Seasons of War (70 page)

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Authors: Daniel Abraham

BOOK: Seasons of War
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‘You’ve shaved your whiskers,’ Otah shouted.
‘I was starting to look like an otter,’ Sinja agreed. His expression became opaque and he bowed to Otah’s right. ‘Balasar-cha.’
‘Sinja,’ Balasar said.
The past intruded. Once Sinja had played the part of Balasar’s man, expert on the cities of the Khaiem and mercenary leader of war. He had spied on the Galts, betrayed Balasar, and killed the man Balasar held dearest to his heart. It thickened the air between them, even now. Balasar’s eyes shifted to the middle distance, a frown on his lips as if he were counting how many of his dead might have lived, had Sinja remained true. And then the moment was gone. Or if not gone, covered over for the sake of etiquette.
The others of the Galtic party lurched in from the ship, unsteady on planks that didn’t move, and the assembled masses cheered each of them like a hero returned from war. Servants dressed in light cotton robes led each sweating Galt to a waiting litter, Otah’s station of honor making him the last to leave.
‘I suspect they’ll be changing to local clothes before long,’ Sinja said. ‘They all look half-dead with the heat.’
‘I’m feeling it myself,’ Otah said.
‘Should I interrupt protocol?’ Sinja asked. ‘I could have you loaded and on your way up the hills in the time it takes to kill a chicken.’
‘No,’ Otah said with a sigh. ‘If we’re doing this, let’s do it well. But ride with me, eh? I want to hear what’s going on.’
‘Yes,’ Sinja said. ‘Well. You’ve missed some dramatics, but I don’t think there’s anything particularly ominous waiting. Except the pirates. And the conspiracy. You did get the report about the conspiracy in Yalakeht? It’s apparently got ties to Obar State.’
‘Well, that’s just lovely,’ Otah said.
‘No more plague than usual,’ Sinja offered gamely, and then it was time and servants stepped forward to escort Otah to his litter. The shifting galt of his bearers was similar to being aboard ship, but also wrong. Between that and the heat, Otah was beginning to feel nauseated, but the buildings that passed by his beaded window were comforting. Great blue and white walls topped with roof tiles of gray and red; banners hanging in the slow, thick air; men and women in poses of welcome or else waving small lengths of brightly colored cloth. If it had been autumn or winter, the old firekeepers’ kilns would have been lit and strange flames would have accompanied him up the wide streets to the palaces.
‘Any problems with the arrival?’ he asked Sinja.
‘A few. Angry women throwing stones, mostly. We’ve locked them away until the last ship comes in. Danat and I decided to put the girl and her family in the poet’s house. It isn’t the most impressive location, but it’s comfortable, and it’s far enough back from the other buildings that they might have some privacy. The gods all know they’ll be gawked at like a three-headed calf the rest of the time.’
‘I think Ana has a lover,’ Otah said. ‘One of the sailors was built rather like a courtier.’
‘Ah,’ Sinja said. ‘I’ll tell the guard to keep eyes out. I assume we’d rather he didn’t come calling?’
‘No, better that he not,’ Otah said.
‘I don’t suppose there’s a chance the girl’s still a virgin?’
Otah took a pose that dismissed the concern. Even if she weren’t - and of course she wasn’t - she wouldn’t be bearing another man’s child. Not if the boy he had glimpsed in the hold of the
Avenger
was a Galt. Otah felt a moment’s unease.
‘If the guard do find a boy sneaking in, have him held until I can speak with him. I’d rather that this whole situation not get more complex than it already is.’
‘Your word is law, Most High,’ Sinja said, his tone light. Otah chuckled.
He had missed the man’s company. There were few people in the world who could see Otah beneath his titles, fewer still who dared mock him. It was a familiarity that had been forged by years. Together, they had acted against the plot which had first changed Otah from outcast to Khai Machi. They had loved the same woman and come near violence over it. Sinja had trained Otah’s son in the arts of combat and strategy, had gotten drunk with the Emperor after Kiyan’s funeral, had spoken his mind whether invited to or not. Otah had no other advisor or friend like him.
As they moved north, the crowd that lined the street changed its nature. Once they had passed out of the throng at the seafront, the robes and faces had been those of laborers and artisans. As they passed the compounds of the merchant houses, the robes and banners became more ornate. Rich and saturated colors were edged with embroidery of gold and worked in the symbols of the various houses. And then almost without a pause, the symbols and colors were not of merchants, but of the families of the utkhaiem, and the high walls and ornate shutters were not mercantile compounds, but palaces. Men and women in fine robes took poses of welcome and obeisance as servants and slaves fanned them. A hidden choir burst into song somewhere to his left, the voices in complex harmony. The litter stopped before the grand palace, the first palace, the Emperor’s palace. Otah stepped out, sweeping his gaze over the ordered rows of servants and high officials until he saw the one man he’d longed for.
