Daniel Abraham - THE

by sight might have mistaken him for a member of the utkhaiem, or even a

particularly powerful servant. He made a game of walking with his head

down, trying to pass as a functionary in his own house.

The halls of the palaces were immense and ornate. Many small

items-statues, paintings, jeweled decoration-had vanished during the

brief occupation by Galt, but the huge copper-sheathed columns and the

high, clear glass of the unshuttered windows spoke of greater days. The

wood floors shone with lacquer even where they were scraped and pitted.

Incense burned in unobtrusive brass bowls, filling the air with the

scent of sandalwood and desert sage. Even this late at night, singing

slaves carried their harmonies in empty chambers. Crickets, Otah

thought, would have been as beautiful.

His back had begun to relax and his feet to complain when the illusion

of traveling the palaces unnoticed was broken. A servant in a gold robe

appeared at the far end of the hall, walking purposefully toward him.

Otah stopped. The man took a pose of obeisance and apology as he drew near.

"Most High, I am sorry to interrupt. Ana Dasin has come to request an

audience. I would have turned her away, but under the circumstances ..."

"You did well," he said. "Take her to the autumn garden."

The servant took a pose that accepted the command, but then hesitated.

"Should I send for an outer robe, Most High?"

Otah looked down at the wrinkled fabric and wondered what Ana would see

if he met her like this: a man of great power and consequence at the end

of a long day's work, or an old slob in a cotton robe.

"Yes," he said with a sigh. "An outer robe would be welcome. And tea.

Bring us fresh tea. She might not care for it, but I want some."

The man scurried away. They had known where he was, and that he didn't

wish to be disturbed. And they had known when to disturb him. To be the

Emperor of the Khaiem was above all else to be known by people he did

not know. He had discovered that truth a thousand times before, and

likely would do so a thousand times again, and each one discomforted him.

The autumn garden was nestled within the palaces. Trees and vines hid

the stone walls, and paper lanterns gave the flagstone path a soft

light. Near the center, a small brass fountain, long given to verdigris,

chuckled to itself and a small wooden pavilion rested in the darkness.

Otah walked down the path, still tugging the black and silver outer robe

into place. Ana Dasin sat in the pavilion, her gaze on the water

sluicing over bronze. The tea, set on a lacquered tray, had preceded him

as if the servants had anticipated that he would ask for it as well and

had had it ready.

Otah gathered himself. He was almost certain that Danat had already had

his second meeting with the girl. Hanchat Dor, Danat's rival, was set to

be freed in the morning. Otah found himself curious to see who Ana Dasin

was in these circumstances.

"Ana," he said in her language. "I had not expected your company."

The girl stood. The soft light made her face rounder than it was, her

eyes darker. She was wearing a dress of Galtic cut with pearls

embroidered down the sleeves. Her hair, which had been pulled back into

a severe formality, was escaping. Locks hung at the side of her face

like silken banners draped from towers' windows.

"Emperor Machi. I have to thank you for seeing me so late," she said.

Her voice was hard, but not accusatory. Otah caught the faint scent of

distilled wine. The girl was fortified with drink, but not yet dulled by it.

"I am an old man," Otah said as he poured pale tea into two porcelain

bowls. "I need less sleep than I once did. Here, take one."

His little act of kindness seemed to make her stiffer and less pleased,

but she accepted the bowl. Otah sat, blowing across the tea's steaming

surface.

"I've come ..."

He waited.

"I've come to apologize," she said. She spoke the words as if she were

vomiting.

Otah sipped his tea. It was perfectly brewed, the leaves infusing the

water with a taste like summer sun and cut grass. It made the moment

even more pleasant, and he wondered if he was being unkind by taking

pleasure in Ana's predicament.

"May I ask what precisely you wish to apologize for," Otah said. "I

would hate to have any further misunderstandings between us."

Ana sat, putting the bowl on the bench at her side. The porcelain

clicked against the stone.

"I presented myself poorly," she said. "I ... set out to humiliate you

and Danat. That was uncalled for. I could have made my feelings known in

private."

"I see," Otah said. "And is that all?"

"I would like to thank you for the mercy you've shown to Hanchat."

"It's Danat you should thank for that," Otah said. "I only respected his

wishes."

"Not every parent respects her child," Ana said, then looked away, lips

pressed thin. Her child, meaning Issandra. Ana was right. The mother was

indeed scheming against her own daughter, and Otah had made himself a

party to the plot. He would not have done it to his own child. He took

another sip of his tea. It wasn't quite as pleasant as the first.

The fountain muttered to itself, the wind sighed. Here was the moment

that chance had given him, and he wasn't sure how to use it. Ana, on

whom all his plans rested, had come to him. There was something here,

some word or phrase, some thought, that would narrow the distance

between them. And in the space of a few more breaths, she would have

collected herself again and gone.

"I should apologize to you as well," Otah said. "I forget sometimes that

my view on the world isn't the only one. Or even the only correct one. I

doubt you would have been driven to humiliate me if I hadn't done the

same to you."

Her gaze shifted back to him. Whatever she had expected of him, it

hadn't been this.

"I went to the wives of the councillors. There was very little time, and

I thought they would have greater sway than the children. Perhaps they

did. But I traded you as a trinket and didn't even think to ask you your

thoughts and feelings. That should have been beneath me."

"I'm a woman," Ana said, her tone managing to be both dismissive and a

challenge. I'm a woman, and we've always been traded, married off

shifted as the tokens of power and alliance. Otah smiled, surprised to

find himself possessed by genuine sorrow.

"Yes," he said. "You are. And with my sister, my wife, my daughter ...

of all the men in the world, I should have known what that meant, and I

forgot. I was in such a hurry to fix all the things I've done poorly

that I did this poorly too."

She was frowning at him again as she had once before, on the journey to

Saraykeht. He might have begun speaking in the language of birds or

belching stones, to judge by her expression. He chuckled.

"It was not my intention to treat you with disrespect, Ana-cha. That I

did so shames me. I accept your apology, and I hope that you will accept

mine.

"I won't marry him," she said.

Otah drank the rest of his tea and set the empty bowl mouth-down on the

lacquer tray.

"My son, you mean," Otah said. "You'll stay with this other man.

Hanchat? No matter what the price or who's called on to pay it, no man

deserves even your consideration? If it destroys your country and mine

both, it would still be just."

"I ... I don't ..." the girl said. "That isn't. .

"I know. I understand. I'll say this. Danat is a good man. Better than I