And that was the nature of the journey. Tragedy lay behind them, and
desperate uncertainty ahead. He was gnawed by his fears and his guilt
and his sorrow, but his sister was there, laughing with him. His son.
The river was cold and uncomfortable and beautiful. Every day meant more
dead, and yet there was no way for them to move faster than the boat
would carry them. Otah knew that as a younger man, he would have been
sitting at the bow, frowning at the water as if by will alone he could
make things into something they weren't. As an old one, he was able to
put it all aside for as much as a hand at a time, holding his energy for
the moment when it might effect a change and resting until then. Perhaps
it was what the philosophers meant by wisdom.
Somewhere ahead, Maati and Eiah and the new poet were making their own
way to Utani and, he thought, the proclamation of their victory. Perhaps
Eiah would bind her andat as well, and return to the women of the
Khaiate cities their wombs. There would be children again, a new
generation to take the place of the old. All that would be sacrificed
was Galt, and the world would be put back as it was. An empire now,
instead of a scattering of cities, but with the andat, slaves of spirit
and will, putting them above the rest of the world.
Until a new Balasar Gice found a way to bring it all down, and the cycle
of suffering and desperation began anew.
"You've gone solemn," Idaan said.
"Steeling myself for failure," Otah said. "We'll be on them soon, I
think. And ..."
"You've been thinking about forgiveness," Idaan said. Otah looked at
Ana, listening, rapt. Idaan shook her head. "The girl's strong enough to
know the truth. There's no virtue in softening it."
"Please," Ana said.
Otah took a deep breath and let it slide out between his teeth. River
water traced a cold path down his back. On the east bank, half a hundred
crows took to the air, startled by something on the ground or just one
another.
"If we lose Galt," Otah said, stopped, and began again, more slowly. "If
we lose Galt, I don't believe I can forgive them. I know what you said,
and Danat. I should. I should do whatever it takes to stop all this,
even if it means agreeing that I've lost, but it's beyond me. I'm too
old to forgive anymore, and ..."
"And," Idaan said, making it sound like agreement.
"I don't understand," Ana said.
"That's because you haven't killed anyone," Idaan said. Otah looked up
at her. Idaan's eyes were dark but not unsympathetic. When she went on,
the words were addressed to Ana, but her gaze was fixed on his. "There
are some things about my brother that few people know. His best friend,
Maati, was one who knew his secrets. And because of Maati, Cehmai. And
so I am also one of the few to know what happened all those years ago in
Saraykeht."
To his surprise, Otah found himself weeping silently. Ana leaned
forward, her brow fierce.
"What happened?" she asked.
"I killed a good man. An honorable, unwell man with a wounded soul,"
Otah said softly. "I strangled him to death in a little room off a
mud-paved alley in the soft quarter."
"Why?" Ana asked.
The answers to that seemed so intricate, so complex, he couldn't find words.
Idaan could.
"To save Galt," she said. "If the man had lived, all of Galt would have
at least suffered horribly, and likely been wiped from the map. Otah had
the choice of condemning his city or letting thousands upon thousands
upon thousands of your countrymen die. He chose to betray Saraykeht.
He's carried it ever since. He's ordered men killed in war. He's
sentenced them to death. But he's only ever ended one life himself. Seen
something that had been a man become only a body. If you haven't done
it, it's a hard thing to understand."
"That's truth," Otah said.
"And along with all the other insults and injuries and pain that he's
caused. Along with the deaths," Idaan said, sorrow and amusement mixed
in her voice, "Maati Vaupathai has taken away the thing that made Otah's
slaughter bearable. He took away the reason for it. Galt is dying anyway."
"I also did it for Maati," Otah said. "If I hadn't, he'd be fighting
against Seedless today."
"And I wouldn't have been born," Ana said. She put out a wavering hand
to him, and Otah took it. Her grasp was stronger than he'd expected.
There were tears in her milky eyes. "I won't forgive him either."
Idaan sighed.
"Well," his sister said, "at least we'll be damned for what we are."
The second sang something from the bow, a high trill that ended in words
Otah couldn't make sense of. The paddle wheel, in the stern, shifted and
creaked, the deck beneath him lurching. Otah stood, unsteadily.
"Sandbar," Danat called to him. "It's all right. We're fine."
"Ah, well then. You see?" Idaan said with a chuckle. "We're fine."
They stayed on the river as long into the twilight as they could. Otah
could see the unease in the boatman's expression and hear it in his
voice. Otah's assumption was that the boats would travel at nearly the
same speed. The gap between his party and Maati's would only keep
narrowing if he pushed farther past the point of safety than they were
willing to do. He thought his chances good. Maati, after all, had all
the power, and time was his ally. There was no reason that he should rush.
They put in at a riverfront town half a hand after sundown. A small,
rotting peer. A pack of half-feral dogs baying at the boatman's second
as he made the boat fast and stretched a wide, arching bridge between
the deck and the land. A handful of lights in the darkness that showed
where lanterns burned like fireflies in the night.
While the armsmen unloaded their crates and skipped stones at the dogs'
feet, Otah led Ashti Beg across to solid land, Idaan and Ana close
behind. In the night, the moon and stars obscured by almost-bare
branches, Otah felt hardly more sure of himself than did Ashti Beg. But
then a local boy appeared with a lantern dancing at the end of a pole to
lead them to the wayhouse. They walked slowly despite the cold, as if
sitting on the deck all day had been the most wearying work imaginable.
Otah found himself walking to one side of the group, hanging back with
Danat at his side. It wasn't until his son spoke that Otah noticed that
he'd been herded there like an errant sheep.
"I'm sorry, Papa-kya," Danat said, softly. "I need to speak with you."
Otah took a pose that granted his permission.
"You spoke with Ana earlier," Danat said. "I saw she took your hand. It
looked ... it looked like she was crying."
"Yes," Otah said.
"Was it about me?" Danat asked. "Was it something I've done wrong?"