Daniel Abraham - THE

die for a reason. They were only on the streets when Udun fell," she

said, and shrugged. "We all die sometime, Maati-kvo. Risking it sooner

and for a reason is better than being safe and meaningless. Isn't it?"

Brave girl. She was such a brave girl. To have lost so much, so young,

and still be strong enough to risk the binding. Maati felt tears in his

eyes and forced himself to smile.

"We chose it for you. Clarity-of-Sight," she said. "I saw how hard it is

for you to read some days, and Eiah and I thought ... if we could help ..."

Maati laid his hand on hers, his heart aching with something equally joy

and fear. Vanjit was weeping a bit as well now. He heard voices coming

down the hallway-Eiah and Ashti Beg-but Irit and Large Kae were silent.

He was certain they were watching them. He didn't care.

"We'll be careful," he said. "We'll make it work."

Her smile outshone the sun. Maati nodded; yes, they would attempt the

binding. Yes, Vanjit would be the first woman in history to hold an

andat or else the next of his students to die.

7

"No, I will not forbid her a goddamned thing. The girl's got more spine

than all the rest of us put together. We could learn something from

her," Farrer Dasin said, his arms folded before him, his chin high and

proud. And when he said the rest of its, Otah was clear that he meant

the Galts. The courts of the Khaiem, the cities and people of Otah's

empire were not part of Farrer Dasin's us; they were still apart and the

enemy.

Six members of the High Council sat at the wide marble table along with

Balasar Gice and Issandra Dasin. Otah, Danat, and representatives of

four of the highest families of the utkhaiem sat across from them. Otah

wished he'd been able to scatter each side among the other instead of

dividing the table like a battlefield. Or else keep the group smaller.

If it had been only himself, Farrer, and Issandra, there might have been

a chance.

Ana, the girl who had taken a stick to this political beehive, was not

present, nor was she welcome.

"There are agreements in place," Balasar said. "We can't unmake them on

a whim."

"Yes, Dasin-cha. Contracts have been signed," one of the utkhaiem said.

"Is it Galt's intention that any contract can be invalidated if the

signer's daughter objects?"

"That isn't what happened," the councilman at Farrer's right hand said.

"We have our hands full enough without exaggerating."

And so it started off again, voices raised each over the other with the

effect that nothing but babble could be heard. Otah didn't add to the

clamor, but sat forward in his chair and watched. He considered the

architecturevaulted ceiling of blue and gold tiles, the sliding wooden

shutters. He found a scent in the air: sugared almonds. He struggled to

hear a sound beyond the table: the wind in the treetops. Then, slowly,

he pulled his awareness back to the people before him. It was an old

trick he'd learned during his days as a courier, a way of withdrawing

half a step from the place where he was and considering the ways that

people moved and held themselves, the expressions they wore when they

were silent and when they spoke. It often said more than the words. And

now, he saw three things.

First, he was not the only silent one at the table. Issandra Dasin was

rocked a degree back in her chair, her eyes fixed on the middle

distance. Her expression spoke of exhaustion and a barely hidden sorrow,

the complement to her husband's self-destructive pleasure. Danat was

also withdrawn, but with his body canted forward, as if he was trying to

hear every phrase that fluttered through the heavy air. He might as

easily drink a river.

Second, Otah saw that neither side was united. The Galts across from him

ran the gamut from defiant to conciliatory, the utkhaiem from outraged

to fearful. It was the same outside. The palaces, the teahouses, the

baths, the street corners-all of Saraykeht was filled with agreements

and negotiations that were suddenly, violently uncertain. He recalled

something his daughter had said once about the reopened wound being the

one most plagued by scars.

Third, and perhaps least interesting, it became clear that he was

wasting his time.

"Friends," Otah said. Then again, louder, "Friends!"

Slowly, the table grew quiet around him.

"The morning has been difficult," he said. "We should retire and reflect

on what has been said."

Whatever it was, he didn't add.

There was a rumble of assent, if not precisely agreement. Otah took a

pose of gratitude to each man and woman as they left, even to Fatter

Dasin, for whom he felt very little warmth. Otah dismissed the servants

as well, and soon only he and Danat remained. Without the pandemonium of

voices, the meeting room seemed larger and oddly forlorn.

"Well," his son said, leaning against the table. He was wearing the same

robe as he had at the botched ceremony the day before. The cloth itself

looked weary. "What do you make of it?"

Otah scratched idly at his arm and tried to focus his mind. His back

ached, and there was an uneasy, bright feeling in his gut that presaged

a sleepless and uncomfortable night. He sighed.

"Primarily, I think I'm an idiot," Otah said. "I should have written to

the daughters. I forget how different their world is. Your world, too."

Danat took a pose that asked elaboration. Otah rose, stretching. His

back didn't improve.

"Political marriage isn't a new thing," Otah said. "We've always

suffered it. They've always suffered it. But, once the rules changed, it

stopped meaning so much, didn't it? As long as Ana-cha has been alive,

she hasn't seen political marriages take place. If Radaani married his

son to Saya's daughter, they wouldn't be joining bloodlines. No

children, no lasting connection between the houses. Likewise in Galt. I

doubt it's stopped the practice entirely, but it's changed things. I

should have thought of it."

"And she could take lovers," Danat said.

"People took lovers before," Otah said.

"Not without fear," Danat said. "There's no chance of a child. It

changes how willing a girl would be."

"And how exactly do you know that?" Otah asked.

Danat blushed. Otah walked to the window. Below, the gardens were in

motion. Wind shifted the boughs of the trees and set the flowers

nodding. The scent of impending rain cooled the air. There would be a

storm by nightfall.

"Papa-kya?" Danat said.

Otah looked over his shoulder. Danat was sitting on the table, his feet

on the seat of a cushioned chair. It was the pose of a casual boy in a

cheap teahouse. Danat's face, however, was troubled.

"Don't bother it," Otah said. "It might be a new world for sex, but

there was an old world for it too. And I'm sure there are any number of

other men who've made the same discoveries you have."

"That wasn't the matter. It's the wedding. I don't think I can ... I

don't think I can do it. When it was just thinking of it, I hadn't seen

what it would be to be married to someone who hated me. I have now."

His voice was thick with distress. A gust of stronger wind came,

rattling the shutters in their frames. Otah slid the wood closed, and

the meeting room dimmed, gold tiles turning bronze, blue tiles black.

"It will be fine," Otah said. "At worst, there are other councillors

with other daughters. It won't be a pleasant transition, but-"

"A different girl won't fix this. At best we'd find a girl less willing