Daniel Abraham - An Autumn War

waiting to see which comes first, the thaw or some overly clever poet in

Cetani or Machi managing to hind something new. We have to move

quickly-kill the poets, take the libraries-"

"After which we can go about making andat of our own at our leisure,"

the Lord Convocate said. His voice was thoughtful, and still Balasar

sensed a trap. He wondered how much the man had guessed of his own plans

and intentions for the future of the andat.

"If that's what the High Council chooses to do," Balasar said, sitting

back. "All of this, of course, assuming I'm given permission to move

forward."

"Ah," the Lord Convocate said, lacing his hands over his belly. "Yes.

That will need an answer. Permission of the Council. A thousand things

could go wrong. And if you fail-"

"The stakes are no lower if we sit on our hands. And we could wait

forever and never see a better chance," Balasar said. "You'll forgive my

saving it, sir, but you haven't said no."

"No," he said, slowly. "No, I haven't."

"'T'hen I have the command, sir?"

After a moment, the Lord Convocate nodded.

3

"What's the matter?" Kiyan asked. She was already dressed in the silk

shift that she slept in, her hair tied back from her thin foxlike face.

It occurred to Otah for the first time just how long ago the sun had

set. He sat on the bed at her side and let himself feel the aches in his

back and knees.

"Sitting too long," he said. "I don't know why doing nothing should hurt

as badly as hauling crates."

Kiyan put a hand against his back, her fingers tracing his spine through

the fine-spun wool of his robes.

"For one thing, you haven't hauled a crate for your living in thirty

summers.

""Twenty-five," he said, leaning back into the soft pressure of her

hands. ""Twenty-six now."

"For another, you've hardly done nothing. As I recall, you were awake

before the sun rose."

Otah considered the sleeping chamber-the domed ceiling worked in silver,

the wood and bone inlay of the floors and walls, the rich gold netting

that draped the bed, the still, somber flame of the lantern. The east

wall was stone-pink granite thin as eggshell that glowed when the sun

struck it. He couldn't recall how long it had been since he'd woken to

see that light. Last summer, perhaps, when the nights were shorter. He

closed his eyes and lay hack into the soft, enfolding bed. His weight

pressed out the scent of crushed rose petals. Hayes closed, he felt

Kiyan shift, the familiar warmth and weight of her body resting against

him. She kissed his temple.

"Our friend from the I)ai-kvo will finally leave soon. A message came

recalling him," Otah said. "That was a bright moment. Though the gods

only know what kept him here so long. Sinja's likely halfway to the

VVestlands by now."

"The envoy stayed for Maati's work," Kiyan said. "Apparently he hardly

left the library these last weeks. Eiah's been keeping me informed."

"Well, the gods and Eiah, then," Otah said.

"I'm worried about her. She's brooding about something. Can you speak

with her?"

Dread touched Otah's belly, and a moment's resentment. It had been such

a long day, and here waiting for him like a stalking cat was another

problem, another need he was expected to meet. The thought must have

expressed itself in his body, because Kiyan sighed and rolled just

slightly away.

"You think it's wrong of me," Kiyan said.

"Not wrong," Otah said. "Unnecessary isn't wrong."

"I know. At her age, you were living on the streets in the summer

cities, stealing pigeons off firekeeper's kilns and sleeping in alleys.

And you came through just fine."

"Oh," Otah said. "Have I told that story already?"

"Once or twice," she said, laughing gently. "It's just that she seems so

distant. I think there's something bothering her that she won't say. And

then I wonder whether it's only that she won't say it to me."

"And why would she talk to me if she won't she talk to you?"

When he felt Kiyan shrug, Otah opened his eyes and rolled to his side.

"There were tears shining in his lover's eyes, but her expression was

more amused than sorrowful. He touched her cheek with his fingertips,

and she kissed his palm absently.

"1 don't know. Because you're her father, and I'm only her mother? It

was just ... a hope. The problem is that she's half a woman," Kiyan

said. "When the sun's up, I know that. I remember when I was that age.

My father had me running half of his wayhouse, or that's how it felt

back then. Up before the clients, cooking sausages and barley. Cleaning

the rooms during the day. He and Old Mani would take care of the

evenings, though. They wanted to sell as much wine as they could, but

they didn't want a girl my age around drunken travelers. I thought they

were being so unfair."

Kiyan pursed her lips.

"But maybe I've told that story already," she said.

"Once or twice," Otah agreed.

"There was a time I didn't worry about the whole world and everything in

it, you know. I remember that there was. It doesn't make sense to me.

One had season, an illness, a fire-anything, really, and I could have

lost the wayhouse. But now here I am, highest of the Khaiem, a whole

city that will bend itself in half to hand me whatever it thinks I want,

and the world seems more fragile."

"We got old," Otah said. "It's always the ones who've seen the most who

think the world's on the edge of collapse, isn't it? And we've seen more

than most."

Kiyan shook her head.

"It's more than that. Losing a wayhouse would have made the world harder

for me and Old Mani. There are more people than I can count here in the

city, and all the low towns. And you carry them. It makes it matter more."

"I sit through days of ceremony and let myself be hectored over the

things I don't do the way other people prefer," Otah said. "I'm not sure

that anything I've done here has actually made any difference at all. If

they stuffed a robe with cotton and posed the sleeves ..."

"You care about them," Kiyan said.

"I don't," he said. "I care about you and Eiah and I)anat. And Maati. I

know that I'm supposed to care about everyone and everything in Machi,

but love, I'm only a man. "l'hey can tell me I gave tip my own name when

I took the chair, but really the Khai Machi is only what I do. I

wouldn't keep the work if I could find a way out."

Kiyan embraced him with one arm. Her hair was fragrant with lavender oil.

"You're sweet," she said.

"Am I? I'll try to confess my incompetence and selfishness more often."

"As long as it includes me," she said. "Now go let those poor men change

your clothes and get hack to beds of their own."

The servants had become accustomed to the Khai's preference for brief

ablutions. Otah knew that his own father had managed somehow to enjoy

the ceremony of being dressed and bathed by others. But his father had

been raised to take the chair, had followed the traditions and forms of

etiquette, and had never that Otah knew stepped outside the role he'd

been horn to. Otah himself had been turned out, and the years he had

spent being a simple, free man, reliant upon himself had ruined him for

the fawning of the court. He endured the daily frivolity of having foods

brought to him, his hands cleaned for him, his hair combed on his

behalf. He allowed the body servants to pull off his formal robes and

swathe him in a sleeping shift, and when he returned to his bed, Kiyan's