sped to the end of the gallery, I)anat still on his hip, and turned to
the North and vanished toward the back halls and the cart and the North
where if the gods could hear Liat's prayers, they would be safe.
I lot si: SnY:AN l HAD OFFERED VP IFS wAREnot SES FOR ILP. kttnuiM-
Machi and Cetani together-to use as their commandery. Five stories high
and well back from the edge of the city, the wide, gently sloped roof
had as clear a view of the streets as anything besides the great towers
themselves. A passage led from the lower warehouse on the street level
into the underground should there he a need to retreat into that
shelter. In the great empty space-the warehouse emptied of its
wares-Nlaati wrote the text of his binding on the smooth stone wall,
pausing occasionally to rub his hands together and try to calm his
unquiet mind. A stone stair led tip to the second-floor snow doors,
which stood open to let the sun in until they were ready to light the
dozen glass lanterns that lined the walls. The air blew in bitterly cold
and carried a few stray flakes of hard snow that had found their way
down from the sky.
Ideally, Alaati would have spent the last day meditating on the
binding-holding the nuances of each passage clear in his mind, creating
step-by-step the mental structure that would become the andat. Ile had
done his best, drinking black tea and reading through his outline for
Corrupting-the-Generative. The binding looked solid. I Ic thought he
could hold it in his mind. With months or weeks-perhaps even days-he
could have been sure. But this morning he felt scattered. The hot metal
scent of the brazier, the wet smell of the snow, the falling gray
snowflakes against a sky of white, the scuffing of Cehmai's feet against
the stone floor, and the occasional distant call of trumpet and drum as
the armsmen and defenders of Nlachi took their places-everything seemed
to catch his attention. And he could not afford distraction.
"I don't know if I can do this," he said. His voice echoed against the
stone walls, sounding hollow. He turned to meet Cehmai's gaze. "I don't
know if I can go through with this, Cchmai-kya."
"I know," the other poet said, but did not pause in his work of chalking
symbols into the spare walls. "I felt the same before I took
StoneMade-Soft from my master. I don't think any poet has ever gone to
the binding without some sense he was jumping out of a tower in hopes of
learning to fly on the way down."
"But the binding," Nlaati said. "We haven't had time."
"I don't know," Cehmai said, turning to look at Maati. "I've been
thinking about it. The draft you made. It's as complex as some bindings
I saw when I was training. The nuances support each other. The symbols
seem to hang together. And the structure that deflects the price fits
it. I think you've been working on this for longer than you think. Maybe
since Saraykeht fell."
Nlaati looked out the snow door at their bright square of sky. Ills
chest felt tight. He thought for a moment how sad it would be to have
come this far and collapse now from a had heart.
"I remember when I was at the village the second time," Nlaati said.
"After Saraykeht. After Liat left me. 't'here was a teahouse at the edge