Daniel Abraham - THE

Eiah looked down at the battered leather satchel, and then up at him,

the question in her eyes.

"There's too much to fit in my sleeves," she said. "I'd clank like a

toolshed every time I waved."

"That's not why you carry it," he said. "It's so that people see a

physician and not your father's daughter. You've always been like that."

It was his little punishment for her return to her own rooms. There had

been a time when she'd have resented the criticism. That time had passed.

"Good night, Parit-kya," she said. "It was good to see you again."

He took a pose of farewell, and then walked with her to the door. In the

courtyard of his house, the autumn moon was full and bright and heavy.

The air smelled of wood smoke and the ocean. Warmth so late in the

season still surprised her. In the north, where she'd spent her

girlhood, the chill would have been deadly by now. Here, she hardly

needed a heavy robe.

Parit stopped in the shadows beneath a wide shade tree, its golden

leaves lined with silver by the moonlight. Eiah had her hand on the gate

before he spoke.

"Was that what you were looking for?" he asked.

She looked back, paused, and took a pose that asked for clarification.

There were too many things he might have meant.

"When you wrote, you said to watch for unusual cases," Parit said. "Was

she what you had in mind?"

"No," Eiah said. "That wasn't it." She passed from the garden to the street.

A decade and a half had passed since the power of the andat had left the

world. For generations before that, the cities of the Khaiem had been

protected by the poets-men who had dedicated their lives to binding one

of the spirits, the thoughts made flesh. Stone-Made-Soft, whom Eiah had

known as a child with its wide shoulders and amiable smile, was one of

them. It had made the mines around the northern city of Machi the

greatest in the world. Water-Moving-Down, who generations ago had

commanded the rains to come or else to cease, the rivers to flow or else

run dry. Removing-the-Part-That-Continues, called Seedless, who had

plucked the seeds from the cotton harvests of Saraykeht and discreetly

ended pregnancies.

Each of the cities had had one, and each city had shaped its trade and

commerce to exploit the power of its particular andat to the advantage

of its citizens. War had never come to the cities of the Khaiem. No one

dared to face an enemy who might make the mountains flow like rivers,

who might flood your cities or cause your crops to fail or your women to

miscarry. For almost ten generations, the cities of the Khaiem had stood

above the world like adults over children.

And then the Galtic general Balasar Gice had made his terrible wager and

won. The andat left the world, and left it in ruins. For a blood-soaked

spring, summer, and autumn, the armies of Galt had washed over the

cities like a wave over sandcastles. Nantani, Udun, Yalakeht,

Chaburi-Tan. The great cities fell to the foreign swords. The Khaiem

died. The Dai-kvo and his poets were put to the sword and their

libraries burned. Eiah still remembered being fourteen summers old and

waiting for death to come. She had been only the daughter of the Khai

Machi then, but that had been enough. The Galts, who had taken every

other city, were advancing on them. And their only hope had been Uncle

Maati, the disgraced poet, and his bid to bind one last andat.

She had been present in the warehouse when he'd attempted the binding.

She'd seen it go wrong. She had felt it in her body. She and every other

woman in the cities of the Khaiem. And every man of Galt.

Corruptingthe-Generative, the last andat had been named.

Sterile.

Since that day, no woman of the cities of the Khaiem had borne a child.

No man of Galt had fathered one. It was a dark joke. Enemy nations

locked in war afflicted with complementary curses. Yourhistory will be

written by half-breeds, Sterile had said, or it won't be written. Eiah

knew the words because she had been in the room when the world had been

broken. Her own father had taken the name Emperor when he sued for

peace, and Emperor he had become. Emperor of a fallen world.

Perhaps Parit was right. Perhaps she had taken to her vocation as

single-mindedly as she had because she wanted to be something else.

Something besides her father's daughter. As the princess of the new

empire, she would have been a marriage to some foreign ward or king or

lord incapable of bearing children. The degraded currency of her body

would have been her definition.

Physician and healer were better roles to play. Walking through the

darkened streets of Saraykeht, her robes and her satchel afforded her a

measure of respect and protection. It was poor form to assault a healer,

in part because of the very real chance of requiring her services one

day. The toughs and beggars who haunted the alleys near the seafront

might meet her eyes as she walked past, might even hail her with an

obscenity or veiled threat, but they had never followed her. And so she

didn't see that she had any need of the palace guard. If her work

protected her, there was no reason to call upon her blood.

She stopped at the bronze statue of Shian Sho. The last emperor gazed

out wistfully over the sea, or perhaps back through the ages to a time

when his name had been important. Eiah pulled her robe tight around

herself and squatted at his metalwork feet, waiting for the firekeeper

and his steamcart. In daytime, she would have walked the streets north

and uphill to the palaces, but the seafront wasn't the worst part of

Saraykeht. It was safer to wait.

To the west, the soft quarter was lit in its nightly festival. To the

east, the bathhouses, the great stone warehouses, rarely more than

half-filled now. Beyond that, the cohort houses of the laborers were

darker, but far from unpeopled. Eiah heard a man's laugh from one

direction, a woman's voice lifted in drunken song from another. The

ships that filled the seafront docks stood silent, their masts like

winter trees, and the ocean beyond them gray with a low mist.

There was a beauty in it, and a familiarity. Eiah had made her studies

in places like this, whatever city she'd been in. She'd sewn closed the

flesh of whores and thieves as often as soothed the coughs and pains of

the utkhaiem in their perfumed palaces. It was a decision she'd made

early in her career, not to be a court physician, not to care only for

the powerful. Her father had approved, and even, she thought, been proud

of the decision. For all their differences-and there were many-it was

one reason she loved him.

The steamcart appeared first as a sound: the rough clatter of iron-bound

wheels against the bricks of the street, the chuff of the boiler, the

low rumble of the kiln. And then, as Eiah stood and shook the dirt and

grime from her robe, it turned into the wide street they called the

Nantan and came down toward the statue. In the light of the kiln, she

saw seven or perhaps eight figures clinging to the cart's side. The

firekeeper himself sat on the top, guiding the cart with a series of

levers and pedals that made the most ornate loom seem simple. Eiah

stepped forward as the cart trundled past, took one of the leather

grips, and hoisted herself up to the cart's side runner along with the

others.

"Two coppers," the firekeeper said without looking at her.

Eiah dug in her sleeve with her free hand, came out with two lengths of