stayed in their house and screamed the whole time they did it. She
didn't sleep well for years afterward."
Her eyes were focused on nothing, her jaw forward as if she was facing
someone down. Man or god or fate.
"You're saying it's not her fault," Maati said softly, careful not to
speak Vanjit's name. "She was a little girl who had her family
slaughtered before her. She was a lost woman who wanted a child and
could never have one. What's wrong with her mind was done to her."
Eiah took a pose that disagreed.
"I'm saying no matter how little my physician friend slept, she saved
those children's lives," Eiah said. "There are some herbs. When we stop
for the night, I can gather them. I'll see it's done."
"No. No, I'll do the thing. If it's anyone, it should-"
"It will have to be quick," Eiah said. "She mustn't know it's coming.
You can't do that."
Maati took a pose that challenged her, and Eiah folded his hands gently
closed.
"Because you still want to save her," she said. Something about
weariness and determination made her look like her father.
Otah, who had killed a poet once too.
23
Otah rose in the mornings with stiff, aching joints and a pain in his
side that would not fade. The steamcarts allowed each of them the chance
to sleep for a hand or two in the late mornings or just after the midday
meal. Without the rest, Otah knew he wouldn't have been able to keep
pace with the others.
The courier found them on the road. His outer robe was the colors of
House Siyanti and mud-spattered to the waist. His mount cantered
alongside the carts now, cooling down from the morning's travel as its
rider waited for replies. The man's satchel held a dozen letters at
least, but only one had occasioned his speed. It was written on paper
the color of cream, sewn with black thread, and the imprint in the wax
belonged to Balasar Gice. Otah sat in his saddle, afraid to open it and
afraid not to.
The thread ripped easily and the pages unfolded. Otah skimmed the letter
from beginning to end, then began again, reading more slowly, letting
the full import of the words wash over him. He folded the letter and
slipped it into his sleeve, his heart heavy.
Danat drew closer, his hands in a pose that both called for inclusion
and offered sympathy. The boy might not know what had happened, but he'd
drawn the fact that it wasn't good.
"Chaburi-Tan," Otah said, beginning with the least of the day's losses.
"It's gone. Sacked. Burned. We don't know whether the mercenaries turned
sides or simply wouldn't protect it, but it comes to the same thing. The
pirates attacked the city, took what they could, and set the rest alight."
"And the fleet?"
Otah looked at the roadside. Sun had melted the snow as far as its light
could reach, but the shadows were still pale. Otah had known Sinja
Ajutani for more years than not. The dry humor, the casual disrespect of