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Authors: Daniel Abraham

BOOK: Seasons of War
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‘And you’ve worked your whole life in House Kyaan, then?’ Maati asked. ‘What does Liat have you doing?’
‘Since we’ve been traveling, I haven’t been doing much at all. Before that, I had been working the needle trades,’ Nayiit said as he tucked one leg up under him. It made him sit taller. ‘The spinners, the dyers, the tailors, and the sailmakers and all like that. They aren’t as profitable as they were in the days before Seedless was lost, but they still make up a good deal of the business in Saraykeht.’
‘Habits,’ Maati said. ‘The cotton trade’s always been in Saraykeht. People don’t like change, so it doesn’t move away so quickly as it might. Another generation and it’ll all be scattered throughout the world.’
‘Not if I do my work,’ Nayiit said with a smile that showed he hadn’t taken offense.
‘Fair point,’ Maati said. ‘I only mean that’s what you have to work against. It would be easier if there was still an andat in the city that helped with the cotton trade the way Seedless did.’
‘You knew it, didn’t you? Seedless, I mean.’
‘I was supposed to take him over,’ Maati said. ‘The way Cehmai took Stone-Made-Soft from his master, I was to take Seedless from Heshai-kvo. In a way, I was lucky. Seedless was flawed work. Dangerously flawed. Brilliant, don’t misunderstand. Heshai-kvo did brilliant work when he bound Seedless, but he made the andat very clever and profoundly involved with destroying the poet. They all want to be free - it’s their nature - but Seedless was more than that. He was vicious.’
‘You sound as though you were fond of it,’ Nayiit said, only half-teasing.
‘We were friendly enough, in our fashion,’ Maati said. ‘We wouldn’t have been if things had gone by the Dai-kvo’s plan. If I’d become the poet of Saraykeht, Seedless would have bent himself to destroying me just the way he had to Heshai-kvo.’
‘Have you ever tried to bind one of the andat?’
‘Once. When Heshai died, I had the mad thought that I could somehow retrieve Seedless. I had Heshai-kvo’s notes. Still have them, for that. I even began the ceremonies, but it would never have worked. What I had was too much like what Heshai had done. It would have failed, and I’d have paid its price.’
‘And then I suppose I would never have been born,’ Nayiit said.
‘You would have,’ Maati said, solemnly. ‘Liat-kya didn’t know she was carrying you when she stopped me, but she was. I thought about it, afterward. About binding another of the andat, I mean. I even spent part of a winter once doing the basic work for one I called Returning-to-True. I don’t know what I would have done with it, precisely. Unbent things, I suppose. I’d have been brilliant repairing axles. But my mind was too fuzzy. There were too many things I meant, and none of them precisely enough.’
The musicians ended their song and stood to a roar of approving voices and bowls of wine bought by their admirers. One of the old men walked through the house with a lacquer begging box in his hand. Maati fumbled in his sleeve, came out with two lengths of copper, and tossed them into the box with a satisfying click.
‘And then, I also wasn’t in the Dai-kvo’s best graces,’ Maati continued. ‘After Saraykeht . . . Well, I suppose it’s poor etiquette to let your master die and the andat escape. I wasn’t blamed outright, but it was always hanging there. The memory of it.’
‘It can’t have helped that you brought back a lover and a child,’ Nayiit said.
‘No, it didn’t. But I was very young and very full of myself. It’s not easy, being told that you are of the handful of men in the world who might be able to control one of the andat. Tends to create a sense of being more than you are. I thought I could do anything. And maybe I could have, but I tried to do
everything
, and that isn’t the same.’ He sighed and ate a pea pod. Its flesh was crisp and sweet and tasted of spring. When he spoke again, he tried to make his voice light and joking. ‘I didn’t wind up doing a particularly good job of either endeavor.’
‘It seems to me you’ve done well enough,’ Nayiit said as he waved at the serving boy for more wine. ‘You’ve made yourself a place in the court here, you’ve been able to study in the libraries here, and from what Mother says, you’ve found something no one else ever has. That alone is more than most men manage in a lifetime.’
