The Price of Spring (Long Price Quartet #4)(75)

He made his way through the back halls, set like stagecraft, that allowed him to appear at the appropriate ritual moment. What few servants there were bent themselves almost double in poses of obeisance as he passed. Otah ignored them.

A side hall, almost too narrow for a man to walk down, took him to a hidden seat. Years before, it had been a place where the Khai Saraykeht could watch entertainments without being seen. Now it was Otah's own. He looked down upon the hall. It was packed so thickly there was no room to sit. The cushions meant to allow people to take their rest were all being trampled underfoot. Whisperers had to fight to hold their positions. And among the bright robes and jeweled headdresses of the utkhaiem, there were also the tunics and gray, empty eyes of Galts come to hear what was said. He saw them and thought of an old dream he'd had of Heshai, the poet he had once killed, attending a dinner though still very much dead. Corpses walked among the utkhaiem. Balasar was not among them.

Silence took the hall as if someone had cupped his hands over Otah's ears, and he turned toward the dais. His son stood there, his robe the pale of mourning.

"My friends," Danat said. "There is little I can say which you do not already know. Our brothers and sisters of Galt have been struck. The only plausible cause is this: a new poet has been trained, a new andat has been bound, and, against all wisdom, it has been used first as a weapon."

Danat paused as the whisperers repeated his words out through the wide galleries and, no doubt, into the streets.

"The fleet is in peril," Danat continued. "Chaburi-Tan placed at risk. We do not know who the poet is that has done this thing. We cannot trust that they will be as quick to blind our enemies as they have our friends. We cannot trust that they will undo the damage they have caused to our new allies. Our new families. And so my father has asked me to find this new poet and kill him."

Otah's fingers pressed against the carved stone until his joints ached. His chest ached with dread. He doesn't know, Otah wanted to shout. His sister is part of this, and he does not know it. He shook and kept silent. There was only the swelling roar of the people, the whisperers shouting above it, and his son standing proud and still, shoulders set.

"There are some among us who look upon what has happened today as a moment of hope. They believe that the andat returned to the world marks the end of our hard times. With all respect, it marks their beginning, and neither I nor. .

Otah turned away, pushing his way down the narrow hall, afraid to let his hands leave the stone for fear he should lose his balance. In the dim hallways, he gathered himself. He had expected shame. Seeing Danat speaking as he himself could not, he thought that he would feel shame. He didn't. There was only anger.

The first servant he found, he grabbed by the sleeve and spun halfway around. The woman started to shout at him, then saw who he was, saw his face, and went pale.

"Whatever you were doing, stop it," Otah said. "Find me the Master of Tides. Bring her to my rooms. Do it now."

She might have taken a pose that accepted the command or one of obeisance or any other of the hundred thousand things the physical grammar of the Khaiem might express. Otah didn't stop long enough to see, and didn't care.

In his rooms, he called for a traveler's basket. The thin wicker shifted and creaked as he pulled the simplest robes from his wardrobes and stuffed them in, one atop the other like they were canvas trousers. The dressing servants made small pawing movements, and Otah didn't bother to find out whether they were meant to help or slow him before he sent them all away. He found eight identical pairs of strapped leather boots, put three pairs into his basket, then snarled and took the extra ones back out. He only had two feet, he didn't need more boots than that. He didn't notice the Master of Tides until the woman made a small sound, like someone stepping on a mouse.

"Good," Otah said. "You have something to write with?"

She fumbled with her sleeve and pulled out a small ledger and a finger charcoal. Otah reeled off half-a-dozen names, all the heads of high families of the utkhaiem. He paused, then named Balasar Gice as well. The Master of Tides scribbled, the charcoal graying her fingers.

"That is my High Council," Otah said. "Here with you as witness, I invest them with the power to administrate the Empire until Danat or I return. Is that clear enough?"

"Most High," the Master of Tides said, her face pale and bloodless, "there has never ... the authority of the Emperor can't be ... and Gice- cha isn't even ..."

Otah strode across the room toward her, blood rushing in his ears. The Master of Tides fell back a step, anticipating a blow, but Otah only plucked the ledger from her hands. The charcoal had fallen to the floor, and Otah scooped it up, turned to a fresh page, and wrote out the investment he'd just spoken. When he handed it back, the Master of Tides opened and closed her mouth like a fish on sand, then said, "The court. The utkhaiem. A council with explicit imperial authority? This ... can't be done."

"It can," Otah said.

"Most High, forgive me, but what you've suggested here changes everything! It throws aside all tradition!"

"I do that sometimes," Otah said. "Get me a horse."

Danat's force was small-a dozen armsmen with swords and bows, two steamcarts with rough shedlike structures on the flats, and Danat in a wool huntsman's robes. Otah's own robe was leather dyed the red of roses; his horse was taller at the shoulder than the top of his own head. The wicker traveler's basket jounced against the animal's flank as he cantered to Danat's side.