Seasons Of War Part 52

'Perhaps not,' she agreed. 'Say rather, if I'm going to die, I'd rather it was after I'd finished this.'

Maati put a hand on her shoulder, then let his arm fall to his side. Eiah described the issues of the binding that troubled her most. To pull a thought from abstraction into concrete form required a deep understanding of the idea's limits and consequences. To bind Wounded, Eiah needed to find the common features of a cut finger and a burned foot, the difference between a tattooing quill and a rose thorn, the definitions that kept the thought small enough for a single mind to encompa.s.s.

'Take Vanjit's work,' Eiah said. 'Your eyes were never burned. No one cut them or bruised them. But they didn't see as well as when you were young. So there must have been some damage to them. So are the changes of age wounds? White hair? Baldness? When a woman loses her monthly flow, is it because she's broken?'

'You can't consider age,' Maati said. 'For one thing, it muddies the water, and for another, I will swear to you that more than one poet has reached for Youth-Regained or some such.'

'But how can I make that fit?' Eiah said. 'What makes an old man's failing hip different from a young girl's bruised one? The speed of the injury?'

'The intention,' Maati said, and touched a line of symbols. His finger traced the strokes of ink, pausing from time to time. He could feel Eiah's attention on him. 'Here. Change ki to toyaki. Wounds are either intentional or accident. Toyaki includes both senses.'

'I don't see what difference it makes,' Eiah said.

'Ki also includes a nuance of proper function. Behavior that isn't misadventure or conscious intention, but a product of design,' Maati said. 'If you remove that . . .'

He licked his lips, his fingers closing in the air above the page. Once, many years before, he had been asked to explain why the poets were called poets. He remembered his answer vaguely. That the bindings were the careful shaping of meaning and intention, that makers or thought-weavers were just as apt. It had been a true answer for as far as it went.

And also, sometimes, the grammar of a binding would say something unexpected. Something half-known, or half-acknowledged. A profound melancholy touched him.

'You see, Eiah-cha,' he said, softly, 'time is meant to pa.s.s. The world is meant to change. When people fade and die, it isn't a deviation. It's the way the world is made.'

He tapped the symbol ki.

'And that,' he said, 'is where you make that distinction.'

Eiah was silent for a moment, then drew a pen from her sleeve and a small silver ink box. With a soft pressure, gentler than rain on leaves, she added the strokes that remade the binding.

'You accept my argument, then?' Maati asked.

'I have to,' Eiah said. 'It's why we're here, isn't it? Sterile didn't add anything to the world, it only broke the way humanity renews itself. I've seen enough decline and death to recognize its proper place. I'm not here to stop time or death. Just to put back the balance so that new generations can come up fresh.'

Maati nodded. When Eiah spoke, her voice sounded tired.

'I miss him,' she said. He knew that she meant her father. 'The last time I saw him, he looked so old. I still picture him with dark hair. It hasn't been like that in years, but it's what's in my mind.'

'We're doing the right thing,' Maati said. His voice was little more than a whisper.

'I don't doubt it,' Eiah said. 'He's turned his back on a generation of women as if their suffering were insignificant. s.e.xual indenture used to be restricted to bed slaves, and he would make an industry of it if he could. He would haul women across like bales of cotton. I hate everything about the scheme, but I miss him.'

'I do too,' Maati said.

'You also hate him,' she said. There was no place in this room for half-truths.

'That too,' Maati agreed.

Dinner that night was a brace of quail Large Kae had trapped. The flesh was soft and rich. Maati sat at the head of the long table, Vanjit and Clarity-of-Sight at the far end, and plucked the delicate bones. The bright chattering voices of Small Kae and Irit seemed distant, the dry wit of Ashti Beg grim. Eiah also seemed subdued, but it might only have been that she was thinking of the binding. The meal seemed to last forever, and yet he found himself surprised when Ashti Beg gathered up the bowls and the talk shifted to cleanup ch.o.r.es.

