THE (tlpq-4) (19 page)

who was backing him."

"What makes you think he has backing?"

"He said as much. Strong backing and an ear in the palaces whenever he

wanted one," Idaan said. "Even if that overstates the truth, he isn't

out hunting rabbits or wading through a rice field. Someone's feeding

him. And how many people are there who might want the andat back in the

world?"

"No end of them," Otah said. "But how many would think the thing was

possible?"

Sinja opened a small wooden cabinet and took out a fluted bottle of

carved bone. When he lifted out the stopper, the scent of wine filled

the room. He asked with a gesture. Otah and Idaan accepted

simultaneously, and with the same pose.

"The books are all burned," Otah said. "The histories are gone, the

grammars are gone. I didn't think he could do this when he wrote to me

before, I don't see that he could manage it now."

Sinja, stunned, overfilled one of the wine bowls, the red pooling on his

table like spilled blood. Idaan hoisted a single eyebrow.

"He wrote to you before?" she said.

"It was years ago," Otah said. "I had a letter. A single letter. Maati

said he was looking for a way to recapture the andat. He wanted my help.

I sent a message back refusing."

"All apologies, Most High," Sinja said. He hadn't bothered to wipe up

the spilled wine. "Why is this the first I'm hearing of it?"

"It came at a bad time," Otah said. "Kiyan was dying. It was hopeless.

The andat are gone, and there's no force in the world that can bring

them safely back."

"You're sure of that?" Idaan asked. "Because Maati-cha didn't think it

was hopeless. The man is many things, but he isn't dim."

"It hardly matters," Sinja said. "Just the word that this is happening,

and that-may all the gods keep it from happening you knew he was

thinking of it. That you've known for years ..."

"It's a dream!" Otah shouted. "Maati was dreaming, that's all. He wants

something back that's gone beyond his reach. Well, so do I. Anyone who

has lived as long as we have knows that longing, and we know how useless

it is. What's gone is gone, and we can't have it back. So what would you

have had me do? Send the message back with an assassin? Announce to the

world that Maati Vaupathai was out, trying to bind the andat, so they

should all send invading armies at their first convenience?"

"Why didn't you?" Idaan asked. "Send the assassin, I mean. The invading

armies, I understand. For that, why did you let them go at the end of

the war?"

"I am not in the mood, Idaan-cha, to be questioned by a woman who killed

my father, schemed to place the blame on me, and is only breathing air

now because I chose to let her. I understand that you would have happily

opened their throats."

"Not Cehmai's," she said softly. "But then I know why I wouldn't have

done it. It doesn't follow that I should know why you didn't. The two

aren't the same."

Otah rocked back in his chair. His face was hot. Their gazes locked, and

he saw her nod. Idaan took a pose that expressed both understanding and

contrition while unmasking the question.

"That isn't true," she said. "Thinking for a moment, I suppose they are.

Otah took the bowl Sinja held out to him. The wine was unwatered, rich

and astringent. He drank it dry. Sinja looked nervous.

"There's nothing I can do about any of this tonight," Otah said. "I'm

tired. I'm going to bed. If I decide it needs talking of further, it'll

be another time."

He rose, taking a pose that ended an audience, then feeling a moment's

shame, shifted to one that was merely a farewell.

"Otah-cha," Sinja said. "One last thing. I'm sorry, but you left

standing orders. If she came back, I was supposed to kill her."

"For plotting to take my chair and conspiring with the Galts," Otah

said. "Well. Idaan-cha? Are you hoping to become Emperor?"

"I wouldn't take your place as a favor," she said.

Otah nodded.

"Find apartments for her," he said. "Lift the death order. The girl we

sent out in the snow might as well have died. And the man who sent her,

for that. We are, all of us, different people now."

Otah walked back to his rooms alone. The palace wasn't quiet or still.

Perhaps it never wholly was. But the buzzing fury of the day had given

way to a slower pace. Fewer servants made their way down the halls. The

members of the high families who had business here had largely gone back

to their own palaces, walking stone paths chipped by the spurs and boot

nails of Galtic soldiers, passing through arches whose gold and silver

adornments had been hacked off by Galtic axes. They went to palaces

where the highest men and women of Galt had come as guests, eating beef

soup and white bread and fruit tarts. Sipping tea and wine and water and

working, some of them at least, to build a common future.

And Idaan had come to warn him against Maati.

He slept poorly and woke tired. The Master of Tides attended him as he

was bathed and dressed. The day was full from dawn to nightfall. Sixteen

audiences had been requested, falling almost equally between members of

the utkhaiem and the Galts. Three of the Galtic houses had left letters

strongly implying that they had daughters who might be pressed to serve

should Ana Dasin refuse. One of the priests at the temple had left a

request to preach against the recalcitrance of women who failed to offer

up sex. Two of the trading houses had made it clear that they wished to

be released from shipping contracts to Chaburi-Tan. The Master of Tides

droned and listed and laid out the form of another painful, endless,

wasted day. When the stars came out again, Otah knew he would feel like

a wrung towel and all the great problems he faced would still be unsolved.

He instructed that the priest be forbidden, the trading houses be

referred to Sinja-cha and the Master of Chains, who could renegotiate

terms but not break the contract, and then dictated a common response to

the three letters offering up new wives for Danat that neither

encouraged nor refused them. All this before the breakfast of

fresh-brewed tea, spiced apples, and seared pork had appeared.

