Sinja felt his mind start to spin. The rice wine made it a bit harder to think, but a hit easier to grin. It was ridiculous, except that it made sense. Ile should have anticipated this. I Ie should have known.
"You want to send me in? As a spy?"
"'lake a couple good horses in the morning, and ride hard for the city," Eustin said. "You'll arrive a few days ahead of us. You were the Khai's advisor before. I Ie'Il listen to you, or at least let you listen to him. When the time conies for the attack, you guide us."
The captain made a small gesture with one hand, as if what he'd said was simple. Go into Nlachi, betray Otah and everyone else he'd known this last decade. If I turn against the general, Sinja thought, it'll he a bad death when these men find me.
"It will be faster this way," I3alasar said. "hewer people will die on both sides. And, because you ask, the woman is yours. Safe and unharmed if I can do it."
"I have your word on that Sinja asked.
Balasar took a pose that accepted an oath. It wasn't quite the right vocabulary, but it carried the meaning. Sinja felt unpleasantly like he was looking down over a cliff. His head swam a little, and the tightness in his body fell to knotting his gut. He held out his bowl and Balasar refilled it.
"I'll understand if it's too much," Balasar said, his voice soft. "It will make things easier for both sides and it won't change the way the battle falls, but that doesn't mean it isn't a terrible thing to ask of you. 'lake a few days to sit with it if you'd like."
"No," Sinja said. "I don't need time. I'll do the thing."
"You're sure?" Eustin asked.
Sinja drained his cup in a gulp. He could feel the flush starting to grow in his neck and cheeks, the nausea starting in his belly and the back of his throat. It was strong wine and a had night coming.
"It needs doing, and it's the price I asked," Sinja said. "So I'll do it."
(.EIIMAI SA"l' FORWARD IN Ills CIIAIR. THE, Wlll"1'E MARBLE WALLS OF THEIR workspace glowed with candlelight, but Nlaati didn't find the brightness reassuring. He was sitting as quietly as he could manage on a red and violet embroidered cushion, waiting. Cehmai lifted one of the wide yellow pages, paused, and turned it over. Nlaati saw the younger poet's lips moving as he shaped sonic phrase from the papers. Nlaati restrained himself from asking which. Interruptions wouldn't make this go any faster.
The simple insight that Eiah had given him that night in the baths had taken the better part of two weeks to work into a draft worthy of consideration. Fitting the grammars so that the nuances of corruption and continuance-destruction and creation, or more precisely the destruction of creation-reinforced one another had been tricky. And the extra obstacle of fitting in the structures to protect himself should things go amiss had likely tacked on an extra three or four days to the process.
And still, it had taken him only weeks. Not years, not even months. Weeks. The structure of the binding was laid out now. Corruption-ofthe-Generative, called Sterile. The death of the Gait's crops. The gelding of its men. The destruction of its women's wombs. Once he had seen the trick of it, the binding had flowed from his pen.
It had been as if some small voice at the back of his mind was whispering the words, and he'd only had to write them down. Even now, squatting on this damnable cushion, his hack aching, his feet cold, waiting for Cehmai to read over the last of the changes, he felt half drunk from the work. He was a poet. All the things that had happened in his life to bring him to this place at this time had built toward these days, and the dry pages that hissed and shushed as Cehmai slid them across each other. Maati bit his lip and did not interrupt.
It seemed like days, but Cehmai came to the final page, fingertips tracing the lines Maati had written there, paused, and set it down with the others. Maati leaned forward, his hands taking a querying pose. Cehmai frowned and gently shook his head.
"No?" Maati asked. Something between rage and dismay shot through his belly, only to vanish when Cehmai spoke.
"It's brilliant," he said. "It's a first draft, but it's a very, very good one. I don't think there are many things we'd have to adjust. A few to make it easier to pass on, perhaps. But we can work with those. No, Maatikvo, I think this is likely to work. It's just ..."
"Just?„
Cehmai's frown deepened. His fingertips tapped cautiously on the pages, as if he were testing an iron pot, afraid it would be hot enough to burn. He sighed.
"I've never seen an andat fashioned to be a weapon," he said. There was a hook that the Dal-kvo had that dated from the fall of the Second Empire, but he never let anyone look at it. I don't know."