THE (tlpq-4) (29 page)

"Eiah is taking the cart to Pathai for supplies and to send off some

letters for me. Ashti Beg is going to help. That's all," he said.

"It's not because of me?"

"No, Vanjit-kya," Maati said warmly. "No. It was planned before anything

happened between you and Ashti-cha. It's only ... we need time. Eiah

needs time away from her binding to clear her mind. And we need to be

sure that the Emperor and his son can't make a half-Galtic heir before

we've done what needs doing. So we're asking help. Eiah is the daughter

of the Empire. Her word carries weight. If she tells a few people

well-placed in the utkhaiem what we've done and what we intend to do,

they can use their influence to stop the Galts. And then ..."

He gestured to Vanjit, to the school, to the wide plain of possibilities

that lay before them, if only they could gain the time. The andat cooed

and threw its own arms wide, in joy or possibly mockery.

"Why is he doing it?" Vanjit asked. "Why would he trade with those

people? Is he so in love with Galt?"

Maati took a long breath, letting the question turn itself in his mind.

It was the habit of years to lay any number of sins at Otah's feet. But,

reluctantly, not this.

"No," Maati said. "Otah-kvo isn't evil. Petty, perhaps. Misguided,

certainly. He sees that the Galts are strong, and we need strength. He

sees that their women can bear babes with our men, and he believes it's

the only hope of a new generation. He doesn't understand that what we've

broken, we can also repair."

"Given time," Vanjit said.

"Yes," Maati said with a sigh. "Given time to rebuild. Remake."

For a moment, he was in the cold warehouse in Machi, the andat Sterile

looking at him with her terrible, beautiful smile.

"It takes so long to build the world," he said softly, "and so very

little to break it. I still remember what it felt like. Between one

breath and the next, Vanjit-kya. I ruined the world in less than a

heartbeat."

Vanjit blinked, as if surprised, and then a half-smile plucked her lips.

Clarity-of-Sight quieted, looking at her as if she'd spoken. The andat

was as still as stone; even the pretense of breath had gone.

Maati felt unease stir in his belly.

"Vanjit? Are you well?" and when she didn't reply, "Fanjit?"

She started, as if she'd forgotten where she was and that he was there.

He caught her gaze, and she smiled.

"Fine. Yes, I'm fine," she said. There was a strange tone in her voice.

Something low and languid and relaxed. It reminded Maati of the

aftermath of sex. He took a pose that asked whether he had failed to

understand something.

"No, nothing," Vanjit said; and then not quite in answer to his

question, "Nothing's wrong."

15

Shortly after midday, Otah walked along the winding path that led from

the palaces themselves to the building that had once been the poet's

house. Since the first time he had come this way, little more than a

boy, many things had changed. The pathway itself was the white of

crushed marble with borders of oiled wood. The bridge that rose over the

pond had blackened with time; the grain of the wood seemed coarser. One

of the stands of trees which gave the poet's house its sense of

separation from the palaces had burned. White-oak seedlings had been

planted to replace them. The trees looked thin, awkward, and adolescent.

One day, decades ahead, they would tower over the path.

He paused at the top of the bridge's arch, looking down into the dark

water. Koi swam lazily under the surface, orange and white and gold

appearing from beneath lily pads and vanishing again. The man reflected

in the pond's surface looked old and tired. White hair, gray skin. Time

had thinned his shoulders and taken the roundness from his cheeks. Otah

put out his hand, and the reflection did as well, as if they were old

friends greeting each other.

When he reached the house itself, it seemed less changed than the

landscape. The lower floor still had walls that were hinged like

shutters which could be pulled back to open the place like a pavilion.

The polished wood seemed to glow softly in the autumn light. He could

almost imagine Maati sitting on the steps as he had been then. Sixteen

summers old, and wearing the brown robes of a poet like a mark of honor.

Or frog-mouthed Heshai, the poet whom Otah had killed to prevent the

slaughter of innocents. Or Seedless, Heshai's beautiful, unfathomable slave.

Instead, Farrer Dasin sat on a silk-upholstered couch, a book in one

hand, a pipe in the other. Otah approached the house casually as if they

were merchants or workers, men whose dignity was less of a burden. The

Galt closed his book as Otah reached the first stair up.

"Most High," he said in the Khaiate tongue.

"Farrer-cha," Otah replied.

"None of them are here. There's apparently a gathering at one of the

lesser palaces. I believe one of the high-prestige wives of your court

is showing her wealth in the guise of judging silks."

"It isn't uncommon. Especially if there is someone particularly worth

impressing," Otah said. "I am surprised that Ana-cha chose to attend."

"To be honest, so am I. But I am on the verge of despairing that I will

ever understand women."

It was hard to say whether the light, informal tone that the Galt

adopted was intended as an offering of peace or as an insult. Likely it

was both. The smoke rising from the pipe was thin and gray as fog, and

smelled of cherries and bark.

"I don't mean to intrude," Otah said.

"No," Farrer Dasin said, "I imagine you don't. I've sent the servant

away. You can take that seat there, if you like."

Otah, Emperor of the cities of the Khaiem, pulled a wood-backed chair to

face the Galt, sat in it, and leaned back.

"I was a bit surprised you wanted to speak with me," Farrer said. "I

thought we did all of our communication through my family."

A mosquito whined through the air as Otah considered this. Farrer Dasin

waited, his mild expression a challenge.

