Seasons of War

to get what it wants. It is her. It knows what she needs and what she fears.’
    ‘You think she wants to die?’ Eiah asked.
    ‘I think she wants to stop hurting. Binding the andat was supposed to stop the pain. Having a babe was supposed to. Revenge on the Galts. Now here she is with everything she wanted, and she still hurts.’
    Maati shrugged. Eiah took a pose of agreement and of sorrow.
    ‘If she weren’t a poet, I’d pity her,’ Eiah said. ‘But she is, and so she frightens me.’
    ‘Maati-kya?’ Vanjit’s voice came from the darkness over Eiah’s shoulder. It was high and anxious. ‘What’s the matter with Maati-kvo?’
    ‘Nothing,’ Eiah said, turning back. Vanjit was sitting up, her hair wild, her eyes wide. The andat was clutched to her breast. Eiah took a reassuring pose. ‘Everything’s fine.’
    Poet and andat looked at Maati with expressions of distrust so alike they were eerie.
     
    The river Qiit had its source far north of Utani. Rains from the mountain ranges that divided the cities of the Khaiem from the Westlands flowed east into the wide flats, gathered together, and carved their way south. Utani, the ruins of Udun, and then far to the south, the wide, silted delta just east of Saraykeht.
    At its widest, the river was nearly half a mile across, but that was farther south. Here, at the low town squatting on the riverfront, the water was less than half that, its surface smooth and shining as silver. Eight thin streets crossed one another at unpredictable angles. Dogs and chickens negotiated their peace in bark and squawk, tooth and beak as Maati drove past. Two wayhouses offered rest. Another teahouse was painted in characters that made it clear there were no beds for hire there, and grudgingly offered fresh noodles and old wine. The air smelled rich with decay and new growth, the cold water and the dust of the road. There should have been children in the streets, calling, begging, playing games both innocent and cruel.
    Maati drew the cart to a halt in the yard of the wayhouse nearest the riverfront itself. Large Kae dismounted and went in to negotiate for a room. After the incident with the andat, the agreement was that someone would always be in a private room with the shutters closed and the door bolted, watching the andat. If all went as he intended it, they would be on the river well before nightfall, but still . . .
    Vanjit’s scowl had deepened through the day. Twice more they had passed men and women with pale skin and blind eyes. Two were begging at the side of the road, another was being led on the end of a rope by an old woman. Eiah had not insisted on stopping to offer them aid. Happily, there were no Galtic faces at the wayhouse. Vanjit paused in the main room, her hand on Maati’s shoulder. The andat was in her other arm, concealed by a blanket and as still as death.
    ‘Maati-kvo,’ she said. ‘I’m worried. Eiah has been so strange since we left the school, don’t you think? All the hours she’s spent writing on those tablets. I don’t think it’s good for her.’
    ‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ Maati said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
    ‘And giving silver to those Galts,’ Vanjit said, her voice creeping higher. ‘I don’t know what she means by that. Do you?’
    Large Kae came in from a dark corridor and motioned them to follow. Maati almost had to pull Vanjit to get her attention. She glared at Large Kae’s back as they walked.
    ‘It seems to me,’ Vanjit continued, ‘that Eiah is forgetting who are her allies and who are her enemies. I know you love her, Maati-kvo, but you can’t let that blind you. You can’t ignore the truth.’
    ‘I won’t, Vanjit-kya,’ Maati said. The room was on the first floor. Fresh rushes on the floor. A small cot of stretched canvas. Oak shutters closed against the daylight. ‘You leave this to me. I’ll see to it.’
    Large Kae left, murmuring something about seeing to the animals. When the door closed behind her, Vanjit let the blanket fall and set the andat on the cot. It cooed and burbled, waving its hands and grinning toothlessly. It was a parody of infantile delight, and seeing Vanjit’s smile - pleasure and fear and anger all in the smallest stretching of her lips - made Maati’s flesh crawl.
    ‘You have to do something,’ she said. ‘Eiah-kya can’t be trusted with the andat. You wouldn’t . . .’
    The baby shrieked and flopped to its side, trying to lower itself to the floor.