THE (tlpq-4) (35 page)

like a kite. Maati, caught between the pair, only felt tired and sick

and old.

It had been years since he had lived in one place, and then it had been

as the permanent guest of the Khai Machi. He had had a library, servants

who brought him wine and food. Eiah had been no more than a girl, then.

Bright, engaged, curious. But more than that, she had been joyful. And

he remembered himself as being a part of that joy, that comfort.

He lumbered into one of the wide, bare rooms where rows and columns of

cots had once held boys no older than ten summers, wrapped in all the

robes they owned to keep off the cold. He leaned against the wall,

feeling the rough stone against his back.

Another winter in this place. There was a time when he'd thought it wise.

Footsteps came from behind him. Vanjit's. He knew them from the sound.

He didn't turn to greet her. When she stepped into the room, waxed silk

shining like leather, she didn't at first look at him. She had grown

beautiful in an odd way. The andat held against her hip clung to her,

and there was a peace in her expression that lent her an air of

serenity. He wanted to trust her, to take her success as the first of a

thousand ways in which he would be able to set the world right, to

unmake his mistakes.

"Maati-kvo," Vanjit said. Her voice was low and soft as a woman newly woken.

"Vanjit," he said, taking a pose of greeting.

She and the andat came to sit at his side. The tiny thing balled its

hands in the folds of Maati's robe, tugging as if to draw his attention.

Vanjit appeared not to notice.

"Eiah-cha is doing well, isn't she?" Vanjit asked.

"I think so," Maati said. "She's taken a wide concept, and that's always

difficult. She's very serious, though. There are a few flaws. Structures

that work against each other instead of in concert."

"How long?" Vanjit asked. Maati rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.

"Until she's ready? If she finds a form that resolves the conflict, I

suppose she could start the last phase tomorrow. Two weeks. Three at the

earliest. Or months more. I don't know."

Vanjit nodded to herself, not looking up at him. The andat tugged at his

robe again. Maati looked down into the black, eager eyes. The andat gave

its wide, toothless grin.

"We've been talking," Vanjit said. "Clarity-of-Sight and I have been

talking about Eiah and what she's doing. He pointed something out that I

hadn't considered."

That was possible, but only in a fashion. The andat was a part of her,

as all of them reflected the poets who had bound them. Whatever thought

it had presented in the deep, intimate battle it waged with Vanjit, it

had to have originated with her. Still, she was as capable of surprising

herself as any of them. Maati took a pose that invited her to continue.

"We can't know how Eiah-cha's binding will go," Vanjit said. "I know

that we were first as a test of the grammar. That Clarity-of-Sight

exists is proof that the bindings can work. It isn't proof that Eiah-cha

... Don't misunderstand, Maati-kvo. I know as well as anyone that

Eiah-cha is brilliant. Without her, I would never have managed my

binding. But until she makes the attempt, we can't be sure that she's

the right sort of mind to be a poet. Even with all our work, she might

still fail."

"That's true," Maati said, trying to turn away from the thought even as

he spoke.

"It would all end, wouldn't it? What I can do, what we can do. It

wouldn't mean anything without Eiah-cha. She's the one who can undo what

Sterile did, and unless she can do that ..."

"She's our best hope," Maati said.

"Yes," Vanjit said, and turned to look up at Maati. Her face was bright.

"Yes, our best hope. But not the only one."

The andat at her hip clucked and giggled to itself, clapping tiny hands.

Maati took a pose of query.

"We know for certain that we have one person who could bind an andat,

because I already have. I want Eiah-cha to win through as badly as

anyone, but if her binding does fail, I could take it up."

Maati smiled because he could think of nothing else to do. Dread knotted

in his chest. His breath had grown suddenly short, and the

warehouse-wide walls of the sleeping quarters had narrowed. Vanjit

stood, her hand on his sleeve. Maati took a moment, shook his head.

"Are you well, Maati-kvo?" Vanjit asked.

