competing etiquette masters would likely drown out the ocean. Otah was

more than willing to leave the fighting for position and status for the

dock master to settle out.

The crowd's voice rose when the ship pulled in, and again when the walk

bridged the shifting gap between ship and land. His servants preceded

him in the proper array and sequence, and then Otah left the sea. The

noise was something physical, a wind built of sound. The ceremonial

guard adopted poses of obeisance, and Otah took his ritual reply. The

first of the guard to stand, grinning, was Sinja.

"You've shaved your whiskers," Otah shouted.

"I was starting to look like an otter," Sinja agreed. His expression

became opaque and he bowed to Otah's right. "Balasar-cha."

"Sinja," Balasar said.

The past intruded. Once Sinja had played the part of Balasar's man,

expert on the cities of the Khaiem and mercenary leader of war. He had

spied on the Galts, betrayed Balasar, and killed the man Balasar held

dearest to his heart. It thickened the air between them, even now.

Balasar's eyes shifted to the middle distance, a frown on his lips as if

he were counting how many of his dead might have lived, had Sinja

remained true. And then the moment was gone. Or if not gone, covered

over for the sake of etiquette.

The others of the Galtic party lurched in from the ship, unsteady on

planks that didn't move, and the assembled masses cheered each of them

like a hero returned from war. Servants dressed in light cotton robes

led each sweating Galt to a waiting litter, Otah's station of honor

making him the last to leave.

"I suspect they'll be changing to local clothes before long," Sinja

said. "They all look half-dead with the heat."

"I'm feeling it myself," Otah said.

"Should I interrupt protocol?" Sinja asked. "I could have you loaded and

on your way up the hills in the time it takes to kill a chicken."

"No," Otah said with a sigh. "If we're doing this, let's do it well. But

ride with me, eh? I want to hear what's going on."

"Yes," Sinja said. "Well. You've missed some dramatics, but I don't

think there's anything particularly ominous waiting. Except the pirates.

And the conspiracy. You did get the report about the conspiracy in

Yalakeht? It's apparently got ties to Obar State."

"Well, that's just lovely," Otah said.

"No more plague than usual," Sinja offered gamely, and then it was time

and servants stepped forward to escort Otah to his litter. The shifting

gait of his bearers was similar to being aboard ship, but also wrong.

Between that and the heat, Otah was beginning to feel nauseated, but the

buildings that passed by his beaded window were comforting. Great blue

and white walls topped with roof tiles of gray and red; banners hanging

in the slow, thick air; men and women in poses of welcome or else waving

small lengths of brightly colored cloth. If it had been autumn or

winter, the old firekeepers' kilns would have been lit and strange

flames would have accompanied him up the wide streets to the palaces.

"Any problems with the arrival?" he asked Sinja.

"A few. Angry women throwing stones, mostly. We've locked them away

until the last ship comes in. Danat and I decided to put the girl and

her family in the poet's house. It isn't the most impressive location,

but it's comfortable, and it's far enough back from the other buildings

that they might have some privacy. The gods all know they'll be gawked

at like a three-headed calf the rest of the time."

"I think Ana has a lover," Otah said. "One of the sailors was built

rather like a courtier."

"Ah," Sinja said. "I'll tell the guard to keep eyes out. I assume we'd

rather he didn't come calling?"

"No, better that he not," Otah said.

"I don't suppose there's a chance the girl's still a virgin?"

Otah took a pose that dismissed the concern. Even if she weren'tand of

course she wasn't-she wouldn't be bearing another man's child. Not if

the boy he had glimpsed in the hold of the Avenger was a Galt. Otah felt

a moment's unease.

"If the guard do find a boy sneaking in, have him held until I can speak

with him. I'd rather that this whole situation not get more complex than

it already is."

"Your word is law, Most High," Sinja said, his tone light. Otah chuckled.

He had missed the man's company. There were few people in the world who

could see Otah beneath his titles, fewer still who dared mock him. It

was a familiarity that had been forged by years. Together, they had

acted against the plot which had first changed Otah from outcast to Khai

Machi. They had loved the same woman and come near violence over it.

Sinja had trained Otah's son in the arts of combat and strategy, had

gotten drunk with the Emperor after Kiyan's funeral, had spoken his mind

whether invited to or not. Otah had no other advisor or friend like him.

As they moved north, the crowd that lined the street changed its nature.

Once they had passed out of the throng at the seafront, the robes and

faces had been those of laborers and artisans. As they passed the

compounds of the merchant houses, the robes and banners became more

ornate. Rich and saturated colors were edged with embroidery of gold and

worked in the symbols of the various houses. And then almost without a

pause, the symbols and colors were not of merchants, but of the families

of the utkhaiem, and the high walls and ornate shutters were not

mercantile compounds, but palaces. Men and women in fine robes took

poses of welcome and obeisance as servants and slaves fanned them. A

hidden choir burst into song somewhere to his left, the voices in

complex harmony. The litter stopped before the grand palace, the first

palace, the Emperor's palace. Otah stepped out, sweeping his gaze over

the ordered rows of servants and high officials until he saw the one man

he'd longed for.

Danat was in his twentieth summer, his face a mixture of Otah's long,

northern features and Kiyan's, thin and foxlike. The planes of his

cheeks had sharpened since Otah had gone. He looked older, more

handsome. He wore a robe of deep gray set off with a rich, red sash that

suited him. And still, Otah could see all the boys that had made this

man: the babe, the bumbling child new to his own feet, the long-ill boy

kept in his bed, the awkward and sorrowful youth, and the young heir to

the Empire. All of them stood before him, hands in a pose of formal

welcome, a smile glittering in his eyes. Otah broke protocol, embracing

his son. The boy's arms were strong.

"You've done well," Otah murmured.