dearest to his heart. It thickened the air between them, even now.
Balasar's eyes shifted to the middle distance, a frown on his lips as if
he were counting how many of his dead might have lived, had Sinja
remained true. And then the moment was gone. Or if not gone, covered
over for the sake of etiquette.
The others of the Galtic party lurched in from the ship, unsteady on
planks that didn't move, and the assembled masses cheered each of them
like a hero returned from war. Servants dressed in light cotton robes
led each sweating Galt to a waiting litter, Otah's station of honor
making him the last to leave.
"I suspect they'll be changing to local clothes before long," Sinja
said. "They all look half-dead with the heat."
"I'm feeling it myself," Otah said.
"Should I interrupt protocol?" Sinja asked. "I could have you loaded and
on your way up the hills in the time it takes to kill a chicken."
"No," Otah said with a sigh. "If we're doing this, let's do it well. But
ride with me, eh? I want to hear what's going on."
"Yes," Sinja said. "Well. You've missed some dramatics, but I don't
think there's anything particularly ominous waiting. Except the pirates.
And the conspiracy. You did get the report about the conspiracy in
Yalakeht? It's apparently got ties to Obar State."
"Well, that's just lovely," Otah said.
"No more plague than usual," Sinja offered gamely, and then it was time
and servants stepped forward to escort Otah to his litter. The shifting
gait of his bearers was similar to being aboard ship, but also wrong.
Between that and the heat, Otah was beginning to feel nauseated, but the
buildings that passed by his beaded window were comforting. Great blue
and white walls topped with roof tiles of gray and red; banners hanging
in the slow, thick air; men and women in poses of welcome or else waving
small lengths of brightly colored cloth. If it had been autumn or
winter, the old firekeepers' kilns would have been lit and strange
flames would have accompanied him up the wide streets to the palaces.
"Any problems with the arrival?" he asked Sinja.
"A few. Angry women throwing stones, mostly. We've locked them away
until the last ship comes in. Danat and I decided to put the girl and
her family in the poet's house. It isn't the most impressive location,
but it's comfortable, and it's far enough back from the other buildings
that they might have some privacy. The gods all know they'll be gawked
at like a three-headed calf the rest of the time."
"I think Ana has a lover," Otah said. "One of the sailors was built
rather like a courtier."
"Ah," Sinja said. "I'll tell the guard to keep eyes out. I assume we'd
rather he didn't come calling?"
"No, better that he not," Otah said.
"I don't suppose there's a chance the girl's still a virgin?"
Otah took a pose that dismissed the concern. Even if she weren'tand of
course she wasn't-she wouldn't be bearing another man's child. Not if
the boy he had glimpsed in the hold of the Avenger was a Galt. Otah felt
a moment's unease.
"If the guard do find a boy sneaking in, have him held until I can speak
with him. I'd rather that this whole situation not get more complex than
it already is."
"Your word is law, Most High," Sinja said, his tone light. Otah chuckled.
He had missed the man's company. There were few people in the world who
could see Otah beneath his titles, fewer still who dared mock him. It
was a familiarity that had been forged by years. Together, they had
acted against the plot which had first changed Otah from outcast to Khai
Machi. They had loved the same woman and come near violence over it.
Sinja had trained Otah's son in the arts of combat and strategy, had
gotten drunk with the Emperor after Kiyan's funeral, had spoken his mind
whether invited to or not. Otah had no other advisor or friend like him.
As they moved north, the crowd that lined the street changed its nature.
Once they had passed out of the throng at the seafront, the robes and
faces had been those of laborers and artisans. As they passed the
compounds of the merchant houses, the robes and banners became more
ornate. Rich and saturated colors were edged with embroidery of gold and
worked in the symbols of the various houses. And then almost without a
pause, the symbols and colors were not of merchants, but of the families
of the utkhaiem, and the high walls and ornate shutters were not
mercantile compounds, but palaces. Men and women in fine robes took
poses of welcome and obeisance as servants and slaves fanned them. A
hidden choir burst into song somewhere to his left, the voices in
complex harmony. The litter stopped before the grand palace, the first
palace, the Emperor's palace. Otah stepped out, sweeping his gaze over
the ordered rows of servants and high officials until he saw the one man
he'd longed for.
Danat was in his twentieth summer, his face a mixture of Otah's long,
northern features and Kiyan's, thin and foxlike. The planes of his
cheeks had sharpened since Otah had gone. He looked older, more
handsome. He wore a robe of deep gray set off with a rich, red sash that
suited him. And still, Otah could see all the boys that had made this
man: the babe, the bumbling child new to his own feet, the long-ill boy
kept in his bed, the awkward and sorrowful youth, and the young heir to
the Empire. All of them stood before him, hands in a pose of formal
welcome, a smile glittering in his eyes. Otah broke protocol, embracing
his son. The boy's arms were strong.
"You've done well," Otah murmured.
"None of the cities actually burned down while you were gone," Danat
replied softly. There was pride in his voice, pleasure at the compliment.
"But you sound too much like Sinja."
"You knew that was a risk."
Otah laughed and let the swarm of servants precede him to his chambers.
There would be no end of ceremonies later. Welcomes would drag on for
weeks, audiences, special pleadings, feasts, dances, negotiations,
councils. It all lay before him like a life's work started late. But
now, sitting in the cool breeze of his private apartments with Sinja
across from him and Danat pouring chilled water into stone bowls, the
world was perfect.
