"Is that wrong?" Liat asked.

"You're the one who came to Otah-kvo asking that they all be killed."

"I suppose I did, didn't I? I don't know what's changed. Something to do

with having my boy out there, I suppose. Slaughtering a nation isn't so

much to think about. It's when I start feeling that it all goes

confused. I wonder why we do it. I wonder why they do. Do you think if

we gave them our gold and our silver and swore we would never hind a

fresh andat ... do you think they'd let our children live?"

It took a few breaths to realize that Liat was actually waiting for his

answer, and several more before he knew what he believed.

"No," Maati said. "I don't think they would."

"Neither do I. But it would he good, wouldn't it? A world where it

wasn't a choice of our children or theirs."

"It would be better than this one."

As if by common consent, they changed the subject, talking of food and

the change of seasons, Eiah's new half-apprenticeship with the

physicians and the small doings of the women of the utkhaiem now that

their men had gone. It was only reluctantly that Maati rose. The sun was

two and a half hands past where it had been when he woke, the shadows

growing oblong. They walked back to the library, hand in hand at first,

and then only walking beside each other. Nlaati felt his heart growing

heavier as they came down the familiar paths, paving stones turning to

sand turning to crushed white gravel bright as snow.

"You could come in," Nlaati said when they reached the wide front doors.

In answer, she kissed him lightly on the mouth, gave his hand a gentle

squeeze, and turned away. Maati sighed and turned to lumber up the

steps. Inside, Cehmai was sitting on a low couch, three scrolls spread

out before him.

"I think I've found something," Cehmai said. "There's reference in

Nlanat-kvo's notes to a grammatic schema called threefold significance.

If we have something that talks about that, perhaps we can find a way to

shift the binding from one kind of significance to another."

"We don't," Nlaati said. "And if I recall correctly, the three

significators all require unity. "There's not a way to pick between them."

"Well. "Then we're still stuck."

"Yes."

Cehmai stood and stretched, the popping of his spine audible from across

the wide room.

"We need someone who knows this better than we do," Maati said as he

lowered himself onto a carved wooden chair. "We need the Daikvo."

"We don't have him."

"I know it."

"So we have to keep trying," Cehmai said. "The better prepared we are

when the Dai-kvo comes, the better he'll he able to guide us."

"And if he never comes?"

"He will," Cehmai said. "He has to."

16

"Yes," Nayiit said. "That's him."

Otah's mount whickered beneath him as he looked up at the Dal-kvo's

body. It had been tied to a stake at the entrance to his high offices;

the man had been dead for days. The brown-robed corpses of the poets lay

at his feet, stacked like cordwood.

They had taken it all as granted. The andat, the poets, the continuity

of one generation following upon another as they always had. It grew

more difficult, yes. An andat would escape and for a time and the city

it had left would suffer, yes. They had not conceived that everything

might end. Otah looked at the slaughtered poets, and he saw the world he

had known.

The morning after the battle had been tense. He had risen before dawn

and paced through the camps. Several of the scouts vanished, and at

first there was no way to know whether they had been captured by the

Galts or killed or if they had simply taken their horses, set their eyes

on the horizon, and fled. It was only when the reports began to filter

back that the shape of things came clear.

The Galts had fallen hack, their steam wagons and horses making a fast

march to the east, toward the village of the Dal-kvo. "There was no

pursuit, no rush to find the survivors of that bloody field and finish

the work they'd begun. Otah's army had been broken easily, and the

Galts' contempt for them was evident in the decision that they were not

worth taking the time to kill.

It was humiliating, and still Otah had found himself relieved. More of

his men would die today, but only from wounds they already bore. They

had given Otah a moment to rest and consider and see how deep the damage

had gone.

Four hundred of his men lay dead in the mud and grass beside perhaps a

third as many Galts, perhaps less. Another half thousand were wounded or

missing. A few hours had cost him a third of what he had, and more than

that. The men who had survived the retreat were different from the ones

he had spoken to at their cook fires before the fight. 'T'hese men

seemed stunned, lost, and emptied. The makeshift spears and armor that

had once seemed to speak of strength and resourcefulness now seemed

painfully naive. 'T'hey had come to battle armed like children and they

had been killed by men. Otah found himself giving thanks to any gods

that would listen for all the ones who had lived.

The scouting party left two days later. It was made of twenty horsemen

and as many on foot, Otah himself at the lead. Nayiit asked permission

to come, and Otah had granted it. It might not have been keeping the boy

safe the way he'd promised Nlaati, but as long as Nayiit blamed himself

for the carnage and defeat, it was better that he be away from the

wounded and the dying. The rest of the army would stay behind in the

camp, tend to the men who could be helped, ease the passing of those

past hope, and, Otah guessed, slip away one by one or else in groups. He

couldn't think they would follow him into battle again.

The smaller group moved faster, and the path the Galts had left was

clear as a new-built road. (,burned grass, broken saplings, the damage

done by thousands of disciplined feet. The wounded earth was as wide as

ten men across-never more, never less. The precision was eerie. It was

two days' travel before Otah saw the smoke.

They reached the village near evening. They found a ruin. Where

glittering windows had been, ragged holes remained. The towers and

garrets cut from the stone of the mountain were soot-stained and broken.

' 'he air smelled of burned flesh and smoke and the copper scent of

spilled blood. Otah rode slowly, the clack of his mount's hooves on