"We have met and spoken many times over the past year, Farrer-cha. I

don't believe I've ever turned you away. And as to your family, the

first time I had no other option," Otah said. "The council was poised to

refuse me, and there was a chance that your wives might be my allies.

The second time, it was Ana who came to me. I didn't seek her out."

Farrer looked at Otah, his green-gray eyes as enigmatic as the sea.

"What brings you, Most High?" Farrer asked.

"I had heard rumors the decision to lend me your ships had perhaps

weakened your position in the council. I had hoped I could offer some

assistance."

Farrer drew on his pipe, then gestured out at the pond, the palaces, the

world. When he spoke, the pipe smoke made the words seem solid and gray.

"I've failed. I know that. I was bullied into agreeing to this union

between our houses, but so were half of the councillors. They can't

think less of me for that, except for the few who genuinely backed your

plan. They never thought much of me. And then I let myself be wheedled

into helping you, so those whose love Ana won in her little speech think

I'm ruled by the whims of a girl who hasn't seen twenty summers. The

damning thing is, I can't say they're wrong."

"You love her," Otah said.

"I love her too much," Farrer said. His expression was grim. "It keeps

me from knowing my own mind."

Otah's thoughts flickered for a moment, roving west to Idaan and her

hunt. He brought himself back with a conscious effort.

"The city you're helping to protect is precious," Otah said. "The people

whose lives you save won't think less of you for hearing wisdom from

your daughter."

"Yes," Farrer said with a chuckle, "but they aren't on the council, are

they."

"No," Otah said. "I understand that you are invested in sugar? There are

cane fields east of Saraykeht, but most of what we have comes from

Bakta. Much better land for it there. If Chaburi-Tan failed, we would

feel the effect here and all through the Westlands."

Farrer grunted noncommittally.

"It's surprising how much Baktan trade flows through Chaburi-Tan. Not so

much as through Saraykeht, but still a great deal. The island is easier

to approach. And it's a good site for any trade in the south. Obar

State, Eymond. Far Galt, for that. Did you know that nearly all the ore

from Far Galt passes through the port at Chaburi-Tan?"

"Less since you've raised the taxes."

"I don't set those taxes," Otah said. "I appoint the port's

administration. Usually they agree to pay a certain amount for the

privilege and then try to make back what they've spent before their term

ends."

"And how long are their terms?"

"As long as the Emperor is pleased to have them in that place," Otah

said. "So long as I think they've done a good job with maintaining the

seafront and keeping the flow of ships through, they may hold power for

years. Or, if they've mismanaged things, perhaps even required a fleet

to come out and save the city, they might be replaced."

The frown on Farrer's face was the most pleasant thing Otah had seen all

morning. The truth of the matter was that Otah no more liked the Galt

than he was liked by him. Their nations were old enemies, and however

much Otah and Issandra plotted, there was a way in which their

generation would die as enemies.

But what he did now, as little as Otah liked it personally, was intended

for people as yet unborn, unconceived. It was a long game he was

playing, and it got longer, it seemed, the less time he had to live.

Farrer coughed, sucked his teeth, and leaned forward.

"Forgive me, Most High," he said, formality returning to his diction.

"What is the conversation we're having?"

"I would appoint you or your agent to oversee Chaburi-Tan's seafront,"

Otah said. "It would, I think, demonstrate that my commitment to joining

our nations isn't only that you should send us your daughters."

"And have the council believe that I'm not only controlled by my wife

and child, but also the tool of the Emperor, bought and paid for?" His

tone was more amused than aggressive.

Otah pulled a small book from his sleeve and held it out.

"The accounting of the Chaburi-Tan seafront," Otah said. "We are an

empire of fallen cities, Farrer-cha. But we were very high before, and

falling for years hasn't yet brought us down to be even with most of the

world."

The Galt clamped his pipe between his teeth and accepted the proffered

book. Otah waited as he flipped through the thin pages. He saw Farrer's

eyebrows rise when he reached the quarter's sums, and then again at the

half-year's.

"You would want something from me," Farrer said.

"You have already lent me your boats," Otah said. "Your sailors. Let the

others on the council see what effect that has."

"You can afford to give away this much gold to make them jealous?"

"I know that Ana-cha has objected to marrying Danat. I hope there may

yet be some shift of her position. Then I would be giving the gold to my

grandson's grandfather," Otah said.

"And if she doesn't?" Farrer asked, scowling. His eyes had narrowed like

a seafront merchant distrustful of too good a bargain.

"If she doesn't, then I've made a poor wager," Otah said. "We are

gamblers, Farrer-cha, just by getting up from bed in the morning."

Farrer Dasin didn't answer except to relax his gaze, laugh, and tuck the

book into his belt. Otah took a pose that ended a meeting. It had a

positive nuance that Dasin was unlikely to notice, but Otah didn't mind.

It was as much for himself as the Galt.

The walk back to the palaces seemed shorter, less haunted by nostalgia.

He returned to his rooms, allowed himself to be changed into formal

robes, and began the long, slow work of another day. The court was its

customary buzz of rituals and requirements. The constant speculation on

the Galtic treaty's fate made every other facet of the economic and

political life of the Empire swing like a ship's mast in high seas. Otah

did what he could to pour oil on the waters. For the most part, he

succeeded.

Before the early sunset of middle autumn, Otah had seen the heads of

both Galtic and Khaiate stone masons disputing a contract upon which the