Except, of course, that it wasn't.
"Perhaps we can mend both breaks with the same nail," Sinja said. "A
strong showing against the pirates protects Chaburi-Tan and warns Obar
State to keep to its own house."
"And a weak showing against them?" Otah asked.
"Shows we're weak, after which things go poorly," Sinja said. "But if
we're going to assume failure from the start, there's not going to be
anything of use that I can offer."
Otah propped up his feet. The palaces still felt as if they were
swaying: the ghost motion of weeks aboard ship. The feeling was oddly
pleasant.
"On the other hand," he said, "if we plan to decimate the enemy with a
flower and a pillow, it's not going to help us. How strong is our fleet?
Do we have enough men to take the pirates in a fair fight?"
"If we don't have them now, we certainly won't next year when all the
sailors are a year older," Sinja said. "Even if you magically transport
every fertile girl in Galt straight to some poor bastard's bed, it will
be ten years before they can deliver us anyone strong enough to coil
rope, much less fight. If we're going to do anything, it has to be now.
We're going to grow weaker before we're strong."
"If we manage to get strong," Otah said. "And I don't know that we can
spare the ships. We have eleven cities and the gods alone know how many
low towns. We're talking about moving half a million of our men to Galt
and bringing back as many of their women."
"Well, yes, shipping out anyone we have of fighting age now won't help
the matter," Sinja said.
"Galt could do it," Danat said. "They have experience with sea wars.
They have fighting ships and the veterans."
Otah saw the considering expression on Sinja's face. He let the silence
stretch.
"I don't like it," Sinja said at last. "I don't know why I don't like
it, but I don't."
"We're still thinking of our problems as our own," Danat said. "Asking
Galt to fight our battles might seem odd, but they'd be protecting their
own land too. In a generation, Chaburi-Tan is going to be as much their
city as ours."
Otah felt an odd pressure in his chest. It was true, of course. It was
what he had spent years working to accomplish. And still, when Danat put
it in bare terms like that, it was hard for him to hear it.
"It's more than that," Sinja said.
"Is it Balasar?" Otah asked.
Sinja leaned forward, his fingers laced on his knee, his mouth set in a
scowl. At length, he spoke.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, it is."
"He's forgiven me," Otah said. "Perhaps the two of you-"
"All respect, Otah-cha," Sinja said. "You were his enemy. That's a fair
position. I broke my oath, lied to him, and killed his best captain.
He's a man who loves loyalty, and I was one of his men. It's not the same."
"Perhaps it isn't," Otah agreed.
"Balasar-cha doesn't have to be the one to lead it," Danat said. "Or,
all respect, Sinja-cha, for that."
"No, of course we don't," Sinja said. "It's not my head that's
struggling with the thought. It's just ... The boy's right, Otah-cha. A
mixed fleet, their ships and ours, sinking the pirates would be the best
solution. I don't know if we can negotiate the thing, but it's worth
considering."
Otah scratched his leg.
"Farrer-cha," he said. "Danat's new father. He has experience with sea
fighting. I think he hates all of us together and individually for
Anacha's upcoming marriage, but he would still be the man to approach."
Danat took a long drink of water and grinned. It made him look younger.
"After the ceremony's done with," Sinja said. "We'll get the man drunk
and happy and see if we can't make him sign something binding before he
sobers up."
"If it were only so simple," Otah said. "With the High Council and the
Low Council and the Conclave, every step they take is like putting cats
in a straight line. Watching it in action, it's amazing they ever put
together a war."
"You should talk to Balasar," Sinja said.
"I will," Otah replied.
They moved on to other topics. Some were more difficult: weavers and
stonemasons on the coasts had started offering money to apprentices, so
the nearby farms were losing hands; the taxes from Amnat-Tan had been
lower than expected; the raids in the northern passes were getting
worse. Others were innocuous: court fashions had shifted toward robes
with a more Galtic drape; the shipping traffic on the rivers was faster
now that they'd figured out how to harness boilers to do the rowing; and
finally, Eiah had sent word that she was busy assisting a physician in
Pathai and would not attend her brother's wedding.
Otah paused over this letter, rereading his daughter's neat, clear hand.
The words were all simple, the grammar formal and appropriate. She made
no accusations, leveled no arguments against him. It might have been
better if she had. Anger was, at least, not distance.
He considered the implications of her absence. On one hand, it could
hardly go unnoticed that the imperial family was not all in attendance.
On the other, Eiah had broken with him years ago, when his present plan
had still been only a rough sketch. If she was there, it might have
served only to remind the women of the cities that they had in a sense
been discarded. The next generation would have no Khaiate mothers, and
the solace that neither would they have Galtic fathers would be cold
comfort at best. He folded his daughter's letter and tucked it into his
sleeve, his heart heavy with the thought that not having her near was
likely for the best.
After, Otah retired to his rooms, sent his servants away, and lay on his
bed, watching the pale netting shift in a barely felt breeze. It was
strange being home, hearing his own language in the streets, smelling
the air he'd breathed as a youth.
Ana and her parents would be settled in by now, sitting, perhaps, on the
porch that looked out over the koi pond and its bridge. Perhaps putting
back the hinged walls to let in the air. Otah had spent some little time