"I can't stop it," Maati said. "It's already happened."
"You should never have been a poet," Sterile said, standing as it spoke.
"You failed the tests. The strength to stand on your own, and the
compassion to turn away from cruelty. "Those are what the I)ai-kvo asked
of you."
"I did my best," Maati breathed.
"You were told," it said and turned to Otah. "You went to him. When you
were both boys, you warned him that the school wasn't as it seemed. You
told him it was a test. You gave the game away. And hecause he knew, he
passed. He would have failed without you, and this could never have
happened."
"I don't believe you," Otah said.
"It doesn't matter what you think," it said. "Only what he knows.
\Iaati-kvo made an instrument of slaughter, and he made it in fear; that
makes it a failure of both his lessons. A generation of women will know
him as the man who stole motherhood from them. The men of Galt will hate
him for unmanning them. You, Maati Vaupathai, will he the one who took
their children from them."
"I did . . ." Nlaati began, and his voice fell to nothing. lie sat down,
his legs seeming to collapse beneath him. Otah tried to speak, but his
throat was dry. It was Eiah, cradled in his arms, who broke the silence.
"Stop it," she said. "Leave him alone. He never did anything mean to you.
The andat smiled. Its teeth were pale as snow and sharp.
"I Ie did something mean to win, Fiah-kya," it said. "You'll grow to
know how badly he's hurt you. It may take you years to understand. It
may take a lifetime."
"I don't care!" I?iah veiled. "1'ou Ieave uncle Nlaati alone!"
And as if the words themselves were power, it vanished. The dark robes
fell empty to the stone floor. The only sounds were Eiah's pained breath
and the moaning of the cite. The Khai Cetani licked his lips and looked
uneasily at Otah. Maati stared at the ground between his hands.
""They'll never forgive this," Cchmai said. "The Galts will kill us to a
man."
Otah smoothed a hand over his daughter's brow. Confronting the andat
seemed to have taken what strength she had. I ter face was pale, and he
could see the small twitching in her body that spoke of fresh pain. He
kissed her gently where her forehead met her hair, and she put her arms
around him, whimpering so softly that only he could hear it. Therc was
blood soaking through her robe just below where the cloth widened at her
hips.
"No. They won't. Cehmai," Otah said, his voice seeming to cone from far
away. Ile was surprised to hear how calm he sounded. ""lake Nlaati. Get
out of the city. It won't be safe for either of you here."
"It won't be safe for us anywhere," Cehmai said. "We could make for the
Westlands when spring comes. Or Eddensea-"
"Go now, and don't tell me where. I don't want the option of finding
you. Do you understand?" lie looked up at Cehmai's wide, startled eyes.
"I have my daughter here, and that's had enough. When I see my Wife, I
don't want you anywhere I can find you."
Cehmai opened his mouth, as if to speak, and then closed it again and
silently took a pose that accepted Utah's command. Nlaati looked up, his
eyes brimming and red. 'T'here was no begging in his expression, no
plea. Only remorse and resignation. If he could have moved without
disturbing Eiah, Utah would have embraced the man, comforted him as best
he could. And still lie would have sent Nlaati away. Ile could see that
his old friend knew that. Nlaati's thick hands took a formal pose of
leave-taking, appropriate to the beginning of a long journey or else a
funeral. Utah took one that accepted the apology he had not offered.
"'i'he Galts," the Khai (:etani said. "What about the Galts?"
Utah reached his arms tinder Eiah, one under her shoulder blades, the
other at her knees, and lifted her into his lap. 't'hen, straining, lie
stood. She was heavier than he remembered. It had been years since lie
had carried her. She had been smaller then, and lie had been younger.
"We'll find the trumpeter and call the attack," Otah said. "Listen to
them. If they're as had as she is, they'll barely be able to fight.
We'll drive them hack out of the city if we do it now."
The Khai Cetani's eyes brightened, his shoulders pulled back. With a pit
dog's grin, he took a pose that mirrored Cehmai's. The command accepted.
Utah nodded.
"I lai! YOU!" the Khai Cetani yelled toward the servants, bouncing on
the balls of his feet. "Get the trumpeter. Have him sound the attack.
And a blade! Find me a blade, and another for the Emperor!"
"No," Utah said. "Not for me. I have my daughter to see to."
And before anyone could make the mistake of objecting, Otah turned his
back on them all, carrying Fiah to the stairway, and then down into
darkness.
26
What would have happened, Balasar wondered, if he had not tried?
It had been a thing from nightmare. Balasar had moved his men like
stones on a playing board, shifting them from street to street, building
to building. He had kept them as sheltered as possible from the
inconstant, killing rain of stones and arrows that fell from the towers.
The square that he chose for the rallying point was only a few streets
south of the opening where he expected to lead them down into the soft
belly of the city, and difficult for the towers to reach. The snow was
above his ankles now, but Balasar didn't feel the cold. His blood was
singing to him, and he could not keep from grinning. The first of the
forces from the palaces was falling back to join his own, the body of
his army growing thick. He paced among them, bracing his men and letting
himself be seen. It was in their eyes too: the glow of the coming
victory, the relief that they would have shelter from the cold. That
winter would not take them.
He formed them into ranks, reminded the captains of the tactics they'd
planned for fighting in the tunnels. It was to be slow and systematic.
The important thing was always to have an open airway; the locals should
never be allowed to close them in and kill them with smoke or fire.
There would he no hurry-the line mustn't spread thin. Balasar could see
in their faces that discipline would hold.
A few local fighters made assaults on the square and were cut down in
their turn. Brave men, and stupid. The trumpets of the enemy had sounded
out, giving away their positions with their movements, their signals a
cacophony of amateur coordination. The white sky was slowly growing
gray-the sun setting or else the clouds growing thicker. Balasar didn't
know. He'd lost track of time's passage. It hardly mattered. His men
stood ready. His men. The army that he'd led half across the world to
this last battle. He could not have been more proud of them all if