“What’s the matter, sweet?” he asked, hurrying to her. “What’s happened?”
In the steady glow of the lantern, Liat’s face seemed veiled by shadows. Her eyes were reddened and swollen, her skin flushed with recent tears. She attempted a smile.
“I need something, Maati-kya. I need you to speak with Nayiit.”
“Of course. Of course. What’s happened?”
“He’s …” Liat stopped, took a deep breath, and began again. “He isn’t leaving with me. Whatever happens, he’s decided to stay here and guard her children.”
“What?”
“Kiyan,” Liat said. “She set him to watch over Danat and Eiah, and now he’s decided to keep to it. To stay in the North and watch over them instead of going home with me. He has a wife and a child, and Otah’s family is more important to him than his own. And what if they see that he’s…what if they see whose blood he is? What if he and Danat have to kill each other?”
Maati sat beside Liat and folded her hand in his. The corners of her mouth twitched down, a mask of sorrow. He kissed her palm.
“He’s said this? That he’s staying in Machi?”
“He doesn’t have to,” Liat said. “I’ve seen the way he looks at them. Whenever I talk about the spring and the South, he smiles that false, charming way he always smiles and changes the subject.”
Maati nodded. The lantern flame hissed and shuddered, setting the shadows to sway.
“What is this really?” he asked, gently as he could. Liat pulled back her hand and took a pose that asked clarification. There was anger in her eyes. Maati chewed his lower lip, raised his eyebrows.
“He enjoys a duty that was designed, from what you told me, to be enjoyable for him. To give him the sense of redeeming himself. He’s made friends with Otah’s children—”
“His other children,” Liat said, but Maati had known her too long and too well to let the barb turn him aside.
“And they’re very easy to make friends with. Danat and Eiah are charming in their ways. And Nayiit doesn’t want to talk about plans he can’t really make. About his own child who might already be dead. About a wife he doesn’t love and a city that’s fallen to the Galts. Why would he want to talk about that? What is there in any of that to cause him anything but pain?”
“You think I’m an idiot,” Liat said.
“I think he hasn’t told you that he’s staying. That’s something you’ve decided, and you don’t reach conclusions that wild unless there’s something more going on,” he said. “What it is, sweet?”
Liat’s face squeezed tight, her brows and mouth and eyes seeming to pull in together like those of a fighter bracing to take a blow.
“I’m frightened. Is that what you want to hear? All right, then. I’m frightened.”
“For him.”
“For all of us!” Liat stood and began to pace. “For the people I knew in Saraykeht. For the people I’ve met here. And the ones I haven’t met. Do you know how many people the Galts have killed?”
“No, love.”
“No one does. No one knows how bloody this has been. No one knows how much more they’ll want before it’s over. I knew what the world was when I came here.”
“You came here to change the world by slaughtering all of Galt,” Maati said.
“Yes, Maati. Yes, so that this wouldn’t happen. So that we wouldn’t change!” She was weeping now, though he couldn’t hear it in her voice. The tears only ran unnoticed down her cheeks as she moved, restless as a trapped bird. “I don’t know the Galts. I don’t love them. I don’t care if they all die. What’s going to happen to us? What’s going to happen to him? What’s already happened?”
“It’s hard, isn’t it? When there’s nothing to distract you from it,” Maati said. “Harder, I mean. It’s not ever easy. You had the organization of the city to keep your mind busy, but that’s done, and now there’s nothing but the waiting. I’ve felt it too. If I didn’t have the binding to work on, I’d have sunk into it.”
Liat stopped. Her hands worried at each other.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” she said. “I keep half-expecting that it will all go back to what it was. That we’ll go back to Saraykeht and carry on with the business and talk about that terrible year when the Galts came the way we talk about a bad cotton crop.”
“It won’t, though.”
“Then what’s going to happen to him?”
“Him? Just Nayiit? He’s the only one you wonder that of?”
The tears didn’t stop, but a smile as much sorrow as otherwise touched her.
“He’s my son. Who else matters?”
