cattle. An emperor who drank himself to sleep meant an empire of
libertines; one who studied and prayed, a somber land of great wisdom.
He had halfbelieved the stories then. He had no faith in them now.
"You would think they would have made some allowance for our arrival," a
man's peevish voice said from behind him. Otah looked back at Balasar
Gice, dressed in formal brocade armor and shining with sweat. Otah took
a pose of powerlessness before the gods.
"The wind does what the wind does," he said. "We'll be on land by
nightfall."
"We will," Balasar said. "But the others will be docking and unloading
all night."
It was true. Saraykeht would likely add something near a tenth of its
population in the next day, Galts filling the guest quarters and
wayhouses and likely half the beds in the soft quarter. It was the
second time in Otah's life that a pale-skinned, round-eyed neighborhood
without buildings had appeared in his city. Only now, it would happen
without drawn blades and blood.
"They're sending tow galleys out for us," Otah said. "It will all be fine."
The galleys, with their flashing banks of white oars and ornamental
ironwork rails, reached the great ship just after midday. With a great
clamor of voices-protests, laughter, orders, counterorders-thick cables
of hemp were made fast to the ship's deck. The sails were already down,
and with the sound of a bell clanging like an alarm, Otah's ship
lurched, shifted directly into the wind, and began the last, shortest
leg of his journey home.
A welcoming platform had been erected especially for the occasion. The
broad beams were white as snow, and a ceremonial guard waited by a
litter while a somewhat less ceremonial one kept the press of the crowds
at a distance. Balasar and six of the Galtic High Council had made their
way to Otah's ship in order to disembark with him. The Avenger with Ana
and her parents would likely come next, after which the roar of
competing etiquette masters would likely drown out the ocean. Otah was
more than willing to leave the fighting for position and status for the
dock master to settle out.
The crowd's voice rose when the ship pulled in, and again when the walk
bridged the shifting gap between ship and land. His servants preceded
him in the proper array and sequence, and then Otah left the sea. The
noise was something physical, a wind built of sound. The ceremonial
guard adopted poses of obeisance, and Otah took his ritual reply. The
first of the guard to stand, grinning, was Sinja.
"You've shaved your whiskers," Otah shouted.
"I was starting to look like an otter," Sinja agreed. His expression
became opaque and he bowed to Otah's right. "Balasar-cha."
"Sinja," Balasar said.
The past intruded. Once Sinja had played the part of Balasar's man,
expert on the cities of the Khaiem and mercenary leader of war. He had
spied on the Galts, betrayed Balasar, and killed the man Balasar held
dearest to his heart. It thickened the air between them, even now.
Balasar's eyes shifted to the middle distance, a frown on his lips as if