'I don't think I can,' Vanjit said, her voice apologetic. 'I a.s.sumed that we had changed the rotation.'

'We skipped you last time, if that's what you mean,' Ashti Beg said. 'I don't know if that's the same as agreeing to wait on you.'

There was laughter in the older woman's voice, but it had teeth. Small Kae was smiling a fixed smile and staring at the table. If he hadn't been so distracted, Maati would have seen this coming before it arrived.

'I don't think I can, though,' Vanjit said, still firmly in her seat. The thing on her lap shifted its gaze from the poet to Ashti Beg and back as if fascinated.

'I seem to recall my mother keeping the house even when she had a babe on her hip,' Ashti Beg said. 'But she always was unusually talented.'

'I have the andat. That's more work than washing dishes,' Vanjit said. 'At court, poets are forgiven other duties, aren't they, Maati-kvo?'

'The smallest brat of the utkhaiem is forgiven their duties,' Ashti Beg said before Maati could frame a reply. 'That's why it's court. Because some people set themselves above others.'

The air was suddenly heavy. Maati stood, unsure what he was about to say. Irit's sudden chirp saved him.

'Oh, it isn't much. No need to fuss about it. I'll be happy to do the thing. No, Vanjit-cha, don't get up. If you don't feel up to doing it, you ought not strain yourself.'

The last words rose at the end as if they were a question. Maati nodded as if something had been decided, then walked out of the hall. Vanjit followed without speaking, and took herself and her small burden down a side hall and out to the gardens. Maati could hear the voices of the others as they cleaned away the remnants of the small, fallen birds.

They met as they always did, sitting in a rough circle and discussing the fine points of binding the andat. There was no sign of the earlier conflict; Vanjit and Ashti Beg treated each other with their customary kindness and respect. Eiah explained the difference between accident, intention, and consequence of design to Irit and Small Kae and, Maati thought, learned by the experience. By the warm, soft light of the lanterns, they might have been talking of anything. By the end, there was even real laughter.

It should have been a good evening, but as he went back toward his bed, Maati was troubled and couldn't quite say why. It had to do with Otah-kvo and Eiah, Vanjit and Clarity-of-Sight. The Galts and his own unsettling if unsurprising insight into the nature of time and decay.

He opened his book, reading his own handwriting by the light of the night candle. Even the quality of his script had changed since Vanjit had sharpened his vision. The older entries had been . . . not sloppy, never that. But not so crisp as he was capable of now. It had been an old man's handwriting. Now it was something different. He picked up his pen, touched nib to ink, but found nothing coherent to say.

He wiped the pen clean and put the book aside. Somewhere far to the south, Otah was dining with the men who had destroyed the Khaiem. He was sleeping on a bed of silk and drinking wine from bowls of beaten gold, while here in the dry plains his own daughter prepared to risk her life to make right what he had done.

What they had done together. Otah, Cehmai, and Maati himself. One was crawling into bed with the enemy, another turning away and hiding his face. Only Maati had even tried to make things whole again. Vanjit's success meant it had not been wasted effort. Eiah's fear reminded him that it was not yet finished.

He made his way down the corridors in the near darkness. Only candles and a half-moon lit his way. He was unsurprised to see Vanjit sitting alone in the gardens. Unlike the courtyard where they had spoken before, the gardens were bleak and bare. They had come too late to plant this season. Eiah's occasional journeys to Pathai provided food enough, and they didn't have the surplus of spare hands that had once held up the school. The wilderness encroached on the high stone walls here, young trees growing green and bold in plots where Maati had sown peas and harvested pods.

