Otah chuckled.
"You seem ... don't mind my prying at you, but for a man pulled from
certain death, you don't seem to be as happy as I'd expected," Sinja
said. "Something weighing on you?"
"Have you even been to Yalakeht?"
"No, too far east for me."
"They have tall gates on the mouths of their side streets that they
close and lock every night. And there's a tower in the harbor with a
permanent fire that guides ships in the darkness. In Chaburi-Tan, the
street children play a game I've never seen anywhere else. They get just
within shouting distance, strung out all through the streets, and then
one will start singing, and the next will call the song on to the next
after him, until it loops around to the first singer with all the
mistakes and misunderstandings that make it something new. They can go
on for hours. I stayed in a low town halfway between Lachi and
Shosheyn-Tan where they served a stew of smoked sausage and pepper rice
that was the best meal I've ever had. And the eastern islands.
"I was a fisherman out there for a few years. A very bad one, but ...
but I spent my time out on the water, listening to the waves against my
little boat. I saw the way the water changed color with the day and the
weather. The salt cracked my palms, and the woman I was with made me
sleep with greased cloth on my hands. I think I'll miss that the most."
"Cracked palms?"
"The sea. I think that will be the worst of it."
Sinja shifted. The rain intensified and then slackened as suddenly as it
had come. The trees stood straighter. The pools of water danced less.
"The sea hasn't gone anywhere," Sinja said.
"No, but I have. I've gone to the mountains. And I don't expect I'll
ever leave them again. I knew it was the danger when I became a courier.
I was warned. But I hadn't understood it until now. It's the problem in
seeing too much of the world. In loving too much of it. You can only
live in one place at a time. And eventually, you pick your spot, and the
memories of all the others just become ghosts."
Sinja nodded, taking a pose that expressed his understanding. Otah
smiled, and wondered what memories the commander carried with him. From
the distance in his eyes, it couldn't all have been blood and terror.
Something of it must have been worth keeping.
"You've decided, then," Sinja said. "Amiit-cha was thinking he'd need to
speak with you about the issue soon. Things will be moving in Mach] as
soon as the mourning's done."
"I know. And yes, I've decided."
"Would you mind if I asked why you chose to stay?"
Otah turned and let himself down into the room. He took two howls from
the cabinet and poured the deep red wine into both before he answered.
Sinja took the one he was offered and drank half at a swig. Utah sat on
the table, his feet on the scat of the bench and swirled the red of the
wine against the bone white of the bowl.
"Someone killed my father and nay brothers."
"You didn't know them," Sinja said. "Don't tell me this is love."