Shadow and Betrayal

ceremony. He had renounced it and sworn before the gods and the Emperor that he would be nothing beyond this trust with which he had been charged. Otah had forced his way through the ceremony, bristling at both the waste of time and the institutional requirement that he lie in order to preserve etiquette. Of Itani Noygu, Otah Machi, and the Khai Machi, the last was the one least in his heart. But he was willing to pretend to have no other self and the utkhaiem and the priests and the people of the city were all willing to pretend to believe him. It was all like some incredibly long, awkward, tedious game. And so when the rare occasion arose when he could do something real, something with consequences, he found himself enjoying it more perhaps than it deserved.
    The emissary from Galt looked as if he were trying to convince himself he’d misunderstood.
    ‘Most high,’ he said, ‘I came here as soon as our ambassadors sent word that they’d been expelled. It was a long journey, and winter travel’s difficult in the north. I had hoped that we could address your concerns and . . .’
    Otah took a pose that commanded silence, then sat back on the black lacquer chair that had grown no more comfortable in the months since he’d first taken it. He switched from speaking in the Khaiate tongue to Galtic. It seemed, if anything, to make the man more uncomfortable.
    ‘I appreciate that the generals and lords of Galt are so interested in . . . what? Addressing my concerns? And I thank you for coming so quickly, even when I’d made it clear that you were not particularly welcome.’
    ‘I apologize, most high, if I’ve given offense.’
    ‘Not at all,’ Otah said, smiling. ‘Since you’ve come, you can do me the favor of explaining again to the High Council how precarious their position is with me. The Dai-kvo has been alerted to all I’ve learned, and he shares my opinion and my policy.’
    ‘But I—’
    ‘I know the role your people played in the succession. And more than that, I know what happened in Saraykeht. Your nation survives now on my sufferance. If word reaches me of one more intervention in the matters of the cities of the Khaiem or the poets or the andat, I will wipe your people from the memory of the world.’
    The emissary opened his mouth and closed it again, his eyes darting about as if there was a word written somewhere on the walls that would open the floodgates of his diplomacy. Otah let the silence press at him.
    ‘I don’t understand, most high,’ he managed at last.
    ‘Then go home,’ Otah said, ‘and repeat what I’ve told you to your overseer and then to his, and keep doing so until you find someone who does. If you reach the High Council, you’ll have gone far enough.’
    ‘I’m sure if you’ll just tell me what’s happened to upset you, most high, there must be something I can do to make it right.’
    Otah pressed his steepled fingers to his lips. For a moment, he remembered Saraykeht - the feel of the poet’s death struggles under his own hand. He remembered the fires that had consumed the compound of the Vaunyogi and the screams and cries of his sister as her husband and his father met their ends.
    ‘You can’t make this right,’ he said, letting his weariness show in his voice. ‘I wish that you could.’
    ‘But the contracts . . . I can’t go back without some agreement made, most high. If you want me to take your message back, you have to leave me enough credibility that anyone will hear it.’
    ‘I can’t help you,’ Otah said. ‘Take the letter I’ve given you and go home. Now.’
    As he turned and left the room, the letter in his hand sewn shut and sealed, the Galt moved like a man newly awakened. At Otah’s gesture, the servants followed the emissary and pulled the great bronze doors closed behind them, leaving him alone in the audience chamber. The pale silk banners shifted in the slight breath of air. The charcoal in the iron braziers glowed, orange within white. He pressed his hands to his eyes. He was tired, terribly tired. And there was so much more to be done.
    He heard the scrape of the servants’ door behind him, heard the soft, careful footsteps and the faintest jingling of mail. He rose and turned, his robes shifting with a sound like sand on stone. Sinja took a pose of greeting.
    ‘You sent for me, most high?’
    ‘I’ve just sent the Galts packing again,’ Otah said.
    ‘I heard the last of it. Do you think they’ll keep sending men to