She heard him approaching and glanced back over her shoulder. She shifted, adjusting her robes, and Maati saw the small, black eyes of the andat appear from among the folds of cotton. She had been nursing it. It shocked him for a moment, though on reflection it shouldn't have. The andat had no need of milk, of course, but it was a product of Vanjit's conceptions. Stone-Made-Soft had been involved with the game of stones. Three-Bound-as-One had been fascinated by knots. The relationship of poet and andat was modeled on mother and child as it had never been before in all of history. The nursing was, Maati supposed, the physical emblem of it.

'Maati-kvo,' she said. 'I didn't expect anyone to be here.'

He took a pose of apology, and she waved it away. In the cold light, she looked ghostly. The andat's eyes and mouth seemed to eat the light, its skin to glow. Maati came nearer.

'I was worried, I suppose,' he said. 'It seemed . . . uncomfortable at dinner this evening.'

'I'd been thinking about that,' Vanjit said. 'It's hard for them. Ashti Beg and the others. I think it must be very hard for them.'

'How do you mean?'

She shrugged. The andat in her lap gurgled to itself, considering its own short, pale fingers with fascination.

'They have all put in so much time, so much work. Then to see another woman complete a binding and gain a child, all at once. I imagine it must gnaw at her. It isn't that she intends to be rude or cruel. Ashti is in pain, and she lashes out. I knew a dog like that once. A cart had rolled over it. Snapped its spine. It whined and howled all night. You would have thought it was begging aid, except that it tried to bite anyone who came near. Ashti-cha is much the same.'

'You think so?'

'I do,' she said. 'You shouldn't think ill of her, Maati-kvo. I doubt she even knows what she's doing.'

He folded his arms.

'I can't think it's simple for you either,' he said. He had the sense of testing her, though he couldn't have said quite how. Vanjit's face was as clear and cloudless as the sky.

'It's perfect,' she said. 'Nowhere near as difficult as I'd thought. Only he makes me tired. No more than any mother with a new babe, though. I've been thinking of names. My cousin was named Ciiat, and he was about this old when the Galts came.'

'It has a name already,' Maati said. 'Clarity-of-Sight.'

'I meant a private name,' Vanjit said. 'One for just between the two of us. And you, I suppose. You are as near to a father as he has.'

Maati opened his mouth, then closed it. Vanjit's hand slipped into his own, her fingers twined around his. Her smile seemed so genuine, so innocent, that Maati only shook his head and laughed. They remained there for the s.p.a.ce of ten long breaths together, Vanjit sitting, Maati standing at her side, and the andat, shifting impatiently in her lap.

'Once Eiah's bound Wounded,' Maati said, 'we can all go back.'

Vanjit made a small sound, neither cough nor gasp nor chuckle, and released Maati's hand. He glanced down. Vanjit smiled up at him.

'That will be good,' she said. 'This must all be hard for her as well. I wish there was something we could do to ease things.'

'We'll do what can be done,' Maati said. 'It will have to be enough.'

Vanjit didn't reply, and then raised her arm, pointing to the horizon.

'The brightest star,' she said. 'The one just coming up over the trees there? You see it?'

'I do,' Maati said. It was one of the traveling stars that made their slow way through the night skies.

'It has moons around it. Three of them.'

He laughed and shook his head, but Vanjit didn't join him. Her face was still and cool. Maati's laughter died.

'A star with . . . moons?'

Vanjit nodded. Maati looked up again at the bright golden glimmer above the trees. He frowned first and then smiled.

'Show me,' he said.

13.

The fleet left Saraykeht on the first truly cool morning of autumn. A dozen ships with bright sails, and the marks of the Empire and Galt flying together from their masts. From the sh.o.r.e, Otah could no longer make out the shapes of the individual sailors and soldiers that crowded the distant decks, much less Sinja himself, dressed though the man was in gaudy commander's array. Farrer Dasin's ships still stood at anchor, and the other Galtic ships which had been promised but were not yet prepared to sail.

