"Issandra-cha is a dangerous woman," Otah said.
"She is," Danat agreed.
They laughed together for a moment. Otah was the first to sober.
"Will it work, do you think?" he asked. "Can it be done?"
"Can I win Ana's heart and make her want what she's professed before
everyone of power in two empires that she hates?" Danat said. Saying it
that way, he sounded like his mother. "I don't know. And I can't say
what I feel about the way it's happening. I'm plotting against her. Her
own mother is plotting against her. I feel that I ought to disapprove.
That it isn't honest. And yet ..."
Danat shook his head. Otah took a querying pose.
"I'm enjoying myself," Danat said. "Whatever it says of me, I've been
struck bloody by a Galt boy, and I feel I've scored a point in some game.
"It's an important game."
Danat rose. He took a pose that promised his best effort, appropriate to
a junior competitor to his teacher, and left.
There had to be some way that he could aid in Danat's task, but for the
moment, he couldn't think what it might be. Perhaps if there was a way
to arrange some sort of isolation for the two. A journey, perhaps, to
Yalakeht. Or, no, there was the conspiracy with Obar State there that
still hadn't been rooted out. Well, Cetani, then. Something long and
arduous and cold by the time they got there. And without the bastard
who'd struck his son ...
Otah finished his fish and rice, lingering over a last bowl of wine and
looking out at the small garden. It was, he thought, the size of the
walled yard at the wayhouse Kiyan had owned before she became his first
and only wife and he became the Khai Machi. That little space of green
and white, of finches in the branches and voles scuttling in the low
grass, might have been the size of his life.
Until the Galts came and slaughtered them all with the rest of Udun.
And instead, he had the world, or most of it. And a son. And, however
little she liked it, a daughter. And Kiyan's ashes and his memory of
her. But it had been a pretty little garden.
Otah returned to the waiting supplicants with his mind moving in ten
different directions at once. He did his best to focus on the work
before him, but everything seemed trivial. No matter that men's fortunes
lay in his decision. No matter that he was the final appeal for justice,
or if not that, at least peace. Or mercy. Justice and peace and mercy
all seemed insignificant when held next to duty. His duty to Chaburi-Tan
and all the other cities, to Danat and Eiah and the shape of the future.
By the time the sun sank in the western hills, he had almost forgotten
Idaan.
His sister waited for him in the apartments Sinja had found for her. She
looked out of place among the sweeping arches and intricately carved
stonework. Her hands were thick and calloused, her face roughened by
sun. Some servant had arranged a robe for her, well-cut silk of green
and cream. He considered her dark eyes and calm, weighing expression. He
could not forget that she had killed men coldly, with calculation. But
then so had he.