"I know," Cehmai said, settling deeper into his cloak.
The rough stone walls didn't make their voices echo so much as sound hollow.
"I couldn't just let the Galts roll through the city. I had to try,"
Maati said.
"We all agreed," Cehmai said. "It was a decision we all reached
together. It's not your fault. Let it go."
It was the conversation Maati always returned to in the handful of days
they'd spent in hiding. He couldn't help it. He could start with plans
for the spring-taking gold and gems from the bolt-hole and marching off
to Eddensea or the Westlands. He could start with speculations on what
was happening in Machi or reminiscences of his childhood, or what sort
of drum fit best with which type of court dance. He could begin
anywhere, and he found himself always coming hack to the same series of
justifications, and Cehmai agreeing by rote with each of them. The dark
season spread out before them-only one another for company and only one
conversation spoken over and over, its variations meaningless. Maati
took another handful of snow and dropped it into the iron melting pan.
"I've always wanted to go to Bakta," Cehmai said. "1 hear it's warm all
year."
"I've heard that too."
"Maybe next winter," Cehmai said.
"Maybe," Maati agreed. "I'he last icy island of snow melted and
vanished. Maati dropped another handful in.
"What part of the day is it, do you think?" Nlaati asked.
"After morning, I'd think. Maybe a hand or two either side of midday."
"You think so? I'd have thought later."
"Could be later," Cehmai said. "I lose track down here."
"I'm going to the bolt-hole again. Get more supplies."
They didn't need them, but Cehmai only raised his hands in a pose of
agreement, then curled into himself and shut his eyes. Maati pulled the
thick leather straps of the sled harness over his shoulders, lit a
lantern, and began the long walk through the starless dark. The wood and
metal flat-bottomed sled scraped and ground along the stone and dust of
the mine floor. It was light now. It would be heavier coming hack. But
at least \laati was alone for a time, and the effort of pulling kept his
mind clear.
An instrument of slaughter, made in fear. Sterile had called herself
that. Maati could still hear her voice, could still feel the bite of her
words. He had destroyed Galt, but he had destroyed his own people as
well. He'd failed, and every doubt he had ever had of his own ability,
or his worthiness to be among the poets, stood justified. He would he
the most hated man in generations. And he'd earned it. The sled dragging
behind him, the straps pulling hack at his shoulders-they were the
simplest burden he carried. They were nothing.
Cehmai had marked the turnings to take with piles of stone. Hunters
searching the mines would be unlikely to notice the marks, but they were
easy enough for Maati to follow. He turned left at a crossing, and then
bore right where the tunnel forked, one passage leading up into
darkness, the other down into air just as black.