“No?” suggested Irit.
“No. How many of you think she’s right? Go on! Take a stand about it one way or the other! Good. Yes. Irit’s right,” Maati said and spat at the floor by his feet. “Everything physical has abstract structure, but not everything abstract need be physical. That’s what we’re doing here. That’s the asymmetry that lets the andat exist.”
In all their faces, turned to his, there was the same expression. Hunger, he thought, or desperation. Or longing halfway forged into something stronger. It gave him hope.
After the lecture, he made them run through grammar exercises, and then, as the moon rose and the lanterns smoked and the rats came out to chuff and chitter at them from the shadows, they considered the failed bindings of the women who had gone before them. Slowly, they were developing a sense of what it was to capture an andat, to take a thought and translate it into a different form. To give it volition and a human shape. To keep the binding present in your mind for the rest of your life, holding the spirit back from its natural state of nothingness like holding a stone over a well: slip once, and it is gone. Maati could see the knowledge growing in the set of their poses and hear it in the questions they asked. He had almost reached the end of his night’s plan when the small door to the street flew open again.
Eiah strode in, her breath labored. She wore a drab cloak over a silk robe rich with all the colors of sunset. The others fell silent. Maati, standing before a wall now covered in white, ghostly notations and graphs, took a pose that expressed his alarm and asked the cause of hers.
“Uncle Maati,” she said between gasps, “there’s news from Galt. My father.”
Maati shifted toward several poses at once, managing none of them. Eiah’s expression was grim.
“That’s all for tonight,” he said. “Come back tomorrow.”
He had intended to assign exercises, translation puzzles for them to work in their time away from class. He abandoned the idea and shooed them out the door. All of them left except Eiah, sitting on a low chair in the warehouse office, her face lit by the shifting flames in the grate.
The letters had arrived by fast courier. Against all expectation, the Emperor’s benighted mission to Galt had borne fruit. Danat was to be married to a daughter of the Galtic High Council. Terms were being arranged for the transport of a thousand Galtic women of childbearing age to the cities of the Khaiem. Applications would be taken for a thousand men to leave their lives among the cities of the Khaiem and move to Galt. It was, Eiah said, intended to be the first exchange of many.
There were protests and anger in only a few cities. Nantani and Yalakeht, hit hard by the war, were sending petitions of condemnation. In the low towns, the anger burned brighter. Galt was still the enemy, and there were rumors of plots to kill whomever of them dared set foot on Khaiate soil: talk and rumor, drunken rhetoric likely to come to nothing.
The greater mass of the utkhaiem were already gathering their best robes and most garish jewelry in preparation for the journey south to Saraykeht to greet the returning fleet and see this Galtic girl who would one day be Empress. Maati listened to it all, his frown deepening until his mouth began to ache.
“It doesn’t change anything,” he said. “Otah can sell us to our enemies if he wants. It doesn’t affect our work here. Once we have the grammar worked through and the andat back in the world—”
“It changes everything,” Eiah said. “Danat is marrying a Galt. The utkhaiem are either going to line up like sailors at a comfort house to follow the example or resist and restart a war we’ll never win. Or worse, both. Perhaps he’ll divide the utkhaiem so deeply that we turn on each other.”
Maati took the tea from the fire and filled his bowl. It was bitter and overbrewed and scalded his tongue. He drank it anyway. Eiah was looking at him, waiting for him to speak. The fire danced over the graying lumps of coal.
“The women’s grammar won’t matter if the world’s already passed us by,” Eiah said softly. “If it takes us five more years to capture an andat, there will already be a half-Galt child on its way to becoming Emperor. There will already be half-Galt children born to every family with any power, anywhere in the cities. Will an andat undo that? Will an andat unmake the love these fathers feel for their new children?”
If it’s the right one, yes, Maati thought but didn’t say. He only stared down into his bowl of tea, watching the dark leaves staining its depth.
