part of the coast itself had set out for foreign lands. The trees and
hills of Otah's onetime enemies fell away behind them. That first night,
the torches and lanterns made the sea appear as full of stars as the sky.
One of the small gifts the gods had granted Otah was a fondness for
travel by ship. The shifting of the deck under his feet, the vast scent
of the ocean, the call of the gulls were like visiting a place he had
once lived. He stood at the prow of the great Galtic ship given him by
the High Council for his journey home and looked out at the rising sun.
He had spent years in the eastern islands as a boy. He'd been a middling
fisherman, a better midwife's assistant, a good sailor. He had come
close to marrying an island woman, and still bore the first half of the
marriage tattoo on his breast. The ink had faded and spread over the
years as if he were a parchment dropped in water. With the slap of waves
against wood, the salt-laden air, the morning light dancing gold and
rose on the water, he remembered those days.
This late in the morning, he would already have cast his nets. His
fingers would have been numbed by the cold. He would have been eating
the traditional breakfast of fish paste and nuts from an earthenware
jar. The men he had known would be doing the same today, those who were
still alive. In another life, another world, he might be doing it still.
He had lived so many lives: half-starved street child; petty thief;
seafront laborer; fisherman; assistant midwife; courier; Khai; husband;
father; war leader; emperor. Put in a line that way, he could see how
another person might imagine his life to be an unending upward spiral,
but it didn't feel that way to him. He had done what he'd had to at the
time. One thing had led to another. A man without particular ambition
had been placed atop the world, and likewise the world had been placed
atop him. And against all probability, he found himself here, wearing
the richest robes in the cities, with a private cabin larger than some
boats he'd worked, and thinking fondly of fish paste and nuts.
Lost in thought, he heard the little ship's boat hail-a booming voice
speaking Galtic words-before he knew it was approaching. The watchman of
his own vessel replied, and then the landsman's chair descended. Otah
watched idly as a man in the colors of House Dasin was winched up, swung
over, and lowered to the deck. A knot of Otah's own clerks and servants
formed around the newcomer. Otah pulled his hands up into his sleeves
and made his way back.
The boy was a servant of some sort-the Galts had a system of gradation
that Otah hadn't bothered to memorize-with hair the color of beach sand
and a greenish tint to his face. Seeing Otah, the servant took a pose of
abject obeisance poorly.
"Most High," he said, his words heavily inflected, "Councilman Dasin
sends his regards. He and his wife extend the invitation to a dinner and
concert aboard the Avenger tomorrow evening."
The boy gulped and looked down. There had, no doubt, been a more formal
and flowery speech planned. Nausea led to brevity. Otah glanced at his
Master of Tides, a youngish woman with a face like a hatchet and a mind
for detail that would have served her in any trade. She took a pose that
deferred to Otah's judgment, gave permission, and offered to make excuse