had announced the army's arrival still hung from the high tower, grayed
by the darkness. Colorless.
hlaati passed through the empty gardens, and found himself smiling. He
felt separate from the city around him, untouched by its despair.
Perhaps even invigorated by it. "There was nothing the citizens of
Nlachi could do, no path for them to take that might somehow make things
right. That was his alone. He would save the cite, if it were to be
saved, and if Machi fell, it would find Nlaati working to the end. It
was that hope and the clarity of the path that lay before him that made
his steps lighter and kept his blood warm.
He wondered if this strange elation was something like what ()tali had
felt, all those years he had lived under his false name. Perhaps holding
himself at a distance from the world was how Otah had learned his
confidence.
But no. That thought was an illusion. I lowever much this felt like joy,
Nlaati's rational mind knew it was only fear in brighter robes.
'['he door of the poet's house stood open. The candlelight from within
glowed gold. Maati hauled himself up the stairs and through the doorway
without scratching or calling out to announce his presence. The air
within smelled of distilled wine and a deep earthy incense of the sort
priests burned in the temples. He found Cehmai at the back of the house,
eyes bloodshot and wine bowl cupped in his hands. He sat cross-legged on
the floor contemplating a linked sigil of order and
chaos-mother-of-pearl inlay in a panel of dark-stained rosewood. He
glanced up at Maati and made an awkward attempt at some pose Maati could
only guess at.
"You've found religion?" Maati asked.
"Chaos comes out of order," Cehmai said. "I can't think of a better time
to contemplate the fact. And gods are all we have left now, aren't they?"
Nlaati reached out, brushing the panel with his fingers before tipping
it backward. It slapped the floor with a sound like a book dropped from
a table. Cehmai blinked, half shocked, half amused. Before he could
speak, Maati fished in his sleeve, brought out the small brown volume,
its leather covers worn soft as cloth by the years, and dropped it into
Cchmai's lap. He didn't wait for ("ehmai to pick it up before he strode
back into the front room, closed the door, and dropped two fresh lumps
of coal onto the fire in the grate. He found a pan, a flask of fresh
water, and a brick of pressed tea leaves. That was good. They'd want
that before the night was out. He also found the spent incense-ashes
lighter than fresh snow on a black stone burner. He dumped them outside.
A high slate table held their notes. Thoughts and diagrams charting the
new and doomed binding of Stone-Made-Soft. Maati scooped up the pages of
cramped writing and put them outside as well, with the ashes. "l'hen he
carefully smoothed the writing from the wax tablets until they were
smooth again, pristine. He took up the bronze-tipped stylus and scored
two long vertical lines in the wax, dividing it into three equal
columns. Cehmai walked into the room, his head bent over the open hook.
He was already more than halfway through it.
"You aren't the only one who was ever chosen to bind one of the andat,"