Текст книги "Earth Logic"

Автор книги: Marks Laurie

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They stood at the southern edge of Shaftal. At Zanja’s back lay the woodland. Ahead lay flat, featureless sand, as far as could be seen. The rain was falling so heavily now it seemed a wonder they were not swimming. Karis pointed a wet finger at the nearly invisible horizon. “That way,” she said.

The sand seemed to last forever. Unintimidated, Karis began to cross it.

Four days later, Zanja awoke from an exhausted, uncomfortable sleep to the sound of rain falling on the oilcloth of the makeshift tent. Karis, sound asleep, clenched her arm across Zanja’s chest in a grip it would not be easy to escape. Curled against Karis’s back, J’han uttered a small snore. The three of them had slept like the dead in a makeshift tent, in wet clothing, under wet blankets, in a flat and featureless land devoid of tree or stone. It had been a dreary, disorienting journey across the sand, with no sight of the sun or stars to reassure them that they were not walking in circles.

J’han snored again, and Zanja heard another sound as well: faint and distant, but distinctly familiar. She lifted an edge of the sagging oilcloth and peered out. A low sky swallowed up the flat horizon, rain pelted the sand, and a haze of sprouting grass seedlings quivered in the watery assault. There was nothing else to see. Mumbling a complaint, Karis hauled Zanja back under the blankets.

But J’han had awakened. “Did you see something?”

“I saw an inn,” Zanja said, “with smoke rising from the chimneys and bread hot from the oven.”

J’han groaned. “No, you saw sand, grass, and water. Why do you torture me?”

“I heard a goat.”

“A goat?” J’han shook Karis roughly by the shoulder. “We’re taking this tent down!”

“Cruel healer,” Karis mumbled, “Let me sleep!”

With some effort, Zanja extricated herself from Karis’s powerful grip, and she and J’han began rolling blankets. Not until they had put on the rain capes that formed the tent, so that the downpour was falling in Karis’s face, did she get up, heavy and reluctant as an old bull. “Why don’t we just let them all die?” she suggested grumpily. But when she took a deep breath, she smiled. “I smell smoke. What do you suppose the Juras eat for breakfast?”

“Sand porridge,” said Zanja. “With bits of grass for flavor. Made with rainwater, of course.”

“So long as it’s hot!” said J’han.

They had not walked far before the sand turned quietly to stone. The clouds lay down and kissed the earth, and Karis had to grab Zanja and J’han by the capes to keep them from stepping over the edge of a cliff. Below them, beyond this dramatic step in the land, where the sand began again, lay the Juras camp at last: an unassuming cluster of circular huts with walls of rubble and roofs of skin, and smoke seeping out from holes where the radiating poles met the lodge pole in the middle. Some small piles of hay remained of the haystacks that in autumn must have garrisoned the camp, supplementing the great wind block of the cliff.

As Karis found a path and led the way down the cliff, Zanja noticed that the base of the cliff was riven with wide cracks where dun goats crowded. One of the goats spotted them, uttered a warning bleat, and soon all the goats were shouting an urgent clamor, like townspeople at a fair who all shout “thief” at once. By the time they reached the bottom of the path, a half dozen giants had come out of the huts: people in their prime, as big as Karis, though not quite so powerfully built, their hair bleached almost white by sun, and falling in locks like orderly strands of yarn, with eyes like polished chips of lapis lazuli.

One of them, at least, spoke Shaftalese. He said, “We cannot offer shelter. We have a sickness here.” His voice was deep and sweet as a pipe organ.

All six of them had glanced curiously at J’han and Zanja, but it was on Karis that their gazed lingered. Her voice, damaged by years of smoke use, was no more musical than a file on wood. “We have traveled far to cure this illness.”

J’han added, “I am a healer.”

The man spoke to the others, and the others spoke back. Zanja shut her eyes and listened. The rich, deep voices seemed to almost sing: question and answer, a harmony complex with adjectives. She said in a low voice, “This language is not conducive to quick decisions. We’ll be standing in the rain for some time.”

J’han said, “After studying their language in a book for a couple of months, you are able to understand them? You will never cease to amaze me.”

The book Medric had slipped into Zanja’s pack had proven to be a grammar of the Juras language, the life work of a long‑dead scholar who had probably never imagined his dry study being put to such serious practical use. Zanja said, “Well, an hour or two of listening would help a great deal–”

“An hour!” said J’han.

