stretched canvas and light wood lay on the steps, blood staining the
cloth. Within, half a dozen men and two women sat on low wooden benches
or lay on the floor. One of the men tried to take a pose of obeisance,
winced in pain, and sat back down. Otah made his way to the rear. Three
men in leather aprons were working the tables, servants and assistants
swarming around them. Eiah, in her own apron, was at the back table. A
Galtic man lay before her, groaning. Blood drenched his side. Eiah
glanced up, saw him, and took a pose of welcome with red hands.
"What's happened?" Otah asked.
"He fell out of a window and onto a stick," Eiah said. "I'm fairly sure
we've gotten all the splinters out of him."
"He'll live, then?"
"If he doesn't go septic," Eiah said. "He's a man with a hole in his
side. You can't ask better odds than that."
The wounded man stuttered out his gratitude in his own language while
Eiah, letting him hold one of her hands, gestured with the other for an
assistant.
"Bind the wound, give him three measures of poppy milk, and put him
somewhere safe until morning. I'll want to see his wound again before we
send him back to his people."
The assistant took a pose that accepted instruction, and Eiah walked to
the wide stone basins on the back wall to wash the blood from her hands.
A woman screamed and retched, but he couldn't see where she was. Eiah
was unfazed.
"We'll have forty more like him by morning," she said. "Too drunk and
happy to think of the risks. There was a woman here earlier who wrenched
her knee climbing a rope they'd strung over the street. Almost fell on
Danat's head, to hear her say it. She may walk with a cane the rest of
her life, but she's all smiles tonight."
"Well, she won't be dancing," Otah said.
"If she can hop, she will."
"Is there a place we can speak?" Otah asked.
Eiah dried her hands on a length of cloth, leaving it dark with water
and pink with blood. Her expression was closed, but she led the way
through a wide door and down a hall. Someone was moaning nearby. She
turned off into a small garden, the bushes as bare as sticks, a
widebranched tree empty. If there had been snow, it would have been lovely.
"I'm calling a meeting with the Galtic High Council tomorrow," he said.
"And my own as well. It's the beginning of unification. I wanted you to
hear it from me."
"That seems wise," Eiah said.
"The poets. The andat. They can't be kept out of that conversation."
"I know," she said. "I've been thinking about it."
"I don't suppose there are any conclusions you'd want to share," he
asked, trying to keep his tone light. Eiah pulled at her fingers, one
hand and then the other.
"We can't be sure there won't be others," she said. "The hardest thing
about binding them is the understanding that they can be bound. They
burned all the books, they killed every poet they could find, and we