An Autumn War (The Long Price Quartet)

by Daniel Abraham

  “Was it that obvious?”

  “Yes,” Liat said. “How much have you told them? About what happened?”

  “Kiyan knows everything. A few others.”

  “They know how Seedless was freed? And Heshai-kvo, how he was killed?”

  For a sick moment, Otah was back in the filthy room, in the stink of mud and raw sewage from the alley. He remembered the ache in his arms. He remembered the struggle as the old poet fought for air with the cord biting into his throat. It had seemed the right thing, then. Even to Heshai. The andat, Seedless, had come to Otah with the plan. Aid in Heshai-kvo’s suicide—for in many ways that was what it had been—and Liat would be saved. Maati would be saved. A thousand Galtic babies would stay safely in their mother’s wombs, the power of the andat never turned against them.

  Otah wondered when things had changed. When he had stopped being someone who would kill a good man to protect the innocent, and become willing to let a nation die if it meant protecting his own. Likely it had been the moment he’d first seen Eiah squirming on Kiyan’s breast.

  “Do you know?” Otah asked. “How it happened, I mean.”

  “Only guesses,” Liat said. “If you wanted to tell me…”

  “Thank you,” Otah said with a sigh, “but maybe it’s best to leave that buried. It’s all finished now, and there’s no undoing any of it.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “We will need to talk about Nayiit,” Otah said. “Not now. Not with…” He nodded to the sleeping girl.

  “I understand,” Liat said and brushed her hair back from her eyes. “I don’t mean any harm, ’Tani. I wouldn’t hurt you or your family. I didn’t come here…I wouldn’t have come here if I hadn’t had to.”

  The door swung open, a gust of cool air coming from it, and Maati stood triumphantly in the frame. He held a small book bound in blue silk as if it were a trophy of war.

  “Got the bastard!” he said, and walked over to Otah, presenting it over one arm like a sword. “For you, Most High, and your son.”

  Over Maati’s shoulder, Otah could see Liat look away. Otah only took the book, adopted a pose of thanks, and turned to gently shake Eiah’s shoulder. She grunted, her brow furrowing.

  “It’s time to come home, Eiah-kya,” Otah said. “Come along.”

  “‘M’wake,” Eiah protested, but slowly. Rubbing her eyes with the back of one hand, she rose.

  They said their good nights, and Otah led his daughter out, closing the door to Maati’s apartments behind them. The night had grown cool, and the stars had occupied the sky like a conquering army. Otah laid his arm across Eiah’s shoulder, hers under it, around his ribs. She leaned into him as they walked. Night-blooming flowers scented the air, soft as rain. They were just coming in sight of the entrance of the First Palace when Eiah spoke, her voice still abstracted with sleep.

  “Nayiit-cha’s yours, isn’t he, Papa-kya?”

  LIAT WOKE in dim moonlight; the night candle had gone out or else they hadn’t bothered to light it. She couldn’t recall which. Beside her, Maati mumbled something in his sleep, as he always had. Liat smiled at the dim profile on the pillow beside her. He looked younger in sleep, the lines at his mouth softened, the storm at his brow calmed. She resisted the urge to caress his cheek, afraid to wake him. She had taken lovers in the years since she’d returned to Saraykeht. A half-dozen or so, each a man whose company she had enjoyed, and all of whom she could remember fondly.

  She thought, sometimes, that she’d reversed the way women were intended to love. Butterfly flirtations, flitting from one man to another, taking none seriously, were best kept by the young. Had she taken her casual lovers as a girl, they would have been exciting and new, and she would have known too little to notice that they were empty. Instead, Liat had lost her heart twice before she’d seen twenty summers, and if those loves were gone—even this one, sleeping now at her side—the memory of them was there. Once, she had told herself the world was nothing if she didn’t have a man who loved her. A man of importance and beauty, a man whom she might, through her gentle guidance, save.

  She had been another woman, then. And who, she wondered, had she become now?

  She rose quietly, parting the netting, and stepped out onto the cool floor. She found her outer robe and wrapped it around herself. Her inner robes and her sandals she could reclaim tomorrow. Now she wanted her own bed, and pillows less thick with memories.

