fill his eyes. Danat shook his shoulder with a sound that was part

frustration and part plea. When Otah couldn't find a response, Danat

stood, took a pose that ended an audience, and strode out. The young

man's impatience lingered in the air like incense.

There had been a time when Otah had been possessed of the certainty of

youth. He had held the fate of nations in his hands, and done what

needed doing. He had killed. Somewhere the years had pressed it out of

him. Danat would see the same complexity, futility, and sorrow, given

time. He was young. He wasn't tired yet. His world was still simple.

Servants came, and Otah turned them away. He considered going to his

desk, writing another of his letters to Kiyan, but the effort of it was

too much. He thought of Sinja, riding the swift autumn waves outside

Chaburi-Tan and waiting for aid that would never come. Would he know?

Were there Galts enough among his crew to guess what had happened?

The world was so large and so complex, it was almost impossible to

believe that it could collapse so quickly. Idaan had been right again.

All the problems that had plagued him were meaningless in the face of this.

Eiah. Maati. The people he had failed. They had taken the world from

him. Well, perhaps they'd have a better idea what to do with it. And if

a few hundred or a few thousand Galts died, there was nothing Otah could

do to save them. He was no poet. He could have been. One angry, rootless

boy's decision differently made, and everything would have been different.

A servant woman came and took away a tray of untouched food that Otah

hadn't known was there. The pine branches in the grate were all ashes

now. The sun was almost at the height of its day's arc. Otah rubbed his

eyes and only then recognized the sound that had drawn him from his

reverie. Trumpets and bells. Callers' voices ringing out over the

palaces, over the city, over sea and sky and everything in it. A

pronouncement was to be made, and all men and women of the utkhaiem were

called to hear it.

He made his way through the back halls, set like stagecraft, that

allowed him to appear at the appropriate ritual moment. What few

servants there were bent themselves almost double in poses of obeisance

as he passed. Otah ignored them.

A side hall, almost too narrow for a man to walk down, took him to a

hidden seat. Years before, it had been a place where the Khai Saraykeht

could watch entertainments without being seen. Now it was Otah's own. He

looked down upon the hall. It was packed so thickly there was no room to

sit. The cushions meant to allow people to take their rest were all

being trampled underfoot. Whisperers had to fight to hold their

positions. And among the bright robes and jeweled headdresses of the

utkhaiem, there were also the tunics and gray, empty eyes of Galts come

to hear what was said. He saw them and thought of an old dream he'd had

of Heshai, the poet he had once killed, attending a dinner though still

very much dead. Corpses walked among the utkhaiem. Balasar was not among

them.

Silence took the hall as if someone had cupped his hands over Otah's

ears, and he turned toward the dais. His son stood there, his robe the

pale of mourning.

"My friends," Danat said. "There is little I can say which you do not

already know. Our brothers and sisters of Galt have been struck. The

only plausible cause is this: a new poet has been trained, a new andat

has been bound, and, against all wisdom, it has been used first as a

weapon."

Danat paused as the whisperers repeated his words out through the wide

galleries and, no doubt, into the streets.

"The fleet is in peril," Danat continued. "Chaburi-Tan placed at risk.

We do not know who the poet is that has done this thing. We cannot trust

that they will be as quick to blind our enemies as they have our

friends. We cannot trust that they will undo the damage they have caused

to our new allies. Our new families. And so my father has asked me to

find this new poet and kill him."

Otah's fingers pressed against the carved stone until his joints ached.

His chest ached with dread. He doesn't know, Otah wanted to shout. His

sister is part of this, and he does not know it. He shook and kept

silent. There was only the swelling roar of the people, the whisperers

shouting above it, and his son standing proud and still, shoulders set.

"There are some among us who look upon what has happened today as a

moment of hope. They believe that the andat returned to the world marks

the end of our hard times. With all respect, it marks their beginning,

and neither I nor. .

Otah turned away, pushing his way down the narrow hall, afraid to let

his hands leave the stone for fear he should lose his balance. In the

dim hallways, he gathered himself. He had expected shame. Seeing Danat

speaking as he himself could not, he thought that he would feel shame.

He didn't. There was only anger.

The first servant he found, he grabbed by the sleeve and spun halfway

around. The woman started to shout at him, then saw who he was, saw his

face, and went pale.

"Whatever you were doing, stop it," Otah said. "Find me the Master of

Tides. Bring her to my rooms. Do it now."

She might have taken a pose that accepted the command or one of

obeisance or any other of the hundred thousand things the physical

grammar of the Khaiem might express. Otah didn't stop long enough to

see, and didn't care.

In his rooms, he called for a traveler's basket. The thin wicker shifted

and creaked as he pulled the simplest robes from his wardrobes and

stuffed them in, one atop the other like they were canvas trousers. The

dressing servants made small pawing movements, and Otah didn't bother to

find out whether they were meant to help or slow him before he sent them

all away. He found eight identical pairs of strapped leather boots, put

three pairs into his basket, then snarled and took the extra ones back

out. He only had two feet, he didn't need more boots than that. He

didn't notice the Master of Tides until the woman made a small sound,

like someone stepping on a mouse.

"Good," Otah said. "You have something to write with?"

She fumbled with her sleeve and pulled out a small ledger and a finger

charcoal. Otah reeled off half-a-dozen names, all the heads of high

families of the utkhaiem. He paused, then named Balasar Gice as well.

The Master of Tides scribbled, the charcoal graying her fingers.

"That is my High Council," Otah said. "Here with you as witness, I

invest them with the power to administrate the Empire until Danat or I

return. Is that clear enough?"

"Most High," the Master of Tides said, her face pale and bloodless,