Authors: Daniel Abraham
Otah stared out at the city, watching the tiny dots of stones drift down from the towers, hearing the clatter of men and horses echoing against the high stone walls. I le wondered how long it would take ten thousand men to kill two full cities. I IC should have met them on the plain. He could have armed everyone; man, woman, and child. Able or infirm. They could have swarmed over them, ten and fifteen for every Galt. He sighed. He could as well have tossed babies on their sword in hopes of slowing their advance. "I'he Galts would have slaughtered them on the plain or in the city. I Ie'd tried his trick, and he'd failed. "There was nothing to gain from regretting the strategies he hadn't chosen.
What he wanted now was a sword and someone to swing it at. He wanted to be part of the fight if only to keep from feeling so powerless.
"Another runner," the Khai Cetani said, taking a pose that commanded Otah's attention. "From the palaces."
Otah nodded and stepped back from the roof edge. The runner was a paleskinned boy with a constellation of moles across his nose and cheeks. (bah could see him try not to pant as the two Khaicm drew near. Ile took a pose of obeisance.
"What's happening?" Otah demanded.
"The Galts, Most High. "They're sending messengers. "They're abandoning the palace. It looks as if they're forming a single group."
"Where?"
""l'he old market square," he said.
"Three streets south of the main entrance to the tunnels. So they knew. Utah felt his belly sink. He waved the trumpeter over. The man was exhausted; Utah could see it in the flesh below his eves and in the angle of his shoulders. His lips were cracked and blood}, from the cold and his work. Utah put a hand on the man's shoulder.
"One last time," he said. "Call them all to fall back to the tunnel's entrance. "There's nothing more we can do on the surface."
The trumpeter took an acknowledging pose and walked away, warming the instrument's mouthpiece with his hand before lifting it to his bruised mouth. Utah waited as the melody sang out in the snowy air, listened to the echoes of it fade and he replaced by acknowledging calls.
"We should surrender," Otah said. The Khai Cetani blinked at him. Beneath the red ice-pinched cheeks, the man grew pale. (bah pressed on. "We're going to lose, Most Iligh. We don't have soldiers to stop them. All we'll gain is a few more hours. And we'll pay for it with lives that don't need to end today."
"We were planning to spend those lives before," the Khai Cetani said, though Utah could see in the man's eves that he knew the argument was sound. They were two dead men, fathers of dead families, the last of their kind in the world. " \V'e always knew there would be deaths."
"'T'hat was when we had hope," Utah said.
One of the servants cried out and fell to her knees. Otah turned to her, thinking first that she had overheard him and been overcome by grief, and then-seeing her face-that some miraculous arrow had found its way through the air to their roof. The men around her looked at the Khaiem, embarrassed at the interruption, or else knelt by the girl to comfort her. She shrieked, and the stones themselves seemed to take up her voice. A sound rose from the city in a long, rolling unending moan. 'T'housands of voices, calling out in pain. Otah's skin seemed to retreat from it, and a chill that had nothing to do with the still-falling snow ran down his sides. For a moment, the towers themselves seemed about to twist with agony. This, he thought, was what gods sounded like when they died.
Around him, men looked nervously at the air, gazes darting into the gray and white sky. Utah caught the runner by his sleeve.
"Go," he said. "Go, and tell me what's happened."
Dread widened the boy's eyes, but he took an acknowledging pose before retreating. The Khai Cetani seemed poised to ask something, but only turned away, walking to the roof's edge himself. Utah went to the servant girl. I Ier face was white with pain.
"What's the matter?" Otah asked her, gently. "Where does it hurt?"
She couldn't take a formal pose, but her gesture and the shame in her eyes told Otah everything he needed to know. He'd spent several seasons as a midwife's assistant in the eastern islands. If the girl was lucky, she had been pregnant and was miscarrying. If she hadn't been carrying a child, then something worse was happening. He had already ordered the other servants to carry her down to the physicians when Cehmai appeared, red-faced and wideeyed. Before he could speak, it fell into place. The girl, the unearthly shriek, the poet.
"Something's gone wrong with the binding," Otah said. Cehmai took a pose of confirmation.
"Please," the poet said. "Come now. I furry."
