Seasons of War

by Daniel Abraham

  ‘It wouldn’t have changed things. One more sword - even yours - wouldn’t have changed the way this battle falls.’

  ‘That’s why I came back,’ Sinja said.

  ‘I’m glad you did,’ Balasar said. ‘I’ve been proud to ride with you.’

  Sinja gave his thanks and took his leave. Balasar wrote out orders for the guard to accompany Sinja and other ones to deliver to Eustin. Then he turned to the maps of Machi. Truly there was little choice. The poets lived. Another night in the cold would mean losing more men. Balasar sat for a long moment, quietly asking God to let this day end well; then he walked out into the late-morning sun and gave the call to formation.

  It was time.

  23

  Liat had expected panic - in herself and in the city.

  Instead there was a strange, tense calm. Wherever she went, she was greeted with civility and even pleasure. There were smiles and even laughter, and a sense of purpose in the face of doom. In the interminable night, she had been invited to join in three suppers, as many breakfasts, and bowls of tea without number. She had seen the highest of the utkhaiem sitting with metalsmiths and common armsmen. She had heard one of the famed choirs of Machi softly singing its Candles Night hymns. The rules of society had been suspended, and the human solidarity beneath it moved her to weep.

  She and Kiyan had taken the news first to the Khai Cetani and the captains of the battle that had once turned the Galts aside. When the plans had come from Otah’s small Council - where to place men, how to resist the Galts as they tried to overrun the city - the Khai Cetani had emerged with the duties of arming and armoring the men who could fight. As the underground city was emptied of anything that could be used as a weapon - hunting arrows, kitchen knives, even lengths of leather and string cut from beds and fashioned into slings - Liat had seen children too young to fight and men and women too old or frail or ill packed into side galleries, the farthest from the fighting. Cots lined the walls, piled with blankets. In some places, there were thick doors that could be closed and pegged from the inside. Though if the Galts ever came this far, it would hardly matter how difficult it was to open the doors. Everything would already be lost.

  Kiyan had made the physicians her personal duty - preparing one of the higher galleries for the care of the wounded and dying who would be coming back before the day’s end. They’d managed seventy beds and scavenged piles of cloth high as a man’s waist, ready to pack wounds. Bottles of distilled wine stood ready to ease pain and clean cuts. A firekeeper’s kiln, cauterizing irons already glowing in its maw, had been pulled in and the air was rich with the scent of poppy milk cooking to the black sludge that would take away pain at one spoonful and grant mercy with two. Liat walked between the empty beds, imagining them as they would shortly be - canvas soaked with gore. And still the panic didn’t come.

  By the entrance, one of the physicians was talking in a calm voice to twenty or so girls and boys no older than Eiah, too young to fight, but old enough to help care for the wounded. Kiyan was nowhere to be found, and Liat wasn’t sure whether she was pleased or dismayed.

  She sat on one of the beds and let her eyes close. She had not slept all the long night. She wouldn’t sleep until the battle was ended. Which meant, of course, that she might never sleep again. The thought carried a sense of unreality that was, she thought, the essential mood of the city. This couldn’t be happening. People went about the things that needed doing with a numb surprise that hell had bloomed up in the world. The men in their improvised leather armor and sharpened fire irons could no more fathom that there would be no tomorrow for them than Liat could. And so they were capable of walking, of speaking, of eating food. If they had been given time to understand, the Galts wouldn’t have faced half the fight that was before them now.

  ‘Mama-kya!’ a man’s voice said close at hand. Nayiit’s. Liat’s eyes flew open.

  He stood in the aisle between beds, his eyes wide. Danat, pale-skinned and frightened, clung to her boy’s robes.

  ‘What are you doing still here?’ Liat said.

  ‘Eiah,’ Nayiit said. ‘I can’t find Eiah. She was in her rooms, getting dressed, but when I came back with Danat-cha, she was gone. She isn’t at the cart. I thought she might be here. I can’t leave without her.’

