But there were two things she still needed to do. She had to speak to Brother Horse about her dream—but not now. Her talk with Moss had worn her out on that subject. There was something else, a nagging in her heart. She needed to talk to Tsem.
He had been moping for days. It troubled her that they had not spoken, but she was embarrassed, both by the Giant's morose self-pity and by her own reaction to it. Was this what growing up consisted of? Discovering that what you had always believed to be towers of eternal stone were really only shoddy façades? She had believed that her childhood had nurtured few illusions, but the feeling that Tsem was as unbreakable—in spirit, at least—as the iron he was named for had always been with her.
Now it had been swept away in wind, and what was left for her was someone who needed her comfort.
In all of her life, she had never been the one to give comfort. She had always sought it. It seemed a chore that she was probably not capable of. But she loved Tsem, and she had to try.
Making certain that Yuu'han was still watching Moss, she went to find her old servant, unhappy at how much she dreaded finding him.
XXIV Sorceress
GHAN emerged into the fresh air and light of the afterdeck reluctantly; he had much reading to do and too little time, he feared, to complete it. But the motion of the boat—imperceptible as it usually was—made him queasy when combined with many hours of reading and writing. And though in Nhol he had considered sunlight about as desirable as poisoned wine, here he found it revived him, soothed him for more work.
Unfortunately, Ghe's sharp ears always heard him emerge and the ghoul almost always joined him, where they sat like a pair of spiders, limbs curled and eyes squinting at the brightness of daylight. This time was no exception; the door soon eased open behind him and Ghe trod noiselessly across the baroque patterns of rust-colored stains that recalled the carnage of a few days before.
“The dream becomes more persistent,” the ghoul informed him, with no preamble, as if they were already in the midst of a conversation. Ghan glanced up from his absent study of the bloodstains, but Ghe was not watching him, staring instead at some middle distance.
“The dream about the Mang?” Ghan asked.
“Yes.” Ghe drew his legs beneath him cross-style as he sat. “The emperor included you on this expedition for the purpose of counseling me. Use your scholarly wits and tell me what these dreams mean.”
“I'm a scholar, not a soothsayer,” Ghan snapped. “You need an old woman with casting bones, not me.”
“An old woman with casting bones …” Ghe's eyes widened in startlement, then went far away—a sign Ghan had come to interpret as a search through his shards of memory. After a moment, he unfurrowed his brow and leveled an enigmatic gaze at Ghan. “Well, there are no casting bones here and no old woman. You must know something of dreams.”
Ghan rolled his eyes and then tapped the deck, as if he were explaining to a child. “Hezhi had dreams about Perkar, before he came to Nhol. The River linked the two of them with visions, drew them together through them. You understand that much?”
“Have a care, Ghan,” the ghoul cautioned him.
“You asked for my help.”
“Yes, yes, go on.”
“The River sends dreams, especially to the Waterborn. You told me he had sent you other dreams, in the past.”
“Yes, to explain my purpose.”
“Just so,” Ghan agreed. “If you press me for my opinion in the matter, you are being connected to this Mang man by the River. He is an ally or an enemy.”
Ghe twisted his mouth ruefully. “But which? I can sort that much sense into my dreams. Bone Eel could have told me that”
Ghan snorted. “Please, be my guest in seeking scholarly advice from Bone Eel.” He rocked back against the bulkhead. His hip still hurt, and he wondered if he had cracked it. He turned to find Ghe, jaw muscles locked, staring intently at the water.
“You are wrong, you know,” Ghan remarked.
“About?”
“I told you what I thought about your dream, and I told you I didn't know the explanation for it. A. fool—like Bone Eel—would have given you a definitive answer.”
Ghe fingered the little scar on his chin. Ghan thought he looked a bit more relaxed. “I see what you mean. Though even if you had an answer for me, you might not reveal it to me.”
Ghan let that pass. Why deny the obvious? Instead he settled for at least appearing to be helpful. “What do you think about this mysterious horseman?“ he asked. ”What feeling do you have?”
Ghe shook his head as if affirming something. “That he is like me, a servant of the River. That he seeks Hezhi as I do.” He shifted on the deck, produced a knife from somewhere, and began absently picking at the wood. As he spoke, he kept his gaze focused on the knife point, only occasionally half glancing at Ghan.
Like an embarrassed little boy. For some reason that comparison trotted a little shiver up Ghan's spine and disturbed him more than the moment when he had seen the scar and known what the man was.
“The odd thing is,” he went on, digging a little trench around one of the larger stains, ”though I have more frequent dreams of the horseman now, they are more shadowy, as well. His face is less clear than it was the first time I dreamed of him.”
Ghan continued to shiver despite the deep warmth of the day and turned to watch an enormous green heron lift from the reeds at the banks of the River. Beyond the reeds and a few willows, short grass extended to the horizon. Two days farther south it was desert.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed Ghe following his gaze—or, more probably, eyeing his back. His shoulder blades felt cold suddenly, like twin hatchets of ice buried in him. But when the ghoul spoke, his voice was tinged with wonder, so that it seemed impossible he could be thinking of killing. “He's out there somewhere, isn't he? She's out there.”
Ghan nodded and cleared his throat, surprising even himself as he recited:
“With their ship, the Horse, They ply the sea of grass, They stalk the walking mountains, With stones they make their beds.”
He trailed off and studied the deck more intently. “Well, you have to imagine it sung,” he muttered.
“What was that?”
“From an old book, The Mang Wastes. I sent a copy of it to Hezhi when I learned where she was.”
“You've read much about the Mang?”
“Lately. Lately I have.”
“Since you discovered her whereabouts.”
Ghan nodded in reply, caught the crooked look Ghe sent his way.
“You do know where she is. Well enough to send her a book.”
“I told you that much before,” Ghan replied.
“So you did. But you never showed me how to get there. When will you tell me thatV
Ghan answered with some heat in his voice. “You could take what you want. I know that. In fact, I wonder why you haven't.” He set his chin defiantly, so that it wouldn't quiver.
“Qwen Shen wonders that, also,” Ghe said. “I'm not certain what to tell her.”
“Qwen Shen?” Ghan snorted. “Is she your advisor, too? Does she help you chart your plans as you take horizontal council with her?” He knew he was straying over the line, and he braced for the fist closing in his chest. But it made him angry, when people were stupid.
Ghe did nothing more than frown dangerously. “Have a care, old man,” he advised. “Qwen Shen is a loyal servant of the emperor and the River. She deserves your respect.”
“Five days ago you suspected her of plotting your destruction,” he persisted.
“Five days ago I had just been wounded. I suspected everyone. Now I conclude that the assassin was a Jik, placed among the guards by the priesthood.”