remembered the pleasant near-exhaustion at the end of a long day's ride,
and his present pain had little in common with it. He thought about
sitting on the cool, wet grass. He was more than half afraid that once
he sat down, he wouldn't be able to stand.
Behind him, the kilns of the steamcarts had been opened, and the armsmen
were cooking birds over the coals. The smaller of the two sheds perched
atop the steamcarts had been opened to reveal tightly rolled blankets,
crates of soft fuel coal, and earthenware jars inscribed with symbols
for seeds, raisins, and salted fish. As Otah watched, Danat emerged from
the second shed, standing alone in the shadows at the end of the cart.
One of the armsmen struck up a song, and the others joined in. It was
the kind of thing Otah himself would have done, back when he had been a
different man.
"Danat-kya," he said when he'd walked close enough to be heard over the
good cheer of their companions. His son squatted at the edge of the
cart, and then sat. In the light from the kilns, Danat seemed little
more than a deeper shadow, his face hidden. "There are some things we
should discuss."
"There are," Danat said, and his voice pulled Otah back.
Otah shifted to sit at his son's side. Something in his left knee
clicked, but there was no particular pain, so he ignored it. Danat laced
his fingers.
"You're angry that I've come?" Otah said.
"No," Danat said. "It's not ... not that, quite. But I hadn't thought
that you would be here, or that we'd be going west. I made arrangements
with my own plan set, and you've changed it."
"I can apologize. But this is the right thing. I can't swear that Pathai
is-
"That's not what I'm trying ... Gods," Danat said. He turned to his
father, his eyes catching the kiln light and flashing with it. "Come on.
You might as well know."
Danat shifted, rose, and walked across the wide, wooden back of the
steamcart. The shed's door was shut fast. As Otah pulled himself up,
grunting, Danat worked a thick iron latch. The armsmen's singing
faltered. Otah was aware of eyes fixed upon them, though he couldn't see
the men as more than silhouettes.
Otah made his way to the shed's open door. Inside was pure darkness.
Danat stood, latch in his hand, silent. Otah was about to speak when
another voice came from the black.
"Danat?" Ana Dasin asked. "Is it you?"
"It is," Danat said. "And my father."
Gray-eyed, the Galtic girl emerged from the darkness. She wore a blouse
of simple cotton, a skirt like a peasant worker's. Her hands moved
before her, testing the air until they found the wood frame of the
shed's door. Otah must have made a sound, because she turned as if to
look at him, her gaze going past him and into nothing. He almost took a
pose of formal greeting but stopped himself.
"Ana-cha," he said.
"Most High," she replied, her chin high, her brows raised.
"I didn't expect to see you here," he said.
"I went to her as soon as I heard what had happened," Danat said. "I
swore it was nothing that we'd done. We hadn't been trying to recapture
the andat. She didn't believe me. When I decided to go, I asked her to
come. As a witness. We've left word for Farrer-cha. Even if he
disapproves, it doesn't seem he'd be able to do much about it before we
returned."
"You know this is madness," Otah said softly.
Ana Dasin frowned, hard lines marking her face. But then she nodded.
"It makes very little difference whether I die in the city or on the
road," she said. "If this isn't treachery on the part of the Khaiem,
then I don't see that I have anything to fear."
"We are on an improvised campaign against powers we cannot match. I can
name half-a-dozen things to fear without stopping to think," Otah said.
He sighed, and the Galtic girl's expression hardened. Otah went on,
letting a hint of bleak amusement into his voice. "But I suppose if
you've come, you've come. Welcome to our hunt, Ana-cha."
He nodded to his son and stepped back. Her voice recalled him.
"Most High," she said. "I want to believe Danat. I want to think that he
had nothing to do with this."
"He didn't," Otah said. The girl weighed his words, and then seemed to
accept them.
"And you?" she said. "Was any of this yours?"
Otah smiled. The girl couldn't see him, but Danat did.
"Only my inattention," Otah said. "It's a failure I've come to correct."
"So the andat can blind you as easily as he has us," Ana said, stepping
out of the shed and onto the steamcart. "You aren't protected any more
than I am."
"That's true," Otah said.
Ana went silent, then smiled. In the dim light of the fire, he could see
her mother in the shape of her cheek.
"And yet you take our side rather than ally with the poets," she said.
"So which of us is mad?"
18
The snow fell and stayed, as deep as Maati's three fingers together. The
winds of autumn whistled through the high, narrow windows that had never
known glass. The women-Eiah, Irit, and the two Kaeswere in a small room,
clustered around a brazier and talking with hushed fervor about grammar
and form, the distinctions between age and wounds and madness. Vanjit,
wrapped in thick woolen robes and a cloak of waxed silk, was sitting on
a high wall, her gaze to the east. She sang lullabies to
Clarity-of-Sight, and her voice would have been beautiful if she'd been
cradling a real babe. Maati considered interrupting her or else
returning to the work with the others, but both options were worse than
remaining alone. He turned away from the great bronze door and retreated
into the darkness.
It would be only weeks until winter was upon them. Not the killing
storms of the north, but enough that even the short journey to Pathai
would become difficult. He tried to imagine the long nights and cold
that waited for him, for all of them, and he wondered how they would
manage it.
A darkness had taken Eiah since her return. He saw it in her eyes and
heard the rasp of it in her voice, but there was no lethargy about it.
She was awake before him every morning and took to her bed long after
sunset. Her attention was bent to the work of her binding, and her
ferocity seemed to pull the others in her wake. Only Vanjit held herself
apart, attending only some of Eiah's discussions. It was as if there
were a set amount of attention, and as Eiah bore down, Vanjit floated up
like a kite. Maati, caught between the pair, only felt tired and sick
and old.
It had been years since he had lived in one place, and then it had been
as the permanent guest of the Khai Machi. He had had a library, servants