Seasons of War

convince them to find a solution, I’ll be quite surprised.’
    ‘That’s good,’ Liat said. ‘Things at the bridge are under control. We’ve set up a tent for the physicians down there, and there’s food enough. There will be more tomorrow, but I think they’ve all been seen to.’
    ‘Gods, Liat-cha. You look like death and you’re cold. Let me have someone see you to the baths, get you warm. Have you eaten?’
    She hadn’t, but she pushed the thought aside.
    ‘I need something from you, Kiyan-cha.’
    ‘Ask.’
    ‘Nayiit. He needs . . . something. He needs something to do. Something that he can be proud of. He came back from the battle . . .’
    ‘I know,’ Kiyan said. ‘I know what happened there. It was in Otah’s letter.’
    ‘He needs to help,’ Liat said, surprised at the pleading tone of her own voice. She hadn’t known she felt so desperate for him. ‘He needs to matter .’
    Kiyan nodded slowly, then leaned close and kissed Liat’s cheek. The woman’s lips felt almost hot against Liat’s chilled skin.
    ‘I understand, Liat-kya,’ she said. ‘Go and rest. I’ll see to it. I promise you.’
    Weeping with fatigue, Liat found her way to her apartments, to her bedchamber, to her bed. Her belly ached with hunger, but she only drank the full carafe of water the servants had left at her bedside. By the time her body learned that it had been tricked, she would already be asleep. She closed her eyes for a moment before pulling off her robes and woke, still dressed, in the morning. The light sifted through the shutters, pressing in at the seams. The night candle was a lump of spent wax, and the air didn’t smell of the dying wick. There was something, though. Pork. Bread. Liat sat up, her head light.
    She stripped off yesterday’s robes, sticky with sleep sweat, and pulled on a simple sitting robe of thick gray wool. When she stepped out to the main rooms, Kiyan was still arranging the meal on its table.
    Thick slices of pink-white meat, bread so fresh it still steamed, trout baked with lemon and salt, poached pears on a silver plate. And a teapot that smelled of white tea and honey. Liat’s stomach woke with a sharp pang.
    ‘They told me you hadn’t eaten last night,’ she said. ‘Either of you. I thought I might bring along something to keep you breathing.’
    ‘Kiyan-cha . . .’ Liat began, then broke off and simply took a pose of gratitude. Kiyan smiled. She was a beautiful woman, and age was treating her gently. The intelligence in her eyes was matched by the humor. Otah was lucky, Liat thought, to have her.
    ‘It’s a trick, really,’ Kiyan said. ‘I’ve come pretending to be a servant girl, when I actually want to speak with Nayiit. If he’s awake.’
    ‘I am.’
    His voice came from the shadows of his bedchambers. Nayiit stepped out. His hair pointed in a hundred directions. His eyes were red and puffy. A thin sprinkling of stubble cast a shadow on his jaw. Kiyan took a pose of greeting. He returned it.
    ‘How can I be of service, Kiyan-cha?’ he asked. Liat could tell from the too-precise diction that he’d spent his night drinking. He closed his bedroom doors behind him as he stepped in, and Liat more than half thought it was to protect the privacy of whatever woman was sleeping in his bed. Something passed across Kiyan’s sharp features; it might have been compassion or sorrow, understanding or recognition. Liat couldn’t say, and it was gone almost as soon as it came.
    ‘That’s the question, Nayiit-cha. I have something to ask of you. It may come to nothing, and if you should have to act upon my request, I’m afraid I won’t be in a position to repay you.’
    Nayiit came forward slowly and sat at the table. Kiyan filled a plate for him as she spoke, casual as if she were a wayhouse keeper, and he a simple guest.
    ‘You’ve heard the gossip from Cetani, I assume,’ she said.
    ‘They’ve fled before the Galts. The Khai - both of them - are in the rear. To protect the people if the Galts come from behind.’
    ‘Yes,’ Kiyan said. ‘It’s actually more complex than that. Otah has invented a scheme. If it works, he may win us a few months. Perhaps through the winter. If not, I think we can assume the Galts will be here shortly after the last of our cousins from Cetani have arrived.’
    It was a casual way to express the raw fear that every one of them might die violently before the first frost came. Our lives are measured in days now, Liat thought.