"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