THE (tlpq-4) (27 page)

"Between the two of you, you'll have to devise something," he said. "I

don't have the time or the resources to fix this for you. But consider

that you might be treating Ana with less respect than she deserves.

Danat-cha, do you intend to build a life with Shija Radaani?"

Danat sobered. He took no pose, spoke no word. Otah nodded.

"Then it would be disrespectful to behave as if you did," Otah said. "Be

honest with her, and if it damages relations with House Radaani, then it

does."

"Yes, Father," Danat said, hesitated, and then took a pose that asked

forgiveness before walking from the room.

Otah's spine ached. His eyes felt gritty with the efforts of the day. It

was all far from over.

"Issandra-cha," he said. "I don't know Ana well, but I lost my own

daughter by treating her as the girl I remembered instead of the woman

she'd become. Don't repeat my mistake. Ana may not be subject to the

manipulations that work on younger girls."

Issandra Dasin's face hardened. For a moment, Otah saw the resemblance

between mother and daughter. She took a pose of acknowledgment. It was

awkward, but her form was correct.

"There is, perhaps, another approach," she said. "I wouldn't have

considered it before, but I've spent a certain number of hours with your

son. He might be able to manage it."

Otah nodded her on.

"He could choose to fall in love with her. Cultivate the feeling within

himself, and then ..." She shrugged. "Let the world take its course. I

haven't known many women who failed to be charmed by an attractive man's

genuine admiration."

"You think he could simply decide to feel what we want him to feel?"

"I've done it every day for nearly thirty years," Issandra said.

"That is either the most romantic thing I've heard or the saddest," Otah

said. And then, "Ana-cha did me a great favor. I'm sorry that Danat

repaid it with an indiscretion."

Issandra waved the apology away.

"I doubt she took offense. I'm sure she assumed Danat and this Radaani

creature were sharing whatever flat surfaces came available. I remember

what it was like at their age. We were all heat and dramatic gestures.

We thought we were the first generation to truly discover love or sex or

betrayal." Her voice softened.

Otah recalled a girl named Liat with skin the brown of eggshell and the

night his one true friend had confessed his affair with her. The night

Maati had confessed. He hadn't seen or spoken to either of them for

years afterward. He had killed a man, in part as a blessing upon them,

Liat and Maati, and the freedom that together they had given him.

All heat and dramatic gestures, he thought. Amusement mixed with sorrow,

the way it always did.

"Still, it is a pity," Issandra said. "The Radaani girl is beautiful,

and vanity is a powerful lever, no matter how sophisticated you take my

daughter to be."

"We may hope for the best," Otah said. "Perhaps Shija-cha will take

Danat's apology in stride and return to only acting the role."

Issandra's gaze told him exactly how likely she thought that was, but

she only shook her head.

"It would be pleasant," she said.

He ate alone that night, though there were scores of men, Galtic and

utkhaiem both, who would have been pleased to share his table. The

pavilion sat atop a high tower, the air smelling of lavender and the

sea. Otah sat on a cushion by a low table and watched the sunset; orange

and red and gold spread out upon a wide canvas of clouds and sky. There

were no singing slaves here, but soft chimes danced in the breeze with a

sound like bells made from wood. An iron brazier sat close to keep him

warm. The evening was beautiful and rich with sadness.

He had known that his daughter was angry with him. He had encouraged the

high families to import wives for their sons. They had come from Bakta,

Eymond, Eddensea. Women of middling birth commanded huge dowries. The

coffers of the utkhaiem had dropped, but a handful of children had been

born. A few dozen, perhaps, in every city. It hadn't been enough. And so

he'd conceived the plan to join with Galt, old enemies made one people.

Yes, it left behind a generation of Khaiate women. And Galtic men, for

that. No doubt they would feel angered, lost, discarded. It was a small

price to pay for a future.

The Comfort House Empire, she'd called it the last time they'd spoken.

And her father, her father, the Procurer King. She said it, and she spat.

Thinking of it stung.

A flock of gulls wheeled below him and to the south. Lemon rice and

river trout rested warm on his fingers and in his mouth. When he was

alone, he still ate like a laborer.

He wondered if he had been wrong. Perhaps in the approach he had taken,

trying to find women capable of bearing children for the cities. Perhaps

in speaking to Eiah about it in the terms he'd used. Perhaps in failing

to accept her criticism, in speaking harshly. Eiah had accused him of

turning his back on the women whom Sterile had wounded because they were

inconvenient. Eiah was one of those women, and the injury she'd suffered

was as deep as any of his own. Deeper.

It might, he supposed, have been enough to turn her against him. She had

always been close to Maati. She had spent long evenings at the library

of Machi, where Maati had made his home. She had known Nayiit, the man

that Otah had fathered and Maati had called son. In the many years that

he had struggled with being merely the Khai Machi, Eiah had made a

friend and an uncle of Maati Vaupathai. There was little reason to

believe that she would withhold her loyalty from Maati now.

The wheeling gulls landed, leaving the sky to itself. The fleet had long

passed the horizon, and Otah wished he had some magical glass that would

let him see it still. It was a short enough voyage to Chaburi-Tan.

Shorter if the pirates and raiders came out to confront them. He wished

Sinja had stayed behind. In the failing light, the gaudy sunset turning

to gray, he wanted his old friend back and was only half-startled to

realize he meant Maati as much as Sinja.

