Price of Spring lpq-4

by Daniel Abraham

  He'd meant to turn at the end of his pronouncement and walk from the rooms. Her voice was cutting.

  "So instead, you'll wait until is?" Idaan said. "Or is it only that you have too many apples in the air, and you're only a middling juggler?"

  "I'm not in the mood to be-"

  "Dressed down by a woman who's only breathing because you've chosen to let her? Listen to yourself. You sound like the villain from some children's bedtime story."

  "Idaan-cha," he said, and then found that he had nothing to follow it.

  "I've come to tell you that your old friend and enemy is harnessing gods, and not for your benefit. It's the most threatening thing I can imagine happening. And what's your response? You knew. You've known for years. What's more, knowing now that he's redoubling his efforts, you can't be bothered even to consider the question until you've cleared your sheet of audiences? I've held a thousand opinions of you over the years, brother, but I never thought you were stupid."

  Otah felt rage bloom in his chest, rising like a fiery wave, only to die with the woman's next words.

  "It's the guilt, isn't it?" she said. When he didn't answer at once, she nodded to herself. "You aren't the only one that's done this, you know."

  "Been Emperor? Are there others?"

  "Betrayed the people you loved," she said. "Come. Sit down. I still have a little tea."

  Almost to his surprise, Otah walked forward, sitting on a divan while the former exile poured pale green tea into two carved bone bowls.

  "After you set me free, I spent years without sleeping through a full night. I'd dream of the people I'd… the people I was responsible for. Our father. Adrah. Danat. You never knew Danat, did you?"

  "I named my son for him," Otah said. Idaan smiled, but there was a sorrow in her eyes.

  "He'd have liked that, I think. Here. Choose a bowl. I'll drink first if you'd like. I don't mind."

  Otah drank. It was overbrewed and sweetened with honey; sweet and bitter. Idaan sipped at hers.

  "After you sent me away, there was a time I went about the business of living with what I'd done by working myself like a war slave," she said. "Sunrise to dark, I did whatever it was I was doing until I could fall down at the end half-dead and too tired to dream."

  "It doesn't sound pleasant," Otah said.

  "I did a lot of good," Idaan said. "You wouldn't guess it, but I organized a constabulary through half of the low towns in the north. I was actually a judge for a few years, if you'll picture that. I found that meting out justice wasn't something I felt suited for, but I kept a few murderers and rapists from making a habit of it. I made a few places safer. I wasn't utterly ineffective, even though half the time I was too tired to focus my eyes.

  "And you think I'm doing the same thing?" Otah said. "You don't understand what it is to be an emperor. All respect for whatever you did after Machi, but I have hundreds of thousands of people relying upon me. The politics of empire aren't like a few low towns organizing to keep the local thugs in line."

  "You also have a thousand servants," she said. "Dozens of high fami lies who would do your bidding just for the status that comes from being asked. Tell me, why did you go to Galt yourself? You have men and women who'd have been ambassador for you."

  "It needed me," Otah said. "If it had been someone lower, it wouldn't have carried the weight."

  "Ah, I see," she said. She sounded less than persuaded.

  "Besides which, I don't have anything to feel guilt over."

  "You broke the world," she said. "You ordered Maati and Cehmai to bind that andat, and when it went feral on them and shredded every womb in the cities, my own included, you threw your poets into the wind. Men who trusted you and sacrificed for you. You became the heroic figure that bound the cities together, and they became outcasts."

  "Is that how you see it?"

  Idaan put her bowl down softly on the stone table. Her black eyes held his. She had a long face. Northern, like his own. He remembered that of all the children of the old Khai Machi, he and Idaan had shared a mother.

  "It doesn't matter how I see it," she said. "My opinion doesn't make the world. Or unmake it. All that matters is what it actually is. So, tell me, Most High, am I right?"

  Otah shook his head and rose, leaving his tea bowl beside hers.

  "You don't know me, Idaan-cha. We've spoken to each other fewer times than I have fingers. I don't think you're in a position to judge my motives."

