wouldn't leave her be or that armsmen were needed to hold the utkhaiem
and councilmen at bay. She was not her brother. She picked a simple robe
of dusty red and rich blue and fastened all the ties herself. Then
sandals and a few minutes before a mirror with a brush and a length of
stout ribbon to bring her hair into something like order.
No one had assigned her the daily task of carrying breakfast to the
Emperor. It was one she'd simply taken on. After two weeks of arriving
at the kitchens to collect the tray with its plates and bowl and teapot,
the servant who had been the official bearer simply stopped coming.
She'd usurped the work.
That morning, they'd prepared honey bread and raisins, hot rice in
almond milk, and a slab of roast pork with a pepper glaze. Idaan knew
from experience that she would end with the pork and the honey bread.
The rice, he might eat.
The path to the Emperor's apartments was well-designed. The balance
between keeping the noises and interruptions away-not to mention the
constant possibility of fire-and getting the food to him still warm
meant a long, straight journey almost free from the meanderings to which
the palaces were prone. Archways of stone marked the galleries.
Tapestries of lush red and gold hung on the walls. The splendor had long
since ceased to take her breath away. She had lived in palaces and mud
huts and everything in between. The only thing that astounded her with
any regularity was that so late in her life, she had found her family.
Cehmai alone had been miraculous. The last decade serving in court had
been something greater than that. She had become an aunt to Danat and
Eiah and Ana, a sister to Otah Machi. Even now, her days had the feel of
relaxing in a warm bath. It wasn't something she'd expected. For that,
it wasn't something she'd thought possible. The nightmares almost never
came now; never more than once or twice in a month. She was ready to
grow old here, in these halls and passageways, with these people. If
anyone had the poor judgment to threaten her people, Idaan knew she
would kill the idiot. She hoped the occasion wouldn't arise.
She knew something was wrong as soon as she passed through the arch that
led to Otah's private garden. Four servants stood in a clot at the side
door, their faces pale, their hands in constant motion. With a feeling
of dread, she put the lacquer tray on a bench and came forward. The
oldest of the servants was weeping, his face blotchy and his eyes
swollen. Idaan looked at the man, her expression empty. Whatever
strength remained in him left, and he folded to the ground sobbing.
"Have you sent for his children?" Idaan asked.
"I ... we only just ..."
Idaan raised her eyebrows, and the remaining servants scattered. She
stepped over the weeping man and made her way into the private rooms.
All together, they were smaller than Idaan's old farmhouse. It didn't
take long to find him.
Otah sat in a chair as if he were only sleeping. The window before him
was open, the shutters swaying slow and languorous in the breeze. The
motion reminded her of seaweed. His robe was yellow shot with black. His
eyes were barely open and as empty as marbles. Idaan made herself touch