THE (tlpq-4) (57 page)

"Assuming nothing else happens," Otah said. Below, a fanfare was blaring.

"You mean Eymond," Farrer said. "They're a problem, it's true."

"Eymond. Eddensea, the Westlands. Anyone, really."

"If we had the andat..

"We don't," Otah said.

"No, I suppose not," Farrer said, sourly. "But to the point, how many of

us are aware of that fact?"

In the dim light of the brazier's coals, Farrer's face was the same

dusky red as the moon in eclipse. The Galt smiled, pleased that he had

taken Otah by surprise.

"You and I know. The High Council. That half-bastard council you put

together when you headed out into the wilderness. Ana. Danat. A few

armsmen. All in all, I'd guess not more than three dozen people actually

know what happened. And none of them is at present working for Eymond."

"You're saying we should pretend to have an andat?"

"Not precisely," Fatter said. "As many people as already know, the story

will come out eventually. But there might be a way to present it that

still gave other nations pause. Send out letters of embassage that say

the andat, though recovered, have been set aside and deny the rumors

that certain deaths and odd occurrences are at all related to a new poet

under the direction of the Empire."

"What deaths?"

"Don't be too specific about that," Farrer said. "I expect they'll

supply the details."

"Let them think ... that we have the andat and are hiding the fact?"

Otah laughed.

"It won't last forever, but the longer we can stall them, the better

prepared we'll be when they come."

"And they do always come," Otah said. "Clever thought. It costs us

nothing. It could gain us a great deal. Issandra?"

Farrer leaned back in his chair, setting his heels on the parapet and

looking up at the stars, the full, heavy moon. For the space of a

heartbeat, he looked forlorn. He drank his wine and looked over at Otah.

"My wife is an amazing woman," he said. "I'm fortunate to have her. And

if Ana's half like her, she'll be running both our nations whether your

son likes it or not."

It was the opening to a hundred other issues. Galt and the cities of the

Khaiem were in a state of profound disarray. Ana Dasin might be the new

Empress, but that meant little enough in practical terms. In Galt the

High Council and the full council were each in flux, their elections and

appointments in question now that their cities were little more than

abandoned. Otah would be hated for that destruction or else beloved for

the mending of it.

"It is the point, isn't it? If we are two nations, we're doomed," Farrer

said, reading his concerns. "We have too many enemies and not enough

strengths between us."

"If we're one ... how do we do that? Will the High Council be ruled by

my edict? Am I supposed to cede my power to them?"

"Compromise, Most High," Farrer said. "It will be a long process of

compromise and argument, idiotic yammering debate and high melodrama.

But in its defense, it won't be war."

"It won't be war," Otah repeated. Only when the words had come out into

the night air, hanging as if physical, did he realize he had meant it as

an agreement. One nation. His empire had just doubled in size, tripled

in complexity and need, and his own power had been cut at least by half.

Farrer seemed surprised when he laughed.

"Tomorrow," Otah said. "Call the High Council tomorrow. I'll bring my

council. We'll start with the report and try to build something like a

plan from there. And tell Issandra that I'll have the letters of

embassage sent. Best get that done before there's a debate about it, ne?"

They sat for a time without speaking, two men whose children had just

joined their families. Two enemies planning a house in common. Two great

powers whose golden ages had ended. They could play at it, but each knew

that it was only in their children, in their grandchildren, that the

game of friendship could become truth.

Farrer finished his wine, leaving the bowl by his chair. As he walked

out, he put a hand on Otah's shoulder.

"Your son seems a fine man," he said.

"Your daughter is a treasure."

"She is," Farrer Dasin said, his voice serious. And then Otah was alone

again, the night numbing his feet and biting his ears and nose. He

pulled the blanket around himself more tightly and left the balcony and

the city and the celebrations behind him.

The palaces were as quiet and busy as the backstage at a performance.

Servants ran or walked or conducted low, angry conversations that died

at Otah's approach. He let the night make its own path. He knew the

bridal procession had returned to the palaces by the number of robes

with bits of tinsel and bright paper clinging to the hems. And also by

the flushed faces and spontaneous laughter. There would have been

celebration on into the night, even if they hadn't scheduled the wedding

on Candles Night. As it was, Utani as a whole, from the highest nobility

to the lowest beggar, would sleep late and speak softly when they woke.

Otah doubted there would be any wine left by spring.

But there would be babies. He could already name a dozen women casually

who would be giving birth when the summer came. And everywhere, in all

the cities, the conditions were the same. They would miss a generation,

but only one. The Empire would stumble, but it need not fall.

Even more than the joining of the Empire and Galt, the night was the

first formal celebration of a world made new. Otah wished he felt more

part of it. Perhaps he understood too well what price had brought them here.

He found Eiah where he knew he would. The physicians' house with its

wide, slate tables and the scent of vinegar and burning herbs. Cloth

lanterns bobbled in the breeze outside the open doors. A litter of

stretched canvas and light wood lay on the steps, blood staining the

cloth. Within, half a dozen men and two women sat on low wooden benches

or lay on the floor. One of the men tried to take a pose of obeisance,

winced in pain, and sat back down. Otah made his way to the rear. Three

men in leather aprons were working the tables, servants and assistants

swarming around them. Eiah, in her own apron, was at the back table. A

Galtic man lay before her, groaning. Blood drenched his side. Eiah

glanced up, saw him, and took a pose of welcome with red hands.

