the river.
"To the first low town," he said. "I'll take you that far, and no farther."
"That's all we can ask," Eiah said.
Maati thought he heard Small Kae mutter, I could ask more than that, but
he was too busy pulling the plank into position to respond. It was a
tricky business, guiding all three women into the boat, but Maati and
the second managed it, soaking only Small Kae's hem. Maati, when at last
he pulled himself onto the boat, was cold water and black mud from waist
to boots. He made his miserable way to the stern, sitting as near the
kiln as the boatman would allow. Eiah called out for him, following the
sound of his voice until she sat at his side. The boatman and his second
wouldn't speak to either of them or meet Maati's eyes. The second walked
to the bow, manipulated something Maati couldn't make out, and called
out. The boatman replied, and the boat shifted, its wheel clattering and
pounding. They lurched out into the stream.
They were leaving Vanjit behind. The only poet in the world, her andat
on her hip, alone in the forest with autumn upon them. What would she
do? How would she live, and if she despaired, what vengeance would she
exact upon the world? Maati looked at the dancing flames within the kiln.
"South would be faster," Maati said. The boatman glanced at him,
shrugged, and sang out something Maati couldn't make out. The second
called back, and the boatman turned the rudder. The sound of the paddle
wheel deepened, and the boat lurched.
"Uncle?" Eiah asked.
"It's all fallen apart," Maati said. "We can't manage this from here.
Tracking her through half the wilds south of Utani? We need men. We need
help."
"Help," Eiah said, as if he'd suggested pulling down the stars. Maati
tried to speak, but something equally sorrow and rage closed his throat.
He muttered an obscenity and then forced the words free.
"We need Otah-kvo," Maati said.
25
"Will you go back?" Ana asked. "When this is over, I mean."
"It depends on what you mean by over," Idaan said. "You mean once my
brother talks the poets into bringing back all the dead in Galt and
Chaburi-Tan, rebuilding the city, killing the pirates, and then
releasing the andat and drowning all their books? Because if that's what
overlooks like, you're waiting for yesterday."
Otah shifted, pretending he was still asleep. The sun of late morning
warmed his face and robes, the low chuckle of the river against the
sides of the boat and the low, steady surge of the paddle wheel became a
kind of music. It had been easy enough to drowse, but his body ached and
pinched and complained despite three layers of tapestry between his back
and the deck. If he rose, there would be conversations and planning and
decisions. As long as he could maintain the fiction of unconsciousness,
he could allow himself to drift. It passed poorly for comfort, but it
passed.
"You can't think we'll be chasing these people for the rest of our
lives, though," Ana said.