  She slipped out the door, pulling it closed behind her. So far North and without an ocean to hold the warmth of the day, Machi’s nights were cold, even now with spring at its height. Gooseflesh rose on her legs and arms, her belly and breasts, as she trotted along the wide, darkened paths to the apartments that Itani or Otah or the Khai Machi had given to her and her son.

  More than a week had passed since he had come to Maati’s apartments, gathering up a children’s book and a daughter halfway to womanhood and leaving behind a lasting unease. Liat had not spoken with him since, but the dread of the coming conversation weighed heavy. As Nayiit had grown, she’d seen nothing in him but himself. Even when people swore that the boy had her eyes, her mouth, her way of sighing, she’d never seen it. Perhaps when there was no space between a mother and her child, the sameness becomes invisible. Perhaps it merely seemed normal. She would have admitted that her son looked something like his father. It was only in seeing them together, seeing the simple, powerful knowing in Otah’s wife’s expression, that Liat understood the depth of her error in letting Nayiit come.

  And with that came her understanding of how it could not be undone. Her first impulse had been to send him away at once, to hide him again the way a child caught with a forbidden sweet might stuff it away into a sleeve as if unseen now might somehow mean never seen at all. Only the years of running her house had counseled her otherwise. The situation was what it was. Attempting any subterfuge would only make the Khai wary, and his unease might mean Nayiit’s death. As long as her son lived, he posed a threat to Danat, and she knew enough to understand that a babe held from its first breath meant something that a man full-grown never could. If Otah were forced to choose, Liat had no illusions what that choice would be.

  And so she prepared herself, prepared her arguments and her negotiating strategies, and told herself it would end well. They were all together, allies against the Galts. There would be no need. She told herself there would be no need.

  At her apartments, no candles were lit, but a fire burned in the grate: old pine, rich with sap that popped and hissed and filled the air with its scent. When she entered, her son looked up from the flames and took a pose of welcome, gesturing to a divan beside him. Liat hesitated, surprised by a sudden embarrassment, then gathered her sense of humor and sat beside him. He smelled of wine and smoke, and his robes hung as loose on him as her own did on her.

  “You’ve been to the teahouses,” Liat said, trying to keep any note of disapproval from her voice.

  “You’ve been with my father,” he replied.

  “I’ve been with Maati,” Liat said as if it were an agreement and not a correction.

  Nayiit leaned forward and took up a length of iron, prodding the burning logs. Sparks rose and vanished like fireflies.

  “I haven’t been able to see him,” Nayiit said. “We’ve been here weeks now, and he hasn’t come to speak with me. And every time I go to the library he’s gone or he’s with you. I think you’re trying to keep us from each other.”

  Liat raised her eyebrows and ran her tongue across the inside of her teeth, weighing the coppery taste that sprang to her mouth, thinking what it meant. She coughed.

  “You aren’t wrong,” she said at last. “I’m not ready for it. Maati’s not who he was back then.”

  “So instead of letting us face each other and see what it is we see, you’ve decided to start up an affair with him and take all his time and attention?” There was no rancor in his voice, only sadness and amusement. “It doesn’t seem the path of wisdom, Moth
er.”

  “Well, not when you say it that way,” Liat said. “I was thinking of it as coming to know him again before the conflict began. I did love him, you know.”

  “And now?”

  “And still. I still love him, in my fashion,” Liat said, her voice rueful. “I know I’m not what he wants. I’m not the person he wants me to be, and I doubt I ever have been, truly. But we enjoy each other. There are things we can say to each other that no one else would understand. They weren’t there, and we were. And he’s such a little boy. He’s carried so much and been so disappointed, and there’s still the possibility in him of this…joy. I can’t explain it.”

  “If I ask you as a favor, will you let me know him as well? We may not actually fight like pit dogs if you let us in the same room together. And if there’s conflict at all, it’s between us. Not you.”

  Liat opened her mouth, closed it, shook her head. She sighed.

