Seasons of War

on his words, caught between the expected him and the more likely her .
    Balasar gestured to him, palms up as if displaying something small and obvious.
    ‘If it wasn’t your pet andat that did this, then what hope do you have of resolving anything?’ Balasar asked. ‘They may have left you your sight for the moment, but there’s nothing you can do. It’s the andat. There’s no defense. There’s no counterattack that means anything. Gather your armsmen. Take to the field. Then come back and die beside us. You can do nothing .’
    This is my daughter’s work, Otah thought but didn’t say. I can hope that she still loves me enough to listen.
    ‘You’ve never felt this,’ Balasar said. ‘The rest of us? The rest of the world? We know what it is to be faced with the andat. You can’t end this. You can’t even negotiate. You have no standing now. The best you can do is beg.’
    ‘Then I will beg,’ Otah said.
    ‘Enjoy that,’ Balasar said, sitting back in his chair. It was like watching a showfighter collapse at the end of a match. The vitality, the anger, the violence snuffed out, and the general was only a small Galtic man with crippled eyes, waiting for some kind soul to take away the remains of his uneaten meal. Otah rose and walked quietly from the room.
    All through the city, the scenes were playing out. Men and women who had been well the night before were in states of rage and despair. They blundered into the unfamiliar streets, screaming, swinging whatever weapon came to hand at anyone who tried to help them. Or else they wept. Or, like Balasar, folded in upon themselves. The last was the most terrible.
    Balasar had been only the first stop in Otah’s long, painful morning journey. He’d meant to call on each of the high councillors, to promise his efforts at restoration and the best of care until then. The general had spoiled the plan. Otah did see two more men, made the same declarations. Neither of the others scoffed, but Otah could see that his words rang as hollow as a gourd.
    Instead of the third councillor, Otah went back to his palaces. He prayed as he walked that some message would have come from Idaan. None had. Instead, his audience chambers were filled with the utkhaiem, some in fine robes hastily thrown on, others still in whatever finery they had slept in. The sound of their voices competing one over another was louder than surf and as incomprehensible. Everywhere he walked, their eyes turned toward him. Otah walked with a grave countenance, his spine as straight as he could keep it. He greeted the shock and the fear with the same equanimity as the expressions of joy.
    There was more joy than he had expected. More than he had hoped. The andat had come back to the world, and the Galts made to suffer, and that was somehow a cause to celebrate. Otah didn’t respond to those calls, but he did begin a mental catalog of who precisely was laughing, who weeping. Someday, he told himself, someday the best of these men and women would be rewarded, the worst left behind. Only he didn’t know how.
    In his private rooms, the servants fluttered like moths. No schedules were right, no plans were made. Orders from the Master of Tides contradicted the instructions from the Master of Keys, and neither allowed for what the guards and armsmen said they needed to do. Otah built his own fire in the grate, lighting it from the stub of a candle, and let raw chaos reign about him.
    Danat found him there, looking into the fire. His son’s eyes were wide, but his shoulders hadn’t yet sagged. Otah took a pose of welcome and Danat crouched before him.
    ‘What are you doing, Papa-kya,’ Danat said. ‘You’re just sitting here?’
    ‘I’m thinking,’ Otah said, aware as he did so how weak the words sounded.
    ‘They need you. You have to gather the high utkhaiem. You have to tell them what’s going on.’
    He looked at his son. The strong face, the sincere eyes the same rich brown as Kiyan’s had been. He would have made a good emperor. Better than Otah had. He took his boy’s hand.
    ‘The fleet is doomed,’ Otah said. ‘Galt is broken. These new poets, wherever they are, no longer answer to the Empire. What would you have me say?’
    ‘That,’ Danat said. ‘If nothing else, say that. Say what everyone knows is true. How can that be wrong?’
    ‘Because I have nothing to say after it,’ Otah said. ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t have an answer.’
    ‘Then tell them that