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,