The Price of Spring (Long Price Quartet #4)(74)

This is my daughter's work, Otah thought but didn't say. I can hope that she still loves me enough to listen.

"You've never felt this," Balasar said. "The rest of us? The rest of the world? We know what it is to be faced with the andat. You can't end this. You can't even negotiate. You have no standing now. The best you can do is beg."

"Then I will beg," Otah said.

"Enjoy that," Balasar said, sitting back in his chair. It was like watching a showfighter collapse at the end of a match. The vitality, the anger, the violence snuffed out, and the general was only a small Galtic man with crippled eyes, waiting for some kind soul to take away the remains of his uneaten meal. Otah rose and walked quietly from the room.

All through the city, the scenes were playing out. Men and women who had been well the night before were in states of rage and despair. They blundered into the unfamiliar streets, screaming, swinging whatever weapon came to hand at anyone who tried to help them. Or else they wept. Or, like Balasar, folded in upon themselves. The last was the most terrible.

Balasar had been only the first stop in Otah's long, painful morning journey. He'd meant to call on each of the high councillors, to promise his efforts at restoration and the best of care until then. The general had spoiled the plan. Otah did see two more men, made the same declarations. Neither of the others scoffed, but Otah could see that his words rang as hollow as a gourd.

Instead of the third councillor, Otah went back to his palaces. He prayed as he walked, that some message would have come from Idaan. None had. Instead, his audience chambers were filled with the utkhaiem, some in fine robes hastily thrown on, others still in whatever finery they had slept in. The sound of their voices competing one over another was louder than surf and as incomprehensible. Everywhere he walked, their eyes turned toward him. Otah walked with a grave countenance, his spine as straight as he could keep it. He greeted the shock and the fear with the same equanimity as the expressions of joy.

There was more joy than he had expected. More than he had hoped. The andat had come back to the world, and the Galts made to suffer, and that was somehow a cause to celebrate. Otah didn't respond to those calls, but he did begin a mental catalog of who precisely was laughing, who weeping. Someday, he told himself, someday the best of these men and women would be rewarded, the worst left behind. Only he didn't know how.

In his private rooms, the servants fluttered like moths. No schedules were right, no plans were made. Orders from the Master of Tides contradicted the instructions from the Master of Keys, and neither allowed for what the guards and armsmen said they needed to do. Otah built his own fire in the grate, lighting it from the stub of a candle, and let raw chaos reign about him.

Danat found him there, looking into the fire. His son's eyes were wide, but his shoulders hadn't yet sagged. Otah took a pose of welcome and Danat crouched before him.

"What are you doing, Papa-kya," Danat said. "You're just sitting here?"

"I'm thinking," Otah said, aware as he did so how weak the words sounded.

"They need you. You have to gather the high utkhaiem. You have to tell them what's going on."

He looked at his son. The strong face, the sincere eyes the same rich brown as Kiyan's had been. He would have made a good emperor. Better than Otah had. He took his boy's hand.

"The fleet is doomed," Otah said. "Galt is broken. These new poets, wherever they are, no longer answer to the Empire. What would you have me say?"

"That," Danat said. "If nothing else, say that. Say what everyone knows is true. How can that be wrong?"

"Because I have nothing to say after it," Otah said. "I don't know what to do. I don't have an answer."

"Then tell them that we're thinking of one," Danat said.

Otah sat silent, his hands on his knees, and let the fire in the grate fill his eyes. Danat shook his shoulder with a sound that was part frustration and part plea. When Otah couldn't find a response, Danat stood, took a pose that ended an audience, and strode out. The young man's impatience lingered in the air like incense.

There had been a time when Otah had been possessed of the certainty of youth. He had held the fate of nations in his hands, and done what needed doing. He had killed. Somewhere the years had pressed it out of him. Danat would see the same complexity, futility, and sorrow, given time. He was young. He wasn't tired yet. His world was still simple.

Servants came, and Otah turned them away. He considered going to his desk, writing another of his letters to Kiyan, but the effort of it was too much. He thought of Sinja, riding the swift autumn waves outside Chaburi-Tan and waiting for aid that would never come. Would he know? Were there Galts enough among his crew to guess what had happened?

The world was so large and so complex, it was almost impossible to believe that it could collapse so quickly. Idaan had been right again. All the problems that had plagued him were meaningless in the face of this.

Eiah. Maati. The people he had failed. They had taken the world from him. Well, perhaps they'd have a better idea what to do with it. And if a few hundred or a few thousand Galts died, there was nothing Otah could do to save them. He was no poet. He could have been. One angry, rootless boy's decision differently made, and everything would have been different.

A servant woman came and took away a tray of untouched food that Otah hadn't known was there. The pine branches in the grate were all ashes now. The sun was almost at the height of its day's arc. Otah rubbed his eyes and only then recognized the sound that had drawn him from his reverie. Trumpets and bells. Callers' voices ringing out over the palaces, over the city, over sea and sky and everything in it. A pronouncement was to be made, and all men and women of the utkhaiem were called to hear it.