Daniel Abraham - THE

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 space 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 shore, 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. Fatter 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 peacock 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 ambassador. 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, assuming 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.