He had hardly begun to eat when the Master of Tides returned with a sour

expression and took a pose that asked forgiveness, but pointedly did not

suggest that the offending party was the Master of Tides herself.

"Most High, Balasar Gice is requesting to join you. I have suggested

that he apply for an audience just as anyone else, but he seems to

forget that his conquest of Saraykeht was temporary."

"You'll treat Balasar-cha with respect," Otah said, though he couldn't

quite keep from smiling. And then a breath later, his chest tightened.

Something bloody and extreme. And effective. What if the general had

heard Idaan's news? "See him in. And bring another bowl for tea."

The Master of Tides took a pose that accepted the command.

"A clean bowl," Otah added to the woman's back.

Balasar followed all the appropriate forms when the servants escorted

him back. Otah matched him, and then gestured for all the others to

leave. When they were alone, Balasar lowered himself to the cushion on

the floor, took the bowl of tea and the bit of pork that Otah offered

him, and stretched out. Otah watched the man's face and body, but there

was no sign there that he'd heard of Idaan's arrival or of her news.

"I've had a couple of discreet conversations," Balasar said.

"Yes?"

"About taking a fleet to Chaburi-Tan?"

Otah nodded. Of course. Of course that was what they were meeting about.

"And what have you found?" Otah asked.

"It can be done, but there are two ways to go about it. We have enough

men to make a small, effective fighting force. Eight ships, perhaps,

fully armed and provisioned. I wouldn't go to war on it, but it would

outman most raiding parties."

Otah sipped his tea. The water wasn't quite hot enough to scald.

"The other way?"

"We can use the same number to man twenty ships. A mixed force, ours and

your own. Throw on as many men as we can find who are well enough to

stand upright. It would actually be easier to defeat in a battle. The

men who knew what they were about would be spread thin, and amateurs are

worse than nothing in a sea fight. But weigh it against the sight of

twenty ships. The pirates would be mad to come against us in force."

"Unless they know we're all lights and empty show," Otah said. "There

are suggestions that the mercenaries we have at Chaburi-Tan are working

both sides."

Balasar sucked his teeth.

"That makes it harder," he agreed.

"How long would you need?" Otah asked.

"A week for the smaller force. Twice that for the larger."

"How many of our allies would we lose in the court here?"

"Hard to say. Knowing who your friends are is a tricky business right

now. You'll have fewer than if they stayed."

Otah took a slice of apple, chewing the soft flesh slowly to give

himself time. Balasar was silent, his expression unreadable. It occurred

to Otah that the man would have made a decent courier.

"Give me the day," he said. "I'll have an answer for you tonight.

Tomorrow at the latest."

"Thank you, Most High," Balasar said.

"I know how much I've asked of you," Otah said.

"It's something I owe you. Or that we owe each other. Whatever I can do,

I will."

Otah smiled and took a pose of gratitude, but he was wondering what

limits that debt would find if Idaan spoke to the old general. He was

dancing around too many blades. He couldn't keep them all clear in his

mind, and if he stumbled, there would be blood.

Otah finished his meal, allowed the servants to change his outer robe to

a formal black with threads of gold throughout, and led his ritual

procession to the audience chamber. The members of his court flowed into

their places in the appropriate order, with the custom-driven signs of

loyalty and obeisance. Otah restrained himself from shouting at them all

to hurry. The time he spent in empty form was time stolen. He didn't

have it to spare.

The audiences began, each a balancing between the justice of the issue,

the politics behind those involved, and the massive complex webwork that

made up the relationships of the court, of the cities, of the world.

When he'd been young, the Khai Saraykeht had held audiences for things

as simple as land disputes and broken contracts. Those days were gone,

and nothing reached so high as the Emperor of the Khaiem unless no one

lower dared rule on the matter. Nothing was trivial, everything fraught

with implication.

Midday came and went, and the sun began its slow fall to the west. Storm

clouds rose, white and soft and taller than mountains, but the rain

stayed out over the sea. The daylight moon hung in the blue sky to the

north. Otah didn't think of Balasar or Idaan, Chaburi-Tan or the andat.

When at last he paused to eat, he felt worn thin enough to see through.

He tried to consider Balasar's analysis, but ended by staring at the

plate of lemon fish and rice as if it were enthralling.

Because he had been hoping for a moment's peace, he'd chosen to eat his

little meal in one of the low halls at the back of the palace. The stone

floor and simple, unadorned plaster walls made it seem more like the

common room of a small wayhouse than the center of empire. That was part

of its appeal. The shutters were open on the garden behind it: crawling

lavender, starfall rose, mint, and, without warning, Danat, in a

formally cut robe of deep blue hot with yellow, blood running from his

nose to cover his mouth and chin. Otah put down the bowl.

Danat stalked into the hall and halfway across it before he noticed that

a table was occupied. He hesitated, then took a pose of greeting. The

fingers of his right hand were scarlet where he had tried to stanch the

flow and failed. Otah didn't recall having stood. His expression must

have been alarmed, because Danat smiled and shook his head.

"It's not bad," he said. "Just messy. I didn't want to come through the

larger halls."

"What happened?"

"I have met my rival," Danat said. "Hanchat Dor."

"There's blood? There's blood between you?"

"No," Danat said. "Well, technically yes, I suppose. But no."