"there has never ... the authority of the Emperor can't be ... and Gice-

cha isn't even ..."

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