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
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