A servant emerged from the darkened arches at the pavilion's edge and

came forward. Otah knew the news he carried before he spoke. Idaan Machi

had answered his summons and awaited at his pleasure. Otah ordered that

she be brought to him. Her and more food.

Do what needs doing, Sinja said from his memory.

He heard her soft footsteps and didn't turn around. His belly was

knotted, and the fish before him smelled suddenly unpleasant. Idaan

walked past him and stood at the edge of the pavilion, looking down the

height of the tower. Her outer robe was dark, the hem fluttering as if

she were about to fall or take flight. When she turned back to him, her

expression was mild.

"Lovely view," she said. "But still nothing beside Machi. Do you miss

the towers?"

"No," Otah said. "Not really. They're too cold to use in the winter, too

hot in the summer, and the tracks they use to haul things up the side

have to be replaced every fifth year. They're the best example I know of

doing a thing just to show it's possible."

Idaan lowered herself to a cushion opposite him. The fading glow of

western clouds silhouetted her.

"True enough," she said. "Still. I miss them."

She considered the bowls of food before them, then took a scoop of rice

and fish on two curled fingers. Otah smiled. His sister chewed

appreciatively and took a pose that opened a negotiation.

"Yes," he agreed. "There's something I want from you."

Idaan nodded, but didn't speak. Otah squinted out into the wide air

above Saraykeht.

"There's too much," he said. "Even turning everything I can manage over

to Sinja and Danat and Ashua Radaani, there's too much."

"Too much to allow for what?" She knew, he thought, what was coming.

"Too much for me to leave," he said. "Being Emperor is like being the

most honored slave in the world. I can do anything, except that I can't.

I can go anywhere, except that I mustn't."

"It sounds awful."

"Don't laugh. I'm not saying I'd rather be lifting crates at the

seafront, but senior overseer of a courier service? Something with a few

dozen chests of silver lengths and a favorite teahouse."

"Fewer meetings like this one," Idaan suggested.

"That," Otah said. "Gods yes, that."

Idaan scooped up another mouthful of rice, chewed slowly, and let her

dark eyes play across his face. He didn't know what she saw there. After

a swallow of water and a small sigh, she spoke.

"You want me to find Eiah," she said.

"You know what Maati looks like," he said. "You have the experience of

living among low towns and hiding who you are. You understand poets as

well as anyone alive, I'd guess."

"And I know what I'm looking for," she said, her voice light and

conversational. "Anyone else, and you'd have to bring them into your

confidence. Explain what you wanted to know and why. Well, Sinja-cha

perhaps, but you've sent him off the other direction."

This is madness, Otah thought but didn't say. She is a killer. She was

born without a conscience. However she may seem now, she slaughtered her

brothers and the father she loved. She's got the eyes of a pit hound and

the heart of a butcher.

"Will you do it?" he said aloud.

Idaan didn't answer at once. A gust of wind pushed at her sleeve and

drew a lock of gray hair out behind her like a banner from the mast of a

fighting ship. Otah's hands ached, and he forced his fists to open by an

act of will.

"Maati hunted me once," she said, hardly louder than the wind. "It only

seems fair to return the favor."

Otah closed his eyes. Perhaps it was an empty task. Eiah might very well

have nothing to do with Maati's schemes. She might truly be working with

some low-town physician, hoping through her own hard work to atone for

her father's misdeeds. For his misdeeds. When he looked up, his sister

was considering him with hooded eyes.

"I will have a cart and driver ready for you in the morning," he said.

"You'll be able to take whatever fresh horses or food you need along the

way. I've written the orders up already."

"All the horses and food we need along the way?" Idaan said. "You're

right. Being Emperor must be raw hell."

He didn't answer her. She finished the rice and fish. The clouds behind

her had gone dark, and since neither had called for candles or torches,

the only light was the cold blue moon and the fiery embers in the

brazier. Idaan took a pose that accepted his charge.

"You don't want to negotiate payment?" he said.

"I'm just pleased you've decided to do the thing. I was afraid you'd put

it off until it was too late," Idaan said. "One question, though. If I

find her, and she is the one, what action should I take?"

Meaning should Idaan kill her, kill Maati and as many of the other

fledgling poets as she could to prevent them from accomplishing their aims.

Do what needs doing.

"Nothing," Otah said, nerve failing. "Do nothing. There will be couriers

in Pathai. You can send the fastest of them back. I'll give you a cipher."

"You're sure?" Idaan said. "It's a lot of time on the road, sending me

out and then someone else back. And then waiting while you make your way

to Pathai or wherever the trail leads."

"If you find her, send word," Otah said. "You aren't to act against her."

Idaan's smile was crooked with meanings he couldn't quite follow. Otah

felt anger growing in his spine, only it wasn't rage so much as dread.

"I'll do as you say, Most High," Idaan said. "I'll go at first light."

"Thank you," he said.

Idaan rose and walked back toward the arches. He heard her pause for a

moment and then go on. The stars had come out, glimmering in the

darkness like gems thrown on black stone. Otah sat in silence until he

was sure he could walk, and then went down to his rooms. The servants

had left him a bowl of candied fruit, but he couldn't stand the prospect.

A fire burned in the grate, protecting the air from even the slightest

chill and tainting it with tendrils of pine smoke. The summer cities had

always been overly vigilant of cold. Thin blood. Everything south of

Udun was plagued by thinness of the blood. Otah came from the winter