Otah didn't pause to think; he went to the stairs, lifting the hem of his robes, and dropping down three steps at a time. It was four stories from the top of the warehouse to its bottom floor. Otah felt that he could hardly have gone there faster if he'd jumped over the building's side.
The space was eerie; shadows seemed to hang in the corners of the huge, empty room and the distant sound of voices in pain murmured and shrieked. Great symbols were chalked on the walls, and an ugly, disjointed script in Nlaati's handwriting spelled out the binding. Otah knew little enough of the old grammars, but he picked out the words for womb, seed, and corruption. Three people stood in tableau at the top of the stair that led down to the tunnels. NIaati stood, his hands at his sides, his expression blank. Otah's belly went tight as sickness as he saw that the girl at Nlaati's feet was Eiah. And the thing that cradled his daughter's head turned to look at him. After a long moment, it drew breath and spoke.
"Otah-kya," it said. Its voice was low and beautiful, heavy with amusement and contempt. The familiarity of it was dizzying.
"Seedless?"
"It isn't," Nlaati said. "It's not him."
"What's happened?" Otah asked. When Maati didn't answer, Otah shook the man's sleeve. " Nlaati. What's going on?"
"He's failed," the andat said. "And when a poet fails, he pays a price for it. Only Nlaati-kvo is clever. He's found a way to make it so that failure can't touch him. He's found a trick."
"I don't understand," Otah said.
"My protection," Maati said, his voice rich with despair. "It doesn't stop the price being paid. It only can't kill me."
The andat took a pose that agreed, as a teacher might approve of a clever student. From the stairwell, Utah heard footsteps and the voice of the Khai Cetani. The first of the servant men hurried into the room, robes flapping like a flag in high wind, before he saw them and stopped dead and silent.
"What is it doing?" Utah asked. "What's it done?"
"You can ask me, Most High," Sterile said. "I have a voice."
Utah looked into the black, inhuman eyes. Eiah whimpered, and the thing stroked her brow gently, comforting and threatening both. Utah felt the urge to pull Eiah away from the thing, as if it were a spider or a snake.
"What have you done to my daughter?" he asked.
"What would you guess, Most High?" Sterile asked. "I am the reflection of a man whose son is not his son. All his life, Maatikya has been bent double by the questions of fathers and sons. What do you imagine I would do?"
""fell me."
"I've soured her womb," the andat said. "Scarred it. And I've done the same to every woman in the cities of the Khaiem. Lachi, Chaburi-Ian, Saraykeht. All of them. Young and old, highborn and low. And I've gelded every Galtic man. From Kirinton to Far Galt to right here at your doorstep."
"Papa-kya," Eiah said. "It hurts."
Utah knelt, drawing his daughter to him. Her mouth was thin with pain. The andat opened its hand, the long fingers gesturing him to take her. The Khai Cetani was at Utah's side now, his breath heavy and his hands trembling. Utah took Eiah in his arms.
"Your children will be theirs," it said. ""I'he next generation will have the Khaiem for fathers and feed from Galtic breasts, or else it will not be. Your history will be written by half-breeds, or it won't be written."
"Maati," Otah said, but his old friend only shook his head.
"I can't stop it," Maati said. "It's already happened."
"You should never have been a poet," Sterile said, standing as it spoke. "You failed the tests. The strength to stand on your own, and the compassion to turn away from cruelty. "Those are what the I)ai-kvo asked of you."
"I did my best," Maati breathed.
"You were told," it said and turned to Otah. "You went to him. When you were both boys, you warned him that the school wasn't as it seemed. You told him it was a test. You gave the game away. And hecause he knew, he passed. He would have failed without you, and this could never have happened."
"I don't believe you," Otah said.
"It doesn't matter what you think," it said. "Only what he knows. \Iaati-kvo made an instrument of slaughter, and he made it in fear; that makes it a failure of both his lessons. A generation of women will know him as the man who stole motherhood from them. The men of Galt will hate him for unmanning them. You, Maati Vaupathai, will he the one who took their children from them."
"I did . . ." Nlaati began, and his voice fell to nothing. lie sat down, his legs seeming to collapse beneath him. Otah tried to speak, but his throat was dry. It was Eiah, cradled in his arms, who broke the silence.
