The clan's camp stood beyond the ridge, by the lake with the long name that Aiga had not given the party.
Kapiton led the survey there himself: the belt had to be fixed to the lake, and there was no longer any way around the clan. They went with no weapons in sight and only a few men: Kapiton, Prokop with the plane-table chest, Frol with the chain, and Aiga in front.
The tents stood close together for winter. The air smelled of smoke, reindeer hides and fish stew. The dogs circled the strangers, then lay down with their heads on their paws and continued watching them. Behind the enclosure, all the reindeer raised their heads at once.
Saltu came out of the middle tent.
Prokop recognised the old man from Dry Portage who had stood silently behind Aiga during the hiring and watched the party. Here Saltu was no longer the guide's companion but the elder with the whole camp behind him.
They spoke inside the tent, by the fire. Kapiton spread out the sheet and showed them the belt: a broad, straight ribbon running across the lake, across the hollow and through the reindeer-moss woods towards the sunrise.
Saltu studied the sheet for a long time. Then he took the bone needle used for mending harness and traced it over the paper without touching it: north from the lake, in a loop through the woods, back to the river, across the crossing, south towards the winter camps.
"Our argish," Aiga said. "The autumn route. Back again in spring. Grandfather is showing you: your ribbon cuts it four times."
"The ribbon isn't a fence," Kapiton said. "You can travel across it on the sheet."
"On the sheet, yes," Aiga said. "A reindeer will not cross the road that comes after the sheet. A reindeer does not understand an embankment. When the route is cut once, the clan loses a day. When it is cut four times, it loses the autumn."
Saltu put down the needle and addressed Kapiton directly for the first time, speaking through Aiga and slowly choosing words from another tongue:
"Ask chief. When ribbon becomes road, who answer?"
Kapiton considered. He did not lie, but neither could he help.
"Not me. My task is only to measure."
"There," Saltu said. His tone made it clear that this was precisely the answer he had expected.
Three young men about Tyko's age sat by the far fire, listening to the conversation in silence. One of them, with a new knife at his belt, was looking not at the old man's needle but at the official sheet, plainly calculating what the future road might bring him. To the elders, the road meant the end of the old route; to the young men, it promised work: carrying loads, felling timber, hiring themselves out.
Kapiton said nothing. He was an honest servant of the state and made no promises he could not keep.
Prokop looked at the bone needle in Saltu's dark hand. The old man had shown them the whole route with it without using a map: his memory and the names of places held the road.
"Ask him," Saltu said suddenly, looking at Prokop but speaking to Aiga. "He hears names?"
"He hears them," Aiga said.
The old man nodded without surprise.
"Beyond the great water, they say, there was a land where everyone was entered into a song," he said evenly, like a proverb learnt long ago. "Good if true. A road cannot cut a song. But it can cut our route. You decide, daughter, what this man carries away from here."
That evening Aiga took Prokop to the crossing.
The river was narrow and black here, its water vicious: the ice shelves had already drawn back. On the far bank, among old willows, stood three poles with faded ribbons.
"Our old ford was farther south, by the old road," Aiga said. "When they built an official crossing there, they closed the ford so they would not lose the toll. The clan had to go around and cross here, through deep water."
She spoke evenly, as if reciting something learnt by heart.
"Mother was with the last sledge. The water rose a cubit overnight; no one measured it. The sledge slewed sideways and the reindeer became tangled. Mother cut the harness so the reindeer would not drag the others under."
Prokop said nothing.
"She cut the reindeer free," Aiga said. "She was not in time to free herself."
The black water rushed past. At last Prokop understood why Aiga had gone to guide the strangers. She needed to choose for herself where the survey would run.
"Your belt cuts our route four times," Aiga said. "I counted. Four crossings like this one, only new. Now tell me, man of paper: how will your honest sheet help?"
Prokop did not answer.
Prokop thought he had an answer: if the route were put on the map, it could no longer be taken away with impunity. That certainty came from another life, where maps and the law worked differently. Here it might prove to be a mistake.
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