or priests. Another night, he might have, if only in hope that this time
it would be different; that the company would do something more than
remind him how little comfort it provided. Instead, he went to the
ornate writing desk and took what solace he could.
Kiyan-kya-
I have done what I said I would do. I have come to our old
enemies, I have pled my case and pled and pled and pled, and
now I suppose I'll plead some more. The full council is set
to make their vote in a week's time. I know I shouldgo out
anddo more, but I swear that I've spoken to everyone in this
city twice over, and tonight, I'd rather be herewith you. I
miss you.
They tell we that all widowers suffer this sense q f being
halved, and they tell me it fades. It hasn't faded. I
suspect age changes the nature of time. Four years may be an
epoch for young men, to me it's hardly the space between one
breath and the next. I want you to be here to tell me your
thoughts on the matter. I want you here. I want you back.
I've had word from Danat and Sinja. They seem to be running
the cities effectively enough in my absence, but apart from
our essentialproblem, there are a thousand other threats.
Pirates have raided Chaburi-Tan, and there are stories of
armed companies from Eddensea and the Westlands exacting
tolls on the roads outside the winter cities. The trading
houses are bleeding money badly; no one indentures
themselves as an apprentice anymore. Artisans are having to
pay for workers. Even seafront laborers are commanding wages
higher than anything I made as a courier. The high families
of the utkhaiem are watching their coffers drain like a
holed bladder. It makes them restless. I have had two
separate petitions to allow forced indenture for what they
call "critical labor. " I haven't given an answer. When Igo
home, I suppose I'll have to.
Otah paused, the tip of his pen touching the brick of ink. Something
with wide, pale wings the size of his hands and eyes as black and wet as
river stones hovered at the window and then vanished. A soft breeze
rattled the open shutters. He pulled back the sleeve of his robe, but
before the bronze tip touched the paper, a soft knock came at his door.
"Most High," the servant boy said, his hands in a pose of obeisance.
"Balasar-cha requests an audience."
Otah smiled and took a pose that granted the request and implied that
the guest should be brought to him here, the nuance only slightly
hampered by the pen still in his hand. As the servant scampered out,
Otah straightened his sleeves and stuck the pen nib-first into the ink
brick.
Once, Balasar Gice had led armies against the Khaiem, and only raw
chance had kept him from success. Instead of leading Galt to its
greatest hour, he had precipitated its slow ruin. That the Khaiem shared
that fate took away little of the sting. The general had spent years