"All right, then. Emperor it is. Here are my terms. Surrender the poets,
their library, the andat, yourself and your family, the Khai Cetani and
his family, and we'll spare the rest."
"I've heard those terms before," the Emperor said. "So that takes us
hack to where we started, doesn't it? How do we stop this?"
"As long as you have the andat, we can't," Balasar said. "As long as you
can hold yourselves above the world and better than it, the threat you
pose is too great to let you go on. If I die-if every man I have
dies-and we can stop those things from being in the world, it's worth
the price. So how do we stop it? We don't, Most High. You slaughter its
for our impudence, and then pray to your gods that you can hold on to
the power that protects you. Because when it slips, it'll he your turn
with the executioner."
"I don't have an andat," the Emperor said. "We failed."
"But ..."
The Khai made a weary gesture that seemed to encompass the city, the
plains, the sky. Everything.
"What happened to your men, happened to every Galtic man in the world.
And it happened to our women. My wife. My daughter. Everyone else's
wives and daughters in all the cities of the Khaiem. It was the price of
failing the binding. You'll never father another child. My daughter will
never hear one. And the same is true for both our nations. But I don't
have an andat."
Balasar blinked. He had had more to say, but the words seemed suddenly
empty. The Emperor waited, his eyes on Balasar.
"Ah," Balasar managed. "Well."
"So I'll ask you again. How do we stop this?"
Far above, a crow cawed in the chill air. The fire kilns roared in their
mindless voices. The world looked sharp and clear and strange, as if
Balasar were seeing the city for the first time.
"I don't know," he said. ""I'he poet?"
"'I'hev've fled. For fear that I would kill them. Or that one of my
people would. Or one of yours. I don't have them, so I can't give them
over to you. But I have their books. The libraries of Machi and Cetani,
and what we salvaged from the I)ai-kvo. Give me your weapons. Give me
your promise that you'll go back to Galt and not make war against us
again. I'll burn the books and try to keep us all from starving next
spring."
"I can't promise you what the Council will do. Especially once ... if..."
"Promise me you won't. You and your men. I'll worry about the others later."
There was strength in the man's voice. And sorrow. Balasar thought of
all the things he knew of this man, all the things Sinja had told him. A
seafront laborer, a sailor, a courier, an assistant midwife. And now a
man who negotiated the fate of the world over a meeting table in a
snow-packed square while thousands of soldiers who'd spent the previous
day trying to kill one another looked on. He was unremarkableexhausted,
grieving, determined. He could have been anyone.
"I'll need to talk to my men," Balasar said.
"Of course."