doesn't see what it is out here. He doesn't see the pain and the ache
and the suffering. So don't you tell we what to do. Every girl I've
lost, it's his fault. Every time we try and fall short, it's because
we're sneaking around in warehouses and low towns. Meeting in secret
like criminals-"
"Maati-kya-"
"I can do this," the old poet continued, a fleck of white foam at the
corner of his mouth. "I have to. I have to retrieve my error. I have to
fix what I broke. I know I'm hated. I know what the world's become
because of me. But these girls are dedicated and smart and willing to
die if that's what's called for. Willing to die. How can you and your
great and glorious father tell me that I'm wrong to try?"
"I didn't say you shouldn't try," Eiah said. "I said you can't do it.
Not alone."
Maati's mouth worked for a moment. His fingertip traced an arc down to
the fire grate as the anger left him. Confusion washed through his
expression, his shoulders sagging and his chest sinking in. He reminded
Eiah of a puppet with its strings fouled. She rose and took his hand as
she had the dead woman's.
"I haven't come here on my father's business," Eiah said. "I've come to
help."
"Oh," Maati said. A tentative smile found its way to his lips. "Well. I
... that is ..."
He frowned viciously and wiped at his eyes with one hand. Eiah stepped
forward and put her arms around him. His clothes smelled rank and
unwashed; his flesh was soft, his skin papery. When he returned her
embrace, she would not have traded the moment for anything.
1
It was the fifth month of the Emperor's self-imposed exile. The day had
been filled, as always, with meetings and conversations and
appreciations of artistic tableaux. Otah had retired early, claiming a
headache rather than face another banquet of heavy, overspiced Galtic food.
The night birds in the garden below his window sang unfamiliar songs.
The perfume of the wide, pale flowers was equal parts sweetness and
pepper. The rooms of his suite were hung with heavy Galtic tapestries,
knotwork soldiers slaughtering one another in memory of some battle of
which Otah had never heard.
It was, coincidentally, the sixty-third anniversary of his birth. He
hadn't chosen to make it known; the High Council might have staged some
further celebration, and he had had a bellyful of celebrations. In that
day, he had been called upon to admire a gold- and jewel-encrusted
clockwork whose religious significance was obscure to him; he had moved
in slow procession down the narrow streets and through the grand halls
with their awkward, blocky architecture and their strange, smoky
incense; he had spoken to two members of the High Council to no
observable effect. At this moment, he could be sitting with them again,
making the same points, suffering the same deflections. Instead, he
watched the thin clouds pass across the crescent moon.
He had become accustomed to feeling alone. It was true that with a word