succession. He is returning to the city even now. I will consult with
him on your fate. Until then, you shall be confined in the highest room
in the great tower. I do not care to have your accomplices taking your
death in their own hands this time. Danat and I-the Khai Machi and the
Khai yet to come-shall decide together what kind of beast you are.
Otah took a pose of supplication. That he was on his knees only made the
gesture clearer. He was dead, whatever happened. He could see that now.
If there had been a chance of mercy-and likely there hadn't-having
father and son converse would remove it. But in the black dread, there
was this one chance to speak as himself-not as Itani Noygu or some other
mask. And if it offended the court, there was little worse they could do
to him than he faced now. His father hesitated, and Otah spoke.
"I have seen many of the cities of the Khaiem, most high. I have been
horn into the highest of families, and I have been offered the greatest
of honors. And if I am here to meet my death at the hands of those who
should by all rights love me, at least hear me out. Our cities are not
well, father. Our traditions are not well. You stand there on that dais
now because you killed your own. You are celebrating the return of
Danat, who killed his brother, and at the same time preparing to condemn
me on the suspicion that I did the same. A tradition that calls men to
kill their brothers and discard their sons cannot be-"
"Enough!" the Khai roared, and his voice carried. The whisperers were
silent and unneeded. "I have not carried this city on my back for all
these years to be lectured now by a rebel and a traitor and a poisoner.
You are not my son! You lost that right! You squandered it! Tell me that
this ..." The Khai raised his hands in a gesture that seemed to encom
pass every man and woman of the court, the palaces, the city, the
valley, the mountains, the world. ". . . this is evil? Because our
traditions are what hold all this from chaos. We are the Khaiem! We rule
with the power of the andat, and we do not accept instruction from
couriers and laborers who ... who killed ..."
The Khai closed his eyes and seemed to sway for a moment. The woman to
whom C'chmai had been speaking leapt up, her hand on the old man's
elbow. Otah could see them murmuring to each other, but he had no idea
what they were saying. The woman walked with him back to the chair and
helped him to sit. His face seemed sunken in pain. The woman was
crying-streaks of kohl black on her cheeks-but her bearing was more
regal and sure than their father's had been. She stepped forward and spoke.
"The Khai is weary," she said, as if daring anyone present to say
anything else. "He has given his command. The audience is finished!"
The voices rose almost as high and ran almost as loud as they had at
anything that had gone before. A woman-even if she was his
daughter-taking the initiative to speak for the Khai? The court would be
scandalized. Otah already imagined them placing bets as to whether the
man would live the night, and if he died now, whether it would he this
woman's fault for shaming him so deeply when he was already weak. And
Otah could see that she knew this. The contempt in her expression was
eloquent as any oratory. He caught her eye and took a pose of approval.
She looked at him as if he were a stranger who had spoken her name, then