Seasons of War by Daniel Abraham Page A

child . The woman Eiah thought she was would never stand for the name. ‘He isn’t fourteen summers old. It’s not so hard for men like me and your father to forget what it was like to be young. And I’m sure he doesn’t want to see you married yet, or even promised. You’re his daughter, and . . . it’s hard, Eiah-kya. It’s hard losing your child.’

    She stopped, her brow furrowed. In the trees just outside his door, a bird sang shrill and high and took flight. Maati could hear the fluttering of its wings.

    ‘It’s not losing me,’ she said, but her voice was less certain than it had been. ‘I don’t die.’

    ‘No. You don’t, but you’ll likely leave to be in your husband’s city. There’s couriers to carry messages back and forth, but once you’ve left, it’s not likely you’ll return in Otah’s life, or Kiyan’s. Or mine. It’s not death, but it is still loss, dear. And we’ve all lost so much already, it’s hard to look forward to another.’

    ‘You could come with me,’ Eiah said. ‘My husband would take you in. He wouldn’t be worth marrying if he wouldn’t, so you could come with me.’

    Maati allowed himself to chuckle as he rose from his seat.

    ‘It’s too big a world to plan for all that just yet,’ he said, mussing Eiah’s hair as he had when she’d been younger. ‘When we come nearer, we’ll see where things stand. I may not be staying here at all, depending on what the Dai-kvo thinks. I might be able to go back to his village and use his libraries.’

    ‘Could I go there with you?’

    ‘No, Eiah-kya. Women aren’t allowed in the village. I know, I know. It isn’t fair. But it isn’t happening today, so why don’t we walk to the kitchens and see if we can’t talk them out of some sugar bread.’

    They left his door open, leaving the spring air and sunlight to freshen the apartments. The path to the kitchens led them through great, arching halls and across pavilions being prepared for a night’s dancing; great silken banners celebrated the warmth and light. In the gardens, men and women lay back, eyes closed, faces to the sky like flowers. Outside the palaces, Maati knew, the city was still alive with commerce - the forges and metalworkers toiling through the night, as they always did, preparing to ship the works of Machi. There was bronze, iron, silver and gold, and steel. And the hand-shaped stonework that could be created only here, under the inhuman power of Stone-Made-Soft. None of that work was apparent in the palaces. The utkhaiem seemed carefree as cats. Maati wondered again how much of that was the studied casualness of court life and how much was simple sloth.

    At the kitchens, it was simple enough for the Khai’s daughter and his permanent guest to get thick slices of sugar bread wrapped in stiff cotton cloth and a stone flask of cold tea. He told Eiah all of what had happened with Athai since she’d last come to the library, and about the Dai-kvo, and the andat, and the world as Maati had known it in the years before he’d come to Machi. It was a pleasure to spend the time with the girl, flattering that she enjoyed his own company enough to seek him out, and perhaps just the slightest bit gratifying that she would speak to him of things that Otah-kvo never heard from her.

    They parted company as the quick spring sun came within a hand’s width of the western mountains. Maati stopped at a fountain, washing his fingers in the cool waters, and considered the evening that lay ahead. He’d heard that one of the winter choirs was performing at a teahouse not far from the palaces - the long, dark season’s work brought out at last to the light. The thought tempted, but perhaps not more than a book, a flask of wine, and a bed with thick wool blankets.

    He was so wrapped up by the petty choice of pleasures that he didn’t notice that the lanterns had been lit in his apartments or that a woman was sitting on his couch until she spoke.

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