Seasons of War

all these arguments, had made more than one of them himself. And still night found him here, reading the letters and searching for the thoughts behind them. It was like hearing a new voice in a choir. Somewhere, someone new had entered the strategies of the Galts, and these scraps of paper and pale ink were all that Otah had to work out what that might mean.
    He could as well have looked for words written in the air.
    A scratching came at the door, followed by a servant boy. The boy took a pose of obeisance and Otah replied automatically.
    ‘The woman you sent for, Most High. Liat Chokavi.’
    ‘Bring her in. And bring some wine and two bowls, then see we aren’t disturbed.’
    ‘But, Most High—’
    ‘We’ll pour our own wine,’ Otah snapped, and regretted it instantly as the boy’s face went pale. Otah pressed down the impulse to apologize. It was beneath the dignity of the Khai Machi to apologize for rudeness - one of the thousand things he’d learned when he first took his father’s chair. One of the thousand missteps he had made. The boy backed out of the room, and Otah turned to the letters, folding them back in their order and slipping them into his sleeve. The boy preceded Liat into the room, a tray with a silver carafe and two hand-molded bowls of granite in his hands. Liat sat on the low divan, her eyes on the floor in something that looked like respect but might only have been fear.
    The door closed, and Otah poured a generous portion of wine into each bowl. Liat took the one he proffered.
    ‘It’s lovely work,’ Liat said, considering the stone.
    ‘It’s the andat,’ Otah said. ‘He turns the quarry rock into something like clay, and the potters shape it. One of the many wonders of Machi. Have you seen the bridge that spans the river? A single stone poured over molds and shaped by hand five generations back. And there’s the towers. Really, we’re a city of petty miracles.’
    ‘You sound bitter,’ she said, looking up at last. Her eyes were the same tea-and-milk color he remembered. Otah sighed as he sat across from her. Outside, the wind murmured.
    ‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘Only tired.’
    ‘I knew you wouldn’t end as a seafront laborer,’ she said.
    ‘Yes, well . . .’ Otah shook his head and sipped from the bowl. It was strong wine, and it left his mouth feeling clean and his chest warm. ‘It’s time we spoke about Nayiit.’
    Liat nodded, took a long drink, and held the cup out for more. Otah poured.
    ‘It’s all my fault,’ she said as she sat back. ‘I should never have brought him here. I never saw it. I never saw you in him. He was always just himself. If I’d known that . . . that he resembled you quite so closely, I wouldn’t have.’
    ‘Late for that,’ Otah said.
    Liat sighed her agreement and looked up at him. It was hard to believe that they had been lovers once. The girl he had known back then hadn’t had gray in her hair, weariness in her eyes. And the boy he’d been was as distant as snow in summer. Yes, two people had kissed once, had touched each other, had created a child who had grown to manhood. And Otah remembered some of those moments now - showering at the barracks while she spoke to him, the ink blocks at the desk in her cell at the compound of House Wilsin, the feel of a young body pressed against his own, when his flesh had also been new and unmarked. If those days long past had been foolish or wrong, the only evidence was the price they both paid now. It hadn’t seemed so at the time.
    ‘I’ve been thinking of it,’ Liat said. ‘I haven’t told him. I wasn’t sure how you wanted to address the problem. But I think the wisest thing to do is to speak with him and with Maati, and then have Nayiit-kya take the brand. I know it’s not something done with firstborn sons, but it’s still a repudiation of his right to become Khai. It will make it clear to the world that he doesn’t have designs on your chair.’
    ‘That isn’t what I’d choose,’ Otah said. His words were slow and careful. ‘I’m afraid my son may die.’
    She caught her breath. It was hardly there, no more than a tremor in the air she took in, but he heard it.
    ‘Itani,’ she said, using the name of the boy he’d been in Saraykeht, ‘please. I’ll swear on anything you choose. Nayiit’s no threat to Danat. It was only the Galts that brought us here. I’m not looking to put my son in your chair . . .’
    Otah put down his bowl and took a pose that