  ‘You should have left before the sun rose,’ Liat said, standing up. ‘You have to leave now.’

  ‘But Eiah—’

  ‘You can’t wait for her,’ Liat said. ‘You can’t stay here.’

  Danat began to cry, a high wailing that echoed against the high tiled ceiling and seemed to fill the world. Nayiit crouched and tried to calm the boy. Liat felt something warm and powerful unwind in her breast. Rage, perhaps. She hauled her son up by his shoulder and leaned in close.

  ‘Leave her,’ she said. ‘Leave the girl and get out of this city now. Do you understand me?’

  ‘I promised Kiyan-cha that I’d—’

  ‘You can’t keep a girl fourteen summers old from being stupid. No one can. She made her decision when she left you.’

  ‘I promised that I’d look after them,’ Nayiit said.

  ‘Then save the one you can,’ Liat said. ‘And do it now, before you lose that chance too.’

  Nayiit blinked in something like surprise and glanced down at the still-wailing boy. His expression hardened and he took a pose of apology.

  ‘You’re right, Mother. I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘Go. Now,’ Liat said. ‘You don’t have much time.’

  ‘I want my sister!’ Danat howled.

  ‘She’s going to meet us there,’ Nayiit said, and then swept the boy up in his arms with a grunt. Danat - eyes puffy and red, snot streaming from his nose - pulled back to stare at Nayiit with naked mistrust. Nayiit smiled his charming smile. His father’s smile. Otah’s. ‘It’s going to be fine, Danat-kya. Your mama and papa and your sister. They’ll meet us at the cave. But we have to leave now.’

  ‘No they won’t,’ the boy said.

  ‘You watch,’ Nayiit said, lying cheerfully. ‘You’ll see. Eiah’s probably there already.’

  ‘But we have the cart.’

  ‘Yes, good thought,’ Nayiit said. ‘Let’s go see the cart.’

  He leaned over, awkward with his burden of boy, and kissed Liat.

  ‘I’ll do better,’ he murmured.

  You’re perfect, Liat wanted to say. You’ve always been the perfect boy.

  But Nayiit was rushing away now, his robes billowing behind him as he sped to the end of the gallery, Danat still on his hip, and turned to the north and vanished toward the back halls and the cart and the north where if the gods could hear Liat’s prayers, they would be safe.

  House Siyanti had offered up its warehouses for the Khaiem - Machi and Cetani together - to use as their commandery. Five stories high and well back from the edge of the city, the wide, gently sloped roof had as clear a view of the streets as anything besides the great towers themselves. A passage led from the lower warehouse on the street level into the underground should there be a need to retreat into that shelter. In the great empty space - the warehouse emptied of its wares - Maati wrote the text of his binding on the smooth stone wall, pausing occasionally to rub his hands together and try to calm his unquiet mind. A stone stair led up to the second-floor snow doors, which stood open to let the sun in until they were ready to light the dozen glass lanterns that lined the walls. The air blew in bitterly cold and carried a few stray flakes of hard snow that had found their way down from the sky.

  Ideally, Maati would have spent the last day meditating on the binding - holding the nuances of each passage clear in his mind, creating step-by-step the mental structure that would become the andat. He had done his best, drinking black tea and reading through his outline for Corrupting-the-Generative. The binding looked solid. He thought he could hold it in his mind. With months or weeks - perhaps even days - he could have been sure. But this morning he felt scattered. The hot metal scent of the brazier, the wet
smell of the snow, the falling gray snowflakes against a sky of white, the scuffing of Cehmai’s feet against the stone floor, and the occasional distant call of trumpet and drum as the armsmen and defenders of Machi took their places - everything seemed to catch his attention. And he could not afford distraction.

  ‘I don’t know if I can do this,’ he said. His voice echoed against the stone walls, sounding hollow. He turned to meet Cehmai’s gaze. ‘I don’t know if I can go through with this, Cehmai-kya.’

