Seasons of War

by Abraham Daniel

  ‘Papa-kya!’ Danat’s bright voice called. ‘I was in the Second Palace, and I found a closet where no one had been in ever, and look what I found!’

  Otah opened his eyes, and turned to his son and the wood-and-string model he’d discovered. Eiah arrived a hand and a half later, when the thin granite shutters glowed with the sun. For a time, at least, Otah’s own father’s tomb lay forgotten.

  The problem with Athai-kvo, Maati decided, was that he was simply an unlikable man. There was no single thing that he did or said, no single habit or effect that made him grate on the nerves of all those around him. Some men were charming, and would be loved however questionable their behavior. And then on the other end of the balance, there was Athai. The weeks he had spent with the man had been bearable only because of the near-constant stream of praise and admiration given to Maati.

  ‘It will change everything,’ the envoy said as they sat on the steps of the poet’s house - Cehmai’s residence. ‘This is going to begin a new age to rival the Second Empire.’

  ‘Because that ended so well,’ Stone-Made-Soft rumbled, its tone amused as always.

  The morning was warm. The sculpted oaks separating the poet’s house from the palaces were bright with new leaves. Far above, barely visible through the boughs, the stone towers rose into the sky. Cehmai reached across the envoy to pour more rice wine into Maati’s bowl.

  ‘It is early yet to pass judgment,’ Maati said as he nodded his thanks to Cehmai. ‘It isn’t as though the techniques have been tried.’

  ‘But it makes sense,’ Athai said. ‘I’m sure it will work.’

  ‘If we’ve overlooked something, the first poet to try this is likely to die badly,’ Cehmai said. ‘The Dai-kvo will want a fair amount of study done before he puts a poet’s life on the table.’

  ‘Next year,’ Athai said. ‘I’ll wager twenty lengths of silver it will be used in bindings by this time next year.’

  ‘Done,’ the andat said, then turned to Cehmai. ‘You can back me if I lose.’

  The poet didn’t reply, but Maati saw the amusement at the corners of Cehmai’s mouth. It had taken years to understand the ways in which Stone-Made-Soft was an expression of Cehmai, the ways they were a single thing, and the ways they were at war. The small comments the andat made that only Cehmai understood, the unspoken moments of private struggle that sometimes clouded the poet’s days. They were like nothing so much as a married couple, long accustomed to each other’s ways.

  Maati sipped the rice wine. It was infused with peaches, a moment of autumn’s harvest in the opening of spring. Athai looked away from the andat’s broad face, discomforted.

  ‘You must be ready to return to the Dai-kvo,’ Cehmai said. ‘You’ve been away longer than you’d intended.’

  Athai waved the concern away, pleased, Maati thought, to speak to the man and forget the andat.

  ‘I wouldn’t have traded this away,’ he said. ‘Maati-kvo is going to be remembered as the greatest poet of our generation.’

  ‘Have some more wine,’ Maati said, clinking the envoy’s bowl with his own, but Cehmai shook his head and gestured toward the wooded path. A slave girl was trotting toward them, her robes billowing behind her. Athai put down his bowl and stood, pulling at his sleeves.

  Here was the moment they had been awaiting - the call for Athai to join the caravan to the East. Maati sighed with relief. Half a hand, and his library would be his own again. The envoy took a formal pose of farewell that Maati and Cehmai returned.

  ‘I will send word as soon as I can, Maati-kvo,’ Athai said. ‘I am honored to have studied with you.’

  Maati nodded uncomfortably; then, after a moment’s awkward silence, Athai turned. Maati watched until the slave girl and poet had both vanished among the trees, then let out a breath. Cehmai chuckled as he put the stopper into the flask of wine.

  ‘Yes, I agree,’ Cehmai said. ‘I think the Dai-kvo must have chosen him specifically to annoy the Khai.’

  ‘Or he just wanted to be rid of him for a time,’ Maati said.

  ‘I liked him,’ Stone-Made-Soft said. ‘Well, as much as I like anyone.’

