Daniel Abraham - Price of Spring

"And," Idaan said, making it sound like agreement.

"I don't understand," Ana said.

"That's because you haven't killed anyone," Idaan said. Otah looked up at her. Idaan's eyes were dark but not unsympathetic. When she went on, the words were addressed to Ana, but her gaze was fixed on his. "There are some things about my brother that few people know. His best friend, Maati, was one who knew his secrets. And because of Maati, Cehmai. And so I am also one of the few to know what happened all those years ago in Saraykeht."

To his surprise, Otah found himself weeping silently. Ana leaned forward, her brow fierce.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I killed a good man. An honorable, unwell man with a wounded soul," Otah said softly. "I strangled him to death in a little room off a mud-paved alley in the soft quarter."

"Why?" Ana asked.

The answers to that seemed so intricate, so complex, he couldn't find words.

Idaan could.

"To save Galt," she said. "If the man had lived, all of Galt would have at least suffered horribly, and likely been wiped from the map. Otah had the choice of condemning his city or letting thousands upon thousands upon thousands of your countrymen die. He chose to betray Saraykeht. He's carried it ever since. He's ordered men killed in war. He's sentenced them to death. But he's only ever ended one life himself. Seen something that had been a man become only a body. If you haven't done it, it's a hard thing to understand."

"That's truth," Otah said.

"And along with all the other insults and injuries and pain that he's caused. Along with the deaths," Idaan said, sorrow and amusement mixed in her voice, "Maati Vaupathai has taken away the thing that made Otah's slaughter bearable. He took away the reason for it. Galt is dying anyway."

"I also did it for Maati," Otah said. "If I hadn't, he'd be fighting against Seedless today."

"And I wouldn't have been born," Ana said. She put out a wavering hand to him, and Otah took it. Her grasp was stronger than he'd expected. There were tears in her milky eyes. "I won't forgive him either."

Idaan sighed.

"Well," his sister said, "at least we'll be damned for what we are."

The second sang something from the bow, a high trill that ended in words Otah couldn't make sense of. The paddle wheel, in the stern, shifted and creaked, the deck beneath him lurching. Otah stood, unsteadily.

"Sandbar," Danat called to him. "It's all right. We're fine."

"Ah, well then. You see?" Idaan said with a chuckle. "We're fine."

They stayed on the river as long into the twilight as they could. Otah could see the unease in the boatman's expression and hear it in his voice. Otah's assumption was that the boats would travel at nearly the same speed. The gap between his party and Maati's would only keep narrowing if he pushed farther past the point of safety than they were willing to do. He thought his chances good. Maati, after all, had all the power, and time was his ally. There was no reason that he should rush.

They put in at a riverfront town half a hand after sundown. A small, rotting peer. A pack of half-feral dogs baying at the boatman's second as he made the boat fast and stretched a wide, arching bridge between the deck and the land. A handful of lights in the darkness that showed where lanterns burned like fireflies in the night.

While the armsmen unloaded their crates and skipped stones at the dogs' feet, Otah led Ashti Beg across to solid land, Idaan and Ana close behind. In the night, the moon and stars obscured by almost-bare branches, Otah felt hardly more sure of himself than did Ashti Beg. But then a local boy appeared with a lantern dancing at the end of a pole to lead them to the wayhouse. They walked slowly despite the cold, as if sitting on the deck all day had been the most wearying work imaginable. Otah found himself walking to one side of the group, hanging back with Danat at his side. It wasn't until his son spoke that Otah noticed that he'd been herded there like an errant sheep.

"I'm sorry, Papa-kya," Danat said, softly. "I need to speak with you."

Otah took a pose that granted his permission.

"You spoke with Ana earlier," Danat said. "I saw she took your hand. It looked… it looked like she was crying."

"Yes," Otah said.

"Was it about me?" Danat asked. "Was it something I've done wrong?"

Otah's expression alone must have been enough to answer the question. Danat looked around, shame in his face.

"She's avoiding me," Danat said.

"She's blind, and we've been sunrise to sunset on a boat smaller than my bedchamber," Otah said. "How could she possibly avoid you?"

"It wasn't today. It's been… it's been weeks. I thought at first it was only that Idaan and Ashti Beg joined us. There were women here, and Ana-cha felt more comfortable in their company. But it's more than that, and…"

Danat ran a hand through his hair. In the dim light of the lantern, Otah could see the single crease in his brow, like a paint mark.

"I don't know what to say. She's done nothing in my presence to make me suspect she's anything but fond of you. If anything, she seems stronger for having come with us."

Danat raised his hands toward some formal pose, but skidded in the mud. When he regained his balance, whatever he'd intended to express was forgotten. Otah put a hand on the boy's shoulder.

The wayhouse was a series of low buildings built of fired brick. The stable squatted across a thin, stone-paved road, a single light burning at its side where, Otah assumed, a guard slept. The wayhouse keeper stood outside, her hands on her hips and a dusting of flour streaking her robe. The captain of the guard stood before her, his arms crossed, while the keeper turned her head from side to side like a cat uncertain which window to flee through. When she saw Otah walking toward them, her face went pale and she took a pose of welcome and obeisance that bent her almost double.

"There's a problem?" Otah asked.

"There aren't rooms," the captain said. "All filled up, she says."

"Ah," Otah said, but before he could say more the captain turned on him. Even in the dim light, he could see a banked rage in the man's eyes. The captain took a pose that requested an audience more formal than the occasion called for. Otah replied with one, equally formal, that granted it.

"All respect, Most High, I have done my best all this campaign to respect your wishes. You want to dunk your head in river water, I haven't objected. You run off into the wilderness for half an evening with no guard or escort, and I've accepted that. But if you are about to suggest that we put the Emperor of the Khaiem in a sleeping tent in a wayhouse courtyard because someone else got here first, I'm resigning my commission."

"Actually, I was going to suggest that we offer the present guests our tents and compensation for their rooms," Otah said. "It seemed polite."

"Ah. Yes, Most High," the captain said. It was hard to tell in the night whether the man was blushing.

"There's room in the stables," the keeper said. She had an eastern accent.

"Yalakeht?" Otah asked, and the woman blinked.

"I grew up there," she said, a note of awe in her voice. As if recognizing an accent were a sign of supernatural power.

"It's a good city," Otah said. "Would there be room enough for your present guests if we put my guardsmen in the stables as well?"

"We'll find space, Most High," the keeper said.

"Then I'll go negotiate rooms for us," Otah said, and to the captain, "It might be more impressive if I went in with a guard. They'll be less likely to mistake me for a fraud."

"I… yes, Most High," the captain said.

The air in the wayhouse was thickened by a chimney with a poor draw. Smoke haze gave the place a feeling of dread and poverty. The tables were dark wood, the floors packed earth. A dozen men and women sat in groups, a few in a smaller room to the side. All eyes were on the guard as they strode in and took formal stances. Otah stepped in.