Daniel Abraham - THE

much Otah and Issandra plotted, there was a way in which their

generation would die as enemies.

But what he did now, as little as Otah liked it personally, was intended

for people as yet unborn, unconceived. It was a long game he was

playing, and it got longer, it seemed, the less time he had to live.

Farrer coughed, sucked his teeth, and leaned forward.

"Forgive me, Most High," he said, formality returning to his diction.

"What is the conversation we're having?"

"I would appoint you or your agent to oversee Chaburi-Tan's seafront,"

Otah said. "It would, I think, demonstrate that my commitment to joining

our nations isn't only that you should send us your daughters."

"And have the council believe that I'm not only controlled by my wife

and child, but also the tool of the Emperor, bought and paid for?" His

tone was more amused than aggressive.

Otah pulled a small book from his sleeve and held it out.

"The accounting of the Chaburi-Tan seafront," Otah said. "We are an

empire of fallen cities, Farrer-cha. But we were very high before, and

falling for years hasn't yet brought us down to be even with most of the

world."

The Galt clamped his pipe between his teeth and accepted the proffered

book. Otah waited as he flipped through the thin pages. He saw Farrer's

eyebrows rise when he reached the quarter's sums, and then again at the

half-year's.

"You would want something from me," Farrer said.

"You have already lent me your boats," Otah said. "Your sailors. Let the

others on the council see what effect that has."

"You can afford to give away this much gold to make them jealous?"

"I know that Ana-cha has objected to marrying Danat. I hope there may

yet be some shift of her position. Then I would be giving the gold to my

grandson's grandfather," Otah said.

"And if she doesn't?" Farrer asked, scowling. His eyes had narrowed like

a seafront merchant distrustful of too good a bargain.

"If she doesn't, then I've made a poor wager," Otah said. "We are

gamblers, Farrer-cha, just by getting up from bed in the morning."

Farrer Dasin didn't answer except to relax his gaze, laugh, and tuck the

book into his belt. Otah took a pose that ended a meeting. It had a

positive nuance that Dasin was unlikely to notice, but Otah didn't mind.

It was as much for himself as the Galt.

The walk back to the palaces seemed shorter, less haunted by nostalgia.

He returned to his rooms, allowed himself to be changed into formal

robes, and began the long, slow work of another day. The court was its

customary buzz of rituals and requirements. The constant speculation on

the Galtic treaty's fate made every other facet of the economic and

political life of the Empire swing like a ship's mast in high seas. Otah

did what he could to pour oil on the waters. For the most part, he

succeeded.

Before the early sunset of middle autumn, Otah had seen the heads of

both Galtic and Khaiate stone masons disputing a contract upon which the

Galtic Council had already ruled. He had taken audiences with two other

members of the High Council and three of the highest families of the

utkhaiem. And, in the brightest moment of his day, a visibly unnerved

representative of Obar State had arrived with gifts and assurances of

the good relations between his small nation and the cities of the Khaiem.

No courier came from Idaan or Eiah. Likely his sister was still on the

roads between Saraykeht and Pathai. There was no reason to expect word

back so soon, and yet every time a servant entered his chambers with a

folded paper, his belly went tight until he broke the seal.

The night began with a banquet held in the honor of Balasar Glee and the

preparation of what the Galtic Council called the second fleet and the

utkhaiem, dismissively and in private, the other ships. The great hall

fluttered with fine robes and silk banners. Musicians and singing slaves

hidden behind screens filled the air with soft music of Galtic

composition. Lanterns of colored glass gave the light a feeling of

belonging to some other, gentler world. Otah sat on his high dais,

Balasar at his side. He caught a glimpse of Danat dressed in formal

robes of black and gold, sitting among his peers of the high utkhaiem.

The group included Shija Radaani. Though Farrer and Issandra Dasin were

among the Galts present, Otah did not see Ana. He tried not to find her

absence unnerving.

The food and drink had been prepared by the best cooks Otah could find:

classic Galtic dishes made if not light at least less heavy; foods

designed to represent each of the cities of the Khaiem; all of it served

with bowls of the best wines the world could offer.

Peace, Otah meant the celebration to say. As we send our armsmen and

sailors away to fight and die together, let there be peace between us.

If there cannot be peace in the world, at least let it be welcome here.

It pleased him to see the youth of both countries sitting together and

talking, even as it disturbed him that so many places set aside for the

utkhaiem remained empty.

He did not notice that Issandra had taken her leave until the note

arrived. The servant was very young, having seen no more than sixteen

summers, and he approached Balasar with a small message box of worked

gold. Balasar plucked the folded paper from it, read the message, then

nodded and waved the boy away. The musicians nearest them shifted to a

light, contemplative song. Balasar leaned toward Otah, as if to whisper

some comment upon the music.

"This is for you," the general murmured.

General Gice, please pass this to the Emperor with all haste

discretion allows. I would prefer that it not be immediately

obvious that I am communicating with him, but time may be short.

Emperor. Please forgive my note, but I believe something is

going to happen in the moon garden of the thirdpalace at the

beginning of the entertainments that you would be pleased to

see. Consider claiming a moment's necessity and joining me.

It was signed with Issandra Dasin's chop.

Balasar was considering him silently. Otah slipped the paper into his

sleeve. It was less than half a hand before the acrobats and dancers,

trained dogs and fire-eaters were to take to the floor. It wasn't much time.

"I don't like this," Otah said, leaning toward Balasar so that no one

could overhear.

"You think it's a plot to assassinate you," Balasar said.

"Might it be?"

Balasar smiled out into the hall, his eyes flickering as if looking for

concealed archers.

"She sent the message through me. That provides a witness. It isn't the

sort of thing I would do if I intended to kill you," Balasar said.

"Still, if you go, take a guard."

Otah felt the weight of the note in his sleeve, feather-light and yet

enough to command all his attention. He had almost decided to ignore it

when, as the trumpets blared the first of the entertainments to the

floor, he noticed that Danat had also gone. He slipped down from the

back of the dais, chose two of the guards that he recognized, and made

his way out to the third palace.

The moon garden had been built as a theater; great half-circles of

carved stone set into a slope were covered with moss and snow ivy. At

the deepest recess, three old wooden doors led to hallways where players

or musicians could crouch, awaiting their entrance. The gardens were

dark when he arrived, not even a lantern glowing to mark the paths.