Price of Spring lpq-4

by Daniel Abraham

  "I told her to," Eiah said. "She was frightened to come back. I told her that I understood. What happens if two poets come into conflict? If one poet has something like Floats-in-Air and the other has something like Sinking?"

  "Or one poet can blind, and the other heal injury?"

  "As an example," Eiah said.

  Maati sighed and lowered himself to sit beside her. The cot complained. He laced his fingers together, looking at the words and diagrams without seeing them.

  "I don't entirely know. It hasn't happened in my lifetime. It hasn't happened in generations."

  "But it has happened," Eiah said.

  "There was the war. The one that ended the Second Empire. That was

  … what, ten generations ago? The andat are flesh because we've translated them into flesh, but they are also concepts. Abstractions. It might simply be that the poets' wills are set against each other's. A kind of wrestling match mediated through the andat. Whoever has the greater strength of mind and the andat more suited to the struggle gains the upper hand. Or it could be that the concepts of the two andat don't coincide, and any struggle would have to be expressed physically. In the world we inhabit. Or…"

  "Or?"

  "Or something else could happen. The grammar and meaning in one binding could relate to some structure or nuance in another. Imagine two singers in competition. What if they chose songs that harmonized? What if the words of one song blended with the words of the other, and something new came from it? Songs are a poor metaphor. What are the odds that the words of any two given songs would speak to each other? If the bindings are related in concept, if the ideas are near, it's much more likely that sort of resonance could happen. By chance."

  "And what would that do?"

  "I don't know," Maati said. "Nobody does. I can say that what was once a land of palm trees and rivers and palaces of sapphire is a killing desert. I can say that people who travel in the ruins of the Old Empire tend to die there. It might be from physical expressions of that old struggle. It might be from some interaction of bindings. There is no way to be sure."

  Eiah was silent. She turned the pages of her medical books until she reached diagrams Maati recognized. Eyes cut through the center, eyes sliced through the back. He had seen them all thousands of times when Vanjit was preparing herself, and they had seemed like the keepers of great secrets. He hadn't considered at the time that each image was the result of some actual, physical orb meeting with an investigative blade, or that all the eyes pictured there were sightless.

  He felt Eiah's sigh as much as heard it.

  "What happened out there?" he asked. "The truth, not what you said in front of the others."

  Eiah leaned forward. For a moment, Maati thought she was weeping, but she straightened again. Her eyes were dry, her jaw set. She had pulled a small box of carved oak from under the cot, and she handed it to him now. He opened it, the leather hinge loose and soft. Six folded pages lay inside, sewn at the edges and sealed with Eiah's personal sigil.

  "You didn't send them?"

  "It was true about the trade fair. We did find one. It wasn't very good, but it was there, so we stopped. There are Galts everywhere now. They came to Saraykeht at the start, and apparently the councillors and the court are all still there. There are others who have fanned out. The ones who believe that my father's plan is going to work."

  "The ones who see a profit in it. Slavers?"

  "Marriage brokers," Eiah said as if the terms were the same. "They've been traveling the low towns making lists of men in want of Galtic peasant girls to act as brood mares for their farms. Apparently eight lengths of copper will put a man's name on the list to travel to Galt. Two of silver for the list to haul a girl here."

  Maati felt his belly twist. It had gone further than he had dared think.

  "Most of them are lying, of course," Eiah said. "Taking money from the desperate and moving on. I don't know how many of them there are out there. Hundreds, I would guess. But, Maati-cha, the night I left? All of the Galts lost their sight. All of them, and at once. No one cares any longer what's happened with my brother and the girl he was supposed to marry. No one talks about the Emperor. All anyone cares about is the andat. They know that some poet somewhere has bound Blindness or something like it and loosed it against the Galts."

  It was as if the air had gone from the room, as if Maati were suddenly on a mountaintop. His breath was fast, his heart pounding. It might have been joy or fear or something of each.

  "I see," Maati said.

