The Price Of Spring (27 page)

Farrer coughed, sucked his teeth, and leaned forward.

"Forgive me, Most High," he said, formality returning to his diction. "What is the conversation we're having?"

"I would appoint you or your agent to oversee ChaburiTan's seafront," Otah said. "It would, I think, demonstrate that my commitment to joining our nations isn't only that you should send us your daughters."

"And have the council believe that I'm not only controlled by my wife and child, but also the tool of the Emperor, bought and paid for?" His tone was more amused than aggressive.

Otah pulled a small book from his sleeve and held it out.

"The accounting of the ChaburiTan seafront," Otah said. "We are an empire of fallen cities, Farrercha. But we were very high before, and falling for years hasn't yet brought us down to be even with most of the world."

The Galt clamped his pipe between his teeth and accepted the proffered book. Otah waited as he flipped through the thin pages. He saw Farrer's eyebrows rise when he reached the quarter's sums, and then again at the half-year's.

"You would want something from me," Farrer said.

"You have already lent me your boats," Otah said. "Your sailors. Let the others on the council see what effect that has."

"You can afford to give away this much gold to make them jealous?"

"I know that Ana-cha has objected to marrying Danat. I hope there may yet be some shift of her position. Then I would be giving the gold to my grandson's grandfather," Otah said.

"And if she doesn't?" Farrer asked, scowling. His eyes had narrowed like a seafront merchant distrustful of too good a bargain.

"If she doesn't, then I've made a poor wager," Otah said. "We are gamblers, Farrercha, just by getting up from bed in the morning."

Farrer Dasin didn't answer except to relax his gaze, laugh, and tuck the book into his belt. Otah took a pose that ended a meeting. It had a positive nuance that Dasin was unlikely to notice, but Otah didn't mind. It was as much for himself as the Galt.

The walk back to the palaces seemed shorter, less haunted by nostalgia. He returned to his rooms, allowed himself to be changed into formal robes, and began the long, slow work of another day. The court was its customary buzz of rituals and requirements. The constant speculation on the Galtic treaty's fate made every other facet of the economic and political life of the Empire swing like a ship's mast in high seas. Otah did what he could to pour oil on the waters. For the most part, he succeeded.

Before the early sunset of middle autumn, Otah had seen the heads of both Galtic and Khaiate stone masons disputing a contract upon which the Galtic Council had already ruled. He had taken audiences with two other members of the High Council and three of the highest families of the utkhaiem. And, in the brightest moment of his day, a visibly unnerved representative of Obar State had arrived with gifts and assurances of the good relations between his small nation and the cities of the Khaiem.

No courier came from Idaan or Eiah. Likely his sister was still on the roads between Saraykeht and Pathai. There was no reason to expect word back so soon, and yet every time a servant entered his chambers with a folded paper, his belly went tight until he broke the seal.

The night began with a banquet held in the honor of Balasar Glee and the preparation of what the Galtic Council called the second fleet and the utkhaiem, dismissively and in private, the other ships. The great hall fluttered with fine robes and silk banners. Musicians and singing slaves hidden behind screens filled the air with soft music of Galtic composition. Lanterns of colored glass gave the light a feeling of belonging to some other, gentler world. Otah sat on his high dais, Balasar at his side. He caught a glimpse of Danat dressed in formal robes of black and gold, sitting among his peers of the high utkhaiem. The group included Shija Radaani. Though Farrer and Issandra Dasin were among the Galts present, Otah did not see Ana. He tried not to find her absence unnerving.

The food and drink had been prepared by the best cooks Otah could find: classic Galtic dishes made if not light at least less heavy; foods designed to represent each of the cities of the Khaiem; all of it served with bowls of the best wines the world could offer.

Peace, Otah meant the celebration to say. As we send our armsmen and sailors away to fight and die together, let there be peace between us. If there cannot be peace in the world, at least let it be welcome here. It pleased him to see the youth of both countries sitting together and talking, even as it disturbed him that so many places set aside for the utkhaiem remained empty.