“He’s going to be fine,” Maati said, and even he heard the conviction in his voice. “The Galts will be turned back, because I will turn them back. Our children won’t die. Theirs will. We won’t go hungry. They will. Nayiit won’t be harmed, and when this is all finished with, he won’t stay here with Otah-kvo. He’ll go, because he has a child of his own in Saraykeht, and he isn’t the kind of man who can walk away from that.”
“Isn’t he?” Liat asked. Her tone was a plea.
“Either he’s Otah’s son, and Otah sacrificed his freedom and his dignity to keep Danat and Eiah safe. Or he’s mine, and you had to force me away.”
“Or he’s mine,” Liat said. “Then what becomes of him?”
“Then he’ll be beautiful and lovely beyond all mortals, and age gracefully into wisdom. And he’ll love his child the way you love him,” Maati said. “Silly question.”
Liat couldn’t help but laugh. Maati rose and took her in his arms. She smelled of tears—wet and salt and flesh. Like blood without the iron. He kissed the crown of her bowed head.
“We’ll be fine,” he said. “I know what to do. Cehmai’s here to help me, and Otah’s bought us the time we need. Nothing bad will happen.”
“It will,” Liat said into his shoulder, and then with something that sounded like hope and surrender, “Only make it happen to someone else.”
They stood in silence for a while. Maati felt the warmth of Liat’s body against him. They had held each other so many times over the years. In lust and shame, in love and pleasure. In sorrow. Even in anger. He knew the feel of her, the sound of her breath, the way her hand curled round his shoulder. There was no one in the world who he would ever be able to speak with the way he spoke to her. They knew things between them that even Otah could never share—moments in Saraykeht, and after. It wasn’t only the great moments—the birth of Nayiit, the death of Heshai, their own last parting; there were also the small ones. The time she’d gotten ill on crab soup and he’d nursed her and cared for the still squalling Nayiit. The flute player with the dancing dog they’d given a length of silver at a firekeeper’s kiln in Yalakeht. The way the autumn came to Saraykeht when they were still young.
When she left again, there would be no one to talk to about those things. When she went to the South again and he became the new Dai-kvo, there would be no one to remind him of those moments. It made them more precious. It made her more precious.
“I’ll protect you,” he said. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll protect us all.”
He heard approaching footsteps, and he could feel it in Liat’s body when she did as well. She stepped back, and he let her, but he kept hold of one hand. Even if only for a moment. An urgent knock came at the door, and Cehmai’s voice.
“Maati-kvo!”
“Come in. Come in. What’s the matter?”
The poet’s face was flushed, his eyes wide. It took a moment for him to catch his breath before he could speak.
“The Khai says you should come. Now,” Cehmai gasped. “Sinja’s back.”
When Sinja finished his report and was silent, Otah forced his breath to be deep and regular, waiting until he could speak. His voice was tight and controlled.
“You have spent the season fighting beside the Galts?”
“They were winning.”
“Is that supposed to be funny?”
He was thinner than Otah remembered him. The months on the road had left Sinja’s face drawn, his cheekbones sharp. His skin was leathery from the sun and wind. He hadn’t changed his robes, and he smelled of horses. His casual air seemed false, a parody of the certain, amused, detached man whom Otah had sent away, and Otah couldn’t say if it was the captain who’d changed more or himself.
Kiyan, the only other person in the chamber, sat apart from the pair of them, at the couch nearest the fire. Her hands were fists in her lap, her spine straight and still as a tree. Her face was expressionless. Sinja’s gaze flickered toward her, and then came back to Otah. The captain took a pose that apologized.
“I’m not trying to be light about this, Most High,” Sinja said. “But it’s truth. By the time I knew they weren’t attacking the Westlands, I could no more have excused myself and ridden on than flapped my arms and flown. I did what I could to slow them, but yes, when they called on us, we fought beside them. When they needed interpreters, we spoke for them. I suppose we could have thrown ourselves on their spears and died nobly, but then I wouldn’t be here to warn you now.”