"I'm old," he said. "It's nothing. Vanjit-kya, you can't hold another

andat. You of all of us know how much of your attention Clarity-of-Sight

requires.

"I would have to release him for a time," Vanjit said. "I understand

that. But what makes him him comes from me, doesn't it? All the things

that aren't innate to the idea of sight made clear. So when I bind

Wounded, it would be almost like having him back. It would be, because

it would come from me, just as he does."

"It ... it might," Maati said. His head still felt light. A chill sweat

touched his back. "I suppose it might. But the risk of it would also be

huge. Once the andat was let go, you wouldn't be able to recall it. Even

if you were to bind another, Clarity-of-Sight would be gone. We have the

power now ..."

"But my power doesn't mean anything," Vanjit said. Her voice was taking

on a strained tone, as if some banked anger was rising in her. "Eiah

matters. Wounded matters."

He thought of the Galts, blinded. Had Vanjit held Wounded, they would

doubtless all have died. A nation felled-every woman, every man-by

invisible swords, axes, stones. It was a terrible power, but they

weren't here for the benefit of the Galts. He put his hand over Vanjit's.

"Let us hope it never comes to that," he said. "It would be far, far

better to have two poets. But if it does, I'm glad you'll be here."

The girl's face brightened and she darted forward, kissing Maati's lips

as brief and light as a butterfly. The andat on her hip gurgled and

flailed. Vanjit nodded as if it had spoken.

"We should go," Vanjit said. "We've spent so much time talking about how

to approach you, I've neglected the classes. Thank you, Maati-kvo. I

can't tell you how much it means to know that I can still help."

Maati nodded, waited until girl and andat had vanished, then lowered

himself to the floor. Slowly, the knot in his chest relaxed, and his

breath returned to its normal depth and rhythm. In the snow-gray

sunlight, he considered the backs of his hands, the nature of the andat,

and what he had just agreed to. The cold of the stone and the sky seemed

to take his energy. By the time he rose, his fingers had gone white and

his feet were numb.

He found the others in the kitchen. Chalk marks on the walls sketched

out three or four grammatical scenarios, each using different vocabulary

and structures. Eiah, considering the notes, took a brief pose of

welcome when he appeared, then turned to stare at him. Irit fluttered

about, chattering merrily until he was seated by the fire with a bowl of

warm tea in his hand. Large Kae and Small Kae were in the middle of a

conversation about the difference between cutting and crushing, which in

other circumstances would have been disturbing to hear. Vanjit sat with

a beatific smile, Clarity-of-Sight perched on her lap. Maati motioned at

Eiah that she should carry on, and with a reluctance he didn't

understand, she did.

The tea was warm and smelled like spring. Coals glowed in the brazier.

The voices around him seemed hopeful and bright. But then he saw the

andat's black eyes and was reminded of his unease.

The session came to its end and the women scattered, each to her own

task, leaving only Vanjit sitting by the fire, nursing the andat from a

breast swollen with milk. Maati made his way back to his rooms. He was

tired past all reason and unsteady on his feet. As he had hoped, Eiah

was waiting outside his door.

"That seemed to go well," Maati said. "I think Irit's solution was

fairly elegant."

"It has promise," Eiah agreed as she followed him into the room. He sat

in a leather chair, sighing. Eiah blew life into the coals in the fire

grate, added a handful of small tinder and a twisted length of oak to

the fire, then took a stool and pulled it up before him.

"How do you feel about the binding's progress?" he asked.

"Well enough," she said, taking both his forearms in her hands. Her gaze

was locked somewhere over his left shoulder, her fingers pressing hard

into the flesh between the bones of his wrists. A moment later, she

dropped his right hand and began squeezing his fingertips.

"Eiah-kya?"

"Don't mind me," she said. "It's habit. The binding's coming closer.

There are one or two more things I'd like to try, but I think we've come

as near as we're going to."

She went on for half a hand, recounting the fine issues of definition,

duration, and intent that haunted the form of her present binding. Maati

listened, submitting himself to her professional examination as she went

on. Outside the window, the snow was falling again, small flakes gray

against the pure white sky. Before Vanjit, he wouldn't have been able to

make them out.

