For the most part, Maati could ignore this small failure to be at one

with himself. Each morning, he rose with the others, ate whatever

rubbery eggs or day-old meat the waykeeper had to offer, choked down

Eiah's tea, and went on as usual. The autumn through which they passed

was crisp and fragrant of new earth and rotting leaves. The snow that

had plagued the school had also visited the foothills and shallow passes

that divided the western plains of Pathai from the river valleys of the

east, but it was rarely more than three fingers deep. In many places,

the sun was still strong enough to banish the pale mourning colors to

the shadows.

With rumors that Otah himself had taken up the hunt, they kept a balance

between the smaller, less-traveled roads and those that were wider and

better maintained. So far from the great cities, the ports and trading

posts, there were no foreign faces to be seen. None of the handful of

adventurous Westlands women had made their way here to try for a Khaiate

husband and a better life. There was no better life to be had here. The

lack of children, of babies, gave the towns a sense of tolerating a slow

plague. It was only the world. It no longer troubled Maati. This was

another journey in a life that seemed to be woven of distance. Apart

from the overattentiveness of his traveling companions, there was no

reason to reflect on his mortality; he had no cause to consider that

these small chores and pleasantries of the road might be among his last.

It was only days later, at the halfway point between the school and the

river Qiit, that without intending it, Eiah called the question.

They had stopped at a wayhouse at the side of a broad lake. A wide

wooden deck stood out over the water, the wind pulling small waves to

lap at its pilings. A flock of cranes floated and called to one another

at the far shore. Maati sat on a three-legged stool, his traveling cloak

still wrapping his shoulders. He looked out on the shifting water, the

gray-green trees, the hazy white sky. He heard Eiah behind him, her

voice coming from the main building as if it were coming from a

different world. When she came out, he heard her footsteps and the

leather physician's satchel bumping against her hip. She stopped just

behind him.

"They're beautiful," he said, nodding at the cranes.

"I suppose," Eiah said.

"Vanjit? The others?"

"In their rooms," Eiah said, a trace of satisfaction in her voice.

"Three rooms, and all of them private. Meals this evening and before we

go. One length of silver and two copper."

"You could have paid them the normal price," NIaati said.

"My pride won't allow it," Eiah said. She stepped forward and knelt.

"There was something. If you're not tired."

"I'm an old man. I'm always tired."

Her eyes held some objection, but she didn't give it voice. Instead she

unbuckled her satchel, rooted in it for a moment, and drew out a paper.

Maati took it, frowning. The characters were familiar, a part of Eiah's

proposed binding, but the structure of them was different. Awkward.

"It isn't perfect," Eiah said. "But I thought we could consider it. I've

mentioned the idea to Large Kae, and she has some ideas about how to

make it consonant with the grammar."

Maati lifted his hand, palm out, and stopped the flow of words. The

cranes called, their harsh voices crossing the water swifter than

arrows. He sounded out each phrase, thinking through the logic as he did.

"I don't understand," he said. "This is the strongest part of the

binding. Why would you change..."

And then he saw her intentions. Each change she had made broadened the

concept of wounds. Of harm. Of damage. And there, in the corner of the

page, was a play on the definitions of blood. He folded the page,

slipping it into his sleeve.

"No," he said.

"I think it can-"

"No," Maati said again. "What we're doing is hard enough. Making it fit

the things that Sterile has done is enough. If you try to make

everything fit into it, you'll end with more than you can hold."

Eiah sighed and looked out across the water. The wind plucked a lock of

hair, the black threads dancing on her cheek. He could see in her

expression that she'd anticipated all he would say. And more, that she

agreed. He put a hand on her shoulder. For a moment, neither spoke.

"Once we reach the river, things will move faster," Eiah said. "With the

Galts' paddle boats, we should reach Utani before the worst cold comes."

To their left, a fish leaped from the water and splashed back down.

"Once I have you someplace with real physicians, I'm going to try the

binding."

Maati drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. A sick dread uncurled

in his belly.

"You're sure?" he said.

Eiah took a pose that confirmed her resolve and also chided him. When he

replied with one that expressed mild affront, she spoke.

"You sit here like something from a philosopher's daydream, refusing to

let me even try to mend your heart," she said, "and then you start

quaking like an old woman when I'm the one at risk."

"'Quaking like an old woman'?" Maati said. "I think we haven't known the

same old women. And of course I'm concerned for you, Eiah- kya. How

could I not be? You're like a daughter to me. You always have been."

"I might not fail," she said. And a moment later, rose, kissed his hair,

and walked in, leaving him alone with the world. Maati sank deeper into

his cloak, determined to watch the birds until his mind calmed. Half a

hand later, he went inside the building, muttering to himself.

The evening meal was a soup of ground lentils, rice, and a sweet, hot

spice that made Maati's eyes water. He paid an extra length of copper

for a second bowl. The commons with its low ceilings and soot-stained

walls also served as a teahouse for the nearby low towns. By the time

he'd finished eating, local men and women had begun to appear. They took

little notice of the travelers, which suited Maati quite well.

In less interesting times, the table talk would have turned on matters

of weather, of crop yields and taxes and the small jealousies and dramas

that humanity drew about itself in all places and times. Instead, they

spoke of the Emperor, his small caravan on its way to Pathai or else

Lachi or else some unknown destination in the Westlands. He was going to

broker a new contract for women, now that the Galts had been destroyed,

or else retrieve the new poet and march back in triumph. He had been

secretly harboring the poets all this time, or had become one himself.