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