Daniel Abraham - THE

the things that can go wrong. Dangers. I wonder if that always happens

when-"

Idaan had made a clicking sound, tongue against teeth.

"You're not fooling anyone, brother," Idaan said. "We all know you're

awake."

Otah rolled onto his back, his eyes still closed, and took a pose of

abject denial. Idaan chuckled. He opened his eyes to the great pale blue

dome of the sky, the sun burning white overhead and searing his eyes. He

sat up slowly, his back as bruised as if someone had beaten him.

Ashti Beg lay a few yards off, her arm curved under her to cradle her

sleeping head. Two armsmen sat at either side of their boat with pairs

at the stern and the bow, keeping watch on the changeless river. Danat

had joined the watchers at the bow and seemed to be having a

conversation with them. It was good to see it. Otah had been concerned

after his disappearance at the wayhouse that Danat and the captain of

the guard might have found themselves on bad terms. Danat seemed to be

making it his work to see that didn't happen.

The boat itself was smaller than Otah would have chosen, but the kilns

at the back were solid, the wheel new, and the alternatives had been

few. When there are only three boats on the riverfront, even being

emperor won't create a fourth. Ana and Idaan were sitting side by side

on a shin-high bench, their hands clasped.

It was something Otah had noticed before, the tendency of Ana and Ashti

Beg to touch people. As if the loss of their eyes had left them hungry

for something, and this lacing of fingers was the nearest they could come.

"You both look lovely," Otah said.

"Your hair looks like mice have been building a nest in it," Idaan said.

Otah confirmed her assessment with his fingertips. The fact of the

matter was that none of them was presentable. Too many weeks on the road

bathing with rags and tepid water had left them looking disrep utable.

Somewhere just east of Pathai, they had been joined by a colony of lice

that still took up their evenings. Otah imagined walking into the

palaces at Utani as he now was and smiled.

He walked to the edge of the boat where a bucket and rope stood ready

for moments like this. With the armsmen looking on, he lowered the line

himself and hauled up the water. When he knelt and poured it over his

head, it was as if he could feel ice forming in his mind. He whooped and

shuddered, pulling his hair back. Idaan, behind him, was laughing. He

made his way back to them, Ana holding out a length of cloth for him to

take and dry himself.

And that was the nature of the journey. Tragedy lay behind them, and

desperate uncertainty ahead. He was gnawed by his fears and his guilt

and his sorrow, but his sister was there, laughing with him. His son.

The river was cold and uncomfortable and beautiful. Every day meant more

dead, and yet there was no way for them to move faster than the boat

would carry them. Otah knew that as a younger man, he would have been

sitting at the bow, frowning at the water as if by will alone he could

make things into something they weren't. As an old one, he was able to

put it all aside for as much as a hand at a time, holding his energy for

the moment when it might effect a change and resting until then. Perhaps

it was what the philosophers meant by wisdom.

Somewhere ahead, Maati and Eiah and the new poet were making their own

way to Utani and, he thought, the proclamation of their victory. Perhaps

Eiah would bind her andat as well, and return to the women of the

Khaiate cities their wombs. There would be children again, a new

generation to take the place of the old. All that would be sacrificed

was Galt, and the world would be put back as it was. An empire now,

instead of a scattering of cities, but with the andat, slaves of spirit

and will, putting them above the rest of the world.

Until a new Balasar Gice found a way to bring it all down, and the cycle

of suffering and desperation began anew.

"You've gone solemn," Idaan said.

"Steeling myself for failure," Otah said. "We'll be on them soon, I

think. And ..."

"You've been thinking about forgiveness," Idaan said. Otah looked at

Ana, listening, rapt. Idaan shook her head. "The girl's strong enough to

know the truth. There's no virtue in softening it."

"Please," Ana said.

Otah took a deep breath and let it slide out between his teeth. River

water traced a cold path down his back. On the east bank, half a hundred

crows took to the air, startled by something on the ground or just one

another.

"If we lose Galt," Otah said, stopped, and began again, more slowly. "If

we lose Galt, I don't believe I can forgive them. I know what you said,

and Danat. I should. I should do whatever it takes to stop all this,

even if it means agreeing that I've lost, but it's beyond me. I'm too

old to forgive anymore, and ..."

"And," Idaan said, making it sound like agreement.

"I don't understand," Ana said.

"That's because you haven't killed anyone," Idaan said. Otah looked up

at her. Idaan's eyes were dark but not unsympathetic. When she went on,

the words were addressed to Ana, but her gaze was fixed on his. "There

are some things about my brother that few people know. His best friend,

Maati, was one who knew his secrets. And because of Maati, Cehmai. And

so I am also one of the few to know what happened all those years ago in

Saraykeht."

To his surprise, Otah found himself weeping silently. Ana leaned

forward, her brow fierce.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I killed a good man. An honorable, unwell man with a wounded soul,"

Otah said softly. "I strangled him to death in a little room off a

mud-paved alley in the soft quarter."

"Why?" Ana asked.

The answers to that seemed so intricate, so complex, he couldn't find words.

Idaan could.

"To save Galt," she said. "If the man had lived, all of Galt would have

at least suffered horribly, and likely been wiped from the map. Otah had

the choice of condemning his city or letting thousands upon thousands

upon thousands of your countrymen die. He chose to betray Saraykeht.

He's carried it ever since. He's ordered men killed in war. He's

sentenced them to death. But he's only ever ended one life himself. Seen

something that had been a man become only a body. If you haven't done

it, it's a hard thing to understand."

"That's truth," Otah said.

"And along with all the other insults and injuries and pain that he's

caused. Along with the deaths," Idaan said, sorrow and amusement mixed

in her voice, "Maati Vaupathai has taken away the thing that made Otah's

slaughter bearable. He took away the reason for it. Galt is dying anyway."

"I also did it for Maati," Otah said. "If I hadn't, he'd be fighting

against Seedless today."

"And I wouldn't have been born," Ana said. She put out a wavering hand

to him, and Otah took it. Her grasp was stronger than he'd expected.

There were tears in her milky eyes. "I won't forgive him either."

Idaan sighed.

"Well," his sister said, "at least we'll be damned for what we are."

The second sang something from the bow, a high trill that ended in words

Otah couldn't make sense of. The paddle wheel, in the stern, shifted and

creaked, the deck beneath him lurching. Otah stood, unsteadily.

"Sandbar," Danat called to him. "It's all right. We're fine."

"Ah, well then. You see?" Idaan said with a chuckle. "We're fine."

They stayed on the river as long into the twilight as they could. Otah