He had missed the man's company. There were few people in the world who
could see Otah beneath his titles, fewer still who dared mock him. It
was a familiarity that had been forged by years. Together, they had
acted against the plot which had first changed Otah from outcast to Khai
Machi. They had loved the same woman and come near violence over it.
Sinja had trained Otah's son in the arts of combat and strategy, had
gotten drunk with the Emperor after Kiyan's funeral, had spoken his mind
whether invited to or not. Otah had no other advisor or friend like him.
As they moved north, the crowd that lined the street changed its nature.
Once they had passed out of the throng at the seafront, the robes and
faces had been those of laborers and artisans. As they passed the
compounds of the merchant houses, the robes and banners became more
ornate. Rich and saturated colors were edged with embroidery of gold and
worked in the symbols of the various houses. And then almost without a
pause, the symbols and colors were not of merchants, but of the families
of the utkhaiem, and the high walls and ornate shutters were not
mercantile compounds, but palaces. Men and women in fine robes took
poses of welcome and obeisance as servants and slaves fanned them. A
hidden choir burst into song somewhere to his left, the voices in
complex harmony. The litter stopped before the grand palace, the first
palace, the Emperor's palace. Otah stepped out, sweeping his gaze over
the ordered rows of servants and high officials until he saw the one man
he'd longed for.
Danat was in his twentieth summer, his face a mixture of Otah's long,
northern features and Kiyan's, thin and foxlike. The planes of his
cheeks had sharpened since Otah had gone. He looked older, more
handsome. He wore a robe of deep gray set off with a rich, red sash that
suited him. And still, Otah could see all the boys that had made this
man: the babe, the bumbling child new to his own feet, the long-ill boy
kept in his bed, the awkward and sorrowful youth, and the young heir to
the Empire. All of them stood before him, hands in a pose of formal
welcome, a smile glittering in his eyes. Otah broke protocol, embracing
his son. The boy's arms were strong.
"You've done well," Otah murmured.
"None of the cities actually burned down while you were gone," Danat
replied softly. There was pride in his voice, pleasure at the compliment.
"But you sound too much like Sinja."
"You knew that was a risk."
Otah laughed and let the swarm of servants precede him to his chambers.
There would be no end of ceremonies later. Welcomes would drag on for
weeks, audiences, special pleadings, feasts, dances, negotiations,
councils. It all lay before him like a life's work started late. But
now, sitting in the cool breeze of his private apartments with Sinja
across from him and Danat pouring chilled water into stone bowls, the
world was perfect.
Except, of course, that it wasn't.
"Perhaps we can mend both breaks with the same nail," Sinja said. "A
strong showing against the pirates protects Chaburi-Tan and warns Obar
State to keep to its own house."