help. And what did he say? No. Let the world be the world, he said. He
doesn't see what it is out here. He doesn't see the pain and the ache
and the suffering. So don't you tell we what to do. Every girl I've
lost, it's his fault. Every time we try and fall short, it's because
we're sneaking around in warehouses and low towns. Meeting in secret
like criminals-"
"Maati-kya-"
"I can do this," the old poet continued, a fleck of white foam at the
corner of his mouth. "I have to. I have to retrieve my error. I have to
fix what I broke. I know I'm hated. I know what the world's become
because of me. But these girls are dedicated and smart and willing to
die if that's what's called for. Willing to die. How can you and your
great and glorious father tell me that I'm wrong to try?"
"I didn't say you shouldn't try," Eiah said. "I said you can't do it.
Not alone."
Maati's mouth worked for a moment. His fingertip traced an arc down to
the fire grate as the anger left him. Confusion washed through his
expression, his shoulders sagging and his chest sinking in. He reminded
Eiah of a puppet with its strings fouled. She rose and took his hand as
she had the dead woman's.
"I haven't come here on my father's business," Eiah said. "I've come to
help."
"Oh," Maati said. A tentative smile found its way to his lips. "Well. I
... that is ..."
He frowned viciously and wiped at his eyes with one hand. Eiah stepped
forward and put her arms around him. His clothes smelled rank and
unwashed; his flesh was soft, his skin papery. When he returned her
embrace, she would not have traded the moment for anything.
1
It was the fifth month of the Emperor's self-imposed exile. The day had
been filled, as always, with meetings and conversations and
appreciations of artistic tableaux. Otah had retired early, claiming a
headache rather than face another banquet of heavy, overspiced Galtic food.
The night birds in the garden below his window sang unfamiliar songs.
The perfume of the wide, pale flowers was equal parts sweetness and
pepper. The rooms of his suite were hung with heavy Galtic tapestries,
knotwork soldiers slaughtering one another in memory of some battle of
which Otah had never heard.
It was, coincidentally, the sixty-third anniversary of his birth. He
hadn't chosen to make it known; the High Council might have staged some
further celebration, and he had had a bellyful of celebrations. In that
day, he had been called upon to admire a gold- and jewel-encrusted
clockwork whose religious significance was obscure to him; he had moved
in slow procession down the narrow streets and through the grand halls
with their awkward, blocky architecture and their strange, smoky
incense; he had spoken to two members of the High Council to no
observable effect. At this moment, he could be sitting with them again,
making the same points, suffering the same deflections. Instead, he
watched the thin clouds pass across the crescent moon.
He had become accustomed to feeling alone. It was true that with a word
or a gesture he could summon his counselors or singing slaves, scholars
or priests. Another night, he might have, if only in hope that this time
it would be different; that the company would do something more than
remind him how little comfort it provided. Instead, he went to the
ornate writing desk and took what solace he could.
Kiyan-kya-
I have done what I said I would do. I have come to our old
enemies, I have pled my case and pled and pled and pled, and
now I suppose I'll plead some more. The full council is set
to make their vote in a week's time. I know I shouldgo out
anddo more, but I swear that I've spoken to everyone in this
city twice over, and tonight, I'd rather be herewith you. I
miss you.
They tell we that all widowers suffer this sense q f being
halved, and they tell me it fades. It hasn't faded. I
suspect age changes the nature of time. Four years may be an
epoch for young men, to me it's hardly the space between one
breath and the next. I want you to be here to tell me your
thoughts on the matter. I want you here. I want you back.
I've had word from Danat and Sinja. They seem to be running
the cities effectively enough in my absence, but apart from
our essentialproblem, there are a thousand other threats.
Pirates have raided Chaburi-Tan, and there are stories of
armed companies from Eddensea and the Westlands exacting
tolls on the roads outside the winter cities. The trading
houses are bleeding money badly; no one indentures
themselves as an apprentice anymore. Artisans are having to
pay for workers. Even seafront laborers are commanding wages
higher than anything I made as a courier. The high families
of the utkhaiem are watching their coffers drain like a
holed bladder. It makes them restless. I have had two
separate petitions to allow forced indenture for what they
call "critical labor. " I haven't given an answer. When Igo
home, I suppose I'll have to.
Otah paused, the tip of his pen touching the brick of ink. Something
with wide, pale wings the size of his hands and eyes as black and wet as
river stones hovered at the window and then vanished. A soft breeze
rattled the open shutters. He pulled back the sleeve of his robe, but
before the bronze tip touched the paper, a soft knock came at his door.
"Most High," the servant boy said, his hands in a pose of obeisance.
"Balasar-cha requests an audience."
Otah smiled and took a pose that granted the request and implied that
the guest should be brought to him here, the nuance only slightly
hampered by the pen still in his hand. As the servant scampered out,
Otah straightened his sleeves and stuck the pen nib-first into the ink
brick.
Once, Balasar Gice had led armies against the Khaiem, and only raw
chance had kept him from success. Instead of leading Galt to its
greatest hour, he had precipitated its slow ruin. That the Khaiem shared
that fate took away little of the sting. The general had spent years
rebuilding his broken reputation, and even now was less a force within
Galt than once he had been.
And still, he was a man to be reckoned with.
He came into the room, bowing to Otah as he always did, but with a wry
smile which was reserved for occasions out of the public eye.
"I came to inquire after your health, Most High," Balasar Gice said in
the language of the Khaiem. His accent hadn't lessened in the years
since they had met. "Councilman Trathorn was somewhat relieved by your
absence, but he had to pretend distress."
"Well, you can tell him his distress in every way mirrors my own," Otah
said. "I couldn't face it. I've been too much in the world. There is
only so much praise I can stand from people who'd be happy to see my