"The potters will have to work clay until some other accommodation can be made," Otah said. "With proper control, this will be an inconvenience, not a catastrophe. The city is wounded, yes. We all know that, and I won't have that made worse by panic. I expect each of you to stand with your Khai, and make your people know that there is nothing to fear. The contracts directly affected by this loss will be brought to me personally. I will see to it that any losses are recompensed so that no one family or house carries more of this burden than its share. And any contracts not directly affected by the andat's absence are still in force. Do each of you understand that?"
A low chorus of affirmation rose. They sounded as reluctant as boys before a tutor.
"Also I have put armsmen on the bridge. Any house who chooses this time to relocate its wealth to some other city will forfeit their holdings here. Any silver over a hundred lengths that leaves Machi at one time must be allowed by me."
Ashua Radaani took a pose that begged permission to speak. It was proper etiquette, and Otah felt the tightness in his chest release by half a turn. At least they were now respecting forms.
"Most High," Radaani said, "this may not be the best time to put restrictions on trade. Machi will need to keep its ties to the other cities strong if we're to weather this tragedy."
"If the smaller houses see carts of gold rolling away to Cetani and tldun, they'll start talking of how the rats all run when the house catches fire," Otah said. "My house hasn't caught fire."
Radaani pursed his lips, his eyes shifting as if reading some invisible text as he reconsidered some internal plan that Otah had just ruined, but he said nothing more.
"Machi needs your loyalty and your obedience," Otah said. "You are all good men, and the leaders of respected families. Understand that I value each of you, and your efforts to keep the peace in this time will he remembered and honored."
And the first of you to bolt, I will destroy and sow your lands with salt, Otah thought but didn't say. He let his eyes carry that part of the message, and from the unease in the men before him, he knew that they had understood. For over a decade, they had thought themselves ruled by a softhearted man, an upstart put in his father's chair by strange fortune and likely less suited to the role than his lady wife, the innkeep. And as terrible as this day was, Otah found he felt some small joy in suggesting they might have been mistaken.
Once they had been dismissed, Otah waved away his servants and walked to his private apartments. Kiyan came to him, taking his hand in her own. Cehmai sat on the edge of a low couch, his face still empty with shock. He had been weeping openly when Otah left.
"How did it go?" Kiyan asked.
"Well, I think. Strangely, it's much easier than dealing with Eiah."
"You don't love them," Kiyan said.
"Ah, is that the difference?"
A plate of fresh apples stood on a copper table, a short, wicked knife beside it. Otah sliced a bit of the white flesh and chewed thoughtfully.
"They'll still move their wealth away, you know," Kiyan said. "Blocking the bridge won't stop a ferry crossing in the night with its lanterns shuttered or wagons looping up north and crossing the water someplace in the mountains."
"I know it. But if I can keep the thing down to a few ferries and wagons, that will do. I'll also need to send messages to the Khaiem," Otah said. "Cetani and AmnatTan to start."
"Better they hear the had news from you," she agreed. "Should I call for a scribe?"
"No. Just paper and a fresh ink brick. I'll do the thing myself."
"I'm sorry, Most High," Cehmai said again. "I don't know ... I don't know how it happened. He was there, and then ... he just wasn't. 'T'here wasn't even a struggle. He just ..."
"It doesn't matter," Otah said. "It's gone, and so it's gone. We'll move forward from that."
"It does matter, though," the poet said, and his voice was a cry of despair. Otah wondered what it would feel like, dedicating a life to one singular thing and then in an instant, losing it. He himself had led a half-dozen lives-laborer, fisherman, midwife's assistant, courier, father, Khai-but Cehmai had never been anything besides a poet. Exalted above all other men, honored, envied. And now, suddenly, he was only a man in a brown robe. Otah put a hand to the man's shoulder, and saw a moment's passing shame in Cehmai's expression. It was, perhaps, too early still for comfort.
A scratch came at the door and a servant boy entered, took a formal pose, and announced the poet Maati Vaupathai and Liat Chokavi. A moment later, Maati rushed in, his cheeks an alarming red, his breath hard, his belly heaving. Liat was no more than a step behind. He could see the alarm in her expression. Kiyan stepped forward and helped Maati to a seat. The two women met each other's gaze, and there was a moment's tension before Otah stepped forward.