laughing.
The chief scribe was so dead asleep that Otah had to shake the woman
twice. When consciousness did come into her eyes, her face went pale.
She took a pose of apology that Otah waved away.
"How many of your best calligraphers can work in Galtic?"
"All of them, Most High," the chief scribe said. "It's why I brought them."
"How many? How many can we put to work now, tonight?"
"Ten?" she said as if it were a question.
"Wake them. Get them to their desks. Then I'll need a translator in my
apartments. Or two. Best get two. An etiquette master and a trade
specialist. Now. Go, now! This won't wait for morning."
On the way back to his rooms, his heart was tripping over, but his mind
was clearing, the alcohol burning off in the heat of his plan. Balasar
was seated where Otah had left him, an expression of bleary concern on
his face.
"Is all well?"
"All's excellent," Otah said. "No, don't go. Stay here, Balasar-cha. I
have a letter to write, and I need you."
"What's happened?"
"I can't convince the men on the council. You've said as much. And if I
can't talk to the men who wield the power, I'll talk to the women who
wield the men. Tell me there's a councilman's wife out there who doesn't
want grandchildren. I defy you to."
"I don't understand," Balasar said.
"I need a list of the names of all the councilmen's wives. And the men
of the convocation. Theirs too. Perhaps their daughters if ... Well,
those can wait. I'm going to draft an appeal to the women of Galt. If
anyone can sway the vote, it's them."
"And you think that would work?" Balasar asked, incredulity in his
expression.
In the event, Otah's letter seemed for two full days to have no effect.
The letters went out, each sewn with silk thread and stamped with Otah's
imperial seal, and no word came back. He attended the ceremonies and
meals, the entertainments and committee meetings, his eyes straining for
some hint of change like a snow fox waiting for the thaw. It was only on
the morning of the third day, just as he was preparing to send a fresh
wave of appeals to the daughters of the families of power, that his
visitor was announced.
She was perhaps ten years younger than Otah, with hair the gray of dry
slate pulled back from an intimidating, well-painted face. The reddening
at her eyelids seemed more likely to be a constant feature than a sign
of recent weeping. Otah rose from the garden bench and took a pose of
welcome simple enough for anyone with even rudimentary training to
recognize. His guest replied appropriately and waited for him to invite
her to sit in the chair across from him.
"We haven't met," the woman said in her native language. "Not formally."
"But I know your husband," Otah said. He had met with all the members of
the High Council many times. Farrer Dasin was among the
longest-standing, though not by any means the most powerful. His wife