“He is remaking the world without us,” Eiah went on. “He’s giving his official seal to the thought that if a woman can’t bear a child, she doesn’t matter. He’s doing the wrong thing, and once a wound has healed badly, Uncle, it’s twice as hard to put right.”
Everything she said made sense. The longer it took to bring back the andat, the harder it would be to repair the damage he’d done. And if the world had changed past recognition before his work was complete, he wasn’t sure what meaning the effort would have. His jaw ached, and he realized he’d been clenching it.
“So what then?” Maati said, taking a pose that made his words a challenge. “What do you want me to do I’m not doing already?”
Eiah sat back, her head in her hands. She looked like Otah when she did it. It was always unnerving when he caught a glimpse of her father in her. He knew what she would say before she spoke. It was, after all, what she’d been steering him toward from the conversation’s start. It was the subject they had been arguing for months.
“Let me try my binding,” Eiah said. “You’ve seen my outlines. You know the structure’s sound. If I can capture Returning-to-Natural-Equilibrium…”
She let the words trail away. Returning-to-Natural-Equilibrium, called Healing.
“I don’t know that,” Maati said, half-ashamed by the peevishness in his voice. “I only said that I didn’t see a flaw in them. I never said there wasn’t one, only that I couldn’t see it. And besides which, it might be too near something that’s been done before. I won’t lose you because some minor poet in the Second Empire bound Making-Things-Right or Fix-the-Broken or some idiotically broad concept like that.”
“Even if they did, they hadn’t trained as physicians. I know how flesh works in ways they wouldn’t have. I can bring things back the way they’re meant to be. The women that Sterile broke, I can make whole again. If we could only—”
“You’re too important.”
Eiah went silent. When she spoke again, her voice was heavy and bitter.
“You know you’ve just called all the others unimportant,” Eiah said.
“Not unimportant,” Maati said. “They’re all important. They only aren’t all irreplaceable. Wait, Eiah-kya. Be patient. Once we have a grammar that we know can work, I won’t stop you. But let someone else be first.”
“There isn’t time,” Eiah said. “We have a handful of months before the trade starts in earnest. Maybe a year.”
“Then we’ll find a way to move them faster,” Maati said.
The question of how that might be done, however, haunted him the rest of the night. He lay on his cot, the night candle hissing almost inaudibly and casting its misty light on the stone ceiling. The women, his students, had all retired to what quarters Eiah had quietly arranged for them. Eiah herself had gone back to the palaces of the Emperor, the great structures dedicated to Otah, while Maati lay in the near-dark under a warehouse, sleep eluding him and his mind gnawing at questions of time.
Maati’s father had died younger than he was now. Maati had been an aspiring poet at the village of the Dai-kvo at the time. When the word came, he had not seen the man in something near a decade. The news had stung less than he would have anticipated, not a fresh loss so much as the reminder of one already suffered. A slowing of blood had taken the man, the message said, and Maati had never looked into the matter more deeply. Lately he’d found himself wondering whether his father had done all that he’d wished, if the son he’d given over to the poets had made him proud, what regrets had marked that last illness.
The candle ha
d almost burned itself to nothing when he gave up any hope of sleep. Outside, songbirds were greeting the still-invisible dawn, but Maati took no joy in them. He lit a fresh candle and sat on the smooth-worn stone steps and considered the small wooden box that carried the only two irreplaceable things he owned. One was a painting he had done from memory of Nayiit Chokavi, the son he should have had, the child he had helped, however briefly, to raise, the boy whom Otah—Otah to whom no rules applied—had brought into the world in Saraykeht and taken out of it in Machi. The other was a book bound in black leather.
He opened the cover and considered the first page, squinting to bring the letters clear. He could not help but think of another book—that one brown—which had been his gift from Heshai-kvo and Seedless. Heshai’s handwriting had been clearer than Maati’s own, his gift for language more profound.
