from the left? It's about to bite that woman's calf. And the man on the
end? The one who's looking down? I le's lost his balance."
"I hadn't noticed," Utah said.
"You should have another one made with the dragons on top. Just to
remind people that it's never over. Even when you think it's done,
there's something waiting to surprise you."
Utah nodded, dipping his fingers into the dancing ripples of the pool.
Gold and white koi darted toward his fingertips and then as quickly away.
"I understand if you're angry with me," Otah said. "But I didn't ask
him. Nayiit came to me. He volunteered."
"Yes. Liat told me."
"He's spent half a season in the Dai-kvo's village. He knows it better
than anyone but you or Cehmai."
Nlaati looked up. There was a darkness in his expression.
"You're right," Maati said. "If this is the Galts and they've freed the
andat, then protecting the Dai-kvo is critical. But it would be faster
to send for him to come to us. We can build defenses here, train men.
Pre„ pare.
"And if the Uai-kvo didn't come?" Otah asked. "How long has he been
mulling over Liat's report that the Galts have a poet of their own? I've
sent word. I've sent messages. The world can't afford to wait and see if
the I)ai-kvo suddenly becomes decisive."
"And you speak for the world now, do you?" There was acid in Maati's
tone, but Otah could hear the fear behind it and the despair. "If you
insist on charging out into whatever kind of war you find out there,
take one of us with you. We've lived there. We know the village.
Cehmai's still young. Or strap me on the back of a horse and pull me
there. Leave Nayiit out of this."
"He's a grown man," Otah said. "He's not a child any longer. He has his
own mind and his own will. I thought about refusing him, for your sake
and for Liat's. But what would that be to him? He's not still wrapped in
crib cloths. How would I say that I wanted him safe because his mother
would worry for him?"
"And what about his father," Maati said, but it had none of the
inflection of a question. "You have an opinion, Most High, on what his
father would think."
Utah's belly sank. He dried his hand on his sleeve, only thinking
afterward that it was the motion of a commoner-a dockfront laborer or a
midwife's assistant or a courier. The Khai Machi should have raised an
arm, summoned a servant to dry his fingers for him on a cloth woven for
the purpose and burned after one use. His face felt mask-like and hard
as plaster. Ile took a pose that asked clarification.
"Is that the conversation we're having, then?" he asked. "We're talking
about fathers?"
"We're talking about sons," Maati said. "We're talking about you
scraping up all the disposable men that the utkhaiem can drag out of
comfort houses and slap sober enough to ride just so they can appease
the irrational whims of the Khai. Taking those men out into the field
because you think the armies of Galt are going to slaughter the Dal-kvo
is what we're talking about, and about taking Nayiit with you."
"You think I'm wrong?"
"I know you're right!" Maati was breathing hard now. His face was
flushed. "I know they're out there, with an army of veterans who are
perfectly accustomed to hollowing out their enemies' skulls for wine
bowls. And I know you sent Sinja-cha away with all the men we had who
were even half trained. If you come across the Galts, you will lose. And
if you take Nayiit, he'll die too. He's still a child. He's still
figuring out who he is and what he intends and what he means to do in
the world. And-"
"Maati. I know it would be safer for me to stay here. For Nayiit to stay
here. But it would only be safe for the moment. If we lose the Daikvo
and all he knows and the libraries he keeps, having one more safe winter
in Machi won't mean anything. And we might not even manage the winter."
hlaati looked away. Otah bowed his head and pretended not to have seen
the tears on his old friend's cheeks.
"I've only just found him again," Maati said, barely audible over the
splashing water. "I've only just found him again, and I don't want him
taken away."
"I'll keep him safe," Otah said.
Maati reached out his hand, and Otah let him lace his fingers with his
own. It wasn't an intimacy that they had often shared, and against his
will, Otah found something near to sorrow tightening his chest. He put
his free hand to Maati's shoulder. When Maati spoke, his voice was thick
and Otah no longer ignored his tears.
"We're his fathers, you and I," Maati said. "So we'll take care of him.
Won't we?"
"Of course we will," Otah said.
"You'll see him home safe."
"Of course."
Maati nodded. It was an empty promise, and they both knew it. Otah
smoothed a palm over llaati's thinning hair, squeezed his palm one last
time, and stood. He was moved to speak, but he couldn't find any words
that would say what he meant. Instead he turned and softly walked away.
His servants and attendants waited just outside the garden, attentive as
puppies whose mother has left them. Otah waved them away, as he always
had. And as he might not do again. The Master of Tides brought the
ledger that outlined the rest of his day, and the day after, and was
suddenly perfectly blank after that. In two days, he would he traveling
with what militia he could, and there was no point planning past that.
As the man spoke, Otah gently took the book from him, closed it, and
handed it hack. The Master of rides went silent, and no one followed
Otah when he walked away.
He strode through the palaces, ignoring the poses of obeisance and
respect that bloomed wherever he went. He didn't have time for the forms
and rituals. He didn't have time to respect the traditions he was about
to put his life in danger to protect. He wasn't entirely sure what that
said about him. He took the wide, marble stairs two at a time, rising up
from the lower palace toward his personal apartments. When he arrived,
Kivan wasn't there. Ile paced the rooms, plucking at the papers on the
wide table he'd had brought for him. Maps and histories and lists of
names. Numbers of men and of wagons and routes. It looked like a nest
for rats: the piled hooks, the scattered notes. It was vaguely
ridiculous, he thought as he read over the names of the houses and
families who had sworn him support. He was no more a general than he was