Waterborn

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' yugaanudun, 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.'

The old man shook his head in bemusement. 'Such names!' he mused. 'I was never able to keep them straight!' He came to his feet—it seemed quite a struggle—and gestured for them to join him. 'I forget myself,' he said cheerfully. 'Join Heen and me. I will make us some tea.'

Perkar was uncertain, but Ngangata nodded. The two of them crossed the clearing, Perkar walking, Ngangata stubbornly stumbling along. The old man, meanwhile, disappeared into his strange hut and emerged with a copper kettle. He filled it with water from a rainbarrel at one side of the house, and after adding some herbs to the pot and a bit of wood to the flagging fire, came back to join them. He walked bow-legged, on limbs as spindly as those of a spider.

'Now,' he said, as he returned to his seat. 'Please sit down.'

Perkar and Ngangata folded their legs beneath them. The old yellow dog appraised them briefly with half-lidded eyes, then returned to sleep.

'My name is Yushnene, or at least it was when I was younger. That means 'Wolf- Minded.' They called me that because I was such a terror in battle.' He chuckled to himself, as if at some small joke. 'After that, they called me Gaan, because I was a shaman—that's what that means—but now, when I see anybody they just call me Old Man or something like that. But when I used to go up into your country, to trade, up there your people called me Brother Horse. You can call me whatever you want.'

Despite himself, Perkar felt a smile drawn from him by the old man's manner. 'Any of your other names would make me sound as if I were sneezing,' he admitted. 'May I call you Brother Horse?'

'That's fine with me. I always used to laugh when they called me that, because it had to do with a misunderstanding. I didn't speak your language very well, and someone asked me my horse's name. I didn't know how to say 'He is Dog-Chaser, my second cross-cousin on my father's side,' and so I just tried to tell them he was my cousin. What came out, though, was 'brother.' By the time I realized my mistake, the name was stuck to me. Anyway, I like it well enough, and I thought of Dog-Chaser as a brother anyway.'

'You are Mang then?' Perkar blurted. 'I've heard you share lineage with your mounts.'

'Mang? Yes, that's what you people call us. My own tribe is really the Sh'en Dune, the South People, but foreigners always call us Mang.'

'The Mang are the chief tribe in their confederacy,' Ngangata explained. 'The ones your people are usually at war with.'

The old man nodded. 'Yes. I've never been to war against you Cattle People, though, so I hope there are no