“You betrayed the Khaiem,” Otah said.
“And I’m betraying the Galts now,” Sinja replied, his voice calm. “If you can judge the balance on that, you’re smarter than I am. I’ve done what I’ve done, Most High. If I chose wrong, I’ll apologize, except I don’t think I have.”
“Let it go,” Otah said. “We’ll deal with it later.”
“I’d rather do it now,” Sinja said, shifting his weight. “If I’m going to be drowned as a traitor, I’d like to know it.”
Otah felt the rage rise up in his breast like a flame uncurling. He heard it in his ears.
“You want pardon?”
“For the boys too,” Sinja said. “I swear I’ll do everything I can to earn it.”
You’ll swear anything you like and break the oath when it suits you, Otah thought. He bit his lip until he thought it might bleed, but he didn’t shout. He didn’t call for the armsmen who waited outside the great blue doors. It would have been simple to have the man killed. It would have even felt like justice, he thought. His own man. His friend and advisor. Walking beside the Galtic general. Giving him advice. But the rage wasn’t only rage. It was also fear. And despair. And so no matter how right it felt, it couldn’t be trusted.
“Don’t ask me for anything again.”
“I won’t, Otah-cha.” And then a moment later, “You’re a harder man than when I left.”
“I’ve earned it.”
“It suits you.”
A rattle came from the door, and then a polite scratching, and Cehmai, Maati, and Liat came in the room. Their faces were flushed, and Maati’s breath was heavy as if he’d been running. Otah frowned. He wouldn’t have chosen to have Liat here, but she’d helped Kiyan with the preparations of the city and the quartering of the refugees of Cetani, so perhaps it was for the best after all. He took a general pose of greeting.
“What’s…happened,” Maati wheezed.
“We have a problem,” Otah said.
“The Galts?” Liat asked.
“Ten thousand of them,” Kiyan said, speaking for the first time since Sinja had begun his report. Her voice was solid as stone. “Foot soldiers and archers and horsemen. They won’t reach us today. But tomorrow, perhaps. Three days at the most.”
Maati’s face went white and he sat down hard, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Liat and Cehmai didn’t move to help him. The room was silent except for the murmur of the fire. Otah let the moment pass. There was nothing he could say just now that they wouldn’t think for themselves in the next few heartbeats. Cehmai recovered the fastest, his brows rising, his mouth going tight and hard.
“What do we do?” the younger poet asked.
“We have some advantages,” Otah said. “We outnumber them. We know the city. We’re in a position to defend, and holding a city’s easier than forcing your way in.”
“On the other hand,” Sinja said, “they’re soldiers. You aren’t. They know that they need shelter from the cold and need it quickly. Taking Machi’s their only option. And they know a fair amount about the city as well.”
“You told them that too?” Otah asked.
“They’ve had their agents and traders in all the cities for generations,” Kiyan said softly. “They’ve put their hands in our affairs. They’ve walked the streets and sat in the bathhouses. They have trading houses that wintered here when your father was Khai.”
“Not to mention the several hundred native guides working for them who aren’t me,” Sinja said. “I was leading a militia, you’ll recall. I’ve left as many as I could behind, but they’ve had a season to get any information they wanted.”
Otah raised his hands in a pose that abandoned his point. He had the feeling of trembling that he remembered from the aftermath of his battles. From hearing Danat’s struggles to breathe when his cough had been at its worst. It wasn’t time to feel; he couldn’t afford to feel. He tried to push the fear and despair away; he couldn’t. It was in his blood now.
“I can try,” Maati said. “I’ll have to try.”
“You have a binding ready?” Sinja asked.
“Not ready,” Cehmai said. “We have it in outline. It would need weeks to refine it.”
“I’ll try,” Maati said. His voice was stronger now. His lips were pulled thin. “But I don’t know that it will help if it comes to a battle. If it works, I can see they never bear children, but that won’t stop them in the near term.”
“You could make it hurt,” Sinja suggested. “Men don’t fight as well newly gelded.”
