“I see,” Maati said.
“Uncle, they hate us. All those farmers and traders and shepherds? All those men who thought that they would have wives and children? All those women who thought that even if it hadn’t come from their body, at least there would be a baby nearby to care for? They think we’ve taken it from them. And I have never seen so much rage.”
Maati felt as if he’d been struck, caught in the moment between the blow and the bloom of pain. He said something, words stringing together without sense and trailing to silence. He put his face in his hands.
“You didn’t know,” Eiah said. “She didn’t tell you.”
“Vanjit’s done this,” Maati said. “She can undo it. I can…” He stopped, catching his breath. He felt as if he’d been running. His hands trembled. When Eiah spoke, her voice was as level and calm as a physician’s announcing a death.
“Twice.”
Maati turned to her, his hands taking a pose of query. Eiah put her hand on the table, papers shifting under her fingers with a sound like sand against glass.
“This is twice, Maati-cha. First with Ashti Beg, and now…Gods. Now with all of Galt.”
“Is this why Ashti Beg left?” Maati asked. “The true reason?”
“The true reason is that she was afraid of Vanjit,” Eiah said. “And I couldn’t reassure her.”
“Children,” Maati said. The pain in his chest was easing, the shock of the news fading away. “I’ll speak with Vanjit. She did this all. She can undo it as well. And…and it does speak to the purpose. We wanted to announce that the andat had returned to the world. She’s done that in no small voice.”
“Maati-cha,” Eiah began, but he kept talking, fast and loud.
“This is why they did it, you know. All those tests and lies and opportunities to prove ourselves. Or fail to prove ourselves. They broke us to the lead first, and gave us power when they knew we could be controlled.”
“It looked like a wiser strategy, if this is the alternative,” Eiah said. “Do you think she’ll listen to you?”
“Listen, yes. Do as I command? I don’t know. And I don’t know that I’d want her to. She’s learning responsibility. She’s learning her own limits. Even if I could tell her what they are, she couldn’t learn by having it said. She’s…exploring.”
“She’s killed thousands of people, at the least.”
“Galts,” Maati said. “She’s killed Galts. We were never here to save them. Yes, Eiah-kya. Vanjit went too far, and because she’s holding an andat, there are consequences. When you slaughter a city? When you send your army to kill a little girl’s family in front of her? There are consequences to that too. Or by all the gods there should be.”
“You’re saying this is justice?” Eiah asked.
“We made peace with Galt,” Maati said. “None of Vanjit’s family were avenged. There was no justice for them because it was simpler for Otah to ignore their deaths. Just as it’s simpler for him to ignore all the women of the cities. Vanjit has an andat, and so her will is now more important than your father’s. I don’t see that makes it any more or less just.”
Eiah took a pose that respectfully disagreed, then dropped her hands to her sides.
“I don’t argue that she’s gone too far,” Maati said. “She’s killing a horsefly with a hammer. Only that it’s not as bad as it first seems. She’s still young. She’s still new to her powers.”
“And that forgives everything?” Eiah said.
“Don’t,” Maati said more sharply than he’d intended. “Don’t be so quick to judge her. You’ll be in her position soon enough. If all goes well.”
“I wonder what I’ll forget. How I’ll go too far,” Eiah said, and sighed. “How did we ever think we could do good with these as our tools?”
Maati was silent for a moment. His memory turned on Heshai and Seedless, Cehmai and Stone-Made-Soft. The sickening twist that was Sterile, moving through his own mind like an eel through muddy water.
“Is there another way to fix it?” Maati asked. “After Sterile, is there a way other than this to make the world whole? All those women who will never bear a child. All those men whose money is going to charming Galtic liars. Is there a way to make the world well again besides what we’re doing?”
“We could wait,” Eiah said, her voice gray and toneless. “Given enough time, we’ll all die and be forgotten.”