"What's happened?" Otah asked.

"He fell out of a window and onto a stick," Eiah said. "I'm fairly sure

we've gotten all the splinters out of him."

"He'll live, then?"

"If he doesn't go septic," Eiah said. "He's a man with a hole in his

side. You can't ask better odds than that."

The wounded man stuttered out his gratitude in his own language while

Eiah, letting him hold one of her hands, gestured with the other for an

assistant.

"Bind the wound, give him three measures of poppy milk, and put him

somewhere safe until morning. I'll want to see his wound again before we

send him back to his people."

The assistant took a pose that accepted instruction, and Eiah walked to

the wide stone basins on the back wall to wash the blood from her hands.

A woman screamed and retched, but he couldn't see where she was. Eiah

was unfazed.

"We'll have forty more like him by morning," she said. "Too drunk and

happy to think of the risks. There was a woman here earlier who wrenched

her knee climbing a rope they'd strung over the street. Almost fell on

Danat's head, to hear her say it. She may walk with a cane the rest of

her life, but she's all smiles tonight."

"Well, she won't be dancing," Otah said.

"If she can hop, she will."

"Is there a place we can speak?" Otah asked.

Eiah dried her hands on a length of cloth, leaving it dark with water

and pink with blood. Her expression was closed, but she led the way

through a wide door and down a hall. Someone was moaning nearby. She

turned off into a small garden, the bushes as bare as sticks, a

widebranched tree empty. If there had been snow, it would have been lovely.

"I'm calling a meeting with the Galtic High Council tomorrow," he said.

"And my own as well. It's the beginning of unification. I wanted you to

hear it from me."

"That seems wise," Eiah said.

"The poets. The andat. They can't be kept out of that conversation."

"I know," she said. "I've been thinking about it."

"I don't suppose there are any conclusions you'd want to share," he

asked, trying to keep his tone light. Eiah pulled at her fingers, one

hand and then the other.

"We can't be sure there won't be others," she said. "The hardest thing

about binding them is the understanding that they can be bound. They

burned all the books, they killed every poet they could find, and we

remade the grammar. We bound two andat. Other people are going to try to

do what we did. Work from the basic structures and find a way."

"You think they'll do it?"

"History doesn't move backward," she said. "There's power in them. And

there are people who want power badly enough to kill and die.

Eventually, someone will find a way."

"Without Maati? Without Cehmai?"

"Or Irit, or Ashti Beg, or the two Kaes?" Eiah said. "Without me? It

will be harder. It will take longer. The cost in lives and failed

bindings may be huge."

"You're talking about generations from now," Otah said.

"Yes," Eiah said. "Likely, I am."

Otah nodded. It wasn't what he'd hoped to hear, but it would do. He took

a pose that thanked Eiah. She bowed her head.

"Are you well?" he asked. "It isn't an easy thing, killing."

"Vanjit wasn't the first person I've killed, Father. Knowing when to

help someone leave is part of what I do," Eiah said. She looked up,

staring at the moon through the bare branches that couldn't shelter

them, even from light. "I'm more troubled by what I could have done and

didn't."

Otah took a pose that asked her to elaborate. Eiah shook her head, and

then a moment later spoke softly, as if the words themselves were delicate.

"I could have held all our enemies at bay just by the threat of

Wounded," she said. "What army would take the field, knowing I could

blow out their lives like so many candles? Who would conspire against us

knowing that if their agents were discovered, I could slaughter their

kings and princes without hope of defense?"

"It would have been convenient," Otah agreed carefully.

"I could have slaughtered the men who killed Sinja-kya," Eiah said. "I

could have ended every man who had ever taken a woman against her will

or hurt a child. Between one breath and the next, I could have wiped

them from the world."

Eiah turned her gaze to him. In the cool moonlight, her eyes seemed lost

in shadow.

"I look at those things-all the things I might have done-and I wonder

whether I would have. And if I had, would they have been wrong?"

"And what do you believe?"

"I believe I saved myself when I set that perversion free," she said. "I

only hope the price the rest of the world pays isn't too high."

Otah stepped forward and took her in his arms. Eiah held back for a

moment, and then relaxed into the embrace. She smelled of herbs and

vinegar and blood. And mint. Her hair smelled of mint, just as her

mother's had done.

"You should go see him," she said. He knew who she meant.

"Is he well?"

"For now," she said. "He's weathered the attacks so far. But his blood's

still slowing. I expect he'll be fine until he isn't, and then he'll die."

"How long?"

"Not another year," she said.

Otah closed his eyes.

"He misses you," she said. "You know he does."

He stepped back and kissed her forehead. In the distance, someone

screamed. Eiah glanced over his shoulder with disgust.

"That will be Yaniit," she said. "I'd best go tend to him. Tall as a

tree, wide as a bear, and wails if you pinch him."

"Take care," Otah said.

His daughter walked away with the steady stride of a woman about her own

business, leaving the bare garden for him. He looked up at the moon, but

it had lost its poetry and charm. His sigh was opaque in the cold.