“An hour?” said Karis. “Someone is dying!” She dropped her pack, and stepped briskly past the head‑crackers. Fortunately, they proved indecisive about wielding their knob‑headed sticks until she was past them. Then, one uttered a cry that seemed intended to give courage, and they drew themselves up to attack.

Zanja said sharply, in the Juras language, “She is sham’re!”

They turned to her, startled, their lifted sticks beginning to lower. “A witch?” said the man in Shaftalese, as though he thought Zanja had spoken a word of his language by simple accident.

“Your people are singing someone into death, are they not?” Zanja had noticed the melancholy murmur of sound, but until she spoke she had not known what it signified. “The sham’rewill save that person’s life.”

The man spoke to his companions, not translating, but announcing in his own convoluted tongue that these three strangers were sent by the gods. “Well,” Zanja said to J’han, “I think they might let us come in now.”

“But will they feed us sand porridge?” he asked.

It was porridge, sure enough, made not from sand but from some kind of ground seed that looked fit for chickens, with bits of dry goat meat mixed in it, and chunks of something chewy and sweet that Zanja did not attempt to identify. In a storage hut hastily converted to guest quarters, Zanja and J’han contrived a laundry line and hung their blankets and clothing over the dung fire to dry. Karis returned, consumed a great bowl of the chickenseed porridge, and lay down on a pallet of goat hides. “The place is crawling with vermin,” she said. “The people are so crowded together they can scarcely find room to separate sick from well. They kept handing me their babies–babies the size of calves! They know what an earth witch is good for.” Karis shut her eyes. “I’ll kill the fleas,” she promised, her words already blurred by sleep. “Why am I so tired?”

“Zanja and I will manage,” J’han said.

*

They went out again into the rain and found the six head‑crackers, crowded with two dozen others into a bursting hut where the only people not talking were wailing children. The din fell still as the two of them ducked through the skin‑hung door. The fetor was overwhelming. Zanja said to the man who spoke some Shaftalese, “You must help me to explain something to your people. They are in great danger, and we have come to help them. This illness has traveled to you from the north, and we have followed it. We know it well. We have seen it kill entire families.”

The man sat still, his big hands folded. “That may be so,” he said. “This sharri’rewho healed Si‑wen‑ga‑sei‑ko’che‑ni‑so‑sen. She is a Juras woman‑born‑outside‑the‑plain? Whose child is she?”

“She does not know her mother’s name. She was born among strangers who did not care to remember her mother for her. Please, I know that you are curious, but your people are in danger. Do you understand?”

The man said, “You want me to speak to my people. But they will not hear my words until they know this woman’s mother‑name.”

J’han murmured at Zanja’s elbow, “Your people also had peculiar ways, didn’t they?”

“And many’s the time I wanted to scream at them, too,” Zanja muttered. “Perhaps you could barge your way into the sick room without being invited.”

She gave him the bags of supplies she carried, and watched him walk out of the door before she turned again to the man and explained, “Karis did not know her mother or her mother’s name.”

“Ka‑ris, that is her name? And has she had no life since she was born?”

The people within hearing repeated, “Karis!” And then the din began to rise. At least they were not a gesticulating people like the Midlanders, but their big voices filled the hut. They argued among themselves and shouted questions that the man was hard put to translate, and Zanja to answer. Was Karis born in the autumn, they asked, and how many years ago, and had her mother been enamored of sweets, and what had her mother been so ashamed of, to run away from the comforts of the Ka clan? A gray‑haired woman rose and began to chant what seemed to be a list of names all beginning with “Ka,” which Zanja realized must be a genealogy, frequently interrupted by other elders who seemed to be arguing that this or that could not be Karis’s particular branch, for reasons Zanja could not decipher.

“Huh!” said her translator at last. “I guess she owns a lot of goats.”

“Goats?” Zanja said in some bewilderment.

“They say her mother must be Ka‑san‑ra‑li‑no‑me‑la, the eldest daughter of Ka‑ri‑sho‑ma‑do‑fin‑brae‑kon, the eldest daughter of …”

Zanja interrupted as politely as she could. “And this Kasanra, what happened to her?”

“She had a restless heart and ran away.”

“Karis’s mother died when Karis was born, thirty‑five years ago.”

He turned and spoke at length with several other people. Zanja sat upon her heels. She could tell Karis her mother’s name! And, apparently, though Kasanra had not been remembered by anyone in Lalali, she had lived long enough to name her infant, and that name had been remembered. So now that name alone was enough to give Karis a clan, a genealogy, and even living relatives.

