"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