Seasons of War

too-even white marble teeth. It wasn’t a human mouth.
    ‘I don’t know,’ Cehmai said, ignoring the andat. ‘Really, you and I are probably the two worst men in the city to ask about things like that. I’ve never been in the position to have a wife. All the women I’ve been with knew that this old bastard came before anything.’
    Stone-Made-Soft smiled placidly. Maati had the uncomfortable sense that it was accepting a compliment.
    ‘But you can see his dilemma,’ Maati said.
    Outside, beyond the carefully sculpted oaks that kept the poet’s house separate from the palaces, the city was in shadow. The sun, hidden behind the mountains to the east, filled the blue dome of air with soft light. The towers stood dark against the daylight, birds wheeling far below their highest reaches.
    ‘I see that he’s in a difficult position,’ Cehmai said. ‘And I’m in no position to say that good men never lose their hearts to . . . what? Inappropriate women?’
    ‘If you mean the Khai’s sister, the term is vicious killers,’ Stone-Made-Soft said. ‘But I think we can generalize from there.’
    ‘Thank you,’ Cehmai said. ‘But you’ve made the point yourself, Maati. Nayiit’s married her. He’s acknowledged the child. Doing that binds him to something, doesn’t it? He’s made an agreement. He’s made a kind of promise, or else why say that he’s been good to her? If he can put those things aside, then that goodness is just a formality.’
    Maati sighed. His mind felt thick. Too much wine, too little rest. He was old to be staying up all night; it was a young man’s game. And still, he felt it important that Cehmai understand. If he could explain Nayiit to someone else, it would make the night and all their conversations through it real. It would put them into the world in a way that now might only have been a dream. He was silent too long, struggling to put his thoughts in order. Cehmai cleared his throat, shot an uncomfortable glance at Maati, and changed the subject.
    ‘Forgive me, Maati-cha, but I thought there was some question about Nayiit’s . . . ah . . . parentage? I know the Khai signed a document denying him, but that was when there was some question about the succession, and I’d always thought he’d done it as a favor. If you see what I . . .’
    Maati put down his tea bowl and took a pose that disagreed.
    ‘There’s more to being a father than a few moments between the sheets,’ Maati said. ‘I was there when Nayiit took his first steps. I sang him to sleep as often as I could. I brought food for him. I held him. And tonight, Cehmai. He came to me. He talked to me . I don’t care whose blood he has, that boy’s mine.’
    ‘If you say so,’ Cehmai said, but there was something in his voice, some reservation. Maati felt his face begin to flush. Anger straightened his back. Stone-Made-Soft raised a wide, thick hand, palm out, silencing them both. Its head tilted, as if hearing some distant sound.
    Its brow furrowed.
    ‘Well,’ the andat said. ‘ That’s interesting.’
    And then it vanished.
    Maati blinked in confusion. A few heartbeats later, Cehmai drew a long, shuddering breath. The poet’s face was bloodless.
    Maati sat silently as Cehmai stood, hands trembling, and walked back into the dimness of the house, and then out again. Cehmai’s gaze darted one direction and another, searching for something. His eyes were so wide, the whites showed all the way around.
    ‘Oh,’ Cehmai said, and his voice was thin and reedy. ‘Maati . . . Oh gods. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t . . . Oh gods. Maati-kvo, he’s gone .’
    Maati rose, brushing the crumbs from his robes with a sense of profound unreality. Once before, he had seen the last moments of an andat in the world. It wasn’t something he’d expected to suffer again. Cehmai paced the wide porch, his head turning one way and another, directionless as a swath of silk caught in the wind.
    ‘Stay here. I’ll get Otah-kvo,’ Maati said. ‘He’ll know what to do.’
     
    The walls of the audience chamber swooped up, graceful as a dove’s wing. The high, pale stone looked as soft as fresh butter, seamless where the stones had joined and been smoothed into one piece by the power of the andat. Tiny web-works of stone fanned out from the walls at shoulder height, incense smoke rising from them in soft gray lines. High above, windows had been shaped by hand. Spare and elegant and commanding, it was a place of