The translator turned to Zanja and said, “Yes, Karis is rich! Her mother’s sister’s eldest daughter, Ka‑mo‑le‑ni‑da‑he‑fo‑so, is holder of the goats, but everyone thinks they belong to the daughter of Ka‑san‑ra‑li‑no‑me‑la.”

“I doubt Karis wants those goats, though. Kamole can continue to keep them.”

This statement excited much comment, for Kamole had a fine herd and any of them would certainly want those goats. And Kamole was overly self‑important, and perhaps deserved to lose her herd to a stranger. Their eyes danced at the possibility.

“Karis does not want them for her daughter, and her daughter’s daughter?” said the translator.

Zanja gathered that these people would not count Leeba as a daughter, and said, “Karis can bear no children of her own body.”

At this, the gathered people groaned and cried as though someone had died. The translator explained, straining the limit of his vocabulary, that the Ka women were good breeders, but the clan had long thought the Ka gift had died out, for in three generations there had been no sham‑re.That Karis could not pass on her talent to her own children was a dreadful tragedy.

The people demanded to know why Karis could not breed and what the names of all her parents, friends, and lovers were, in the order that she met them. “Shouldn’t Karis tell you this herself?” Zanja asked, but gradually it became clear that to tell one’s story was the duty of one’s shushan,which the man confusedly translated as “the people of her name.”

“Her clan?” she asked, using the Juras word.

“No, no, her shushan.”

Zanja was getting tired, and the camp’s fleas had worked their way to her skin by then, and she was not enduring the discomfort of their sharp bites with a stoicism that would have made her teachers proud. She said, “Am I in her shu’shan?”

“You know her story, don’t you?”

She rubbed her eyes, which were burning from the smoke. The rain pounded on the stretched hide roof, and leaked into some well‑placed containers. She said, “Karis cannot bear children because her womb was injured. Her father’s name she does not know. I do not know the names from Karis’s childhood, for she has chosen to forget them. The first one to befriend her was named Dinal, whom she calls her mother, though she did not know her long. Dinal’s foster daughter, Norina, became her first and oldest friend. I am her first and only lover, Zanja, of the Tarwein clan. And then her friends all came at once: J’han, the healer who is with us now, his daughter, Leeba; Emil, our elder; and Medric, a wise man. That is her entire shu’shan.”

The man, diverted by curiosity, asked, “Your clan‑name is your second name? Do your people do everything backwards?”

“I come from the furthest northern borderland of Shaftal, and the Juras live in the furthest southern borderland. My homeland is as wrinkled as yours is flat, and the mountains are so high that some of them at their peaks have stars shining on them in the middle of the day. Your people are large and fair and full of noise. My people were small and dark and full of silence. You Juras seem backwards to me!”

The translator grinned at her. His curiosity and humor would make him a fine ally, Zanja thought, as he turned to participate in the rapid, complicated discussion that Zanja could not follow. The fleas continued to bite, and Zanja practiced her deep breathing, while the people talked interminably. She understood that they were still, after all this time, arguing about Karis’s name. She put herself into a listening trance, and came awake only when the man said, Tarwein‑zan‑ja, does Ka wish to continue to be known as Ris?“

“Of course. Why wouldn’t she?”

“Ris is a lost‑name, a wilderness name. And now she has come home.”

Zanja said, “Would it be wrong for her to remember that she once was lost?”

“No, no,” he said. “It is her choice, but she may ask her clan to give her a new name, now that she has come home.” The people talked some more. The man asked Zanja how many of the people she named were dead. When she told him that Dinal had died in the Fall of the House of Lilterwess, the translator shook his head morosely. “Then Karis’s name is too short.”

Zanja named some of the still‑living people who had befriended Karis in Meartown: the forge master Palo who taught her all he knew, and Mardeth who had watched the gate and reminded Karis to eat. More argument ensued, but at last the people gathered there seemed satisfied. “We will call her Ka‑ris‑ri‑lo‑seth‑ja‑han‑il‑ric‑ba. It is a very short name for a woman her age. But since she has a child in her shu’shan,perhaps she will avoid losing her name entirely as her friends die.”

