fear.
Nantani was the nearest port to the lands of Galt, but the scars of war
were too fresh there and too deep. Instead, the gods had conspired to
return Otah to the city of his childhood: Saraykeht.
The fastest ships arrived several days before the great mass of the
fleet. They stood out half a hand's travel from the seafront, and Otah
took in the whole city. He could see the masts at the farthest end of
the seafront, berthed in order to leave the greatest space for the
incoming traffic. Bright cloth hung from every window Otah could see,
starting with the dock master's offices nearest the water to the towers
of the palaces, high and to the north where the vibrant colors were
grayed by humidity.
Crowds filled the docks, and he heard a roar of voices and snatches of
drum and flute carried by the breeze. The air itself smelled different:
rank and green and familiar in a way he hadn't expected.
The Emperor of the Khaiem had been away from his cities for eight
months, almost nine, and his return with the high families of Galt in
tow was the kind of event seen once in history and never again. This was
the day that every man and woman at the seafront or watching from the
windows above the streets would recall until death's long fingers
touched them. The day that the new empress, the Galtic empress, arrived
for the first time.
There were stories Otah had read in books that had been ashes for almost
as long as this new Empress had been alive, about an emperor's life
mirroring the state of his empire. An emperor with many children meant
rich, fertile land; one without heir spoke of poor crops and thin
cattle. An emperor who drank himself to sleep meant an empire of
libertines; one who studied and prayed, a somber land of great wisdom.
He had halfbelieved the stories then. He had no faith in them now.
"You would think they would have made some allowance for our arrival," a
man's peevish voice said from behind him. Otah looked back at Balasar
Gice, dressed in formal brocade armor and shining with sweat. Otah took
a pose of powerlessness before the gods.
"The wind does what the wind does," he said. "We'll be on land by
nightfall."
"We will," Balasar said. "But the others will be docking and unloading
all night."
It was true. Saraykeht would likely add something near a tenth of its
population in the next day, Galts filling the guest quarters and
wayhouses and likely half the beds in the soft quarter. It was the
second time in Otah's life that a pale-skinned, round-eyed neighborhood
without buildings had appeared in his city. Only now, it would happen
without drawn blades and blood.
"They're sending tow galleys out for us," Otah said. "It will all be fine."
The galleys, with their flashing banks of white oars and ornamental
ironwork rails, reached the great ship just after midday. With a great
clamor of voices-protests, laughter, orders, counterorders-thick cables
of hemp were made fast to the ship's deck. The sails were already down,
and with the sound of a bell clanging like an alarm, Otah's ship
lurched, shifted directly into the wind, and began the last, shortest
leg of his journey home.
A welcoming platform had been erected especially for the occasion. The
broad beams were white as snow, and a ceremonial guard waited by a
litter while a somewhat less ceremonial one kept the press of the crowds
at a distance. Balasar and six of the Galtic High Council had made their
way to Otah's ship in order to disembark with him. The Avenger with Ana
and her parents would likely come next, after which the roar of
competing etiquette masters would likely drown out the ocean. Otah was
more than willing to leave the fighting for position and status for the
dock master to settle out.
The crowd's voice rose when the ship pulled in, and again when the walk
bridged the shifting gap between ship and land. His servants preceded
him in the proper
Nantani was the nearest port to the lands of Galt, but the scars of war
were too fresh there and too deep. Instead, the gods had conspired to
return Otah to the city of his childhood: Saraykeht.
The fastest ships arrived several days before the great mass of the
fleet. They stood out half a hand's travel from the seafront, and Otah
took in the whole city. He could see the masts at the farthest end of
the seafront, berthed in order to leave the greatest space for the
incoming traffic. Bright cloth hung from every window Otah could see,
starting with the dock master's offices nearest the water to the towers
of the palaces, high and to the north where the vibrant colors were
grayed by humidity.
Crowds filled the docks, and he heard a roar of voices and snatches of
drum and flute carried by the breeze. The air itself smelled different:
rank and green and familiar in a way he hadn't expected.
The Emperor of the Khaiem had been away from his cities for eight
months, almost nine, and his return with the high families of Galt in
tow was the kind of event seen once in history and never again. This was
the day that every man and woman at the seafront or watching from the
windows above the streets would recall until death's long fingers
touched them. The day that the new empress, the Galtic empress, arrived
for the first time.
There were stories Otah had read in books that had been ashes for almost
as long as this new Empress had been alive, about an emperor's life
mirroring the state of his empire. An emperor with many children meant
rich, fertile land; one without heir spoke of poor crops and thin
cattle. An emperor who drank himself to sleep meant an empire of
libertines; one who studied and prayed, a somber land of great wisdom.
He had halfbelieved the stories then. He had no faith in them now.
"You would think they would have made some allowance for our arrival," a
man's peevish voice said from behind him. Otah looked back at Balasar
Gice, dressed in formal brocade armor and shining with sweat. Otah took
a pose of powerlessness before the gods.
"The wind does what the wind does," he said. "We'll be on land by
nightfall."
"We will," Balasar said. "But the others will be docking and unloading
all night."
It was true. Saraykeht would likely add something near a tenth of its
population in the next day, Galts filling the guest quarters and
wayhouses and likely half the beds in the soft quarter. It was the
second time in Otah's life that a pale-skinned, round-eyed neighborhood
without buildings had appeared in his city. Only now, it would happen
without drawn blades and blood.
"They're sending tow galleys out for us," Otah said. "It will all be fine."
The galleys, with their flashing banks of white oars and ornamental
ironwork rails, reached the great ship just after midday. With a great
clamor of voices-protests, laughter, orders, counterorders-thick cables
of hemp were made fast to the ship's deck. The sails were already down,
and with the sound of a bell clanging like an alarm, Otah's ship
lurched, shifted directly into the wind, and began the last, shortest
leg of his journey home.
A welcoming platform had been erected especially for the occasion. The
broad beams were white as snow, and a ceremonial guard waited by a
litter while a somewhat less ceremonial one kept the press of the crowds
at a distance. Balasar and six of the Galtic High Council had made their
way to Otah's ship in order to disembark with him. The Avenger with Ana
and her parents would likely come next, after which the roar of
competing etiquette masters would likely drown out the ocean. Otah was
more than willing to leave the fighting for position and status for the
dock master to settle out.
The crowd's voice rose when the ship pulled in, and again when the walk
bridged the shifting gap between ship and land. His servants preceded
him in the proper
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