"It was the way they died," Eiah said. "All the stories you told me when
I was young about the prices that the andat exacted when a poet's
binding failed. The one whose blood turned dry. The one whose belly
swelled up like he was pregnant, and when they cut him open it was all
ice and seaweed. All of them. I started to hear stories. What was that,
four years ago?"
At first she thought he wouldn't answer. He cupped two thick fingers
into the rice and ate what they lifted out. He swallowed. He sucked his
teeth.
"Six," he said.
"Six years," she said. "Women started appearing here and there, dead in
strange ways."
He didn't answer. Eiah waited for the space of five slow breaths
together before she went on.
"You told me stories about the andat when I was young," she said. "I
remember most of it, I think. I know that a binding only works once. In
order to bind the same andat again, the poet has to invent a whole new
way to describe the thought. You used to tell me about how the poets of
the Old Empire would bind three or four andat in a lifetime. I thought
at the time you envied them, but I saw later that you were only sick at
the waste of it."
Maati sighed and looked down.
"And I remember when you tried to explain to me why only men could be
poets," she said. "As I recall, the arguments weren't all that
convincing to me."
"You were a stubborn girl," Maati said.
"You've changed your mind," Eiah said. "You've lost all your books. All
the grammars and histories and records of the andat that have come
before. They're gone. All the poets gone but you and perhaps Cehmai. And
in the history of the Empire, the Second Empire, the Khaiem, the one
thing you know is that a woman has never been a poet. So perhaps, if
women think differently enough from men, the bindings they create will
succeed, even with nothing but your own memory to draw from."
"Who told you? Otah?"
"I know my father had letters from you," Eiah said. "I don't know what
was in them. He didn't tell me."
"A women's grammar," Maati said. "We're building a women's gram„ mar.
Eiah took the bowl from his hands and put it on the floor with a
clatter. Outside, a gust of wind shrilled past the shack. Smoke bellied
out from the fire, rising into the air, thinning as it went. When he
looked at her, the pleasure was gone from his eyes.
"It's the best hope," Maati said. "It's the only way to ... undo what's
been done."
"You can't do this, Maati-kya," Eiah said, her voice gentle.
Maati started to his feet. The stool he'd sat on clattered to the floor.
Eiah pulled back from his accusing finger.
"Don't you tell that to me, Eiah," Maati said, biting at the words. "I
know he doesn't approve. I asked his help. Eight years ago, I risked my
life by sending to him, asking the Emperor of this pisspot empire for