THE

Otah laughed, giving his implicit permission for all the court to laugh

with him. Danat gri

more profound than strictly required. Danat rose, came to Otah, and

knelt again.

"Most High?" he said, his mouth quirked in an odd smile. Otah pretended

to consider the question. The court laughed again, and he rose to his

feet. It felt good to stand up, though before it was all finished, he'd

be longing to sit down again.

"Let it be known that I have authorized this match. Let the blood of the

House Dasin enter for the first time into the imperial lineage. And let

all who honor the Khaiem respect this transfer and join in our

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, gri

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 ru

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, ba

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 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