The armsmen had gone first, scouting from what little cover there was.
No sign of life had greeted them, and they had arrived to find the
school cleaned, repaired, cared for, and empty. They had come too late,
and the wind and snow had erased any clue to where Maati and Eiah and
the other women had gone. Including the new poet.
Idaan emerged from the building, walking toward him with a determined
gait. Otah could see the ghost of her breath. He took a pose that
offered greeting. It seemed too formal, but he couldn't think of one
more fitting and he didn't want to speak.
"I'd guess they left before you reached Pathai," Idaan said. "They've
left very little. A few jars of pickled nuts and some dry cheese.
Otherwise, it all matches what she said. Someone's been here for months.
The kitchen's been used. And the graves are still fresh."
"How many boys died here, do you think?" Otah asked.
"In the war, or when the Dai-kvo ran the place?" Idaan asked, and then
went on without waiting for his reply. "I don't know. Fewer than have
died in Galt since you and ... the others left Saraykeht."
She had stumbled at mentioning Danat. He'd noticed more than once that
it wasn't a name she liked saying.
"We have to find them," Otah said. "If we can't make her change this
soon, the High Council will never forgive us."
Idaan smiled. It was an odd and catlike expression, gentle and predatory
both. She glanced at him, saw his unease, and shrugged.
"I'm sorry," she said. "It's only that you keep speaking as if there was
still a High Council. Or a nation called Galt, for that. If this Vanjit
has done what for all the world it seems she's done, every city and town
and village over there has been blinded for weeks now. It isn't winter
yet, but it's cold enough. And even if they had gotten some of the
harvest in before this, it would only help the people on the farms. You
can't walk from town to town blind, much less steer one of these soup
pots on wheels."
"They'll find ways."
"Some of them may have, but there'll be fewer tomorrow. And then the
next day. The next," Idaan agreed. "It doesn't matter. However many
there are, they aren't Galts anymore."
"No? Then what are they?"
"Survivors," Idaan said, and any amusement that had been in her voice
was gone. "Just survivors."
They stood in silence, looking at nothing. The crows insulted one
another, rose into the air, and settled again. The breeze smelled of new
snow and the promise of frost.
Inside the stone walls, the armsmen had made camp. The kitchen was warm,
and the smell of boiling lentils and pork fat filled the air. Ana Dasin
and Ashti Beg sat side by side, talking to the air. Otah tried not to
watch the two blind women, but he found he couldn't turn away. It was
their faces that captured him. Their expressions, their gestures thrown
into nothingness, were strangely intimate. It was as if by being cast
into their personal darkness, they had lost some ability to dissemble.
Ashti Beg's anger was carved into the lines around her mouth. Ana, by