  "Yours, no," she said. "But I've made the mistakes you're making now. And I know why I did."

  "We aren't the same person."

  She smiled now, her gaze cast down and her hands in a pose that accepted correction and apologized for her transgression without making it clear what transgression she meant.

  "Of course not," she said. "I'll stay through tomorrow, Most High. In case you come to a decision that I might be able to aid you with."

  Otah left with the uncomfortable impression that his sister pitied him. He made his way back to his apartments, ate half of the meal the servants brought him, and refused the singers and musicians whose only function in the world was to wait upon his whim. Instead, he took a chair out to his balcony and sat in the starlight, looking south to the sea.

  Thin clouds streaked the high air, and the ocean was a vast darkness. The city that spilled down the hills before him glittered brighter than the stars; torches and lanterns, candles and firekeepers' kilns. The breeze smelled of smoke and salt and the lush flowers of early autumn. He closed his eyes.

  He could feel the palaces behind him, looming like a weight he'd shifted off his back for a moment and would need to shoulder again. His mind ran free without him, bouncing from one crisis to another without ever pausing long enough to make sense of any one of them. And, intruding upon all of it, he found himself replaying his conversation with Idaan, searching for the cutting replies that hadn't occurred to him at the time.

  Who was she to pity him? She'd made a low-town judge of herself, and now a farmer. It was an improvement from traitor and murderer, but it didn't give her moral authority over him. And to instruct him on the nature of his feelings about Maati and Cehmai was ridiculous. She hardly knew him. Coming to court in the first place had been a kind of madness on her part. He could have had her killed outright rather than sit like a dog while she heaped her abuse on him.

  She thought he'd broken the world, did she? Well, what about the old way had been worth saving? It hadn't brought justice. The peace it offered had been purchased at the cost of lives of misery and struggle. And from that first moment, more than forty summers earlier, when the Daikvo had told him that they could not offer Saraykeht a replacement should Seedless slip its leash, Otah had known it was doomed.

  The genius of the Galts-of all the rest of the world, for that-was that they had built their power on ideas that could grow one on another. A better forge led to better metalwork led to stronger tools and so on to the end of their abilities. By contrast, the Empire, the Second Empire, the cities of the Khaiem: all of them had wielded unthinkable power and fashioned wonders. And when the first poet had bound the first andat, anything had been possible. Anything a mind could fathom could be harnessed; anything that could be thought could be done.

  But when the first andat had escaped and been harder to recapture, that potential had dropped a degree. Once a binding failed, each one that followed had to be different, and there were only so many ways to describe a thing fully enough to hold it as a slave. It was the central truth of the long, slow, dwindling of power that had brought them all here.

  It was like a man's life. For a time in his youth, Otah had been capable of anything. His body had been strong, his judgment so certain he'd been willing to kill a man. And every day and every decision had narrowed him. Every year had weakened his back and his knees, eaten at his sight and wrinkled his skin. Time had taken Kiyan from him. His judgment had lost him his daughter.

  He could have done anything, and he had chosen this. Or had it c
hosen for him.

  And he wasn't yet dead, so there were other choices still to be made. Other days and years to live through. Other duties and failures and disappointments he would be responsible for not making right. His anger with Idaan was perfectly comprehensible. He was enraged by her because she had seen to the heart of something he hadn't wanted to understand.

  He tried to imagine Kiyan sitting on the stone rail, smiling down at him the way she had. It was very, very easy.

  111'hat should I dot he asked the ghost his mind had conjured.

  You can do anything, love, she said, it's just that you can't do everything.

  Otah, Emperor of the Khaiem, wept, and he couldn't say how much was from sorrow and how much from relief.

  In the morning, he had the Master of Tides clear his schedule. He met with Balasar and Sinja first. The meeting room was blond stone, ornately carved. Otah had heard that the carvings illustrated some ancient epic, but he'd never bothered to consider it. They were only figures in stone, unmoving and incapable of change. Unlike the men.

