The Price Of Spring (26 page)

They ate roasted chicken and drank watered wine. By the end of the meal, Vanjit was smiling again. When the last wine bowl was empty, the last thin, blood-darkened bone set bare on its plate, she was the first to rise and gather the washing. Maati felt a relief that surprised him. The trouble had passed; whether it had been Vanjit's pride or Ashti Beg's jealousy, it didn't matter.

To show his approval, Maati joined in the cleaning himself, sweeping the kitchen and building up the fire. In place of the usual lecture, they discussed the difficulties of looking too long at a binding. It came out that all of them had felt some disquiet at the state of Eiah's work. Even that was reassuring.

He and Eiah sat together after the session ended. A small kettle smelled equally of hot iron and fresh tea. The wind was picking up outside, cold and fragrant with the threat of rain or snow. By the warm light of the fire grate, Eiah looked tired.

"I'll leave in the morning," Eiah said. "I want to beat the worst of the weather, if I can."

"That seems wise," Maati said and sipped his tea. It was still scalding hot, but its taste was comforting.

"Ashti Beg wants to come with me," she said. "I don't know what to do about that."

He put down his bowl.

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

"That she might leave. After today, I'm afraid she's been soured on the work."

Maati snorted and waved the concern away.

"She'll move past it," Maati said. "It's finished. Vanjit overstepped, and she's seen it. I don't think Ashti's so petty as to hold things past that."

"Perhaps," Eiah said. "You think I should take her with me, then?"

"Certainly. There's no reason not to, and it will give you another pair of hands on the road. And besides, we're a school, not a prison. If she truly wants to leave, she should be able to."

"Even now?" Eiah asked.

"What option do we have?" Maati asked. "Chain her to a tree? Kill her? No, Eiah-kya. Ashti Beg won't abandon the work, but if she does, we have no choice but to let her."

Eiah was silent for five slow breaths together. When she looked up, he was surprised by her grim expression.

"I still can't quite bring myself to believe Vanjit did that."

"Why not?"

Eiah frowned, her hands clasped together. Some distant shutter's ties had slipped; wood clapping against stone. A soft wind pushed at the windows and unsettled the fire in the grate.

"She's a poet," Eiah said. "She's the poet."

"Poets are human," Maati said. "We err. We can be petty on occasion. Vindictive. Small. Her world has been turned on its head, and she hasn't come yet to understand all that means. Well, of course she hasn't. I'd have been more surprised if she'd never made a misstep."

"You don't think we have a problem then?" Eiah said.

"She's a reasonable girl. Given power, she's misbehaved once. Once." Maati shook his head. "Once is as good as never."

"And if it becomes twice?" Eiah asked. "If it becomes every time?"

"It won't," Maati said. "That isn't who she is."

"But she's changed. You said it just now. The binding gave her power, and power changes people."

"It changes their situation," Maati said. "It changes the calculations of what things they choose to do. What they forbear. It doesn't change their souls."

"I've cut through a hundred bodies, Uncle. I've never weighed out a soul. I've never judged one. When I picked Vanjit, I hope I did the right thing."

"Don't kill yourself with worry," Maati said. "Not yet, at any rate."

Eiah nodded slowly. "I've been thinking about who to send letters to. I've picked half-a-dozen names. I'll hire a courier when we reach Pathai. I won't be there long enough to bring back replies."

"That's fine," Maati said. "All we need is enough time to perfect Wounded."

Eiah took a pose that agreed and also ended the conversation. She walked away into the darkened hall, her shoulders bent, her head bowed. Maati felt a pang of guilt. Eiah was tired and sorrowful and more fearful than she let on. He was sending her to announce to the world that she had betrayed her father. He could have been gentler about her concerns over Vanjit and Clarityof-Sight. He didn't know why he'd been so harsh.

He made his evening ablutions and prepared himself to write a few pages in his book, scratching words onto paper by the light of the fluttering night candle, thanks in no small part to Vanjit. He was less than surprised when a soft scratching came at his door.

Vanjit looked small and young. The andat held in the crook of her arm looked around the dim room, gurgling to itself almost like a baby. Maati gestured for her to sit.

"I heard Eiahcha speaking to Ashti Beg," Vanjit said. "They're leaving?"

"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. "Otahkvo 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. Clarityof-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."

Chapter 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.

"Farrercha," 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, Farrercha. 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 ChaburiTan failed, we would feel the effect here and all through the Westlands."

Farrer grunted noncommittally.

"It's surprising how much Baktan trade flows through ChaburiTan. 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 ChaburiTan?"

"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.