Seasons of War

than they,’ Eiah said.
    ‘We can tell them,’ Vanjit said.
    ‘If we can calm them long enough to listen,’ Maati said. ‘But that isn’t what I’ve come here for. I am your teacher, Vanjit-cha. I need two things of you. Do you understand?’
    The girl looked at the ground, her hands rising in a pose of acceptance appropriate for a student to her master.
    ‘First, you must never take this kind of action with the andat without telling me. We have too many plans and they are too delicate for any of us to act without the others knowing it.’
    ‘Eiah sent Ashti Beg away,’ Vanjit said.
    ‘And we discussed that possibility before they left,’ Maati said. ‘The second thing . . . What you’ve done to the Galts, only you can undo.’
    The girl looked up now. Anger flashed in her eyes. The andat gurgled and clapped its tiny hands. Maati held up a finger, insisting that she wait until he had finished.
    ‘If you hold to this,’ he said, ‘thousands of people will die. Women and children who are innocent of any crime.’
    ‘It’s what they did to us,’ she said. What they did to me . Maati reached forward and took her hand.
    ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I won’t tell you to undo this thing. But for me, think carefully about how the burden of those deaths will weigh on you. You’re angry now, and anger gives you strength. But when it’s faded, you will still be responsible for what you’ve done.’
    ‘I will, Maati-kvo,’ Vanjit said.
    Eiah made a sound in the back of her throat, its meaning unguessable. Maati smiled and put a hand on Vanjit’s shoulder.
    ‘Well. That’s settled. Now, I suppose it’s time to get back to work. Give these people in the low towns something to celebrate.’
    ‘You’ve done it, then, Eiah-kya?’ Vanjit asked. ‘You’ve found the insight you needed? You understand Wounded?’
    Eiah was quiet for a moment, looking down at Vanjit and Clarity-of-Sight. Her lips twitched into a thin, joyless smile.
    ‘Closer,’ Eiah said. ‘I’ve come closer.’

17
    S eeing Balasar Gice shook Otah more than he had expected. He had always known that the general was not a large-framed man, but his presence had always filled the room. Seeing him seated at a table by the window with his eyes the gray of old pearls, Otah felt he was watching the man die. The robes seemed too large on him, or his shoulders suddenly grown small.
    Outside the window, the morning sun lit the sea. Gulls called and complained to one another. A small plate had the remnants of fresh cheese and cut apple; the cheese flowed in the day’s heat, the pale flesh of the apple had gone brown. Otah cleared his throat. Balasar smiled, but didn’t bother turning his head toward the sound.
    ‘Most High?’ Balasar asked.
    ‘Yes,’ Otah said. ‘I came . . . I came when I heard.’
    ‘I am afraid Sinja will have to do without my aid,’ Balasar said, his voice ironic and bleak. ‘It seems I’ll be in no condition to sail.’
    Otah leaned against the window’s ledge, his shadow falling over Balasar. The general turned toward him. His voice was banked rage, his expression impotence.
    ‘Did you know, Otah? Did you know what they were doing?’
    ‘This wasn’t my doing,’ Otah said. ‘I swear that.’
    ‘My life was taking your god-ghosts out of the world. I thought we’d done it. Even after what you bastards did to me, to all of us, I was content trying to make peace. I lost my men to it, and I lived with that because the loss meant something. However desperate the cost, at least we’d be rid of the fucking andat. And now . . .’
    Balasar struck the table with an open palm, the report like stone breaking. Otah lifted his hands toward a pose that offered comfort, and then stopped and let his arms fall to his sides.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Otah said. ‘I will send my best agents to find the new poet and resolve this. Until then, all of you will be cared for and—’
    Balasar’s laughter was a bark.
    ‘Where do I begin, Most High? We will all be cared for? Do you really think this has only happened to the Galts who came to your filthy city? I will wager any odds you like that everyone back home is suffering the same things we are. How many fishermen were on their boats when it happened? How many people were traveling the roads? You could no more care for all of us than pluck the moon out of the sky.’
    ‘I’m sorry for that,’ Otah said. ‘Once we’ve found the poet and talked to . . .’ He stumbled