Maati frowned deeply, his fingers moving on their own, as if tracing numbers in the air.
“Do what you can,” Otah said. “If you think a change will make the binding less likely to work, don’t do it. We need an andat—any andat. The details aren’t important.”
“Could we pretend?” Liat asked. “Dress someone as an andat, and send them out with Maati. How would the Galts know it wasn’t true?”
“The costume would have to involve not breathing,” Cehmai said. Liat looked crestfallen.
“Kiyan,” Otah said. “Can we arm the people we have?”
“We can improvise something,” his wife said. “If we put men in the towers, we can rain stones and arrows on them. It would make it hard for them to keep to the streets. And if we block the stairways and keep the platforms locked at the top, it would be hard work to get them out.”
“Until the cold kills them,” Sinja said. “There’s not enough coal in the ground to keep those towers warm enough to live in.”
“They can survive a few days,” Otah said. “We’ll see to it.”
“We can also block off the entrances to the tunnels,” Liat said. “Hide the ventilation shafts and fill as many of the minor ways down as we can find with stones. It would be easier, wouldn’t it, if there were only one or two places that we needed to defend?”
“There’s another option,” Sinja said. “I don’t like to mention it, but…If you surrender, Balasar-cha will kill Otah and Eiah and Danat. Cehmai and Maati. The Khai Cetani and his family too, if they’re here. He’ll burn the books. But he’d accept surrender from the utkhaiem after that. It’s a dozen or so people. There’s no way to do this that kills fewer.”
Otah felt himself rock back. A terrible weight seemed to fall on his shoulders. He wouldn’t. Of course he would not. He would let every man and woman in the city die before he offered up his children to be slaughtered, but it meant that every one that died in the next few days would be doubly upon his conscience. Every life that ended here, ended because he had refused to be a sacrifice. He swallowed to loosen the knot in his throat and took a pose that dismissed the subject.
“I had to say it,” Sinja said, apologizing with his tone.
“You didn’t say my name,” Kiyan said. Her eyes turned to Sinja’s. “Why didn’t you say my name?”
“Well, assuming that you don’t all opt for slaughter, there is one other thing we have in our favor,” Sinja said. “They sent me here to betray you. Kiyan’s safety was my asking price. They expect a report from me when they arrive. If I give them bad information, we may be able to trap some of them. Thin their forces. It won’t win the battle, but it could help.”
Otah raised his hand, and the mercenary stopped. Kiyan was the one who took a querying pose, and it was to Kiyan that he answered.
“The general. Balasar-cha. He doesn’t want a bloody battle. He wants it over quickly, with as few of his men lost as he can manage. I agreed to come here and discover your defenses if he spared you. Gave you to me when it was all over with. Prize of war. It’s not all that uncommon.”
Kiyan rose, her small foxlike face turned feral. Her fingers were splayed in claws, and her chest pressed forward like a bantam ready for the fighting pit. Otah’s heart warmed with something like pride.
“If you let them touch Eiah and Danat, I would kill you in your sleep,” she said.
“But Balasar-cha doesn’t know that,” Sinja said, shrugging and looking into the fire. He couldn’t meet her eyes. “He expects a report from me, and I’ll give him one. I’ll give him whatever report you’d like.”
“Gods,” Kiyan said, her eyes still ablaze. “Is there anyone you haven’t betrayed?”
Sinja smiled, but Otah thought there was sorrow in his dark eyes.
“Yes, there is. But she was in love with someone else.”
Cehmai coughed, embarrassed. Otah raised his hands.
“Enough,” he said. “We haven’t got time for this. We may have as little as a day to get ready. Maati, you prepare your binding. Cehmai will help you. Kiyan. Liat. You’ve arranged food and quarters for two cities. Do what you can to arm them and keep people from panicking. Sinja and I will work out a plan to defend the city and a report to deliver to the Galts.”
Kiyan’s eyes carried a question, but Otah didn’t answer. There was no reason to trust Sinja-cha. It was just the risk he chose to take.
An Autumn War (The Long Price Quartet) Page 36