The old man crossed the room without hurrying, the crowd parting for him the same unconscious way it had parted for Nyai Sartika back at Tirtayasa's gate. Rama recognized the pattern immediately. Authority that didn't need announcing itself.
"You've noticed me watching," the old man said, in trade-tongue considerably more fluent than anyone Rama had met outside the capital. "Good. I would have been disappointed if you hadn't."
"You're not subtle about it."
"I'm too old for subtlety. It costs energy I'd rather spend on honesty." He inclined his head slightly, the barest bow. "Empu Wirasena. Keeper of the old rites, for longer than most people currently living have been alive to remember."
Rama gave his own name in return, watching the old man's face for any reaction to it. Nothing showed there worth reading.