"Stop it," she said. "Leave him alone. He never did anything mean to you.
The andat smiled. Its teeth were pale as snow and sharp.
"I Ie did something mean to win, Fiah-kya," it said. "You'll grow to know how badly he's hurt you. It may take you years to understand. It may take a lifetime."
"I don't care!" I?iah veiled. "1'ou Ieave uncle Nlaati alone!"
And as if the words themselves were power, it vanished. The dark robes fell empty to the stone floor. The only sounds were Eiah's pained breath and the moaning of the cite. The Khai Cetani licked his lips and looked uneasily at Otah. Maati stared at the ground between his hands.
""They'll never forgive this," Cchmai said. "The Galts will kill us to a man."
Otah smoothed a hand over his daughter's brow. Confronting the andat seemed to have taken what strength she had. I ter face was pale, and he could see the small twitching in her body that spoke of fresh pain. He kissed her gently where her forehead met her hair, and she put her arms around him, whimpering so softly that only he could hear it. Therc was blood soaking through her robe just below where the cloth widened at her hips.
"No. They won't. Cehmai," Otah said, his voice seeming to cone from far away. Ile was surprised to hear how calm he sounded. ""lake Nlaati. Get out of the city. It won't be safe for either of you here."
"It won't be safe for us anywhere," Cehmai said. "We could make for the Westlands when spring comes. Or Eddensea-"
"Go now, and don't tell me where. I don't want the option of finding you. Do you understand?" lie looked up at Cehmai's wide, startled eyes. "I have my daughter here, and that's had enough. When I see my Wife, I don't want you anywhere I can find you."
Cehmai opened his mouth, as if to speak, and then closed it again and silently took a pose that accepted Utah's command. Nlaati looked up, his eyes brimming and red. 'T'here was no begging in his expression, no plea. Only remorse and resignation. If he could have moved without disturbing Eiah, Utah would have embraced the man, comforted him as best he could. And still lie would have sent Nlaati away. Ile could see that his old friend knew that. Nlaati's thick hands took a formal pose of leave-taking, appropriate to the beginning of a long journey or else a funeral. Utah took one that accepted the apology he had not offered. "'i'he Galts," the Khai (:etani said. "What about the Galts?"
Utah reached his arms tinder Eiah, one under her shoulder blades, the other at her knees, and lifted her into his lap. 't'hen, straining, lie stood. She was heavier than he remembered. It had been years since lie had carried her. She had been smaller then, and lie had been younger.
"We'll find the trumpeter and call the attack," Otah said. "Listen to them. If they're as had as she is, they'll barely be able to fight. We'll drive them hack out of the city if we do it now."
The Khai Cetani's eyes brightened, his shoulders pulled back. With a pit dog's grin, he took a pose that mirrored Cehmai's. The command accepted. Utah nodded.
"I lai! YOU!" the Khai Cetani yelled toward the servants, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Get the trumpeter. Have him sound the attack. And a blade! Find me a blade, and another for the Emperor!"
"No," Utah said. "Not for me. I have my daughter to see to."
And before anyone could make the mistake of objecting, Otah turned his back on them all, carrying Fiah to the stairway, and then down into darkness.
Chapter 26
What would have happened, Balasar wondered, if he had not tried?
It had been a thing from nightmare. Balasar had moved his men like stones on a playing board, shifting them from street to street, building to building. He had kept them as sheltered as possible from the inconstant, killing rain of stones and arrows that fell from the towers. The square that he chose for the rallying point was only a few streets south of the opening where he expected to lead them down into the soft belly of the city, and difficult for the towers to reach. The snow was above his ankles now, but Balasar didn't feel the cold. His blood was singing to him, and he could not keep from grinning. The first of the forces from the palaces was falling back to join his own, the body of his army growing thick. He paced among them, bracing his men and letting himself be seen. It was in their eyes too: the glow of the coming victory, the relief that they would have shelter from the cold. That winter would not take them.
He formed them into ranks, reminded the captains of the tactics they'd planned for fighting in the tunnels. It was to be slow and systematic. The important thing was always to have an open airway; the locals should never be allowed to close them in and kill them with smoke or fire. There would he no hurry-the line mustn't spread thin. Balasar could see in their faces that discipline would hold.