  Balasar and Sinja sat across from each other, their spines straight and their expressions polite. They were divided by blood and broken faith. Otah poured the tea himself.

  "I am placing you in joint control of the fleets and what armsmen we have," Otah said. "Between the two of you, you will protect Chaburi-Tan from the raiders and bring the mercenary forces into compliance with their contracts. I've written an edict that officially grants you my unrestricted permissions."

  "Most High," Balasar said. His voice was careful and precise. "Forgive me, but is this wise? I am not one of your countrymen."

  "Of course you are," Otah said. "Once Danat and Ana marry, we will be a united empire. Are you refusing the command?"

  Sinja replied in the general's place.

  "We're an odd pairing, Most High," he said. "It might be better if-"

  "You've been my right hand for decades. You know our resources and our strengths. You're known and you're trusted," Otah said. "Balasar- cha's the best commander in Galt. You're both grown men."

  "What exactly do you want from us?" Balasar asked.

  "I want you to take this problem from me and fix it," Otah said. "I'm only one man, and I'm tired and overcommitted. Besides which, I'm a third-rate war leader, as I think we are all aware."

  Sinja coughed to cover laughter. Balasar leaned forward, stroking his chin and looking down as if he'd discovered something fascinating in the grain of the table before him. Slowly, he nodded. After that, it was only a matter of working out the wording of the edict to the satisfaction of Sinja and Balasar both.

  There would be trouble between them. That couldn't be avoided. But, Otah told himself, that was theirs to work. Not his. Not his any longer. He left the meeting room feeling oddly giddy.

  He had scheduled a similar meeting with Danat and Issandra Dasin concerning the politics of the court and the intermarriage of Galt and the Khaiem. And then he thought Ashua Radaani was the man to address the issues of the conspiracy between Yalakeht and Obar State. He wasn't certain of that yet. Panjit Dun might also do well with it.

  And once all that was done, all the best minds he could choose given their autonomy, he would closet himself with his sister and begin the work that couldn't be safely trusted to others: tracking Maati and whatever enemy among the courts of the utkhaiem had been supporting him.

  10

  Dawn crept over the school. The dark walls gained detail; the fragile lacing of frost burned away almost before it was visible. Birdsong that had begun in darkness grew in volume and complexity. The countless stars faded into the pale blue and rose of the east. Maati Vaupathai walked the perimeter of the school, his memory jogged with every new corner he turned. Here was the classroom where he'd first heard of the andat. There, the walkway where an older boy had beaten him for not taking the proper stance. The stables, empty now but for the few animals Eiah had brought, which Maati had made the younger boys clean with their bare hands after he had been elevated to the black robes of the older boys.

  Ever since his return, Maati had suffered moments when his mind would spiral back through time, unearthing memories as fresh as yesterday. This morning in particular, the past seemed present. He walked past the long-dead echoes of boys crying in their cots, the vanished scent of the caustic soap they'd used to wash the stone floors, the almostforgotten smell of young bodies and old food and misery. And then, just as memory threatened to sweep him away, he heard one of the girls. Large Kae singing, Irit's laughter, anything. The walls themselves shifted. The school became something new again, never seen in the world. Women poets, working together as the risen sun washed the haze from the air.

  When he stepped into the kitchen, the warmth of the fire and the damp of the steam made him feel like he was walking into summer. Eiah and Ashti Beg sat at the wide table, carving apples into slivers. An iron pot of rough-ground wheat, rice, and millet burped to itself over the fire. The gruel was soft and rich with buttercream and honey.

  "Maati-kvo!" Small Kae called, and he took a pose of welcome that the others matched. "There's fresh tea in the green pot. And that bowl there is clean. The blue one."

  "Eiah was just telling us about the news from Pathai," Ashti Beg said.

  "Little that there was of it," Eiah said. "Nothing to compare with what you were all doing here."

  "Nothing we did while you were away is going to compare with what we'll do next," Small Kae said. Her face was bright, her smile taut. She covered her fear with an unwillingness to conceive of defeat. Maati poured himself the tea. It smelled like fresh-picked leaves.

