"You don't love them," Kiyan said.
"Ah, is that the difference?"
A plate of fresh apples stood on a copper table, a short, wicked knife
beside it. Otah sliced a bit of the white flesh and chewed thoughtfully.
"They'll still move their wealth away, you know," Kiyan said. "Blocking
the bridge won't stop a ferry crossing in the night with its lanterns
shuttered or wagons looping up north and crossing the water someplace in
the mountains."
"I know it. But if I can keep the thing down to a few ferries and
wagons, that will do. I'll also need to send messages to the Khaiem,"
Otah said. "Cetani and Amnat-Tan to start."
"Better they hear the had news from you," she agreed. "Should I call for
a scribe?"
"No. Just paper and a fresh ink brick. I'll do the thing myself."
"I'm sorry, Most High," Cehmai said again. "I don't know ... I don't
know how it happened. He was there, and then ... he just wasn't. 'T'here
wasn't even a struggle. He just ..."
"It doesn't matter," Otah said. "It's gone, and so it's gone. We'll move
forward from that."
"It does matter, though," the poet said, and his voice was a cry of
despair. Otah wondered what it would feel like, dedicating a life to one
singular thing and then in an instant, losing it. He himself had led a
half-dozen lives-laborer, fisherman, midwife's assistant, courier,
father, Khai-but Cehmai had never been anything besides a poet. Exalted
above all other men, honored, envied. And now, suddenly, he was only a
man in a brown robe. Otah put a hand to the man's shoulder, and saw a
moment's passing shame in Cehmai's expression. It was, perhaps, too
early still for comfort.
A scratch came at the door and a servant boy entered, took a formal
pose, and announced the poet Maati Vaupathai and Liat Chokavi. A moment
later, Maati rushed in, his cheeks an alarming red, his breath hard, his
belly heaving. Liat was no more than a step behind. He could see the
alarm in her expression. Kiyan stepped forward and helped Maati to a
seat. The two women met each other's gaze, and there was a moment's
tension before Otah stepped forward.
"Liat-cha," he said. "Thank you for coming."
"Of course," she said. "I came as soon as Maati asked me. Is something
wrong? Have we heard from the Dai-kvo?"
"No," Maati said between gasps. "Not that."
Otah took a questioning pose, and Maati shook his head.
"Didn't say. People around. Would have been heard," Maati said. 't'hen,
"Gods, I need to eat less. I'm too fat to run anymore."
Otah took Liat's elbow and guided her to a chair, then sat beside
Cehmai. Only Kiyan remained standing.
"Liat-cha, you worked with Amat Kyaan," Otah said. "You've taken over
the house she founded. She must have spoken with you about how those
first years were. After Heshai-kvo died and Seedless escaped."
"Of course," Liat said.
"I need you to tell us about that," Otah said. "I need to know what she