Seasons of War

long practice. This man had done much the same before Otah’s father, and perhaps his grandfather. The presentation of this bowl of tea might be the study and center of this man’s life. The thought made the tea taste worse, but Otah took as warm a pose of thanks as would be permitted between the Khai Machi and a servant, however faithful.
    Otah rose, gesturing to the doorway. One of his half-hundred attendants rushed forward, robes flowing like water over stones.
    ‘I’ll see him now,’ Otah said. ‘In the gardens. And see we aren’t disturbed.’
    The sky was gray and ivory, the breeze from the south warm as breath and nearly as gentle. The cherry trees stood green - the pink of the blossoms gone, the crimson of the fruit not yet arrived. The thicker blossoms of high summer had begun to unfurl, rose and iris and sun poppy. The air was thick with the scent. Otah walked down the path, white gravel fine as salt crunching like snow under his feet. He found Maati sitting on the lip of a stone pool, gazing up at the great fountain. Twice as high as a man, the gods of order stood arrayed in bas-relief shaped from a single sheet of bronze. The dragons of chaos lay cowed beneath their greened feet. Water sluiced down the wall, clear until it touched the brows and exultant, upraised faces of the gods, and there it splattered white. Otah sat beside his old friend and considered.
    ‘The dragon’s not defeated,’ Maati said. ‘Look. You see the third head from the left? It’s about to bite that woman’s calf. And the man on the end? The one who’s looking down? He’s lost his balance.’
    ‘I hadn’t noticed,’ Otah said.
    ‘You should have another one made with the dragons on top. Just to remind people that it’s never over. Even when you think it’s done, there’s something waiting to surprise you.’
    Otah nodded, dipping his fingers into the dancing ripples of the pool. Gold and white koi darted toward his fingertips and then as quickly away.
    ‘I understand if you’re angry with me,’ Otah said. ‘But I didn’t ask him. Nayiit came to me. He volunteered.’
    ‘Yes. Liat told me.’
    ‘He’s spent half a season in the Dai-kvo’s village. He knows it better than anyone but you or Cehmai.’
    Maati looked up. There was a darkness in his expression.
    ‘You’re right,’ Maati said. ‘If this is the Galts and they’ve freed the andat, then protecting the Dai-kvo is critical. But it would be faster to send for him to come to us. We can build defenses here, train men. Prepare.’
    ‘And if the Dai-kvo didn’t come?’ Otah asked. ‘How long has he been mulling over Liat’s report that the Galts have a poet of their own? I’ve sent word. I’ve sent messages. The world can’t afford to wait and see if the Dai-kvo suddenly becomes decisive.’
    ‘And you speak for the world now, do you?’ There was acid in Maati’s tone, but Otah could hear the fear behind it and the despair. ‘If you insist on charging out into whatever kind of war you find out there, take one of us with you. We’ve lived there. We know the village. Cehmai’s still young. Or strap me on the back of a horse and pull me there. Leave Nayiit out of this.’
    ‘He’s a grown man,’ Otah said. ‘He’s not a child any longer. He has his own mind and his own will. I thought about refusing him, for your sake and for Liat’s. But what would that be to him? He’s not still wrapped in crib cloths. How would I say that I wanted him safe because his mother would worry for him?’
    ‘And what about his father,’ Maati said, but it had none of the inflection of a question. ‘You have an opinion, Most High, on what his father would think.’
    Otah’s belly sank. He dried his hand on his sleeve, only thinking afterward that it was the motion of a commoner - a dockfront laborer or a midwife’s assistant or a courier. The Khai Machi should have raised an arm, summoned a servant to dry his fingers for him on a cloth woven for the purpose and burned after one use. His face felt mask-like and hard as plaster. He took a pose that asked clarification.
    ‘Is that the conversation we’re having, then?’ he asked. ‘We’re talking about fathers?’
    ‘We’re talking about sons,’ Maati said. ‘We’re talking about you scraping up all the disposable men that the utkhaiem can drag out of comfort houses and slap sober enough to ride just so they can appease the irrational whims of the Khai. Taking those men out into the field