  "Have we seen Vanjit?" he asked and lowered himself to a cushion beside the fire. He grunted only a little bit.

  "Not yet," Eiah said. "Large Kae went to wake her."

  "Perhaps it would be better to let her sleep," Small Kae said. "It is her day, after all. It seems rude to make demands on her just because we all want to share it with her."

  Eiah smiled, but her gaze was on Maati. A private conversation passed between them, no longer than three heartbeats together. More would be decided today than Vanjit and Clarity-of-Sight. Likely they all knew as much, but no one would say the words. Maati filled a fresh bowl with the sweet grain, holding it out for Ashti Beg to cover with apple. He didn't answer Eiah's unspoken question: What will we do if she fails?

  Vanjit arrived before he had finished half the bowl. She wore a robe of deep blue shot with red, and her hair was woven with glass beads and carved shells. Her face was painted, her lips widened and red, her eyes touched by kohl. Maati hadn't even known she'd brought paints and baubles to the school. She had never worn them before, but this morning, she looked like the daughter of a Khai. When no one was looking, he took a pose of congratulation to Eiah. She replied with an inclination of the head and a tiny smile that admitted the change was her doing.

  "How did you sleep, Vanjit-cha?" Maati asked as she swept the hem of her robe aside and sat next to him.

  She took his hand and squeezed it, but didn't answer his question. Large Kae brought her a bowl of tea, Irit a helping of the grain and butter already covered with apple. Vanjit took a pose of thanks somewhat hampered by the food and drink.

  While they all ate, the conversation looped around the one concern they all shared. The Galts, the Emperor, the weather, the supplies Eiah had brought from Pathai, the species of insect peculiar to the dry lands around the school. Anything was a fit topic except Vanjit's binding and the fear that lay beneath all their merriment and pleasure.

  Vanjit alone seemed untouched by care. She was beautiful and, for the first time since Maati had met her, comfortable in her beauty. Her laughter seemed genuine and her movements relaxed. Maati thought he was seeing confidence in her, the assurance of a woman who was about to do a thing she had no thought might be beyond her. His opinion didn't change until after all the bowls had been gathered and rinsed, the cored apples and spilled grain swept up and carried away to the pit in the back of the
school, when she took him by the hand and led him gently aside.

  "I wanted to thank you," she said as they reached the bend of the wide hallway.

  "I can't see I've done anything worth it," he said. "If anything, I should be offering you…"

  There were tears brimming in her eyes, the shining water threatening her kohl. Maati took the end of his sleeve and dabbed her eyes gently. The brown cloth came away stained black.

  "After Udun," Vanjit began, then paused. "After what the Galts did to my brothers… my parents. I thought I would never have a family again. It was better that there not be anyone in my life that I cared for enough that it would hurt me to lose them."

  "Ah, now. Vanjit-kya. You don't need to think of that now."

  "But I do. I do. You are the closest thing I've had to a father. You are the most dedicated man I have ever known, and it has been an honor to be allowed a place in your work. And I've broken the promise I made myself. I will miss you."

  Maati took a pose that both disagreed and asked for clarification. Vanjit smiled and shook her head, the beads and shells in her braids clicking like claws on stone. He waited.

  "We both know that the chances are poor that I'll see the sunset," she said. Her voice was solemn and composed. "This grammar we've made is a guess. The forces at play are deadlier than fires or floods. If I were someone else, I wouldn't wager a length of copper on my chances if you offered me odds."

  "That isn't true," Maati said. He hadn't meant to shout, and lowered his voice when he spoke again. "That isn't true. We've done good work here. The equal of anything I learned from the Dai-kvo. Your chances are equal to the best any poet has faced. I'll swear to that if you'd like."

  "There's no call," she said. From down the hall, he heard voices in bright conversation. He heard laughter. Vanjit took his hand. He had never noticed how small her hands were. How small she was, hardly more than a child herself.