Seasons of War

teahouse for the nearby low towns. By the time he’d finished eating, local men and women had begun to appear. They took little notice of the travelers, which suited Maati quite well.
    In less interesting times, the table talk would have turned on matters of weather, of crop yields and taxes and the small jealousies and dramas that humanity drew about itself in all places and times. Instead, they spoke of the Emperor, his small caravan on its way to Pathai or else Lachi or else some unknown destination in the Westlands. He was going to broker a new contract for women, now that the Galts had been destroyed, or else retrieve the new poet and march back in triumph. He had been secretly harboring the poets all this time, or had become one himself. Nothing that approached the truth. Small Kae, listening to two of the local men debate, looked on the edge of laughter the whole evening.
    As the last of the sunset faded, a pair of the older men took up drums, and the tables nearest the fire grate were pulled aside to clear space for dancers. Maati was prevented from excusing himself from the proceedings only by Vanjit’s appearance at his side.
    ‘Maati-kvo,’ she murmured, her hand slipping around his arm, ‘I spoke to Eiah-kya. I know it was wrong of me to interfere, but please, please, will you reconsider?’
    The older of the two men set up a low throbbing beat on his drum. The second drummer closed his eyes and bobbed his head almost in time with the first. Maati suspected that both were drunk.
    ‘This isn’t the place to discuss it,’ Maati said. ‘Later, we can . . .’
    ‘Please,’ Vanjit said. Her breath wasn’t free from the scent of distilled wine. Her cheeks were flushed. ‘Without you, none of us matter. You know that. You’re our teacher. We need you. And if Eiah . . . she pays its price, you know that I’ll be there. I can do the thing. I’ve already managed once, and I know that I could do it again.’
    The second drum began, dry and light and not quite on its mark. No one seemed to be paying attention to the old man in the corner or the young woman attached to his arm. Maati leaned close to Vanjit, speaking low.
    ‘What is it, Vanjit-kya?’ he asked. ‘This is the second time you’ve offered to bind Wounded. Why do you want that?’
    She blinked and released his arm. Her eyes were wider, her mouth thin. It was his turn to take her arm, and he did, leaning close enough to speak almost into her ear.
    ‘I have known more poets than I can count,’ he said. ‘Only a few held the andat, and none of them took joy in it. My own first master, Heshai of Saraykeht, planned out a second binding of Seedless. It could never have worked. It was too near what he’d done before, and part of Sterile’s failure was that I borrowed too much from his design.’
    ‘I don’t know what you mean, Maati-kvo,’ Vanjit said. Three women had stepped into the dancing space and were thumping in a simple pattern, keeping time with one drum or the other.
    ‘I mean that everyone wants a second chance,’ Maati said. ‘Clarityof-Sight . . .’
    Maati bit down, glancing to see if anyone had heard him. The music and the dance were the focus of the room.
    ‘The little one,’ Maati said, more quietly, ‘isn’t what you’d hoped. But neither would the next one be.’
    He might just as well have slapped her. Vanjit’s face went white, and she stood so quickly the bench scraped out from under her. By the time Maati rose, she was halfway to the door leading out to the stables and courtyard, and when he reached her, they were outside in the chill. A thin fog blurred the lantern hanging above the wayhouse door.
    ‘Vanjit!’ Maati called, and she turned back, her face a mask of pain.
    ‘How could you say that? How could you say those things to me?’ she demanded. ‘You had as much to do with that binding as I did. You are just as much responsible for him. I offered to take Eiah’s place because someone would have to, not because it’s something that I want. I love him. He’s my boy, and I love him. He is everything I’d hoped. Everything! ’
    ‘Vanjit—’
    She was weeping openly now, her voice high, thin, and wailing.
    ‘And he loves me. No matter what you say, I know he does. He’s my boy, and he loves me. How could you think that I’d want a second chance? I offered this for you !’
    He took her sleeve in his fist, and she pulled back, yelping. She tried to turn away, but he would not let