Moving Water by Sylvia Kelso

you to ‘ ’ware backs’.”
    Sivar’s thought had followed mine. A question, a puzzle, a struggle for courage fermented in his heavy face.
    â€œSir,” he was still painfully timid. “Gevos. Just what—did you do?”
    My charge’s face shadowed all over again. He answered quietly. “The Arts use several of what we call direct Commands. The main one is Chake.” He pronounced it “Sha-kay.” “If you’re strong enough, you can stand someone on his head with that. But the only real difference is the scale of power. Knock somebody over, knock them out, blind them, kill them. That’s A’sparre. I meant to knock him out. But I hit too hard.”
    For a moment he could have been back kneeling over the corpse. I could find nothing useful to say. But Sivar was also hunting consolation, and, I should think, a quite unwonted tact. What he achieved was an outright herald’s staff.
    â€œWell, sir, everybody’s gotta make mistakes. My old man used to say you gotta be toes-up before you don’t.” He withdrew hastily on camp. “Sir, permission to check me horse. . . .”
    Watching him scuttle away, my charge said slowly, “You know, I think that’s the kindest thing anyone ever said to me.”
    I found myself gagged by my own base, ridiculous jealousy. He went on, thinking aloud.
    â€œFengthira was right. ‘Th’art never Round but Through.’ I thought he’d never get it out. I wanted to jump in and answer before he said it, like I can with you.” My gag dissolved. “But if I had . . . it would have tipped the scales, sure enough.” He looked absurdly pleased with himself. “I think I’m getting the hang of Math.”
    * * * * *

    Whatever Sivar told the rest worked faster than any herald’s staff. By nightfall they were all trying to ride in earshot. Next day in the inn-yard both Zyr and Ost, the second file-leader, dared an outright glance at him and a mumbled, “Morning, sir.” At the midday halt Sivar hovered, then sidled up to hazard, “Where did you come from, sir? Before Assharral?” In a couple more days the lot were all but climbing in bed with him.
    With the wall down they wanted to know how he had learnt and how it felt, to have their thoughts read and be taught to “speak,” with explanations of the rest and demonstrations thrown in. They never tired of dropping things and saying plaintively, “Sir, do you think . . .” or piling wood for noonday mint-tea and asking, “Sir, would you start . . .” or pleading, “Sir, couldn’t you just tell this horse. . . .” I had to forbid boasting at post-houses and restrain collectors of everything from bulls to butterflies and curtail a flood of talk on all the minutiae of Assharral.
    Against imposition he was his own defense. He would bear with them as long as he chose. Then he would smile, raise his brows and say pleasantly but firmly, “Well, now,” and they would subside, mild as milk. At times I wondered if I was leading an escort or a harvest festival.
    We reached Zyphryr Coryan in late afternoon, riding from farmland into the virgin forest belt that girdles the city like an outer wall, the road swinging in a wide curve about the Morhyrne’s base, with glimpses of black rock cone through the silver-green, sparse, long-fingered foliage and close-packed slender white trunks of Morrya’s helliens. The boughs were clamorous with birds. Big gray coastal lydwyr hopped leisurely from our path, making him exclaim. “We only have lydyrs in Hethria.” He glanced at me and half-smiled. “Little hoppers. Nothing like that.”
    Then we rounded the long curve onto the cliff above Rastyr, and all Tyr Coryan opened at our feet, a shining labyrinth of apple-green and azure wound among silver-gray wooded spits, edged with bayside villages’ dabs of white and ochre above