“I will urge her to increase her shu’shan,”said Zanja gravely, though in her opinion Karis was not doing so badly for a woman whose life had hardly begun until five years ago. Unlike Karis, Zanja would have had a very lengthy name if the Sainnites had not killed her entire shushanin a single night’s work. Now her Juras name would be shorter than Karis’s. She knew from harsh experience that it was indeed a dreadful fate to be, by Juras standards, nameless, for so she had been for the months after the massacre, before she met Karis and her own shu’shanbegan to increase. Then she smiled a little, realizing that despite the fleas and smoke and weariness, her fire logic had not failed her, and she was starting to understand these people. She said, “Will your people hear what I have to say now?”

“They are listening to you, Tarwein‑zan‑ja.” Indeed, the people had all fallen silent, and even the children had ceased to fret.

“I will tell you a story,” she said in the Juras language. Her pronunciation, she knew, could only be atrocious, and the vocabulary provided in the book she studied had not taught her even half the words she needed to know. She did what she had always done: she improvised, while her ally aided her by re‑saying the words she terribly mispronounced, or offering other words that carried her meaning more clearly.

“There was a tiny man who wore a black coat and was named Little‑Biting‑Dust. I am afraid I cannot tell you all his names, for his shushanis very great, and saying his name would take all day. One day, Little‑Biting‑Dust found a dark magic in his dinner, and he ate it. Though he was just a tiny man, so tiny that he hardly could be seen, this dark magic made him powerful, for from that day forward everyone he bit with his little teeth sickened and died. You see, the dark magic had become part of his blood, and when he bit someone, the magic went into their blood too, and killed them.

“Little‑Biting‑Dust boasted to his shushanthat although he once had been almost nothing, now he was a man of great importance. They begged to know his secret, and he said, ‘You must follow me, and watch. When I bite someone, wait for that person to fall sick. Then you bite that same person, and the dark magic will go into your blood, and you will be as powerful as I.’ So his numberless shu’shanall did as he said, and soon they all had his power. His clan became the most important people in the north. People came and bowed down to Little‑Biting‑Dust and gave him everything they owned, even their clan goatherd, in exchange for his promise not to bite them. But as you can tell, he was a very evil man, and he broke all his promises, and he bit everyone.

“Soon, Little‑Biting‑Dust’s clan began to starve. They had killed every person and animal in their town, except for the rats, and now they had nothing to eat, for even they would not eat rats. ‘What shall we do?’ they cried.

“ ‘We must go to a new town,’ said Little‑Biting‑Dust. Now, as I said, these people were very small, so they could ride the rats to the next town. Soon, the people in that town also began to sicken and die. There was nothing they could do to fight back, for Little‑Biting‑Dust’s people were so small and fast that nobody could catch them.

“But then one day, there came into that town a woman with a short name who had a lot of goats she did not want, who had the gift of the Ka‑clan and was a sham‑re.Her magic was stronger than Little‑Biting‑Dust’s magic, and soon the people who were sick began to get better, rather than dying. Little‑Biting‑Dust was angry, and he jumped onto her leg to bite her, but she reached down and caught him by the coat collar. ‘Now I have you, you evil little man,’ she said, and she put him in her mouth and cracked him open with her teeth. And so died Little‑Biting‑Dust, and not a day too soon!

“But by now, Little‑Biting‑Dust’s shushanwere numerous as the blades of grass that sprout up during the spring mud, and they all fled the wrath of the short‑named woman, riding on the rats. Some went east and some went west, and she chased them and found them and killed them all. But some went south and they hid in a place they thought they never would be found: a good place where the skies are big and the people sing with loud voices, a place far away from the short‑named woman’s home. ‘She will never find us here,’ they said, and they started to bite the people, and the people began to fall ill. ‘That sham‑rewill not stop us from becoming the most important people in the world!’

“But then one day the sham‑rearrived, for Little‑Biting‑Dust’s relatives had settled in the home of the short‑named woman’s mother. And there was nowhere left for the little people with the dark magic to run, for after the grassland come the steppes, and after the steppes comes the waste, and no one has ever crossed the waste alive. So they all prepared for a great battle, and today that battle begins.”

Zanja awoke from a long nap and found herself alone beside a smoldering fire. Her sleep had not relieved her weariness, but instead had sent it deeper, into the center of her bones, where it filled her marrow with lead. Yet, like all her weary awakenings during this long winter and spring, she awoke satisfied. At last she had something to do, and it required all her faculties, body and mind. She got up, groaning but not complaining.

