"Hard to say. Knowing who your friends are is a tricky business right
now. You'll have fewer than if they stayed."
Otah took a slice of apple, chewing the soft flesh slowly to give
himself time. Balasar was silent, his expression unreadable. It occurred
to Otah that the man would have made a decent courier.
"Give me the day," he said. "I'll have an answer for you tonight.
Tomorrow at the latest."
"Thank you, Most High," Balasar said.
"I know how much I've asked of you," Otah said.
"It's something I owe you. Or that we owe each other. Whatever I can do,
I will."
Otah smiled and took a pose of gratitude, but he was wondering what
limits that debt would find if Idaan spoke to the old general. He was
dancing around too many blades. He couldn't keep them all clear in his
mind, and if he stumbled, there would be blood.
Otah finished his meal, allowed the servants to change his outer robe to
a formal black with threads of gold throughout, and led his ritual
procession to the audience chamber. The members of his court flowed into
their places in the appropriate order, with the custom-driven signs of
loyalty and obeisance. Otah restrained himself from shouting at them all
to hurry. The time he spent in empty form was time stolen. He didn't
have it to spare.
The audiences began, each a balancing between the justice of the issue,
the politics behind those involved, and the massive complex webwork that
made up the relationships of the court, of the cities, of the world.
When he'd been young, the Khai Saraykeht had held audiences for things
as simple as land disputes and broken contracts. Those days were gone,
and nothing reached so high as the Emperor of the Khaiem unless no one
lower dared rule on the matter. Nothing was trivial, everything fraught
with implication.
Midday came and went, and the sun began its slow fall to the west. Storm
clouds rose, white and soft and taller than mountains, but the rain
stayed out over the sea. The daylight moon hung in the blue sky to the
north. Otah didn't think of Balasar or Idaan, Chaburi-Tan or the andat.
When at last he paused to eat, he felt worn thin enough to see through.
He tried to consider Balasar's analysis, but ended by staring at the
plate of lemon fish and rice as if it were enthralling.
Because he had been hoping for a moment's peace, he'd chosen to eat his
little meal in one of the low halls at the back of the palace. The stone
floor and simple, unadorned plaster walls made it seem more like the
common room of a small wayhouse than the center of empire. That was part
of its appeal. The shutters were open on the garden behind it: crawling
lavender, starfall rose, mint, and, without warning, Danat, in a
formally cut robe of deep blue hot with yellow, blood running from his
nose to cover his mouth and chin. Otah put down the bowl.
Danat stalked into the hall and halfway across it before he noticed that
a table was occupied. He hesitated, then took a pose of greeting. The
fingers of his right hand were scarlet where he had tried to stanch the
flow and failed. Otah didn't recall having stood. His expression must