‘I suppose,’ Maati said. He wanted to go on, wanted to say that most men had children, raised them up, watched them become women and men. He wanted to tell this charming boy who stood now where Maati himself once had that he regretted that he had not been able to enjoy those simple pleasures. Instead, he took another handful of pea pods. He could tell that Nayiit sensed his reservations, heard the longing in the brevity of his reply. When the boy spoke, his tone was light.
‘I’ve spent all my life - well, since I’ve been old enough to think of it as really mine and not something Mother’s let me borrow - with House Kyaan. Running errands, delivering contracts. That’s how I started, at least. Mother always told me I had to do better than the other boys who worked for the house because I was her son, and if people thought I was getting favors because of it, they wouldn’t respect her or me. She was right. I can see that. At the time it all seemed monstrously unfair, though.’
‘Do you like the work?’ Maati asked.
The girl with the drum began tapping a low tattoo, her voice droning in a lament. Maati shifted to look at Nayiit. The boy’s gaze was fixed on the singer, his expression melancholy. The urge to put his hand to Nayiit’s shoulder, to offer some comfort, however powerless, moved through Maati and faded. He sat still and quiet as the chant rose, the anguish in the singer’s voice growing until the air of the teahouse hummed with it, and then it faded into despair. The man with the lacquer box came past again, but Maati didn’t put in any copper this time.
‘You and Mother. You’re lovers again?’
‘I suppose so,’ Maati said, surprised to feel a blush in his cheeks. ‘It happens sometimes.’
‘What happens when you’re called away to the Dai-kvo?’
‘Are we walking the same path a second time, you mean? We’re waiting to hear two things from the Dai-kvo - whether he thinks my speculations about avoiding the price of a failed binding are worth looking into and whether to act against Galt. Either one puts me someplace away from Liat. But we aren’t who we were then. I don’t pretend that we can be. And anyway, I have all the habits of being without her. I’ve missed her for more years than I spent in her company.’
I have missed you, he thought but didn’t say. I have missed you, and it’s too late now for anything more than awkward conversations and late nights getting drunk together. Nothing will ever make that right.
‘Do you regret that?’ Nayiit asked. ‘If you could go back and do things again, would you want to love her less? Would you want to have gone to the Dai-kvo and been able to leave that . . . that longing behind you?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Nayiit looked up.
‘I would hate her, if I were you. I would think she’d taken my chance to be what I was supposed to be, to do what I could have done. There you were, a poet, and favored enough that you were expected to hold the andat, and because of her you fell into disfavor. Because of her, and because of me.’ Nayiit’s jaw clenched, his eyes only a half shade darker than the pale brown of his mother’s staring at something that wasn’t there, his attention turned inward. ‘I don’t know how you stand the sight of us.’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Maati said. ‘It was never like that. If it were all mine again, I would have followed her.’
The words struck the boy hard. His gaze lost its focus; his mouth tightened like that of a man in pain.
‘What is it, Nayiit-kya?’
Nayiit seemed to snap back to the room, an embarrassed grin on his face. He took a pose of apology, but Maati shook his head.
‘Something’s bothering you,’ Maati said.
‘It’s nothing. I’ve only . . . It’s not worth talking about.’
‘Something’s bothering you, son.’
He had never said the word aloud.
Son
. Nayiit had never heard it from his lips, not since he’d been too young for it to mean anything. Maati felt his heart leap and race like a startled deer, and he saw the shock on the boy’s face. This was the moment, then, that he’d feared and longed for. He waited to hear what Nayiit would say. Maati dreaded the polite deflection, the retreat back into the roles of a pair of strangers in a tearoom, the way a man falling from a cliff might dread the ground.
Nayiit opened his mouth, closed it, and then said, almost too low to hear over the music and the crowd, ‘I’m trying to choose between what I am and what I want to be. I’m trying to want what I’m supposed to want. And I’m failing.’
‘I see.’