  ‘I know,’ the other poet said, but did not pause in his work of chalking symbols into the spare walls. ‘I felt the same before I took Stone-Made-Soft from my master. I don’t think any poet has ever gone to the binding without some sense he was jumping out of a tower in hopes of learning to fly on the way down.’

  ‘But the binding,’ Maati said. ‘We haven’t had time.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Cehmai said, turning to look at Maati. ‘I’ve been thinking about it. The draft you made. It’s as complex as some bindings I saw when I was training. The nuances support each other. The symbols seem to hang together. And the structure that deflects the price fits it. I think you’ve been working on this for longer than you think. Maybe since Saraykeht fell.’

  Maati looked out the snow door at their bright square of sky. His chest felt tight. He thought for a moment how sad it would be to have come this far and collapse now from a bad heart.

  ‘I remember when I was at the village the second time,’ Maati said. ‘After Saraykeht. After Liat left me. There was a teahouse at the edge of the village. Tanam Choyan’s place.’

  ‘High walls,’ Cehmai said. ‘And a red lacquer door to the back room. I remember the place. They always undercooked the rice.’

  ‘He did,’ Maati said. ‘I’d forgotten that. There was a standing game of tiles there. I remember once a boy came to play and didn’t know any of the rules. Not even what season led, or when two winds made a trump. He bet everything he had at the first tile. He knew he was in over his head, so he risked it all at once. He thought if he kept playing, then the men at the table who knew better than he did would strip him of every length of copper he had. If he put everything on one hand - well, someone had to win, and it might be him as well as anyone else. I understand now how he felt.’

  ‘Did he win?’

  ‘No,’ Maati said. ‘But I respected the strategy.’

  A trumpet blared out above them - Otah sending some signal among his men. Answering horns came from around the city. Maati could no more tell where they originated than guess how many snowflakes were in the wide air. Cehmai’s surprised breath caught his attention like a hook pulling at a fish. He turned to the man, and then followed his gaze to the stairway leading down to the tunnels. Eiah stood there, her ribs pumping hard, as if she’d run to reach them. Her hair was pulled back in a messy knot at the back. Her robes were bright green shot with gold.

  ‘Eiah-cha,’ Cehmai said, stepping toward her. ‘What are you doing here?’

  The girl looked up at Cehmai, stepping away from him as if she might run. Her gaze darted to Maati. He smiled and took a pose that was welcome and inquiry both. Eiah’s hands fluttered between half a dozen poses, settling on none of them.

  ‘They need physicians,’ she said. ‘People are going to get hurt. I don’t want to be useless. And . . . and I want to be here when you stop them. I helped with the binding as much as Cehmai did.’

  That was a gross untruth, but the girl delivered it with such conviction that Maati felt himself half-believing. He smiled.

  ‘You were supposed to go with Nayiit-cha and your brother,’ Maati said.

  Her mouth went small, her face pale.

  ‘I know,’ she said. Maati waved her closer, and she came to him, skirting around Cehmai as if she feared he would grab her and haul her away to where she was supposed to be. Maati sat on the cold stone floor and she sat with him.

  ‘It isn’t safe here,’ he said.

  ‘It’s safe enough that you can be here. And Papa-kya. And you’re the two most important men in the world.’

  ‘I don’t know that—’

  ‘He’s the Emperor. Even the Khai Cetani says so. And you’re going to kill all the Galts. There can’t be any place safer than with both of you. Besides, what if something happens and you need a physician?’

  ‘I’ll find one of the armsmen or a servant they can spare,’ Cehmai said. ‘We can at least have her safely—’

  ‘No,’ Maati said. ‘Let her stay. She reminds me why we’re doing this.’

  Eiah’s grin was the image of relief and joy. Of all the terrors and dangers arrayed before them, hers had been that she might be sent away. He took her hand and kissed it.

  ‘Go sit by the stairs,’ he said. ‘Don’t interrupt me, and if Cehmai-cha tells you to do something, you do it. No asking why, no arguing him out of it. You understand me?’

