said. "And more to the point, you aren't your father."
For a moment, he was consumed by memories: the father he had met only
once, the sister who had engineered the old man's murder. Hatred and
violence and ambition had destroyed his family once. He supposed it was
inevitable that he should fear it happening again. Otah raised Kiyan's
hand to his lips, and then sighed.
"I have to go to Danat. I haven't seen him yet. Go with me?"
"He's asleep already, love. We stopped in on our way here. He won't wake
before morning. And you'll have to find different stories to read to him
next time. Everything you left there, he's read to himself. Our boy's
going to grow up a scholar at this rate."
Otah nodded, pushing aside a moment's guilt over the relief he felt.
Seeing Danat was one less thing, even if it was more important than most
of the others he'd already done. And there would be tomorrow. 't'here
would at least be tomorrow.
"How is he?"
"His color is better, but he has less energy. The fever is gone for now,
but he still coughs. I don't know. No one does."
"Can he travel?"
Kiyan turned. Her gaze darted across his face as if he were a book that
she was trying to read. Her hands took a querying pose.
"I've been thinking," Otah said. "Planning."
"For if you're killed," Kiyan said. Her voice made it plain she'd been
thinking of it as well.
""I'he mines. If I don't come hack, I want you to take to the mines in
the North. Cehmai will go with you, and he knows them better than
anyone. If you can, take the children and as much gold as you can carry
and head west. Sinja and the others will he there somewhere, working
whatever contract they've taken. "They'll protect you."
"You're sending me to him?" Kiyan asked softly.
"Only if I don't come hack."
"You will."
"Still," Otah said. "If. . ."
"If," Kiyan agreed and took his hand. "Then, a long moment later, "We
were never lovers, he and I. Not the way ..."
Otah put a finger to her lips, and she went quiet. There were tears in
her eyes, and in his.
"Let's not open that again," he said.
"You could come away too. We could all leave quietly. The four of us and
a fast cart."
"And spend our lives on a beach in Bakta," Otah said. "I can't. I have
this thing to do. My city."
"I know. But I had to say it, just so I know it was said."
Otah looked down. His hands looked old-the knuckles knobbier than he
thought of them, the skin looser. They weren't an old man's hands, but
they weren't a young man's any longer. When he spoke, his voice was low
and thoughtful.
"It's strange, you know. I've spent years chafing under the weight of
being Khai Mach], and now that it's harder than it ever was, now that