Daniel Abraham - THE

celebration. The ceremony shall be held at once."

The whisperers carried it all, and moments later a priest came out,

intoning old words whose meanings were more than half forgotten. The man

was older than Otah, and his expression was as serene and joyous as that

of a man too drunk to stagger. Otah took a welcoming pose, accepted one

in return, and stepped back to let the ceremony proper begin.

Danat accepted a long, looped cord and hung it over his arm. The priest

intoned the ritual questions, and Danat made his answers. Otah's back

began to spasm, but he kept still. The end of the cord, cut and knotted,

passed from Danat to the priest and then to Ana's hand. The roar that

rose up drowned out the whisperers, the priest, the world. The courts of

two nations stood cheering, all decorum forgotten. Ana and Danat stood

together with a length of woven cotton between them, grinning and

waving. Otah imagined their child stirring in its dark sleep, aware of

the sound if not its meaning.

Balasar Gice, wearing the robe of a high councilman, was at the front of

the crowd, clapping his small hands together with tears running down his

cheeks. Otah felt a momentary pang of sorrow. Sinja hadn't seen it.

Kiyan hadn't. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that the moment

wasn't his. The celebration was not of his life or his love or the

binding of his house to a wayhouse keeper from Udun. It was Danat's and

Ana's, and they at least were transcendent.

The rest of the ceremony took twice as long as it should have, and by

the time the procession was ready to carry them out and through the

streets of Utani, the sunset was no more than a memory.

Otah allowed himself to be ushered to a high balcony that looked down

upon the city. The air was bitterly cold, but a cast-iron brazier was

hauled out, coals already bright red so that Otah could feel the searing

heat to his left while his right side froze. He huddled in a thick wool

blanket, following the wedding procession with his eyes. Each street

they turned down lit itself, banners and streamers of cloth arcing

through the air.

Here is where it begins, he thought. And then, Thank all the gods it

isn't me down there.

A servant girl stepped onto the balcony and took a pose that announced a

guest. Otah wasn't about to stick his hands out of the blanket.

"Who?"

"Farrer Dasin-cha," the girl said.

"Bring him here," Otah said. "And some wine. Hot wine."

The girl took a pose that accepted the charge and turned to go.

"Wait," Otah said. "What's your name?"

"Toyani Vauatan, Most High," she said.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty summers."

Otah nodded. In truth, she looked almost too young to be out of the

nursery. And yet at her age, he had been on a ship halfway to the

eastern islands, two different lives already behind him. He pointed out

at the city.

"It's a different world now, Toyani-cha. Nothing's going to stay as it was.

The girl smiled and took a pose that offered congratulations. Of course

she didn't understand. It was unfair to expect her to. Otah smiled and

turned back to the city, the celebration. He didn't see when she left.

The wedding procession had just turned down the long, wide road that led

to the riverfront when Farrer stepped out, the girl Toyani behind them

bearing two bowls of wine that plumed with steam and a chair for the

newcomer without seeming awkward or out of place. It was, Otah supposed,

an art.

"We've done it," Fatter said when the girl had gone.

"We have," Otah agreed. "Not that I've stopped waiting for the next

catastrophe."

"I think the last one will do."

Otah sipped his wine. The spirit hadn't quite been cooked out of it, and

the spices tasted rich and strange. He had been dreading this

conversation, but now that it had come, it wasn't as awful as he'd feared.

"The report's come," Otah said.

"The first one, yes. Everyone on the High Council had a copy this

morning. Just in time for the festivities. I thought it was rude at the

time, but I suppose it gives us all more reason to get sloppy drunk and

weep into our cups."

Otah took a pose of query simple enough for the Galt to follow.

"Every city is in ruins except for Kirinton. They did something clever

there with street callers and string. I don't fully understand it. The

outlying areas suffered, though not quite as badly. The first guesses

are that it will take two generations just to put us back where we were."

"Assuming nothing else happens," Otah said. Below, a fanfare was blaring.

"You mean Eymond," Farrer said. "They're a problem, it's true."

"Eymond. Eddensea, the Westlands. Anyone, really."

"If we had the andat..

"We don't," Otah said.

"No, I suppose not," Farrer said, sourly. "But to the point, how many of

us are aware of that fact?"

In the dim light of the brazier's coals, Farrer's face was the same

dusky red as the moon in eclipse. The Galt smiled, pleased that he had

taken Otah by surprise.

"You and I know. The High Council. That half-bastard council you put

together when you headed out into the wilderness. Ana. Danat. A few

armsmen. All in all, I'd guess not more than three dozen people actually

know what happened. And none of them is at present working for Eymond."

"You're saying we should pretend to have an andat?"

"Not precisely," Fatter said. "As many people as already know, the story

will come out eventually. But there might be a way to present it that

still gave other nations pause. Send out letters of embassage that say

the andat, though recovered, have been set aside and deny the rumors

that certain deaths and odd occurrences are at all related to a new poet

under the direction of the Empire."

"What deaths?"

"Don't be too specific about that," Farrer said. "I expect they'll

supply the details."

"Let them think ... that we have the andat and are hiding the fact?"

Otah laughed.

"It won't last forever, but the longer we can stall them, the better

prepared we'll be when they come."

"And they do always come," Otah said. "Clever thought. It costs us

nothing. It could gain us a great deal. Issandra?"

Farrer leaned back in his chair, setting his heels on the parapet and

looking up at the stars, the full, heavy moon. For the space of a

heartbeat, he looked forlorn. He drank his wine and looked over at Otah.

"My wife is an amazing woman," he said. "I'm fortunate to have her. And

if Ana's half like her, she'll be running both our nations whether your

son likes it or not."

It was the opening to a hundred other issues. Galt and the cities of the

Khaiem were in a state of profound disarray. Ana Dasin might be the new

Empress, but that meant little enough in practical terms. In Galt the

High Council and the full council were each in flux, their elections and

appointments in question now that their cities were little more than

abandoned. Otah would be hated for that destruction or else beloved for

the mending of it.

"It is the point, isn't it? If we are two nations, we're doomed," Farrer

said, reading his concerns. "We have too many enemies and not enough

strengths between us."

"If we're one ... how do we do that? Will the High Council be ruled by

my edict? Am I supposed to cede my power to them?"

"Compromise, Most High," Farrer said. "It will be a long process of

compromise and argument, idiotic yammering debate and high melodrama.