  "Uncle, they hate us. All those farmers and traders and shepherds? All those men who thought that they would have wives and children? All those women who thought that even if it hadn't come from their body, at least there would be a baby nearby to care for? They think we've taken it from them. And I have never seen so much rage."

  Maati felt as if he'd been struck, caught in the moment between the blow and the bloom of pain. He said something, words stringing together without sense and trailing to silence. He put his face in his hands.

  "You didn't know," Eiah said. "She didn't tell you."

  "Vanjit's done this," Maati said. "She can undo it. I can…" He stopped, catching his breath. He felt as if he'd been running. His hands trembled. When Eiah spoke, her voice was as level and calm as a physician's announcing a death.

  "Twice."

  Maati turned to her, his hands taking a pose of query. Eiah put her hand on the table, papers shifting under her fingers with a sound like sand against glass.

  "This is twice, Maati-cha. First with Ashti Beg, and now… Gods. Now with all of Galt."

  "Is this why Ashti Beg left?" Maati asked. "The true reason?"

  "The true reason is that she was afraid of Vanjit," Eiah said. "And I couldn't reassure her."

  "Children," Maati said. The pain in his chest was easing, the shock of the news fading away. "I'll speak with Vanjit. She did this all. She can undo it as well. And… and it does speak to the purpose. We wanted to announce that the andat had returned to the world. She's done that in no small voice."

  "Maati-cha," Eiah began, but he kept talking, fast and loud.

  "This is why they did it, you know All those tests and lies and opportunities to prove ourselves. Or fail to prove ourselves. They broke us to the lead first, and gave us power when they knew we could be controlled."

  "It looked like a wiser strategy, if this is the alternative," Eiah said. "Do you think she'll listen to you?"

  "Listen, yes. Do as I command? I don't know. And I don't know that I'd want her to. She's learning responsibility. She's learning her own limits. Even if I could tell her what they are, she couldn't learn by having it said. She's… exploring."

  "She's killed thousands of people, at the least."

  "Galts," Maati said. "She's killed Galts. We were never here to save them. Yes, Eiah-kya. Vanjit went too far, and because she's holding an andat, there are consequences. When you slaughter a city? When you send your army to kill a little girl's family in front of her? There are consequences to that too. Or by all the gods there should be."

  "You're saying this is justice?" Eiah asked.

  "We made peace with Galt," Maati said. "None of Vanjit's family were avenged. There was no justice for them because it was simpler for Otah to ignore their deaths. Just as it's simpler for him to ignore all the women of the cities. Vanjit has an andat, and so her will is now more important than your father's. I don't see that makes it any more or less just."

  Eiah took a pose that respectfully disagreed, then dropped her hands to her sides.

  "I don't argue that she's gone too far," Maati said. "She's killing a horsefly with a hammer. Only that it's not as bad as it first seems. She's still young. She's still new to her powers."

  "And that forgives everything?" Eiah said.

  "Don't," Maati said more sharply than he'd intended. "Don't be so quick to judge her. You'll be in her position soon enough. If all goes well."

  "I wonder what I'll forget. How I
'll go too far," Eiah said, and sighed. "How did we ever think we could do good with these as our tools?"

  Maati was silent for a moment. His memory turned on Heshai and Seedless, Cehmai and Stone-Made-Soft. The sickening twist that was Sterile, moving through his own mind like an eel through muddy water.

  "Is there another way to fix it?" Maati asked. "After Sterile, is there a way other than this to make the world whole? All those women who will never bear a child. All those men whose money is going to charming Galtic liars. Is there a way to make the world well again besides what we're doing?"

  "We could wait," Eiah said, her voice gray and toneless. "Given enough time, we'll all die and be forgotten."

  Maati was silent. Eiah closed her eyes. The flame of the night candle fluttered in a draft that smelled of fresh snow and wet cloth. Eiah's gaze focused inward, on some landscape of her own mind. He didn't think she liked what she saw there. She opened her mouth as if to speak, closed it again, and looked away.

  "You're right, though," Maati said. "This is twice."