"I agree," Maati said as she ended, then plucked his sleeves back into

their proper place. "Do you think ..."

"Before Candles Night, certainly," Eiah said. "But there is going to be

a complication. We have to leave the school. Utani would be best, but

Pathai would do if that's impossible. You and I can leave in the

morning, and the others can join us."

Maati chuckled.

"Eiah-kya," he said. "You've apologized for letting Ashti Beg go. I

understand why you did it, but there's nothing to be concerned about.

Even if she did tell someone that we're out here, Vanjit could turn

Clarityof-Sight against them, and we could all walk quietly away. The

power of the andat-"

"Your heart is failing," Eiah said. "I don't have the herbs or the baths

to care for you here."

She said it simply, her voice flat with exhaustion. Maati felt the smile

fading from his lips. He saw tears beginning to glimmer in her eyes, the

drops unfallen but threatening. He took a pose that denied her.

"Your color is bad," she said. "Your pulses aren't symmetric. Your blood

is thick and dark. This is what I do, Uncle. I find people who are sick,

and I look at the signs, and I think about them and their bodies. I look

at you, here, now, and I see a man whose blood is slow and growing slower."

"You're imagining things," Maati said. "I'm fine. I only haven't slept

well. I would never have guessed that you of all people would mistake a

little lost rest for a weak heart."

"I'm not-"

"I am fine!" Maati shouted, pounding the arm of the chair. "And we

cannot afford to run off into the teeth of winter. You aren't a

physician any longer. That's behind you. You are a poet. You are the

poet who's going to save the cities."

She took his hand in both of hers. For a moment, there was no sound but

the low murmur of the fire and the nearly inaudible sound of her palm

stroking the back of his hand. One of the threatened tears fell,

streaking her cheek black. He hadn't realized she wore kohl.

"You," he said softly, "are the most important poet there is. The most

important one there ever was."

"I'm just one woman," Eiah said. "I'm doing the best I can, but I'm

tired. And the world keeps getting darker around me. If I can't take

care of everything, at least let me take care of you."

"I will be fine," Maati said. "I'm not young anymore, but I'm a long way

from death. We'll finish your binding, and then if you want to haul me

to half the baths in the Empire, I'll submit."

Another tear marked her face. Maati took his sleeve and wiped her cheek dry.

"I'll be fine," he said. "I'll rest more if you like. I'll pretend my

bones are made of mud brick and glass. But you can't stop now to concern

yourself with me. Those people out there. They're the ones who need your

care. Not me."

"Let me go to Pathai," she said. "I can get teas there."

"No," Maati said. "I won't do that."

"Let me send Large Kae, then. I can't stand by and do nothing."

"All right," Maati said, holding up a placating hand. "All right. Let's

wait until morning, and we can talk to Large Kae. And perhaps you'll see

that I'm only tired and we can move past this."

She left in the end without being convinced. As darkness fell, Maati

found himself slipping into a soft despair. The world was quiet and

still and utterly unaware of him.

His son was dead. The people he had counted as his friends had become

his enemies, and he was among the most despised men in the world. Eiah

was wrong, of course. His health was fine. But someday, it would fail.

All men died, and most were forgotten. The few that the world remembered

were not always celebrated.

He lit the night candle by holding it to the fire, the wax hissing where

it dripped on the coals. He found his book and settled close to the fire

grate before opening the cover and considering the words.

I, Maati Vaupathai, am one of the two men remaining in the world who has

wielded the power of the andat.

Already, it was not true. There were three living poets now, and one of

them a woman. Between the time he had touched a pen to this page and

this moment, reading it in the early night, the world had moved on. He

wondered how much of the rest was already old, already the property of a

past that could never be regained. He read slowly, tracing the path his

own mind had taken. The candle lent the pages an orange glow, the ink

seeming to retreat into the pages, as if they were much larger and much

farther away. The fire warmed his ankles and turned strong, solid wood