but the andat."

""I'he andat suffice."

"Only if they have them."

"Ah. Yes. That's the center of the question, isn't it? Your grand plan

to do away with all the andat at a single blow. I have to confess, I

don't think I quite follow how you expect this to work. You have one of

these poets here, ready to work with us. Wouldn't it be better to

capture one of these andat for ourselves?"

"We will be. Freedom-From-Bondage should be one of the simplest andat to

capture. It's never been done, so there's no worry about coming too near

what's been tried before. The binding has been discussed literally for

centuries. I've found books of commentary and analysis dating back to

the First Empire ..."

"All of it exploring exactly why it can't be done, yes?" The Lord

Convocate's voice had gone as gentle and sympathetic as that of a medic

trying to lead a man to realize his own dementia. It was a ploy. The old

man wanted to see whether Balasar would lose his temper, so instead he

smiled.

""That depends on what you mean by impossible."

The Lord Convocate nodded and stepped to the windows, his hands clasped

behind his hack. Balasar waited for three breaths, four. The impulse to

shake the old man, to shout that every day was precious and the price of

failure horrible beyond contemplation, rose in him and fell. This was

the battle now, and as important as any of those to come.

"So," the Lord Convocate said, turning. "Explain to me how 'annot means

can.

Balasar gestured toward the couches. They sat, leather creaking beneath

them.

""I'he andat are ideas translated into forms that include volition,"

Balasar said. "A poet who's bound something like, for example,

WoodUpon-Water gains control over the expression of that thought in the

world. He could raise a sunken vessel up or sink all the ships on the

sea with a thought, if he wished it. The time required to create the

binding is measured in years. If it succeeds, the poet's life work is to

hold the thing here in the world and train someone to take it from him

when he grows old or infirm."

"You're telling me what I know," the old man said, but Balasar raised a

hand, stopping him.

"I'm telling you what they mean when they say impossible. They mean that

Freedom-From-Bondage can't be held. "There is no way to control

something that is the essential nature and definition of the

uncontrolled. But they make no distinction between being invoked and

being maintained."

The Lord Convocate frowned and rubbed his fingertips together.

"We can bind it, sir. Riaan isn't the talent of the ages, but

FreedomFrom-Bondage should be easy compared with the normal run. The

whole binding's nearly done already-only a little tailoring to make it

fit our man's mind in particular."

"That comes back to the issue," the Lord Convocate said. "What happens

when this impossible binding works?"

"As soon as it is bound it is freed." Balasar clapped his palms

together. "That fast."

"And the advantage of that?" the Lord Convocate said, though Balasar

could see the old man had already traced out the implications.

"Done well, with the right grammar, the right nuances, it will unbind

every andat there is when it goes. All of this was in my report to the

High Council."

The Lord Convocate nodded as he plucked a circle of dried apple from the

howl between them. When he spoke again, however, it was as if Balasar's

objection had never occurred.

"Assuming it works, that you can take the andat from the field of play,

what's to stop the Khaiem from having their poets make another andat and

loose it on Galt?"

"Swords," Balasar said. "As you said, fourteen cities in a single

season. None of them will have enough time. I have men in every city of

the Khaiem, ready to meet us with knowledge of the defenses and

strengths we face. 'T'here are agreements with mercenary companies to

support our men. Four well-equipped, well-supported forces, each taking

unfortified, poorly armed cities. But we have to start moving men now.

This is going to take time, and I don't want to he caught in the North

waiting to see which comes first, the thaw or some overly clever poet in

Cetani or Machi managing to hind something new. We have to move

quickly-kill the poets, take the libraries-"

"After which we can go about making andat of our own at our leisure,"

the Lord Convocate said. His voice was thoughtful, and still Balasar

sensed a trap. He wondered how much the man had guessed of his own plans

and intentions for the future of the andat.

"If that's what the High Council chooses to do," Balasar said, sitting

back. "All of this, of course, assuming I'm given permission to move

forward."

"Ah," the Lord Convocate said, lacing his hands over his belly. "Yes.

That will need an answer. Permission of the Council. A thousand things

could go wrong. And if you fail-"

"The stakes are no lower if we sit on our hands. And we could wait

forever and never see a better chance," Balasar said. "You'll forgive my

saving it, sir, but you haven't said no."

"No," he said, slowly. "No, I haven't."

"'T'hen I have the command, sir?"

After a moment, the Lord Convocate nodded.

3

"What's the matter?" Kiyan asked. She was already dressed in the silk

shift that she slept in, her hair tied back from her thin foxlike face.

It occurred to Otah for the first time just how long ago the sun had

set. He sat on the bed at her side and let himself feel the aches in his

back and knees.

"Sitting too long," he said. "I don't know why doing nothing should hurt

as badly as hauling crates."

Kiyan put a hand against his back, her fingers tracing his spine through

the fine-spun wool of his robes.

"For one thing, you haven't hauled a crate for your living in thirty

summers.

""Twenty-five," he said, leaning back into the soft pressure of her

hands. ""Twenty-six now."

"For another, you've hardly done nothing. As I recall, you were awake

before the sun rose."

Otah considered the sleeping chamber-the domed ceiling worked in silver,

the wood and bone inlay of the floors and walls, the rich gold netting

that draped the bed, the still, somber flame of the lantern. The east

wall was stone-pink granite thin as eggshell that glowed when the sun