Sinja had met with him for the last time less than a hand and a half before he'd stepped onto the small boat to make his last inspection. Otah had made himself comfortable in a teahouse near the seafront, waiting for the ceremony that would send off the fleet. The walls of the place were stained with decades of lantern smoke, the floorboards spotted with the memory of spilled wine. Sitting at the back table, Otah had felt like a peac.o.c.k in a hen coop. Sinja, breezing through the open doors in a robe of bright green and hung with silk scarves and golden pendants, had made him feel less ridiculous only by comparison.

'Well, this is your last chance to call the whole thing quits,' Sinja said, dropping into the chair across from Otah as casually as a drinking companion. Otah fumbled in his sleeve for a moment and drew out the letters intended for the utkhaiem of Chaburi-Tan. Sinja took them, considered the bright thread that sewed each of them closed, and sighed.

'I'd feel better if Balasar was leading the first command,' Sinja said.

'I thought you'd decided that he'd be better staying to arrange your reinforcements.'

'Agreed. I agreed. He decided. And it does make sense. Farrer-cha and the others who've followed his example will be able to swallow all this better if they're answering to a Galtic general.'

'And waiting for them to be ready . . .' Otah said.

'Madness,' Sinja said, slipping the letters into his own sleeve. 'We've been too long already. I'm not saying that it's a bad plan. I only wish that there was a brilliant, well-crafted scheme that had Balasar-cha going out and me following behind to see whether the raiders sank everyone. Any word from Chaburi-Tan?'

'Nothing new,' Otah said.

'Fair enough. We'll send word once we get there.'

A silence followed, the unasked questions as heavy in the air as smoke. Otah leaned forward. Sinja knew about Idaan's list; Otah had told him in a fit of candor and regretted it since. Sinja knew better than to raise the issue where they might be overheard, but disapproval haunted his expression.

'There is some movement on the question of Obar State,' Otah said. 'Ashua Radaani bribed their amba.s.sador. He has a list of men who have been in negotiation to break the eastern cities from the Empire with backing from Obar State. Two dozen men in four families.'

'That's good work,' Sinja said.

'He's asking permission to kill them.'

'Sounds very tidy, a.s.suming it's true and Radaani isn't involved in the conspiracy himself.'

'Very tidy then too,' Otah said. 'I'm ordering the men brought to Utani. I can speak with them there.'

'And if Radaani refuses?'

'Then I'll invite just him,' Otah said. Sinja took an approving pose. Otah thought for a moment that they might be done.

'The other matter?'

'Being addressed,' Otah said.

Four of the members of Idaan's list had been quietly looked into, the irregularities of their behavior clarified. One had been hiding half-a-dozen mistresses from a wife with a notoriously short temper. Two others had been conspiring to undercut the gla.s.s trades in the north, setting up workshops nearer the alum mines of Eddensea. The fourth had also appeared on Ashua Radaani's list, and had no clear connection to Maati.

Sinja had made it perfectly clear that he thought examining Eiah's actions was the wisest course. If she was Maati's backer, better to find it quickly and put a stop to the whole affair. If she wasn't, best to know that and stop losing sleep. There was a cold logic to his argument, and Otah knew what his own reluctance meant. His daughter had turned to her Uncle Maati. Turned against her father. And the pain of that loss was almost more than he could bear.

'Well,' Sinja said. 'I suppose I'd better go before the sailors all get too drunk to know sunrise from sunset and land us all in Eymond. If I don't come back, make sure they put up statues of me.'

'You'll come back,' Otah said.

'You only say that because I always have before,' Sinja replied, smiling. He sobered. 'See that Balasar comes quickly, though. These ships will make a grand spectacle, but it would be a short fight.'

'I'll see to it,' Otah said.

Sinja rose and took a pose of leave-taking. It might be the last time Otah ever saw the man. It was a fact he'd known, but something in the set of Sinja's body or the studied blankness of his face drove the point home. For the s.p.a.ce of a breath, Otah felt the loss as if the worst had already happened.

'I would have been lost without you, these last years,' Otah said. 'You know that.'