cheese and cut apple; the cheese flowed in the day's heat, the pale

flesh of the apple had gone brown. Otah cleared his throat. Balasar

smiled, but didn't bother turning his head toward the sound.

"Most High?" Balasar asked.

"Yes," Otah said. "I came ... I came when I heard."

"I am afraid Sinja will have to do without my aid," Balasar said, his

voice ironic and bleak. "It seems I'll be in no condition to sail."

Otah leaned against the window's ledge, his shadow falling over Balasar.

The general turned toward him. His voice was banked rage, his expression

impotence.

"Did you know, Otah? Did you know what they were doing?"

"This wasn't my doing," Otah said. "I swear that."

"My life was taking your god-ghosts out of the world. I thought we'd

done it. Even after what you bastards did to me, to all of us, I was

content trying to make peace. I lost my men to it, and I lived with that

because the loss meant something. However desperate the cost, at least

we'd be rid of the fucking andat. And now. .

Balasar struck the table with an open palm, the report like stone

breaking. Otah lifted his hands toward a pose that offered comfort, and

then stopped and let his arms fall to his sides.

"I'm sorry," Otah said. "I will send my best agents to find the new poet

and resolve this. Until then, all of you will be cared for and-"

Balasar's laughter was a bark.

"Where do I begin, Most High? We will all be cared for? Do you really

think this has only happened to the Galts who came to your filthy city?

I will wager any odds you like that everyone back home is suffering the

same things we are. How many fishermen were on their boats when it

happened? How many people were traveling the roads? You could no more

care for all of us than pluck the moon out of the sky."

"I'm sorry for that," Otah said. "Once we've found the poet and talked

to . . ." He stumbled on his words, caught between the expected him and

the more likely her.

Balasar gestured to him, palms up as if displaying something small and

obvious.

"If it wasn't your pet andat that did this, then what hope do you have

of resolving anything?" Balasar asked. "They may have left you your

sight for the moment, but there's nothing you can do. It's the andat.

There's no defense. There's no counterattack that means anything. Gather

your armsmen. Take to the field. Then come back and die beside us. You

can do nothing."

This is my daughter's work, Otah thought but didn't say. I can hope that

she still loves me enough to listen.

"You've never felt this," Balasar said. "The rest of us? The rest of the

world? We know what it is to be faced with the andat. You can't end

this. You can't even negotiate. You have no standing now. The best you

can do is beg."

"Then I will beg," Otah said.

"Enjoy that," Balasar said, sitting back in his chair. It was like

watching a showfighter collapse at the end of a match. The vitality, the

anger, the violence snuffed out, and the general was only a small Galtic

man with crippled eyes, waiting for some kind soul to take away the

remains of his uneaten meal. Otah rose and walked quietly from the room.

All through the city, the scenes were playing out. Men and women who had

been well the night before were in states of rage and despair. They

blundered into the unfamiliar streets, screaming, swinging whatever

weapon came to hand at anyone who tried to help them. Or else they wept.

Or, like Balasar, folded in upon themselves. The last was the most terrible.

Balasar had been only the first stop in Otah's long, painful morning

journey. He'd meant to call on each of the high councillors, to promise

his efforts at restoration and the best of care until then. The general

had spoiled the plan. Otah did see two more men, made the same

declarations. Neither of the others scoffed, but Otah could see that his

words rang as hollow as a gourd.

Instead of the third councillor, Otah went back to his palaces. He

prayed as he walked, that some message would have come from Idaan. None

had. Instead, his audience chambers were filled with the utkhaiem, some

in fine robes hastily thrown on, others still in whatever finery they

had slept in. The sound of their voices competing one over another was

louder than surf and as incomprehensible. Everywhere he walked, their

eyes turned toward him. Otah walked with a grave countenance, his spine

as straight as he could keep it. He greeted the shock and the fear with

the same equanimity as the expressions of joy.

There was more joy than he had expected. More than he had hoped. The

andat had come back to the world, and the Galts made to suffer, and that

was somehow a cause to celebrate. Otah didn't respond to those calls,

but he did begin a mental catalog of who precisely was laughing, who

weeping. Someday, he told himself, someday the best of these men and

women would be rewarded, the worst left behind. Only he didn't know how.

In his private rooms, the servants fluttered like moths. No schedules

were right, no plans were made. Orders from the Master of Tides

contradicted the instructions from the Master of Keys, and neither

allowed for what the guards and armsmen said they needed to do. Otah

built his own fire in the grate, lighting it from the stub of a candle,

and let raw chaos reign about him.

Danat found him there, looking into the fire. His son's eyes were wide,

but his shoulders hadn't yet sagged. Otah took a pose of welcome and

Danat crouched before him.

"What are you doing, Papa-kya," Danat said. "You're just sitting here?"

"I'm thinking," Otah said, aware as he did so how weak the words sounded.

"They need you. You have to gather the high utkhaiem. You have to tell

them what's going on."

He looked at his son. The strong face, the sincere eyes the same rich

brown as Kiyan's had been. He would have made a good emperor. Better

than Otah had. He took his boy's hand.

"The fleet is doomed," Otah said. "Galt is broken. These new poets,

wherever they are, no longer answer to the Empire. What would you have

me say?"

"That," Danat said. "If nothing else, say that. Say what everyone knows

is true. How can that be wrong?"

"Because I have nothing to say after it," Otah said. "I don't know what

to do. I don't have an answer."

"Then tell them that we're thinking of one," Danat said.

Otah sat silent, his hands on his knees, and let the fire in the grate