and the evening breeze had smelled of forge smoke. He kept her hand in
his as he spoke.
"I've been to see the Khai," Nayiit said. "You know he believes what
Maati-cha ... what Father said. About the Gaits."
"Yes," Liat said. She still hadn't understood what she was seeing. His
next words came like a blow.
"He's taking men, all the men he can find. They're going overland to the
I)ai-kvo. I've asked to go with them, and he's accepted me. He's finding
me a sword and something like armor. He says we'll leave before the
week's out," he said, then paused. "I'm sorry."
She knew that her grip on his hand had gone hard because he winced, but
not because she felt it. This hadn't been their plan. This had never
been their plan.
"Why?" she managed, but she already knew.
He was young and he was trapped in a life he more than half regretted.
He was finding what it meant to him to be a man. Riding out to war was
an adventure, and a statement-oh, by all the gods-it was a statement
that he had faith in Maati's guess. It was a way to show that he
believed in his father. Nayiit only kissed her hand.
"I know the Dai-kvo's village," he said. "I can ride. I'm at least good
enough with a how to catch rabbits along the way. And someone has to go,
Mother. There's no reason that I shouldn't."
You have a wife, she didn't say. You have a child. You have a city to
defend, and it's Saraykeht. You'll be killed, and I cannot lose you. The
Gaits have terrorized every nation in the world that didn't have the
andat for protection, and Otah has a few armsmen barely competent to
chase down thieves and brawl in the alleys outside comfort houses.
"Are you sure?" she said.
She sat now, looking out over the wide, empty air as the mark grew
slowly smaller. As her son left her. Otah had managed more men than
she'd imagined he would. At the last moment, the utkhaiem had rallied to
him. Three thousand men, the first army fielded in the cities of the
Khaiem in generations. Untried, untested. Armed with whatever had come
to hand, armored with leather smith's aprons. And her little boy was
among them.
She wiped her eyes with the cloth of her sleeve.
"Hurry," she said, pressing the word out to the distant men. Get the
Dal-kvo, retrieve the poets and their books, and come back to me. Before
they find you, come back to me.
The sun had traveled the width of two hands together before she stepped
out onto the platform and signaled the men far below her to bring her
down. The chains clattered and the platform lurched, but Liat only held
the rail and waited for it to steady in its descent. She knew she would
not fall. That would have been too easy.
She had done a poor job of telling Maati. Perhaps she'd assumed Nayiit
would already have told him. Perhaps she'd been trying to punish Maati
for beginning it all. It had been the next night, and she had accepted
Maati's invitation to dinner in the high pavilion. Goose in honey
lacquer, almonds with cinnamon and raisin sauce, rice wine. Not far