into place. His hands pink and gray against the damp, black wood. The

thin fog hardly worth noticing. He turned and found Vanjit sitting

cross-legged on the stones of the courtyard. Her dark eyes were

considering. He wondered how long she'd been watching.

"What you said before? It was uncalled for," she said. Her voice was

steady as stone, and as unforgiving.

Maati took a pose that offered apology but also pointedly did not end

the conversation. Vanjit considered him.

"I love Eiah-cha," she said, frowning. "I would never, never wish her

ill. Suggesting that I want her to fail just so I could remain the only

poet ... it's madness. It hurts me that you would say it."

"I never did," Maati said. "I never said anything like it. If that's

what you heard, then something else is happening here."

Vanjit shifted back, surprise and dismay in her expression. Her hands

moved toward some formal pose, but never reached it. The shriek came

from within the wayhouse. The music stopped. Vanjit stood up muttering

something violent and obscene, but Maati was already moving to the door.

The large room was silent, drums and flute abandoned where they had

fallen. The woman who'd screamed was sitting on a stool, her hands still

pressed to her mouth, her face bloodless, and her gaze fixed on the

archway that led to the private rooms. No one spoke. Clarity-of-Sight

stood in the archway, its hands on the wall, its tiny hips swaying

crazily as it lost and regained and lost its balance. It saw Vanjit, let

out a high squeal, and waved its tiny arms before sitting down hard and

suddenly. The delight never left its face.

"It is," someone said in a voice woven from awe and tears. "It's a baby."

And as if the word had broken a dam, chaos flowed through the wayhouse.

Vanjit dashed forward, her hands low to scoop up the andat, and the

crowd surged with her. The chorus of questions and shouts rose, filling

the air. Maati started forward, then stopped. The older of the drummers

appeared from amid the throng and embraced him, tears of joy in the

man's eyes.

Through the press of the crowd, Maati saw Eiah standing alone. Her

expression was cold. Maati pulled back from his grinning companion and

struggled toward her. He heard Vanjit talking high and fast behind him,

but couldn't make out the words. There were too many voices layered over it.

"Apparently we've decided not to travel quietly," Eiah said in tone of

cold acid.

"Get the others," he said. "I'll prepare the cart. We can leave in the

night."

"You think anyone here is going to sleep tonight?" Eiah said. "There's a

baby. A full-blooded child of the cities, and Vanjit the mother. If the

gods themselves walked in the door right now, they'd have to wait for a

room. They'll think it's to do with me. The physician who has found a

way to make women bear. They'll hound me like I've stolen their teeth."

"I'm sorry," Maati said.

"Word of this is going to spread. Father's going to hear of it, and when

he does, he'll be on our heels."

"Why would he think it was you?"

"Galt went blind, and he headed west. For Pathai. For me," Eiah said.

"He can't know you're part of this," Maati said.

"Of course he can," Eiah said. "I am, and he isn't dim. I didn't think

it was a problem when no one knew who or where we were."

A round of cheering broke out, and the wayhouse keeper appeared as if

from nowhere, two bottles of wine in each hand. Vanjit had been ushered

to a seat by the fire grate. Clarity-of-Sight was in her arms, beaming

at everyone who came close. Vanjit's cheeks were flushed, but she seemed

pleased. Proud. Happy.

"This was my mistake," Maati said. "My failure as much as anything. I

distracted her from the thing. It has more freedom when her mind is

elsewhere."

Eiah turned her head to look at him. There was nothing soft in her eyes.

Maati drew himself up, frowning. Anger bloomed in his breast, but he

couldn't say why or with whom.

"Why is it so important to you," Eiah asked, "that nothing she does be

wrong?"

And with a sensation that was almost physical, Maati knew what he had

been trying for months to ignore. A wave of vertigo shook him, but he

forced himself to speak.

"Because she should never have become a poet," he said. "She's too young

and too angry and more than half mad. And that beast on her lap? We gave

it to her."

Eiah's startled expression lasted only a moment before something both

resignation and weariness took its place. She kissed Maati's cheek. They

stood together, a silence within the storm. He had said what she had

already known, and she too had wished it was not truth.

Large Kae and Small Kae quietly prepared the cart and horses. While the

wayhouse and every man and woman within running distance came to pay

homage to child, mother, and physician, Irit and Maati packed their

things. Eiah saw to it that the wine flowed freely, that-near the

end-the celebratory drinks were all laced with certain herbs.

It was still four hands before dawn when they made their escape. Maati

and Eiah drove the cart. Large Kae rode ahead, leading the spare horses.

The others slept in the cart, exhausted bodies fitted in among the

crates and sacks. The moon had already set, and the road before them was

black and featureless apart from Large Kae's guiding torch. The fog had

cleared, but a deep cold kept Maati's cloak wrapped tight. His eyes

wanted nothing more than to close.

"We can make the river in seven days if we go through the night. Large

Kae will fight against it for the horses' sake," Maati said.

"I'll fight against it for yours," Eiah said. "There was a reason I was

trying to make this journey restful."

"I'm fine. I'll last to Utani and years past it, you watch." He sighed.

His flesh seemed about to drip off his bones from simple exhaustion.

"You watch."

"Crawl back," Eiah said. "Rest. I can do this alone."

"You'd fall asleep," Maati said.

"And use you for a pillow, Uncle. I'm fine. Go."

He looked back. There was a place for him. Irit had made it up with two

thick wool blankets. He couldn't see it in the night, but he knew it was

there. He wanted nothing more than to turn to it and let the whole

broken world fade for a while. He couldn't. Not yet.

"Eiah-kya," he said softly. "About your binding. About Wounded. .