as Otah could remember. The Galtic High Council had schemed and
conspired. It shouldn't have been odd that, emboldened by success, they
would take to the field. And yet ...
Otah turned the pages with a sound as dry as autumn leaves. They
couldn't be attacking the Khaiem; even with an andat in their
possession, they would he overwhelmed. The cities might have their
rivalries and disputes, but an attack on one would unite them against
their common foe. "Thirteen cities each with its own poet added to
whatever the Dai-kvo held in reserve in his village. At worst, more than
a dozen to one, and each of them capable of destruction on a scale
almost impossible to imagine. The Galts wouldn't dare attack the Khaiem.
It was posturing. Negotiation. It might even be a bluff; the poet might
have tried his binding, paid the price of failure, and left the Galts
with nothing but bluster to defend themselves.
Otah had heard all these arguments, had made more than one of them
himself. And still night found him here, reading the letters and
searching for the thoughts behind them. It was like hearing a new voice
in a choir. Somewhere, someone new had entered the strategies of the
Gaits, and these scraps of paper and pale ink were all that Otah had to
work out what that might mean.
Ile could as well have looked for words written in the air.
A scratching came at the door, followed by a servant boy. The boy took a
pose of obeisance and Otah replied automatically.
"The woman you sent for, Most High. Liat Chokavi."
"Bring her in. And bring some wine and two bowls, then see we aren't
disturbed."
"But, Most High-"
"We'll pour our own wine," Otah snapped, and regretted it instantly as
the boy's face went pale. Otah pressed down the impulse to apologize. It
was beneath the dignity of the Khai Machi to apologize for rudeness-one
of the thousand things he'd learned when he first took his father's
chair. One of the thousand missteps he had made. The boy backed out of
the room, and Otah turned to the letters, folding them hack in their
order and slipping them into his sleeve. The boy preceded Liat into the
room, a tray with a silver carafe and two hand-molded bowls of granite
in his hands. Liat sat on the low divan, her eyes on the floor in
something that looked like respect but might only have been fear.
The door closed, and Otah poured a generous portion of wine into each
bowl. Liat took the one he proffered.
"It's lovely work," Liat said, considering the stone.
"It's the andat," Otah said. "He turns the quarry rock into something
like clay, and the potters shape it. One of the many wonders of Machi.
Have you seen the bridge that spans the river? A single stone poured
over molds and shaped by hand five generations hack. And there's the
towers. Really, we're a city of petty miracles."
"You sound hitter," she said, looking up at last. Her eyes were the same
tea-and-milk color he remembered. Otah sighed as he sat across from her.
Outside, the wind murmured.
"I'm not," he said. "Only tired."