looked up at her.

"I would like to announce a small celebration," she said. "I've been

reworking the binding for Wounded, and as of today, the latest version