and water refreshed, the horses replaced with well-rested animals, and
the scent of snow heavy in the air. They moved faster than Otah had
expected, not pausing to eat or rest. He himself took a turn at the kiln
of the larger steamcart, keeping the fire hot and well-fueled. If the
armsmen were surprised to see the Emperor working like a commoner, they
didn't say anything. Two couriers passed them riding east, but neither
bore a message from Idaan. Three came up behind them bearing letters for
the Emperor from what seemed like half the court at Saraykeht and Utani.
Nightfall caught them at the top of the last high, broad pass that
opened onto the western plains. On the horizon, Pathai glittered like a
congress of stars. The armsmen assembled the sleeping tents, unrolling
layers of leather and fur to drape over the canvas. Otah squatted by the
kiln, reading through letter after letter. The silk threads that had
once sewn the paper closed rested in knots and tangles by his feet. The
snow that lay about them was fresh though the sky had cleared, and the
cold combined with the day's work to tire him. The joints of his hands
ached, and his eyes were tired and difficult to focus. He dreaded the
close, airless sleeping tents and the ache-interrupted night that lay
before him almost as much as he was annoyed by the petty politics of court.
Letter after letter praised or castigated him for his decision to leave.
The Khaiate Council, as it had been deemed in his absence, was either a
terrible mistake or an act of surpassing wisdom, and whichever it was,
the author of the letter would be better placed on it than someone Otah
had named.
Balasar Gice, the only Galt on the council, was pressing for relief
ships to sail for Galt with as much food as could be spared and men to
help guide and oversee the blinded. The rest of the council was divided,
and a third of them had written to Otah for his opinion. Otah put those
letters directly into the fire. If he'd meant to answer every difficult
question from the road, he wouldn't have created the council.
There was no word from Sinja or Chaburi-Tan. Balasar, writing with a
secretary to help him, feared the worst. This letter, Otah tucked into
his sleeve. There was no reason to keep it. He could do nothing to
affect its news. But he couldn't bring himself to destroy something to
do with Sinja when his old friend's fate already seemed so tentative.
Uncertain footsteps sounded behind him. Ana Dasin was walking the wide
boards toward the kiln. Her hair was loose and her robe blue shot with
gold. Her grayed eyes seemed to search the darkness.
"Ana-cha," he said, both a greeting and a warning that he was there. The
girl started a little, but then smiled uncertainly.
"Most High," she said, nodding very nearly toward him. "Is ... I was
wondering if Danat-cha was with you?"
"He's gone to fetch water with the others," Otah said, nodding uselessly
toward a path that led to a shepherd's well. "He will be back in half a
hand, I'd think."
"Oh," Ana said, her face falling.
"Is there something I can do?"
Watching the struggle in the girl's expression seemed almost more an
intrusion than his previous eavesdropping. After a moment, she drew
something from her sleeve. Cream-colored paper sewn with yellow thread.
She held it out.
"The courier said it was from my father," she said. "I can't read it."
Otah cleared his throat against an unexpected tightness. He felt
unworthy of the girl's trust, and something like gratitude brought tears
to his eyes.
"I would be honored, Ana-cha, to read it for you," he said.
Otah rose, took the letter, and drew Ana to a stool near enough the kiln
to warm her, but not so close as to put her in danger of touching the
still-scorching metal. He ripped out the thread, unfolded the single
page, and leaned in toward the light.
It was written in Galtic though the script betrayed more familiarity
with the alphabet of the Khaiem. He knew before he began to read that
there would be nothing in it too personal to say to a secretary, and the
fact relieved him. He skimmed the words once, then again more slowly.
"Most High?" Ana said.
"It is addressed to you," Otah said. "It says this: I understand that
you've seen fit to run off without telling we or your mother. You should
know better than that. Then there are a few more lines that restate all
that."
Ana sat straight, her hands on her knees, her face expressionless. Otah
coughed, cleared his throat, and went on.
"There is a second section," he said. "He says ... well."
Otah smoothed the page with his fingers, tracing the words as he spoke.
"Still, I was your age once too. If good judgment were part of being
young, there would be no reason to grow old. In God's name write back to
tell us you're well. Your mother's sick that you'll fall off the trail
and get eaten by dogs, and I'm half-sick that you'll come back wed and
pregnant," Otah said. "He goes on to offer a brief analysis of my own
intelligence. I'll skip that."
Ana chuckled and wiped away a tear. Otah grinned and kept the smile in
his voice when he went on.
"He ends by saying that he loves you. And that he trusts you to do
what's right."
"You're lying," Ana said.
Otah took a pose that denied an unjust accusation, then flapped his
hands in annoyance. The physical language of the Khaiem was a difficult
habit to put aside.
"Why would I lie?" he asked.
"To be polite? I don't know But my father? Fatter Dasin putting on paper
that he trusts his little girl's judgment? The stars would dance on
treetops first. The wed-and-pregnant part sounded like him, though."
"Well," Otah said, placing the folded page into her fingers. "He might
surprise you. Keep this, and you can read it for yourself once we've
fixed all this mess."
Ana took a pose that offered thanks. It wasn't particularly well done.
"You are always welcome," Otah said.
They sat in silence until Danat and the other water bearers returned.
Then Otah left his seat to Danat and crawled into the sleeping tent,
where, true to expectations, he shifted from discomfort to discomfort
until the sun rose again.
They reached Pathai at midday. Silk banners streamed from the towers and
the throng that met them at the western arch cheered and sang and played
flutes and drums. Men and women hung from lattices of wood and rope to
get a better view of Otah and Danat, their armsmen, the steamcarts. The
air was thick with the scents of honeyed almonds and mulled wine and
bodies. The armsmen of Pathai met them, made an elaborate ritual
obeisance, and then cleared a path for them until they reached the palaces.