  The three walked together into the poet’s house. The rooms within were neatly kept - shelves of books and scrolls, soft couches and a table laid out with the black and white stones on their board. A lemon candle burned at the window, but a fly still buzzed wildly about the corners of the room. It seemed that every winter Maati forgot about the existence of flies, only to rediscover them in spring. He wondered where the insects all went during the vicious cold, and what the signal was for them to return.

  ‘He isn’t wrong, you know,’ Cehmai said. ‘If you’re right, it will be the most important piece of analysis since the fall of the Empire.’

  ‘I’ve likely overlooked something. It isn’t as though we haven’t seen half a hundred schemes to bring back the glory of the past before now, and there hasn’t been one that’s done it.’

  ‘And I wasn’t there to look at the other ideas,’ Cehmai said. ‘But since I was here to talk this one over, I’d say this is at least plausible. That’s more than most. And the Dai-kvo’s likely to think the same.’

  ‘He’ll probably dismiss it out of hand,’ Maati said, but he smiled as he spoke.

  Cehmai had been the first one he’d shown his theories to, even before he’d known for certain what they were. It had been a curiosity more than anything else. It was only as they’d talked about it that Maati had understood the depths he’d touched upon. And Cehmai had also been the one to encourage bringing the work to the Daikvo’s attention. All Athai’s enthusiasm and hyperbole paled beside a few thoughtful words from Cehmai.

  Maati stayed awhile, talking and laughing, comparing impressions of Athai now that he’d left. And then he took his leave, walking slowly enough that he didn’t become short of breath. Fourteen, almost fifteen years ago, he’d come to Machi. The black stone roadways, the constant scent of the coal smoke billowing up from the forges, the grandeur of the palaces and the hidden city far beneath his feet had become his home as no other place ever had before. He strode down pathways of crushed marble, under archways that flowed with silken banners. A singing slave called from the gardens, a simple melody of amazing clarity and longing. He turned down a smaller way that would take him to his apartments behind the library.

  Maati found himself wondering what he would do if the Dai-kvo truly thought his discovery had merit. It was an odd thought. He had spent so many years now in disgrace, first tainted by the death of his master Heshai, then by his choice to divide his loyalty between his lover and son on the one hand and the Dai-kvo on the other. And then at last his entrance into the politics of the court, wearing the robes of the poet and supporting Otah Machi, his old friend and enemy, to become Khai Machi. It had been simple enough to believe that his promotion to the ranks of the poets had been a mistake. He had, after all, been gifted certain insights by an older boy who had walked away from the school: Otah, before he’d been a laborer or a courier or a Khai. Maati had reconciled himself to a smaller life: the library, the companionship of a few friends and those lovers who would bed a disgraced poet halfway to fat with rich foods and long, inactive hours.

  After so many years of failure, the thought that he might shake off that reputation was unreal. It was like a dream from which he could only hope never to wake, too pleasant to trust in.

  Eiah was sitting on the steps when he arrived, frowning intently at a moth that had lighted on the back of her hand. Her face was such a clear mix of her parents - Kiyan’s high cheeks, Otah’s dark eyes and easy smile. Maati took a pose of greeting as he walked up, and when Eiah moved to reply, the moth took wing, chuffing softly through the air and away. In flight, the wings that had been simple brown shone black and orange.

  ‘Athai’s gone then?’ she asked as Maati unlocked the doors to his apartments.

  ‘He’s likely just over the bridge by now.’

  Maati stepped in, Eiah following him witho
ut asking or being asked. It was a wide room, not so grand as the palaces or so comfortable as the poet’s house. A librarian’s room, ink blocks stacked beside a low desk, chairs with wine-stained cloth on the arms and back, a small bronze brazier dusted with old ash. Maati waved Eiah off as she started to close the door.

  ‘Let the place air out a bit,’ he said. ‘It’s warm enough for it now. And what’s your day been, Eiah-kya?’

  ‘Father,’ she said. ‘He was in a mood to have a family, so I had to stay in the palaces all morning. He fell asleep after midday, and Mother said I could leave.’

