THE (tlpq-4) (15 page)

"I'm pleased to be here," he said.

"Did you have any news of my father?"

"No," he said. "I didn't ask. It's the first rule of running a race,

isn't it? Not to look back at who's behind you?"

Eiah chuckled, but didn't respond otherwise. Once she'd left and Maati

had banked the fire, he sat on the bed. The night candle stood straight

in its glass case, the burning wick marking the hours before dawn. It

wasn't to its first-quarter mark and he felt exhausted. He moved the

papers and the scroll safely off the bed, pulled the blanket up over

himself, and slept better than he had in weeks, waking to the sound of

morning birds and pale light before dawn.

He read over the list of questions on the scroll, only surveying them

and not bothering to think of answers just yet, and then turned to the

proposed binding. When he went out, following the smells of wood smoke

and warmed honey, his mind was turning at twice its usual speed.

They had made a small common room from what had once been the teachers'

cells, and Irit and Large Kae were sitting at the window that Maati

remembered looking out when he had been a child called before Tahi-kvo.

Bald, mean-spirited Tahi-kvo, who would not have recognized the world as

it had become; women studying the andat in his own rooms, the poets

almost vanished from the world, Galts on the way to becoming the nobles

of this new, rattling, sad, stumble-footed Empire. Nothing was the same

as it had been. Everything was different.

Vanjit, sitting with her legs crossed by the fire grate, smiled up at

him. Maati took a pose of greeting and lowered himself carefully to her

side. Irit and Large Kae both glanced at him, their eyes rich with

curiosity and perhaps even envy, but they kept to their window and their

conversation. Vanjit held out her bowl of cooked wheat and raisins, but

Maati took a pose that both thanked and refused, then changed his mind

and scooped two fingers into his mouth. The grain was rich and salted,

sweetened with fruit and honey both. Vanjit smiled at him; the

expression failed to reach her eyes.

"I looked over your work. Yours and Eiah-cha's," he said. "It's

interesting."

Vanjit looked down, setting the bowl on the stone floor at her side.

After a moment's hesitation, her hands took a pose that invited his

judgment.

"I . . ." Maati began, then coughed, looked out past Large Kae and Irit

to the bright and featureless blue of the western sky. "I don't want to

hurry this. And I would rather not see any more of you pay the price of

falling short."

Her mouth tightened, and her eyebrows rose as if she were asking a

question. She said nothing.

"You're sure you want this?" he asked. "You have seen all the women

we've lost. You know the dangers."

"I want this, Maati-kvo. I want to try this. And ... and I don't know

how much longer I can wait," she said. Her gaze rose to meet his. "It's

time for me. I have to try soon, or I think I never will."

"If you have doubts about-"

"Not doubts. Only a little despair now and then. You can take that from

me. If you let me try." Maati started to speak, but the girl went on,

raising her voice and speaking faster, as if she feared what he would

say next. "I've seen death. I won't say I'm not afraid of it, but I'm

not so taken by the fear that I can't risk anything. If it's called for."

"I didn't think you were," he said.

"And I helped bury Umnit. I know what the price can look like. But I

buried my mother and my brother and his daughter too, and they didn't

die for a reason. They were only on the streets when Udun fell," she

said, and shrugged. "We all die sometime, Maati-kvo. Risking it sooner

and for a reason is better than being safe and meaningless. Isn't it?"

Brave girl. She was such a brave girl. To have lost so much, so young,

and still be strong enough to risk the binding. Maati felt tears in his

eyes and forced himself to smile.

"We chose it for you. Clarity-of-Sight," she said. "I saw how hard it is

for you to read some days, and Eiah and I thought ... if we could help ..."

Maati laid his hand on hers, his heart aching with something equally joy

and fear. Vanjit was weeping a bit as well now. He heard voices coming

down the hallway-Eiah and Ashti Beg-but Irit and Large Kae were silent.

He was certain they were watching them. He didn't care.

"We'll be careful," he said. "We'll make it work."

Her smile outshone the sun. Maati nodded; yes, they would attempt the

binding. Yes, Vanjit would be the first woman in history to hold an

andat or else the next of his students to die.

7

"No, I will not forbid her a goddamned thing. The girl's got more spine

than all the rest of us put together. We could learn something from

her," Farrer Dasin said, his arms folded before him, his chin high and

proud. And when he said the rest of its, Otah was clear that he meant

the Galts. The courts of the Khaiem, the cities and people of Otah's

empire were not part of Farrer Dasin's us; they were still apart and the

enemy.

Six members of the High Council sat at the wide marble table along with

Balasar Gice and Issandra Dasin. Otah, Danat, and representatives of

four of the highest families of the utkhaiem sat across from them. Otah

wished he'd been able to scatter each side among the other instead of

dividing the table like a battlefield. Or else keep the group smaller.

If it had been only himself, Farrer, and Issandra, there might have been

a chance.

