The buildings west of the city proper grew lower and squat. Instead of
roof tiles, they had layers of water-grayed wood or cane thatching. The
division between the last of Saraykeht and the nearest low town was
invisible. Traders pulled aside to let them pass. Feral dogs yipped at
them from the high grass and followed along just out of bowshot. The sun
slipped down in its arc, blinding Otah and drawing tears.
A thousand small memories flooded Otah's mind like raindrops in an
evening storm. A night he'd spent years before, sleeping in a hut made
from grass and mud. The first horse he'd been given when he took the
colors of House Siyanti and joined the gentleman's trade. He had
traveled these very roads, back then. When his hair had still been dark
and his back still strong and Kiyan still the loveliest wayhouse keeper
in all the cities he had seen.
They rode until full dark came, stopping at a pond. Otah stood for a
moment, looking into the dark water. It wasn't quite cold enough for ice
to have formed on its surface. His spine and legs ached so badly he
wondered whether he would be able to sleep. The muscles of his belly
protested when he tried to bend. It had been years since he'd taken to
the road in anything faster or more demanding than a carried litter. He
remembered the pleasant near-exhaustion at the end of a long day's ride,
and his present pain had little in common with it. He thought about
sitting on the cool, wet grass. He was more than half afraid that once
he sat down, he wouldn't be able to stand.
Behind him, the kilns of the steamcarts had been opened, and the armsmen
were cooking birds over the coals. The smaller of the two sheds perched
atop the steamcarts had been opened to reveal tightly rolled blankets,
crates of soft fuel coal, and earthenware jars inscribed with symbols
for seeds, raisins, and salted fish. As Otah watched, Danat emerged from
the second shed, standing alone in the shadows at the end of the cart.
One of the armsmen struck up a song, and the others joined in. It was
the kind of thing Otah himself would have done, back when he had been a
different man.
"Danat-kya," he said when he'd walked close enough to be heard over the
good cheer of their companions. His son squatted at the edge of the
cart, and then sat. In the light from the kilns, Danat seemed little
more than a deeper shadow, his face hidden. "There are some things we
should discuss."
"There are," Danat said, and his voice pulled Otah back.
Otah shifted to sit at his son's side. Something in his left knee
clicked, but there was no particular pain, so he ignored it. Danat laced
his fingers.
"You're angry that I've come?" Otah said.
"No," Danat said. "It's not ... not that, quite. But I hadn't thought
that you would be here, or that we'd be going west. I made arrangements
with my own plan set, and you've changed it."
"I can apologize. But this is the right thing. I can't swear that Pathai
is-
"That's not what I'm trying ... Gods," Danat said. He turned to his
father, his eyes catching the kiln light and flashing with it. "Come on.