were shaky, the grammar poor. Idaan and the Vaunyogi and the Galts.
Everything he knew written in short, unadorned phrases. He dropped the
pen to the floor and pressed the paper into Baarath's hand.
"Maati," Cehmai said. "'lake it to Maati. Now."
Baarath read the letter, and whatever blood had remained in his face
drained from it now.
"This ... this isn't ..."
"Run!" Cehmai screamed, and Baarath was off, faster than Cehmai could
have gone if he'd tried, Idaan's doom in his hands. Cehmai closed his
eyes. That was over, then. That was decided, and for good or ill, he was
committed. The stones now could he only stones.
He pulled himself back to the game board. Stone-Made-Soft had gone
silent again. The storm was as fierce as it had ever been, but Cehmai
found he also had some greater degree of strength against it. He forced
himself along every line he could imagine, shifting the stones in his
mind until at last he pushed one black token forward. Stone-Made-Soft
didn't pause. It shifted a white stone behind the black that had just
moved, trapping it. Cehmai took a long deep breath and shifted a black
stone on the far end of the board back one space.
The andat stretched out its wide fingers, then paused. The storm
shifted, lessened. Stone-Made-Soft smiled ruefully and pulled back its
hand. The wide brow furrowed.
"Good sacrifice," it said.
Cehmai leaned hack. His body was shuddering with exhaustion and effort
and perhaps something else more to do with l3aarath running through the
night. The andat moved a piece forward. It was the obvious move, but it
was doomed. They had to play it out, but the game was as good as
finished. Cchmai moved a black token.
"I think she does love you," the andat said. "And you did swear you'd
protect her."
"She killed two men and plotted her own father's slaughter," Cehmai said.
"You love her. I know you do."
"I know it too," Cehmai said, and then a long moment later. "It's your
move."
Rain came in from the south. By midmorning tall clouds of billowing
white and yellow and gray had filled the wide sky of the valley. When
the sun, had it been visible, would have reached the top of its arc, the
rain poured down on the city like an upended bucket. The black cobbled
streets were brooks, every slant roof a little waterfall. Maati sat in
the side room of the teahouse and watched. The water seemed lighter than
the sky or the stone-alive and hopeful. It chilled the air, making the
warmth of the earthenware bowl in his hands more present. Across the
smooth wooden table, Otah-kvo's chief armsman scratched at the angry red
weals on his wrists.
"If you keep doing that, they'll never heal," Maati said.
"Thank you, grandmother," Sinja said. "I had an arrow through my arm
once that hurt less than this."
"It's no worse than what half the people in that hall suffered," Maati said.
"It's a thousand times worse. Those stings are on them. These are on me.