Maati felt unease stir in his belly.
“Vanjit? Are you well?” and when she didn’t reply, “Vanjit?”
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 Galtic Council had already ruled. He had taken audiences with two other members of the High Council and three of the highest families of the utkhaiem. And, in the brightest moment of his day, a visibly unnerved representative of Obar State had arrived with gifts and assurances of the good relations between his small nation and the cities of the Khaiem.
No courier came from Idaan or Eiah. Likely his sister was still on the roads between Saraykeht and Pathai. There was no reason to expect word back so soon, and yet every time a servant entered his chambers with a folded paper, his belly went tight until he broke the seal.
The night began with a banquet held in the honor of Balasar Gice and the preparation of what the Galtic Council called the second fleet and the utkhaiem, dismissively and in private, the other ships. The great hall fluttered with fine robes and silk banners. Musicians and singing slaves hidden behind screens filled the air with soft music of Galtic composition. Lanterns of colored glass gave the light a feeling of belonging to some other, gentler world. Otah sat on his high dais, Balasar at his side. He caught a glimpse of Danat dressed in formal robes of black and gold, sitting among his peers of the high utkhaiem. The group included Shija Radaani. Though Farrer and Issandra Dasin were among the Galts present, Otah did not see Ana. He tried not to find her absence unnerving.
The food and drink had been prepared by the best cooks Otah could find: classic Galtic dishes made if not light at least less heavy; foods designed to represent each of the cities of the Khaiem; all of it served with bowls of the best wines the world could offer.
Peace, Otah meant the celebration to say. As we send our armsmen and sailors away to fight and die together, let there be peace between us. If there cannot be peace in the world, at least let it be welcome here. It pleased him to see the youth of both countries sitting together and talking, even as it disturbed him that so many places set aside for the utkhaiem remained empty.
He did not notice that Issandra had taken her leave until the note arrived. The servant was very young, having seen no more than sixteen summers, and he approached Balasar with a small message box of worked gold. Balasar plucked the folded paper from it, read the message, then nodded and waved the boy away. The musicians nearest them shifted to a light, contemplative song. Balasar leaned toward Otah, as if to whisper some comment upon the music.
“This is for you,” the general murmured.
General Gice, please pass this to the Emperor with all haste discretion allows. I would prefer that it not be immediately obvious that I am communicating with him, but time may be short.
Emperor. Please forgive my note, but I believe something is going to happen in the moon garden of the third palace at the beginning of the entertainments that you would be pleased to see. Consider claiming a moment’s necessity and joining me.
It was signed with Issandra Dasin’s chop.
Balasar was considering him silently. Otah slipped the paper into his sleeve. It was less than half a hand before the acrobats and dancers, trained dogs and fire-eaters were to take to the floor. It wasn’t much time.
“I don’t like this,” Otah said, leaning toward Balasar so that no one could overhear.
“You think it’s a plot to assassinate you,” Balasar said.
“Might it be?”
Balasar smiled out into the hall, his eyes flickering as if looking for concealed archers.
“She sent the message through me. That provides a witness. It isn’t the sort of thing I would do if I intended to kill you,” Balasar said. “Still, if you go, take a guard.”
Otah felt the weight of the note in his sleeve, feather-light and yet enough to command all his attention. He had almost decided to ignore it when, as the trumpets blared the first of the entertainments to the floor, he noticed that Danat had also gone. He slipped down from the back of the dais, chose two of the guards that he recognized, and made his way out to the third palace.
The moon garden had been built as a theater; great half-circles of carved stone set into a slope were covered with moss and snow ivy. At the deepest recess, three old wooden doors led to hallways where players or musicians could crouch, awaiting their entrance. The gardens were dark when he arrived, not even a lantern glowing to mark the paths. Behind him, the guards were as silent as shadows.
“Otah-cha,” a woman whispered. “Here. Quickly.”
Issandra huddled in the darkness under an ivy-choked willow. Otah walked forward, his hands in a pose of query. Issandra didn’t reply, her eyes on the guards at his back. Her expression went from disapproval to acceptance barely seen in the dim light. She motioned all of them close to her.
“What is this?” Otah asked as he crouched in the darkness.
“Hush,” Issandra said. “They should almost be here. There now. Be quiet, all of you.”
One of the wooden doors at the base of the garden was opening, the light of a lantern spilling out onto the green of the grass, the black of the soil. Otah squinted. Ana Dasin stepped out. She wore a rough cloak over what appeared to be simple peasant robes, but her face and hair would have proclaimed her in the darkest teahouse. She looked like a girl who wanted to travel unnoticed but didn’t know the trick of it. As Otah watched, she raised her lantern, scanning the wide stone curve, and then sat down.
“What is—” he whispered.
Issandra pressed her hand to his mouth. One of the guards shifted, but Otah gestured him back. It wasn’t everyone who could gag the Emperor of the Khaiem, but he was too curious to disrupt things over a point of etiquette. Besides which, he didn’t truly care.
Another of the doors shifted and creaked open. Danat stepped out. Being discovered crouched in the ivy, eavesdropping on their own children might be the least dignified thing possible, so Otah tried to be very, very still. When Danat spoke, the sound carried perfectly.
“I received your message. I’m here.”
“And I received your poem,” Ana said.
It was too dark to actually see how deeply Danat blushed, but
Otah recognized the discomfort in his son’s body.
“Ah. That,” he said.
Otah tapped Issandra on the shoulder and mouthed the word poem? Issandra pointed back down to their children.
“I am not a toy,” Ana said. “If this is another scheme of your father’s or my mother’s, you can carry word back to them that it didn’t work. I know better than to trust you.”
“You think I’ve lied?” Danat said. “What have I said to you that wasn’t true?”
“As if you’d let yourself be caught out,” Ana said.
Danat sat, one leg tucked under him, the other bent. He looked up at her like a player in some ancient epic. In the dim light, his expression seemed bemused.
“Ask anything,” he said. “Do it now. I won’t lie to you.”
Ana crossed her arms, looking down on Danat like a low-town judge. Her brows were furrowed.
“Are you trying to seduce me?”
“Yes,” Danat said. His voice was calm and solid as stone.
“Why?”
“Because I think you are worth seducing,” Danat said.
“Only that? Not to please your father or my mother?”
Danat chuckled. One of the guards at Otah’s side shifted his weight, the leaves beneath him crackling. Neither of the children below had ears for it.
“It began that way, I suppose,” Danat said. “A political alliance. A world to remake. All of that has its appeal, but it didn’t write that poem.”
Ana fumbled at her belt for a moment and drew out a folded sheet of paper. Danat hesitated, then reached up and accepted it from her. They were quiet. Otah sensed the tension in Issandra’s crouched body. Ana was refusing the token. And then the girl spoke, and her mother relaxed.
“Read it,” Ana said. “Read it to me.”
Otah closed his eyes and prayed to all the gods there were that neither he nor Issandra nor either of the guards would sneeze or cough. He had never lived through a more excruciatingly awkward scene. Below, Danat cleared his throat and began to declaim.