Cehmai and Maati. The Khai Cetani and his family too, if they're here.
He'll burn the hooks. But he'd accept surrender from the utkhaiem after
that. It's a dozen or so people. There's no way to do this that kills
fewer."
Otah felt himself rock hack. A terrible weight seemed to fall on his
shoulders. He wouldn't. Of course he would not. He would let every man
and woman in the city die before he offered up his children to be
slaughtered, but it meant that every one that died in the next few days
would be doubly upon his conscience. Every life that ended here, ended
because he had refused to he a sacrifice. He swallowed to loosen the
knot in his throat and took a pose that dismissed the subject.
"I had to say it," Sinja said, apologizing with his tone.
"You didn't say my name," Kiyan said. Her eyes turned to Sinja's. "Why
didn't you say my name?"
"Well, assuming that you don't all opt for slaughter, there is one other
thing we have in our favor," Sinja said. ""They sent me here to betray
you. Kiyan's safety was my asking price. They expect a report from me
when they arrive. If I give them had information, we may he able to trap
some of them. Thin their forces. It won't win the battle, but it could
help."
Otah raised his hand, and the mercenary stopped. Kiyan was the one who
took a querying pose, and it was to Kiyan that he answered.
"The general. Balasar-cha. He doesn't want a bloody battle. He wants it
over quickly, with as few of his men lost as he can manage. I agreed to
come here and discover your defenses if he spared you. Gave you to me
when it was all over with. Prize of war. It's not all that uncommon.
Kiyan rose, her small foxlike face turned feral. Her fingers were
splayed in claws, and her chest pressed forward like a bantam ready for
the fighting pit. Otah's heart warmed with something like pride.
,,If you let them touch l iah and Danat, I would kill you in your
sleep," she said.
"But Balasar-cha doesn't know that," Sinja said, shrugging and looking
into the fire. He couldn't meet her eyes. "He expects a report from me,
and I'll give him one. I'll give him whatever report you'd like."
"Gods," Kiyan said, her eyes still ablaze. "Is there anyone you haven't
betrayed?"
Sinja smiled, but Otah thought there was sorrow in his dark eyes.
"Yes, there is. But she was in love with someone else."
Cchmai coughed, embarrassed. Otah raised his hands.
"Enough," he said. "We haven't got time for this. We may have a little
as a day to get ready. Maati, you prepare your binding. Cehmai will help
you. Kiyan. Liat. You've arranged food and quarters for two cities. Do
what you can to arm them and keep people from panicking. Sinja and I
will work out a plan to defend the city and a report to deliver to the
Galts."
Kiyan's eyes carried a question, but Otah didn't answer. There was no
reason to trust Sinja-cha. It was just the risk he chose to take.
Servants brought maps of the city, of the low towns to the south, and
the mountains and mines to the North. Machi hadn't been built to
withstand a war; there were no walls to defend, no pits that the enemy
would have to bridge. The only natural barrier-the river-was already
frozen solid enough to walk across. Any real defense would have to he on
the black-cobbled streets, in the alleys and tunnels and towers. They
talked late into the night, joined by the Khai Cetani and Ashua Radaani,
Saya the blacksmith and Kiyan when she wasn't out among the tunnels
spreading the word and making preparations. Sinja's shame, if it was
still there, was hidden and his advice was well considered. By morning,
even the Khai Cetani suffered interruption from Sinja-cha. Otah took it
as another sign that the Khai had changed.
If things went poorly, there was still the mine in the northern moun
tains. A few people could take shelter there. Eiah and I)anat. Nayiit.
If the binding failed, they could send Nlaati and Cehmai there as well,
sneaking them out the hack of the palace in a fast cart while the battle
was still alive. Otah didn't imagine that he would be there with them,
and Sinja didn't question him.
Afterward, Otah looked in on his children, both asleep in their
chamhers. 1-IC found the library where Cehmai and Nlaati were still
arguing over points of grammar so obscure he could hardly make sense of
them. The night candle was guttering and spitting when Otah came at last
to his bed. Kiyan sat with him in silence for a time. IIe touched her,
tracing the curve of her cheek with the knuckles of one hand.
"I)o you believe Sinja?" he asked.
"What part of it?"
"I)o you think that this General Gicc really believes the andat arc too
dangerous to exist? That he wants them destroyed? What he said about
killing the poet ... I don't know what to think of that."
"If burning the library is really one of his demands, then maybe," Kiyan
said. "I can't think he'd want the hooks and scrolls burned if he hoped
to hind more andat of his own."
Otah nodded, and lay hack, his gaze turned toward the ceiling above him,
dark as a moonless sky.
"I'm not sure he's wrong," Otah said.
Wordless, she drew his mouth to hers, guided his hands. Ile would have
thought himself too tired for the physical act of love, but she proved
him wrong. Afterward, she lay at his side, her fingertips tracing the
ink that had been worked into his skin when he had been an eastern
islander leading one of his previous lives. He slept deeply and with a
feeling of peace utterly unjustified by the situation.
He woke alone, called in the servants who bathed and dressed a Khai. Or,
however briefly, an Emperor. Black robes, shot with red. "Thick-woven
wool layered with waxed silk. Robes of colors chosen for war and
designed for cold. He took himself up through the great galleries,
rising toward the surface and the light, being seen by the utkhaiem of
both NIachi and Cetani, by the common laborers hurrying to throw vast
cartfuls of rubble into the minor entrances to the underground, by the
merchants and couriers. The food sellers and beggars. The city.
The sky was white and gray, vast and empty as a blank page. Crows
commented to one another, their voices dispassionate and considering as
low-town judges. High above, the towers of Machi loomed, and smoke rose
from the sky doors-the sign that men were up there in the thin, distant
air burning coal and wood to warm their hands, preparing for the battle.
Otah stood on the steps of his palace, the hitter cold numbing his
cheeks and biting at his nose and ears, the world smelling of smoke and
the threat of snow. Distant and yet clear, like the voice of a ghost,
hells began to ring in the towers and great yellow banners unfurled like
the last, desperate unfallen leaves of the vast stone trees.