‘I want to be a good man, Father. I want to love my wife and my son. I want to
want
them. And I don’t. I don’t know whether to walk away from them or from myself. I thought you had made that decision, but . . .’
Maati settled back on the bench, put down his bowl still half full of wine, and took Nayiit’s hand in his own. Father. Nayiit had said
Father
.
‘Tell me,’ Maati said. ‘Tell me all of it.’
‘It would take all night,’ the boy said with a rueful chuckle. But he didn’t pull back his hand.
‘Let it,’ Maati said. ‘There’s nothing more important than this.’
 
Balasar hadn’t slept. The night had come, a late rain shower filling the air with the scent of water and murmur of distant thunder, and he had lain in his bed, willing himself to a forgetfulness that wouldn’t come.
The orders waited in stacks on his desk in the library, commands to be issued to each of his captains, outlining the first stage of his campaign. There were two sets, of course, just as the Khaiate mercenary captain had surmised. Those he’d sealed in green would lead the army to the North, laying waste to the Westlands and sending the thin stream of gold and silver that could be wrung from them back to the coffers of the High Council. Those he’d sealed in red would wheel the army - twenty thousand armsmen, three hundred steam wagons, six thousand horses, and God only knew how many servants and camp followers - to the east and the most glorious act of conquest the world had ever known.
If he succeeded, he would be remembered as the greatest general in history, at least in his audacity. The battles themselves he expected to be simple enough. The Khaiem had no experience in tactics and no armies to protect them. Balasar would be remembered for two things only: the unimaginable wealth he was about to pour into Galt and the ceremony that would come with the dawn. The plot that stripped the andat from the world.
As the dark hours passed, the thought pricked at him. He had put everything in place. The poet, the books that concerned Freedom-From-Bondage, the army, the arms. There was nothing he would ever do that would match this season. Succeed or fail, this was the high-water mark of his life. He imagined himself an old man, sitting at a street café in Kirinton. He wondered what those years would be like, reaching from here to the grave. He wondered what it would be like to have his greatness behind him. He told himself that he would retire. There would be enough wealth to acquire anything he wanted. A reasonable estate of his own, a wife, children; that seemed enough. If he could not regain this season, he could at least not humiliate himself by trying. He thought of the war leaders who haunted the corridors and wineshops of Acton reliving triumphs the world had forgotten. He would not be one of those. He would be the great General who had done his work and then stepped back to let the world he had made safe follow its path.
At heart, he was not a conqueror. Only a man who saw what needed doing, and then did it.
Or else he would fail and he and every Galtic man and woman would be a corpse or a refugee.
He twisted in his sheets. The stars shone where the clouds were thin enough to permit it. Framed in the opened shutters, they glittered. The stars wouldn’t care what happened here. And yet by the next time their light silvered these stones, the fate of the world would have turned one way or the other.
Once, he came near to sleep. His eyes grew heavy, his mind began to wander into the half-sense of dreams. And then, irrationally, he became certain that he had mixed one of the orders. The memory, at first vague but clearer as he struggled to capture it, of sealing a packet with red that should have been green swam through his mind. He thought he might have noted at the time that it would need changing. And yet he hadn’t done it. The wrong orders would go out. A legion would start to the North while the others moved east. They would lose time finding the error, correcting it. Or the poet would fail, and some stray company of armsmen would find its way to Nantani and reveal him to the Khaiem. Half a thousand stories plagued him, each less likely than the last. His sense of dread grew.
At last, half in distress and half in disgust, he rose, pulled on a heavy cotton shirt and light trousers, and walked barefoot from his room toward the library. He would have to open them all, check them, reseal them, and keep a careful tally so that the crazed monkey that had taken possession of his mind could be calmed. He wondered, as he passed through hallways lit only by his single candle, whether Uther Redcape had ever rechecked his own plans in the dead of night like an old, fearful merchant rattling his own shutters to be sure they were latched. Perhaps these indignities were part of what any man suffered when the weight of so many lives was on his back.

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