"Otah-cha," a woman whispered. "Here. Quickly."

Issandra huddled in the darkness under an ivy-choked willow. Otah walked

forward, his hands in a pose of query. Issandra didn't reply, her eyes

on the guards at his back. Her expression went from disapproval to

acceptance barely seen in the dim light. She motioned all of them close

to her.

"What is this?" Otah asked as he crouched in the darkness.

"Hush," Issandra said. "They should almost be here. There now. Be quiet,

all of you."

One of the wooden doors at the base of the garden was opening, the light

of a lantern spilling out onto the green of the grass, the black of the

soil. Otah squinted. Ana Dasin stepped out. She wore a rough cloak over

what appeared to be simple peasant robes, but her face and hair would

have proclaimed her in the darkest teahouse. She looked like a girl who

wanted to travel unnoticed but didn't know the trick of it. As Otah

watched, she raised her lantern, scanning the wide stone curve, and then

sat down.

"What is-" he whispered.

Issandra pressed her hand to his mouth. One of the guards shifted, but

Otah gestured him back. It wasn't everyone who could gag the Emperor of

the Khaiem, but he was too curious to disrupt things over a point of

etiquette. Besides which, he didn't truly care.

Another of the doors shifted and creaked open. Danat stepped out. Being

discovered crouched in the ivy, eavesdropping on their own children

might be the least dignified thing possible, so Otah tried to be very,

very still. When Danat spoke, the sound carried perfectly.

"I received your message. I'm here."

"And I received your poem," Ana said.

It was too dark to actually see how deeply Danat blushed, but Otah

recognized the discomfort in his son's body.

"Ah. That," he said.

Otah tapped Issandra on the shoulder and mouthed the word poem? Issandra

pointed back down to their children.

"I am not a toy," Ana said. "If this is another scheme of your father's

or my mother's, you can carry word back to them that it didn't work. I

know better than to trust you."

"You think I've lied?" Danat said. "What have I said to you that wasn't

true?"

"As if you'd let yourself be caught out," Ana said.

Danat sat, one leg tucked under him, the other bent. He looked up at her

like a player in some ancient epic. In the dim light, his expression

seemed bemused.

"Ask anything," he said. "Do it now. I won't lie to you."

Ana crossed her arms, looking down on Danat like a low-town judge. Her

brows were furrowed.

"Are you trying to seduce me?"

"Yes," Danat said. His voice was calm and solid as stone.

"Why?"

"Because I think you are worth seducing," Danat said.

"Only that? Not to please your father or my mother?"

Danat chuckled. One of the guards at Otah's side shifted his weight, the

leaves beneath him crackling. Neither of the children below had ears for it.

"It began that way, I suppose," Danat said. "A political alliance. A

world to remake. All of that has its appeal, but it didn't write that poem."

Ana fumbled at her belt for a moment and drew out a folded sheet of

paper. Danat hesitated, then reached up and accepted it from her. They

were quiet. Otah sensed the tension in Issandra's crouched body. Ana was

refusing the token. And then the girl spoke, and her mother relaxed.

"Read it," Ana said. "Read it to me."

Otah closed his eyes and prayed to all the gods there were that neither

he nor Issandra nor either of the guards would sneeze or cough. He had

never lived through a more excruciatingly awkward scene. Below, Danat

cleared his throat and began to declaim.

It wasn't good. Danat's command of Galtic didn't extend to the subtlety

of rhyme. The images were simple and puerile, the sexuality just under

the surface of the words ham-fisted and uncertain, and worst of all of

it, Danat's tone as he spoke was as sincere as a priest at temple. His

voice shook at the end of the last stanza. Silence fell in the garden.

One of the guards shook once with suppressed laughter and went still.

Danat folded the paper slowly, then offered it up to Ana. It hesitated

there for a moment before the girl took it.

"I see," she said. Against all reason, her voice had softened. Otah

could hardly believe it, but Ana appeared genuinely moved. Danat rose to

stand a hand's breadth nearer to her than before. The lanterns

flickered. The two children gazed at each other with perfect

seriousness. Ana looked away.

"I have a lover," she said.

"You've made that quite clear," Danat replied, amusement in his voice.

Ana shook her head. The shadows hid her expression.

"I can't," she said. "You are a fine man, Danat. More an emperor than

your father. But I've sworn. I've sworn before everyone ..."

"I don't believe that," Danat said. "I've hardly known you, Ana-kya, and

I don't believe the gods themselves could stop you from something if it

was truly what you wanted. Say you won't have me, but don't tell me

you're refusing me out of fear."

Ana began to speak, stumbled on the words, and went silent. Danat rose,

and the girl took a step toward him.

And a moment later, "Does Hanchat know you're here?"

Ana was still, and then almost imperceptibly she shook her head. Danat

put a hand on her shoulder and gently turned her to face him. Otah might

have been imagining it, but he thought the girl's head inclined a degree

toward that hand. Danat kissed Ana's forehead and then her mouth. Her

hand, palm against Danat's chest, seemed too weak to push him away. It

was Danat who stepped back.

He murmured something too low to hear, then bowed in the Galtic style,

took his lantern, and left her. Ana slowly lowered herself to the

ground. They waited, one girl alone in the night and four hidden spies

with legs and backs slowly beginning to cramp. Without word or warning,

Ana sobbed twice, rose, scooped up her own lantern, and vanished through

the door she'd first come from. Otah let out a pained sigh and made his

uncomfortable way out from beneath the willow. There were green streaks

on his robe where his knees had ground into the ivy. The armsmen had the