  They found Vanjit in her room, the andat wailing disconsolately as she rocked it in her arms. Maati entered the room first to Vanjit's gentle smile, but her expression went blank when Eiah came in after him and slid the door shut behind her. The andat's black eyes went from Vanjit to Eiah and back, then it squealed in delight and held its thick, short arms up to Eiah as if it was asking to be held.

  "You know, then," Vanjit said. "It was inevitable."

  "You should have told me what you intended," Maati said. "It was a dangerous, rash thing to do. And it's going to have consequences."

  Vanjit put Clarity-of-Sight on the floor at her feet. The thing shrieked complaint, and she bent toward it, her jaw clenched. Maati recognized the push and pull of wills between andat and poet. Even before the andat whimpered and went silent, he had no doubt of the outcome.

  "You were going to tell the world of what we'd done anyway," Vanjit said. "But you couldn't be sure they would have stopped the Emperor, could you? This way they can't go forward."

  "Why didn't you tell Maati-kvo what you were doing?" Eiah asked.

  "Because he would have told me not to," Vanjit said, anger in her voice.

  "I would have," Maati said. "Yes."

  "It isn't fair, Maati-kya," Vanjit said. "It isn't right that they should come here, take our places. They were the killers, not us. They were the ones who brought blades to our cities. Any of the poets could have destroyed Galt at any time, and we never, ever did."

  "And that makes it right to crush them now?" Eiah demanded.

  "Yes," Vanjit said. There were tears in her eyes.

  Eiah tilted her head. Long familiarity told Maati the thoughts that occupied Eiah's mind. This girl, sitting before them both, had been granted the power of a small god by their work. Maati's and Eiah's. The others had helped, but the three of them together in that room carried the decision. And so the weight of its consequences.

  "It was ill advised," Maati said. "The low towns should have been our allies and support. Now they've been angered."

  "Why?" Vanjit asked.

  "They don't know what our plan is," Maati said. "They don't know about Eiah and Wounded. All they see is that there was a glimmer of hope. Yes, I know it was a thin, false hope, but it was all that they had."

  "That's stupid," Vanjit said.

  "It only seems that way because we know more than they," Eiah said.

  "We can tell them," Vanjit said.

  "If we can calm them long enough to listen," Maati said. "But that isn't what I've come here for. I am your teacher, Vanjit-cha. I need two things of you. Do you understand?"

  The girl looked at the ground, her hands rising in a pose of acceptance appropriate for a student to her master.

  "First, you must never take this kind of action with the andat without telling me. We have too many plans and they are too delicate for any of us to act without the others knowing it."

  "Eiah sent Ashti Beg away," Vanjit said.

  "And we discussed that possibility before they left," Maati said. "The second thing… What you've done to the Galts, only you can undo."

  The girl looked up now. Anger flashed in her eyes. The andat gurgled and clapped its tiny hands. Maati held up a finger, insisting that she wait until he had finished.

  "If you hold to this," he said, "thousands of people will die. Women and children who are innocent of any crime."

  "It's what they did to us," she said. "It's that they did to me. Maati reached forward and took her hand.

  "I understand," he said. "I won't tell you to undo this thing. But for me, think carefully about how the burden of those deaths will weigh on you. You're angry now, and anger gives you strength. But when it's faded, you will still be responsible for what you've done."

  "I will, Maati-kvo," Vanjit said.

  Eiah made a sound in the back of her throat, its meaning unguessable. Maati smiled and put a hand on Vanjit's shoulder.

  "Well. That's settled. Now, I suppose it's time to get back to work. Give these people in the low towns something to celebrate."

  "You've done it, then, Eiah-kya?" Vanjit asked. "You've found the insight you needed? You understand Wounded?"

  Eiah was quiet for a moment, looking down at Vanjit and Clarity-ofSight. Her lips twitched into a thin, joyless smile.

  "Closer," Eiah said. "I've come closer."

  17

  Seeing Balasar Gice shook Otah more than he had expected. He had always known that the general was not a large-framed man, but his presence had always filled the room. Seeing him seated at a table by the window with his eyes the gray of old pearls, Otah felt he was watching the man die. The robes seemed too large on him, or his shoulders suddenly grown small.

