He laughed. It was a low sound, and strangely shallow—like an axe on wood.
"You are a tough bitch," he said, making it a compliment.
No, I'm not, she thought, smiling, but it's good that you've misunderstood me.
Chapter 13
The ship passed the great island with its white watch-tower and into the bay of Yalakeht on a cool, hazy morning. Otah stood at the railing and watched the land turn from outlines of pale hills to the green-gray of pine trees in autumn. The tall, gray buildings of Yalakeht nestled at the edge of the calmest of waters. The noise of their bayfront carried over the water, but muffled by the thick air like a conversation in a nearby room.
They reached land—signaled in by the dock master's torches—just as the sun reached its peak in the sky. Otah had hardly put his feet to the cobbled streets before he heard the news. The bayfront seemed to buzz with it.
The third son the Khai Udun had killed his remaining brother. They had found each other in Chaburi-Tan, and faced each other in a seafront street with knives. Or else the second son—whom Otah had seen in the court of the Khai Saraykeht—had been poisoned after all. Or he had ambushed his younger brother, only to have the fight slip from him. On the docks, on the streets, in the teahouses, the stories ran together and meshed with older, better-known tales, last year's news, and wild imaginings newly formed of what might have happened. Otah found a seat in the back of a teahouse near the bayfront and listened as the stories unfolded. The youngest son would take his father's place—a good sign. When a youngest son took power, it meant the line was vigorous. People said it meant the next Khai Udun would be especially talented and brave.
To Otah, it meant that he had killed two of his brothers, and that the others, younger even than he was, had been cast out. They were wearing brands somewhere even now. Unless they were poets. Unless they were lucky enough to be poets like Heshai of Saraykeht.
"Well, you're looking sour," a familiar voice said.
"Orai," Otah said taking a pose of welcome. The courier sat down across from him, and raised a hand to the serving man. Moments later, two bowls of fish and rice appeared before them along with a pot of smoked tea and two ceramic teabowls of delicate green. Otah took a pose of correction to the serving man, but Orai stopped him.
"It's a tradition of my house. After a journey, we buy our travelling companions a meal."
"Really?"
"No," the courier said, "but I think I have more money than you do, and as it happens the fish here is really quite good."
The serving man hovered, looking uncomfortable, until Otah laughed.
"At least let me pay my half," Otah said, but Orai took a pose of deferment: next time.
"So, Itani," he said. "This is the end? Or how far upriver is your sister?"
"A day or so by boat," Otah lied. "Two days walking. Or so she tells me. I've never been."
"A few days more, and you could see the poet's village. You've never been there, have you?"
"No," Otah said.
"It's worth the extra travel, if you can spare it. The houses of the Dai-kvo are actually built into the living rock. They say it's based on the school of the ancients in the old Empire, though I don't suppose there's much left of those ruins to compare. It's a good story."
"I suppose."
The fish was very good—bright with lemon, hot with pepper. Otah realized after a few mouthfuls that he had really been very hungry.
"And now that you're at the end of your first journey over water, what do you think of it?"
"It's strange," Otah said. "The world still feels like it's moving."
"Yes. It does stop after a while. More than that, though. There was a saying when I was young that sea journeys are like women—they change you. And none so much as the first."
"I don't know about that," Otah said. "I seem to be more or less the same man I was in Saraykeht. Ten fingers, ten toes. No flippers."
"Perhaps it's just a saying, then."
Orai poured himself another bowl of tea and held it in his hands, blowing across it to cool it. Otah finished the last of the rice and leaned back to find the courier's gaze on him, considering. He replied with a pose of query that seemed to pull Orai out of a half-dream.
"I have to confess, Itani, it isn't precisely chance that I found you here. The fish really is very good, but I found you by asking after you. I've been working for House Siyanti for eight years, and traveling for five of those. I think it's taught me a few things and I'll flatter myself to say I think I'm a good judge of character. These last weeks, on the ship, you've struck me as an interesting man. You're smart, but you hide the fact. You're driven, but I don't think you know yet what you're driven toward. And you like travel. You have a gift for it."