Daniel Abraham - THE

little to break it. I still remember what it felt like. Between one

breath and the next, Vanjit-kya. I ruined the world in less than a

heartbeat."

Vanjit blinked, as if surprised, and then a half-smile plucked her lips.

Clarity-of-Sight quieted, looking at her as if she'd spoken. The andat

was as still as stone; even the pretense of breath had gone.

Maati felt unease stir in his belly.

"Vanjit? Are you well?" and when she didn't reply, "Fanjit?"

She started, as if she'd forgotten where she was and that he was there.

He caught her gaze, and she smiled.

"Fine. Yes, I'm fine," she said. There was a strange tone in her voice.

Something low and languid and relaxed. It reminded Maati of the

aftermath of sex. He took a pose that asked whether he had failed to

understand something.

"No, nothing," Vanjit said; and then not quite in answer to his

question, "Nothing's wrong."

15

Shortly after midday, Otah walked along the winding path that led from

the palaces themselves to the building that had once been the poet's

house. Since the first time he had come this way, little more than a

boy, many things had changed. The pathway itself was the white of

crushed marble with borders of oiled wood. The bridge that rose over the

pond had blackened with time; the grain of the wood seemed coarser. One

of the stands of trees which gave the poet's house its sense of

separation from the palaces had burned. White-oak seedlings had been

planted to replace them. The trees looked thin, awkward, and adolescent.

One day, decades ahead, they would tower over the path.

He paused at the top of the bridge's arch, looking down into the dark

water. Koi swam lazily under the surface, orange and white and gold

appearing from beneath lily pads and vanishing again. The man reflected

in the pond's surface looked old and tired. White hair, gray skin. Time

had thinned his shoulders and taken the roundness from his cheeks. Otah

put out his hand, and the reflection did as well, as if they were old

friends greeting each other.

When he reached the house itself, it seemed less changed than the

landscape. The lower floor still had walls that were hinged like

shutters which could be pulled back to open the place like a pavilion.

The polished wood seemed to glow softly in the autumn light. He could

almost imagine Maati sitting on the steps as he had been then. Sixteen

summers old, and wearing the brown robes of a poet like a mark of honor.

Or frog-mouthed Heshai, the poet whom Otah had killed to prevent the

slaughter of innocents. Or Seedless, Heshai's beautiful, unfathomable slave.

Instead, Farrer Dasin sat on a silk-upholstered couch, a book in one

hand, a pipe in the other. Otah approached the house casually as if they

were merchants or workers, men whose dignity was less of a burden. The

Galt closed his book as Otah reached the first stair up.

"Most High," he said in the Khaiate tongue.

"Farrer-cha," Otah replied.

"None of them are here. There's apparently a gathering at one of the

lesser palaces. I believe one of the high-prestige wives of your court

is showing her wealth in the guise of judging silks."

"It isn't uncommon. Especially if there is someone particularly worth

impressing," Otah said. "I am surprised that Ana-cha chose to attend."

"To be honest, so am I. But I am on the verge of despairing that I will

ever understand women."

It was hard to say whether the light, informal tone that the Galt

adopted was intended as an offering of peace or as an insult. Likely it

was both. The smoke rising from the pipe was thin and gray as fog, and

smelled of cherries and bark.

"I don't mean to intrude," Otah said.

"No," Farrer Dasin said, "I imagine you don't. I've sent the servant

away. You can take that seat there, if you like."

Otah, Emperor of the cities of the Khaiem, pulled a wood-backed chair to

face the Galt, sat in it, and leaned back.

"I was a bit surprised you wanted to speak with me," Farrer said. "I

thought we did all of our communication through my family."

A mosquito whined through the air as Otah considered this. Farrer Dasin

waited, his mild expression a challenge.

"We have met and spoken many times over the past year, Farrer-cha. I

don't believe I've ever turned you away. And as to your family, the

first time I had no other option," Otah said. "The council was poised to

refuse me, and there was a chance that your wives might be my allies.

The second time, it was Ana who came to me. I didn't seek her out."

Farrer looked at Otah, his green-gray eyes as enigmatic as the sea.

"What brings you, Most High?" Farrer asked.

"I had heard rumors the decision to lend me your ships had perhaps

weakened your position in the council. I had hoped I could offer some

assistance."

Farrer drew on his pipe, then gestured out at the pond, the palaces, the

world. When he spoke, the pipe smoke made the words seem solid and gray.

"I've failed. I know that. I was bullied into agreeing to this union

between our houses, but so were half of the councillors. They can't

think less of me for that, except for the few who genuinely backed your

plan. They never thought much of me. And then I let myself be wheedled

into helping you, so those whose love Ana won in her little speech think

I'm ruled by the whims of a girl who hasn't seen twenty summers. The

damning thing is, I can't say they're wrong."

"You love her," Otah said.

"I love her too much," Farrer said. His expression was grim. "It keeps

me from knowing my own mind."

Otah's thoughts flickered for a moment, roving west to Idaan and her

hunt. He brought himself back with a conscious effort.

"The city you're helping to protect is precious," Otah said. "The people

whose lives you save won't think less of you for hearing wisdom from

your daughter."

"Yes," Farrer said with a chuckle, "but they aren't on the council, are

they."

"No," Otah said. "I understand that you are invested in sugar? There are

cane fields east of Saraykeht, but most of what we have comes from

Bakta. Much better land for it there. If Chaburi-Tan failed, we would

feel the effect here and all through the Westlands."

Farrer grunted noncommittally.

"It's surprising how much Baktan trade flows through Chaburi-Tan. Not so

much as through Saraykeht, but still a great deal. The island is easier

to approach. And it's a good site for any trade in the south. Obar

State, Eymond. Far Galt, for that. Did you know that nearly all the ore

from Far Galt passes through the port at Chaburi-Tan?"

"Less since you've raised the taxes."

"I don't set those taxes," Otah said. "I appoint the port's

administration. Usually they agree to pay a certain amount for the

privilege and then try to make back what they've spent before their term

ends."

"And how long are their terms?"

"As long as the Emperor is pleased to have them in that place," Otah

said. "So long as I think they've done a good job with maintaining the

seafront and keeping the flow of ships through, they may hold power for

years. Or, if they've mismanaged things, perhaps even required a fleet

to come out and save the city, they might be replaced."

The frown on Farrer's face was the most pleasant thing Otah had seen all

morning. The truth of the matter was that Otah no more liked the Galt

than he was liked by him. Their nations were old enemies, and however