“The grass grows on,” ve said. Ve sighed. The little goatherd took vis hand, and Halaavi relaxed a little, grew more substantial. Halaavi laughed. “The grass grows,” ve said, “and sometimes it changes colors. You need a clan, Ariah. I will advocate to the Avolayla for you.”

Chapter 34

CHAPTER 34

Halaavi and Kisi led me to the Avolayla’s camp. It was about two and a half miles from where I’d settled by the river. Halaavi asked me questions about the Empire while we walked. Ve asked me what the slave markets were like. Ve said ve’d been near Ma-Halad before. The permanence of the settlement bothered vim. Ve said it was unnatural and arrogant to demand one stretch of land to support you forever.

“Well, the Empire may settle,” I said, “but it keeps growing. It keeps making that demand of new places.”

“Greed,” Halaavi said.

“Among other things, yes.”

The Avolayla’s camp sat on carefully cultivated plains south of the river. The grasses in the living area had been laid down flat. The Droma use boards knotted with rope for this; they step the grass stalks down, coax them flat. You can identify a clan by the pattern of its floorwork: the Avolayla draw the Moon and the Pet overlapping on their grass floors. Around thirty yurts of different sizes sat on the floorwork, the walls of each covered in embroidered skins, and the roofs masterfully thatched. In the center of the camp was a covered canopy protecting the fire pits and stoves, and a longer, larger yurt that served as a meeting place. Stray goats, antelope, and yaks roamed through the camp at will. Chickens clustered in a small pen beside the cooking tent. Children ran in loose packs between the yurts. The air was rich with the smell of smoke, dung, boiling tea, and fresh milk.

Kisi and Halaavi sang a walking song as we approached, a sort of code that alerted the camp to our presence and identified them, at least, as clan members. They were met with smiles, warmth, and then the clan spotted me. The songs stopped, the children skidded to a halt. Steely fear bled from one brown face to another to another. It burned into me, sucked in by the gift. Groups are never easy for a shaper, but groups where emotions are so contagious are especially difficult. I lost myself. I became, in a very literal sense, scared of my own self.

Halaavi took me by the arm and brought me forward. “I advocate for vim.”

“Ve is a settler,” an old person said. Vis hair was gray and thinning, eyes rheumy and joints swollen with arthritis. The clan parted to let vim through. “Halaavi, you sow chaos.”

Kisi shot Halaavi an apologetic look and ran to the rest of the clan. Halaavi stood fast, vis dark brown hand on my pale silver arm. “Sing to them what you sang to me,” ve said.