  “Of course,” she said. “Of course, I’m sorry. I’ve been an old hen, and I’m sorry for it, but…I know it’s not a trade. We aren’t negotiating, not really. But Nayiit-kya, you can’t say you haven’t been with a woman since we’ve come here. You didn’t choose to go south, even when I asked you to. Sweet, is it so bad at home?”

  “Bad?” he said, speaking slowly. As if tasting the word. “I don’t know. No. Not bad. Only not good. And yes, I know I haven’t been keeping to my own bed. Do you think my darling wife has been keeping to hers?”

  Liat’s mind turned, searching for words, making sense as best she could of what he had asked and what he had meant by it. It was true enough that Tai had come into the world at an odd time, but he was a first child, and wombs weren’t made to be certain. She rushed through her memory, looking for signs she might have missed, suggestions back in their lives in Saraykeht that would have pointed at some venomous question, and slowly she began, if not to understand, then at least to guess.

  “You think he isn’t yours,” she said. “You think Tai is another man’s child.”

  “Nothing like that,” Nayiit said. “It’s only that you can make a child from love or from anger. Or inattention. Or only from not knowing what better to do. A baby isn’t proof of anything between the father and mother beyond a few moments’ pressure.”

  “It isn’t the child’s fault.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Nayiit said.

  “This is why you came, then? To Nantani, and then up here? To be away from them?”

  “I came because I wanted to. Because it was the world, and when was I going to see it again? Because you wanted someone to carry your bags and wave off dogs. It was only partly that I couldn’t stay. And then when you were going to see him, Maati-cha…How could I not come along for that too? The chance to see my father again. I remember him, you know? I do, from when I was small, I remember a day we were all in a small hut. There was an iron stove, and it was raining, and you were singing while he bathed me. I don’t know when that was, I can’t put a time on it. But I remember his face.”

  “You would have known him, if you’d seen him in passing. You’d have known who he was.”

  Nayiit took a pose of affirmation. He pursed his lips and chuckled ruefully.

  “I don’t know what it is to be a father. I’m only working from—”

  “Nayiit-kya?” came a voice from the shadows behind them. A soft, feminine voice. “Is everything well?”

  She stepped toward the light. A young woman, twenty summers, perhaps as many as twenty-two. She wore bedding tied around her waist, her breasts bare, her hair still wild from the pillows.

  “Jaaya-cha, this is my mother. Mother, Jaaya Biavu.”

  The girl blanched, then flushed. She took a pose of welcome, not bothering to cover herself, but her gaze was on Nayiit. It spoke of both humiliation and contempt. Nayiit didn’t look at her. The woman turned and stalked away.

  “That wasn’t kind,” Liat said.

  “Very little of what she and I do involves kindness,” he said. “I don’t expect I’ll see her again. By which I mean, I don’t suppose she’ll see me.”

  “Is she politically connected? If her family is utkhaiem…”

  “I don’t think she is,” Nayiit said, his face in his hands. It was hard to be sure in the firelight, but she thought the tips of his ears were blushing. “I suppose I should have asked.”

  He struggled for a moment, trying to speak and failing. His brow furrowed and Liat had to resist the urge to reach over and smooth it with her thumb, the way she had when he’d been a babe.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You know that I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” she asked, her voice low and stern. As if there were any number of things for which he might be.

  “For not being a better man,” he said.

  The fire popped, as if in comment. Liat took her son’s hand, and for a long moment, they were silent. Then:

  “I don’t care what you do with your marriage, Nayiit-kya. If you don’t love her, end it. Or if you don’t trust her. As you see fit. People come together and they part. It’s what we do. But the boy. You can’t leave the boy. That isn’t fair.”

  “It’s what Maati-cha did to us.”

  “No,” Liat said, giving his hand the smallest pressure, and then releasing it. “We left him.”

  Nayiit turned to her slowly, his hands folding into a pose that asked confirmation. It was as if the words were too dangerous to speak.

  “I left him,” Liat said. “I took you when you were still a babe, and I was the one to leave him.”

