considering."
Otah scratched his leg.
"Farrer-cha," he said. "Danat's new father. He has experience with sea
fighting. I think he hates all of us together and individually for
Anacha's upcoming marriage, but he would still be the man to approach."
Danat took a long drink of water and grinned. It made him look younger.
"After the ceremony's done with," Sinja said. "We'll get the man drunk
and happy and see if we can't make him sign something binding before he
sobers up."
"If it were only so simple," Otah said. "With the High Council and the
Low Council and the Conclave, every step they take is like putting cats
in a straight line. Watching it in action, it's amazing they ever put
together a war."
"You should talk to Balasar," Sinja said.
"I will," Otah replied.
They moved on to other topics. Some were more difficult: weavers and
stonemasons on the coasts had started offering money to apprentices, so
the nearby farms were losing hands; the taxes from Amnat-Tan had been
lower than expected; the raids in the northern passes were getting
worse. Others were innocuous: court fashions had shifted toward robes
with a more Galtic drape; the shipping traffic on the rivers was faster
now that they'd figured out how to harness boilers to do the rowing; and
finally, Eiah had sent word that she was busy assisting a physician in
Pathai and would not attend her brother's wedding.
Otah paused over this letter, rereading his daughter's neat, clear hand.
The words were all simple, the grammar formal and appropriate. She made
no accusations, leveled no arguments against him. It might have been
better if she had. Anger was, at least, not distance.
He considered the implications of her absence. On one hand, it could
hardly go unnoticed that the imperial family was not all in attendance.
On the other, Eiah had broken with him years ago, when his present plan
had still been only a rough sketch. If she was there, it might have
served only to remind the women of the cities that they had in a sense
been discarded. The next generation would have no Khaiate mothers, and
the solace that neither would they have Galtic fathers would be cold
comfort at best. He folded his daughter's letter and tucked it into his
sleeve, his heart heavy with the thought that not having her near was
likely for the best.
After, Otah retired to his rooms, sent his servants away, and lay on his
bed, watching the pale netting shift in a barely felt breeze. It was
strange being home, hearing his own language in the streets, smelling
the air he'd breathed as a youth.
Ana and her parents would be settled in by now, sitting, perhaps, on the
porch that looked out over the koi pond and its bridge. Perhaps putting
back the hinged walls to let in the air. Otah had spent some little time
at the poet's house of Saraykeht once, back when he'd been Danat's age
and the drinking companion and friend of Maati Vaupathai. Back in some
other life. He closed his eyes and tried to picture the rooms as they'd
been when Seedless and the poet Heshai had still been in the world. The