Seasons of War (48 page)
Authors: Daniel Abraham
Sinja knew better than to dissemble. He was here because he had played well up to this point, but if his loyalty to the Galts was ever going to break, it would be soon and all three men knew it. If he held back, hesitated, or gave information that seemed intended to mislead, he would fall from Balasar’s grace. So he told his story as clearly and truthfully as he could. There wasn’t a great deal that was likely to be of use to the general anyway. Sinja had, after all, never seen Otah lead an army. If he’d been asked to guess how such an effort would end, he’d have been proved wrong already.
They ate their evening meal in Balasar’s tent of thick hide beside a brazier of glowing coals that made the potato-and-salt-pork soup taste smoky. When at last Sinja found himself without more to say, the questions ended. Balasar sighed deeply.
‘He sounds like a good man,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I won’t get to meet him.’
‘I’m sure he’d say the same,’ Sinja said.
‘Will the utkhaiem turn against him? If we make the same offers we made in Utani and Tan-Sadar, can we avoid the fighting?’
‘After he beat your men? It’s not a wager I’d take.’
Balasar’s eyes narrowed, and Sinja felt his throat go a bit tighter, half-convinced he’d said something wrong. But Balasar only yawned, and the moment passed.
‘How would you expect him to defend his city?’ Eustin asked, breaking a stick of bread. ‘Will he come out to meet us, or hide and make us dig him out?’
‘Dig, I’d expect. He knows the streets and the tunnels. He knows his men will break if he puts them in the field. And he’ll likely put men in the towers to drop rocks on us as we pass. Taking Machi is going to be unpleasant. Assuming we get there.’
‘You still have doubts?’ Balasar asked.
‘I’ve never had doubts. One bad storm, and we’re all dead men. I’m as certain of that as I ever was.’
‘And you still chose to come with us.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Why?’
Sinja looked at the burning coals. The deep orange glow and the white dust of ash. Why exactly he had come was a question he’d asked himself more than once since they’d left Tan-Sadar. He could say it was the contract, but that wasn’t the truth and all three of them knew it. He flexed his fingers, feeling the ache in his knuckles.
‘There’s something I want there,’ he said.
‘You’d like to be the new Khai Machi?’
‘In a way,’ Sinja said. ‘Something I’d ask from you instead of my share of the spoils, at least.’
Balasar nodded, already knowing what Sinja was driving toward. ‘The Lady Kiyan,’ he said.
‘I don’t want her raped or killed,’ Sinja said. ‘When the city falls, I’d like her handed over to me. I’ll see she doesn’t do anything stupid or destructive.’
‘Her husband and children,’ Eustin said. ‘We will have to kill them.’
‘I know it,’ Sinja said, ‘but she’s not from a high family. She’s got no standing aside from her marriage. She won’t pose a threat.’
‘And for her sake, you’d betray the Khai?’ Balasar asked.
Sinja smiled. This question, at least, he could answer honestly and without fear.
‘For her sake, sir, I’d betray the gods.’
Balasar looked at Eustin, his eyebrows rising as if asking an unvoiced question. Eustin considered Sinja for a long moment, then shrugged. Grunting, Balasar shifted and pulled a wooden box from under his cot. He took a stoppered flask from it - good Nantani porcelain - and three small drinking bowls. With growing unease, Sinja waited as Balasar poured out water-clear rice wine in silence, then handed one bowl to Eustin, the next to him.
‘I have a favor to ask of you as well,’ Balasar said.
Sinja drank. The wine was rich and clean and made his chest bloom with warmth, but not so much he lost the tightness in his throat and between his shoulders.
‘We can go in,’ Eustin said. ‘Waves of us. Small numbers, one after the other, until we’ve dug out every nook and cranny in the city. But we’ll lose men. A lot of them.’
‘Most,’ Balasar said. ‘We’d win. I’m sure of that. But it would take half of my men.’