I, Maati Vaupathai, am one of the two men remaining in the world who has wielded the power of the andat. As the references from which I myself learned are lost, I shall endeavor to record here what I know of grammar and of the forms of thought by which the andat may be bound and the abstract made physical. And, with that, my own profound error from which the world is still suffering.
Half-reading, he flipped through the pages, caught occasionally by a particular turn of phrase of which he was fond or tripped by a diagram or metaphor that was still not to his best liking. Though his eyes strained, he could still read what he’d written, and when the ink seemed to blur, he had the memory of what he had put there. He reached the blank pages sooner than he expected, and sat on his stairs, fingertips moving over the smooth paper with a sound like skin against skin. There was so much to say, so many things he’d thought and considered. Often, he would come back from a particularly good lecture to his students full of fire and intentions, prepared to write a fresh section. Sometimes his energy lasted long enough to do so. Sometimes not.
It will be a sad legacy to die with this half-finished, he thought as he let the cover close.
He needed a real school, the school needed a teacher, and he himself could manage only so much. There wasn’t time to lecture all his students and write his manual and slink like a criminal through the dark corners of the Empire. If he’d been younger, perhaps—fifty, or better yet forty years old—he might have made the attempt, but not now. And with this mad scheme of Otah’s, time had grown even dearer.
“Maati-cha?”
Maati blinked. Vanjit came toward him, her steps tentative. He tucked his book into its box and took a pose of welcome.
“The door wasn’t bolted,” she said. “I was afraid something had happened?”
“No,” Maati said, rising and hoisting himself up the stairs. “I forgot it last night. An old man getting older is all.”
The girl took a pose that was both an acceptance and a denial. She looked exhausted, and Maati suspected there were dark smudges under his own eyes to match hers. The scent of eggs and beef caught his attention. A small lacquer box hung at Vanjit’s side.
“Ah,” Maati said. “It that what I hope it is?”
She smiled at that. The girl did have a pleasant smile, when she used it. The eggs were fresh; whipped and steamed in bright orange blocks. The beef was rich and moist. Vanjit sat beside him in the echoing, empty space of the warehouse as the morning light pressed in at the high, narrow windows, blue then yellow then gold. They talked about nothing important: the wayhouse where she was staying, his annoyance with his failing eyes, the merits of their present warehouse as compared to the half-dozen other places where Maati had taken up his chalk. Vanjit asked him questions that built on what they’d discussed the night before: How did the different forms of being relate to time? How did a number exist differently than an apple or a man? Or a child?
Maati found himself holding forth on matters of the andat and the poets, his time with the Dai-kvo, and even before that at the school. Vanjit sat still, her gaze on him, and drank his words like water.
She had lost her family when she was barely six years old. Her mother, father, younger sister, and two older brothers cut down by the gale of Galtic blades. The pain of it had faded, perhaps. It had never gone. Maati felt, as they sat together, that perhaps she had begun, however imperfectly, to build a new family. Perhaps she would have sat at her true father’s knee, listening to him with this same intensity. Perhaps Nayiit would have treated him with the same attention that Vanjit did now. Or perhaps their shared hunger belonged to people who had lost the first object of their love.
By the time Eiah and the others arrived in the late morning, Maati had reached the decision that he’d fought against the whole night. He took Eiah aside as soon as she came in.
“I have need of you,” Maati said. “How much can you spirit away without our being noticed? We’ll need food and clothing and tools. Lots of tools. And if there’s a servant or slave you can trust…”
“There isn’t,” Eiah said. “But things are in disarray right now. Half the court in Nantani would chew their tongues out before offering hospitality to a Galt. The other half are whipped to a froth trying to get to Saraykeht before the rest. A few wagonloads here and there would be easy to overlook.”
Maati nodded, more than half to himself. Eiah took a pose of query.
“You’re going to build me a school. I know where there’s one to be had, and with the others helping, it shouldn’t take terribly long to have it in order. And we need a teacher.”