The rain had eased, and the Juras had built a bonfire in which they were burning everything that might shelter a flea. The children danced; the young people wildly flung objects into the fire. The old people sang: a wild, big noise that issued from the deep of their chests and made Zanja feel giddy and powerful. Inside the main hut, she found a pot of something and helped herself to it, then ducked outside to avoid the dust of cleaning. A woman told her that J’han was in the sick hut, but Karis had gone away. Zanja’s informant gestured vaguely.

Bringing their rain capes, Zanja climbed the cliff and looked out over the empty land, where the sky still hung so low she felt that she could touch it with her hands. Karis was easy to spot: the tallest thing between Zanja and the horizon. As Zanja drew closer, she saw that Karis sat beside a long, shallow stretch of standing water. An ecstatic cacophony of toad voices croaked the praises of this temporary pond. A pair of long‑legged birds, white as clouds, stalked through the clear water, snatching up the love‑frenzied toads to feed their own hatchlings.

Zanja squatted down beside Karis, who sat with her knees drawn up to her chest. The toads cried. “Water here! Come make babies! Beware the toad‑eater!” The clouds, which had seemed so still, revealed themselves to be in motion–or else the earth itself was moving. The grass rustled, growing so quickly that Zanja thought she could see it. At times like these, she almost understood the land as Karis did. How impatient I must seem to her,Zanja thought.

Karis said, “Such big people! So loud, and crowded! They are exhausting.”

“They keep each other warm, I guess.”

The sky spit rudely at them. Zanja unrolled their rain capes, which smelled of dung smoke now. She wrapped one around Karis. Looking into her lover’s face, she saw an unfamiliar strain. She said, surprised and concerned, “What is it?”

Karis dug a hand into wet sand. She said, “When there are no words for what I know, how am I to explain myself?”

“I’ll teach you words from other languages. Or I’ll make words up for you.”

“Must there be words? I just want my toolbox, so I can whack away at something for a while.”

After a silence, Zanja said, “You’re tired of people. I’ll leave you alone.”

Karis’s hand, wet and gritty, took hold of hers. Zanja subsided, leaning against Karis’s shoulder, and watched a white bird stalk into the grass with a hapless toad dangling from her beak. Zanja told Karis her mother’s long name, her own short name, and the name of her cousin who owned such a quantity of fine goats. Karis listened in silence.

“The Juras people will all gather together in a few weeks, and you’ll be able to meet your entire clan then, if not before.”

Karis nodded. “That would be worth doing, I guess. But they are not my people, not like the Ashawala’i were to you. You already understand the Juras better than I ever will, and you’ll spend our entire time here explaining them to me.”

“That’s true,” said Zanja. “Is that too bitter a truth for you?”

“It’s not bitter to know that my mother Kasanra named me,” Karis said. “I assumed she just dropped me in the street like a dog drops her litter.” She took a harsh breath, and turned her face away. “But do I want to know that bearing a child broke her heart?” Her wrecked voice sounded worse than usual. “If every truth is bitter, then we’re better off with lies, aren’t we?”

“Without the truth, we’d never solve a single problem.”

“Without the truth, we’d have no problems. Or at least, we wouldn’t know we had them.”

“What darkness there is in your heart today.”

Karis uttered a weak laugh. “I’m just talking like a smoke addict. A single breath of that stuff and all pain went away. How easy it was!”

Zanja had never feared that Karis would return to using smoke, and now she simply nodded without comment. Their love had been conceived in the midst of pain, and so they had always allowed room for each other’s sorrow. But Zanja could not guess what made Karis so wretched now. While Zanja had napped, Karis had probably wandered the Juras camp, killing fleas, giving immunity to the healthy and making certain none of the sick would get the illness in their lungs. She had done the same in every town they had passed through, and in her wake some people died, the rest recovered, and the illness disappeared. It was a normal sequence of events by now.

“Something new has happened,” Zanja said at last. “Something the ravens know, perhaps.”

“Yes. I can’t explain it.”

Zanja could feel Karis’s bulk, her muscle, and even some bone now that she had gotten thin with travel. But Zanja could feel her sturdiness also, and a physical warmth that kept the chill and damp at bay. “You’ll tell me when you can,” she said.

Karis let go of her hand, and wiped a palm across the sand to smooth it. Then, she began to shape the wet sand into a map, complete with geographical features. Even though Karis had never seen those places, the map would be accurate; where she went, the land was never strange to her. “There’s ten more infected camps,” she said, and marked them with her fingertip. “Seven to the east of us and three to the west. When do the Juras gather together, do you know?”