Maati was silent. Eiah closed her eyes. The flame of the night candle fluttered in a draft that smelled of fresh snow and wet cloth. Eiah’s gaze focused inward, on some landscape of her own mind. He didn’t think she liked what she saw there. She opened her mouth as if to speak, closed it again, and looked away.
“You’re right, though,” Maati said. “This is twice.”
They found Vanjit in her room, the andat wailing disconsolately as she rocked it in her arms. Maati entered the room first to Vanjit’s gentle smile, but her expression went blank when Eiah came in after him and slid the door shut behind her. The andat’s black eyes went from Vanjit to Eiah and back, then it squealed in delight and held its thick, short arms up to Eiah as if it was asking to be held.
“You know, then,” Vanjit said. “It was inevitable.”
“You should have told me what you intended,” Maati said. “It was a dangerous, rash thing to do. And it’s going to have consequences.”
Vanjit put Clarity-of-Sight on the floor at her feet. The thing shrieked complaint, and she bent toward it, her jaw clenched. Maati recognized the push and pull of wills between andat and poet. Even before the andat whimpered and went silent, he had no doubt of the outcome.
“You were going to tell the world of what we’d done anyway,” Vanjit said. “But you couldn’t be sure they would have stopped the Emperor, could you? This way they can’t go forward.”
“Why didn’t you tell Maati-kvo what you were doing?” Eiah asked.
“Because he would have told me not to,” Vanjit said, anger in her voice.
“I would have,” Maati said. “Yes.”
“It isn’t fair, Maati-kya,” Vanjit said. “It isn’t right that they should come here, take our places. They were the killers, not us. They were the ones who brought blades to our cities. Any of the poets could have destroyed Galt at any time, and we never, ever did.”
“And that makes it right to crush them now?” Eiah demanded.
“Yes,” Vanjit said. There were tears in her eyes.
Eiah tilted her head. Long familiarity told Maati the thoughts that occupied Eiah’s mind. This girl, sitting before them both, had been granted the power of a small god by their work. Maati’s and Eiah’s. The others had helped, but the three of them together in that room carried the decision. And so the weight of its consequences.
“It was ill advised,” Maati said. “The low towns should have been our allies and support. Now they’ve been angered.”
“Why?” Vanjit asked.
“They don’t know what our plan is,” Maati said. “They don’t know about Eiah and Wounded. All they see is that there was a glimmer of hope. Yes, I know it was a thin, false hope, but it was all that they had.”
“That’s stupid,” Vanjit said.
“It only seems that way because we know more than they,” Eiah said.
“We can tell them,” Vanjit said.
“If we can calm them long enough to listen,” Maati said. “But that isn’t what I’ve come here for. I am your teacher, Vanjit-cha. I need two things of you. Do you understand?”
The girl looked at the ground, her hands rising in a pose of acceptance appropriate for a student to her master.
“First, you must never take this kind of action with the andat without telling me. We have too many plans and they are too delicate for any of us to act without the others knowing it.”
“Eiah sent Ashti Beg away,” Vanjit said.
“And we discussed that possibility before they left,” Maati said. “The second thing…What you’ve done to the Galts, only you can undo.??
?
The girl looked up now. Anger flashed in her eyes. The andat gurgled and clapped its tiny hands. Maati held up a finger, insisting that she wait until he had finished.
“If you hold to this,” he said, “thousands of people will die. Women and children who are innocent of any crime.”
“It’s what they did to us,” she said. What they did to me. Maati reached forward and took her hand.
“I understand,” he said. “I won’t tell you to undo this thing. But for me, think carefully about how the burden of those deaths will weigh on you. You’re angry now, and anger gives you strength. But when it’s faded, you will still be responsible for what you’ve done.”
“I will, Maati-kvo,” Vanjit said.
Eiah made a sound in the back of her throat, its meaning unguessable. Maati smiled and put a hand on Vanjit’s shoulder.
“Well. That’s settled. Now, I suppose it’s time to get back to work. Give these people in the low towns something to celebrate.”
