'Navilt was a good man,' Kiyan said.
'He was nothing of the sort. He was a charming bastard who fled his own family and slept with half the women between here and Saraykeht. But I loved him.'
'lie died saving my son,' Kiyan said. 'He's a hero.'
'That doesn't help me.'
'I know it,' Kiyan said, and with a distant surprise, Liat found herself smiling.
'Aren't you going to tell me it will pass?' Liat asked.
'Will it?'
The tunnels below Nlachi had their own weather-a system of warm winds and cold; dry and damp. Sometimes, if no one was speaking, if there were no words to say, Liat could hear it like a breath. Like a long, low, endless exhalation.
'I will never stop missing him,' Liat said. 'I want him back.'
Kiyan nodded, and sat there with her, keeping the vigil for another night as outside autumn fell into winter and winter crawled toward spring. The world slowly changing.
'I understand your son has fallen ill?'
Otah's first impulse, unthinking as a reflex, was to deny it. Balasar Gice was a small-framed man, unimposing until he spoke, and then charming and warm enough to fill a room with his ironic half-smile. He was the man who had brought down everything. 'Thousands of people who were alive in the spring were now dead or enslaved through this man's ambition. Otah's first impulse was to keep anything about Danat away from the man, because he was a Galt and the enemy.
His second impulse, as unreasoned as the first, was to tell Balasar the truth, because in the few days since the surrender, he'd begun to like the man.
'It's a cough,' Otah said. 'He's always had it, but it had been less recently. We'd hoped it was gone, but…'
He took a pose expressing regret and powerlessness before the gods. Balasar seemed to take the sense of it.
'I have medics with me,' the Galt said, gesturing over his back at the wide, dark stone arch that led from the great vaulted chamber in which they now met toward the south and the tunnels given over to the Galtic army. 'They have more experience with sewing men's fingers back on, but they might he of use. If you'd accept them.'
Otah hesitated, his unease washing back over him, then forced himself to smile.
'That's very kind of you,' he said, neither agreeing to anything nor refusing. The Galt shrugged.
'And Sinja?' he asked.
'He sends his regards,' Otah said, 'hut he thought it best to withdraw from company. Fear of reprisal.'
'Ile's not wrong,' Balasar said. ''T'hat man was many things, but he wasn't stupid.'
'I'm told your men have found places in the tunnels.'
'It's a tight fit,' the Galt said. 'And there are going to he problems. You can't make a peace just by saying it. People are angry. Yours and mine both. They're grieving, and grieving people aren't sane. There haven't been any fights yet, but there will he.'
'I know it,' Otah said. 'We'll keep them apart as best we can. I've given orders.'
'I have too. As long as we're both clear, we can keep it from growing out of control. At least before the thaw.'
'And after that?'
The Galt sighed and nodded, as if agreeing with the question. His gaze traveled up the walls, tracing the blue tile and the gold. Utah gestured, and a servant boy scuttled forward from the shadows and poured them each more tea. The Galt smiled at him, and the boy smiled back. Balasar took his bowl of tea and blew across it before he spoke.
'I can't stop the High Council from coming back,' Balasar said. 'I'm their general for this season. I don't own the army. And… and since this campaign ended with the gelding of every man who would cast the vote, I doubt my voice will carry much with them.'
Otah took a pose that accepted this statement.
''There's an age of war coming for you,' Balasar said. 'You still have some of the richest cities in the world, and you're still ripe for plunder. Even if we don't come, there's Eymond, Eddensea, the Westlands. 'T'here will he pirates from Bakta and Ohar State.'
'I'll address those problems. And the others,' Otah said with a confidence lie didn't feel. Balasar let the issue drop. After a moment's silence, Otah felt himself moved to ask the question he had intended to leave be. 'What will you do? Go back to Galt?'
'Yes,' Balasar said. 'I'II go hack, but I don't think it would he wise for me to stay. I don't know, Most High. I had plans, but none of them involved being hated and disgraced. So I suppose I'll have to make others. What do you do when you've finished your life's work and haven't died?'
'I don't know,' Otah said, and Balasar laughed.
'With the things still ahead of you, Lord Emperor, you likely never will. 'That's your fate.' Balasar's gaze seemed to soften-melancholy creeping in at the corners of his eyes. ''There are worse, though.'
Otah sipped his tea. The leaves were perfectly brewed, neither weak nor bitter. Balasar raised his own cup in a wordless salute.
'Shall we do this thing?' Otah asked.
'1 was wondering,' Balasar said. 'I was afraid you might reconsider. Burning a library's a terrible thing.'
For a moment, Otah saw the cold eyes of Sterile, its feminine smile, heard its voice. The memory of the physicians' cots filled with row upon row of women in pain possessed him for the length of a heartbeat and was gone.
'There are worse,' lie said.
Otah rose, and the general rose with him. From the servants' niches and from beyond the great archway to the south, their respective people appeared. Hard soldiers from the South, amen of the utkhaiem in flowing robes from the North. Otah raised his hands in a pose of command, and let the servants go forward to prepare their way.
The furnaces were near the surface where they could be blocked off from the rest of the city if the fires ever should escape their cells. The air near them was thick with the scent of smoke and oppressive with heat. The noise of the flames was like a waterfall. Otah led Balasar and his men to the huge grates where the scrolls and codices and books were stacked. Generations of history. Philosophic essays composed by minds gone to dust a thousand years before. Maps that predated the First Empire. The surviving scraps of war records from before the first andat. Otah looked upon his culture, his history, the record of all that had cone before and that had made the world what it was. The flames licked and leapt.
If only it could have been just the poets' books and treatises on the andat… but the Gait had insisted, and Otah had understood. Each his tory was a footprint in the path, each collection of court poems might contain a hint or reference. With time and attention, someone might put together again what had been torn apart, and it was a chance the Galt had refused to accept. Their tenuous peace required sacrifices, and sacrifice without loss didn't deserve the name.
'Forgive this,' Utah said, to no one. He walked forward, coming to the first pile. The hook was leather-hound and worn from years of loving care. Utah let it fall open and looked on Heshai's careful handwriting for the last time. With a sense of sorrow, Utah cast the book into the flames, then raised his hands again, and the sen'ants began to throw the pages into the fire. parchment darkened and curled in the suddenly white flame. 'Piny embers flew out into the air, glowing and going dark, fireflies at sunset. The horror of it all closed his throat, and with it came a strange elation.
A hand touched his arm, and Utah looked at the Galtic general. 't'here were tears in his eyes too.
'It was necessary,' he said.
The night candles were burned down past their first quarter before Utah found his way hack to his rooms. Kivan was already asleep, her face smooth and peaceful. He resisted the urge to touch her, to pull her awake and hope that some of that calm might come with her. It wouldn't. Ile knew that. Instead he watched the subtle rise and fall of her breath, listened to the small sounds the tunnels made in the darkness, the soft flow of air. Ile thought of crawling in beside her, still in his robes, pressing his eyes closed until forgetfulness took him as well. But he
