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,
"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