  ‘I’m surprised. I wasn’t under the impression Otah slept anymore. He always seems hip-deep in running the city.’

  Eiah shrugged, neither agreeing nor voicing her denial. She paced the length of the room, squinting out the door at nothing. Maati folded his hands together on his belly, considering her.

  ‘Something’s bothering you,’ he said.

  The girl shook her head, but the frown deepened. Maati waited until, with a quick, birdlike motion, Eiah turned to face him. She began to speak, stopped, and gathered herself visibly.

  ‘I want to be married,’ she said.

  Maati blinked, coughed to give himself a moment to think, and leaned forward in his chair. The wood and cloth creaked slightly beneath him. Eiah stood, her arms crossed, her gaze on him in something almost like accusation.

  ‘Who is the boy?’ Maati said, regretting the word boy as soon as it left his mouth. If they were speaking of marriage, the least he could do was say man. But Eiah’s impatient snort dismissed the question.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Whoever.’

  ‘Anyone would do?’

  ‘Not just anyone. I don’t want to be tied to some low town firekeeper. I want someone good. And I should be able to. Father doesn’t have any other daughters, and I know people have talked with him. But nothing ever happens. How long am I supposed to wait?’

  Maati rubbed a palm across his cheeks. This was hardly a conversation he’d imagined himself having. He turned through half a hundred things he might say, approaches he might take, and felt a blush rising in his cheeks.

  ‘You’re young, Eiah-kya. I mean . . . I suppose it’s natural enough for a young woman to . . . be interested in men. Your body is changing, and if I recall the age, there are certain feelings that it’s . . .’

  Eiah looked at him as if he’d coughed up a rat.

  ‘Or perhaps I’ve misunderstood the issue,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not that,’ she said. ‘I’ve kissed lots of boys.’

  The blush wasn’t growing less, but Maati resolved to ignore it.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Well, then. If it’s that you want apartments of your own, something outside the women’s quarters, you could always—’

  ‘Talit Radaani’s being married to the third son of the Khai Pathai,’ Eiah said, and then a heartbeat later, ‘She’s half a year younger than I am.’

  It was like feeling a puzzle box click open in his fingers. He understood precisely what was happening, what it meant and didn’t mean. He rubbed his palms against his knees and sighed.

  ‘And she gloats about that, I’d bet,’ he said. Eiah swiped at her betraying eyes with the back of a hand. ‘After all, she’s younger and lower in the courts. She must think that she’s got proof that she’s terribly special.’

  Eiah shrugged.

  ‘Or that you aren’t,’ Maati continued, keeping his voice gentle to lessen the sting of the words. ‘That’s what she thinks, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know what she thinks.’

  ‘Well, then tell me what you think.’

  ‘I don’t know why he can’t find me a husband. It isn’t as if I’d have to leave. There’s marriages that go on for years before anyone does anything. But it’s understood. It’s arranged. I don’t see why he can’t do that much for me.’

  ‘Have you asked him?’

  ‘He should know this,’ Eiah snapped, pacing between the open door and the fire grate. ‘He’s the Khai Machi. He isn’t stupid.’

  ‘He also isn’t . . .’ Maati said and then bit down on the words a child. The woman Eiah thought she was would never stand for the name. ‘He isn’t fourteen summers old. It’s not so hard for men like me and your father to forget what it was like to be young. And I’m sure he doesn’t want to see you married yet, or even promised. You’re his daughter, and . . . it’s hard, Eiah-kya. It’s hard losing your child.’

  She stopped, her brow furrowed. In the trees just outside his door, a bird sang shrill and high and took flight. Maati could hear the fluttering of its wings.

  ‘It’s not losing me,’ she said, but her voice was less certain than it had been. ‘I don’t die.’

  ‘No. You don’t, but you’ll likely leave to be in your husband’s city. There’s couriers to carry messages back and forth, but once you’ve left, it’s not likely you’ll return in Otah’s life, or Kiyan’s. Or mine. It’s not death, but it is still loss, dear. And we’ve all lost so much already, it’s hard to look forward to another.’

