smell of incense and old wine. He didn't realize that he was falling
asleep until Seedless smirked and turned away, and Otah knew he was in
dreams.
A human voice woke him. The angle of the sun had shifted, the day almost
passed. Otah sat up, struggling to focus his eyes. The servant spoke again.
"Most High, the welcoming ceremonies are due in a hand and a half. Shall
I tell the Master of Tides to postpone them?"
"No," Otah said. His voice sounded groggy. He wondered how long the
servant had been trying to rouse him. "No, not at all. Send me clean
robes. Or ... no, send them to the baths. I'll be there."
The servant fell into a pose that accepted the command as law. It seemed
a little overstated to Otah, but he'd grown accustomed to other people
taking his role more seriously than he did himself. He refreshed
himself, met with the representatives of two high families and a trading
house with connections in Obar State and Bakta, and allowed himself to
be swept along to the grand celebration. They would welcome their
onetime invaders with music and gifts and intrigue and, he suspected,
the equivalent weight of the palaces in wine and food.
The grandest hall of his palaces stood open on a wide garden of
nightblooming plants. A network of whisperers stood on platforms, ready
to repeat the ceremonial greetings and ritual out to the farthest ear.
Otah didn't doubt that runners were waiting at the edge of the gardens
to carry reports of the event even farther. The press of bodies was
intense, the sound of voices so riotous that the musicians and singers
set to wander the garden in serenade had all been sent home.
Otah sat on the black lacquer chair of the Khai Saraykeht, his spine
straight and his hands folded as gracefully as he could manage. Cushions
for Danat and Sinja and all of Otah's highest officers were arrayed
behind him, perhaps two-thirds filled. The others were, doubtless, in
the throng of silk and gems. There was nowhere else to be tonight. Not
in Saraykeht. Perhaps not in the world.
Danat brought him a bowl of cold wine, but it was too loud to have any
conversation beyond the trading of thanks and welcome. Danat took his
place on the cushion at Otah's side. Farrer Dasin, Otah saw, had been
given not a chair but a rosewood bench. Issandra and Ana were on
cushions at his feet. All three looked overwhelmed about the eyes. Otah
caught Issandra's gaze and adopted a pose of welcome, which she returned
admirably.
He turned his attention to her husband. Farrer Dasin, stern and gray.
Otah found himself wondering how best to approach the man about this new
proposal. Though he knew better, he could not help thinking of Galt and
his own cities as separate, as two empires in alliance. Farrer Dasin-
indeed, most of the High Council-were sure to be thinking in the same
ways. They were all wrong, of course, Otah included. They were marrying
two families together, but more than that they were binding two
cultures, two governments, two histories. His own grandchildren would
live and die in a world unrecognizably different from the one Otah had
known; he would be as foreign to them as Galt had been to him.
And here, on this clear, crowded night, the cycle of ages was turning.