etiquette, and Otah felt the tightness in his chest release by half a

turn. At least they were now respecting forms.

"Most High," Radaani said, "this may not be the best time to put

restrictions on trade. Machi will need to keep its ties to the other

cities strong if we're to weather this tragedy."

"If the smaller houses see carts of gold rolling away to Cetani and

tldun, they'll start talking of how the rats all run when the house

catches fire," Otah said. "My house hasn't caught fire."

Radaani pursed his lips, his eyes shifting as if reading some invisible

text as he reconsidered some internal plan that Otah had just ruined,

but he said nothing more.

"Machi needs your loyalty and your obedience," Otah said. "You are all

good men, and the leaders of respected families. Understand that I value

each of you, and your efforts to keep the peace in this time will he

remembered and honored."

And the first of you to bolt, I will destroy and sow your lands with

salt, Otah thought but didn't say. He let his eyes carry that part of

the message, and from the unease in the men before him, he knew that

they had understood. For over a decade, they had thought themselves

ruled by a softhearted man, an upstart put in his father's chair by

strange fortune and likely less suited to the role than his lady wife,

the innkeep. And as terrible as this day was, Otah found he felt some

small joy in suggesting they might have been mistaken.

Once they had been dismissed, Otah waved away his servants and walked to

his private apartments. Kiyan came to him, taking his hand in her own.

Cehmai sat on the edge of a low couch, his face still empty with shock.

He had been weeping openly when Otah left.

"How did it go?" Kiyan asked.

"Well, I think. Strangely, it's much easier than dealing with Eiah."

"You don't love them," Kiyan said.

"Ah, is that the difference?"

A plate of fresh apples stood on a copper table, a short, wicked knife

beside it. Otah sliced a bit of the white flesh and chewed thoughtfully.

"They'll still move their wealth away, you know," Kiyan said. "Blocking

the bridge won't stop a ferry crossing in the night with its lanterns

shuttered or wagons looping up north and crossing the water someplace in

the mountains."

"I know it. But if I can keep the thing down to a few ferries and

wagons, that will do. I'll also need to send messages to the Khaiem,"

Otah said. "Cetani and Amnat-Tan to start."

"Better they hear the had news from you," she agreed. "Should I call for

a scribe?"

"No. Just paper and a fresh ink brick. I'll do the thing myself."

"I'm sorry, Most High," Cehmai said again. "I don't know ... I don't

know how it happened. He was there, and then ... he just wasn't. 'T'here

wasn't even a struggle. He just ..."

"It doesn't matter," Otah said. "It's gone, and so it's gone. We'll move

forward from that."

"It does matter, though," the poet said, and his voice was a cry of

despair. Otah wondered what it would feel like, dedicating a life to one

singular thing and then in an instant, losing it. He himself had led a

half-dozen lives-laborer, fisherman, midwife's assistant, courier,

father, Khai-but Cehmai had never been anything besides a poet. Exalted

above all other men, honored, envied. And now, suddenly, he was only a

man in a brown robe. Otah put a hand to the man's shoulder, and saw a

moment's passing shame in Cehmai's expression. It was, perhaps, too

early still for comfort.

A scratch came at the door and a servant boy entered, took a formal

pose, and announced the poet Maati Vaupathai and Liat Chokavi. A moment

later, Maati rushed in, his cheeks an alarming red, his breath hard, his

belly heaving. Liat was no more than a step behind. He could see the

alarm in her expression. Kiyan stepped forward and helped Maati to a

seat. The two women met each other's gaze, and there was a moment's

tension before Otah stepped forward.

"Liat-cha," he said. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course," she said. "I came as soon as Maati asked me. Is something

wrong? Have we heard from the Dai-kvo?"

"No," Maati said between gasps. "Not that."

Otah took a questioning pose, and Maati shook his head.

"Didn't say. People around. Would have been heard," Maati said. 't'hen,

"Gods, I need to eat less. I'm too fat to run anymore."

Otah took Liat's elbow and guided her to a chair, then sat beside

Cehmai. Only Kiyan remained standing.

"Liat-cha, you worked with Amat Kyaan," Otah said. "You've taken over

the house she founded. She must have spoken with you about how those

first years were. After Heshai-kvo died and Seedless escaped."

"Of course," Liat said.

"I need you to tell us about that," Otah said. "I need to know what she

did to keep Saraykeht together. What she tried that worked, what failed.

What she wished the Khai Saraykeht had done in response, what she would

have preferred he had not. Everything."

Liat's gaze went to Mlaati and then Cehmai and then hack to Otah. "There

was still a deep confusion in her expression.

"It's happened again," Otah said.

10

Given a half-decent road, the armies of Galt could travel faster than

any in the world. It was the steam wagons, Balasar reflected, that made

the difference. As long as there was wood or coal to burn and water for

the boilers, the carts could keep their pace at a fast walk. In addition

to the supplies they carried-food, armor, weapons that the men were then

spared-a tenth of the infantry could climb aboard the rough slats, rest

themselves, and eat. Rotated properly, his men could spend a full day at

fast march, make camp, and he rested enough by morning to do the whole

thing again. Balasar sat astride his horse-a nameless mare Eustin had

procured for him-and looked back over the valley; the sun dropping at

their back stretched their shadows to the east. Hundreds of plumes of

dark smoke and pale steam rose from the green silk banners rippling

above and beside them. The plain behind him was a single, ordered mass

of the army stretching hack, it seemed, to the horizon. Boots crushed

the grasses, steam wagons consumed the trees, horses tramped the ground

to mud. 'T'heir passing alone would scar these fields and meadows for a

generation.

And the whole of it was his. Balasar's will had gathered it and would