Seasons of War

this tragedy.’
    ‘If the smaller houses see carts of gold rolling away to Cetani and Udun, they’ll start talking of how the rats all run when the house catches fire,’ Otah said. ‘My house hasn’t caught fire.’
    Radaani pursed his lips, his eyes shifting as if reading some invisible text as he reconsidered some internal plan that Otah had just ruined, but he said nothing more.
    ‘Machi needs your loyalty and your obedience,’ Otah said. ‘You are all good men, and the leaders of respected families. Understand that I value each of you, and your efforts to keep the peace in this time will be remembered and honored.’
    And the first of you to bolt, I will destroy and sow your lands with salt, Otah thought but didn’t say. He let his eyes carry that part of the message, and from the unease in the men before him, he knew that they had understood. For over a decade, they had thought themselves ruled by a softhearted man, an upstart put in his father’s chair by strange fortune and likely less suited to the role than his lady wife, the innkeep. And as terrible as this day was, Otah found he felt some small joy in suggesting they might have been mistaken.
    Once they had been dismissed, Otah waved away his servants and walked to his private apartments. Kiyan came to him, taking his hand in her own. Cehmai sat on the edge of a low couch, his face still empty with shock. He had been weeping openly when Otah left.
    ‘How did it go?’ Kiyan asked.
    ‘Well, I think. Strangely, it’s much easier than dealing with Eiah.’
    ‘You don’t love them,’ Kiyan said.
    ‘Ah, is that the difference?’
    A plate of fresh apples stood on a copper table, a short, wicked knife beside it. Otah sliced a bit of the white flesh and chewed thoughtfully.
    ‘They’ll still move their wealth away, you know,’ Kiyan said. ‘Blocking the bridge won’t stop a ferry crossing in the night with its lanterns shuttered or wagons looping up north and crossing the water someplace in the mountains.’
    ‘I know it. But if I can keep the thing down to a few ferries and wagons, that will do. I’ll also need to send messages to the Khaiem,’ Otah said. ‘Cetani and Amnat-Tan to start.’
    ‘Better they hear the bad news from you,’ she agreed. ‘Should I call for a scribe?’
    ‘No. Just paper and a fresh ink brick. I’ll do the thing myself.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Most High,’ Cehmai said again. ‘I don’t know . . . I don’t know how it happened. He was there, and then . . . he just wasn’t. There wasn’t even a struggle. He just . . .’
    ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Otah said. ‘It’s gone, and so it’s gone. We’ll move forward from that.’
    ‘It does matter, though,’ the poet said, and his voice was a cry of despair. Otah wondered what it would feel like, dedicating a life to one singular thing and then in an instant, losing it. He himself had led a half-dozen lives - laborer, fisherman, midwife’s assistant, courier, father, Khai - but Cehmai had never been anything besides a poet. Exalted above all other men, honored, envied. And now, suddenly, he was only a man in a brown robe. Otah put a hand to the man’s shoulder, and saw a moment’s passing shame in Cehmai’s expression. It was, perhaps, too early still for comfort.
    A scratch came at the door and a servant boy entered, took a formal pose, and announced the poet Maati Vaupathai and Liat Chokavi. A moment later, Maati rushed in, his cheeks an alarming red, his breath hard, his belly heaving. Liat was no more than a step behind. He could see the alarm in her expression. Kiyan stepped forward and helped Maati to a seat. The two women met each other’s gaze, and there was a moment’s tension before Otah stepped forward.
    ‘Liat-cha,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming.’
    ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I came as soon as Maati asked me. Is something wrong? Have we heard from the Dai-kvo?’
    ‘No,’ Maati said between gasps. ‘Not that.’
    Otah took a questioning pose, and Maati shook his head.
    ‘Didn’t say. People around. Would have been heard,’ Maati said. Then, ‘Gods, I need to eat less. I’m too fat to run anymore.’
    Otah took Liat’s elbow and guided her to a chair, then sat beside Cehmai. Only Kiyan remained standing.
    ‘Liat-cha, you worked with Amat Kyaan,’ Otah said. ‘You’ve taken over the house she founded. She must have spoken with you about how those first years were. After Heshai-kvo died and Seedless