  ‘You could come with me,’ Eiah said. ‘My husband would take you in. He wouldn’t be worth marrying if he wouldn’t, so you could come with me.’

  Maati allowed himself to chuckle as he rose from his seat.

  ‘It’s too big a world to plan for all that just yet,’ he said, mussing Eiah’s hair as he had when she’d been younger. ‘When we come nearer, we’ll see where things stand. I may not be staying here at all, depending on what the Dai-kvo thinks. I might be able to go back to his village and use his libraries.’

  ‘Could I go there with you?’

  ‘No, Eiah-kya. Women aren’t allowed in the village. I know, I know. It isn’t fair. But it isn’t happening today, so why don’t we walk to the kitchens and see if we can’t talk them out of some sugar bread.’

  They left his door open, leaving the spring air and sunlight to freshen the apartments. The path to the kitchens led them through great, arching halls and across pavilions being prepared for a night’s dancing; great silken banners celebrated the warmth and light. In the gardens, men and women lay back, eyes closed, faces to the sky like flowers. Outside the palaces, Maati knew, the city was still alive with commerce - the forges and metalworkers toiling through the night, as they always did, preparing to ship the works of Machi. There was bronze, iron, silver and gold, and steel. And the hand-shaped stonework that could be created only here, under the inhuman power of Stone-Made-Soft. None of that work was apparent in the palaces. The utkhaiem seemed carefree as cats. Maati wondered again how much of that was the studied casualness of court life and how much was simple sloth.

  At the kitchens, it was simple enough for the Khai’s daughter and his permanent guest to get thick slices of sugar bread wrapped in stiff cotton cloth and a stone flask of cold tea. He told Eiah all of what had happened with Athai since she’d last come to the library, and about the Dai-kvo, and the andat, and the world as Maati had known it in the years before he’d come to Machi. It was a pleasure to spend the time with the girl, flattering that she enjoyed his own company enough to seek him out, and perhaps just the slightest bit gratifying that she would speak to him of things that Otah-kvo never heard from her.

  They parted company as the quick spring sun came within a hand’s width of the western mountains. Maati stopped at a fountain, washing his fingers in the cool waters, and considered the evening that lay ahead. He’d heard that one of the winter choirs was performing at a teahouse not far from the palaces - the long, dark season’s work brought out at last to the light. The thought tempted, but perhaps not more than a book, a flask of wine, and a bed with thick wool blankets.

  He was so wrapped up by the petty choice of pleasures that he didn’t notice that the lanterns had been lit in his apartments or that a woman was sitting on his couch until she spoke.

  4

  ‘Maati,’ Liat said, and the man startled like a rabbit. For a long moment, his face was a b
lank confusion as he struggled to make sense of what he saw. Slowly, she watched him recognize her.

  In all fairness, she might not have known him either, had she not sought him out. Time had changed him: thickened his body and thinned his hair. Even his face had changed shape, the smooth chin and jaw giving way to jowls, the eyes going narrower and darker. The lines around his mouth spoke of sadness and isolation. And anger, she thought.

  She had known when she arrived that she’d found the right apartments. It hadn’t been difficult to get directions to Machi’s extra poet, and the door had been open. She’d scratched at the doorframe, called out his name, and when she’d stepped in, it was the scent that had been familiar. Certainly there had been other things - the way the scrolls were laid out, the ink stains on the arms of the chairs - that gave evidence to Maati’s presence. The faintest hint, a wisp of musk slight as pale smoke, was the thing that had brought back the flood of memory. For a powerful moment, she saw again the small house she’d lived in after she and Maati had left Saraykeht; the yellow walls and rough, wooden floor, the dog who had lived in the street and only ever been half tamed by her offerings of sausage ends from the kitchen window, the gray spiders that had built their webs in the corners. The particular scent of her old lover’s body brought back those rooms. She knew him better by that than to see him again in the flesh.