Read Online An Autumn War by Daniel Abraham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Daniel Abraham
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he thought. Even palaces fall. Even towers. He wondered what it would have been like to live in a world where Nlachi didn't exist-who he might have been, what he might have done-and he felt the weight of stone pressing down upon the air he breathed. What would he do if the towers fell? Where would he go, if could go anywhere?
"Papa-kya!" Danat's bright voice called. "I was in the Second Palace, and I found a closet where no one had been in ever, and look what I found!"
Otah opened his eyes, and turned to his son and the wood-and-string model he'd discovered. Eiah arrived a hand and a half later, when the thin granite shutters glowed with the sun. For a time, at least, Otah's own father's tomb lay forgotten.
THE PROBLEM WITH ATHAI-KVO, MAATI DECIDED, WAS THAT HE WAS SIMPIX an unlikable man. "There was no single thing that he did or said, no single habit or affect that made him grate on the nerves of all those around him. Some men were charming, and would be loved however questionable their behavior. And then on the other end of the balance, there was Athai. The weeks he had spent with the man had been bearable only because of the near-constant stream of praise and admiration given to Nlaati.
"It will change everything," the envoy said as they sat on the steps of the poet's house-Cehmai's residence. "°I'his is going to begin a new age to rival the Second Empire."
"Because that ended so well," StoneMade-Soft rumbled, its tone amused as always.
The morning was warm. The sculpted oaks separating the poet's house from the palaces were bright with new leaves. Far above, barely visible through the boughs, the stone towers rose into the sky. Cehmai reached across the envoy to pour more rice wine into Maati's bowl.
"It is early yet to pass judgment," Nlaati said as he nodded his thanks to Cehmai. "It isn't as though the techniques have been tried."
"But it makes sense," Athai said. "I'm sure it will work."
"If we've overlooked something, the first poet to try this is likely to die badly," Cehmai said. ""1'he Dai-kvo will want a fair amount of study done before he puts a poet's life on the table."
"Next year," Athai said. "I'll wager twenty lengths of silver it will be used in bindings by this time next year."
"Done," the andat said, then turned to Cehmai. "You can back me if I lose."
The poet didn't reply, but Maati saw the amusement at the corners of Cehmai's mouth. It had taken years to understand the ways in which StoneMade-Soft was an expression of Cehmai, the ways they were a single thing, and the ways they were at war. The small comments the andat made that only Cehmai understood, the unspoken moments of private struggle that sometimes clouded the poet's days. They were like nothing so much as a married couple, long accustomed to each other's ways.
Maati sipped the rice wine. It was infused with peaches, a moment of autumn's harvest in the opening of spring. Athai looked away from the andat's broad face, discomforted.
"You must be ready to return to the Dai-kvo," Cehmai said. "You've been away longer than you'd intended."
Athai waved the concern away, pleased, Maati thought, to speak to the man and forget the andat.
"I wouldn't have traded this away," he said. "Maatikvo is going to be remembered as the greatest poet of our generation."
"Have some more wine," Maati said, clinking the envoy's bowl with his own, but Cehmai shook his head and gestured toward the wooded path. A slave girl was trotting toward them, her robes billowing behind her. Athai put down his bowl and stood, pulling at his sleeves. Here was the moment they had been awaiting-the call for Athai to join the caravan to the East. Maati sighed with relief. Half a hand, and his library would be his own again. The envoy took a formal pose of farewell that Maati and Cehmai returned.
"I will send word as soon as I can, Maatikvo," Athai said. "I am honored to have studied with you."
Maati nodded uncomfortably; then, after a moment's awkward silence,
"Papa-kya!" Danat's bright voice called. "I was in the Second Palace, and I found a closet where no one had been in ever, and look what I found!"
Otah opened his eyes, and turned to his son and the wood-and-string model he'd discovered. Eiah arrived a hand and a half later, when the thin granite shutters glowed with the sun. For a time, at least, Otah's own father's tomb lay forgotten.
THE PROBLEM WITH ATHAI-KVO, MAATI DECIDED, WAS THAT HE WAS SIMPIX an unlikable man. "There was no single thing that he did or said, no single habit or affect that made him grate on the nerves of all those around him. Some men were charming, and would be loved however questionable their behavior. And then on the other end of the balance, there was Athai. The weeks he had spent with the man had been bearable only because of the near-constant stream of praise and admiration given to Nlaati.
"It will change everything," the envoy said as they sat on the steps of the poet's house-Cehmai's residence. "°I'his is going to begin a new age to rival the Second Empire."
"Because that ended so well," StoneMade-Soft rumbled, its tone amused as always.
The morning was warm. The sculpted oaks separating the poet's house from the palaces were bright with new leaves. Far above, barely visible through the boughs, the stone towers rose into the sky. Cehmai reached across the envoy to pour more rice wine into Maati's bowl.
"It is early yet to pass judgment," Nlaati said as he nodded his thanks to Cehmai. "It isn't as though the techniques have been tried."
"But it makes sense," Athai said. "I'm sure it will work."
"If we've overlooked something, the first poet to try this is likely to die badly," Cehmai said. ""1'he Dai-kvo will want a fair amount of study done before he puts a poet's life on the table."
"Next year," Athai said. "I'll wager twenty lengths of silver it will be used in bindings by this time next year."
"Done," the andat said, then turned to Cehmai. "You can back me if I lose."
The poet didn't reply, but Maati saw the amusement at the corners of Cehmai's mouth. It had taken years to understand the ways in which StoneMade-Soft was an expression of Cehmai, the ways they were a single thing, and the ways they were at war. The small comments the andat made that only Cehmai understood, the unspoken moments of private struggle that sometimes clouded the poet's days. They were like nothing so much as a married couple, long accustomed to each other's ways.
Maati sipped the rice wine. It was infused with peaches, a moment of autumn's harvest in the opening of spring. Athai looked away from the andat's broad face, discomforted.
"You must be ready to return to the Dai-kvo," Cehmai said. "You've been away longer than you'd intended."
Athai waved the concern away, pleased, Maati thought, to speak to the man and forget the andat.
"I wouldn't have traded this away," he said. "Maatikvo is going to be remembered as the greatest poet of our generation."
"Have some more wine," Maati said, clinking the envoy's bowl with his own, but Cehmai shook his head and gestured toward the wooded path. A slave girl was trotting toward them, her robes billowing behind her. Athai put down his bowl and stood, pulling at his sleeves. Here was the moment they had been awaiting-the call for Athai to join the caravan to the East. Maati sighed with relief. Half a hand, and his library would be his own again. The envoy took a formal pose of farewell that Maati and Cehmai returned.
"I will send word as soon as I can, Maatikvo," Athai said. "I am honored to have studied with you."
Maati nodded uncomfortably; then, after a moment's awkward silence,
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