Seasons of War

courtesy he gives me because I’m old,’ Maati said. ‘Come in, though. All of you. It’s getting cold out.’
    Maati led the others back through the chambers and corridors of the library. On the way, they traded the kind of simple, common talk that etiquette required - the Dai-kvo was in good health, the school had given a number of promising boys the black robes, there were discussions of a possible new binding in the next years - and Maati played his part. Only Stone-Made-Soft didn’t participate, considering as it was the thick stone walls with mild, distant interest. The inner chamber that Maati had prepared for the meeting was dim and window-less, but a fire burned hot behind iron shutters. Books and scrolls lay on a wide, low table. Maati opened the iron shutters, lit a taper from the flames, and set a series of candles and lanterns glowing around the room until they were all bathed in shadowless warm light. The envoy and Cehmai had taken chairs by the fire, and Maati lowered himself to a wide bench.
    ‘My private workroom,’ Maati said, nodding at the space around them. ‘I’ve been promised there’s no good way to listen to us in here.’
    The envoy took a pose that accepted the fact, but glanced uneasily at Stone-Made-Soft.
    ‘I won’t tell,’ the andat said, and grinned, baring its unnaturally regular stone-white teeth. ‘Promise.’
    ‘If I lost control of our friend here, telling what happened in a meeting wouldn’t be the trouble we faced,’ Cehmai said.
    The envoy seemed somewhat mollified. He had a small face, Maati thought. But perhaps it was only that Maati had already taken a dislike to the man.
    ‘So Cehmai has been telling me about your project,’ Athai said, folding his hands in his lap. ‘A study of the prices meted out by failed bindings, is it?’
    ‘A bit more than that,’ Maati said. ‘A mapping, rather, of the form of the binding to the form that its price took. What it was about this man’s work that his blood went dry, or that one’s that made his lungs fill with worms.’
    ‘You might consider not binding us in the first place,’ Stone-Made-Soft said. ‘If it’s so dangerous as all that.’
    Maati ignored it. ‘I thought, you see, that there might be some way to better understand whether a poet’s work was likely to fail or succeed if we knew more of how older failures presented themselves. It was an essay Heshai Antaburi wrote examining his own binding of Removing-the-Part-That-Continues that gave me the idea. You see his binding succeeded - he held Seedless for decades - but in having done the thing and then lived with the consequences, he could better see the flaws in his original work. Here . . .’
    Maati rose up with a grunt and fished through his papers for a moment until the old, worn leather-bound book came to hand. Its cover was limp from years of reading, the pages growing yellow and smudged. The envoy took it and read a bit by the light of candles.
    ‘But this is too much like his original work,’ Athai said as he thumbed through the pages. ‘It could never be used.’
    ‘No, of course not,’ Maati agreed. ‘But he made the attempt to examine the form of the binding, you see, in hopes that showing the kinds of errors he’d made might help others avoid things that were similar. Heshai-kvo was one of my first teachers.’
    ‘He was the one murdered in Saraykeht, ne?’ Athai asked, not looking up from the book in his hands.
    ‘Yes,’ Maati said.
    Athai looked up, one hand taking an informal pose asking excuse.
    ‘I didn’t mean anything by asking,’ he said. ‘I only wanted to place him.’
    Maati brought himself to smile and nod.
    ‘The reason I wrote to the Dai-kvo,’ Cehmai said, ‘was the application Maati-kvo was thinking of.’
    ‘Application?’
    ‘It’s too early yet to really examine closely,’ Maati said. He felt himself starting to blush, and his embarrassment at the thought fueled the blood in his face. ‘It’s too early to say whether there’s anything in it.’
    ‘Tell him,’ Cehmai said, his voice warm and coaxing. The envoy put Heshai-kvo’s book down, his attention entirely on Maati now.
    ‘There are . . . patterns,’ Maati said. ‘There seems to be a structure that links the form of the binding to its . . . its worst expression. Its price. The forms only seem random because it’s a very complex structure. And I was reading Catji’s meditations - the one from the Second Empire, not Catji Sano - and