Seasons of War

because of who he was to you, or who he is now. I want to meet him because he’s my father. Ever since Tai came, I’ve been thinking about it. About what it would be for me to walk away from my boy and not come back. About choosing something else over my family.’
    ‘It wasn’t like that,’ Liat said. ‘Maati and I were . . .’
    ‘I’ve come this far,’ he said gently. ‘You can’t send me back now.’
    ‘You don’t understand,’ she said.
    ‘You can explain to me while I pack our things.’
    In the end, of course, he won. She had known he would. Nayiit could be as soft and gentle and implacable as snowfall. He was his father’s son.
    The calls of gulls grew louder as they neared the shore, the scent of smoke more present. The docks were narrower than the seafront of Saraykeht. A ship that put in here for the winter had to prepare itself to be icebound, immobile. Trade was with the eastern islands and Yalakeht; it was too far from the summer cities or Bakta or Galt for ships to come from those distant ports.
    The streets were black cobbles, and ice still haunted the alleys where shadows held the cold. Nayiit carried their crate strapped across his back. The wide leather belt cut into his shoulders, but he didn’t complain. He rarely complained about anything, only did what he thought best with a pleasant smile and a calm explanation ready to hand.
    Liat stopped at a firekeeper’s kiln to ask directions to the compound of House Radaani and was pleased to discover it was nearby. Mother and son, they walked the fog-shrouded streets until they found the wide arches that opened to the courtyard gardens of the Radaani, torches flickering and guttering in the damp air. A boy in sodden robes rushed up and lifted the crate from Nayiit’s back to his own. Liat was about to address him when another voice, a woman’s voice lovely and low as a singer’s, came from the dim.
    ‘Liat-cha, I must assume. I’d sent men to meet you at the docks, but I’m afraid they came too late.’
    The woman who stepped out from the fog had seen no more than twenty summers. Her robes were white snowfox, eerie in the combination of pale mourning colors and the luxury of the fur. Her hair shone black with cords of silver woven in the braids. She was beautiful, and likely would be for another five summers. Liat could already see the presentiment of jowls at the borders of her jaw.
    ‘Ceinat Radaani,’ Liat said, taking a pose of gratitude. ‘I am pleased to meet you in person at last. This is my son, Nayiit.’
    The Radaani girl adopted a welcoming pose that included them both. Nayiit returned it, and Liat couldn’t help noticing the way his eyes lingered on her and hers on him. Liat coughed, bringing their attention back to the moment. The girl took a pose of apology, and turned to lead them into the chambers and corridors of the compound.
    In Saraykeht, the architecture tended to be open, encouraging the breezes to flow and cool. Northern buildings were more like great kilns, built to hold heat in their thick stone walls. The ceilings were low and fire grates burned in every room. The Radaani girl led them through a wide entrance chamber and back through a narrow corridor, speaking as she walked.
    ‘My father is in Council with the Khai, but sends his regards and intends to join us as soon as he can return from the city proper. He would very much regret missing the opportunity to meet with the head of our trading partner in the South.’
    It was bald flattery. Radaani was among the richest houses in the winter cities, and had agreements with dozens of houses, all through the cities of the Khaiem. The whole of House Kyaan would hardly have made up one of the Radaani compounds, and there were four such compounds that Liat knew of. Liat accepted it, though, as if it were true, as if the hospitality extended to her were more than etiquette.
    ‘I look forward to speaking with him,’ Liat said. ‘I am most interested in hearing news of the winter cities.’
    ‘Oh, there’ll be quite a bit to say, I’m sure,’ the girl laughed. ‘There always is once winter’s ended. I think people save up all the gossip of the winter to haul out in spring.’
    She opened a pair of wide wooden doors and led them into small, cozy apartments. A fire popped and murmured in the grate, bowls of mulled wine waited steaming on a low wooden table, and archways to either side showed rooms with real beds waiting for them. Liat’s body seemed