Seasons of War

Eiah,’ Maati said, biting at the words. ‘I know he doesn’t approve. I asked his help. Eight years ago, I risked my life by sending to him, asking the Emperor of this pisspot empire for help. And what did he say? No. Let the world be the world, he said. He doesn’t see what it is out here. He doesn’t see the pain and the ache and the suffering. So don’t you tell me what to do. Every girl I’ve lost, it’s his fault. Every time we try and fall short, it’s because we’re sneaking around in warehouses and low towns. Meeting in secret like criminals—’
    ‘Maati-kya—’
    ‘I can do this,’ the old poet continued, a fleck of white foam at the corner of his mouth. ‘I have to. I have to retrieve my error. I have to fix what I broke. I know I’m hated. I know what the world’s become because of me. But these girls are dedicated and smart and willing to die if that’s what’s called for. Willing to die . How can you and your great and glorious father tell me that I’m wrong to try?’
    ‘I didn’t say you shouldn’t try,’ Eiah said. ‘I said you can’t do it. Not alone.’
    Maati’s mouth worked for a moment. His fingertip traced an arc down to the fire grate as the anger left him. Confusion washed through his expression, his shoulders sagging and his chest sinking in. He reminded Eiah of a puppet with its strings fouled. She rose and took his hand as she had the dead woman’s.
    ‘I haven’t come here on my father’s business,’ Eiah said. ‘I’ve come to help.’
    ‘Oh,’ Maati said. A tentative smile found its way to his lips. ‘Well. I . . . that is . . .’
    He frowned viciously and wiped at his eyes with one hand. Eiah stepped forward and put her arms around him. His clothes smelled rank and unwashed; his flesh was soft, his skin papery. When he returned her embrace, she would not have traded the moment for anything.

1
    I t was the fifth month of the Emperor’s self-imposed exile. The day had been filled, as always, with meetings and conversations and appreciations of artistic tableaux. Otah had retired early, claiming a headache rather than face another banquet of heavy, overspiced Galtic food.
    The night birds in the garden below his window sang unfamiliar songs. The perfume of the wide, pale flowers was equal parts sweetness and pepper. The rooms of his suite were hung with heavy Galtic tapestries, knotwork soldiers slaughtering one another in memory of some battle of which Otah had never heard.
    It was, coincidentally, the sixty-third anniversary of his birth. He hadn’t chosen to make it known; the High Council might have staged some further celebration, and he had had a bellyful of celebrations. In that day, he had been called upon to admire a gold- and jewel-encrusted clockwork whose religious significance was obscure to him; he had moved in slow procession down the narrow streets and through the grand halls with their awkward, blocky architecture and their strange, smoky incense; he had spoken to two members of the High Council to no observable effect. At this moment, he could be sitting with them again, making the same points, suffering the same deflections. Instead, he watched the thin clouds pass across the crescent moon.
    He had become accustomed to feeling alone. It was true that with a word or a gesture he could summon his counselors or singing slaves, scholars or priests. Another night, he might have, if only in hope that this time it would be different; that the company would do something more than remind him how little comfort it provided. Instead, he went to the ornate writing desk and took what solace he could.
Kiyan-kya—
I have done what I said I would do. I have come to our old enemies, I have pled my case and pled and pled and pled, and now I suppose I’ll plead some more. The full council is set to make their vote in a week’s time. I know I should go out and do more, but I swear that I’ve spoken to everyone in this city twice over, and tonight, I’d rather be here with you. I miss you.
They tell me that all widowers suffer this sense of being halved, and they tell me it fades. It hasn’t faded. I suspect age changes the nature of time. Four years may be an epoch for young men, to me it’s hardly the space between one breath and the next. I want you to be here to tell me your thoughts on the matter. I want you here. I want you back.
I’ve had word from Danat and Sinja. They seem to be running the cities effectively enough in my absence,