Danat was in his twentieth summer, his face a mixture of Otah’s long, northern features and Kiyan’s, thin and foxlike. The planes of his cheeks had sharpened since Otah had gone. He looked older, more handsome. He wore a robe of deep gray set off with a rich, red sash that suited him. And still, Otah could see all the boys that had made this man: the babe, the bumbling child new to his own feet, the long-ill boy kept in his bed, the awkward and sorrowful youth, and the young heir to the Empire. All of them stood before him, hands in a pose of formal welcome, a smile glittering in his eyes. Otah broke protocol, embracing his son. The boy’s arms were strong.
‘You’ve done well,’ Otah murmured.
‘None of the cities actually burned down while you were gone,’ Danat replied softly. There was pride in his voice, pleasure at the compliment.
‘But you sound too much like Sinja.’
‘You knew that was a risk.’
Otah laughed and let the swarm of servants precede him to his chambers. There would be no end of ceremonies later. Welcomes would drag on for weeks, audiences, special pleadings, feasts, dances, negotiations, councils. It all lay before him like a life’s work started late. But now, sitting in the cool breeze of his private apartments with Sinja across from him and Danat pouring chilled water into stone bowls, the world was perfect.
Except, of course, that it wasn’t.
‘Perhaps we can mend both breaks with the same nail,’ Sinja said. ‘A strong showing against the pirates protects Chaburi-Tan and warns Obar State to keep to its own house.’
‘And a weak showing against them?’ Otah asked.
‘Shows we’re weak, after which things go poorly,’ Sinja said. ‘But if we’re going to assume failure from the start, there’s not going to be anything of use that I can offer.’
Otah propped up his feet. The palaces still felt as if they were swaying: the ghost motion of weeks aboard ship. The feeling was oddly pleasant.
‘On the other hand,’ he said, ‘if we plan to decimate the enemy with a flower and a pillow, it’s not going to help us. How strong is our fleet? Do we have enough men to take the pirates in a fair fight?’
‘If we don’t have them now, we certainly won’t next year when all the sailors are a year older,’ Sinja said. ‘Even if you magically transport every fertile girl in Galt straight to some poor bastard’s bed, it will be ten years before they can deliver us anyone strong enough to coil rope, much less fight. If we’re going to do anything, it has to be now. We’re going to grow weaker before we’re strong.’
‘If we manage to get strong,’ Otah said. ‘And I don’t know that we can spare the ships. We have eleven cities and the gods alone know how many low towns. We’re talking about moving half a million of our men to Galt and bringing back as many of their women.’
‘Well, yes, shipping out anyone we have of fighting age now won’t help the matter,’ Sinja said.
‘Galt could do it,’ Danat said. ‘They have experience with sea wars. They have fighting ships and the veterans.’
Otah saw the considering expression on Sinja’s face. He let the silence stretch.
‘I don’t like it,’ Sinja said at last. ‘I don’t know why I don’t like it, but I don’t.’
‘We’re still thinking of our problems as our own,’ Danat said. ‘Asking Galt to fight our battles might seem odd, but they’d be protecting their own land too. In a generation, Chaburi-Tan is going to be as much their city as ours.’
Otah felt an odd pressure in his chest. It was true, of course. It was what he had spent years working to accomplish. And still, when Danat put it in bare terms like that, it was hard for him to hear it.
‘It’s more than that,’ Sinja said.
‘Is it Balasar?’ Otah asked.
Sinja leaned forward, his fingers laced on his knee, his mouth set in a scowl. At length, he spoke.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘He’s forgiven me,’ Otah said. ‘Perhaps the two of you—’
‘All respect, Otah-cha,’ Sinja said. ‘You were his enemy. That’s a fair position. I broke my oath, lied to him, and killed his best captain. He’s a man who loves loyalty, and I was one of his men. It’s not the same.’
‘Perhaps it isn’t,’ Otah agreed.
‘Balasar-cha doesn’t have to be the one to lead it,’ Danat said. ‘Or, all respect, Sinja-cha, for that.’
‘No, of course we don’t,’ Sinja said. ‘It’s not my head that’s struggling with the thought. It’s just . . . The boy’s right, Otah-cha. A mixed fleet, their ships and ours, sinking the pirates would be the best solution. I don’t know if we can negotiate the thing, but it’s worth 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 Ana-cha’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 confusion of scrolls and books, the ashes piled up in the grate, the smell of incense and old wine. He didn’t realize that he was falling asleep until Seedless smirked and turned away, and Otah knew he was in dreams.
A human voice woke him. The angle of the sun had shifted, the day almost passed. Otah sat up, struggling to focus his eyes. The servant spoke again.
‘Most High, the welcoming ceremonies are due in a hand and a half. Shall I tell the Master of Tides to postpone them?’

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