The Price of Spring (Long Price Quartet #4)(98)

The boat was as long as six men laid end to end, and as wide across as five. It sat low in the water, and the back quarter was filled with coal 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 back ill. She had them smother him and burn the body. His children 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.

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.