‘That’s bad,’ Sinja said. ‘But there is another plan here, isn’t there?’
Balasar nodded.
‘We can send a man in who can tell us what the defenses are. Who can send word or sign. If we’re lucky, perhaps even a man who can help with planning the defense. And, in return, take the woman he wants.’
Sinja felt his mind start to spin. The rice wine made it a bit harder to think, but a bit easier to grin. It was ridiculous, except that it made sense. He should have anticipated this. He should have known.
‘You want to send me in? As a spy?’
‘Take a couple good horses in the morning, and ride hard for the city,’ Eustin said. ‘You’ll arrive a few days ahead of us. You were the Khai’s advisor before. He’ll listen to you, or at least let you listen to him. When the time comes for the attack, you guide us.’
The captain made a small gesture with one hand, as if what he’d said was simple. Go into Machi, betray Otah and everyone else he’d known this last decade. If I turn against the general, Sinja thought, it’ll be a bad death when these men find me.
‘It will be faster this way,’ Balasar said. ‘Fewer people will die on both sides. And, because you ask, the woman is yours. Safe and unharmed if I can do it.’
‘I have your word on that?’ Sinja asked.
Balasar took a pose that accepted an oath. It wasn’t quite the right vocabulary, but it carried the meaning. Sinja felt unpleasantly like he was looking down over a cliff. His head swam a little, and the tightness in his body fell to knotting his gut. He held out his bowl and Balasar refilled it.
‘I’ll understand if it’s too much,’ Balasar said, his voice soft. ‘It will make things easier for both sides and it won’t change the way the battle falls, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t a terrible thing to ask of you. Take a few days to sit with it if you’d like.’
‘No,’ Sinja said. ‘I don’t need time. I’ll do the thing.’
‘You’re sure?’ Eustin asked.
Sinja drained his cup in a gulp. He could feel the flush starting to grow in his neck and cheeks, the nausea starting in his belly and the back of his throat. It was strong wine and a bad night coming.
‘It needs doing, and it’s the price I asked,’ Sinja said. ‘So I’ll do it.’
Cehmai sat forward in his chair. The white marble walls of their workspace glowed with candlelight, but Maati didn’t find the brightness reassuring. He was sitting as quietly as he could manage on a red and violet embroidered cushion, waiting. Cehmai lifted one of the wide yellow pages, paused, and turned it over. Maati saw the younger poet’s lips moving as he shaped some phrase from the papers. Maati restrained himself from asking which. Interruptions wouldn’t make this go any faster.
The simple insight that Eiah had given him that night in the baths had taken the better part of two weeks to work into a draft worthy of consideration. Fitting the grammars so that the nuances of corruption and continuance - destruction and creation, or more precisely the destruction
of
creation - reinforced one another had been tricky. And the extra obstacle of fitting in the structures to protect himself should things go amiss had likely tacked on an extra three or four days to the process.
of
creation - reinforced one another had been tricky. And the extra obstacle of fitting in the structures to protect himself should things go amiss had likely tacked on an extra three or four days to the process.
And still, it had taken him only weeks. Not years, not even months. Weeks. The structure of the binding was laid out now. Corruption-of-the-Generative, called Sterile. The death of the Galt’s crops. The gelding of its men. The destruction of its women’s wombs. Once he had seen the trick of it, the binding had flowed from his pen.
It had been as if some small voice at the back of his mind was whispering the words, and he’d only had to write them down. Even now, squatting on this damnable cushion, his back aching, his feet cold, waiting for Cehmai to read over the last of the changes, he felt half drunk from the work. He was a poet. All the things that had happened in his life to bring him to this place at this time had built toward these days, and the dry pages that hissed and shushed as Cehmai slid them across each other. Maati bit his lip and did not interrupt.
It seemed like days, but Cehmai came to the final page, fingertips tracing the lines Maati had written there, paused, and set it down with the others. Maati leaned forward, his hands taking a querying pose. Cehmai frowned and gently shook his head.
