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worked in the symbols of the various houses. And then almost without a

pause, the symbols and colors were not of merchants, but of the families

of the utkhaiem, and the high walls and ornate shutters were not

mercantile compounds, but palaces. Men and women in fine robes took

poses of welcome and obeisance as servants and slaves fanned them. A

hidden choir burst into song somewhere to his left, the voices in

complex harmony. The litter stopped before the grand palace, the first

palace, the Emperor's palace. Otah stepped out, sweeping his gaze over

the ordered rows of servants and high officials until he saw the one man

he'd longed for.

Danat was in his twentieth summer, his face a mixture of Otah's long,

northern features and Kiyan's, thin and foxlike. The planes of his

cheeks had sharpened since Otah had gone. He looked older, more

handsome. He wore a robe of deep gray set off with a rich, red sash that

suited him. And still, Otah could see all the boys that had made this

man: the babe, the bumbling child new to his own feet, the long-ill boy

kept in his bed, the awkward and sorrowful youth, and the young heir to

the Empire. All of them stood before him, hands in a pose of formal

welcome, a smile glittering in his eyes. Otah broke protocol, embracing

his son. The boy's arms were strong.

"You've done well," Otah murmured.

"None of the cities actually burned down while you were gone," Danat

replied softly. There was pride in his voice, pleasure at the compliment.

"But you sound too much like Sinja."

"You knew that was a risk."

Otah laughed and let the swarm of servants precede him to his chambers.

There would be no end of ceremonies later. Welcomes would drag on for

weeks, audiences, special pleadings, feasts, dances, negotiations,

councils. It all lay before him like a life's work started late. But

now, sitting in the cool breeze of his private apartments with Sinja

across from him and Danat pouring chilled water into stone bowls, the

world was perfect.

Except, of course, that it wasn't.

"Perhaps we can mend both breaks with the same nail," Sinja said. "A

strong showing against the pirates protects Chaburi-Tan and warns Obar

State to keep to its own house."

"And a weak showing against them?" Otah asked.

"Shows we're weak, after which things go poorly," Sinja said. "But if

we're going to assume failure from the start, there's not going to be

anything of use that I can offer."

Otah propped up his feet. The palaces still felt as if they were

swaying: the ghost motion of weeks aboard ship. The feeling was oddly

pleasant.

"On the other hand," he said, "if we plan to decimate the enemy with a

flower and a pillow, it's not going to help us. How strong is our fleet?

Do we have enough men to take the pirates in a fair fight?"

"If we don't have them now, we certainly won't next year when all the

sailors are a year older," Sinja said. "Even if you magically transport

every fertile girl in Galt straight to some poor bastard's bed, it will

be ten years before they can deliver us anyone strong enough to coil

rope, much less fight. If we're going to do anything, it has to be now.

We're going to grow weaker before we're strong."

"If we manage to get strong," Otah said. "And I don't know that we can

spare the ships. We have eleven cities and the gods alone know how many

low towns. We're talking about moving half a million of our men to Galt

and bringing back as many of their women."

"Well, yes, shipping out anyone we have of fighting age now won't help

the matter," Sinja said.

"Galt could do it," Danat said. "They have experience with sea wars.

They have fighting ships and the veterans."

Otah saw the considering expression on Sinja's face. He let the silence

stretch.

"I don't like it," Sinja said at last. "I don't know why I don't like

it, but I don't."

"We're still thinking of our problems as our own," Danat said. "Asking

Galt to fight our battles might seem odd, but they'd be protecting their

own land too. In a generation, Chaburi-Tan is going to be as much their

city as ours."

Otah felt an odd pressure in his chest. It was true, of course. It was

what he had spent years working to accomplish. And still, when Danat put

it in bare terms like that, it was hard for him to hear it.

"It's more than that," Sinja said.

"Is it Balasar?" Otah asked.

Sinja leaned forward, his fingers laced on his knee, his mouth set in a

scowl. At length, he spoke.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, it is."

"He's forgiven me," Otah said. "Perhaps the two of you-"

"All respect, Otah-cha," Sinja said. "You were his enemy. That's a fair

position. I broke my oath, lied to him, and killed his best captain.

He's a man who loves loyalty, and I was one of his men. It's not the same."

"Perhaps it isn't," Otah agreed.

"Balasar-cha doesn't have to be the one to lead it," Danat said. "Or,

all respect, Sinja-cha, for that."

"No, of course we don't," Sinja said. "It's not my head that's

struggling with the thought. It's just ... The boy's right, Otah-cha. A

mixed fleet, their ships and ours, sinking the pirates would be the best

solution. I don't know if we can negotiate the thing, but it's worth

considering."

Otah scratched his leg.

"Farrer-cha," he said. "Danat's new father. He has experience with sea

fighting. I think he hates all of us together and individually for

Anacha's upcoming marriage, but he would still be the man to approach."

Danat took a long drink of water and grinned. It made him look younger.

"After the ceremony's done with," Sinja said. "We'll get the man drunk

and happy and see if we can't make him sign something binding before he

sobers up."

"If it were only so simple," Otah said. "With the High Council and the

Low Council and the Conclave, every step they take is like putting cats

in a straight line. Watching it in action, it's amazing they ever put

together a war."

"You should talk to Balasar," Sinja said.

"I will," Otah replied.

They moved on to other topics. Some were more difficult: weavers and

stonemasons on the coasts had started offering money to apprentices, so