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"It was a battle," said Miro. "Human and Leaf-eater. They're on opposite sides."
"Of what?" said Ouanda.
"I wish I knew. But I can guess. If we bring the Speaker, Human wins. If we don't, Leaf-eater wins."
"Wins what? Because if we bring the Speaker, he'll betray us, and then we all lose."
"He won't betray us."
"Why shouldn't he, if you'd betray me like that?"
Her voice was a lash, and he almost cried out from the sting of her words. "I betray you!" he whispered. "Eu nao. Jamais." Not me. Never.
"Father always said, Be united in front of the piggies, never let them see you in disagreement, and you--"
"And I! I didn't say yes to them. You're the one who said no, you're the one who took a position that you knew I didn't agree with!"
"Then when we disagree, it's your job to--"
She stopped. She had only just realized what she was saying. But stopping did not undo what Miro knew she was going to say. It was his job to do what she said until she changed her mind. As if he were her apprentice. "And here I thought we were in this together." He turned and walked away from her, into the forest, back toward Milagre.
"Miro," she called after him. "Miro, I didn't mean that--"
He waited for her to catch up, then caught her by the arm and whispered fiercely. "Don't shout! Or don't you care whether the piggies hear us or not? Has the master Zenador decided that we can let them see everything now, even the master disciplining her apprentice?"
"I'm not the master, I--"
"That's right, you're not." He turned away from her and started walking again.
"But Libo was my father, so of course I'm the--"
"Zenador by blood right," he said. "Blood right, is that it? So what am I by blood right? A drunken wife-beating cretin?" He took her by the arms, gripping her cruelly. "Is that what you want me to be? A little copy of my paizinho?"
"Let go!"
He shoved her away. "Your apprentice thinks you were a fool today," said Miro. "Your apprentice thinks you should have trusted his judgment of the Speaker, and your apprentice thinks you should have trusted his assessment of how serious the piggies were about this, because you were stupidly wrong about both matters, and you may just have cost Human his life."
It was an unspeakable accusation, but it was exactly what they both feared, that Human would end up now as Rooter had, as others had over the years, disemboweled, with a seedling growing out of his corpse.
Miro knew he had spoken unfairly, knew that she would not be wrong to rage against him. He had no right to blame her when neither of them could possibly have known what the stakes might have been for Human until it was too late.
Ouanda did not rage, however. Instead, she calmed herself visibly, drawing even breaths and blanking her face. Miro followed her example and did the same. "What matters," said Ouanda, "is to make the best of it. The executions have always been at night. If we're to have a hope of vindicating Human, we have to get the Speaker here this afternoon, before dark."
Miro nodded. "Yes," he said. "And I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry too," she said.
"Since we don't know what we're doing, it's nobody's fault when we do things wrong."
"I only wish that I believed a right choice were possible."
Ela sat on a rock and bathed her feet in the water while she waited for the Speaker for the Dead. The fence was only a few meters away, running along the top of the steel grillwork that blocked the people from swimming under it. As if anyone wanted to try. Most people in Milagre pretended the fence wasn't there. Never came near it. That was why she had asked the Speaker to meet her here. Even though the day was warm and school was out, children didn't swim here at Vila Ultima, where the fence came to the river and the forest came nearly to the fence. Only the soapmakers and potters and brickmakers came here, and they left again when the day's work was over. She could say what she had to say, without fear of anyone overhearing or interrupting.
She didn't have to wait long. The Speaker rowed up the river in a small boat, just like one of the farside farmers, who had no use for roads. The skin of his back was shockingly white; even the few Lusos who were light-complected enough to be called loiros were much darker-skinned. His whiteness made him seem weak and slight. But then she saw how quickly the boat moved against the current; how accurately the oars were placed each time at just the right depth, with a long, smooth pull; how tightly wrapped in skin his muscles were. She felt a moment's stab of grief, and then realized that it was grief for her father, despite the depth of her hatred for him; she had not realized until this moment that she loved anything about him, but she grieved for the strength of his shoulders and back, for the sweat that made his brown skin dazzle like glass in the sunlight.
No, she said silently, I don't grieve for your death, Cao. I grieve that you were not more like the Speaker, who has no connection with us and yet has given us more good gifts in three days than you in your whole life; I grieve that your beautiful body was so worm-eaten inside.
The Speaker saw her and skimmed the boat to shore, where she waited. She waded in the reeds and muck to help him pull the boat aground.
