A crowd formed at the edge of the city as the first wagons came over the
bridge. The women and children and old men of Machi come to greet the
militia that had gone out to save the l)ai-kvo. The Dai-kvo and the city
and the world. Maati pushed his way in, elbowing people aside and taking
more than one sharp rebuttal in his own ribs. The horses that pulled the
wagons were blown. The men who rode them were gray-pale in the face and
bloodied. The few who still walked, shambled. A ragged cheer rose from
the crowd and then slunk away. A girl in a gray robe of cheap wool
stepped out from the edge of the crowd, moving toward the soldiers. From
where he stood trapped in the press of bodies, Maati could see the
girl's head as it turned, searching the coming train of men for some
particular man. Even before the first soldier reached her, Nlaati saw
how small the group was, how many men were missing.
"Nayiit!" he shouted, hoping that his boy would hear him. "Nayiit! Over
here!"
His voice was drowned. The citizens of Machi surged forward like an
attack. Some of the men crossing the bridge drew back from them as if in
fear, and then there was only one surging, swirling mass of people.
'T'here was no order, no control. One of the first wagons was pushed
sideways from the road, the horses whinnying their protest but too tired
to bolt. A man younger than Nayiit with a badly cut arm and a bruise on
his face stumbled almost into i\laati's arms.
"What happened?" Maati demanded of the boy. "Where's the Khai? I lave
you seen Nayiit Chokavi?" A blank stare was the only reply.
The chaos seemed to go on for a day, though it wasn't really more than
half a hand. Then a loud, cursing voice rose over the tumult, clearing
the way for the wagons. There were hurt men. Men who had to see
physicians. Men who were dying. Men who were dead. The people stood
aside and let the wagons pass. The sounds of weeping and hard wheels on
paving stones were the only music. Maati felt breathless with dread.
As he pushed back into the city, following in the path the wagons had
opened, he heard bits and snatches from the people he passed. The Khai
had taken the utkhaiem and ridden for Cetani. The Galts weren't far
behind. The I)ai-kvo was dead. The village of the Dai-kvo was burned.
'T'here had been a blood-soaked farce of a battle. As many men were dead
as still standing.
Rumor, Maati told himself. Everything is rumor and speculation until I
hear it from Nayiit. Or Otah-kvo. But his chest was tight and his hands
balled in fists so tight they ached when, out of breath and ears
ringing, he made his way back to the library. A man in a travel-stained
robe squatted beside his door, a tarp-covered crate on the ground at his
side.
Nayiit. It was Nayiit. Maati found the strength to embrace his boy, and
allowed himself at last to weep. He felt Nayiit's arms around him, felt
the boy soften in their shared grief, and then pull away. Maati forced
himself to step hack. Nayiit's expression was grim.
"Come in," Nlaati said. "Then tell me."
It was had. The Galts were not on Machi's door and Otah-kvo lived, but
these were the only bright points in Nayiit's long, quiet recitation.
They sat in the dimming front room, shutters closed and candles unlit,
while Nayiit told the tale. Maati clasped his hands together, squeezing
his knuckles until they ached. The Dai-kvo was dead. The men whom Maati
had known in the long years he had lived in the village were memories
now. ITe found himself trying to remember their names, their faces.
't'here were fewer fresh to his mind than he would have thoughtthe
firekeeper whose kiln had been at the corner nearest Maati's cell, the
old man who'd run the bathhouse, a few others. They were gone, fallen
into the forgetfulness of history. The records of their names had been
burned.
"We searched. We searched through everything," Nayiit said. "I brought
you what we found."
With a thick rustle, he pulled the thick waxed cloth from out of the
crate. Two stacks of books lay beneath it, and Maati, squatting on the
floor, lifted the ancient texts out one at a time with trembling hands.
Fourteen books. The library of the Dai-kvo reduced to fourteen hooks. He
opened them, smelling the smoke in their pages, feeling the terrible
lightness of the bindings. There was no unity to them-a sampling of what
had happened to be in a dark corner or hidden beneath something
unlikely. A history of agriculture before the First Empire. An essay on
soft grammars. Jantan Noya's Fourth 7i-eatrse on Form, which Maati had
two copies of among his own hooks. None of these salvaged volumes
outlined the binding of an andat, or the works of ancient poets.
Stone-Made-Soft wouldn't be bound with these. And so StoneMade-Soft
wouldn't be bound, because these were all that remained. Maati felt a
cold, deep calm descend upon him. Grunting, he stood tip and then began
pacing his rooms. His hands went through the movements of lighting
candles and lanterns without his conscious participation. His mind was
as clear and sharp as broken ice.
Stone-Made-Soft could not be bound-not without years of workand so he
put aside that hope. If he and Cehmai failed to hind an andat, and
quickly, the Gaits would destroy them all. Nayiit, Liat, Otah, Eiah.
Everyone. So something had to be done. Perhaps they could trick the
Gaits into believing that an andat had been hound. Perhaps they could
delay the armies arrayed against them until the cold shut Machi against
invasion. If he could win the long, hard months of winter in which he
could scheme ...
When the answer came to him, it was less like discovering something than
remembering it. Not a flash of insight, but a familiar glow. He had,
perhaps, known it would come to this.
"I think I know what to do, but we have to find Cehmai," he began, but
when he turned to Nayiit, his son was curled on the floor, head pillowed
by his arms. His breath was as deep and regular as tides, and his eyes
were sunken and hard shut. Weariness had paled the long face, sharpening
his cheeks. Maati walked as softly as he could to his bedchamber, pulled
a thick blanket from his bed, and brought it to drape over Nayiit. The
thick carpets were softer and warmer than a traveler's cot. There was no
call to wake him.
What had happened out there-the battle, the search through the village,
the trek back to Machi with this thin gift of useless bookswould likely
have broken most men. It had likely scarred Nayiit. Maati reached to
smooth the hair on Nayiit's brow, but held back and smiled.
"All the years I should have done this," he murmured to himself.
"Putting my boy to bed."
lie softly closed the door to his apartments. The night was deep and
dark, stars shining like diamonds on velvet, and a distant, eerie green
aurora dancing far to the North. Maati stopped at the library proper,
tucked the book he needed into his sleeve, and then-though the urge to