Hezhi shook her head ruefully. "I was always told what to be. I've never been offered a choice, but I was too stupid to realize that." She attempted a smile. "I should like to meet your father one day. He sounds like a nice man."

"He is," Yen assured her. "Perhaps one day you will meet him."

"Maybe," she doubtfully allowed, but then brightened a bit. "But when I am a woman, when I join my family, then I will be allowed to leave the palace. Perhaps then. I should like to sail in a boat."

"Well." Yen chuckled. "I know more about that than I care to admit. But you will have royal barges at your disposal, won't you? No battered trading scows for you."

"Yes," she said, suddenly feeling very shy. "But royal barges never sail up the River, never visit the Mang or any other strange lands. I envy your father that, even if you do not."

Yen shrugged. "Well. Perhaps someday…"

She shook her head. "No. That's a silly thought. Nobility on a trading boat—that couldn't happen."

Yen ticked his finger against the wood of the table. "No, I suppose not," he admitted. "But if you dream of it…"

She held up her hand. "You have no idea how tired I am of dreams," she said ironically.

Yen nodded as if he understood. "Anyway," he went on, "I hope you find happiness of some kind. And if you ever want to talk about these things, I'm willing. I won't tell anyone." He grinned. "Not that I have anyone here to tell. You're the only person I really know here. Everyone else ignores me."

"You don't have any friends with the engineers?"

"No." He sighed. "It's notoriously hard to become liked among them. The ones who have been here longer delude themselves into believing they are royalty, and of course some of them—the overseers—are. If I make it a year, two years, then some of them will deign to talk to me."

"That's too bad," Hezhi empathized.

"Not too bad. I can still go see my father, now and then."

Hezhi nodded. "That's how Tsem and Qey are to me. They are my only friends."

"Tsem is the big fellow?"

"Yes. He's half Giant. My father ordered his mother to mate with one of his Human guardsmen. He was curious as to what would result."

"Ah," Yen replied. "But what about this Wezh person? The one who came in here earlier, the one the old man was scolding you about? Isn't he a friend?"

She snorted and shook her head. "No. He's just courting me. People are rarely friends with those who court them."

"A shame," Yen remarked. "I don't see that you could enjoy courting much if you don't like the person."

"That's right," Hezhi confirmed.

"Well." Yen coughed. "Well, I should get back to what I was doing. But… if you want to count me a friend, too, I would like that."

She blinked at him. "Thank you," she responded, not knowing what else to say.

Yen nodded and then hurried off.

She returned to indexing, though she remained distracted for the rest of the day, wondering why the only people she could seem to count on were those not related to her.

III

Brother Horse

The transition from tall grass to short to none at all was seamless, and yet one day Perkar was watching the wind's footsteps bending waist-deep prairie and not many mornings later he realized that the River was surrounded by desert. Desert, he could see, was more aggressive than prairie. The plains had crept up to the banks of the River often enough, but more often a thick screen of willow, cottonwood, oak, and bamboo buffered the two from one another. Now, however, the screen of trees was a thin green shadow, a billowy olive veil easily penetrated by vision. The distance that beckoned was vast and empty, and seemed to Perkar like another vision of hunger, perhaps as great as that of the River. He wondered how bitterly the two gods of water and sand might hate one another, or whether they might be allies. Or even two shadows of the same presence, like the Huntress and Karak.

Bludgeoned though he was, Perkar felt a spark of wonder, still. Wonder that any land could be so very different from his own.

The River had actually contracted a bit. Perkar suspected that the fierce sun was drinking thirstily from the god, and it pleased him slightly to think that something was capable of causing the River pain. Of course, the sun was not particular, and drank greedily from Perkar and Ngangata, as well.

Ngangata lay in the meager shade of a deerskin Perkar had finally had the sense to stretch as a sunscreen between some willow saplings he lashed to the sides of the boat. The Alwa-Man was consequently improving, though he still hovered near the edge of fever. Perkar forced him to drink as often as he could, though the River water had a bitter, even salty taste. Almost like blood, Perkar reflected, remembering his dream of the River flowing red.

Near noon one day, he saw that they were approaching an island. He took hold of the tiller, and, as usual, it allowed him to steer just that much, so that they ran aground on the sandy strip. Once the island had been merely a bend in the River, but he had eaten right through the land, so that the channel now flowed on both sides.

He dragged the boat up into the thick reeds, starting involuntarily when he nearly stepped on a snake as long as he was tall. Without even thinking, he began a little chant to the Snake Lord—to beg pardon for frightening one of his people—and then he remembered: Here, there was only the River. Harka, his sword, was certain about that.

"At first," Harka had told him, one day, "I could at least hear the gods in the distance. They did not crowd to his banks, but they were there, just beyond. Even in the grassland I could sense them watching from afar. Now I don't know how far you would have to go to even hear a whisper. It's true what they say about the Changeling. He eats them."

As if he had any doubt of that, after seeing her.

He lifted Ngangata out of the prow and sloshed farther inland, hoping that the entire island was not marsh. After fifteen steps or so he was relieved to feel his feet on firmer ground. Barefoot, he winced a bit at the barbed burrs that assailed his tender feet. Still, he sought the middle part of the island; Nu, said his dream voice. There he could make out the odd swaying trees that resembled—as much as they resembled anything familiar—tall ferns.

Ngangata stirred awake in his arms, looked muzzily around him. "Oh," he said. "Let me try to walk, Perkar."

Perkar set him on his feet, caught his companion when his knees buckled. But then, with teeth gritted, Ngangata took one and then two trembling steps without leaning on him. He continued to walk, slow and wobbly, until they reached the trees.

Perkar was astonished at what they found there. The thick, brushy undergrowth of the island had been cleared back to form a yard of bare, sandy soil. At the far edge of the clearing stood a house made of what appeared to be bundled reeds lashed to a willow framework. Fish were drying on a raised stage, beneath which a faint wisp of smoke timorously sought the sky. An old man and a dog watched their arrival with apparent interest.

"Dubu? Du' yugaanudün, shiheen?" the old man croaked. His dog—a yellow mutt spotted brown—cocked its head at him as if listening.

Perkar held out his palms, to show that they were empty. "I don't understand you," he said. This wasn't his dream language, and it certainly wasn't the language of his own people.

"Oh," the man replied, in a heavily accented version of Perkar's tongue. "I was just asking my dog who you were."

"Huuzho, shutsebe," Ngangata said weakly.

"Huuzho, shizhbee," the old man replied, smiling. "So you, at least, know the real speech."

"My name is Perkar, Clan Barku," Perkar told him. "My companion is Ngangata."