destruction of the Old Empire seem minor.
And still, Otah read the letters again, his mind unquiet. There was
something there, something more, that he had overlooked. The certainty
of the Gaits, their willingness to show their power. Whenever they tired
of trade or felt themselves losing at the negotiating tables, Galt had
been pleased to play raider and pirate. It had been that way for as long
as Otah could remember. The Galtic High Council had schemed and
conspired. It shouldn't have been odd that, emboldened by success, they
would take to the field. And yet ...
Otah turned the pages with a sound as dry as autumn leaves. They
couldn't be attacking the Khaiem; even with an andat in their
possession, they would he overwhelmed. The cities might have their
rivalries and disputes, but an attack on one would unite them against
their common foe. "Thirteen cities each with its own poet added to
whatever the Dai-kvo held in reserve in his village. At worst, more than
a dozen to one, and each of them capable of destruction on a scale
almost impossible to imagine. The Galts wouldn't dare attack the Khaiem.
It was posturing. Negotiation. It might even be a bluff; the poet might
have tried his binding, paid the price of failure, and left the Galts
with nothing but bluster to defend themselves.
Otah had heard all these arguments, had made more than one of them
himself. And still night found him here, reading the letters and
searching for the thoughts behind them. It was like hearing a new voice
in a choir. Somewhere, someone new had entered the strategies of the
Gaits, and these scraps of paper and pale ink were all that Otah had to
work out what that might mean.
Ile could as well have looked for words written in the air.
A scratching came at the door, followed by a servant boy. The boy took a
pose of obeisance and Otah replied automatically.
"The woman you sent for, Most High. Liat Chokavi."
"Bring her in. And bring some wine and two bowls, then see we aren't
disturbed."
"But, Most High-"
"We'll pour our own wine," Otah snapped, and regretted it instantly as
the boy's face went pale. Otah pressed down the impulse to apologize. It
was beneath the dignity of the Khai Machi to apologize for rudeness-one
of the thousand things he'd learned when he first took his father's
chair. One of the thousand missteps he had made. The boy backed out of
the room, and Otah turned to the letters, folding them hack in their
order and slipping them into his sleeve. The boy preceded Liat into the
room, a tray with a silver carafe and two hand-molded bowls of granite
in his hands. Liat sat on the low divan, her eyes on the floor in
something that looked like respect but might only have been fear.
The door closed, and Otah poured a generous portion of wine into each
bowl. Liat took the one he proffered.
"It's lovely work," Liat said, considering the stone.
"It's the andat," Otah said. "He turns the quarry rock into something
like clay, and the potters shape it. One of the many wonders of Machi.
Have you seen the bridge that spans the river? A single stone poured
over molds and shaped by hand five generations hack. And there's the
towers. Really, we're a city of petty miracles."
"You sound hitter," she said, looking up at last. Her eyes were the same
tea-and-milk color he remembered. Otah sighed as he sat across from her.
Outside, the wind murmured.
"I'm not," he said. "Only tired."
"I knew you wouldn't end as a seafront laborer," she said.
"Yes, well . . ." Otah shook his head and sipped from the howl. It was
strong wine, and it left his mouth feeling clean and his chest warm.
"It's time we spoke about Nayiit."
Liat nodded, took a long drink, and held the cup out for more. Otah poured.
"It's all my fault," she said as she sat hack. "I should never have
brought him here. I never saw it. I never saw you in him. He was always
just himself. If I'd known that ... that he resembled you quite so
closely, I wouldn't have."
"Late for that," Otah said.
Liat sighed her agreement and looked up at him. It was hard to believe
that they had been lovers once. The girl he had known hack then hadn't
had gray in her hair, weariness in her eyes. And the boy he'd been was
as distant as snow in summer. Yes, two people had kissed once, had
touched each other, had created a child who had grown to manhood. And
Otah remembered some of those moments nowshowering at the barracks while
she spoke to him, the ink blocks at the desk in her cell at the compound
of House Wilsin, the feel of a young body pressed against his own, when
his flesh had also been new and unmarked. If those days long past had
been foolish or wrong, the only evidence was the price they both paid
now. It hadn't seemed so at the time.
"I've been thinking of it," Liat said. "I haven't told him. I wasn't
sure how you wanted to address the problem. But I think the wisest thing
to do is to speak with him and with Maati, and then have Nayiitkya take
the brand. I know it's not something done with firstborn sons, but it's
still a repudiation of his right to become Khai. It will make it clear
to the world that he doesn't have designs on your chair."
"'T'hat isn't what I'd choose," Otah said. His words were slow and
careful. "I'm afraid my son may die."
She caught her breath. It was hardly there, no more than a tremor in the
air she took in, but he heard it.
"Itani," she said, using the name of the boy he'd been in Saraykeht,
"please. I'll swear on anything you choose. Nayiit's no threat to Danat.
It was only the Galts that brought us here. I'm not looking to put my
son in your chair...."
Otah put down his bowl and took a pose that asked for her silence. Her
face pale, she went quiet.
"I don't mean that," he said softly. "I mean that I don't ... Gods. I
don't know how to say this. Danat's not well. His lungs are fragile, and
the winters here are bad. We lose people to the cold every year. Not
just the old or the weak. Young people. Healthy ones. I'm afraid that
Danat may dic, and there'll be no one to take my place. The city would
tear itself apart."
"But ... you want ..."
"I haven't done a good job as Khai. I haven't been able to put the
houses of the utkhaiem together except in their distrust of me and
resentment of Kiyan. There's been twice it came near violence, and I
only held the city in place by luck. But keeping Machi safe is my
responsibility. I want Nayiit unbranded, in case ... in case he becomes
my successor.
Liat's mouth hung open, her eyes were wide. A stray lock of hair hung
down the side of her face, three white hairs dancing in and out among
the black. He felt the faint urge-echo of a habit long forgotten-to
brush it back.