and he'd given up hope of anticipating its changes.
He knew from long experience that he wouldn't sleep if he went to bed
now. His mind might be in a deep fog, but his body was punishing him for
sitting too long. As it would have punished him for working too hard.
The range allowed to him was so much narrower than when he'd been young.
A walk to loosen his joints, and he might be able to rest.
The armsmen at the door of his apartments took poses of obeisance as he
stepped out. He only nodded and made his way south. He wore a simple
robe of cotton. The cloth was of the first quality, but the cut was
simple and the red and gray less than gaudy. Someone who didn't know him
by sight might have mistaken him for a member of the utkhaiem, or even a
particularly powerful servant. He made a game of walking with his head
down, trying to pass as a functionary in his own house.
The halls of the palaces were immense and ornate. Many small
items-statues, paintings, jeweled decoration-had vanished during the
brief occupation by Galt, but the huge copper-sheathed columns and the
high, clear glass of the unshuttered windows spoke of greater days. The
wood floors shone with lacquer even where they were scraped and pitted.
Incense burned in unobtrusive brass bowls, filling the air with the
scent of sandalwood and desert sage. Even this late at night, singing
slaves carried their harmonies in empty chambers. Crickets, Otah
thought, would have been as beautiful.
His back had begun to relax and his feet to complain when the illusion
of traveling the palaces unnoticed was broken. A servant in a gold robe
appeared at the far end of the hall, walking purposefully toward him.
Otah stopped. The man took a pose of obeisance and apology as he drew near.
"Most High, I am sorry to interrupt. Ana Dasin has come to request an
audience. I would have turned her away, but under the circumstances ..."
"You did well," he said. "Take her to the autumn garden."
The servant took a pose that accepted the command, but then hesitated.
"Should I send for an outer robe, Most High?"
Otah looked down at the wrinkled fabric and wondered what Ana would see
if he met her like this: a man of great power and consequence at the end
of a long day's work, or an old slob in a cotton robe.
"Yes," he said with a sigh. "An outer robe would be welcome. And tea.
Bring us fresh tea. She might not care for it, but I want some."
The man scurried away. They had known where he was, and that he didn't
wish to be disturbed. And they had known when to disturb him. To be the
Emperor of the Khaiem was above all else to be known by people he did
not know. He had discovered that truth a thousand times before, and
likely would do so a thousand times again, and each one discomforted him.
The autumn garden was nestled within the palaces. Trees and vines hid
the stone walls, and paper lanterns gave the flagstone path a soft
light. Near the center, a small brass fountain, long given to verdigris,
chuckled to itself and a small wooden pavilion rested in the darkness.
Otah walked down the path, still tugging the black and silver outer robe
into place. Ana Dasin sat in the pavilion, her gaze on the water
sluicing over bronze. The tea, set on a lacquered tray, had preceded him
as if the servants had anticipated that he would ask for it as well and