Daniel Abraham - An Autumn War

him as the man who stole motherhood from them. The men of Galt will hate

him for unmanning them. You, Maati Vaupathai, will he the one who took

their children from them."

"I did . . ." Nlaati began, and his voice fell to nothing. lie sat down,

his legs seeming to collapse beneath him. Otah tried to speak, but his

throat was dry. It was Eiah, cradled in his arms, who broke the silence.

"Stop it," she said. "Leave him alone. He never did anything mean to you.

The andat smiled. Its teeth were pale as snow and sharp.

"I Ie did something mean to win, Fiah-kya," it said. "You'll grow to

know how badly he's hurt you. It may take you years to understand. It

may take a lifetime."

"I don't care!" I?iah veiled. "1'ou Ieave uncle Nlaati alone!"

And as if the words themselves were power, it vanished. The dark robes

fell empty to the stone floor. The only sounds were Eiah's pained breath

and the moaning of the cite. The Khai Cetani licked his lips and looked

uneasily at Otah. Maati stared at the ground between his hands.

""They'll never forgive this," Cchmai said. "The Galts will kill us to a

man."

Otah smoothed a hand over his daughter's brow. Confronting the andat

seemed to have taken what strength she had. I ter face was pale, and he

could see the small twitching in her body that spoke of fresh pain. He

kissed her gently where her forehead met her hair, and she put her arms

around him, whimpering so softly that only he could hear it. Therc was

blood soaking through her robe just below where the cloth widened at her

hips.

"No. They won't. Cehmai," Otah said, his voice seeming to cone from far

away. Ile was surprised to hear how calm he sounded. ""lake Nlaati. Get

out of the city. It won't be safe for either of you here."

"It won't be safe for us anywhere," Cehmai said. "We could make for the

Westlands when spring comes. Or Eddensea-"

"Go now, and don't tell me where. I don't want the option of finding

you. Do you understand?" lie looked up at Cehmai's wide, startled eyes.

"I have my daughter here, and that's had enough. When I see my Wife, I

don't want you anywhere I can find you."

Cehmai opened his mouth, as if to speak, and then closed it again and

silently took a pose that accepted Utah's command. Nlaati looked up, his

eyes brimming and red. 'T'here was no begging in his expression, no

plea. Only remorse and resignation. If he could have moved without

disturbing Eiah, Utah would have embraced the man, comforted him as best

he could. And still lie would have sent Nlaati away. Ile could see that

his old friend knew that. Nlaati's thick hands took a formal pose of

leave-taking, appropriate to the beginning of a long journey or else a

funeral. Utah took one that accepted the apology he had not offered.

"'i'he Galts," the Khai (:etani said. "What about the Galts?"

Utah reached his arms tinder Eiah, one under her shoulder blades, the

other at her knees, and lifted her into his lap. 't'hen, straining, lie

stood. She was heavier than he remembered. It had been years since lie

had carried her. She had been smaller then, and lie had been younger.

"We'll find the trumpeter and call the attack," Otah said. "Listen to

them. If they're as had as she is, they'll barely be able to fight.

We'll drive them hack out of the city if we do it now."

The Khai Cetani's eyes brightened, his shoulders pulled back. With a pit

dog's grin, he took a pose that mirrored Cehmai's. The command accepted.

Utah nodded.

"I lai! YOU!" the Khai Cetani yelled toward the servants, bouncing on

the balls of his feet. "Get the trumpeter. Have him sound the attack.

And a blade! Find me a blade, and another for the Emperor!"

"No," Utah said. "Not for me. I have my daughter to see to."

And before anyone could make the mistake of objecting, Otah turned his

back on them all, carrying Fiah to the stairway, and then down into

darkness.

26

What would have happened, Balasar wondered, if he had not tried?

It had been a thing from nightmare. Balasar had moved his men like

stones on a playing board, shifting them from street to street, building

to building. He had kept them as sheltered as possible from the

inconstant, killing rain of stones and arrows that fell from the towers.

The square that he chose for the rallying point was only a few streets

south of the opening where he expected to lead them down into the soft

belly of the city, and difficult for the towers to reach. The snow was

above his ankles now, but Balasar didn't feel the cold. His blood was

singing to him, and he could not keep from grinning. The first of the

forces from the palaces was falling back to join his own, the body of

his army growing thick. He paced among them, bracing his men and letting

himself be seen. It was in their eyes too: the glow of the coming

victory, the relief that they would have shelter from the cold. That

winter would not take them.

He formed them into ranks, reminded the captains of the tactics they'd

planned for fighting in the tunnels. It was to be slow and systematic.

The important thing was always to have an open airway; the locals should

never be allowed to close them in and kill them with smoke or fire.

There would he no hurry-the line mustn't spread thin. Balasar could see

in their faces that discipline would hold.

A few local fighters made assaults on the square and were cut down in

their turn. Brave men, and stupid. The trumpets of the enemy had sounded

out, giving away their positions with their movements, their signals a

cacophony of amateur coordination. The white sky was slowly growing

gray-the sun setting or else the clouds growing thicker. Balasar didn't

know. He'd lost track of time's passage. It hardly mattered. His men

stood ready. His men. The army that he'd led half across the world to

this last battle. He could not have been more proud of them all if

they'd been his sons.

The pain came without warning. He saw it pass through the men like wind

stirring grass, and then it found Balasar himself. It was agonizing,

embarrassing, humiliating. And even as he struggled to keep his feet, he

knew what it meant.

The andat had been hound. The enemy had turned some captive spirit

against them. They'd been assaulted, but they were not dead. Hurt,

leaning on walls with teeth clenched in pain, formations forgotten and

tears steaming on their checks. Their cries and groans were louder than

a landslide, and Balasar knew his own voice was part of it. But they

were not dead. Not yet.

"Rally!" Balasar had cried. "To me! Form up!"

And god bless them, they had tried. Discipline had held even as they

shambled, knowing as he did that this was the power they had conic to

destroy, loosed against them at last. Shrieking in pain, and still they

made their formations. They were crippled but undefeated.

What would have happened, he thought, if he had not tried? What would

the world have become if he had listened to his tutor, all those years

ago, heard the tales of the andat and the war that ripped their Empire

apart, and had merely shuddered? There were monster stories enough for

generations of boys, and each of them as frightening as the next. If the

voting Balasar Gice hadn't taken that particular story to heart, if he

had not thought This will he my work; I ZL,'il/ make the a:'or/d safe

from these things, how would it have gone? Who would Little Ott have