have much power to stop an army."
"I can offer to kill all their crops," Maati said, writing Heshai-ko at
the top of the second column. "I can threaten to make every cow and pig
and lamb barren. I can make every Galtic woman who's bearing a child
lose it. Faced with that, they'll turn hack."
His stylus paused over the head of the third column, and then he wrote
his own name. He and Cehmai could outline the major points here; they
could add and remove aspects of Heshai's first vision, interpret the
corrections the old poet would have made, had he been given the chance.
They could remake the binding, because the binding was already
half-remade. If there was time. If they could find a way. If they were
clever enough to save the world from the armies of Galt.
"And if they don't turn hack?" Cehmai said.
"Then we'll all die. Their cities and ours. Check to see if that tea's
ready to brew up, will you? I need your help with this, and it will go
better if you're sober."
THE SCULPTURE GARDEN OF CETANI WAS THE WONDER OF THE CITY. TWO bronze
men in the dress of the Emperor's guard stood at the entrances at its
Northwest end, staring to the south and east, as if still looking to the
Empire they had failed to protect. In their great, inhuman shadows, the
finest work of the cities of the Khaiem had been gathered over the span
of generations. There were hundreds of them, each astounding in its own
fashion, under the wide branches of ash and oak with leaves the color of
gold. The dragons of Chaos writhed along one long wall, their scales
shining with red lacquer and worked silver, chips of lapis and enamel
white as milk. In a shadowed niche, Shian Sho, last of the E111- perors,
sat worked in white marble on a high dais, his head stink despairingly
in his hands. It was a piece done after the Empire's fall. If the
Emperor had seen himself shown with such little dignity, the sculptor
would have been lucky to have a fast death. But the drape of the final
Emperor's robes made the stone seem supple as linen, and the despair and
thoughtfulness of the dead man's expression spoke of a time nine
generations past when the world had torn itself apart. The sculptor who
had found Shian Sho in this stone had lived through that time and had
put the burden of his heart into this monument; this empty sepulcher for
his age. Otah suspected that no man since then had looked upon it and
understood. Not until now.
The Khai Cetani stood at the foot of a life-size bronze of a robed woman
with eagle's wings rising wide-spread from her shoulders. He was younger
than Otah by perhaps five years, gray only beginning to appear in his
night-black hair. His gaze flickered over Otah, giving no sign of the
thoughts behind his eyes. Otah felt a moment's selfconsciousness at his
travel-worn robes and incipient, moth-eaten beard. He took a pose of
greeting appropriate for two people of equal status and saw the Khai
Cetani hesitate for a moment before returning it. It was likely it was
the first time in years anyone had approached him with so little reverence.
"My counselors have told me of your suggestion, my good friend Nlachi,"
the Khai Cetani said. "I must say I was ... surprised. You can't truly
expect us to abandon Cetani without a fight."
"You'll lose," Otah said.
"We are a city of fifty thousand people. These invaders of yours are at
most five."
`They're soldiers. They know what they're doing. You might slow them,
but you won't stop them."
The Khai Cetani sat, crossing his legs. His smile was almost a sneer.
"You think because you failed, no one else can succeed?"
"I think if we had a season, perhaps two, to build an army, we might
withstand them. Hire mercenaries to train the men, drill them, build
walls around at least the inner reaches of the cities, and we might
stand a chance. As it is, we don't. I've seen what they did to the
village of the [tai-kvo. I've had reports from Yalakeht. Amnat-Tan will
fall if it hasn't already. They will come here next. You have fifty
thousand, including the infirm and the aged and children too young to
hold a sword. You don't have weapons enough or armor or experience. My
proposal is our best hope."
It was an argument he had wrestled with through many of the long nights
of his journey to the North. Force of arms would not stop the Gaits.
Slowing them, letting the winter come and protect them for the long,
dark months in which no attacking force would survive the fields of ice
and brutally cold nights, winning time for the poets to work a little
miracle, bind one of the andat and save them all-it was a thin hope but
it was the best they had. And slowly, during the days swaying on
horseback and nights sitting by smoldering braziers, Otah had found the
plan that he believed would win him this respite. Now If the Khai Cetani
would simply see the need of it.
"If you bring your people to Machi, we will have twice as many people
who can take the field against the Galts. And if you will do what I've
suggested with the coal and food, the Galts will be much worse for the
travel than we will he."
"And Cetani will fall without resistance. We will roll over like a soft
quarter whore," the Khai Cetani said. "It's simple enough for you to
sacrifice my city, isn't it?"
"None of this is easy. But simple? Yes, it's simple. Bring your people
to Machi. Bring all the food you can carry and burn what you can't. Mix
hard coal in with the soft, so that what we leave behind for the (;alts
will burn too hot in their steam wagons, and give me the loan of five
hundred of your best men. I'll give you a winter and the library of
Machi. Between your poet and the two at my court-"
"I have no poet."
Otah took a pose of query.
"Ile died half a month ago, trying to regain his andat," the Khai Cetani
said. "His skin went black as a new bruise and his bones all shattered.
I have no poet. All I have is a city, and I won't give it away for nothing!"
The Khai Cetani's words ended in a shout. His face was red with fury.
And with fear. There was no more that Otah could say now that would sway
him, but years in the gentleman's trade had taught Otah something about
negotiations that the Khaiem had never known. lie nodded and took a pose
that formally withdrew him from the conversation.
"You and your men will stay here," the Khai Cetani said, continuing to
speak despite Otah's gesture. "We will make our stand here, at Cetani.
We will not fall."
"You will," Otah said. "And my men will leave in the morning, with me.
The Khai Cetani was breathing fast, as if he had run a race. Otah took a
pose of farewell, then turned and strode from the garden. To the east,
clouds darkened the horizon. The scent of coming rain touched the air.
Otah's armsmen and servants fell in with him. The eyes of Cetani's
utkhaiem were on the little procession as Otah walked to the apartments