“We have a teacher, Maati-kya,” Eiah said.
Maati didn’t answer, and after a moment, Eiah looked down.
“Cehmai?” she asked.
“He’s the only other living poet. The only one who’s truly held one of the andat. He could do more, I suspect, than I can manage.”
“I thought you two had fallen out?”
“I don’t like his wife,” Maati said sourly. “But I have to try. The two of us agreed on a way to find one another, if the need arose. I can hope he’s kept to it better than I have.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No,” Maati said, putting a hand on Eiah’s shoulder. “I need you to prepare things for us. There’s a place—I’ll draw you a map to it. The Galts attacked it in the war, killed everyone, but even if they dropped bodies down the well, the water’ll be fresh again by now. It’s off the high road between Pathai and Nantani….”
“That school?” Eiah said. “The place they sent the boys to train as poets? That’s where you want to go?”
“Yes,” Maati said. “It’s out of the way, it’s built for itinerant poets, and there may be something there—some book or scroll or engravings on the walls—that the twice-damned Galts overlooked. Regardless, it’s where it all began. It’s where we are going to take it all back.”
3
The voyage returning Otah to the cities of the Khaiem took weeks to prepare, and if the ships that had left Saraykeht all those months before had looked like an invading fleet, the ones returning were a city built on the water. The high-masted Galtic ships with their great billowing sails dyed red and blue and gold took to the sea by the dozens. Every great family of Galt seemed bent on sending a ship greater than the others. The ships of the utkhaiem—lacquered and delicate and low to the water—seemed small and awkward beside these, their newest seafaring cousins. Birds circled above them, screaming confusion as if a part of the coast itself had set out for foreign lands. The trees and hills of Otah’s onetime enemies fell away behind them. That first night, the torches and lanterns made the sea appear as full of stars as the sky.
One of the small gifts the gods had granted Otah was a fondness for travel by ship. The shifting of the deck under his feet, the vast scent of the ocean, the call of the gulls were like visiting a place he had once lived. He stood at the prow of the great Galtic ship given him by the High Council for his journey home and looked out at the rising sun.
He had spent years in the eastern islands as a boy. He’d been a middling fisherman, a better midwife’s assistant, a good
sailor. He had come close to marrying an island woman, and still bore the first half of the marriage tattoo on his breast. The ink had faded and spread over the years as if he were a parchment dropped in water. With the slap of waves against wood, the salt-laden air, the morning light dancing gold and rose on the water, he remembered those days.
This late in the morning, he would already have cast his nets. His fingers would have been numbed by the cold. He would have been eating the traditional breakfast of fish paste and nuts from an earthenware jar. The men he had known would be doing the same today, those who were still alive. In another life, another world, he might be doing it still.
He had lived so many lives: half-starved street child; petty thief; seafront laborer; fisherman; assistant midwife; courier; Khai; husband; father; war leader; emperor. Put in a line that way, he could see how another person might imagine his life to be an unending upward spiral, but it didn’t feel that way to him. He had done what he’d had to at the time. One thing had led to another. A man without particular ambition had been placed atop the world, and likewise the world had been placed atop him. And against all probability, he found himself here, wearing the richest robes in the cities, with a private cabin larger than some boats he’d worked, and thinking fondly of fish paste and nuts.
Lost in thought, he heard the little ship’s boat hail—a booming voice speaking Galtic words—before he knew it was approaching. The watchman of his own vessel replied, and then the landsman’s chair descended. Otah watched idly as a man in the colors of House Dasin was winched up, swung over, and lowered to the deck. A knot of Otah’s own clerks and servants formed around the newcomer. Otah pulled his hands up into his sleeves and made his way back.
The boy was a servant of some sort—the Galts had a system of gradation that Otah hadn’t bothered to memorize—with hair the color of beach sand and a greenish tint to his face. Seeing Otah, the servant took a pose of abject obeisance poorly.