his knuckles until they ached. The Dai-kvo was dead. The men whom Maati
had known in the long years he had lived in the village were memories
now. ITe found himself trying to remember their names, their faces.
't'here were fewer fresh to his mind than he would have thoughtthe
firekeeper whose kiln had been at the corner nearest Maati's cell, the
old man who'd run the bathhouse, a few others. They were gone, fallen
into the forgetfulness of history. The records of their names had been
burned.
"We searched. We searched through everything," Nayiit said. "I brought
you what we found."
With a thick rustle, he pulled the thick waxed cloth from out of the
crate. Two stacks of books lay beneath it, and Maati, squatting on the
floor, lifted the ancient texts out one at a time with trembling hands.
Fourteen books. The library of the Dai-kvo reduced to fourteen hooks. He
opened them, smelling the smoke in their pages, feeling the terrible
lightness of the bindings. There was no unity to them-a sampling of what
had happened to be in a dark corner or hidden beneath something
unlikely. A history of agriculture before the First Empire. An essay on
soft grammars. Jantan Noya's Fourth 7i-eatrse on Form, which Maati had
two copies of among his own hooks. None of these salvaged volumes
outlined the binding of an andat, or the works of ancient poets.
Stone-Made-Soft wouldn't be bound with these. And so StoneMade-Soft
wouldn't be bound, because these were all that remained. Maati felt a
cold, deep calm descend upon him. Grunting, he stood tip and then began
pacing his rooms. His hands went through the movements of lighting
candles and lanterns without his conscious participation. His mind was
as clear and sharp as broken ice.
Stone-Made-Soft could not be bound-not without years of workand so he
put aside that hope. If he and Cehmai failed to hind an andat, and
quickly, the Gaits would destroy them all. Nayiit, Liat, Otah, Eiah.
Everyone. So something had to be done. Perhaps they could trick the
Gaits into believing that an andat had been hound. Perhaps they could
delay the armies arrayed against them until the cold shut Machi against
invasion. If he could win the long, hard months of winter in which he
could scheme ...
When the answer came to him, it was less like discovering something than
remembering it. Not a flash of insight, but a familiar glow. He had,
perhaps, known it would come to this.
"I think I know what to do, but we have to find Cehmai," he began, but
when he turned to Nayiit, his son was curled on the floor, head pillowed
by his arms. His breath was as deep and regular as tides, and his eyes
were sunken and hard shut. Weariness had paled the long face, sharpening
his cheeks. Maati walked as softly as he could to his bedchamber, pulled
a thick blanket from his bed, and brought it to drape over Nayiit. The
thick carpets were softer and warmer than a traveler's cot. There was no
call to wake him.
What had happened out there-the battle, the search through the village,
the trek back to Machi with this thin gift of useless bookswould likely
have broken most men. It had likely scarred Nayiit. Maati reached to