  Outside the window, the morning sun lit the sea. Gulls called and complained to one another. A small plate had the remnants of fresh cheese and cut apple; the cheese flowed in the day's heat, the pale flesh of the apple had gone brown. Otah cleared his throat. Balasar smiled, but didn't bother turning his head toward the sound.

  "Most High?" Balasar asked.

  "Yes," Otah said. "I came… I came when I heard."

  "I am afraid Sinja will have to do without my aid," Balasar said, his voice ironic and bleak. "It seems I'll be in no condition to sail."

  Otah leaned against the window's ledge, his shadow falling over Balasar. The general turned toward him. His voice was banked rage, his expression impotence.

  "Did you know, Otah? Did you know what they were doing?"

  "This wasn't my doing," Otah said. "I swear that."

  "My life was taking your god-ghosts out of the world. I thought we'd done it. Even after what you bastards did to me, to all of us, I was content trying to make peace. I lost my men to it, and I lived with that because the loss meant something. However desperate the cost, at least we'd be rid of the fucking andat. And now..

  Balasar struck the table with an open palm, the report like stone breaking. Otah lifted his hands toward a pose that offered comfort, and then stopped and let his arms fall to his sides.

  "I'm sorry," Otah said. "I will send my best agents to find the new poet and resolve this. Until then, all of you will be cared for and-"

  Balasar's laughter was a bark.

  "Where do I begin, Most High? We will all be cared for? Do you really think this has only happened to the Galts who came to your filthy city? I will wager any odds you like that everyone back home is suffering the same things we are. How many fishermen were on their boats when it happened? How many people were traveling the roads? You could no more care for all of us than pluck the moon out of the sky."

  "I'm sorry for that," Otah said. "Once we've found the poet and talked to…" He stumbled on his words, caught between the expected him and the more likely her.

  Balasar gestured to him, palms up as if displaying something small and obvious.

  "If it wasn't your pet andat that did this, then what hope do you have of resolving anything?" Balasar
asked. "They may have left you your sight for the moment, but there's nothing you can do. It's the andat. There's no defense. There's no counterattack that means anything. Gather your armsmen. Take to the field. Then come back and die beside us. You can do nothing."

  This is my daughter's work, Otah thought but didn't say. I can hope that she still loves me enough to listen.

  "You've never felt this," Balasar said. "The rest of us? The rest of the world? We know what it is to be faced with the andat. You can't end this. You can't even negotiate. You have no standing now. The best you can do is beg."

  "Then I will beg," Otah said.

  "Enjoy that," Balasar said, sitting back in his chair. It was like watching a showfighter collapse at the end of a match. The vitality, the anger, the violence snuffed out, and the general was only a small Galtic man with crippled eyes, waiting for some kind soul to take away the remains of his uneaten meal. Otah rose and walked quietly from the room.

  All through the city, the scenes were playing out. Men and women who had been well the night before were in states of rage and despair. They blundered into the unfamiliar streets, screaming, swinging whatever weapon came to hand at anyone who tried to help them. Or else they wept. Or, like Balasar, folded in upon themselves. The last was the most terrible.

  Balasar had been only the first stop in Otah's long, painful morning journey. He'd meant to call on each of the high councillors, to promise his efforts at restoration and the best of care until then. The general had spoiled the plan. Otah did see two more men, made the same declarations. Neither of the others scoffed, but Otah could see that his words rang as hollow as a gourd.

  Instead of the third councillor, Otah went back to his palaces. He prayed as he walked, that some message would have come from Idaan. None had. Instead, his audience chambers were filled with the utkhaiem, some in fine robes hastily thrown on, others still in whatever finery they had slept in. The sound of their voices competing one over another was louder than surf and as incomprehensible. Everywhere he walked, their eyes turned toward him. Otah walked with a grave countenance, his spine as straight as he could keep it. He greeted the shock and the fear with the same equanimity as the expressions of joy.