"Will you go back?" Ana asked. "When this is over, I mean."

"It depends on what you mean by over," Idaan said. "You mean once my brother talks the poets into bringing back all the dead in Galt and Chaburi-Tan, rebuilding the city, killing the pirates, and then releasing the andat and drowning all their books? Because if that's what overlooks like, you're waiting for yesterday."

Otah shifted, pretending he was still asleep. The sun of late morning warmed his face and robes, the low chuckle of the river against the sides of the boat and the low, steady surge of the paddle wheel became a kind of music. It had been easy enough to drowse, but his body ached and pinched and complained despite three layers of tapestry between his back and the deck. If he rose, there would be conversations and planning and decisions. As long as he could maintain the fiction of unconsciousness, he could allow himself to drift. It passed poorly for comfort, but it passed.

"You can't think we'll be chasing these people for the rest of our lives, though," Ana said.

"I'm hoping we live longer than that, yes," Idaan said. "So. If this ends in a way that lets me return to him, then I will. I enjoy Cehmai's company.

"And he'll take you back in, even after you've been gone this long?"

Otah could hear the smile in Idaan's voice when she replied.

"He's overlooked worse from me. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know," Ana said. And then a moment later, "Because I'm trying to imagine it. What the world will be. I've never traveled outside Galt before, except one negotiation in Eymond. I keep thinking of going back to it. Acton. Kirinton. But it's not there anymore."

"Not the way it was," Idaan agreed. "We can't be sure how bad it is, but I'll swear it isn't good."

The silence was only a lack of voices. The river, the birds, the wind all went on with their long, inhuman conversation. It wasn't truly silence, it only felt that way.

"I think about what I would do without all of you," Ana said. "And then I imagine ... What would you do if a city caught fire and no one could see it? How would you put it out?"

"You wouldn't," Idaan said. Her voice was cool and matter-of-fact.

"I think about that," Ana said. "I think about it more now. The future, the things that can go wrong. Dangers. I wonder if that always happens when-"

Idaan had made a clicking sound, tongue against teeth.

"You're not fooling anyone, brother," Idaan said. "We all know you're awake."

Otah rolled onto his back, his eyes still closed, and took a pose of abject denial. Idaan chuckled. He opened his eyes to the great pale blue dome of the sky, the sun burning white overhead and searing his eyes. He sat up slowly, his back as bruised as if someone had beaten him.

Ashti Beg lay a few yards off, her arm curved under her to cradle her sleeping head. Two armsmen sat at either side of their boat with pairs at the stern and the bow, keeping watch on the changeless river. Danat had joined the watchers at the bow and seemed to be having a conversation with them. It was good to see it. Otah had been concerned after his disappearance at the wayhouse that Danat and the captain of the guard might have found themselves on bad terms. Danat seemed to be making it his work to see that didn't happen.

The boat itself was smaller than Otah would have chosen, but the kilns at the back were solid, the wheel new, and the alternatives had been few. When there are only three boats on the riverfront, even being emperor won't create a fourth. Ana and Idaan were sitting side by side on a shin-high bench, their hands clasped.

It was something Otah had noticed before, the tendency of Ana and Ashti Beg to touch people. As if the loss of their eyes had left them hungry for something, and this lacing of fingers was the nearest they could come.

"You both look lovely," Otah said.

"Your hair looks like mice have been building a nest in it," Idaan said.

Otah confirmed her assessment with his fingertips. The fact of the matter was that none of them was presentable. Too many weeks on the road bathing with rags and tepid water had left them looking disrep utable. Somewhere just east of Pathai, they had been joined by a colony of lice that still took up their evenings. Otah imagined walking into the palaces at Utani as he now was and smiled.

He walked to the edge of the boat where a bucket and rope stood ready for moments like this. With the armsmen looking on, he lowered the line himself and hauled up the water. When he knelt and poured it over his head, it was as if he could feel ice forming in his mind. He whooped and shuddered, pulling his hair back. Idaan, behind him, was laughing. He made his way back to them, Ana holding out a length of cloth for him to take and dry himself.

And that was the nature of the journey. Tragedy lay behind them, and desperate uncertainty ahead. He was gnawed by his fears and his guilt and his sorrow, but his sister was there, laughing with him. His son. The river was cold and uncomfortable and beautiful. Every day meant more dead, and yet there was no way for them to move faster than the boat would carry them. Otah knew that as a younger man, he would have been sitting at the bow, frowning at the water as if by will alone he could make things into something they weren't. As an old one, he was able to put it all aside for as much as a hand at a time, holding his energy for the moment when it might effect a change and resting until then. Perhaps it was what the philosophers meant by wisdom.

Somewhere ahead, Maati and Eiah and the new poet were making their own way to Utani and, he thought, the proclamation of their victory. Perhaps Eiah would bind her andat as well, and return to the women of the Khaiate cities their wombs. There would be children again, a new generation to take the place of the old. All that would be sacrificed was Galt, and the world would be put back as it was. An empire now, instead of a scattering of cities, but with the andat, slaves of spirit and will, putting them above the rest of the world.

Until a new Balasar Gice found a way to bring it all down, and the cycle of suffering and desperation began anew.

"You've gone solemn," Idaan said.

"Steeling myself for failure," Otah said. "We'll be on them soon, I think. And ..."

"You've been thinking about forgiveness," Idaan said. Otah looked at Ana, listening, rapt. Idaan shook her head. "The girl's strong enough to know the truth. There's no virtue in softening it."

"Please," Ana said.

Otah took a deep breath and let it slide out between his teeth. River water traced a cold path down his back. On the east bank, half a hundred crows took to the air, startled by something on the ground or just one another.

"If we lose Galt," Otah said, stopped, and began again, more slowly. "If we lose Galt, I don't believe I can forgive them. I know what you said, and Danat. I should. I should do whatever it takes to stop all this, even if it means agreeing that I've lost, but it's beyond me. I'm too old to forgive anymore, and ..."

"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.

The movement that stopped him was so slight it might almost not have existed and familiar enough to disorient him. A woman by the fire grate with her back to him shifted her shoulders. In anyone else, it would have been beneath notice. Otah stood, stunned, his heart thudding like it was trying to break free of his ribs. Idaan appeared at his side, her hand on his arm. He motioned her back.

"Eiah?" he said.

The woman by the fire turned to him. Her face was thin and drawn, older than time alone could explain. Her eyes were the same milky gray as Ana's.

"Father," she said.