remembered the panic when he understood that his own death was rushing

up the hill toward him. The wise thing would have been to flee; if he

could have gotten back to the other bowmen, they might have killed the

soldier. But instead, without thought, he started to bend back the

leaves of the crossbow, fumbling the bolt with fingers that had seemed

numb as sausages. Though only one of them was running, it had been a race.

When he'd raised the bow and loosed the bolt, the man had been fewer

than ten feet from him. He could still feel the thrum of the string and

feel the sinking certainty that he had missed, that his life was

forfeit. In point of fact, the bolt had sunk so deep into the man it

only seemed to have vanished. The breaths between when he'd fired and

when the soldier sank to the ground were the longest he had ever known.

And here he was again. Only this time he was the one in motion. The

poets of the Khaiem would have a chance to call up another of the

andat-and the measure of that hope was his speed in finding them,

killing them, and burning their hooks.

It was a terrible wager, and more than his own life was in the balance.

Balasar was not a religious man. Questions of gods and heavens had

always seemed too abstract to him. But now, putting aside the maps, the

plans, all the work of his life prepared to find its fruition or else

its ruin, he walked to the window, watched the full moon rising over

this last night of the world as it had been, and put his hand to his

heart, praying to all the gods he knew with a single word.

Please.

8

Twilight came after the long sunset, staining red the high clouds in the

west. A light wind had come from the North, carrying the chill of

mountaintop glaciers with it, though there was little snow left on even

the highest peaks that could be seen from the city. It grabbed at the

loose shutters, banging them open and closed like an idiot child in love

with the noise. Banners rippled and trees nodded like old men. It was as

if an errant breath of winter had stolen into the warm nights. Otah sat

in his private chambers, still in his formal robes. He felt no drafts,

but the candles flickered in sympathy with the wind.

The letters unfolded before him were in a simple cipher. The years he

had spent in the gentleman's trade, carrying letters and contracts and

information on the long roads between the cities of the Khaiem, returned

to him, and he read the enciphered text as easily as if it had been

written plainly. It was as Nlaati and Cehmai had said. The Wards of the

Westlands were united in a state of panic. The doom of the world seemed

about to fall upon them.

Since the letters had arrived, Otah's world had centered on the news. He

had sent another runner to the Dai-kvo with a pouch so heavy with

lengths of silver, the man could have bought a fresh horse at every low

town he passed through if it would get him there faster. Otah had sat up

long nights with Nlaati and Cehmai, even with Liat and Nayiit. I Jere

was the plan, then. With the threat of an andat of their own, the Galts

would roll through the Westlands, perhaps Eddensea as well. In a year,

perhaps two, they might own Bakta and Eymond too. The cities of the

Khaiem would find themselves cut off from trade, and perhaps the rogue

poet would even become a kind of Galtic Dai-kvo in time. The conquest of

the Westlands was the first campaign in a new war that might make the

destruction of the Old Empire seem minor.

And still, Otah read the letters again, his mind unquiet. There was

something there, something more, that he had overlooked. The certainty

of the Gaits, their willingness to show their power. Whenever they tired

of trade or felt themselves losing at the negotiating tables, Galt had

been pleased to play raider and pirate. It had been that way for as long

as Otah could remember. The Galtic High Council had schemed and

conspired. It shouldn't have been odd that, emboldened by success, they

would take to the field. And yet ...

Otah turned the pages with a sound as dry as autumn leaves. They

couldn't be attacking the Khaiem; even with an andat in their

possession, they would he overwhelmed. The cities might have their

rivalries and disputes, but an attack on one would unite them against

their common foe. "Thirteen cities each with its own poet added to

whatever the Dai-kvo held in reserve in his village. At worst, more than

a dozen to one, and each of them capable of destruction on a scale

almost impossible to imagine. The Galts wouldn't dare attack the Khaiem.

It was posturing. Negotiation. It might even be a bluff; the poet might

have tried his binding, paid the price of failure, and left the Galts

with nothing but bluster to defend themselves.

Otah had heard all these arguments, had made more than one of them

himself. And still night found him here, reading the letters and

searching for the thoughts behind them. It was like hearing a new voice

in a choir. Somewhere, someone new had entered the strategies of the

Gaits, and these scraps of paper and pale ink were all that Otah had to

work out what that might mean.

Ile could as well have looked for words written in the air.

A scratching came at the door, followed by a servant boy. The boy took a

pose of obeisance and Otah replied automatically.

"The woman you sent for, Most High. Liat Chokavi."

"Bring her in. And bring some wine and two bowls, then see we aren't

disturbed."

"But, Most High-"

"We'll pour our own wine," Otah snapped, and regretted it instantly as

the boy's face went pale. Otah pressed down the impulse to apologize. It

was beneath the dignity of the Khai Machi to apologize for rudeness-one

of the thousand things he'd learned when he first took his father's

chair. One of the thousand missteps he had made. The boy backed out of

the room, and Otah turned to the letters, folding them hack in their

order and slipping them into his sleeve. The boy preceded Liat into the

room, a tray with a silver carafe and two hand-molded bowls of granite

in his hands. Liat sat on the low divan, her eyes on the floor in

something that looked like respect but might only have been fear.

The door closed, and Otah poured a generous portion of wine into each

bowl. Liat took the one he proffered.

"It's lovely work," Liat said, considering the stone.

"It's the andat," Otah said. "He turns the quarry rock into something

like clay, and the potters shape it. One of the many wonders of Machi.

Have you seen the bridge that spans the river? A single stone poured

over molds and shaped by hand five generations hack. And there's the

towers. Really, we're a city of petty miracles."

"You sound hitter," she said, looking up at last. Her eyes were the same