“After the spring rains have fallen, when the grass is deeply rooted enough that the goats can be allowed to graze, there’s a white flower that blooms at around the time the goats drop their kids, and that’s the time that the Juras people gather to sing to the stars and to make marriages.” Zanja gasped for breath.

“That was an unspeakable statement,” Karis observed.

“It’s how they talk. They have big lungs.”

“Well, the goats will start dropping kids in about twenty days.”

Zanja studied the map. “How far apart are the camps?”

“About a day’s journey. The herds need a lot of room.” Karis frowned. “If the infected people go to the gathering, bringing their fleas with them–”

“You and J’han need two or three days in each camp. I’ll have to run ahead, and persuade those people to stay where they are.”

Karis gave her a look of despair. Confused, Zanja said, “For years before I met you, I was a solitary traveler, so I am fairly skilled at it.”

“I never forget that,” said Karis hoarsely.

“Well, it’s too bad we couldn’t bring a raven, but still, you’ll always know where I am–” Zanja let her voice trail away. “What do you mean by that?”

Karis was trembling. “What’s wrong with me?”

Zanja felt a sudden horror. She put her hand to Karis’s forehead, and it was like putting her hand into a crackling fire. “Dear gods. You can protect everyone–”

“I’m sick?” Karis sounded blank. “Why am I sick?”

Zanja tried to speak calmly. “Little‑Biting‑Dust wanted revenge, I guess. Someone must have told him that you can’t heal yourself.”

“War makes me sick. Norina said so.”

“War only makes you sick at heart,” said Zanja. “Get up. I’m taking you to J’han.”

Chapter Six

Zanja knelt on the floor of pounded sand, near the edge of the crowded, stinking hut where after a feverish night the sick had lapsed into exhausted silence. An old man had died during the night, and as soon as the sun rose, J’han had gone out with the weary volunteers to expose his body to the sky, which was the Juras way of disposing of the dead. J’han would have preferred to burn the bodies, but the closest firewood lay four days journey to the north. Lomito, the translator, had assured Zanja that Juras tradition would keep people away from the body while the scavengers did their work. Now, the volunteers began to come back in: all old people whose names were getting short. They lay down on their pallets with groans of exhaustion; like Zanja they had been awake all night. They muttered among themselves about the danger that the old man’s ghost might haunt them because they had been too tired to sing him properly into death, but soon they fell silent.

All night, while Karis lay restless and muttering with fever, Zanja had sponged her with cool water. Now Karis lay quiescent, pallid, stark. The distinct marks of Little‑Biting‑Dust’s dark magic had become visible in her flesh, mysterious bruises that J’han said were battlegrounds. Feeling how cool Karis was now, Zanja covered her with a blanket.

Karis opened her eyes. “Are you still here?” she said accusingly.

“Karis–”

“You have to go!”

“I can’t bring myself to leave you.”

Karis looked at her: a strange look, resolved, not particularly tender. “A solitary traveler,” she mumbled.

“That life is over.”

“No. It is your gift.” Her broken voice cracked. Her bruised eyelids closed.

Zanja sat back on her heels. In four or five days’ time, J’han would be able to say with some confidence whether Karis would survive. But by then Zanja should be far away, with no raven messenger to tell the news. If Karis lived, she wouldn’t forgive Zanja for remaining with her while a whole people was devastated by this awful plague. And if Karis died, Zanja’s presence or absence would make no difference in the outcome. But she could not make herself stand up and go.

The hut was dim, but outside the heavy clouds allowed in a promise of sunshine. The people within breathed in and out, some snoring, others mumbling vaguely in their sleep. Zanja took out her glyph cards and whispered a question. “If I leave, will Karis and I be separated forever!”

She looked down at the card her fingers had picked. It was Unbinding‑and‑Binding, with its illustration of two people tied at either end of a rope looped around a rock, hanging helplessly from a cliff. For one to climb, the other must fall. Zanja put the card back into the deck. She felt very strange: empty–so empty she felt almost light–and giddy, though not with joy. She stood up and went out.

J’han was asleep with the others, but Lomito was waiting outside near her pile of gear to bid her farewell. J’han would remain with Karis while Lomito traveled west and Zanja east, to teach the Juras how to prevent the illness and how to care for those who were already sick, but above all to persuade them to avoid the gathering.

Lomito said, “Be at peace, Tarwein‑zan‑ja. There never was a sham‑reof the Ka clan that could be easily killed.”