‘No?’ Maati asked. Something between rage and dismay shot through his belly, only to vanish when Cehmai spoke.
‘It’s brilliant,’ he said. ‘It’s a first draft, but it’s a very, very good one. I don’t think there are many things we’d have to adjust. A few to make it easier to pass on, perhaps. But we can work with those. No, Maati-kvo, I think this is likely to work. It’s just . . .’
‘Just?’
Cehmai’s frown deepened. His fingertips tapped cautiously on the pages, as if he were testing an iron pot, afraid it would be hot enough to burn. He sighed.
‘I’ve never seen an andat fashioned to be a weapon,’ he said. ‘There was a book that the Dai-kvo had that dated from the fall of the Second Empire, but he never let anyone look at it. I don’t know.’
‘There’s a war, Cehmai-kya,’ Maati said. ‘They killed the Dai-kvo and everyone in the village. The gods only know how many other men they’ve slaughtered. How many women they’re raped. What’s on those pages, they’ve earned.’
‘I know,’ Cehmai said. ‘I do know that. It’s just I keep thinking of Stone-Made-Soft. It was capable of terrible things. I can’t count the times I had to hold it back from collapsing a mine or a building. It had no respect for the lives of men. But there was no particular malice in it either. This . . . Sterile . . . it seems different.’
Maati clamped his jaw. He was tired, that was all. They both were. It was no reason to be annoyed with Cehmai, even if his criticism of the binding was something less than useful. Maati smiled the way he imagined a teacher at the school smiling. Or the Dai-kvo. He took a pose that offered instruction.
‘Cutting shears and swords are both sharp. Before the war, you and I and the men like us? We made cutting shears,’ he said, and gestured to the papers. ‘That’s our first sword. It’s only natural that you’d feel uneasy with it; we aren’t men of violence. If we were, the Dai-kvo would never have chosen us, would he? But the world’s a different place now, and so we have to be willing to do things that we wouldn’t have before.’
‘Then it makes you uneasy too?’ Cehmai asked. Maati smiled. It didn’t make him uneasy at all, but he could see it was what the man needed to hear.
‘Of course it does,’ he said. ‘But I can’t allow that to stop me. The stakes are too high.’
Cehmai seemed to collapse on himself. The dark eyes flickered, searching, Maati thought, for some other path. But in the end, the man only sighed.
‘I think you’ve found the thing, Maati-kvo. There are some passages I’d want to think about. There might be ways we can refine it. But I think we’ll be ready to try it well before the thaw.’
A tension that Maati hadn’t known he was carrying released, and he grinned like a boy. He could imagine himself as the controller of the only andat in the world. He and Cehmai would become the new teachers, and under their protection, they would raise up a new generation of poets to bind more of the andat. The cities would be safe again. Maati could feel it in his bones.
The rest of the meeting went quickly, as if Cehmai wanted to be away from the library as quickly as he could. Maati supposed the prospect of binding Sterile was more disturbing to Cehmai than to him. He hoped, as he walked back up the stairways and corridors to his rooms, that Cehmai would be able to adjust to the new way of things. It couldn’t be easy for him. He was at heart a gentle man, and the world was a darker place than it had been.
Maati’s mind was still involved in its contemplation of darkness when he stepped into his room. At first, he didn’t notice that Liat was there, seated on his bed. She coughed - a wet, close sound close to a sob. He looked up.
‘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.
Other books
FIGHT by Brent Coffey
Awakenings by Oliver Sacks
Death of an Airman by Christopher St. John Sprigg
Phoenix by Miller, Dawn Rae
The Devil's Match by Victoria Vane
Patch 17 (Realm of Arkon) by G. Akella, Mark Berelekhis
Raiju: A Kaiju Hunter Novel (The Kaiju Hunter) by Koehler, K. H.
Black Market by Donald E. Zlotnik
Siege by Jack Hight