outman most raiding parties."
Otah sipped his tea. The water wasn't quite hot enough to scald.
"The other way?"
"We can use the same number to man twenty ships. A mixed force, ours and
your own. Throw on as many men as we can find who are well enough to
stand upright. It would actually be easier to defeat in a battle. The
men who knew what they were about would be spread thin, and amateurs are
worse than nothing in a sea fight. But weigh it against the sight of
twenty ships. The pirates would be mad to come against us in force."
"Unless they know we're all lights and empty show," Otah said. "There
are suggestions that the mercenaries we have at Chaburi-Tan are working
both sides."
Balasar sucked his teeth.
"That makes it harder," he agreed.
"How long would you need?" Otah asked.
"A week for the smaller force. Twice that for the larger."
"How many of our allies would we lose in the court here?"
"Hard to say. Knowing who your friends are is a tricky business right
now. You'll have fewer than if they stayed."
Otah took a slice of apple, chewing the soft flesh slowly to give
himself time. Balasar was silent, his expression unreadable. It occurred
to Otah that the man would have made a decent courier.
"Give me the day," he said. "I'll have an answer for you tonight.
Tomorrow at the latest."
"Thank you, Most High," Balasar said.
"I know how much I've asked of you," Otah said.
"It's something I owe you. Or that we owe each other. Whatever I can do,
I will."
Otah smiled and took a pose of gratitude, but he was wondering what
limits that debt would find if Idaan spoke to the old general. He was
dancing around too many blades. He couldn't keep them all clear in his
mind, and if he stumbled, there would be blood.
Otah finished his meal, allowed the servants to change his outer robe to
a formal black with threads of gold throughout, and led his ritual
procession to the audience chamber. The members of his court flowed into
their places in the appropriate order, with the custom-driven signs of
loyalty and obeisance. Otah restrained himself from shouting at them all
to hurry. The time he spent in empty form was time stolen. He didn't
have it to spare.
The audiences began, each a balancing between the justice of the issue,
the politics behind those involved, and the massive complex webwork that
made up the relationships of the court, of the cities, of the world.
When he'd been young, the Khai Saraykeht had held audiences for things
as simple as land disputes and broken contracts. Those days were gone,
and nothing reached so high as the Emperor of the Khaiem unless no one
lower dared rule on the matter. Nothing was trivial, everything fraught
with implication.
Midday came and went, and the sun began its slow fall to the west. Storm
clouds rose, white and soft and taller than mountains, but the rain
stayed out over the sea. The daylight moon hung in the blue sky to the
north. Otah didn't think of Balasar or Idaan, Chaburi-Tan or the andat.
When at last he paused to eat, he felt worn thin enough to see through.
He tried to consider Balasar's analysis, but ended by staring at the
plate of lemon fish and rice as if it were enthralling.
Because he had been hoping for a moment's peace, he'd chosen to eat his
little meal in one of the low halls at the back of the palace. The stone
floor and simple, unadorned plaster walls made it seem more like the
common room of a small wayhouse than the center of empire. That was part
of its appeal. The shutters were open on the garden behind it: crawling
lavender, starfall rose, mint, and, without warning, Danat, in a
formally cut robe of deep blue hot with yellow, blood running from his
nose to cover his mouth and chin. Otah put down the bowl.
Danat stalked into the hall and halfway across it before he noticed that
a table was occupied. He hesitated, then took a pose of greeting. The
fingers of his right hand were scarlet where he had tried to stanch the
flow and failed. Otah didn't recall having stood. His expression must
have been alarmed, because Danat smiled and shook his head.
"It's not bad," he said. "Just messy. I didn't want to come through the
larger halls."
"What happened?"
"I have met my rival," Danat said. "Hanchat Dor."
"There's blood? There's blood between you?"
"No," Danat said. "Well, technically yes, I suppose. But no."
He lowered himself to sit at the table where Otah's food lay abandoned.
There was a carafe of water and a porcelain bowl. As Otah sat, his boy
wet one of his sleeves and set about wiping the blood from around his
grin. Otah's first violent impulses to protect his son and punish his
assailant were disarmed by that smile. Not conquered, but disarmed.
"He and Ana-cha were haunting the path between the palaces and the
poet's house, just before the pond," Danat said. "We had words. He took
some exception to our demand that Ana-cha apologize. He suggested that I
should feel honored to have breathed the same air as his darling
chipmunk. Seriously, Papa. `Darling chipmunk."'
"It might be a Galtic endearment," he said, trying to match his son's
light tone.
Danat waved the thought away. It would be no more dignified, Otah
admitted to himself, because a whole culture said it. Danat went on.
"I said that my business wasn't with him, but with Ana-cha. He began
declaiming something in rhymed verse about him and his love being one
flesh. Ana-cha told him to stop, but he only started bellowing it."
"How did Ana-cha react?"
Danat's grin widened. Blood had pinked his teeth.
"She seemed a bit embarrassed. I began speaking to her as if he weren't
there. And ..."
Danat shrugged.
"He hit you?"
"I may have goaded him," Danat said. "A little."
Otah sat back, stunned. Danat raised his hands to a pose appropriate to
the announcement of victory in a game. Otah let himself smile too, but
there was a touch of melancholy behind it. His son was no longer the
ill, fragile child he'd known. That boy was gone. In his place was a
young man with the same instinct to rough-and-tumble as any number of
young men. The same as Otah had suffered once himself. It was so easy to
forget.
"I had the palace armsmen throw him in a cell," Danat said. "I've set a
guard on him in case anyone decides to defend my abused dignity by
killing him."
"Yes, that would complicate things," Otah agreed.
"Ana followed the whole way shrieking, but she was as angry at
Hanchat-cha as at me. Once I get to looking a bit less like an