to know that now."
Eiah wept silently, shocked by the cold fire in Kiyan's voice. Utah felt
as if he'd been slapped as well. As if he ought somehow to have known,
all those years ago, in that distant city, that the consequences of
taking to his lover's bed would come back again to threaten everything
he held dear. Ilis daughter took a pose that begged her mother's
forgiveness.
"I won't, Mama-kya. I won't say anything. Not ever."
"You'll apologize to the man you stole from and you will go in the
morning to the physician's house and do whatever they ask of you. I will
decide what to do about 'l alit and Shoyen."
"Yes, :Mama-kya."
"You can leave now," Kiyan said and looked away. Eiah rose, silent
except for the rough breath of tears, and left the room. The door closed
behind her.
"I'm sorry-"
"Don't," Kiyan said. "Not now. I can't ... I don't want to hear it just
now.
Otah rose and walked to the window. The sun was high, but the towers
cast shadows across the city all the same, like trees above children.
Far to the west, clouds were gathering over the mountains, towering
white thunderheads with bases dark as a bruise. "There would be a storm
later. It would come. One of the sparrows returned, considered Otah once
with each eye, and then flew away again.
"What would you ask me to do?" Otah said. His voice was placid. No one
would have known from the words how much pain lay behind them. No one
except Kiyan. "I can't unmake him. Should I have him killed?"
"How did Eiah know?" Kiyan asked.
"She saw. Or she guessed. She knew the way that you did."
"No one told her? Maati or Liat or Nayiit. None of them told her?"
"No.,,
"You're sure?"
"I am."
"Because if they did, if they're spreading it through the city that you
have-"
"They aren't. I was there when she realized it. Only me. No one else."
Kiyan took a long, low, shuddering breath. If it had been otherwiseif
someone had told Eiah as part of a plan to spread word of Nayiit's
parentage-Kiyan would have asked him to have the boy killed. He wondered
what he would have done. He wondered how he would have refused her.
"They'll leave the city as soon as we have word from the Dal-kvo," Otah
said. "Either they'll go back to Saraykeht or they'll go to the
I)aikvo's village. Either way, they'll be gone from here."
"And if they come back?"
"They won't. I'll see to it. They won't hurt Danat, love. He's safe."
"He's ill. He's still coughing," Kiyan said. That was it too, of course.
Seasons had come and gone, and Danat was still haunted by illness. It
was natural for them-Kiyan and himself both-to bend themselves double to
protect him from the dangers that they could, especially since there
were so many so close over which they were powerless.
It was part of why Otah had postponed for so long the conversation he
was doomed to have with Liat Chokavi. But it was only part. Kiyan's
chair scraped against the floor as she rose. Otah put his hand out to
her, and she took it, stepping in close to him, her arms around him. He
kissed her temple.
"Promise me this all ends well," she said. "Just tell me that."
"It will he fine," he said. "Nothing's going to hurt our boy."
They stood silently for a time, looking at each other, and then out at
the city. The plumes of smoke rising from the forges, the black-cobbled
streets and gray slanted roofs. The sun slipped behind the clouds or
else the clouds rose to block the light. The knock that interrupted them
was sharp and urgent.
"Most High?" a man's voice said. "Most High, forgive me, but the poets
wish to speak with you. Maati-cha says the issue is urgent."
Kiyan walked with him, her hand in his, as they went to the Council
chamber where Maati waited. His face was flushed, his mouth set in a
deep scowl. A packet of paper fluttered in his hand, the edges rough
where he'd ripped them rather than take the labor of unsewing the
sheets. Cehmai and Stone-Made-Soft were also there, the poet pacing
restlessly, the andat smiling its placid, inhuman smile at each of them
in turn.
"News from the Dai-kvo?" Otah asked.
"No, the couriers we sent west," Cehmai said.
Maati tossed the pages to the table as he spoke. "The Galts have fielded
an army."
THE THIRD LEGION ARRIVED ON A BRIGHT MORNING, THE SUN SHINING ON the
polished metal and oiled leather of their armor as if they'd been
expecting a victory parade instead of the start of a war. Balasar
watched from the walls of the city as they arrived and made camp. The
sight was so welcome, even the smell of a hundred and a half camp
latrines couldn't undermine his pleasure.
They were later even than they'd expected, and with stories and excuses
to explain the delay. Balasar, leaning against the map table, listened
and kept his expression calm as the officers apprised him of the
legion's state-the men, the food, the horses, the steam wagons, the
armor, the arms. Mentally, he put the information into the vast map that
was the campaign, but even as he did, he felt the wolfish grin coming to
his lips. These were the last of his forces to come into place. The hour
was almost upon him. The war was about to begin.
He listened as patiently as he could, gave his orders on the disposition
of their men and materiel, and told them not to get comfortable. When
they were gone, Eustin came in alone, the same excitement that Balasar
felt showing on his face.
"What's next, sir? The poet?"
""I'he poet," Balasar said, leading the way out the door.
They found Riaan in the Warden's private courtyard. He was sitting in
the wide shade of a catalpa tree heavy with wide, white blooms and wide
leaves the same green as the poet's robes. He'd had someone bring out a
wide divan for him to lounge on. Across a small table, the Khaiate
mercenary captain was perched on a stool. Both men were frowning at a
handful of stones laid out in a short arc. The captain rose when he
caught sight of them. The poet only glanced up, annoyed. Balasar took a
pose of greeting, and the poet replied with something ornate that he
couldn't entirely make sense of. The glitter in the captain's eyes
suggested that the complexity was intentional and not entirely
complimentary. Balasar put the insult, whatever it was, aside. There was
no call to catalog more reasons to kill the man.
"Sinja-cha," Balasar said. "I need to speak with the great poet in private."
"Of course," the captain said, then turning to Riaan with a formal pose,
"We can finish the game later if you like."
Riaan nodded and waved, the movement half permission for Sinja to go,