Seasons of War

blanket, following the wedding procession with his eyes. Each street they turned down lit itself, banners and streamers of cloth arcing through the air.
    Here is where it begins, he thought. And then, Thank all the gods it isn’t me down there.
    A servant girl stepped onto the balcony and took a pose that announced a guest. Otah wasn’t about to stick his hands out of the blanket.
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Farrer Dasin-cha,’ the girl said.
    ‘Bring him here,’ Otah said. ‘And some wine. Hot wine.’
    The girl took a pose that accepted the charge and turned to go.
    ‘Wait,’ Otah said. ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘Toyani Vauatan, Most High,’ she said.
    ‘How old are you?’
    ‘Twenty summers.’
    Otah nodded. In truth, she looked almost too young to be out of the nursery. And yet at her age, he had been on a ship halfway to the eastern islands, two different lives already behind him. He pointed out at the city.
    ‘It’s a different world now, Toyani-cha. Nothing’s going to stay as it was.’
    The girl smiled and took a pose that offered congratulations. Of course she didn’t understand. It was unfair to expect her to. Otah smiled and turned back to the city, the celebration. He didn’t see when she left. The wedding procession had just turned down the long, wide road that led to the riverfront when Farrer stepped out, the girl Toyani behind them bearing two bowls of wine that plumed with steam and a chair for the newcomer without seeming awkward or out of place. It was, Otah supposed, an art.
    ‘We’ve done it,’ Farrer said when the girl had gone.
    ‘We have,’ Otah agreed. ‘Not that I’ve stopped waiting for the next catastrophe.’
    ‘I think the last one will do.’
    Otah sipped his wine. The spirit hadn’t quite been cooked out of it, and the spices tasted rich and strange. He had been dreading this conversation, but now that it had come, it wasn’t as awful as he’d feared.
    ‘The report’s come,’ Otah said.
    ‘The first one, yes. Everyone on the High Council had a copy this morning. Just in time for the festivities. I thought it was rude at the time, but I suppose it gives us all more reason to get sloppy drunk and weep into our cups.’
    Otah took a pose of query simple enough for the Galt to follow.
    ‘Every city is in ruins except for Kirinton. They did something clever there with street callers and string. I don’t fully understand it. The outlying areas suffered, though not quite as badly. The first guesses are that it will take two generations just to put us back where we were.’
    ‘Assuming nothing else happens,’ Otah said. Below, a fanfare was blaring.
    ‘You mean Eymond,’ Farrer said. ‘They’re a problem, it’s true.’
    ‘Eymond. Eddensea, the Westlands. Anyone, really.’
    ‘If we had the andat . . .’
    ‘We don’t,’ Otah said.
    ‘No, I suppose not,’ Farrer said, sourly. ‘But to the point, how many of us are aware of that fact?’
    In the dim light of the brazier’s coals, Farrer’s face was the same dusky red as the moon in eclipse. The Galt smiled, pleased that he had taken Otah by surprise.
    ‘You and I know. The High Council. That half-bastard council you put together when you headed out into the wilderness. Ana. Danat. A few armsmen. All in all, I’d guess not more than three dozen people actually know what happened. And none of them is at present working for Eymond.’
    ‘You’re saying we should pretend to have an andat?’
    ‘Not precisely,’ Farrer said. ‘As many people as already know, the story will come out eventually. But there might be a way to present it that still gave other nations pause. Send out letters of embassage that say the andat, though recovered, have been set aside and deny the rumors that certain deaths and odd occurrences are at all related to a new poet under the direction of the Empire.’
    ‘What deaths?’
    ‘Don’t be too specific about that,’ Farrer said. ‘I expect they’ll supply the details.’
    ‘Let them think . . . that we have the andat and are hiding the fact?’ Otah laughed.
    ‘It won’t last forever, but the longer we can stall them, the better prepared we’ll be when they come.’
    ‘And they do always come,’ Otah said. ‘Clever thought. It costs us nothing. It could gain us a great deal. Issandra?’
    Farrer leaned back in his chair, setting his heels on the parapet and looking up at the stars, the full, heavy moon. For the space of a heartbeat, he looked forlorn. He drank his