bridge. The women and children and old men of Machi come to greet the
militia that had gone out to save the l)ai-kvo. The Dai-kvo and the city
and the world. Maati pushed his way in, elbowing people aside and taking
more than one sharp rebuttal in his own ribs. The horses that pulled the
wagons were blown. The men who rode them were gray-pale in the face and
bloodied. The few who still walked, shambled. A ragged cheer rose from
the crowd and then slunk away. A girl in a gray robe of cheap wool
stepped out from the edge of the crowd, moving toward the soldiers. From
where he stood trapped in the press of bodies, Maati could see the
girl's head as it turned, searching the coming train of men for some
particular man. Even before the first soldier reached her, Nlaati saw
how small the group was, how many men were missing.
"Nayiit!" he shouted, hoping that his boy would hear him. "Nayiit! Over
here!"
His voice was drowned. The citizens of Machi surged forward like an
attack. Some of the men crossing the bridge drew back from them as if in
fear, and then there was only one surging, swirling mass of people.
'T'here was no order, no control. One of the first wagons was pushed
sideways from the road, the horses whinnying their protest but too tired
to bolt. A man younger than Nayiit with a badly cut arm and a bruise on
his face stumbled almost into i\laati's arms.
"What happened?" Maati demanded of the boy. "Where's the Khai? I lave
you seen Nayiit Chokavi?" A blank stare was the only reply.
The chaos seemed to go on for a day, though it wasn't really more than
half a hand. Then a loud, cursing voice rose over the tumult, clearing
the way for the wagons. There were hurt men. Men who had to see
physicians. Men who were dying. Men who were dead. The people stood
aside and let the wagons pass. The sounds of weeping and hard wheels on
paving stones were the only music. Maati felt breathless with dread.
As he pushed back into the city, following in the path the wagons had
opened, he heard bits and snatches from the people he passed. The Khai
had taken the utkhaiem and ridden for Cetani. The Galts weren't far
behind. The I)ai-kvo was dead. The village of the Dai-kvo was burned.
'T'here had been a blood-soaked farce of a battle. As many men were dead
as still standing.
Rumor, Maati told himself. Everything is rumor and speculation until I
hear it from Nayiit. Or Otah-kvo. But his chest was tight and his hands
balled in fists so tight they ached when, out of breath and ears
ringing, he made his way back to the library. A man in a travel-stained
robe squatted beside his door, a tarp-covered crate on the ground at his
side.
Nayiit. It was Nayiit. Maati found the strength to embrace his boy, and
allowed himself at last to weep. He felt Nayiit's arms around him, felt
the boy soften in their shared grief, and then pull away. Maati forced
himself to step hack. Nayiit's expression was grim.
"Come in," Nlaati said. "Then tell me."
It was had. The Galts were not on Machi's door and Otah-kvo lived, but
these were the only bright points in Nayiit's long, quiet recitation.
They sat in the dimming front room, shutters closed and candles unlit,