Daniel Abraham - THE

starting with the dock master's offices nearest the water to the towers

of the palaces, high and to the north where the vibrant colors were

grayed by humidity.

Crowds filled the docks, and he heard a roar of voices and snatches of

drum and flute carried by the breeze. The air itself smelled different:

rank and green and familiar in a way he hadn't expected.

The Emperor of the Khaiem had been away from his cities for eight

months, almost nine, and his return with the high families of Galt in

tow was the kind of event seen once in history and never again. This was

the day that every man and woman at the seafront or watching from the

windows above the streets would recall until death's long fingers

touched them. The day that the new empress, the Galtic empress, arrived

for the first time.

There were stories Otah had read in books that had been ashes for almost

as long as this new Empress had been alive, about an emperor's life

mirroring the state of his empire. An emperor with many children meant

rich, fertile land; one without heir spoke of poor crops and thin

cattle. An emperor who drank himself to sleep meant an empire of

libertines; one who studied and prayed, a somber land of great wisdom.

He had halfbelieved the stories then. He had no faith in them now.

"You would think they would have made some allowance for our arrival," a

man's peevish voice said from behind him. Otah looked back at Balasar

Gice, dressed in formal brocade armor and shining with sweat. Otah took

a pose of powerlessness before the gods.

"The wind does what the wind does," he said. "We'll be on land by

nightfall."

"We will," Balasar said. "But the others will be docking and unloading

all night."

It was true. Saraykeht would likely add something near a tenth of its

population in the next day, Galts filling the guest quarters and

wayhouses and likely half the beds in the soft quarter. It was the

second time in Otah's life that a pale-skinned, round-eyed neighborhood

without buildings had appeared in his city. Only now, it would happen

without drawn blades and blood.

"They're sending tow galleys out for us," Otah said. "It will all be fine."

The galleys, with their flashing banks of white oars and ornamental

ironwork rails, reached the great ship just after midday. With a great

clamor of voices-protests, laughter, orders, counterorders-thick cables

of hemp were made fast to the ship's deck. The sails were already down,

and with the sound of a bell clanging like an alarm, Otah's ship

lurched, shifted directly into the wind, and began the last, shortest

leg of his journey home.

A welcoming platform had been erected especially for the occasion. The

broad beams were white as snow, and a ceremonial guard waited by a

litter while a somewhat less ceremonial one kept the press of the crowds

at a distance. Balasar and six of the Galtic High Council had made their

way to Otah's ship in order to disembark with him. The Avenger with Ana

and her parents would likely come next, after which the roar of

competing etiquette masters would likely drown out the ocean. Otah was

more than willing to leave the fighting for position and status for the

dock master to settle out.

The crowd's voice rose when the ship pulled in, and again when the walk

bridged the shifting gap between ship and land. His servants preceded

him in the proper array and sequence, and then Otah left the sea. The

noise was something physical, a wind built of sound. The ceremonial

guard adopted poses of obeisance, and Otah took his ritual reply. The

first of the guard to stand, grinning, was Sinja.

"You've shaved your whiskers," Otah shouted.

"I was starting to look like an otter," Sinja agreed. His expression

became opaque and he bowed to Otah's right. "Balasar-cha."

"Sinja," Balasar said.

The past intruded. Once Sinja had played the part of Balasar's man,

expert on the cities of the Khaiem and mercenary leader of war. He had

spied on the Galts, betrayed Balasar, and killed the man Balasar held

dearest to his heart. It thickened the air between them, even now.

Balasar's eyes shifted to the middle distance, a frown on his lips as if

he were counting how many of his dead might have lived, had Sinja

remained true. And then the moment was gone. Or if not gone, covered

over for the sake of etiquette.

The others of the Galtic party lurched in from the ship, unsteady on

planks that didn't move, and the assembled masses cheered each of them

like a hero returned from war. Servants dressed in light cotton robes

led each sweating Galt to a waiting litter, Otah's station of honor

making him the last to leave.

"I suspect they'll be changing to local clothes before long," Sinja

said. "They all look half-dead with the heat."

"I'm feeling it myself," Otah said.

"Should I interrupt protocol?" Sinja asked. "I could have you loaded and

on your way up the hills in the time it takes to kill a chicken."

"No," Otah said with a sigh. "If we're doing this, let's do it well. But

ride with me, eh? I want to hear what's going on."

"Yes," Sinja said. "Well. You've missed some dramatics, but I don't

think there's anything particularly ominous waiting. Except the pirates.

And the conspiracy. You did get the report about the conspiracy in

Yalakeht? It's apparently got ties to Obar State."

"Well, that's just lovely," Otah said.

"No more plague than usual," Sinja offered gamely, and then it was time

and servants stepped forward to escort Otah to his litter. The shifting

gait of his bearers was similar to being aboard ship, but also wrong.

Between that and the heat, Otah was beginning to feel nauseated, but the

buildings that passed by his beaded window were comforting. Great blue

and white walls topped with roof tiles of gray and red; banners hanging

in the slow, thick air; men and women in poses of welcome or else waving

small lengths of brightly colored cloth. If it had been autumn or

winter, the old firekeepers' kilns would have been lit and strange

flames would have accompanied him up the wide streets to the palaces.

"Any problems with the arrival?" he asked Sinja.

"A few. Angry women throwing stones, mostly. We've locked them away

until the last ship comes in. Danat and I decided to put the girl and

her family in the poet's house. It isn't the most impressive location,

but it's comfortable, and it's far enough back from the other buildings

that they might have some privacy. The gods all know they'll be gawked

at like a three-headed calf the rest of the time."

"I think Ana has a lover," Otah said. "One of the sailors was built

rather like a courtier."

"Ah," Sinja said. "I'll tell the guard to keep eyes out. I assume we'd

rather he didn't come calling?"

"No, better that he not," Otah said.

"I don't suppose there's a chance the girl's still a virgin?"

Otah took a pose that dismissed the concern. Even if she weren'tand of

course she wasn't-she wouldn't be bearing another man's child. Not if

the boy he had glimpsed in the hold of the Avenger was a Galt. Otah felt

a moment's unease.

"If the guard do find a boy sneaking in, have him held until I can speak

with him. I'd rather that this whole situation not get more complex than

it already is."

"Your word is law, Most High," Sinja said, his tone light. Otah chuckled.

He had missed the man's company. There were few people in the world who