Ana, the girl who had taken a stick to this political beehive, was not

present, nor was she welcome.

"There are agreements in place," Balasar said. "We can't unmake them on

a whim."

"Yes, Dasin-cha. Contracts have been signed," one of the utkhaiem said.

"Is it Galt's intention that any contract can be invalidated if the

signer's daughter objects?"

"That isn't what happened," the councilman at Farrer's right hand said.

"We have our hands full enough without exaggerating."

And so it started off again, voices raised each over the other with the

effect that nothing but babble could be heard. Otah didn't add to the

clamor, but sat forward in his chair and watched. He considered the

architecturevaulted ceiling of blue and gold tiles, the sliding wooden

shutters. He found a scent in the air: sugared almonds. He struggled to

hear a sound beyond the table: the wind in the treetops. Then, slowly,

he pulled his awareness back to the people before him. It was an old

trick he'd learned during his days as a courier, a way of withdrawing

half a step from the place where he was and considering the ways that

people moved and held themselves, the expressions they wore when they

were silent and when they spoke. It often said more than the words. And

now, he saw three things.

First, he was not the only silent one at the table. Issandra Dasin was

rocked a degree back in her chair, her eyes fixed on the middle

distance. Her expression spoke of exhaustion and a barely hidden sorrow,

the complement to her husband's self-destructive pleasure. Danat was

also withdrawn, but with his body canted forward, as if he was trying to

hear every phrase that fluttered through the heavy air. He might as

easily drink a river.

Second, Otah saw that neither side was united. The Galts across from him

ran the gamut from defiant to conciliatory, the utkhaiem from outraged

to fearful. It was the same outside. The palaces, the teahouses, the

baths, the street corners-all of Saraykeht was filled with agreements

and negotiations that were suddenly, violently uncertain. He recalled

something his daughter had said once about the reopened wound being the

one most plagued by scars.

Third, and perhaps least interesting, it became clear that he was

wasting his time.

"Friends," Otah said. Then again, louder, "Friends!"

Slowly, the table grew quiet around him.

"The morning has been difficult," he said. "We should retire and reflect

on what has been said."

Whatever it was, he didn't add.

There was a rumble of assent, if not precisely agreement. Otah took a

pose of gratitude to each man and woman as they left, even to Fatter

Dasin, for whom he felt very little warmth. Otah dismissed the servants

as well, and soon only he and Danat remained. Without the pandemonium of

voices, the meeting room seemed larger and oddly forlorn.

"Well," his son said, leaning against the table. He was wearing the same

robe as he had at the botched ceremony the day before. The cloth itself

looked weary. "What do you make of it?"

Otah scratched idly at his arm and tried to focus his mind. His back

ached, and there was an uneasy, bright feeling in his gut that presaged

a sleepless and uncomfortable night. He sighed.

"Primarily, I think I'm an idiot," Otah said. "I should have written to

the daughters. I forget how different their world is. Your world, too."

Danat took a pose that asked elaboration. Otah rose, stretching. His

back didn't improve.

"Political marriage isn't a new thing," Otah said. "We've always

suffered it. They've always suffered it. But, once the rules changed, it

stopped meaning so much, didn't it? As long as Ana-cha has been alive,

she hasn't seen political marriages take place. If Radaani married his

son to Saya's daughter, they wouldn't be joining bloodlines. No

children, no lasting connection between the houses. Likewise in Galt. I

doubt it's stopped the practice entirely, but it's changed things. I

should have thought of it."

"And she could take lovers," Danat said.

"People took lovers before," Otah said.

"Not without fear," Danat said. "There's no chance of a child. It

changes how willing a girl would be."

"And how exactly do you know that?" Otah asked.

Danat blushed. Otah walked to the window. Below, the gardens were in

motion. Wind shifted the boughs of the trees and set the flowers

nodding. The scent of impending rain cooled the air. There would be a

storm by nightfall.

"Papa-kya?" Danat said.

Otah looked over his shoulder. Danat was sitting on the table, his feet

on the seat of a cushioned chair. It was the pose of a casual boy in a

cheap teahouse. Danat's face, however, was troubled.

"Don't bother it," Otah said. "It might be a new world for sex, but

there was an old world for it too. And I'm sure there are any number of

other men who've made the same discoveries you have."

"That wasn't the matter. It's the wedding. I don't think I can ... I

don't think I can do it. When it was just thinking of it, I hadn't seen

what it would be to be married to someone who hated me. I have now."

His voice was thick with distress. A gust of stronger wind came,

rattling the shutters in their frames. Otah slid the wood closed, and

the meeting room dimmed, gold tiles turning bronze, blue tiles black.

"It will be fine," Otah said. "At worst, there are other councillors

with other daughters. It won't be a pleasant transition, but-"

"A different girl won't fix this. At best we'd find a girl less willing

to struggle. At worst, we'd find someone who hated me just as much, but

better versed in deceit."

