Daniel Abraham - THE

Who was she to pity him? She'd made a low-town judge of herself, and now

a farmer. It was an improvement from traitor and murderer, but it didn't

give her moral authority over him. And to instruct him on the nature of

his feelings about Maati and Cehmai was ridiculous. She hardly knew him.

Coming to court in the first place had been a kind of madness on her

part. He could have had her killed outright rather than sit like a dog

while she heaped her abuse on him.

She thought he'd broken the world, did she? Well, what about the old way

had been worth saving? It hadn't brought justice. The peace it offered

had been purchased at the cost of lives of misery and struggle. And from

that first moment, more than forty summers earlier, when the Daikvo had

told him that they could not offer Saraykeht a replacement should

Seedless slip its leash, Otah had known it was doomed.

The genius of the Galts-of all the rest of the world, for that-was that

they had built their power on ideas that could grow one on another. A

better forge led to better metalwork led to stronger tools and so on to

the end of their abilities. By contrast, the Empire, the Second Empire,

the cities of the Khaiem: all of them had wielded unthinkable power and

fashioned wonders. And when the first poet had bound the first andat,

anything had been possible. Anything a mind could fathom could be

harnessed; anything that could be thought could be done.

But when the first andat had escaped and been harder to recapture, that

potential had dropped a degree. Once a binding failed, each one that

followed had to be different, and there were only so many ways to

describe a thing fully enough to hold it as a slave. It was the central

truth of the long, slow, dwindling of power that had brought them all here.

It was like a man's life. For a time in his youth, Otah had been capable

of anything. His body had been strong, his judgment so certain he'd been

willing to kill a man. And every day and every decision had narrowed

him. Every year had weakened his back and his knees, eaten at his sight

and wrinkled his skin. Time had taken Kiyan from him. His judgment had

lost him his daughter.

He could have done anything, and he had chosen this. Or had it chosen

for him.

And he wasn't yet dead, so there were other choices still to be made.

Other days and years to live through. Other duties and failures and

disappointments he would be responsible for not making right. His anger

with Idaan was perfectly comprehensible. He was enraged by her because

she had seen to the heart of something he hadn't wanted to understand.

He tried to imagine Kiyan sitting on the stone rail, smiling down at him

the way she had. It was very, very easy.

111'hat should I dot he asked the ghost his mind had conjured.

You can do anything, love, she said, it's just that you can't do everything.

Otah, Emperor of the Khaiem, wept, and he couldn't say how much was from

sorrow and how much from relief.

In the morning, he had the Master of Tides clear his schedule. He met

with Balasar and Sinja first. The meeting room was blond stone, ornately

carved. Otah had heard that the carvings illustrated some ancient epic,

but he'd never bothered to consider it. They were only figures in stone,

unmoving and incapable of change. Unlike the men.

Balasar and Sinja sat across from each other, their spines straight and

their expressions polite. They were divided by blood and broken faith.

Otah poured the tea himself.

"I am placing you in joint control of the fleets and what armsmen we

have," Otah said. "Between the two of you, you will protect Chaburi-Tan

from the raiders and bring the mercenary forces into compliance with

their contracts. I've written an edict that officially grants you my

unrestricted permissions."

"Most High," Balasar said. His voice was careful and precise. "Forgive

me, but is this wise? I am not one of your countrymen."

"Of course you are," Otah said. "Once Danat and Ana marry, we will be a

united empire. Are you refusing the command?"

Sinja replied in the general's place.

"We're an odd pairing, Most High," he said. "It might be better if-"

"You've been my right hand for decades. You know our resources and our

strengths. You're known and you're trusted," Otah said. "Balasar- cha's

the best commander in Galt. You're both grown men."

"What exactly do you want from us?" Balasar asked.

"I want you to take this problem from me and fix it," Otah said. "I'm

only one man, and I'm tired and overcommitted. Besides which, I'm a

third-rate war leader, as I think we are all aware."

Sinja coughed to cover laughter. Balasar leaned forward, stroking his

chin and looking down as if he'd discovered something fascinating in the

grain of the table before him. Slowly, he nodded. After that, it was

only a matter of working out the wording of the edict to the

satisfaction of Sinja and Balasar both.

There would be trouble between them. That couldn't be avoided. But, Otah

told himself, that was theirs to work. Not his. Not his any longer. He

left the meeting room feeling oddly giddy.

He had scheduled a similar meeting with Danat and Issandra Dasin

concerning the politics of the court and the intermarriage of Galt and

the Khaiem. And then he thought Ashua Radaani was the man to address the

issues of the conspiracy between Yalakeht and Obar State. He wasn't

certain of that yet. Panjit Dun might also do well with it.

And once all that was done, all the best minds he could choose given

their autonomy, he would closet himself with his sister and begin the

work that couldn't be safely trusted to others: tracking Maati and

whatever enemy among the courts of the utkhaiem had been supporting him.

10

Dawn crept over the school. The dark walls gained detail; the fragile

lacing of frost burned away almost before it was visible. Birdsong that

had begun in darkness grew in volume and complexity. The countless stars

faded into the pale blue and rose of the east. Maati Vaupathai walked

the perimeter of the school, his memory jogged with every new corner he

turned. Here was the classroom where he'd first heard of the andat.

There, the walkway where an older boy had beaten him for not taking the

proper stance. The stables, empty now but for the few animals Eiah had

brought, which Maati had made the younger boys clean with their bare

hands after he had been elevated to the black robes of the older boys.

Ever since his return, Maati had suffered moments when his mind would

spiral back through time, unearthing memories as fresh as yesterday.

This morning in particular, the past seemed present. He walked past the

long-dead echoes of boys crying in their cots, the vanished scent of the

caustic soap they'd used to wash the stone floors, the almostforgotten

smell of young bodies and old food and misery. And then, just as memory

threatened to sweep him away, he heard one of the girls. Large Kae

singing, Irit's laughter, anything. The walls themselves shifted. The

school became something new again, never seen in the world. Women poets,

working together as the risen sun washed the haze from the air.

When he stepped into the kitchen, the warmth of the fire and the damp of

the steam made him feel like he was walking into summer. Eiah and Ashti

Beg sat at the wide table, carving apples into slivers. An iron pot of

rough-ground wheat, rice, and millet burped to itself over the fire. The