until he had finished.
"If you hold to this," he said, "thousands of people will die. Women and
children who are innocent of any crime."
"It's what they did to us," she said. 117hat they did to we. Maati
reached forward and took her hand.
"I understand," he said. "I won't tell you to undo this thing. But for
me, think carefully about how the burden of those deaths will weigh on
you. You're angry now, and anger gives you strength. But when it's
faded, you will still be responsible for what you've done."
"I will, Maati-kvo," Vanjit said.
Eiah made a sound in the back of her throat, its meaning unguessable.
Maati smiled and put a hand on Vanjit's shoulder.
"Well. That's settled. Now, I suppose it's time to get back to work.
Give these people in the low towns something to celebrate."
"You've done it, then, Eiah-kya?" Vanjit asked. "You've found the
insight you needed? You understand Wounded?"
Eiah was quiet for a moment, looking down at Vanjit and Clarity-ofSight.
Her lips twitched into a thin, joyless smile.
"Closer," Eiah said. "I've come closer."
17
Seeing Balasar Gice shook Otah more than he had expected. He had always
known that the general was not a large-framed man, but his presence had
always filled the room. Seeing him seated at a table by the window with
his eyes the gray of old pearls, Otah felt he was watching the man die.
The robes seemed too large on him, or his shoulders suddenly grown small.
Outside the window, the morning sun lit the sea. Gulls called and
complained to one another. A small plate had the remnants of fresh
cheese and cut apple; the cheese flowed in the day's heat, the pale
flesh of the apple had gone brown. Otah cleared his throat. Balasar
smiled, but didn't bother turning his head toward the sound.
"Most High?" Balasar asked.
"Yes," Otah said. "I came ... I came when I heard."
"I am afraid Sinja will have to do without my aid," Balasar said, his
voice ironic and bleak. "It seems I'll be in no condition to sail."
Otah leaned against the window's ledge, his shadow falling over Balasar.
The general turned toward him. His voice was banked rage, his expression
impotence.
"Did you know, Otah? Did you know what they were doing?"
"This wasn't my doing," Otah said. "I swear that."
"My life was taking your god-ghosts out of the world. I thought we'd
done it. Even after what you bastards did to me, to all of us, I was
content trying to make peace. I lost my men to it, and I lived with that
because the loss meant something. However desperate the cost, at least
we'd be rid of the fucking andat. And now. .
Balasar struck the table with an open palm, the report like stone
breaking. Otah lifted his hands toward a pose that offered comfort, and
then stopped and let his arms fall to his sides.
"I'm sorry," Otah said. "I will send my best agents to find the new poet
and resolve this. Until then, all of you will be cared for and-"
Balasar's laughter was a bark.
"Where do I begin, Most High? We will all be cared for? Do you really
think this has only happened to the Galts who came to your filthy city?
I will wager any odds you like that everyone back home is suffering the
same things we are. How many fishermen were on their boats when it
happened? How many people were traveling the roads? You could no more
care for all of us than pluck the moon out of the sky."
"I'm sorry for that," Otah said. "Once we've found the poet and talked
to . . ." He stumbled on his words, caught between the expected him and
the more likely her.
Balasar gestured to him, palms up as if displaying something small and
obvious.
"If it wasn't your pet andat that did this, then what hope do you have
of resolving anything?" Balasar asked. "They may have left you your
sight for the moment, but there's nothing you can do. It's the andat.
There's no defense. There's no counterattack that means anything. Gather
your armsmen. Take to the field. Then come back and die beside us. You
can do nothing."
This is my daughter's work, Otah thought but didn't say. I can hope that
she still loves me enough to listen.
"You've never felt this," Balasar said. "The rest of us? The rest of the
world? We know what it is to be faced with the andat. You can't end
this. You can't even negotiate. You have no standing now. The best you
can do is beg."
"Then I will beg," Otah said.
"Enjoy that," Balasar said, sitting back in his chair. It was like
watching a showfighter collapse at the end of a match. The vitality, the
anger, the violence snuffed out, and the general was only a small Galtic
man with crippled eyes, waiting for some kind soul to take away the
remains of his uneaten meal. Otah rose and walked quietly from the room.
All through the city, the scenes were playing out. Men and women who had
been well the night before were in states of rage and despair. They
blundered into the unfamiliar streets, screaming, swinging whatever
weapon came to hand at anyone who tried to help them. Or else they wept.
Or, like Balasar, folded in upon themselves. The last was the most terrible.
Balasar had been only the first stop in Otah's long, painful morning
journey. He'd meant to call on each of the high councillors, to promise
his efforts at restoration and the best of care until then. The general
had spoiled the plan. Otah did see two more men, made the same
declarations. Neither of the others scoffed, but Otah could see that his
words rang as hollow as a gourd.
Instead of the third councillor, Otah went back to his palaces. He
prayed as he walked, that some message would have come from Idaan. None
had. Instead, his audience chambers were filled with the utkhaiem, some
in fine robes hastily thrown on, others still in whatever finery they
had slept in. The sound of their voices competing one over another was
louder than surf and as incomprehensible. Everywhere he walked, their
eyes turned toward him. Otah walked with a grave countenance, his spine
as straight as he could keep it. He greeted the shock and the fear with
the same equanimity as the expressions of joy.
There was more joy than he had expected. More than he had hoped. The
andat had come back to the world, and the Galts made to suffer, and that
was somehow a cause to celebrate. Otah didn't respond to those calls,
but he did begin a mental catalog of who precisely was laughing, who
weeping. Someday, he told himself, someday the best of these men and
women would be rewarded, the worst left behind. Only he didn't know how.
In his private rooms, the servants fluttered like moths. No schedules
were right, no plans were made. Orders from the Master of Tides