and vanity is a powerful lever, no matter how sophisticated you take my
daughter to be."
"We may hope for the best," Otah said. "Perhaps Shija-cha will take
Danat's apology in stride and return to only acting the role."
Issandra's gaze told him exactly how likely she thought that was, but
she only shook her head.
"It would be pleasant," she said.
He ate alone that night, though there were scores of men, Galtic and
utkhaiem both, who would have been pleased to share his table. The
pavilion sat atop a high tower, the air smelling of lavender and the
sea. Otah sat on a cushion by a low table and watched the sunset; orange
and red and gold spread out upon a wide canvas of clouds and sky. There
were no singing slaves here, but soft chimes danced in the breeze with a
sound like bells made from wood. An iron brazier sat close to keep him
warm. The evening was beautiful and rich with sadness.
He had known that his daughter was angry with him. He had encouraged the
high families to import wives for their sons. They had come from Bakta,
Eymond, Eddensea. Women of middling birth commanded huge dowries. The
coffers of the utkhaiem had dropped, but a handful of children had been
born. A few dozen, perhaps, in every city. It hadn't been enough. And so
he'd conceived the plan to join with Galt, old enemies made one people.
Yes, it left behind a generation of Khaiate women. And Galtic men, for
that. No doubt they would feel angered, lost, discarded. It was a small
price to pay for a future.
The Comfort House Empire, she'd called it the last time they'd spoken.
And her father, her father, the Procurer King. She said it, and she spat.
Thinking of it stung.
A flock of gulls wheeled below him and to the south. Lemon rice and
river trout rested warm on his fingers and in his mouth. When he was
alone, he still ate like a laborer.
He wondered if he had been wrong. Perhaps in the approach he had taken,
trying to find women capable of bearing children for the cities. Perhaps
in speaking to Eiah about it in the terms he'd used. Perhaps in failing
to accept her criticism, in speaking harshly. Eiah had accused him of
turning his back on the women whom Sterile had wounded because they were
inconvenient. Eiah was one of those women, and the injury she'd suffered
was as deep as any of his own. Deeper.
It might, he supposed, have been enough to turn her against him. She had
always been close to Maati. She had spent long evenings at the library
of Machi, where Maati had made his home. She had known Nayiit, the man
that Otah had fathered and Maati had called son. In the many years that
he had struggled with being merely the Khai Machi, Eiah had made a
friend and an uncle of Maati Vaupathai. There was little reason to
believe that she would withhold her loyalty from Maati now.
The wheeling gulls landed, leaving the sky to itself. The fleet had long
passed the horizon, and Otah wished he had some magical glass that would
let him see it still. It was a short enough voyage to Chaburi-Tan.
Shorter if the pirates and raiders came out to confront them. He wished
Sinja had stayed behind. In the failing light, the gaudy sunset turning