  She saw a moment’s shock in his expression, gone as fast as it had come. His face went grave, his hands as still as stones. As still as a man bending his will to keep them still.

  “Why?” he asked. His voice was low and thready.

  “Oh, love. It was so long ago. I was someone else, then,” she said, and knew as she said it that it wasn’t enough. “I did because he was only half there. And because I couldn’t see to all of his needs and all of yours and have no one there to look after me.”

  “It was better without him?”

  “I thought it would be. I thought I was cutting my losses. And then, later, when I wasn’t so certain anymore, I convinced myself it had been the right thing, just so I could tell myself I hadn’t been wrong.”

  He was shaken, though he tried to cover it. She knew him too well to be fooled.

  “He wasn’t there, Nayiit. But he never left you.”

  And part of me never left him, she thought. What would the world have been if I had chosen otherwise? Where would we all be now if that part of him and of me had been enough? Still in that little hut in the low town near the Dai-kvo? Would they all have lived together in the library these past years as Maati had?

  Those other, ghostlike people made a pretty dream, but then there would have been no one to hear of the Galts and the missing poet, no one to travel to Nantani. And little Tai would not have been born, and she would never have seen Amat Kyaan again. Someone else would have been with the old woman when she died—someone else or no one. And Liat would never have taken House Kyaan, would never have proven herself competent to the world and to her own satisfaction.

  It was too much. The changes, the differences were too great to think of as good or as bad. The world they had now was too much itself, good and evil too tightly woven to wish for some other path. And still it would be wrong to say she found herself without regrets.

  “Maati loves you,” she said, softly. “You should see him. I won’t interfere again. But first, you should go tend to your guest. Smooth things over.”

  Nayiit nodded, and then a moment later, he smiled. It was the same charming smile she’d known when she was a girl and it had been on different lips. Nayiit would charm the girl, say something sweet and funny, and the pain would be forgotten for a time. He was his father’s son. Son of the Khai Machi. Eldest son, and doomed to the fratricidal struggle of succession that stained every city in each generation. She wondered h
ow far Otah would go to avoid that, to keep his boy safe from her schemes. That conversation had to come, and soon. Perhaps it would be best if she took it to the Khai herself, if she stopped waiting for him to find a right moment.

  Nayiit took a querying pose, and Liat shook herself. She waved his concern away.

  “I’m tired,” she said. “I’ve come all this way back to have my own bed to myself, and I’m still not in it. I’m too old to sleep in a lover’s arms. They twitch and snore and keep me awake all night.”

  “They do, don’t they?” Nayiit said. “Does it get better, do you think? With enough time, would you be so accustomed to it, you’d sleep through?”

  “I don’t know,” Liat said. “I’ve never made the attempt.”

  “Like mother, like son, I suppose,” Nayiit said as he rose. He bent and kissed the crown of her head before he retreated back into the shadows.

  Like mother, like son.

  Liat pulled her robe tighter and sat near the fire, as if touched by a sudden chill.

  The jeweler was a small man, squat but broad. To his credit, he seemed truly ill at ease. It took courage, Otah thought as he listened, to bring a matter such as this before a Khai. He wondered how many others had seen something of the sort and looked away. Any merchant has to expect some losses from theft. And after all, she was the daughter of the Khai.…

  When it was over—and it seemed to take half a day, though it couldn’t have lasted more than half a hand—Otah thanked the man, ordered that payment be made to him, and waited calm and emotionless until the servants and court followers had gone. Only the body servants remained, half a dozen men and women of the utkhaiem who dedicated their lives to bringing him a cracker if he felt like one, or a cup of limed water.

  “Find Eiah and take her to the blue chamber. Bring her under guard if you have to.”

  “Under guard?” the eldest of the servants said.

  “No, don’t. Just bring her. See that she gets there.”

  “Most High,” the man said, taking a pose that accepted the command. Otah rose and walked out of the room without replying. He stalked the halls of the palace, ignoring the Master of Tides and his ineffectual flapping papers, ignoring the poses of obeisance and respect turned to him wherever he went, looking only for Kiyan. The rest of these people were unimportant.