  Eiah flung her hands into a pose of acceptance.

  ‘And Eiah-kya. Understand what I’m doing has risks to it. If I die here - hush, now, let me finish. If I fail the binding and my little protection doesn’t do what we think it will, I’ll pay the price. If that happens, you have to remember that I love you very deeply, and I’ve done this because it was worth the risk if it meant keeping you safe.’

  Eiah swallowed and her eyes shone with tears. Maati smiled at her, stood again, and waved her back toward the stairs. Cehmai came close, frowning.

  ‘I’m not sure that was a kind thing to tell her,’ he said, but a sudden outburst of trumpet calls sounded before Maati could reply. Maati thought he could hear the distant tattoo of drums echoing against the city walls. He gestured to Cehmai.

  ‘Come on. There isn’t time. Finish drawing those, then light the candles and close that blasted door. We’ll all freeze to death before the andat can have its crack at us.’

  ‘Or we’ll have it all in place just in time for the Galts to take it.’

  Maati scribbled out the rest of the binding. He’d wanted time to think on each word, each phrase; if he’d had time to paint each word like the portrait of a thought, it would have been better. There wasn’t time. He finished just as Cehmai lit the final lantern and walked up the stone steps to the snow door. Before he closed it, the younger poet looked out, peering into the city.

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Smoke,’ Cehmai said. Then, ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Come back down,’ Maati said. ‘Where are the robes for it?’

  ‘In the back corner,’ Cehmai said, pulling the wide wooden doors shut. ‘I’ll get them.’

  Maati went to the cushion in the middle of the room, lowered himself with a grunt, and considered. The wall before him looked more like the scribblings of low-town vandals than a poet’s lifework. But the words and phrases, the images and metaphors all shone brighter in his mind than the lanterns could account for. Cehmai passed before him briefly, laying robes of blue shot with black on the floor where, with luck, the next hands to hold them wouldn’t be human.

  Maati glanced over his shoulder. Eiah was sitting against the back wall, her hands held in fists even with her heart. He smiled at her. Reassuringly, he hoped. And then he turned to the words he had written, took five deep breaths to clear his mind, and began to chant.

  Otah stood on the lip of the roof and looked down at Machi as if it were a map. The great streets were marked by the lines of rooftops. Only those streets that led directly to House Siyanti’s warehouses were at an angle that permitted him to see the black cobbles turning white beneath the snow. To the south, the army of the Galts was marching forward. The trumpet calls from the high towers told him that much. They had worked out short signals for some eventualities - short melodies that signaled some part of the plans he had worked with Sinja and Ashua Radaani and the others. But in addition there was a code that let him phrase questions as if they were spoken words, and hear answers in the replies from the towers far above.

  The trumpeter was a young man with a vast barrel chest and lip
s blue with cold. Whenever Otah had the man blow, the wide brass bell of the trumpet seemed as if it would deafen them all. And yet the responses were sometimes nearly too faint to hear. Times like now.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ the Khai Cetani asked, and Otah held up a hand to stop him, straining to hear the last trailing notes.

  ‘The Galts are taking the bridge,’ Otah said. ‘I don’t think they trust the ice.’

  ‘That’ll mean they’re longer reaching us,’ the Khai Cetani said. ‘That’s good. If we can keep them out of the warmth until sundown . . .’

  Otah took a pose of agreement, but didn’t truly believe it. If they were able to trap the Galts above ground when night came, the invaders would take over the houses and burn whatever they could break small enough to fit in the fire grates. If the cold air moved in - a storm or the frigid winds that ended the gentle snows of autumn - then the Galts would be in trouble, but the snow graying the distance now wasn’t prelude to a storm. Otah didn’t say it, but he couldn’t imagine keeping an army so close and still at bay long enough for the weather to change. The Galts would be defeated here in the streets, or they wouldn’t be defeated.