The Price of Spring (Long Price Quartet #4)(66)

Farrer looked at Otah, his green-gray eyes as enigmatic as the sea.

"What brings you, Most High?" Farrer asked.

"I had heard rumors the decision to lend me your ships had perhaps weakened your position in the council. I had hoped I could offer some assistance."

Farrer drew on his pipe, then gestured out at the pond, the palaces, the world. When he spoke, the pipe smoke made the words seem solid and gray.

"I've failed. I know that. I was bullied into agreeing to this union between our houses, but so were half of the councillors. They can't think less of me for that, except for the few who genuinely backed your plan. They never thought much of me. And then I let myself be wheedled into helping you, so those whose love Ana won in her little speech think I'm ruled by the whims of a girl who hasn't seen twenty summers. The damning thing is, I can't say they're wrong."

"You love her," Otah said.

"I love her too much," Farrer said. His expression was grim. "It keeps me from knowing my own mind."

Otah's thoughts flickered for a moment, roving west to Idaan and her hunt. He brought himself back with a conscious effort.

"The city you're helping to protect is precious," Otah said. "The people whose lives you save won't think less of you for hearing wisdom from your daughter."

"Yes," Farrer said with a chuckle, "but they aren't on the council, are they."

"No," Otah said. "I understand that you are invested in sugar? There are cane fields east of Saraykeht, but most of what we have comes from Bakta. Much better land for it there. If Chaburi-Tan failed, we would feel the effect here and all through the Westlands."

Farrer grunted noncommittally.

"It's surprising how much Baktan trade flows through Chaburi-Tan. Not so much as through Saraykeht, but still a great deal. The island is easier to approach. And it's a good site for any trade in the south. Obar State, Eymond. Far Galt, for that. Did you know that nearly all the ore from Far Galt passes through the port at Chaburi-Tan?"

"Less since you've raised the taxes."

"I don't set those taxes," Otah said. "I appoint the port's administration. Usually they agree to pay a certain amount for the privilege and then try to make back what they've spent before their term ends."

"And how long are their terms?"

"As long as the Emperor is pleased to have them in that place," Otah said. "So long as I think they've done a good job with maintaining the seafront and keeping the flow of ships through, they may hold power for years. Or, if they've mismanaged things, perhaps even required a fleet to come out and save the city, they might be replaced."

The frown on Farrer's face was the most pleasant thing Otah had seen all morning. The truth of the matter was that Otah no more liked the Galt than he was liked by him. Their nations were old enemies, and however much Otah and Issandra plotted, there was a way in which their generation would die as enemies.

But what he did now, as little as Otah liked it personally, was intended for people as yet unborn, unconceived. It was a long game he was playing, and it got longer, it seemed, the less time he had to live.

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 Chaburi-Tan'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 Chaburi-Tan seafront," Otah said. "We are an empire of fallen cities, Farrer-cha. 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, Farrer-cha, 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.