“You’ve done it, then, Eiah-kya?” Vanjit asked. “You’ve found the insight you needed? You understand Wounded?”
Eiah was quiet for a moment, looking down at Vanjit and Clarity-of-Sight. Her lips twitched into a thin, joyless smile.
“Closer,” Eiah said. “I’ve come closer.”
17
Seeing Balasar Gice shook Otah more than he had expected. He had always known that the general was not a large-framed man, but his presence had always filled the room. Seeing him seated at a table by the window with his eyes the gray of old pearls, Otah felt he was watching the man die. The robes seemed too large on him, or his shoulders suddenly grown small.
Outside the window, the morning sun lit the sea. Gulls called and complained to one another. A small plate had the remnants of fresh cheese and cut apple; the cheese flowed in the day’s heat, the pale flesh of the apple had gone brown. Otah cleared his throat. Balasar smiled, but didn’t bother turning his head toward the sound.
“Most High?” Balasar asked.
“Yes,” Otah said. “I came…I came when I heard.”
“I am afraid Sinja will have to do without my aid,” Balasar said, his voice ironic and bleak. “It seems I’ll be in no condition to sail.”
Otah leaned against the window’s ledge, his shadow falling over Balasar. The general turned toward him. His voice was banked rage, his expression impotence.
“Did you know, Otah? Did you know what they were doing?”
“This wasn’t my doing,” Otah said. “I swear that.”
“My life was taking your god-ghosts out of the world. I thought we’d done it. Even after what you bastards did to me, to all of us, I was content trying to make peace. I lost my men to it, and I lived with that because the loss meant something. However desperate the cost, at least we’d be rid of the fucking andat. And now…”
Balasar struck the table with an open palm, the report like stone breaking. Otah lifted his hands toward a pose that offered comfort, and then stopped and let his arms fall to his sides.
“I’m sorry,” Otah said. “I will send my best agents to find the new poet and resolve this. Until then, all of you will be cared for and—”
Balasar’s laughter was a bark.
“Where do I begin, Most High? We will all be cared for? Do you really think this has only happened to the Galts who came to your filthy city? I will wager any odds you like that everyone back home is suffering the same things we are. How many fishermen were on their boats when it happened? How many people were traveling the roads? You could no more care for all of us than pluck the moon out of the sky.”
“I’m sorry for that,” Otah said. “Once we’ve found the poet and talked to…” He stumbled on his words, caught between the expected him and the more likely her.
Balasar gestured to him, palms up as if displaying something small and obvious.
“If it wasn’t your pet andat that did this, then what hope do you have of resolving anything?” Balasar asked. “They may have left you your sight for the moment, but there’s nothing you can do. It’s the andat. There’s no defense. There’s no counterattack that means anything. Gather your armsmen. Take to the field. Then come back and die beside us. You can do nothing.”
This is my daughter’s work, Otah thought but didn’t say. I can hope that she still loves me enough to listen.
“You’ve never felt this,” Balasar said. “The rest of us? The rest of the world? We know what it is to be faced with the andat. You can’t end this. You can’t even negotiate. You have no standing now. The best you can do is beg.”
“Then I will beg,” Otah said.
“Enjoy that,” Balasar said, sitting back in his chair. It was like watching a showfighter collapse at the end of a match. The vitality, the anger, the violence snuffed out, and the general was only a small Galtic man with crippled eyes, waiting for some kind soul to take away the remains of his uneaten meal. Otah rose and walked quietly from the room.
All through the city, the scenes were playing out. Men and women who had been well the night before were in states of rage and despair. They blundered into the unfamiliar streets, screaming, swinging whatever weapon came to hand at anyone who tried to help them. Or else they wept. Or, like Balasar, folded in upon themselves. The last was the most terrible.
Balasar had been only the first stop in Otah’s long, painful morning journey. He’d meant to call on each of the high councillors, to promise his efforts at restoration and the best of care until then. The general had spoiled the plan. Otah did see two more men, made the same declarations. Neither of the others scoffed, but Otah could see that his words rang as hollow as a gourd.
