find Cehunai instantly was hard to resist-made his way to the palaces,
and to the apartments that Otah had given Liat.
A servant girl showed him into the main chamber. The only light was the
fire in the grate, the shadows of flame dancing on the walls and across
Liat's brow as she stared into them. Her hair was disarrayed, wild as a
bird's nest. Her hands were in claws, trembling.
"I haven't ... I haven't found-"
"He's fine," Maati said. "He's in my apartments, asleep."
Liat's cry startled him. She didn't walk to him so much as flow through
the air, and her arms were around Maati's shoulders, embracing him. And
then she stepped hack and struck his shoulder hard enough to sting.
"How long has he been there?"
"Since the army came hack," Maati said, rubbing his bruised flesh. "EIe
brought books that they salvaged from the Dai-kvo. I was looking them
over when-"
"And you didn't send me a runner? There are no servants in the city who
you could have told to come to me? I've been sitting here chewing my own
heart raw, afraid he was dead, afraid he was still out with Otah chasing
the Galts, and he was at your apartments talking about books?"
"He's fine," Maati said. "I put a blanket over him and came to you. But
he'll need food. Soup. Some wine. I thought you could take it to him."
Liat wiped away a tear with the back of her hand.
"He's all right?" she asked. Her voice had gone small.
"I Ic's exhausted and hungry. But it's nothing a few days' rest won't heal."
"And ... his heart? You talked with him. Is he ... ?"
"I don't know, sweet. I'm not his mother. 'lake him soup. "talk with
him. You'll know him better than I can."
Liat nodded. There were tears on her cheeks, but Nlaati knew it was only
the fear working its way through. Seeing their boy would help more than
anything else.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"I'he poet's house."
The night air was chill, both numbing his skin and making him more
acutely aware of it. Summer was failing, autumn clearing its throat. The
few men and women Nlaati passed seemed to haunt the palaces, more spirit
than flesh. They took poses of deference to him, more formal or less
depending upon their stations, but the stunned expressions spoke of a
single thought. The news from the broken army had spread, and everyone
knew that the I)ai-kvo was gone, the Galts triumphant. With even the
last glow of twilight long vanished, the paths were dimmer than usual,
lanterns unlit, torches burned to coal. The great halls and palaces
loomed, the glimmering from behind closed shutters the only sign that
they had not been abandoned. Twists of dry herbs tied with mourning
cloth hung from the trees as offering to the gods. The red banner that
had announced the army's arrival still hung from the high tower, grayed
by the darkness. Colorless.
hlaati passed through the empty gardens, and found himself smiling. He
felt separate from the city around him, untouched by its despair.
Perhaps even invigorated by it. "There was nothing the citizens of
Nlachi could do, no path for them to take that might somehow make things
right. That was his alone. He would save the cite, if it were to be
saved, and if Machi fell, it would find Nlaati working to the end. It
was that hope and the clarity of the path that lay before him that made
his steps lighter and kept his blood warm.
He wondered if this strange elation was something like what ()tali had
felt, all those years he had lived under his false name. Perhaps holding
himself at a distance from the world was how Otah had learned his
confidence.
But no. That thought was an illusion. I lowever much this felt like joy,
Nlaati's rational mind knew it was only fear in brighter robes.
'['he door of the poet's house stood open. The candlelight from within
glowed gold. Maati hauled himself up the stairs and through the doorway
without scratching or calling out to announce his presence. The air
within smelled of distilled wine and a deep earthy incense of the sort
priests burned in the temples. He found Cehmai at the back of the house,
eyes bloodshot and wine bowl cupped in his hands. He sat cross-legged on
the floor contemplating a linked sigil of order and
chaos-mother-of-pearl inlay in a panel of dark-stained rosewood. He
glanced up at Maati and made an awkward attempt at some pose Maati could
only guess at.
"You've found religion?" Maati asked.
"Chaos comes out of order," Cehmai said. "I can't think of a better time
to contemplate the fact. And gods are all we have left now, aren't they?"
Nlaati reached out, brushing the panel with his fingers before tipping
it backward. It slapped the floor with a sound like a book dropped from
a table. Cehmai blinked, half shocked, half amused. Before he could
speak, Maati fished in his sleeve, brought out the small brown volume,
its leather covers worn soft as cloth by the years, and dropped it into
Cchmai's lap. He didn't wait for ("ehmai to pick it up before he strode
back into the front room, closed the door, and dropped two fresh lumps
of coal onto the fire in the grate. He found a pan, a flask of fresh
water, and a brick of pressed tea leaves. That was good. They'd want
that before the night was out. He also found the spent incense-ashes
lighter than fresh snow on a black stone burner. He dumped them outside.
A high slate table held their notes. Thoughts and diagrams charting the
new and doomed binding of Stone-Made-Soft. Maati scooped up the pages of
cramped writing and put them outside as well, with the ashes. "l'hen he
carefully smoothed the writing from the wax tablets until they were
smooth again, pristine. He took up the bronze-tipped stylus and scored
two long vertical lines in the wax, dividing it into three equal
columns. Cehmai walked into the room, his head bent over the open hook.
He was already more than halfway through it.
"You aren't the only one who was ever chosen to bind one of the andat,"
Maati said. "I even began the binding once, a long time ago. Liatcha
talked me out of trying. She was right. It would have killed me."
"You mean this?" Cehmai said. "You're going to bind Seedless?"
"It was what the I)ai-kvo chose me for. Heshai wrote his binding, and
his analysis of its flaws. It's too close to the original. I know that.
But with the changes we'll need to make in order to include my scheme
for avoiding the price of a failed binding and your fresh perspective,
we can find another way."
In the first column of the wax tablet, Maati wrote Seedless.
"Forgive me, Maati-kvo, but will this really help? Stone-Made-Soft could
have dropped their army half into the ground. Water-Moving- I)own might
have flooded them. But Seedless? Removing-the-PartThat-Continues doesn't