"It's because I've been everywhere and done everything," the old man
said. "I even helped hunt down the Khai Amnat-Tan's older brother when
they had their last succession. "There were a dozen of us, and it was
the dead of winter. Your piss would freeze before it touched ground. Oh,
eh ..."
The old man took a pose of apology to the young woman and her babe, and
Otah swung himself out of the cart. It wasn't a story he cared to hear.
The road wound through a valley, high pine forest on either side, the
air sharp and fragrant with the resin. It was beautiful, and he pictured
it thick with snow, the image coming so clear that he wondered whether
he might once have seen it that way. When the clatter of hooves came
from the west, he forced himself again to relax his shoulders and look
as curious and excited as the others. Twice before, couriers on fast
horses had passed the 'van, laden with news, Otah knew, of the search
for him.
It had taken an effort of will not to run as fast as he could after he
had been discovered, but the search was for a false courier either
plotting murder or fleeing like a rabbit. No one would pay attention to
a plodding laborer off to stay with his sister's family in a low town
outside Cetani. And yet, as the horses approached, tension grew in his
breast. He prepared himself for the shock if one of the riders had a
familiar face.
There were three this time-utkhaiem to judge by their robes and the
quality of their mounts-and none of them men he knew. They didn't slow
for the 'van, but the armsmen of the 'van, the drivers, the dozen
hangers-on like himself all shouted at them for news. One of them turned
in his saddle and yelled something, but Otah couldn't make it out and
the rider didn't repeat it. Ten days on the road. Six more to Cetani.
The only challenge was not to be where they were looking for him.
They reached a wayhouse with the sun still three and a half hands above
the treetops. The building was of northern design: stone walls thick as
the span of a man's arm and stables and goat pen on the ground floor
where the heat of the animals would rise and help warm the place in the
winter. While the merchants and armsmen argued over whether to stop now
or go farther and sleep in the open, Otah ran his eyes over the windows
and walked around to the back, looking for all the signs Kiyan had
taught him to know whether the keeper was working with robbers or
keeping an unsafe kitchen. The house met all of her best marks. It
seemed safe.
By the time he'd returned to the carts, his companions had decided to
stay. After Otah had helped stable the horses, they shifted the carts
into a locked courtyard. The caravan's leader haggled with the keeper
about the rooms and came to an agreement that Otah privately thought
gave the keep the better half. Otah made his way up two flights of
stairs to the room he was to share with five armsmen, two drivers, and
the old man. He curled himself up in a corner on the floor. It was too
small a room, and one of the drivers snored badly. A little sleep when
things were quiet would only make the next day easier.
He woke in darkness to the sound of music-a drum throbbed and a flute