some hint of change like a snow fox waiting for the thaw. It was only on
the morning of the third day, just as he was preparing to send a fresh
wave of appeals to the daughters of the families of power, that his
visitor was announced.
She was perhaps ten years younger than Otah, with hair the gray of dry
slate pulled back from an intimidating, well-painted face. The reddening
at her eyelids seemed more likely to be a constant feature than a sign
of recent weeping. Otah rose from the garden bench and took a pose of
welcome simple enough for anyone with even rudimentary training to
recognize. His guest replied appropriately and waited for him to invite
her to sit in the chair across from him.
"We haven't met," the woman said in her native language. "Not formally."
"But I know your husband," Otah said. He had met with all the members of
the High Council many times. Farrer Dasin was among the
longest-standing, though not by any means the most powerful. His wife
Issandra had been no more than a polite smile and another face among
hundreds until now. Otah considered her raised brows and downcast eyes,
the set of her mouth and her shoulders. There had been a time when he'd
lived by knowing how to interpret such small indications. Perhaps he
still did.
"I found your letter quite moving," she said. "Several of us did."
"I am gratified," Otah said, not certain it was quite the correct word.
"Fatter and I have talked about your treaty. The massive shipment of
Galtic women to your cities as bed servants to your men, and then
hauling back a crop of your excess male population for whatever girls
escaped. It isn't a popular scheme."
The brutality of her tone was a gambit, a test. Otah refused to rise to it.
"Those aren't the terms I put in the treaty," he said. "I believe I used
the term wife rather than bed servant, for example. I understand that
the men of Galt might find it difficult. It is, however, needed."
He spread his hands, as if in apology. She met his gaze with the bare
intellect of a master merchant.
"Yes, it is," she said. "Majesty, I am in a position to deliver a
decisive majority in both the High Council and the convocation. It will
cost me all the favors I'm owed, and I have been accruing them for
thirty years. It will likely take me another thirty to pay back the debt
I'm going into for you.
Otah smiled and waited. The cold blue eyes glittered for a moment.
"You might offer your thanks," she said.
"Forgive me," Otah said. "I didn't think you'd finished speaking. I
didn't want to interrupt."
The woman nodded, sat back a degree, and folded her hands in her lap. A
wasp hummed through the air to hover between them before it darted away
into the foliage. He watched her weigh strategies and decide at last on
the blunt and straightforward.
"You have a son, I understand?" Issandra Dasin said.
"I do," Otah said.
"Only one."
It was, of course, what he had expected. He had made no provision for
Danat's role in the text of the treaty itself, but alliances among the
Khaiem had always taken the form of marriages. His son's future had
always been a tile in this game, and now that tile was in play.
"Only one," he agreed.
"As it happens, I have a daughter. Ana was three years old when the doom
came. She's eighteen now, and ..."
She frowned. It was the most surprising thing she'd done since her
arrival. The stone face shifted; the eyes he could not imagine weeping
glistened with unspilled tears. Otah was shocked to have misjudged her
so badly.
"She's never held a baby, you know," the woman said. "Hardly ever seen
one. At her age, you couldn't pull me out of the nursery with a rope.
The way they chuckle when they're small. Ana's never heard that. The way
their hair smells ..."
She took a deep breath, steadying herself. Otah leaned forward, his hand
on the woman's wrist.
"I remember," he said softly, and she smiled.
"It's beside the matter," she said.
"It's at the center of the matter," Otah said, falling reflexively into
a pose of disagreement. "And it's the part upon which we agree. Forgive
me if I am being forward, but you are offering your support for my
treaty in exchange for a marriage between our families? Your daughter
and my son."
"Yes," she said. "I am."
"There may be others who ask the same price. There is a tradition among
my people of the Khai taking several wives...."
"You didn't."
"No," Otah agreed. "I didn't."
The wasp returned, buzzing at Otah's ear. He didn't raise a hand, and
the insect landed on the brightly embroidered silk of his sleeve.
Issandra Dasin, mother of his son's future wife, leaned forward
gracefully and crushed it between her fingers.
"No other wives," she said.
"I would need assurances that the vote would be decisive," Otah said.
"You'll have them. I am a more influential woman than I seem."
Otah looked up. Above them, the sun burned behind a thin scrim of cloud.
The same light fell in Utani, spilling through the windows of Danat's
palace. If only there were some way to whisper to the sun and have it
relay the message to Danat: Are you certain you'll take this risk? A
life spent with a woman whom you've never met, whom you may never love?
His son had seen twenty summers and was by all rights a man. Before the
great diplomatic horde had left for Galt, they had discussed the
likelihood of a bargain of this sort. Danat hadn't hesitated. If it was
a price, he'd pay it. His face had been solemn when he'd said it. Solemn
and certain, and as ignorant as Otah himself had been at that age. There
was nothing else either of them could have said. And nothing different
that Otah could do now, except put off the moment for another few
breaths by staring up at the blinding sun.
"Very well," Otah said. Then again, "Very well."
"You also have a daughter," the woman said. "The elder child?"
"Yes," Otah said.
"Does she have a claim as heir?"
The image appeared in his mind unbidden: Eiah draped in golden robes and
gems woven into her hair as she dressed a patient's wounds. Otah
chuckled, then saw the beginnings of offense in his guest's expression.