An Autumn War

the Khaiate tongue, hack when he was a boy who had only just heard of

the andat.

"We have to stop this," the Khai Machi said. "How do we do it?"

"You're asking for my surrender?"

"If you'd like."

"What are your terms?"

The Khai seemed to sag back in his chair. Balasar was pricked by the

sense that he'd disappointed the man.

"Surrender your arms," the Khai said. "All of them. Swear to return to

(salt and not attack any of the cities of the Khaiem again. Return what

you've taken from us. Free the people you've enslaved."

"I won't negotiate for the other cities," Balasar began, but the Khai

shook his head.

"I am the Emperor of all the cities," the man said. "We end it all here.

All of it."

Balasar shrugged.

"All right, then. Emperor it is. Here are my terms. Surrender the poets,

their library, the andat, yourself and your family, the Khai Cetani and

his family, and we'll spare the rest."

"I've heard those terms before," the Emperor said. "So that takes us

hack to where we started, doesn't it? How do we stop this?"

"As long as you have the andat, we can't," Balasar said. "As long as you

can hold yourselves above the world and better than it, the threat you

pose is too great to let you go on. If I die-if every man I have

dies-and we can stop those things from being in the world, it's worth

the price. So how do we stop it? We don't, Most High. You slaughter its

for our impudence, and then pray to your gods that you can hold on to

the power that protects you. Because when it slips, it'll he your turn

with the executioner."

"I don't have an andat," the Emperor said. "We failed."

"But ..."

The Khai made a weary gesture that seemed to encompass the city, the

plains, the sky. Everything.

"What happened to your men, happened to every Galtic man in the world.

And it happened to our women. My wife. My daughter. Everyone else's

wives and daughters in all the cities of the Khaiem. It was the price of

failing the binding. You'll never father another child. My daughter will

never hear one. And the same is true for both our nations. But I don't

have an andat."

Balasar blinked. He had had more to say, but the words seemed suddenly

empty. The Emperor waited, his eyes on Balasar.

"Ah," Balasar managed. "Well."

"So I'll ask you again. How do we stop this?"

Far above, a crow cawed in the chill air. The fire kilns roared in their

mindless voices. The world looked sharp and clear and strange, as if

Balasar were seeing the city for the first time.

"I don't know," he said. ""I'he poet?"

"'I'hev've fled. For fear that I would kill them. Or that one of my

people would. Or one of yours. I don't have them, so I can't give them

over to you. But I have their books. The libraries of Machi and Cetani,

and what we salvaged from the I)ai-kvo. Give me your weapons. Give me

your promise that you'll go back to Galt and not make war against us

again. I'll burn the books and try to keep us all from starving next

spring."

"I can't promise you what the Council will do. Especially once ... if..."

"Promise me you won't. You and your men. I'll worry about the others later."

There was strength in the man's voice. And sorrow. Balasar thought of

all the things he knew of this man, all the things Sinja had told him. A

seafront laborer, a sailor, a courier, an assistant midwife. And now a

man who negotiated the fate of the world over a meeting table in a

snow-packed square while thousands of soldiers who'd spent the previous

day trying to kill one another looked on. He was unremarkableexhausted,

grieving, determined. He could have been anyone.

"I'll need to talk to my men," Balasar said.

"Of course."

"I'll have an answer for you by sundown."

"If you have it by midday, we can get you someplace warm before night."

"Midday, then."

They rose together, Balasar taking a pose of respect, and the Emperor

Otah Machi returning it.

"General," Otah said as Balasar began to turn away. His voice was gray

as ashes. "One thing. You came because you believed the andat were too

powerful, and the poet's hearts were too weak. You weren't wrong. The

man who did this was a friend of mine. He's a good man. Good men

shouldn't be able to make mistakes with prices this high."

Balasar nodded and walked hack across the square. The drummers matched

the pace of his steps. The last of the hooks burned, the last of the

poets fled into the wilderness, most likely to die, and if not then to

live outcast for their crimes. The andat gone from the world. It was

hard to think it. All his life he had aimed for that end, and still the

idea was too large. His captains crowded around him as he drew near.

"Their faces were ashen and excited and fearful. Questions battered at

him like moths at a lantern.

"'Ieil the men," Balasar began, and they quieted. Balasar hesitated.

"Tell the men to disarm. We'll bring the weapons here. By midday."

"There was a moment of profound silence, and then one of the junior

captains spoke.

"How should we explain the surrender, sir?"

Balasar looked at the man, at all his men. For the first time in his

memory, there seemed to be no ghosts at his back. He forced himself not

to smile.

"Tell them we won."

27

The mine was ancient-one of the first to be dug when Machi had been a

new city, the last Empire still unfallen. Its passages honeycombed the

rock, twisting and swirling to follow veins of ore gone since long

before Maati's great-grandfather was born. Together, Maati and Cehmai

had been raiding the bolt-hole that Otah had prepared for them and for

his own children. It had been well stocked: dried meat and fruit, thick

crackers, nuts and seeds. All of it was kept safe in thick clay jars

with wax seals. They also took the wood and coal that had been set by.

It would have been easier to stay there-to sleep in the beds that had

been laid out, to light the lanterns set in the stone walls. But then

they might have been found, and without discussing it, they had agreed

to flee farther away from the city and the people they had known. Cehmai