Seasons of War

takes so long to build the world,’ he said softly, ‘and so very little to break it. I still remember what it felt like. Between one breath and the next, Vanjit-kya. I ruined the world in less than a heartbeat.’
    Vanjit blinked, as if surprised, and then a half-smile plucked her lips. Clarity-of-Sight quieted, looking at her as if she’d spoken. The andat was as still as stone; even the pretense of breath had gone.
    Maati felt unease stir in his belly.
    ‘Vanjit? Are you well?’ and when she didn’t reply, ‘ Vanjit? ’
    She started, as if she’d forgotten where she was and that he was there. He caught her gaze, and she smiled.
    ‘Fine. Yes, I’m fine,’ she said. There was a strange tone in her voice. Something low and languid and relaxed. It reminded Maati of the aftermath of sex. He took a pose that asked whether he had failed to understand something.
    ‘No, nothing,’ Vanjit said; and then not quite in answer to his question, ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

15
    S hortly after midday, Otah walked along the winding path that led from the palaces themselves to the building that had once been the poet’s house. Since the first time he had come this way, little more than a boy, many things had changed. The pathway itself was the white of crushed marble with borders of oiled wood. The bridge that rose over the pond had blackened with time; the grain of the wood seemed coarser. One of the stands of trees which gave the poet’s house its sense of separation from the palaces had burned. White-oak seedlings had been planted to replace them. The trees looked thin, awkward, and adolescent. One day, decades ahead, they would tower over the path.
    He paused at the top of the bridge’s arch, looking down into the dark water. Koi swam lazily under the surface, orange and white and gold appearing from beneath lily pads and vanishing again. The man reflected in the pond’s surface looked old and tired. White hair, gray skin. Time had thinned his shoulders and taken the roundness from his cheeks. Otah put out his hand, and the reflection did as well, as if they were old friends greeting each other.
    When he reached the house itself, it seemed less changed than the landscape. The lower floor still had walls that were hinged like shutters which could be pulled back to open the place like a pavilion. The polished wood seemed to glow softly in the autumn light. He could almost imagine Maati sitting on the steps as he had been then. Sixteen summers old, and wearing the brown robes of a poet like a mark of honor. Or frog-mouthed Heshai, the poet whom Otah had killed to prevent the slaughter of innocents. Or Seedless, Heshai’s beautiful, unfathomable slave.
    Instead, Farrer Dasin sat on a silk-upholstered couch, a book in one hand, a pipe in the other. Otah approached the house casually as if they were merchants or workers, men whose dignity was less of a burden. The Galt closed his book as Otah reached the first stair up.
    ‘Most High,’ he said in the Khaiate tongue.
    ‘Farrer-cha,’ Otah replied.
    ‘None of them are here. There’s apparently a gathering at one of the lesser palaces. I believe one of the high-prestige wives of your court is showing her wealth in the guise of judging silks.’
    ‘It isn’t uncommon. Especially if there is someone particularly worth impressing,’ Otah said. ‘I am surprised that Ana-cha chose to attend.’
    ‘To be honest, so am I. But I am on the verge of despairing that I will ever understand women.’
    It was hard to say whether the light, informal tone that the Galt adopted was intended as an offering of peace or as an insult. Likely it was both. The smoke rising from the pipe was thin and gray as fog, and smelled of cherries and bark.
    ‘I don’t mean to intrude,’ Otah said.
    ‘No,’ Farrer Dasin said, ‘I imagine you don’t. I’ve sent the servant away. You can take that seat there, if you like.’
    Otah, Emperor of the cities of the Khaiem, pulled a wood-backed chair to face the Galt, sat in it, and leaned back.
    ‘I was a bit surprised you wanted to speak with me,’ Farrer said. ‘I thought we did all of our communication through my family.’
    A mosquito whined through the air as Otah considered this. Farrer Dasin waited, his mild expression a challenge.
    ‘We have met and spoken many times over the past year, Farrer-cha. I don’t believe I’ve ever turned you away. And as to your family, the first time I had no other option,’ Otah said. ‘The council