Otah took his seat again. He could feel his brow furrow. If he hadn't

been so tired to begin with, it wouldn't have taken him as long to think

through Danat's words.

"Are you . . ." Otah said, then stopped and began again. "You're saying

you won't have Ana?"

"I thought I could. I would have, if she hadn't done what she did. But

I've spent all night looking at it, and I don't see a way."

"I do. I see it perfectly clearly. High families have been arranging

marriages for as long as there have been high families. It binds them

together. It shows trust."

"You didn't. You were Khai Machi. You could have had dozens of wives,

but you didn't. Even after the fever took Mother, you didn't. You could

have," Danat said. And then, "You could now. You could make one of these

girls your wife. Marry Ana-cha."

"You know quite well that I couldn't. A man of my years bedding a girl?

They wouldn't see a marriage so much as a debauch."

"Yes," Danat said. "And putting me in your place would only change how

it looked, not what it was. I'll do whatever I can to help. You know

that. I could marry a stranger and make the best of it. But I won't

father a child on an unwilling girl."

"Don't be an idiot," Otah said, and knew immediately that it was the

wrong thing. His son's smile was a mask now, cold and bright and hard as

stone. Otah raised his hands in a pose that took the words back, but

Danat ignored it.

"I won't do something I know in my bones is wrong," Danat said. "If it's

the only way to save us, then we aren't worth saving."

Otah watched the boy leave. There were a thousand arguments to make, a

thousand ways to rephrase the issue, to make something different of

these same circumstances. None of them would matter. He let his head

sink to his hands.

There had been a time when Otah had been young and the world had been,

if not simple, at least certain. Decades and experience had made him

sure that his sense of right and wrong were not the only ones. Before

he'd had that beaten out of him by the gods, he might well have taken

the same stand Danat had just now. Do what he believed to be right and

endure the consequences, no matter how terrible.

If only his children were less like him.

There had to be a way. The whole half-dead mess of it had to be

salvageable. He had only to see how.

Voices and argument filled the halls as he made his way through the

palaces. Columns wrapped in celebratory cloth mocked him. Uncertain,

falsely bright gazes met his own and were ignored. The thick air of the

summer cities left sweat running down Otah's spine and the sense of a

damp cloth pressed against his face. There was a way to salvage this. He

had only to find it.

Letters and requests for audiences waited for him, stacks of paper as

long as his forearm. He ignored them for now and sent his servants

scurrying for fresh paper and chilled tea. He sat at his desk, the pen's

bright bronze nib in the air just above the brick of ink, and gave

himself a moment before he began.

Kiyan-kya-

Well, love, it's all gone as well as a wicker fish boat. Ana

won't have Danat. Danat won't have Ana. I find myself host

to the worst gathering in history not actually struck by

plague. I think the only thing I've done well was that I

didn't wrestle our son to the ground when he walked away

from me. I feel like everyone is wrapped up in what happened

before, and I'm alone in fearing what will come after. We

won't survive, love. The Khaiem and the Galts both are

sinking, and we're so short-sighted and mean of spirit we're

willing to die if it means the other bastard goes down too.

I don't mean Ana or Danat. They're only young and brave and

stupid the way young, brave people are. I mean herfather.

FarrerDasin is happy to see this fail. I imagine there are a

./air number in my court who feel the same way.

There are too sides to this, love. But they aren't the two

sides we think of-not the Khaiem and the Galts. It's the

people in love with the past and the ones who./car./or the

future. And, though the gods alone know how I'm going to do

it, I have to win Danat and Ana over from the one camp to

the other.

Otah paused, something shifting in the back of his mind. It felt the way

it had when Kiyan was alive and speaking to him from the next room, her

voice too low to make out the words. He put down the pen and closed his

eyes.

Win Ana over. He had to win Ana over.

"Oh," he said.

"ISSANDRA-CHA. THANK YOU FOR COMING. YOU KNOW MY SON, I THINK," OTAH said.

The sun touched the hills to the west of Saraykeht. Ruddy air rich with

the scent of evening roses came through the unshuttered windows. A small

meal of cheese and dried apple and plum wine waited for their pleasure

on a low lacquered table. Issandra Dasin rose from her divan to greet

Danat as he came forward.

"Issandra-cha," Danat said and returned her welcome.

"Danat needs your help," Otah said. Danat glanced over at him, surprise

in his gaze. "You see, your daughter has convinced him that it would be

wrong to marry an unwilling woman. I can argue it to be the lesser evil,

but if we two work together, I think the issue might be avoided altogether."

Issandra returned to her seat, sighing. She looked older than when Otah

had first met her.

"It won't be simple," Issandra said.

"What won't be simple?" Danat asked.

"Wooing my daughter," Issandra said. "What did you think we were talking

about?"

Otah took a bit of dried apple in his mouth while Danat blinked. Words

stumbled over the boy's tongue without finding a sentence.