Daniel Abraham - An Autumn War

we'll see where things stand. I may not be staying here at all,

depending on what the Dai-kvo thinks. I might be able to go hack to his

village and use his libraries."

"Could I go there with you?"

"No, Eiah-kya. Women aren't allowed in the village. I know, I know. It

isn't fair. But it isn't happening today, so why don't we walk to the

kitchens and see if we can't talk them out of some sugar bread."

They left his door open, leaving the spring air and sunlight to freshen

the apartments. The path to the kitchens led them through great, arching

halls and across pavilions being prepared for a night's dancing; great

silken banners celebrated the warmth and light. In the gardens, men and

woman lay back, eyes closed, faces to the sky like flowers. Outside the

palaces, Maati knew, the city was still alive with commerce-the forges

and metalworkers toiling through the night, as they always did,

preparing to ship the works of Machi. There was bronze, iron, silver and

gold, and steel. And the hand-shaped stonework that could be created

only here, under the inhuman power of Stone-Made-Soft. None of that work

was apparent in the palaces. The utkhaiem seemed carefree as cats. Maati

wondered again how much of that was the studied casualness of court life

and how much was simple sloth.

At the kitchens, it was simple enough for the Khai's daughter and his

permanent guest to get thick slices of sugar bread wrapped in stiff

cotton cloth and a stone flask of cold tea. He told Eiah all of what had

happened with Athai since she'd last come to the library, and about the

Dal-kvo, and the andat, and the world as Maati had known it in the years

before he'd come to Machi. It was a pleasure to spend the time with the

girl, flattering that she enjoyed his own company enough to seek him

out, and perhaps just the slightest hit gratifying that she would speak

to him of things that Otah-kvo never heard from her.

They parted company as the quick spring sun came within a hand's width

of the western mountains. Maati stopped at a fountain, washing his

fingers in the cool waters, and considered the evening that lay ahead.

He'd heard that one of the winter choirs was performing at a teahouse

not far from the palaces-the long, dark season's work brought out at

last to the light. The thought tempted, but perhaps not more than a

book, a flask of wine, and a bed with thick wool blankets.

He was so wrapped up by the petty choice of pleasures that he didn't

notice that the lanterns had been lit in his apartments or that a woman

was sitting on his couch until she spoke.

4

"Nlaati," Liat said, and the man startled like a rabbit. For a long

moment, his face was a blank confusion as he struggled to make sense of

what he saw. Slowly, she watched him recognize her.

In all fairness, she might not have known him either, had she not sought

him out. Time had changed him: thickened his body and thinned his hair.

Even his face had changed shape, the smooth chin and jaw giving way to

jowls, the eyes going narrower and darker. The lines around his mouth

spoke of sadness and isolation. And anger, she thought.

She had known when she arrived that she'd found the right apartments. It

hadn't been difficult to get directions to Machi's extra poet, and the

door had been open. She'd scratched at the doorframe, called out his

name, and when she'd stepped in, it was the scent that had been

familiar. Certainly there had been other things-the way the scrolls were

laid out, the ink stains on the arms of the chairs-that gave evidence to

Maati's presence. The faintest hint, a wisp of musk slight as pale

smoke, was the thing that had brought back the flood of memory. For a

powerful moment, she saw again the small house she'd lived in after she

and Maati had left Saraykeht; the yellow walls and rough, wooden floor,

the dog who had lived in the street and only ever been half tamed by her

offerings of sausage ends from the kitchen window, the gray spiders that

had built their webs in the corners. The particular scent of her old

lover's body brought back those rooms. She knew him better by that than

to see him again in the flesh.

But perhaps that wasn't true. When he blinked fast and uncertainly, when

his head leaned just slightly forward and a smile just began to bloom on

his lips, she could see him there, beneath that flesh. The man she had

known and loved. The man she'd left behind.

"Liat?" he said. "You ... you're here?"

She took a pose of affirmation, surprised to find her hands trembling.

Maati stepped forward slowly, as if afraid a sudden movement might

startle her into flight. Liat swallowed to loosen the knot in her throat

and smiled.

"I would have written to warn you I was coming," she said, "hut by the

time I knew I was, I'd have raced the letter. I'm ... I'm sorry if ..."

But he touched her arm, his fingers on the cloth just above her elbow.

His eyes were wide and amazed. As if it were natural, as if it had been

a week or a day and not a third of their lives, Liat put her arms around

him and felt him enclose her. She had told herself that she would hold

back, he careful. She was the head of House Kyaan, a woman of business

and politics. She knew how to be hardhearted and cool. There was no

reason to think that she would he safe here in the farthest city from

her home and facing again the two lovers of her childhood. The years had

worked changes on them all, and she had parted with neither of them on

good terms.

And yet the tears in her eyes were simple and sincere and as much joy as

sorrow, and the touch of Maati's body against her own-strange and

familiar both-wasn't awkward or unwelcome. She kissed his cheek and drew

back enough to see his still wonder-filled face.

"Well," she said at last. "It's been a while. It's good to see you

again, Maati-kya. I wasn't sure it would be, but it is."

"I thought I'd never see you again," he said. "I thought, after all this

time ... My letters ..."

"I got them, yes. And it's not as if court gossip didn't tell everyone

in the world where you were. The last succession of Machi was the

favorite scandal of the season. I even saw an epic made from it. The boy

who took your part didn't look a thing like you," she said, and then, in

a lower voice, "I meant to write hack to you, even if it was only to

tell you that I'd heard. That I knew. But somehow I never managed. I

regret that. I've always regretted that. It only seemed so ... complex."

"I thought perhaps ... I don't know. I don't know what I thought."

She stood silently in his arms the space of another breath, part of her

wishing that this moment might suffice; that the relief she felt at

Maati's simple, unconsidered acceptance might stand in for all that she

had still to do. He sensed the change in her thoughts and stepped hack,

his hands moving restlessly. She smoothed her hair, suddenly aware of

the streaks of gray at her temple.

"Can I get something for you?" Maati said. "It's simple enough to call a

servant in from the palaces. Or I have some distilled wine here."

"Wine will do," she said, and sat.

He went to a low cabinet beside the fire grate, sliding the wooden panel

back and taking out two small porcelain bowls and a stoppered bottle as

he spoke.

"I've had company recently. He's only just left. I don't usually live in

this disorder."

"I'm not sure I believe that," she said, wryly. Maati chuckled and shrugged.