"I wasn't going to say so," she said. "It's been fascinating. At first,
it was as if we were sneaking pies from the kitchens. Everyone wanted to
do the thing, but it seemed ... wrong? I don't know if that's the word.
It seemed like something we shouldn't do, and more tempting because of
it. And then once we started talking with each other, it was like being
on a loose cart. We couldn't stop or even slow down. Half the time I
didn't know if we were going down the wrong road, but ..."
She shrugged, nodding at the scroll in his hands.
"Well, even if you were, some of this may be quite useful."
"I'd hoped so," Eiah said. "And that brings me to something else. I
found some books at court. I brought them."
Maati blinked, the scroll forgotten in his hands.
"Books? They weren't all burned?" he said.
"Not that sort. These aren't ours," she said. "They're Westlands'. Books
from physicians. Here."
She took back the scroll and put a small, cloth-bound book in his hand.
One of the sticks in the fire grate broke, sending out embers like
fireflies. Maati leaned forward.
The script was small and cramped, the ink pale. It would have been
difficult in sunlight; by fire and candle, it might as well not have
been written. Frustrated, Maati turned the pages and an eye stared back
at him from the paper. He turned back and went more slowly. All the
diagrams were of eyes, some ripped from their sockets, some pierced by
careful blades. Comments accompanied each orb, laying, he assumed, its
secrets open.
"Sight," Eiah said. "The author is called Arran, but it was more likely
written by dozens of people who all used the same name. The wardens in
the north had a period four or five generations ago when there was some
brilliant work done. We ignored it, of course, because it wasn't by us.
But these are very, very good. Arran was brilliant."
"Whether he existed or not," Maati said. He meant it as a joke.
"Whether he existed or not," Eiah agreed with perfect seriousness. "I've
been working with these. And with Vanjit. We have a draft. You should
look at it."
Maati handed her back the book and she pulled a sheaf of papers from her
sleeve. Maati found himself almost hesitant to accept them. Vanjit, and
her dreamed baby. Vanjit, who had lost so much in the war. He didn't
want to see any of his students pay the price of a failed binding, but
especially not her.
He took the papers. Eiah waited. He opened them.
The binding was an outline, but it was well-considered. The sections and
relationships sketched in with commentary detailing what would go in
each, often with two or three notes of possible approaches. The andat
would be Clarity-of-Sight, and it would be based in the medical
knowledge of Westlands physicians and the women's grammar that Maati and
Eiah had been creating. Even if some Second Empire poet had managed to
hold the andat before, this approach, these descriptions and
sensibilities, was likely to be wholly different. Wholly new.
"Why Vanjit?" he asked. "Why not Ashti Beg or Small Kae?"