and kiln, boiler and wide-slatted wheel ready to take to the river. The
boatman who watched the fires and the rudder was older than Maati, his
skin thin and wrinkled. The second who took duty whenever the old man
rested might have been his son. Neither man spoke to the passengers, and
the sight of the baby struggling in Vanjit's arms seemed to elicit no
reaction.
Once they were all on and their belongings tied down, Eiah took a pose
that indicated their readiness. The second called out, his voice almost
a song. The riverfront clerk called back. Ropes were untied, the evil
chuffing from the wheel grew louder, and the deep, violent slap of wood
against water jerked them away from the bank and into the river. It
seemed as if a breeze had come up, though it was likely only the speed
of the boat. Eiah sat beside Maati, taking his wrists.
"We told them the child was the get of one of the utkhaiem on a
Westlands girl. Vanjit is the nurse."
Maati nodded. It was as good a lie as any. At the bow, Vanjit looked
back at the sound of her name. Her eyes were clear, but something in the
set of her face made him think she'd been crying. Eiah frowned, pinching
his fingertips until they went white, then waiting for the blood to pour
back into them.
"She asked about your tablets," he said. "You have been busy with them.
The binding?"
"I'm trying to cut deep enough that I can read it with my fingers," Eiah
said quietly. "It's a better exercise than I'd expected. I think I've
seen some ways to improve the grammar itself. It will mean another
draft, but ... How are you feeling?"
"What? Ah, fine. I feel fine."
"Tired?"
"Of course I'm tired. I'm old and I've been on the road too long and ..."
And I have loosed a mad poet on the world, he thought. All the cruelties
and tricks of the Dai-kvo, all the pain and loss that I suffered to be a
poet was justified. If it kept people like Vanjit from the power of the
andat, it was all justified. And I have ignored it.
As if reading the words in his eyes, Eiah glanced over her shoulder at
Vanjit. The sun was shining off the water, surrounding the dark, huddled
girl with a brilliant halo of gold and white. When Maati looked away,
the image had scarred his eyes. It lay over everything else he saw,
black where it had been light, and a pale shape the color of mourning
robes where Vanjit had been.
"I'm making your tea," Eiah said, her voice grim. "Stay here and rest."
"Eiah-kya? We ... we have to kill her," Maati said.
Eiah turned to him, her expression empty. He gestured to Vanjit's back.
His hand trembled.
"Before your binding," he said, "we should be sure that it's safe for
you. Or, that is, as safe as we can make it. You ... you understand."
Eiah sighed. When she spoke again, her voice was distant and reflective.
"I knew a physician in Lachi. She told me about being in a low town when
one of the men caught blood fever. He was a good person. Wellliked. This
was a long time ago, so he had children. He'd gone out hunting and come