where lanterns burned like fireflies in the night.
While the armsmen unloaded their crates and skipped stones at the dogs'
feet, Otah led Ashti Beg across to solid land, Idaan and Ana close
behind. In the night, the moon and stars obscured by almost-bare
branches, Otah felt hardly more sure of himself than did Ashti Beg. But
then a local boy appeared with a lantern dancing at the end of a pole to
lead them to the wayhouse. They walked slowly despite the cold, as if
sitting on the deck all day had been the most wearying work imaginable.
Otah found himself walking to one side of the group, hanging back with
Danat at his side. It wasn't until his son spoke that Otah noticed that
he'd been herded there like an errant sheep.
"I'm sorry, Papa-kya," Danat said, softly. "I need to speak with you."
Otah took a pose that granted his permission.
"You spoke with Ana earlier," Danat said. "I saw she took your hand. It
looked ... it looked like she was crying."
"Yes," Otah said.
"Was it about me?" Danat asked. "Was it something I've done wrong?"
Otah's expression alone must have been enough to answer the question.
Danat looked around, shame in his face.
"She's avoiding me," Danat said.
"She's blind, and we've been sunrise to sunset on a boat smaller than my
bedchamber," Otah said. "How could she possibly avoid you?"
"It wasn't today. It's been ... it's been weeks. I thought at first it
was only that Idaan and Ashti Beg joined us. There were women here, and
Ana-cha felt more comfortable in their company. But it's more than that,
and..."
Danat ran a hand through his hair. In the dim light of the lantern, Otah
could see the single crease in his brow, like a paint mark.
"I don't know what to say. She's done nothing in my presence to make me
suspect she's anything but fond of you. If anything, she seems stronger
for having come with us."
Danat raised his hands toward some formal pose, but skidded in the mud.
When he regained his balance, whatever he'd intended to express was
forgotten. Otah put a hand on the boy's shoulder.
The wayhouse was a series of low buildings built of fired brick. The
stable squatted across a thin, stone-paved road, a single light burning
at its side where, Otah assumed, a guard slept. The wayhouse keeper
stood outside, her hands on her hips and a dusting of flour streaking
her robe. The captain of the guard stood before her, his arms crossed,
while the keeper turned her head from side to side like a cat uncertain
which window to flee through. When she saw Otah walking toward them, her
face went pale and she took a pose of welcome and obeisance that bent
her almost double.
"There's a problem?" Otah asked.
"There aren't rooms," the captain said. "All filled up, she says."
"Ah," Otah said, but before he could say more the captain turned on him.
Even in the dim light, he could see a banked rage in the man's eyes. The
captain took a pose that requested an audience more formal than the
occasion called for. Otah replied with one, equally formal, that granted it.