Otah strode across the room toward her, blood rushing in his ears. The Master of Tides fell back a step, anticipating a blow, but Otah only plucked the ledger from her hands. The charcoal had fallen to the floor, and Otah scooped it up, turned to a fresh page, and wrote out the investment he'd just spoken. When he handed it back, the Master of Tides opened and closed her mouth like a fish on sand, then said, 'The court. The utkhaiem. A council with explicit imperial authority? This
… can't be done.'
'It can,' Otah said.
'Most High, forgive me, but what you've suggested here changes everything! It throws aside all tradition!'
'I do that sometimes,' Otah said. 'Get me a horse.'
Danat's force was small-a dozen armsmen with swords and bows, two steamcarts with rough shedlike structures on the flats, and Danat in a wool huntsman's robes. Otah's own robe was leather dyed the red of roses; his horse was taller at the shoulder than the top of his own head. The wicker traveler's basket jounced against the animal's flank as he cantered to Danat's side.
'Father,' Danat said. He took no pose, but his body was stiff and defiant.
'I heard your speech. It was rash,' Otah said. 'What was your plan, now that I've sent you off to find and kill this new poet?'
'We're going north to Utani,' Danat said. 'It's central, and we can move in any direction once we've gotten word where he is.'
'She,' Otah said. 'Wherever she is.'
Danat blinked, his spine relaxing in his surprise.
'And you can't announce a plan like this, Danat-kya,' Otah said. 'No matter how fast you ride, word will move faster. And you'll know when the news has reached her, because you'll be just as crippled as the Galts.'
'You knew about this?' Danat murmured.
'I know some things. I'd had reports,' Otah said. His mount whiskered uneasily. 'I had taken some action. I didn't know it had gone so far. Utani is the wrong way. We need to ride west. Toward Pathai. And whichever rider is fastest goes ahead and stops any couriers heading back toward Saraykeht. I'm expecting a letter, but we can meet it on the road.'
'You can't go,' Danat said. 'The cities need you. They need to see that there's someone in control.'
'They do see that. They see it's the poet,' Otah said.
Danat glanced at the steamcarts with their covered burdens. He looked nervous and lost. Otah felt the impulse to tell him, there on the open street, what he was facing: Maati's plan, his own reluctance to act, the specter of Eiah's involvement, Idaan's mission. He restrained himself. There would be time later, and fewer people who might overhear.
'Papa-kya,' Danat said. 'I think you should stay here. They need
…'
'They need the poets ended,' Otah said, knowing as he said it that he also meant his daughter. For a moment, he saw her. In his imagination, she was always younger than the real woman. He saw her dark eyes and furrowed brow as she studied with the court physicians. He felt the warmth and weight of her, still small enough to rest in his arms. He smelled the sour-milk breath she'd had before the soft place in her skull had grown closed. It might not come to that, he told himself.
He also knew that it might.
'We'll do this together,' Otah said. 'The two of us.'
'Papa…'
'You can't stop me from this, Danat-kya,' Otah said gently. 'I'm the Emperor.'
Danat tried to speak, first confusion in his eyes, then distress, and then amused resignation. Otah looked out at the armsmen, their eyes averted. The steamcarts chuffed and shuddered, the sheds on them larger than some homes Otah had kept as a child. The anger rose in him again. Not with Danat or Eiah, Maati or Idaan. His anger was with the gods themselves and the fate that had brought him here, and it burned in him.
'West,' Otah called. 'West. All of us. Now.'
They passed the arch that marked the edge of the city at three hands past midday. Men and women had come out, lining the streets as they passed. Some cheered them, others merely watched. Few, Otah thought, were likely to believe that the old man at the front was truly the Emperor.
The buildings west of the city proper grew lower and squat. Instead of roof tiles, they had layers of water- grayed wood or cane thatching. The division between the last of Saraykeht and the nearest low town was invisible. Traders pulled aside to let them pass. Feral dogs yipped at them from the high grass and followed along just out of bowshot. The sun slipped down in its arc, blinding Otah and drawing tears.
A thousand small memories flooded Otah's mind like raindrops in an evening storm. A night he'd spent years before, sleeping in a hut made from grass and mud. The first horse he'd been given when he took the colors of House Siyanti and joined the gentleman's trade. He had traveled these very roads, back then. When his hair had still been dark and his back still strong and Kiyan still the loveliest wayhouse keeper in all the cities he had seen.
They rode until full dark came, stopping at a pond. Otah stood for a moment, looking into the dark water. It wasn't quite cold enough for ice to have formed on its surface. His spine and legs ached so badly he wondered whether he would be able to sleep. The muscles of his belly protested when he tried to bend. It had been years since he'd taken to the road in anything faster or more demanding than a carried litter. He remembered the pleasant near-exhaustion at the end of a long day's ride, and his present pain had little in common with it. He thought about sitting on the cool, wet grass. He was more than half afraid that once he sat down, he wouldn't be able to stand.
Behind him, the kilns of the steamcarts had been opened, and the armsmen were cooking birds over the coals. The smaller of the two sheds perched atop the steamcarts had been opened to reveal tightly rolled blankets, crates of soft fuel coal, and earthenware jars inscribed with symbols for seeds, raisins, and salted fish. As Otah watched, Danat emerged from the second shed, standing alone in the shadows at the end of the cart. One of the armsmen struck up a song, and the others joined in. It was the kind of thing Otah himself would have done, back when he had been a different man.
'Danat-kya,' he said when he'd walked close enough to be heard over the good cheer of their companions. His son squatted at the edge of the cart, and then sat. In the light from the kilns, Danat seemed little more than a deeper shadow, his face hidden. 'There are some things we should discuss.'
'There are,' Danat said, and his voice pulled Otah back.
Otah shifted to sit at his son's side. Something in his left knee clicked, but there was no particular pain, so he ignored it. Danat laced his fingers.
'You're angry that I've come?' Otah said.
'No,' Danat said. 'It's not… not that, quite. But I hadn't thought that you would be here, or that we'd be going west. I made arrangements with my own plan set, and you've changed it.'
'I can apologize. But this is the right thing. I can't swear that Pathai is-
'That's not what I'm trying… Gods,' Danat said. He turned to his father, his eyes catching the kiln light and flashing with it. 'Come on. You might as well know.'
Danat shifted, rose, and walked across the wide, wooden back of the steamcart. The shed's door was shut fast. As Otah pulled himself up, grunting, Danat worked a thick iron latch. The armsmen's singing faltered. Otah was aware of eyes fixed upon them, though he couldn't see the men as more than silhouettes.
Otah made his way to the shed's open door. Inside was pure darkness. Danat stood, latch in his hand, silent. Otah was about to speak when another voice came from the black.
'Danat?' Ana Dasin asked. 'Is it you?'
'It is,' Danat said. 'And my father.'
Gray-eyed, the Galtic girl emerged from the darkness. She wore a blouse of simple cotton, a skirt like a peasant worker's. Her hands moved before her, testing the air until they found the wood frame of the shed's door. Otah must have made a sound, because she turned as if to look at him, her gaze going past him and into nothing. He almost took a pose of formal greeting but stopped himself.
'Ana-cha,' he said.
'Most High,' she replied, her chin high, her brows raised.
