first object of their love.

By the time Eiah and the others arrived in the late morning, Maati had

reached the decision that he'd fought against the whole night. He took

Eiah aside as soon as she came in.

"I have need of you," Maati said. "How much can you spirit away without

our being noticed? We'll need food and clothing and tools. Lots of

tools. And if there's a servant or slave you can trust ..."

"There isn't," Eiah said. "But things are in disarray right now. Half

the court in Nantani would chew their tongues out before offering

hospitality to a Galt. The other half are whipped to a froth trying to

get to Saraykeht before the rest. A few wagonloads here and there would

be easy to overlook."

Maati nodded, more than half to himself. Eiah took a pose of query.

"You're going to build me a school. I know where there's one to be had,

and with the others helping, it shouldn't take terribly long to have it

in order. And we need a teacher."

"We have a teacher, Maati-kya," Eiah said.

Maati didn't answer, and after a moment, Eiah looked down.

"Cehmai?" she asked.

"He's the only other living poet. The only one who's truly held one of

the andat. He could do more, I suspect, than I can manage."

"I thought you two had fallen out?"

"I don't like his wife," Maati said sourly. "But I have to try. The two

of us agreed on a way to find one another, if the need arose. I can hope

he's kept to it better than I have."

"I'll come with you."

"No," Maati said, putting a hand on Eiah's shoulder. "I need you to

prepare things for us. There's a place-I'll draw you a map to it. The

Galts attacked it in the war, killed everyone, but even if they dropped

bodies down the well, the water'll be fresh again by now. It's off the

high road between Pathai and Nantani...."

"That school?" Eiah said. "The place they sent the boys to train as

poets? That's where you want to go?"

"Yes," Maati said. "It's out of the way, it's built for itinerant poets,

and there may be something there-some book or scroll or engravings on

the walls-that the twice-damned Galts overlooked. Regardless, it's where

it all began. It's where we are going to take it all back."

3

The voyage returning Otah to the cities of the Khaiem took weeks to

prepare, and if the ships that had left Saraykeht all those months

before had looked like an invading fleet, the ones returning were a city

built on the water. The high-masted Galtic ships with their great

billowing sails dyed red and blue and gold took to the sea by the

dozens. Every great family of Galt seemed bent on sending a ship greater

than the others. The ships of the utkhaiem-lacquered and delicate and

low to the water-seemed small and awkward beside these, their newest

seafaring cousins. Birds circled above them, screaming confusion as if a

part of the coast itself had set out for foreign lands. The trees and

hills of Otah's onetime enemies fell away behind them. That first night,

the torches and lanterns made the sea appear as full of stars as the sky.

One of the small gifts the gods had granted Otah was a fondness for

travel by ship. The shifting of the deck under his feet, the vast scent

of the ocean, the call of the gulls were like visiting a place he had

once lived. He stood at the prow of the great Galtic ship given him by

the High Council for his journey home and looked out at the rising sun.

He had spent years in the eastern islands as a boy. He'd been a middling

fisherman, a better midwife's assistant, a good sailor. He had come

close to marrying an island woman, and still bore the first half of the

marriage tattoo on his breast. The ink had faded and spread over the

years as if he were a parchment dropped in water. With the slap of waves

against wood, the salt-laden air, the morning light dancing gold and

rose on the water, he remembered those days.

This late in the morning, he would already have cast his nets. His

fingers would have been numbed by the cold. He would have been eating

the traditional breakfast of fish paste and nuts from an earthenware

jar. The men he had known would be doing the same today, those who were

still alive. In another life, another world, he might be doing it still.

He had lived so many lives: half-starved street child; petty thief;

seafront laborer; fisherman; assistant midwife; courier; Khai; husband;

father; war leader; emperor. Put in a line that way, he could see how

another person might imagine his life to be an unending upward spiral,

but it didn't feel that way to him. He had done what he'd had to at the

time. One thing had led to another. A man without particular ambition

had been placed atop the world, and likewise the world had been placed

atop him. And against all probability, he found himself here, wearing

the richest robes in the cities, with a private cabin larger than some

boats he'd worked, and thinking fondly of fish paste and nuts.

Lost in thought, he heard the little ship's boat hail-a booming voice

speaking Galtic words-before he knew it was approaching. The watchman of

his own vessel replied, and then the landsman's chair descended. Otah

watched idly as a man in the colors of House Dasin was winched up, swung

over, and lowered to the deck. A knot of Otah's own clerks and servants

formed around the newcomer. Otah pulled his hands up into his sleeves

and made his way back.

The boy was a servant of some sort-the Galts had a system of gradation

that Otah hadn't bothered to memorize-with hair the color of beach sand

and a greenish tint to his face. Seeing Otah, the servant took a pose of

abject obeisance poorly.

"Most High," he said, his words heavily inflected, "Councilman Dasin

sends his regards. He and his wife extend the invitation to a dinner and

concert aboard the Avenger tomorrow evening."

The boy gulped and looked down. There had, no doubt, been a more formal

and flowery speech planned. Nausea led to brevity. Otah glanced at his

Master of Tides, a youngish woman with a face like a hatchet and a mind

for detail that would have served her in any trade. She took a pose that

deferred to Otah's judgment, gave permission, and offered to make excuse

all with a single gesture. Dasin's servant wouldn't have seen a third of

her meanings. Otah glanced over at the shining water. The sun's angle

had already shifted, the light already changed its colors and the colors

of the ocean that bore them. He allowed himself a small sigh.

Even here there would be no escape from it. Etiquette and court

politics, parties and private audiences, favors asked and given. There