Indeed, if anyone on the White Gull had reason to miss the presence of Athir Rin, they would never admit it.
Catching his breath, Athir leaned against the wall of a dockside building. He allowed the smells, the sounds, the feel of this new city to seep into his skin.
Athir was a small, wiry man with pinched features, close-cropped, sandy hair with a small tail trailing past the nape of his neck, and a stubbly beard. His pale eyes shifted constantly, as though they were searching for the nearest escape route.
Like a persistent bit of flotsam, Athir Rin had washed up in nearly every seaport in Cym Dinath. He was a bandit and bilker by trade, and a sailor by necessity. A ship sailing away from a dock was the best way he knew to escape death or dismemberment at the hands of those whose laws he flouted and pockets he lightened.
That was how he had become a member of the White Gull’s crew. He had stolen jewels from a merchant in Fiadol, but had not been able to fence them quickly enough in the city’s underground market. Cutting his losses, Athir had lost himself in Fiadol’s teeming wharf district before the merchant’s private men-at-arms could catch up with him, never mind the city guard.
Eventually, he had heard about the Almovaads and their Voyage of the Doomed. And he knew he stood a better chance for survival on their mad venture into the Sea of Storms than he would if he remained much longer in Fiadol.
Desperate to fill out his crew, Pel Muldure had agreed to take Athir on board despite his notoriety in sailors’ circles. In docks throughout Cym Dinath, Athir Rin was known as the “Ship’s Rat.” Despite that cognomen, however, Athir was a good seaman. He had to be; otherwise he would have been thrown overboard from most of the ships on which he had sailed.
When the Seer’s protection finally failed and the storms struck, Athir had barely managed to live through the ferocious battering of wind and wave. Now, he had made landfall and he was alive. By Athir’s lights, that meant he owed nothing more to Muldure, or to the Seer, whom he had initially considered a madman, but now grudgingly respected. Even so, Athir could never become a Believer. The only deity he acknowledged was the god of chance.
He gazed out at the dark streets of Khambawe. He looked nothing like a Matile, but he knew he could find ways to blend in with the seamier elements of the populace. Athir had done so many times before, in places where he would have seemed as out-of-place as a hawk in a henhouse.
The Ship’s Rat cast a final glance at the broken hulk of the White Gull and the people on board who were oblivious of his departure.
“So long, suckers,” he muttered before disappearing into the darkness of his newest rat-hole.
4
Gebrem and Tiyana sat alone in the Chamber of Audiences, save for the ornately armored Emperor’s Guards. The presence of the guardsmen was only a formality; many generations had passed since the last time blood had been spilled in the Palace. As the Empire waned, its people clung ever-closer to the symbols of their previous glories, and of all those symbols, none stood higher than the Emperor.
Palace shamashas had placed cups of kef on the low table at which the Leba and his daughter were seated. Gebrem raised his cup to his lips, sipped slowly, and gazed at Tiyana through the faint wisps that rose from the hot liquid.
Tiyana noticed the concern showing in his eyes.
“What troubles you, Father?” she asked.
Gebrem smiled fleetingly as he placed his cup back on the table.
“I was remembering when the Fidi’s ship crashed into the dock after you fell into the water,” he said. “I thought I had lost you.”
Tiyana gave his hand a quick squeeze. She had been a small child when her mother, Membiri, died from a disease neither healers nor ashuma could cure. Gebrem and Membiri had no other children, and the Leba had never married again after his wife’s death. Being Leba was Gebrem’s duty; being father to Tiyana was his life.
An unspoken message passed between them as Gebrem took another sip of kef. They both knew the flawed First Calling no longer mattered; the coming of the Fidi was of much greater significance – perhaps greater than anything that had happened to the Matile since the Storm Wars ended.
“The Emperor is taking a long time to decide,” Tiyana said.
Gebrem grimaced and shook his head.
“Alemeyu decided before he went into Agaw’s Chamber,” he said.
“Then why – ”
Tiyana broke off as she realized the answer to the question she no longer needed to ask. By forcing her and Gebrem to wait, Alemeyu was asserting his authority. But she still didn’t understand why he needed to do so. Was he not the Emperor? She decided not to ask Gebrem to explain Alemeyu’s motives. Her father had a tendency to become rancorous whenever he talked about his exalted cousin.
“What do you think he decided?” she asked instead.
Gebrem shrugged.
“Alemeyu has always been difficult to predict,” he said. “But I don’t see any reason to keep the Fidis captive. Do you?”
Tiyana thought for a moment, thinking of the sliver of doubt that still remained in her mind; the single word Nama-kwah had spoken to her.
“No,” she finally said.
Danger ...
“For now,” she added.
Gebrem was about to respond to her equivocation when a stirring among the guards signalled the Emperor’s return to the Audience Chamber. When he came into sight, Dardar Alemeyu was shrouded in shadows, and his face betrayed no emotion.
As Gebrem and Tiyana rose to their feet, Alemeyu strode wordlessly toward the Lion Throne and settled into