He did not notice that Issandra had taken her leave until the note arrived. The servant was very young, having seen no more than sixteen summers, and he approached Balasar with a small message box of worked gold. Balasar plucked the folded paper from it, read the message, then nodded and waved the boy away. The musicians nearest them shifted to a light, contemplative song. Balasar leaned toward Otah, as if to whisper some comment upon the music.

"This is for you," the general murmured.

General Gice, please pass this to the Emperor with all haste discretion allows. I would prefer that it not be immediately obvious that I am communicating with him, but time may be short.

Emperor. Please forgive my note, but I believe something is going to happen in the moon garden of the thirdpalace at the beginning of the entertainments that you would be pleased to see. Consider claiming a moment's necessity and joining me.

It was signed with Issandra Dasin's chop.

Balasar was considering him silently. Otah slipped the paper into his sleeve. It was less than half a hand before the acrobats and dancers, trained dogs and fire-eaters were to take to the floor. It wasn't much time.

"I don't like this," Otah said, leaning toward Balasar so that no one could overhear.

"You think it's a plot to assassinate you," Balasar said.

"Might it be?"

Balasar smiled out into the hall, his eyes flickering as if looking for concealed archers.

"She sent the message through me. That provides a witness. It isn't the sort of thing I would do if I intended to kill you," Balasar said. "Still, if you go, take a guard."

Otah felt the weight of the note in his sleeve, feather-light and yet enough to command all his attention. He had almost decided to ignore it when, as the trumpets blared the first of the entertainments to the floor, he noticed that Danat had also gone. He slipped down from the back of the dais, chose two of the guards that he recognized, and made his way out to the third palace.

The moon garden had been built as a theater; great half-circles of carved stone set into a slope were covered with moss and snow ivy. At the deepest recess, three old wooden doors led to hallways where players or musicians could crouch, awaiting their entrance. The gardens were dark when he arrived, not even a lantern glowing to mark the paths. Behind him, the guards were as silent as shadows.

"Otah-cha," a woman whispered. "Here. Quickly."

Issandra huddled in the darkness under an ivy-choked willow. Otah walked forward, his hands in a pose of query. Issandra didn't reply, her eyes on the guards at his back. Her expression went from disapproval to acceptance barely seen in the dim light. She motioned all of them close to her.

"What is this?" Otah asked as he crouched in the darkness.

"Hush," Issandra said. "They should almost be here. There now. Be quiet, all of you."

One of the wooden doors at the base of the garden was opening, the light of a lantern spilling out onto the green of the grass, the black of the soil. Otah squinted. Ana Dasin stepped out. She wore a rough cloak over what appeared to be simple peasant robes, but her face and hair would have proclaimed her in the darkest teahouse. She looked like a girl who wanted to travel unnoticed but didn't know the trick of it. As Otah watched, she raised her lantern, scanning the wide stone curve, and then sat down.

"What is-" he whispered.

Issandra pressed her hand to his mouth. One of the guards shifted, but Otah gestured him back. It wasn't everyone who could gag the Emperor of the Khaiem, but he was too curious to disrupt things over a point of etiquette. Besides which, he didn't truly care.

Another of the doors shifted and creaked open. Danat stepped out. Being discovered crouched in the ivy, eavesdropping on their own children might be the least dignified thing possible, so Otah tried to be very, very still. When Danat spoke, the sound carried perfectly.

"I received your message. I'm here."

"And I received your poem," Ana said.

It was too dark to actually see how deeply Danat blushed, but Otah recognized the discomfort in his son's body.

"Ah. That," he said.

Otah tapped Issandra on the shoulder and mouthed the word poem? Issandra pointed back down to their children.

"I am not a toy," Ana said. "If this is another scheme of your father's or my mother's, you can carry word back to them that it didn't work. I know better than to trust you."

"You think I've lied?" Danat said. "What have I said to you that wasn't true?"

"As if you'd let yourself be caught out," Ana said.

Danat sat, one leg tucked under him, the other bent. He looked up at her like a player in some ancient epic. In the dim light, his expression seemed bemused.

"Ask anything," he said. "Do it now. I won't lie to you."

