"No, Vanjit-kya," Maati said warmly. "No. It was planned before anything
happened between you and Ashti-cha. It's only ... we need time. Eiah
needs time away from her binding to clear her mind. And we need to be
sure that the Emperor and his son can't make a half-Galtic heir before
we've done what needs doing. So we're asking help. Eiah is the daughter
of the Empire. Her word carries weight. If she tells a few people
well-placed in the utkhaiem what we've done and what we intend to do,
they can use their influence to stop the Galts. And then ..."
He gestured to Vanjit, to the school, to the wide plain of possibilities
that lay before them, if only they could gain the time. The andat cooed
and threw its own arms wide, in joy or possibly mockery.
"Why is he doing it?" Vanjit asked. "Why would he trade with those
people? Is he so in love with Galt?"
Maati took a long breath, letting the question turn itself in his mind.
It was the habit of years to lay any number of sins at Otah's feet. But,
reluctantly, not this.
"No," Maati said. "Otah-kvo isn't evil. Petty, perhaps. Misguided,
certainly. He sees that the Galts are strong, and we need strength. He
sees that their women can bear babes with our men, and he believes it's
the only hope of a new generation. He doesn't understand that what we've
broken, we can also repair."
"Given time," Vanjit said.
"Yes," Maati said with a sigh. "Given time to rebuild. Remake."
For a moment, he was in the cold warehouse in Machi, the andat Sterile
looking at him with her terrible, beautiful smile.
"It takes so long to build the world," he said softly, "and so very
little to break it. I still remember what it felt like. Between one
breath and the next, Vanjit-kya. I ruined the world in less than a
heartbeat."
Vanjit blinked, as if surprised, and then a half-smile plucked her lips.
Clarity-of-Sight quieted, looking at her as if she'd spoken. The andat
was as still as stone; even the pretense of breath had gone.
Maati felt unease stir in his belly.
"Vanjit? Are you well?" and when she didn't reply, "Fanjit?"
She started, as if she'd forgotten where she was and that he was there.
He caught her gaze, and she smiled.
"Fine. Yes, I'm fine," she said. There was a strange tone in her voice.
Something low and languid and relaxed. It reminded Maati of the
aftermath of sex. He took a pose that asked whether he had failed to
understand something.
"No, nothing," Vanjit said; and then not quite in answer to his
question, "Nothing's wrong."
15
Shortly after midday, Otah walked along the winding path that led from
the palaces themselves to the building that had once been the poet's
house. Since the first time he had come this way, little more than a
boy, many things had changed. The pathway itself was the white of
crushed marble with borders of oiled wood. The bridge that rose over the
pond had blackened with time; the grain of the wood seemed coarser. One