"I heard Eiah-cha speaking to Ashti Beg," Vanjit said. "They're leaving?"
"Eiah is taking the cart to Pathai for supplies and to send off some
letters for me. Ashti Beg is going to help. That's all," he said.
"It's not because of me?"
"No, Vanjit-kya," Maati said warmly. "No. It was planned before anything
happened between you and Ashti-cha. It's only ... we need time. Eiah
needs time away from her binding to clear her mind. And we need to be
sure that the Emperor and his son can't make a half-Galtic heir before
we've done what needs doing. So we're asking help. Eiah is the daughter
of the Empire. Her word carries weight. If she tells a few people
well-placed in the utkhaiem what we've done and what we intend to do,
they can use their influence to stop the Galts. And then ..."
He gestured to Vanjit, to the school, to the wide plain of possibilities
that lay before them, if only they could gain the time. The andat cooed
and threw its own arms wide, in joy or possibly mockery.
"Why is he doing it?" Vanjit asked. "Why would he trade with those
people? Is he so in love with Galt?"
Maati took a long breath, letting the question turn itself in his mind.
It was the habit of years to lay any number of sins at Otah's feet. But,
reluctantly, not this.
"No," Maati said. "Otah-kvo isn't evil. Petty, perhaps. Misguided,
certainly. He sees that the Galts are strong, and we need strength. He
sees that their women can bear babes with our men, and he believes it's
the only hope of a new generation. He doesn't understand that what we've
broken, we can also repair."
"Given time," Vanjit said.
"Yes," Maati said with a sigh. "Given time to rebuild. Remake."
For a moment, he was in the cold warehouse in Machi, the andat Sterile
looking at him with her terrible, beautiful smile.
"It takes so long to build the world," he said softly, "and so very
little to break it. I still remember what it felt like. Between one
breath and the next, Vanjit-kya. I ruined the world in less than a
heartbeat."
Vanjit blinked, as if surprised, and then a half-smile plucked her lips.
Clarity-of-Sight quieted, looking at her as if she'd spoken. The andat
was as still as stone; even the pretense of breath had gone.
Maati felt unease stir in his belly.
"Vanjit? Are you well?" and when she didn't reply, "Fanjit?"
She started, as if she'd forgotten where she was and that he was there.
He caught her gaze, and she smiled.
"Fine. Yes, I'm fine," she said. There was a strange tone in her voice.
Something low and languid and relaxed. It reminded Maati of the
aftermath of sex. He took a pose that asked whether he had failed to
understand something.
"No, nothing," Vanjit said; and then not quite in answer to his
question, "Nothing's wrong."
15
Shortly after midday, Otah walked along the winding path that led from
the palaces themselves to the building that had once been the poet's
house. Since the first time he had come this way, little more than a
boy, many things had changed. The pathway itself was the white of
crushed marble with borders of oiled wood. The bridge that rose over the
pond had blackened with time; the grain of the wood seemed coarser. One
of the stands of trees which gave the poet's house its sense of
separation from the palaces had burned. White-oak seedlings had been
planted to replace them. The trees looked thin, awkward, and adolescent.
One day, decades ahead, they would tower over the path.
He paused at the top of the bridge's arch, looking down into the dark
water. Koi swam lazily under the surface, orange and white and gold
appearing from beneath lily pads and vanishing again. The man reflected
in the pond's surface looked old and tired. White hair, gray skin. Time
had thinned his shoulders and taken the roundness from his cheeks. Otah
put out his hand, and the reflection did as well, as if they were old
friends greeting each other.
When he reached the house itself, it seemed less changed than the
landscape. The lower floor still had walls that were hinged like
shutters which could be pulled back to open the place like a pavilion.
The polished wood seemed to glow softly in the autumn light. He could
almost imagine Maati sitting on the steps as he had been then. Sixteen
summers old, and wearing the brown robes of a poet like a mark of honor.
Or frog-mouthed Heshai, the poet whom Otah had killed to prevent the
slaughter of innocents. Or Seedless, Heshai's beautiful, unfathomable slave.
Instead, Farrer Dasin sat on a silk-upholstered couch, a book in one
hand, a pipe in the other. Otah approached the house casually as if they
were merchants or workers, men whose dignity was less of a burden. The
Galt closed his book as Otah reached the first stair up.
"Most High," he said in the Khaiate tongue.
"Farrer-cha," Otah replied.
"None of them are here. There's apparently a gathering at one of the
lesser palaces. I believe one of the high-prestige wives of your court
is showing her wealth in the guise of judging silks."
"It isn't uncommon. Especially if there is someone particularly worth
impressing," Otah said. "I am surprised that Ana-cha chose to attend."
"To be honest, so am I. But I am on the verge of despairing that I will
ever understand women."
It was hard to say whether the light, informal tone that the Galt
adopted was intended as an offering of peace or as an insult. Likely it
was both. The smoke rising from the pipe was thin and gray as fog, and
smelled of cherries and bark.
"I don't mean to intrude," Otah said.
"No," Farrer Dasin said, "I imagine you don't. I've sent the servant
away. You can take that seat there, if you like."
Otah, Emperor of the cities of the Khaiem, pulled a wood-backed chair to
face the Galt, sat in it, and leaned back.
"I was a bit surprised you wanted to speak with me," Farrer said. "I
thought we did all of our communication through my family."
A mosquito whined through the air as Otah considered this. Farrer Dasin
waited, his mild expression a challenge.
"We have met and spoken many times over the past year, Farrer-cha. I
don't believe I've ever turned you away. And as to your family, the
first time I had no other option," Otah said. "The council was poised to
refuse me, and there was a chance that your wives might be my allies.
The second time, it was Ana who came to me. I didn't seek her out."
Farrer looked at Otah, his green-gray eyes as enigmatic as the sea.
"What brings you, Most High?" Farrer asked.
"I had heard rumors the decision to lend me your ships had perhaps
weakened your position in the council. I had hoped I could offer some