Ana crossed her arms, looking down on Danat like a low-town judge. Her brows were furrowed.

"Are you trying to seduce me?"

"Yes," Danat said. His voice was calm and solid as stone.

"Why?"

"Because I think you are worth seducing," Danat said.

"Only that? Not to please your father or my mother?"

Danat chuckled. One of the guards at Otah's side shifted his weight, the leaves beneath him crackling. Neither of the children below had ears for it.

"It began that way, I suppose," Danat said. "A political alliance. A world to remake. All of that has its appeal, but it didn't write that poem."

Ana fumbled at her belt for a moment and drew out a folded sheet of paper. Danat hesitated, then reached up and accepted it from her. They were quiet. Otah sensed the tension in Issandra's crouched body. Ana was refusing the token. And then the girl spoke, and her mother relaxed.

"Read it," Ana said. "Read it to me."

Otah closed his eyes and prayed to all the gods there were that neither he nor Issandra nor either of the guards would sneeze or cough. He had never lived through a more excruciatingly awkward scene. Below, Danat cleared his throat and began to declaim.

It wasn't good. Danat's command of Galtic didn't extend to the subtlety of rhyme. The images were simple and puerile, the sexuality just under the surface of the words ham-fisted and uncertain, and worst of all of it, Danat's tone as he spoke was as sincere as a priest at temple. His voice shook at the end of the last stanza. Silence fell in the garden. One of the guards shook once with suppressed laughter and went still.

Danat folded the paper slowly, then offered it up to Ana. It hesitated there for a moment before the girl took it.

"I see," she said. Against all reason, her voice had softened. Otah could hardly believe it, but Ana appeared genuinely moved. Danat rose to stand a hand's breadth nearer to her than before. The lanterns flickered. The two children gazed at each other with perfect seriousness. Ana looked away.

"I have a lover," she said.

"You've made that quite clear," Danat replied, amusement in his voice.

Ana shook her head. The shadows hid her expression.

"I can't," she said. "You are a fine man, Danat. More an emperor than your father. But I've sworn. I've sworn before everyone ..."

"I don't believe that," Danat said. "I've hardly known you, Ana-kya, and I don't believe the gods themselves could stop you from something if it was truly what you wanted. Say you won't have me, but don't tell me you're refusing me out of fear."

Ana began to speak, stumbled on the words, and went silent. Danat rose, and the girl took a step toward him.

And a moment later, "Does Hanchat know you're here?"

Ana was still, and then almost imperceptibly she shook her head. Danat put a hand on her shoulder and gently turned her to face him. Otah might have been imagining it, but he thought the girl's head inclined a degree toward that hand. Danat kissed Ana's forehead and then her mouth. Her hand, palm against Danat's chest, seemed too weak to push him away. It was Danat who stepped back.

He murmured something too low to hear, then bowed in the Galtic style, took his lantern, and left her. Ana slowly lowered herself to the ground. They waited, one girl alone in the night and four hidden spies with legs and backs slowly beginning to cramp. Without word or warning, Ana sobbed twice, rose, scooped up her own lantern, and vanished through the door she'd first come from. Otah let out a pained sigh and made his uncomfortable way out from beneath the willow. There were green streaks on his robe where his knees had ground into the ivy. The armsmen had the grace to move away a few paces, expressionless.

"We're doing well," Issandra said.

"I didn't hear a declaration of marriage," Otah said. He felt disagreeable despite the evidence of Ana's changing heart. He felt dishonest, and it made him sour.

"So long as nothing comes to throw her off, it will come. In time. I know my daughter. I've seen this all before."

"Really? How odd," Otah said. "I know my son, and I never have."

"Then perhaps Ana is a lucky woman," Issandra said. He was surprised to hear something wistful in the woman's voice. The moon passed behind a high cloud, deepening the darkness around them, and then was gone. Issandra stood before him, her head high and proud, her mouth in a half-smile. She was, he thought, an interesting woman. Not beautiful in the traditional sense, and all the more attractive for that.

"A marriage is what you make of it," she said.