'I'he andat suffice.'
'Only if they have them.'
'Ah. Yes. That's the center of the question, isn't it? Your grand plan to do away with all the andat at a single blow. I have to confess, I don't think I quite follow how you expect this to work. You have one of these poets here, ready to work with us. Wouldn't it be better to capture one of these andat for ourselves?'
'We will be. Freedom-From-Bondage should be one of the simplest andat to capture. It's never been done, so there's no worry about coming too near what's been tried before. The binding has been discussed literally for centuries. I've found books of commentary and analysis dating back to the First Empire…'
'All of it exploring exactly why it can't be done, yes?' The Lord Convocate's voice had gone as gentle and sympathetic as that of a medic trying to lead a man to realize his own dementia. It was a ploy. The old man wanted to see whether Balasar would lose his temper, so instead he smiled.
'That depends on what you mean by impossible.'
The Lord Convocate nodded and stepped to the windows, his hands clasped behind his hack. Balasar waited for three breaths, four. The impulse to shake the old man, to shout that every day was precious and the price of failure horrible beyond contemplation, rose in him and fell. This was the battle now, and as important as any of those to come.
'So,' the Lord Convocate said, turning. 'Explain to me how 'annot means can.
Balasar gestured toward the couches. They sat, leather creaking beneath them.
'I'he andat are ideas translated into forms that include volition,' Balasar said. 'A poet who's bound something like, for example, WoodUpon-Water gains control over the expression of that thought in the world. He could raise a sunken vessel up or sink all the ships on the sea with a thought, if he wished it. The time required to create the binding is measured in years. If it succeeds, the poet's life work is to hold the thing here in the world and train someone to take it from him when he grows old or infirm.'
'You're telling me what I know,' the old man said, but Balasar raised a hand, stopping him.
'I'm telling you what they mean when they say impossible. They mean that Freedom-From-Bondage can't be held. 'There is no way to control something that is the essential nature and definition of the uncontrolled. But they make no distinction between being invoked and being maintained.'
The Lord Convocate frowned and rubbed his fingertips together.
'We can bind it, sir. Riaan isn't the talent of the ages, but FreedomFrom-Bondage should be easy compared with the normal run. The whole binding's nearly done already-only a little tailoring to make it fit our man's mind in particular.'
'That comes back to the issue,' the Lord Convocate said. 'What happens when this impossible binding works?'
'As soon as it is bound it is freed.' Balasar clapped his palms together. 'That fast.'
'And the advantage of that?' the Lord Convocate said, though Balasar could see the old man had already traced out the implications.
'Done well, with the right grammar, the right nuances, it will unbind every andat there is when it goes. All of this was in my report to the High Council.'
The Lord Convocate nodded as he plucked a circle of dried apple from the howl between them. When he spoke again, however, it was as if Balasar's objection had never occurred.
'Assuming it works, that you can take the andat from the field of play, what's to stop the Khaiem from having their poets make another andat and loose it on Galt?'
'Swords,' Balasar said. 'As you said, fourteen cities in a single season. None of them will have enough time. I have men in every city of the Khaiem, ready to meet us with knowledge of the defenses and strengths we face. 'T'here are agreements with mercenary companies to support our men. Four well-equipped, well-supported forces, each taking unfortified, poorly armed cities. But we have to start moving men now. This is going to take time, and I don't want to he caught in the North waiting to see which comes first, the thaw or some overly clever poet in Cetani or Machi managing to hind something new. We have to move quickly-kill the poets, take the libraries-'
'After which we can go about making andat of our own at our leisure,' the Lord Convocate said. His voice was thoughtful, and still Balasar sensed a trap. He wondered how much the man had guessed of his own plans and intentions for the future of the andat.
'If that's what the High Council chooses to do,' Balasar said, sitting back. 'All of this, of course, assuming I'm given permission to move forward.'
'Ah,' the Lord Convocate said, lacing his hands over his belly. 'Yes. That will need an answer. Permission of the Council. A thousand things could go wrong. And if you fail-'
'The stakes are no lower if we sit on our hands. And we could wait forever and never see a better chance,' Balasar said. 'You'll forgive my saving it, sir, but you haven't said no.'
'No,' he said, slowly. 'No, I haven't.'
''T'hen I have the command, sir?'
After a moment, the Lord Convocate nodded.
3
'What's the matter?' Kiyan asked. She was already dressed in the silk shift that she slept in, her hair tied back from her thin foxlike face. It occurred to Otah for the first time just how long ago the sun had set. He sat on the bed at her side and let himself feel the aches in his back and knees.
'Sitting too long,' he said. 'I don't know why doing nothing should hurt as badly as hauling crates.'
Kiyan put a hand against his back, her fingers tracing his spine through the fine-spun wool of his robes.
'For one thing, you haven't hauled a crate for your living in thirty summers.
'Twenty-five,' he said, leaning back into the soft pressure of her hands. 'Twenty-six now.'
'For another, you've hardly done nothing. As I recall, you were awake before the sun rose.'
Otah considered the sleeping chamber-the domed ceiling worked in silver, the wood and bone inlay of the floors and walls, the rich gold netting that draped the bed, the still, somber flame of the lantern. The east wall was stone-pink granite thin as eggshell that glowed when the sun struck it. He couldn't recall how long it had been since he'd woken to see that light. Last summer, perhaps, when the nights were shorter. He closed his eyes and lay hack into the soft, enfolding bed. His weight pressed out the scent of crushed rose petals. Hayes closed, he felt Kiyan shift, the familiar warmth and weight of her body resting against him. She kissed his temple.
'Our friend from the I)ai-kvo will finally leave soon. A message came recalling him,' Otah said. 'That was a bright moment. Though the gods only know what kept him here so long. Sinja's likely halfway to the VVestlands by now.'
'The envoy stayed for Maati's work,' Kiyan said. 'Apparently he hardly left the library these last weeks. Eiah's been keeping me informed.'
'Well, the gods and Eiah, then,' Otah said.
'I'm worried about her. She's brooding about something. Can you speak with her?'
Dread touched Otah's belly, and a moment's resentment. It had been such a long day, and here waiting for him like a stalking cat was another problem, another need he was expected to meet. The thought must have expressed itself in his body, because Kiyan sighed and rolled just slightly away.
'You think it's wrong of me,' Kiyan said.
'Not wrong,' Otah said. 'Unnecessary isn't wrong.'
'I know. At her age, you were living on the streets in the summer cities, stealing pigeons off firekeeper's kilns and sleeping in alleys. And you came through just fine.'
'Oh,' Otah said. 'Have I told that story already?'
'Once or twice,' she said, laughing gently. 'It's just that she seems so distant. I think there's something bothering her that she won't say. And then I wonder whether it's only that she won't say it to me.'
'And why would she talk to me if she won't she talk to you?'
When he felt Kiyan shrug, Otah opened his eyes and rolled to his side. 'There were tears shining in his lover's eyes, but her expression was more amused than sorrowful. He touched her cheek with his fingertips, and she kissed