Instead of the third councillor, Otah went back to his palaces. He prayed as he walked, that some message would have come from Idaan. None had. Instead, his audience chambers were filled with the utkhaiem, some in fine robes hastily thrown on, others still in whatever finery they had slept in. The sound of their voices competing one over another was louder than surf and as incomprehensible. Everywhere he walked, their eyes turned toward him. Otah walked with a grave countenance, his spine as straight as he could keep it. He greeted the shock and the fear with the same equanimity as the expressions of joy.
There was more joy than he had expected. More than he had hoped. The andat had come back to the world, and the Galts made to suffer, and that was somehow a cause to celebrate. Otah didn’t respond to those calls, but he did begin a mental catalog of who precisely was laughing, who weeping. Someday, he told himself, someday the best of these men and women would be rewarded, the worst left behind. Only he didn’t know how.
In his private rooms, the servants fluttered like moths. No schedules were right, no plans were made. Orders from the Master of Tides contradicted the instructions from the Master of Keys, and neither allowed for what the guards and armsmen said they needed to do. Otah built his own fire in the grate, lighting it from the stub of a candle, and let raw chaos reign about him.
Danat found him there, looking into the fire. His son’s eyes were wide, but his shoulders hadn’t yet sagged. Otah took a pose of welcome and Danat crouched before him.
“What are you doing, Papa-kya,” Danat said. “You’re just sitting here?”
“I’m thinking,” Otah said, aware as he did so how weak the words sounded.
“They need you. You have to gather the high utkhaiem. You have to tell them what’s going on.”
He looked at his son. The strong face, the sincere eyes the same rich brown as Kiyan’s had been. He would have made a good emperor. Better than Otah had. He took his boy’s hand.
“The fleet is doomed,” Otah said. “Galt is broken. These new poets, wherever they are, no longer answer to the Empire. What would you have me say?”
“That,” Danat said. “If nothing else, say that. Say what everyone knows is true. How can that be wrong?”
“Because I have nothing to say after it,” Otah said. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t have an answer.”
/>
“Then tell them that we’re thinking of one,” Danat said.
Otah sat silent, his hands on his knees, and let the fire in the grate fill his eyes. Danat shook his shoulder with a sound that was part frustration and part plea. When Otah couldn’t find a response, Danat stood, took a pose that ended an audience, and strode out. The young man’s impatience lingered in the air like incense.
There had been a time when Otah had been possessed of the certainty of youth. He had held the fate of nations in his hands, and done what needed doing. He had killed. Somewhere the years had pressed it out of him. Danat would see the same complexity, futility, and sorrow, given time. He was young. He wasn’t tired yet. His world was still simple.
Servants came, and Otah turned them away. He considered going to his desk, writing another of his letters to Kiyan, but the effort of it was too much. He thought of Sinja, riding the swift autumn waves outside Chaburi-Tan and waiting for aid that would never come. Would he know? Were there Galts enough among his crew to guess what had happened?
The world was so large and so complex, it was almost impossible to believe that it could collapse so quickly. Idaan had been right again. All the problems that had plagued him were meaningless in the face of this.
Eiah. Maati. The people he had failed. They had taken the world from him. Well, perhaps they’d have a better idea what to do with it. And if a few hundred or a few thousand Galts died, there was nothing Otah could do to save them. He was no poet. He could have been. One angry, rootless boy’s decision differently made, and everything would have been different.
A servant woman came and took away a tray of untouched food that Otah hadn’t known was there. The pine branches in the grate were all ashes now. The sun was almost at the height of its day’s arc. Otah rubbed his eyes and only then recognized the sound that had drawn him from his reverie. Trumpets and bells. Callers’ voices ringing out over the palaces, over the city, over sea and sky and everything in it. A pronouncement was to be made, and all men and women of the utkhaiem were called to hear it.