Seasons of War

wombs, she would have called it. To her, this agreement would be the clearest and most nearly final statement that what mattered about the women of the cities - about his own daughter - was whether they could bear. He could hear her voice saying it, could see the pain in the way she held her chin. He murmured his counterarguments, as if she were there, as if she could hear him.
    It wasn’t a turning away, only an acknowledgment of what they all knew. The woman of the Khaiem were just as clever, just as strong, just as important as they had ever been. The brokering of marriage - and yes, specifically marriage bent on producing children - was no more an attack on Eiah and her generation than building city militias or hiring mercenary companies or any of the other things he had done to hold the cities safe had been.
    It sounded patronizing, even to him.
    There had to be some way, he thought, to honor and respect the pain and the loss that they had suffered without forfeiting the future. He remembered Kiyan warning him that some women - not all, but some - who could not bear children went mad from longing. She told stories of babies being stolen, and of pregnant women killed and the babes taken from their dying wombs.
    Wanting could be a sickness, his wife had said. He remembered the night she’d said it, where the lantern had been, how the air had smelled of burning oil and pine boughs. He remembered his daughter’s expression at hearing the phrase, like she’d found expression for something she’d always known, and his own sense of dread. Kiyan had tried to warn him of something, and it had to do with the backs of the people now at the rails, turned away from the Galts and the negotiated future forming behind them. Eiah had known. Otah felt he had still only half-grasped it. Farrer Dasin, he thought, might see it more clearly.
    ‘It appears to be going quite well, wouldn’t you say, Most High?’
    Balasar Gice stood beside the dais, his hands in a pose of greeting. The cool night air or else the wine had touched his cheeks with red.
    ‘Does it? I hope so,’ Otah said, smoothing away his darker thoughts. ‘I think there are more trade agreements than wars brewing tonight. It’s hard to know.’
    ‘There’s hope,’ Balasar said. And then, his voice growing reflective, ‘There’s hope, and that’s actually quite new. I hadn’t realized it had become quite such a rare thing, these last few years.’
    ‘How nice,’ Otah said more sharply than he’d intended. Balasar looked at him more closely, and Otah waved the concern away. ‘I’m old and tired. And I’ve eaten more Galtic food than I could have wanted in a lifetime. It’s astounding you people ever got up from your tables.’
    ‘You aren’t expected to finish every dish,’ Balasar said. ‘Ah, I think the entertainment has begun.’
    Otah looked up. Servants and sailors were silently moving across the deck like a wind over the water. The glow of candles lessened and the scent of spent wicks filled the air as a stage appeared as if conjured across the deck from Otah’s dais. The singers that had hung from the rigging had apparently made their way down, because they rose now, taking their places. Servants placed three more chairs on the dais at Otah’s side, and Councilman Dasin and his family took their seats. Farrer smelled prodigiously of distilled wine and sat the farthest from him, his wife close at his side, leaving Ana nearest to Otah.
    The singers bowed their heads for a moment, then the low sounds of their voices began to swell. Otah closed his eyes. It was a song he knew - a court dance from the Second Empire. The harmonies were perfect and rich, sorrowful and joyous. This, he understood, was a gift. Galtic voices raised in a song of an empire that was not their own. He let himself be carried by it, and when the voices fell again, the last throbbing notes fading to silence, he was among the first to applaud. Otah was surprised to find tears in his eyes.
    Ana Dasin, at his side, was also weeping. When he met her eyes, she looked down, said something he couldn’t hear, and walked briskly away. He watched her descend the stairs below decks as the singers began another, more boisterous song. Otah’s gaze flickered to Issandra. In the dim light, the subtle signs of age were softened. He saw for a moment who she had been as a younger woman. She met his eyes with a profound weariness. Farrer had his hand on her arm, holding her gently to