'I'm pleased to be here,' he said.
'Did you have any news of my father?'
'No,' he said. 'I didn't ask. It's the first rule of running a race, isn't it? Not to look back at who's behind you?'
Eiah chuckled, but didn't respond otherwise. Once she'd left and Maati had banked the fire, he sat on the bed. The night candle stood straight in its glass case, the burning wick marking the hours before dawn. It wasn't to its first-quarter mark and he felt exhausted. He moved the papers and the scroll safely off the bed, pulled the blanket up over himself, and slept better than he had in weeks, waking to the sound of morning birds and pale light before dawn.
He read over the list of questions on the scroll, only surveying them and not bothering to think of answers just yet, and then turned to the proposed binding. When he went out, following the smells of wood smoke and warmed honey, his mind was turning at twice its usual speed.
They had made a small common room from what had once been the teachers' cells, and Irit and Large Kae were sitting at the window that Maati remembered looking out when he had been a child called before Tahi-kvo. Bald, mean-spirited Tahi-kvo, who would not have recognized the world as it had become; women studying the andat in his own rooms, the poets almost vanished from the world, Galts on the way to becoming the nobles of this new, rattling, sad, stumble-footed Empire. Nothing was the same as it had been. Everything was different.
Vanjit, sitting with her legs crossed by the fire grate, smiled up at him. Maati took a pose of greeting and lowered himself carefully to her side. Irit and Large Kae both glanced at him, their eyes rich with curiosity and perhaps even envy, but they kept to their window and their conversation. Vanjit held out her bowl of cooked wheat and raisins, but Maati took a pose that both thanked and refused, then changed his mind and scooped two fingers into his mouth. The grain was rich and salted, sweetened with fruit and honey both. Vanjit smiled at him; the expression failed to reach her eyes.
'I looked over your work. Yours and Eiah-cha's,' he said. 'It's interesting.'
Vanjit looked down, setting the bowl on the stone floor at her side. After a moment's hesitation, her hands took a pose that invited his judgment.
'I…' Maati began, then coughed, looked out past Large Kae and Irit to the bright and featureless blue of the western sky. 'I don't want to hurry this. And I would rather not see any more of you pay the price of falling short.'
Her mouth tightened, and her eyebrows rose as if she were asking a question. She said nothing.
'You're sure you want this?' he asked. 'You have seen all the women we've lost. You know the dangers.'
'I want this, Maati-kvo. I want to try this. And… and I don't know how much longer I can wait,' she said. Her gaze rose to meet his. 'It's time for me. I have to try soon, or I think I never will.'
'If you have doubts about-'
'Not doubts. Only a little despair now and then. You can take that from me. If you let me try.' Maati started to speak, but the girl went on, raising her voice and speaking faster, as if she feared what he would say next. 'I've seen death. I won't say I'm not afraid of it, but I'm not so taken by the fear that I can't risk anything. If it's called for.'
'I didn't think you were,' he said.
'And I helped bury Umnit. I know what the price can look like. But I buried my mother and my brother and his daughter too, and they didn't die for a reason. They were only on the streets when Udun fell,' she said, and shrugged. 'We all die sometime, Maati-kvo. Risking it sooner and for a reason is better than being safe and meaningless. Isn't it?'
Brave girl. She was such a brave girl. To have lost so much, so young, and still be strong enough to risk the binding. Maati felt tears in his eyes and forced himself to smile.
'We chose it for you. Clarity-of-Sight,' she said. 'I saw how hard it is for you to read some days, and Eiah and I thought… if we could help…'
Maati laid his hand on hers, his heart aching with something equally joy and fear. Vanjit was weeping a bit as well now. He heard voices coming down the hallway-Eiah and Ashti Beg-but Irit and Large Kae were silent. He was certain they were watching them. He didn't care.
'We'll be careful,' he said. 'We'll make it work.'
Her smile outshone the sun. Maati nodded; yes, they would attempt the binding. Yes, Vanjit would be the first woman in history to hold an andat or else the next of his students to die.
7
'No, I will not forbid her a goddamned thing. The girl's got more spine than all the rest of us put together. We could learn something from her,' Farrer Dasin said, his arms folded before him, his chin high and proud. And when he said the rest of its, Otah was clear that he meant the Galts. The courts of the Khaiem, the cities and people of Otah's empire were not part of Farrer Dasin's us; they were still apart and the enemy.
Six members of the High Council sat at the wide marble table along with Balasar Gice and Issandra Dasin. Otah, Danat, and representatives of four of the highest families of the utkhaiem sat across from them. Otah wished he'd been able to scatter each side among the other instead of dividing the table like a battlefield. Or else keep the group smaller. If it had been only himself, Farrer, and Issandra, there might have been a chance.
Ana, the girl who had taken a stick to this political beehive, was not present, nor was she welcome.
'There are agreements in place,' Balasar said. 'We can't unmake them on a whim.'
'Yes, Dasin-cha. Contracts have been signed,' one of the utkhaiem said. 'Is it Galt's intention that any contract can be invalidated if the signer's daughter objects?'
'That isn't what happened,' the councilman at Farrer's right hand said. 'We have our hands full enough without exaggerating.'
And so it started off again, voices raised each over the other with the effect that nothing but babble could be heard. Otah didn't add to the clamor, but sat forward in his chair and watched. He considered the architecturevaulted ceiling of blue and gold tiles, the sliding wooden shutters. He found a scent in the air: sugared almonds. He struggled to hear a sound beyond the table: the wind in the treetops. Then, slowly, he pulled his awareness back to the people before him. It was an old trick he'd learned during his days as a courier, a way of withdrawing half a step from the place where he was and considering the ways that people moved and held themselves, the expressions they wore when they were silent and when they spoke. It often said more than the words. And now, he saw three things.
First, he was not the only silent one at the table. Issandra Dasin was rocked a degree back in her chair, her eyes fixed on the middle distance. Her expression spoke of exhaustion and a barely hidden sorrow, the complement to her husband's self-destructive pleasure. Danat was also withdrawn, but with his body canted forward, as if he was trying to hear every phrase that fluttered through the heavy air. He might as easily drink a river.
Second, Otah saw that neither side was united. The Galts across from him ran the gamut from defiant to conciliatory, the utkhaiem from outraged to fearful. It was the same outside. The palaces, the teahouses, the baths, the street corners-all of Saraykeht was filled with agreements and negotiations that were suddenly, violently uncertain. He recalled something his daughter had said once about the reopened wound being the one most plagued by scars.
Third, and perhaps least interesting, it became clear that he was wasting his time.
'Friends,' Otah said. Then again, louder, 'Friends!'
Slowly, the table grew quiet around him.
'The morning has been difficult,' he said. 'We should retire and reflect on what has been said.'
Whatever it was, he didn't add.
There was a rumble of assent, if not precisely agreement. Otah took a pose of gratitude to each man and woman as they left, even to Fatter Dasin, for whom he felt very little warmth. Otah dismissed the servants as well, and soon only he and Danat remained. Without the pandemonium of voices, the meeting room seemed larger and oddly forlorn.
'Well,' his son said, leaning against the table. He was wearing the same robe as he had at the botched
