"None of the cities actually burned down while you were gone," Danat

replied softly. There was pride in his voice, pleasure at the compliment.

"But you sound too much like Sinja."

"You knew that was a risk."

Otah laughed and let the swarm of servants precede him to his chambers.

There would be no end of ceremonies later. Welcomes would drag on for

weeks, audiences, special pleadings, feasts, dances, negotiations,

councils. It all lay before him like a life's work started late. But

now, sitting in the cool breeze of his private apartments with Sinja

across from him and Danat pouring chilled water into stone bowls, the

world was perfect.

Except, of course, that it wasn't.

"Perhaps we can mend both breaks with the same nail," Sinja said. "A

strong showing against the pirates protects Chaburi-Tan and warns Obar

State to keep to its own house."

"And a weak showing against them?" Otah asked.

"Shows we're weak, after which things go poorly," Sinja said. "But if

we're going to assume failure from the start, there's not going to be

anything of use that I can offer."

Otah propped up his feet. The palaces still felt as if they were

swaying: the ghost motion of weeks aboard ship. The feeling was oddly

pleasant.

"On the other hand," he said, "if we plan to decimate the enemy with a

flower and a pillow, it's not going to help us. How strong is our fleet?

Do we have enough men to take the pirates in a fair fight?"

"If we don't have them now, we certainly won't next year when all the

sailors are a year older," Sinja said. "Even if you magically transport

every fertile girl in Galt straight to some poor bastard's bed, it will

be ten years before they can deliver us anyone strong enough to coil

rope, much less fight. If we're going to do anything, it has to be now.

We're going to grow weaker before we're strong."

"If we manage to get strong," Otah said. "And I don't know that we can

spare the ships. We have eleven cities and the gods alone know how many

low towns. We're talking about moving half a million of our men to Galt

and bringing back as many of their women."

"Well, yes, shipping out anyone we have of fighting age now won't help

the matter," Sinja said.

"Galt could do it," Danat said. "They have experience with sea wars.

They have fighting ships and the veterans."

Otah saw the considering expression on Sinja's face. He let the silence

stretch.

"I don't like it," Sinja said at last. "I don't know why I don't like

it, but I don't."

"We're still thinking of our problems as our own," Danat said. "Asking

Galt to fight our battles might seem odd, but they'd be protecting their

own land too. In a generation, Chaburi-Tan is going to be as much their

city as ours."

Otah felt an odd pressure in his chest. It was true, of course. It was

what he had spent years working to accomplish. And still, when Danat put

it in bare terms like that, it was hard for him to hear it.

"It's more than that," Sinja said.

"Is it Balasar?" Otah asked.

Sinja leaned forward, his fingers laced on his knee, his mouth set in a

scowl. At length, he spoke.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, it is."

"He's forgiven me," Otah said. "Perhaps the two of you-"

"All respect, Otah-cha," Sinja said. "You were his enemy. That's a fair

position. I broke my oath, lied to him, and killed his best captain.

He's a man who loves loyalty, and I was one of his men. It's not the same."

"Perhaps it isn't," Otah agreed.

"Balasar-cha doesn't have to be the one to lead it," Danat said. "Or,

all respect, Sinja-cha, for that."

"No, of course we don't," Sinja said. "It's not my head that's

struggling with the thought. It's just ... The boy's right, Otah-cha. A

mixed fleet, their ships and ours, sinking the pirates would be the best

solution. I don't know if we can negotiate the thing, but it's worth

considering."

Otah scratched his leg.

"Farrer-cha," he said. "Danat's new father. He has experience with sea

fighting. I think he hates all of us together and individually for

Anacha's upcoming marriage, but he would still be the man to approach."

Danat took a long drink of water and grinned. It made him look younger.

"After the ceremony's done with," Sinja said. "We'll get the man drunk

and happy and see if we can't make him sign something binding before he

sobers up."

"If it were only so simple," Otah said. "With the High Council and the

Low Council and the Conclave, every step they take is like putting cats

in a straight line. Watching it in action, it's amazing they ever put

together a war."

"You should talk to Balasar," Sinja said.

"I will," Otah replied.

They moved on to other topics. Some were more difficult: weavers and

stonemasons on the coasts had started offering money to apprentices, so

the nearby farms were losing hands; the taxes from Amnat-Tan had been

lower than expected; the raids in the northern passes were getting

worse. Others were innocuous: court fashions had shifted toward robes

with a more Galtic drape; the shipping traffic on the rivers was faster

now that they'd figured out how to harness boilers to do the rowing; and

finally, Eiah had sent word that she was busy assisting a physician in

Pathai and would not attend her brother's wedding.

Otah paused over this letter, rereading his daughter's neat, clear hand.

The words were all simple, the grammar formal and appropriate. She made

no accusations, leveled no arguments against him. It might have been

better if she had. Anger was, at least, not distance.

He considered the implications of her absence. On one hand, it could

hardly go unnoticed that the imperial family was not all in attendance.

On the other, Eiah had broken with him years ago, when his present plan

had still been only a rough sketch. If she was there, it might have

served only to remind the women of the cities that they had in a sense

been discarded. The next generation would have no Khaiate mothers, and

the solace that neither would they have Galtic fathers would be cold

comfort at best. He folded his daughter's letter and tucked it into his

sleeve, his heart heavy with the thought that not having her near was

likely for the best.

After, Otah retired to his rooms, sent his servants away, and lay on his